#because I wrote this in less than three hours

[fadbucker]

I will confess that I didn't even read the CNN article before posting these gifs. The CNN front-page tagline was, I believe, '"walking' coral discovered," which is why I wrote that.

Now that I have read the CNN article, and the PLOS article's abstract, I would like to correct the record, for I have misled you.

THE WALKING CORAL IS A LIE. Sort of.

I could blame CNN, but I won't, because their job is just to get clicks, I guess, while I, having a B.Sc., have a duty to verify things I post.

Firstly: the above gifs are hour-or-so "time-laps" - yes, time-laps, with no e. (The CNN article calls them "time-lapses" - this may be them correcting a "typo" that is not in fact a typo, but it is in fact a time-lapse as well as a time-lap. More on that later.)

The corals do, in fact, move as pictured, but it takes them one to two hours to make one pictured "hop".

The empirical findings of the study were, in brief, the following:

When exposed to either blue or white light, these corals will migrate towards the light.

These corals move more toward blue light than toward white light.

When exposed to blue light from one direction, and white light from the other direction, these corals move toward the blue light and away from the white light.

The experiment was performed by collecting fifteen corals and observing them in an aquarium. The corals moved very slightly toward white light alone, about 2-5 mm per hour (an eighth to a quarter of an inch/hour), and when exposed to blue light from one direction and white light from another, they moved slightly faster than that toward the blue and away from the white (about 5-10 mm per hour, or a quarter to half of an inch/hour). Both the CNN article and the PLOS abstract state that, when exposed to blue light alone, the corals moved toward the blue light "up to 220 mm" (about eight inches, time not specified).

So, when there is blue light from one direction, and white light from another, the corals prefer to seek the blue light. Their moving behavior, according to the CNN article, is generally in the direction of deeper water. So, though my memories of the physics of light refraction are a little flocculated, I'm guessing that seeking "bluer light" helps them to move toward deeper water, where there is, reportedly, less competition for space, and less disturbance from waves and currents.

You'll note, above, I put "up to 220 mm" in quotes -- those familiar with sciencey things will immediately think, "so one coral moved 220 mm -- what about the others?" For that information, we will have to proceed past the abstract to the tables.

As it turns out, seven corals were recorded in their tanks via time-lapse photography. Of these, the one that moved the furthest moved 111 mm (about four inches) over the course of 24 hours. Three others moved about 50 mm (two inches) in 24 hours, and three others moved about 15 mm (half an inch-ish) in 24 hours. In the below table, the dotted lines represent total distance moved, and the solid line represents speed in mm/hour. (In other words, the dotted line is the integral of the solid line.)

Several other corals had their movement measured manually by noting their position in the tank at the start and end of a 24-hour period. Of these, one coral was observed to move 220 mm over that period - however, its progress was halted by the tank wall.

So we do, in fact have a sort of "slouchin' georg" situation here -- one coral moved twice as far as any of the others, and it might have moved much further had it not hit the wall. We don't even know how fast this one hit the wall, so we can't guess how fast it was going. It might have taken ten or twenty hours to hit the wall, or it might have gotten there in ten minutes.

Blue light alone, however, is not observed in nature. "Slouchin' georg," as far as I can tell from this paper, did not exhibit an exceptional degree of movement under white-light or blue-and-white-light conditions (the two more "natural" situations.")

So, actually, what happened is that exposure to pure blue light, not found in nature, drove several corals to really hoof it, in a way they (presumably) never would in nature -- and also, this pure blue light made "slouchin' georg" wig the hell out.

These findings, while funny, were not, in fact, the meat of the study: the meat of the study was, rather, how the coral moves its meat.

These corals had never before been recorded moving with high-resolution time-lapse photography -- at least not by scientists -- and so while it was known that they moved, what was not known was how they moved: that is, whether they slouched, or hopped, or wiggled, or slowly creeped, or what have you. It was discovered, as you can see in the gifs, that they "scooch" in a pulse of movement that takes place over the course of 1-2 hours. (In the above graph, each "bump" in the solid line is one "scooch," and the taller the "bump," the bigger the "scooch.")

Back to "time-laps" for a second -- a "time-lap" is one recorded "pulse cycle." So a time-lap is a time-lapse, but also a "lap" in the same sense as a "lap" around a track -- one loop of the cycle.

When they looked very closely at one "time-lap" frame-by-frame, they found that these coral move by inflating the side closer to the blue light, and deflating the opposite side, as shown in the figure below:

("Infl" is the direction of inflation, "Defl" is the direction of deflation, and "Periph" is the direction of motion of the lowest layer against the ground, I think.)

In other words, though I'm far from an expert, I think it moves sort of like a balloon moves when you squeeze it on just one side, except it's squeezing itself. It squeezes its own goo over to the side facing the blue light, which expands it on that side, and its "Periph" presumably grips the substrate slightly further out on the inflated side, and then it deflates "in," lifting its "Periph" off the substrate on the "back" side, thereby accomplishing slight "forward motion."

So, in other words, they found out that mushroom corals -- if they all move like this one -- don't creep in a slow and steady way, but rather "scooch" every now and then by this inflation and deflation process that takes about an hour or two.

They also found one particular individual coral, the aforementioned "slouchin' georg," who is driven absolutely mad (in coral terms) by pure blue light. (I would venture to add that I suspect some humans may experience the same thing.)

This provides keepers of mushroom corals with an excellent opportunity for a little "home science" -- if you place all your mushroom corals on one side of the tank, and you put a pure blue light source on the other, and you block out all other light, you might be able to make them race! Is one of your corals a "slouchin' georg"? There's only one way to find out! Although I, myself, am unable to perform this "experiment," I would like myself noted as the founder if (when) "coral racing" takes off at some point in the future.

We have, however, encountered an ethical dilemma: venus flytraps, for example, can move, but they expend quite a lot of energy in this movement, in plant terms, and moving too much is quite harmful for them. (I learned this by accidentally killing about twelve in 9th grade science research class.) I think it likely, therefore, that this "movement" may be energetically quite costly to the coral -- so "coral racing," accomplished by exposure to unnatural pure blue light, might have deleterious effects on the coral. One could still accomplish "coral racing" by putting them all on one side and exposing the tank to unidirectional natural light, but they won't go toward it nearly as fast, and you'll never know if you have a "slouchin' georg."

Tough questions aside, I'm very glad that I read all the way to the bottom of the PLOS article, because it has the full hi-res videos that the two above gifs are from , as well as two more!

The following links will instantly start a video download:

https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0315623.s001 (first gif is from this one)

https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0315623.s005 (second gif is from this one)

https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0315623.s004 (content warning: this gif made me a little ill for indescribable, cthuluy reasons.)

https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0315623.s002 (they say "additional potential for passive mobility," I say "I told you about the scooch, bro!!!")

Gifs of the other two videos:

P.S.: My esteemed girlfriend pointed out that "slouchin' georg" could well have detached from the substrate like the coral in the above gif and then rolled with the tank current until he was up against the side. That...does seem more likely, to be honest...science is hard!

breaking news: (wait for it)

"walking" coral discovered!

ohh...look at it go...

[bookshelf-in-progress]

A Jules and Vern Christmas

A time travel story for the Christmas Challenge at @inklings-challenge. This is a follow-up to "Jules and Vern"--a very short piece that explains how the time travel works, so you may want to read that one first.

*

Vernon looked up from his writing in a daze. The papers spread across his kitchen table, the books piled on shelves and chairs across his sparsely-furnished apartment, seemed suddenly unfamiliar. Outside, it was nearly dark, and a light snow shower was falling.

He'd lost track of time--gotten too deep into his writing. This draft of his article was due by the first of the year, and there was so much worth writing about now that he had practical experience--not just theoretical knowledge--of time travel.

He had his new patroness to thank for that. His one and only time travel cruise--paid for with his life savings--had brought him in contact with one of the wealthiest heiresses on the planet, who'd adopted him like a stray cat. She'd guided him through the cruise and even paid to extend his trip. A man in his position couldn't refuse gifts like that--but neither could he repay them.

He looked at the silver-wrapped package sitting on the edge of the table. It seemed silly, giving presents to a woman who could buy him a thousand times over without blinking an eye. He could mail the package next month. Send a nice little note keeping things purely professional.

But it was Christmas. After roaming through history with Juliette, he'd come to consider her a sort of friend. This deserved a personal touch.

He put away his manuscript, seized the package, and left on his errand before he could talk himself out of it.

*

The high-rise hotel, sleek and silver, towered over the squat brown-brick historic buildings of the rest of the street. Bedecked in golden lights, the building looked like a Christmas candle, like a queen among peasants.

Vernon felt like a peasant as he stood in the golden light coming through the glass of the revolving door. A doorman in crisp livery—blue with gold trimmings, a finer suit than anything Vernon had ever worn—took one look at the threadbare elbows of Vernon’s jacket and the holes in his woolen gloves and growled, “Move it along.”

The doorman’s square head reminded Vernon of some of the meaner-looking idols he’d seen on ancient temples. This face would have been a guardian of the underworld, ready to smite the unworthy with the wrath of the gods.

No, he scolded himself. It was the face of a doorman. Of a hotel. Vernon hadn’t walked through ancient battlefields to turn tail because a hotel employee scowled at him.

Vernon held up his package—a silver rectangle. “I’ve a delivery for Miss Juliette—“

The doorman's voice was like something that would have come from one of those stone idols. “She doesn’t take unmarked deliveries.”

Vernon felt like he’d run face-first into a wall. He stepped back and tried to gather his wits. Snowflakes fell down his collar. "If you'll just--"

From behind, a languid female voice drawled, "Vern? Is that you?"

Juliette stood behind him, wrapped in black fur. Her black hat—bedecked with white feathers and an enormous red flower—was wide enough to cover both of them, and her heels were so high that Vernon wondered how she’d managed more than two steps on the icy streets.

Juliette took Vernon's arm and told the doorman, "Relax, Pete, he's with me."

The doorman gave a skeptical stare.

Juliette's laugh sparkled. “Oh, very well.” She tugged Vernon by the arm. “We’ll roam the streets.”

Juliette took Vernon down the sidewalk, past the stores of this wealthy shopping district. These shops were nothing compared to the astonishing height of the modern hotel, but their wares were so rich Vernon half-feared he'd be charged a fee just for looking.

Juliette strode through the snowy streets with perfect confidence, never looking at a shop, never stumbling in her heels. “What brings you here, my darling little scholar?”

Compared to the wares being sold just outside her door, Vernon's offering seemed pathetic, but there was no help for it now.

He held out the package. "I brought a gift.”

Juliette stopped and tipped back her hat so she could look him in the face. “Gift?”

Could he call this a gift when her world meant so much more by the name? Jewels, cars, vacations—those were gifts. This was—

“A...small token,” he amended. “In honor of the holiday."

"Holiday?" Juliette seemed truly perplexed. At last, she laughed, low and languid. "Oh, Christmas. How quaint!"

Her laugh made Vernon bristle. Not for the first time, he wondered if she'd ever had a heart.

"I ought to have known you celebrated," she said. “It's so earnest and wholesome--like you."

“You don’t celebrate?”

“I haven’t paid attention in years.”

“Why?”

“When you’ve experienced every single Christmas in history, it gets rather dull.”

“Every—”

“Christmas cruises. Some time travelers try to hit every Christmas Day in history. They get so insufferable about it.”

Not for the first time, Vernon’s mind swam at the unimaginable wealth this implied.

Juliette said, “I decided against the full set. It’s just not worth it. The first one’s off-limits, of course, and then there's nothing really interesting until the Arians show up. But even in the most exciting years, it's all variations of the same thing, isn't it? Food and fires and presents and songs and various states of inebriation. There's only so much of that kind of thing one can take."

Vernon's chest burned--a bit of shame, a lot more anger. He tucked the silver-wrapped package beneath his arm. "I'm sorry I wasted your time," he said, turning away.

Juliette grabbed his arm. "Wait!” The languid tone had been replaced by genuine alarm. “Don't listen to my nonsense. It was kind of you to think of me."

Her eyes, amber in the streetlight, held some deep spark that Vernon had never seen before. A hint of genuine feeling. She was truly afraid of being alone. Vernon felt a pang of pity.

He handed her the gift.

She tore off the wrapping and uncovered a hardback book. The crimson cover glowed like an ember against the black of her furs.

"The first copy of my latest work," Vernon said. It didn’t sound so pathetic when he put it that way. "A treatise upon the interactions of parallel time streams, supplemented by observations from our travels."

She turned the book in her gloved hands, looking at it from all angles. “It looks disgustingly academic.”

"Exceedingly so."

She grinned. “I’m delighted, and I’ll never read it.

Vernon relaxed into a smile. "I didn't think you would. But I thought you deserved a copy all the same."

She put the book into a massive handbag. "I feel I ought to have a gift for you."

Vernon laughed. "A time cruise is a gift I could never repay.”

"Would you like another one?" Juliette asked.

Vernon stepped back, his hands held before him. "I couldn't accept such--"

"Just a short one. A cheap Christmas trip. Horribly touristy. Everyone and their mother heads to the Victorian era for a proper Dickens Christmas. The place is crawling with time travelers."

Vernon thought about the book in Juliette's bag, and his mind lit up with a new theory. "That would explain the ghost stories--"

She pointed at him, her eyes bright. "See? That's the mind that could make even that kind of Christmas interesting again."

It was flattering, and tempting, and yet--

"I think you're missing the point," Vernon said.

“Am I?” Juliette drawled, one eyebrow raised.

“Yes,” Vernon said firmly. “You don't need to run off and watch a Christmas that's already happened. You need to experience this one."

She waved a dismissive hand. "I've seen a thousand like it."

Vernon wondered how literal that was. How many Christmases had she traveled to--?

He pulled his mind back to the point. "I'm not sure you've seen any Christmas. You've seen parties, feasting, carols, but you haven't seen Christmas. The reason for the celebration. I'm not sure you can see it."

“I know," she said. "That’s why I need you.”

Snow fell onto her expensive furs, white against the black. A cold breeze ruffled the flower on her hat. She was a fashion plate, the model of luxury--and she looked so alone. All the money in the world, able to buy anything she wanted, go to any place or time she desired on a moment's notice--and she had no one to spend Christmas with.

He took her hand in his, tattered wool against sleek leather. "Then I'll come with you. But not to Victorian Christmas. To this one."

She raised an eyebrow “The time travel expert is turning down a chance to time travel?”

“Gladly."

"You'll never get anywhere in your career if you keep turning down opportunities like this."

"I'll take the risk."

She looked at their joined hands, then shifted her grip to turn it into a handshake. “You have a deal.”

Snow fell faster, thick white flakes. The shops along the street began turning off the lights in their windows. In the distance, church bells sounded.

Vernon inclined his head toward it. “We can start there.”

As the snow fell and the bells rang, Vernon tightened his grip on Juliette’s hand and pulled her down the street. In the lamplight, her eyes held a spark of something that looked a little bit like joy.

[kikiiswashere]

Four to Tango

As promised, part two of Waltzing for Three!!!

Thank you for helping me reach 200 followers for this little ol' blog of mine 🥰 And welcome to all the newcomers!

The idea for this ficlet was born of watching my bestie @sand-sea-and-fable help out a pregnant friend by lifting her belly off her hips, and it just sort of spiraled from there.

It's also worth noting that I myself am not a mother, nor have I given birth, nor do I wish to be a mom (husband got the ol' snip-snip). So why this fic? Good question 😅

That being said, I did my best to write about the labor process relatively accurately without getting into the super nitty-gritty of it 😂 So, please enjoy this weird little fever-dream of a fic, and please comment and reblog 💗

Tags for the interested parties: @luhmoon, @legendaryflowercheesecake, @thebeserkvernid, @miffysoo

Pairing: Established Silco x AFAB!Reader

Rating: Teen/Mature (brief reference to oral sex)

CW: Non-graphic descriptions of pregnancy and labor

Insistent cramping had woken you up in the wee-hours one morning, swelling and ebbing in a slow rhythm that sent your heart tapping, a loop of nerves coiling around your gut – little room that there was for it.

Silco had been a terribly light sleeper ever since Vander’s betrayal, ever since those early years on an under-tested Shimmer variant that left his brain unable to fully settle. So, the moment you shifted into a sitting position, he shot up as well.

“What’s wrong?”

Words got gummed up on fear and excitement in your mouth. There was a slight tremor in your fingers as they grazed over your belly. You had noticed it sitting even lower on your hips these past several days. While you were very done with being pregnant, you were still nervous and surprised to say –

“I think it’s time.”

With comical amounts of speed, but awe-inspiring grace, Silco flung himself from the bed, divesting himself of his eyepatch and pajamas. After changing into a simple set of trousers and an old button-up shirt, he fetched the stopwatch Jinx had invented to easily time your contractions, and wrote a tube prompting your midwife that she was needed. It had been decided early on that the babe’s delivery – barring any complications – would happen at The Last Drop. You, nor Silco, were willing to venture outside to a clinic when your family would be at its most vulnerable.

Too nervous to lay down, much less fall back asleep, you began pacing the large bedroom in your large sleep shirt. Every time a contraction locked up and spasmed through your lower belly and back, your fingers pressed the stopwatch’s clicker. And you breathed as the midwife had instructed. Silco kept you company, walking with you up and down the length of the bedroom, holding your hand and becoming an anchor to squeeze when contractions rolled through. Together, you both noted and kept track of their intervals. Their spacing  and length suggested that the little one’s arrival was not imminent, but the consistency indicated that this was indeed labor.

The midwife arrived, ushered in by a half-asleep Sevika. You’d bribed her with an absurd bonus and several pre-paid sessions at Babette’s for her to crash in one of the Drop’s private guest rooms during these last days of your pregnancy. She was needed for security, and to stand-in for Silco when his attention and priorities would be elsewhere.

“Good luck,” she’d grumbled, barely glancing at you before shutting the bedroom door, and trudging back down the hall.

The midwife was a petite, wizened Vastaya who’d been selected for her services not only because of her field prowess, but because she was staunch loyalist to you and Silco. Shimmer had helped save more than one of her clients when the birthing process had begun to go sideways, and that was enough for her to hitch her wagon to your agenda.

She was also direct to the point of rudeness – a personality trait that was wholly welcome given the slippery, hidden, self-serving rhetoric you were used to having to deal with.

“Time?” she asked, setting her medical bag down on your dresser with a heavy thunk.

“Forty-five seconds to a minute, about every seven minutes,” you answered. Then gasped and doubled over as another contraction bent you.

The midwife hummed. “How long?”

“About an hour,” Silco said. He squeezed back at your hand as you rode out the current wave rolling through.

Clucking her tongue, the midwife shook her head, long ears slapping lightly against her horns.

“Early.”

Silco frowned. “You are being more than thoroughly compensated to show up whenever we ask.”

“Indeed. To the bed, miss. Let’s have a look.”

Once your legs were freed from the lock of the contraction, you shuffled to the bed. Silco helped you into position, and the midwife closed in. Her fingers were warm, but the tools were cold. The combination, along with your nerves, caused your lungs to shudder.

“Five,” she declared, drawing her head from between your thighs.

“That’s halfway,” you chuckled weakly. Silco brushed his thumb over your knuckles

The midwife hummed in agreement. “True. But as discussed, this process is not linear. And being your first delivery, it is very likely this will take a while. How is the pain?”

“Fine. Manageable.” It came out as a grit, but she didn’t seem to doubt you.

“You should eat and drink while you can. Is there anything else you want or need right now?”

Together, you and Silco walked to the small kitchen in your private quarters. You rested your forearms on the counter as the length of your spine hammocked behind you, hips gently swishing side-to-side. Silco kept the breakfast blissfully simple: toast with a light slather of butter, and a mug of warmed water with lemon.

Eating was slow going. Between the jitters and contractions, your appetite was seriously curbed. When you finally made it to the second piece of toast, Jinx shuffled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and bed-headed. Her bedraggled demeanor did not last long though, as her whip-quick senses tuned into the energy of the space. Big, blue eyes tracked between Silco – unusually underdressed – and your strange posture. One could nearly hear the cogs in her head clicking and whirring.

“Is it time?!”

In a flash, she clambered onto the stool next to you, bright and tittering. Her exuberance washed over you in a relieving breeze. Reaching over, you ran a hand through her unkempt hair.

“Sure is, kiddo.”

“When will he be here?”

“Could be a while yet, Jinx,” Silco answered. He set a glass of juice in front of her. “What would you like? Toad-in-the-hole? Porridge? Pancakes?”

“Make ‘em have a face!” she crowed.

A hook of a smile pulled at Silco’s mouth as he turned back toward the stove.

Jinx settled onto the stool; legs kicking merrily beneath her as she sipped her juice.

“What does it feel like?”

“Like intense menstrual cramps.”

Her small face squished in a ponder. While you had had that conversation with her, Jinx had yet to broach into that aspect of puberty. Thus, she had no point of reference.

“Kinda like when you roof-run after eating, and your abs cramp up,” you offered. “Kind of.”

A contraction swelled upon you, and you grit your teeth, face pinching, head dropping. Silco stepped away from the stovetop, and placed a grounding hand between your shoulder blades. Jinx watched, eyes wide and worried. Timidly, she shifted toward you, pressing her forehead to your shoulder.

The pain continued, but was temporarily numbed by the overwhelming love and gratitude for the two people on either side of you.

Your family.

It was never part of the plan when it came to your Silco’s ideas to lift Zaun up, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. And in a few hours, three would be four. Your heart beat big, tapping against your throat as the contraction passed. You clicked the stopwatch.

“That seems worse than roof-run cramps,” Jinx said suspiciously.

You chuffed. “Like I said: Kind of.”

Silco rubbed his hand up and down your spine a few times, before kissing your temple and returning to the stove.

“You remember what we talked about?” you asked Jinx.

She fiddled with her hair, nodding. “I can come and go as I please.”

“Right. If you want to be with us, I want you to be there. If you don’t, that’s fine, too. You get to decide, and it doesn’t have to be right now.”

Jinx nodded again, eyes staring into the middle-distance. Reaching over, you brushed your fingers through her hair again. Her eyes snapped back to yours.

“Are you scared?”

You gave her a reassuring smile.

“No. I’m happy.”

It wasn’t a lie. But a few hours later, your happiness was thoroughly overshadowed by the pain of labor. It was staggering how it had intensified. How it was becoming near non-stop as the space between contractions shortened and shortened. Gravity felt impossible to contend with on top of everything else, so you sank onto your bedroom floor with a low, guttural growl.

Silco had been attentive throughout, anticipating your needs before you even voiced them. Ever your anchor, your source for steadiness. Even now, on your hands and knees, his own wide palms settled onto your hips and pressed in. It pulled an appreciative groan from your throat.

“You’re doing so well, my love.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

Your eyes flicked to the bathroom door where Jinx was helping the midwife prepare a warm bath. You were proud of your girl. Admittedly, part of you doubted she would choose to stick around once labor became loud and more intense. When you could no longer keep yourself from crying out, hesitancy had flickered in her eyes, and her brows pitched in concern. But instead of dashing away, she’d reached for your hand and held tight.

“Is there anything you can give her?” she’d asked the midwife incredulously.

The female had smirked, impressed and moved by the girl’s protectiveness of you.

“I have mild pain relievers, but nothing that will fully numb – “

“Shimmer?”

The midwife’s black lips thinned. “That is only to be used in emergencies,” she explained. “It is too potent and powerful to be used for anything other than the most extreme circumstances. Which – “her eyes looked up at your haggard form on the bed – “does not seem probable. Her labor is progressing as it should. There is nothing to worry about.”

Jinx frowned, doubtful, and hunkered closer to your side.

“Seems like a dumb design that it hurts so much.”

“Agreed,” you wheezed.

“Come,” the midwife said, “let’s check you.”

She declared you’d progressed to eight centimeters. That had been three hours ago. And the pain just continued to climb and build.

A small sob burst through your teeth. Silco knelt at your side, quietly saying your name.

“I’m scared, Sil,” you admitted in a whisper. You were thankful Jinx wasn’t near to hear you back-pedal. Your breath hitched and words tumbled out: “I don’t know if I can do this.”

He took your warm and tear-streaked face between his hands, and repeated your name.

“Look at me.”

Reluctantly, your tired and wet eyes focused on his face. He looked at you with fierce earnestness, thumbs sweeping across the apples of your flushed cheeks. Suddenly, part of you grieved that the baby would never know Silco without his scars. Or yours. Outside and in.

Silco called your name again.

“Look at me,” he repeated. Your eyes slid back to his. Blue and red pinned you in place. “You can do this. I’ve not met anyone more tenacious, nor strong, nor as spirited as you. Those are but a few of the reasons I fell in love with you so long ago.” His eyes softened now; his adoration made plain. “You’ve absolutely no reason to doubt yourself.”

A small hiccup bubbled from your mouth, and you pressed your face into the warmth of his palm, breathing him in deeply. Not having properly dressed for the day, he hadn’t put any cologne on. The natural terra-sweet scent of his skin filled your nose. You were grateful for his support, respect, and belief in your abilities. A sudden, silly thought flitted across your mind.

“Not my dance moves?”

A single amused breath huffed from his throat. That infinitesimal smirk – one of the reasons you’d fallen in love with him – appeared on his lips. His blue eye flashed; as it often did when an idea struck him. Silco lifted to his feet, and used a strong grip to pull you to yours. He guided your arms to loop around his shoulders and neck, while his went to your low back. A weary chuckle left you as you understood. Your cheek was a relieved, heavy weight against his shoulder. It had to be a strange sight, this dance configuration: with your body slouched against his, massive belly hanging between you two. Slowly, your feet began gently shifting side-to-side.

“Admittedly,” he murmured against your crown, “your dance moves leave something to be desired right now.”

You laughed, even as another contraction swelled within you. Silco’s hands firmed up on your body, holding you upright as it moved through your body.

“I’ll make it up to you,” you hissed as most of the pain subsided. It was such now that there was no longer any real relief.

“A dance and a suck job? Lucky me.”

Your fingers pinched Silco’s upper back, and you felt the tremor of silent laughter in his shoulders.

“Tub’s ready!” Jinx sang as she flounced out of the bathroom.

Managing to smile at her, despite another great, contracting swell that threatened to bring you to your knees, you took her hand. Silco kept a strong arm wrapped around your middle, and you followed Jinx into the humid warmth of the bathroom.

The water helped. Its heat soothed your pained muscles and aching bones. The irony was not lost on you that you found peace in it. After a few minutes of settling into the tub, you gave Silco a look that to anyone else may have seemed like nothing. But he caught the message in your eyes, and tucked himself close to the tub’s edge, taking your hand. Jinx huddled herself into his lap, nervously fingering the buttons on his shirt.

About an hour later, the midwife’s large ears flicked in your direction as the quality of your breath shifted, as the sounds leaving you turned deeper and more animal. Her deft hands slipped into the water and between your legs.

“Something changed,” you gasped, hunching slightly. “It feels like – “

“It’s time,” she said, pulling her hands from the water. Somehow, she’d also stripped your underwear off in the same movement without you noticing. “It’s time to push.”

Push. The word settled into your body with a deep, innate knowing.

Yes. That’s what you were feeling. The near uncontrollable need to bare down. An old, predetermined instinct washed over you. You could do this.

But you did not want to do it alone.

“Sil.”

The grit of his name and the way you shifted yourself forward spurred your partner into understanding. Swiftly, he stood, deposited Jinx onto the stool he’d vacated, and then stepped into the tub, sliding in behind you. Settling against his chest, your hand ferociously intertwined with his. His heart beat firmly against your back.

“You can do this,” he whispered into your ear.

“Give me your other hand, dear,” the midwife said. You did so and she guided it under the water, preparing you to feel and catch. “Push.”

“Push! Push!” Jinx cried, her little fists pumping and bopping in the air madly.

Gritting your teeth, you did just that. A sound you didn’t know you were capable of making burst from your lungs. When the air ran out, you slumped against Silco’s chest.

“Breath in,” the midwife demanded. You did so. “Push!”

You did again, a roar ripping from your chest. A roar that ended in a surprised yip as something into your hand.

“Again,” the midwife demanded.

And you complied, baring down with everything you had. With all the might and tenacity and power your body could exert. Another battle cry echoed off the bathroom tiles, and a solid weight slid into your hand. You ripped your other hand from Silco’s grip, and pulled a wriggling newborn from the water.

“It’s a boy!” Jinx yelled, bouncing up and down in her seat.

Her brother’s face squidged, and his pink mouth opened in an announcing wail. You joined in and pulled the babe to your chest. Silco went very still behind you, scarcely breathing. Then his hands appeared over yours, cradling the baby at your chest. Like on the night you’d taken in Jinx, he pulled his legs up around you both and held tight.

Later, once the placenta had passed (something Jinx was equally horrified and enthralled by) you were helped out of the tub, and cleaned. The midwife tied off the babe’s umbilical cord, and once some time passed, you watched with an incredibly full heart as Silco severed it.

You weren’t sure if you’d ever seen the expression on your partner’s face. A soft, careful, wonderous thing. Then it hit you all at once. You were watching Silco fall in love. The notion took your breath away and fresh tears welled in your eyes. Jinx clung to you, and you to her.

“Thank you for being with me, Jinx. It helped.”

The girl beamed up at you, holding on tighter.

“I think it is your turn for a shower, sir,” the midwife said, twisting off the umbilical nub.

Silco watched her hands like a hawk as she did. He slid in once she finished, and wrapped him in a blanket Jinx had decorated. It was a small thing, but you caught the tremor in his hands. Keeping Jinx tucked against your side, you came to stand next to him.

“He’ll be here when you get out of the shower,” you whispered, voice hoarse.

“Yeah! Go get the baby juice off you!” Jinx ordered.

Silco’s expression of awe turned to one of bemusement as he glanced at your daughter.

“Yes. I suppose I should.”

Your own hands shook a bit as you gathered your son – your son! You wondered if the shock would wear off – and ushered Jinx to follow the midwife out of the bathroom.

With no small amount of effort, your body, beyond sore and exhausted, climbed into bed. The baby cooed and nuzzled and fussed against your chest as you settled into the pillows and duvet. Jinx climbed in on the opposite side, and snuggled close.

“He’s already sleeping!”

“It’s hard work being born. Don’t you remember?” you chuckled.

Jinx laughed, “No!”

A small smile curled the midwife’s mouth as she snapped her bag shut. She turned to you and bowed her head.

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” you said, eyes on your boy. Then you lifted them to hers, and said again, “And thank you.”

She nodded again, horns catching the light in the room.

“It was my honor.”

She gave you and the baby one last cursory check over, and took her leave.

A few moments after she left, there was a knock on the door, and Sevika stuck her head in.

“Ogre!” Jinx cried. “I gotta brother!”

Even Sevika’s presence couldn’t dampen Jinx’s mood.

Silco’s lieutenant grunted, and stepped over to the bed. She stayed at a distance though, craning her neck to peer down at you and the baby.

“Yep. That’s a baby. Congrats.”

“Thank you, Sevika.”

Behind her, Silco emerged from the foggy bathroom in a fresh pair of slacks and an unbuttoned shirt. Sevika tilted her strong chin in his direction and he nodded back.

“I’ll leave you all to it then,” she said.

Her poncho twirled as she spun back to leave. As she and Silco crossed paths, a metal finger tip whipped out from beneath the red fabric, and poked his bare belly. He jolted and shuddered. He sneered at her, but she just snickered and slipped out of the room.

Silco shook his head, damp hair beginning to curl at the ends. He rounded the bed, and climbed in, sandwiching Jinx between your bodies. He leaned over the girl’s head and kissed you.

“What’re we gonna name him?” Jinx pipped.

You and Silco exchanged a look.

“I’m not sure,” you admitted.

“I’m sure we’ll come up with something.” he added.

Immediately, Jinx began rattling off all her suggestions.

Before a name could be decided, you fell asleep. Jinx followed shortly after; her plump cheek pressed against your shoulder. Gingerly, Silco lifted the baby from your arms, and brought him to his bare chest. The boy tensed, and then melted, a small wispy sigh leaving him.

Silco melted, too; a foreign, near indescribable softness filling him up. He brought his hand to the boy’s back, its length and width nearly covering all of him. His son was so small.

His son. His son.

Emotions gripped him so intensely he nearly choked.

Elation, love, fear.

Grief.

There was grief that his child was born technically as a citizen of Piltover. But that anguish was small compared to the other one that had been tucked away in the scar tissue of Silco’s heart ever since you had told him of the pregnancy. A pain that he hated he harbored.

The secret grief was that Vander wasn’t here to see this. The grief that his Brother had ruined any chance of participating in this milestone. The grief of Vander’s death (justified though it was) was scratched open as Silco’s son lay on his heart. The grief that, had things gone differently, Silco would’ve named the boy after his Brother.

“Sil.”

Silco’s head whipped around at the sound of your voice. Your beautiful, exhausted, beautiful face shone up at him. There was a smile on your lips that he wished to taste, so he leaned over Jinx’s head again and pressed his mouth to yours. 

“I told you you could do it,” he whispered leaning back. You smiled and nodded wearily.

The baby grunted and shifted against Silco’s chest, and he pet the back of his head so, so softly. It broke your heart into a million pieces, and then they jumped right back together. Your eyes slid back up to your partner’s profile.

You felt his grief, because it was yours, too.

“I know, Silco,” you whispered. He looked over to you. Jinx snored softly between. “I wish it had been different, too.”

Silco’s eyebrow dropped, and his lips softened. He glanced down at the baby on his chest, and chuckled ruefully.

“I truly don’t know what to name him.”

You shrugged. “We’ll figure it out.”

He nodded. You sat in silence for a while, listening to your children breath. Jinx’s raspy breaths and the baby’s snuffling. It was music to your ears. You would never tire of hearing it.

Just as you were about to doze again, you felt Silco’s energy shift. Eyes sharpening onto him, you watched as he first gently ran his fingers over Jinx’s freckled cheek. Then, so carefully, he lifted the baby from his chest so he could look at his small face.

“You and your sister will have better than we did,” he promised. “Me and your mother will give you a nation.”

Your son’s eyes fluttered open and closed, the bud of his mouth stretching into what looked like a small smile. Your throat tightened horribly, and you tucked your nose into Jinx’s crown.

When you were sure you could speak without choking, you lifted your head and said, “We promise.”

I hope part two scratched the itch <3 If you enjoy my work and would like to support me (firstly, THANK YOU!) check out my Ko-Fi page!

ko-fi.com/kiki13

[javierpena-inatacvest]

Chapter 21- Paradise

Summary: Now that you and Javi are married, it's time for you to enjoy two weeks of nothing but your three favorite "S's"- Sun, sand, and sex. Lots of Sex.

Word Count: 13.9K

Warnings: SMUT (18+) unprotected p in v sex, oral (f and m receiving) vaginal fingering, praise kink, marriage kink, big, fat, nasty, unspeakable breeding kink (WHOOPS), stopping birth control/starting a family, kind of semi-public sex (sex on the beach hehe), alcohol/drinking (y'all are getting wasted at the pool), I'm convinced these two can't have sex without getting caught (sorry, Chucho), Javi in a bathing suit, these two are so stupidly in love

A/N: ..... Hey.... Y'all remember when I actually wrote for this story.... 😭 I'm genuinely SO sorry that this chapter took me literal months to finish, but she is finally here!!! Thank you so much for all of your patience and the love you've shown these two even in this story's absence 🥺 I hope you enjoy these two horndogs on their honeymoon!!!

Series Masterlist Next Chapter Previous Chapter

“We have all of our bags?” 

“Yup.” 

“Passports?” 

“Mhmmmm.” 

“Plane tickets?” 

“Yes.” 

“We’re positive that we have-” 

“Baby, I promise, I triple checked everything this morning, it’s all waiting by the front door, all we have to do now is just wait for my dad to pick us up and take us to the airport, and all my wife needs to do is take a deep breath and relax.” 

My wife. 

Even though you had been married for less than 24 hours, you knew the sentiment of finally getting to be Javi’s wife wasn’t wearing off on you any time soon. 

Javi smiled, playfully crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow at you as you ran through your honeymoon inventory again, knowing damn well you looked like a fool in your frantic pre-traveling state. You more than trusted that Javi had everything the two of you needed before you left for the airport, but you just couldn’t shake the fact that you felt like you were forgetting something, despite all your checks and re-checks. 

“Well, your wife will be much more relaxed once we land after being trapped in a flying tin can and have two feet on the ground again.” You sighed, trying not to let your fear of flying override your excitement to finally arrive in the Bahamas later that day. “God, I feel like I forgot to pack something important but I can’t figure out what.” 

As you stared in frustration at your pile of suitcases, you could feel Javi sneaking behind you, flushing his chest to your back as his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer to him as he rested his chin on your shoulder, planting a soft kiss on your temple. 

“I think I know what it is.” Javi smirked, his kisses traveling down your jaw as he nipped at your ear, making you turn your head back toward him in confusion. 

“Oh, so now you’re a husband and a mind reader. That honestly will come in very handy.” You teased, giggling while you shifted around to face him, draping his arms around his neck as his hands traveled down your waist, reaching down to grab a handful of your ass. “Jesus Javi, what in the world am I forgetting, because you seem pretty darn happy I can’t remember it.” 

“You really don’t know?” Javi asked, almost mockingly, tightening his grip around your hips, peppering kisses along your jaw and neck, the hot words of his breath dancing across your skin. 

“No, Mr. Mind Reader, I don’t, and you’re making it very hard to concentrate and figure out what it is.” 

You were trying your best to genuinely let your brain run out its train of thought, but as Javi’s kisses across your collarbone became wetter and sloppier, trying to form any sort of coherent idea was practically impossible. 

Javi paused for a moment, reaching both hands up to cusp your face, his broad hands cradling your jaw as his thumbs swiped across your cheeks, looking up at him to see the boyish grin spread from cheek to cheek. 

“You’re forgetting something because you’re forgetting to bring it on purpose. Something we threw away this morning, remember?” 

Oh shit. 

You were forgetting something. Only, now that you finally remembered what it was, you couldn’t be happier that you had forgotten it. 

Your birth control. 

As Javi watched your face quickly fade from confusion to delight, your grin was just about as wide as his, biting down on your lip to try and contain your excitement while your heart felt like it was going to beat out of your chest. 

The two of you could actually start trying for a baby. 

“You remember now?” Javi teased, laughing to himself at how wide your eyes had gone, practically beaming from the inside out at your husband, feeling butterflies swirl in your stomach and heat building in your core. 

Leaning up, your mouth met Javi’s in a sloppy dance of tongues and teeth, lips crashing together in electric excitement, grabbing a fistfull of the fitted green t-shirt covering his chest and tugging him closer towards you. 

“How much longer until your dad is supposed to be here?” You rasped, already breathing heavily from your frantic kisses and anticipation. 

Quickly, Javi looked down at his watch wrapped around his wrist, the gears turn in his brain, calculating if the two of you had enough time to do what he knew you were proposing. 

“Fuck- Like, 40 minutes?” 

Without saying a word, both of you agreed in silent, rushed nods that 40 minutes was enough time to give yourself enough of a buffer, and the risk definitely didn’t outweigh the reward, knowing there was no way in hell that you could wait an entire plane ride and arriving at your hotel room to fuck. 

In an instant, your mouths were crashing together again, Javi grabbing the underside of your thighs to hoist you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carried you back towards the couch in the living room, the back of his knees hitting the sofa as he collapsed into his seat, you still straddling his lap without ever parting your lips. 

Javi’s hands crept below the hem of your shirt, shuffling it over your head and tossing it on the floor before shuffling your shorts and underwear off to join your top in a crumpled pile on the floor. Your hands worked rapidly at the waistband of Javi’s shorts, lifting up off his lap to push them down his thighs, revealing the hard and weeping mess his cock had already become since carrying you over to the couch, your cunt aching at the sight of his length and how desperately you wanted to be filled by it. 

“God, I wanna fuck you so bad.” You whimpered between your wet kisses, shifting yourself closer to hover over his dick, so turned on that you were convinced that your arousal was already dripping down your thighs at an embarrassing rate. 

“Baby, you have no fucking idea.” Javi groaned, dragging his fingers through your folds, your body jolting at the sensation at the pads of his fingers rubbing over your clit, throbbing and aching under his touch. “Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking wet.” 

Reaching down to wrap your hand around the base of his cock, stroking it a few times, you slowly lowered yourself down onto his tip, knowing that with your limited time and how turned on you were, you didn’t want to feel anything besides the sweet sting of Javi’s stretch filling you to the brim. 

The two of you moaned in unison as you sank down on his length, bottoming out until you had taken every inch of him, taking a second to adjust to his size before rolling your hips over his lap in figure eights. 

“F-fuck, you feel so good, Javi.” You whined, circling your bottom half faster, the friction of the hairs at the base of Javi’s cock rubbing deliciously against your clit combined with Javi groping at your breasts, sucking at one of your pebbled nipples while he rolled the other between his fingers, making your breath hitch in the back of your throat. 

Javi began to let his hips rut up into yours, thrusting his length deeper into your cunt as you rode him, his hands sliding down the sides of your body and wrapping around your ass, massaging the plump flesh between his fingers while his lips crashed into yours again, catching each other’s muffled moans. 

“F-fuck…”  Javi whined, tightening his grip to try and maintain his composure as his thoughts began to flow straight from his brain through his mouth. “I’m gonna fuck you so full of me, Osita. Fuck a baby into you, get you pregnant, watch you grow our our kid and give us our perfect family.” 

“Oh my god- fuck- yes. Please, Javi. Fuck, I want you to knock me up. I wanna- fuck- I wanna  make you a daddy.” You moaned, running your hands through the dark curls of Javi’s hair as he began to pound into you even harder, his fingertips gripping your hips with bruising intensity as he guided you up and down his cock, the two of you both so lost in your own pleasure that you hadn’t heard a faintly familiar voice echoing from the front door. 

“Javi, Mija, I know I’m a little early but I figured you’d rather get to the airport earlier than later!” 

Little did poor Chucho know that today was one of the few times in his life that he would regret showing up anywhere earlier than expected. 

Surprised by the lack of response, despite the packed and stacked bags waiting by the front door, an unsuspecting Chucho kicked off his boots and began meandering down the entryway towards your living room, where and even more unsuspecting you and Javi were half dressed and sprawled across your couch trying to make a baby. 

“Javier? Mija? Are you two ready to leave soon? I was hoping that- Oh Dios Mio!” 

“AHHHHHHH!” 

With Javi’s back to his dad as you sat in his lap, you were the first to lock eyes with your now father-in-law, your jaw practically falling to the floor as you let out a panicked shriek, causing Javi to whip his own head around, terror running through his veins as he frantically threw you off his lap and tried to cover the both of you with the nearest blanket he could find. 

“Jesus Christ, Pops!” Javi shouted, hands covering his face that had turned bright red in quite possibly the world's worst kind of embarrassment. “Why are you here so early?! Please just, I- I don’t know, for Christ’s sake, please go wait outside!” He sighed, pointing towards the front door where Chucho had just regrettably entered from. 

“How was I supposed to know!? I figured I would be safe! Say no more, I will just go wait on the front porch. Aye, aye, aye…” Chucho replied, quickly scampering away towards the door, eyes peeled to the ground and arms up in self-defense, waiting until you heard the soft slam and clicking lock behind him before peering out from underneath your blanket shield. 

“Jesus fucking Christ…” Javi groaned, hands still covering his face as you looked up at him, cheeks glowing beet red in embarrassment. 

“Please don’t tell me your dad just walked in on us having sex…” You winced, absolutely knowing the answer to your question, but still somehow praying that maybe, just maybe, you were imaging things. 

“... My dad definitely just walked in on us having sex.” Javi sighed, his face as almost as red as yours, scrambling to find your clothes scattered between the cushions, tossing them over to you, frantically trying to cover yourself up to save any ounce of dignity you had left. 

“Well, looks like I am going to start walking to the airport because I don’t think I can ever make eye contact with your dad again…” You muttered, making you and Javi laugh just enough to try and ease the uncomfortable tension, wondering how in the world you were supposed to spend an entire ride to the airport with Chucho without wanting to crawl out of your skin. “I thought you said he was supposed to get here later!”

“Well that’s what I thought too, but apparently not!” Javi grumbled, shuffling his shirt over his head, combing his hand through his hair to try and fix the mess you had made raking your fingers through it. 

“Guess we won’t have any worries about getting to the airport on time…” 

“Guess you’re right about that. Fuck me…” 

“Sure you don’t wanna start walking?” 

While Chucho, you and Javi had seemingly made a silent pact to not say a peep to each other the entire car ride for the duration of your drive, every passing second seemed more awkward and uncomfortable than the last, truly regretting your decision to not grab your bags and walk along the highway to try and catch your flight. 

It wasn’t until Chucho began pulling up to drop the two of you off that he decided it was time to break your truce, his eyes meeting yours in the rear view mirror as the two of you sat awkwardly in the backseat, bracing yourself the moment you could feel his mouth begin to open. 

“You know, the night of our wedding, Lucia and I just couldn’t keep our hands off each other either, it was so-” 

“Dad!” Javi interjected, his face physically scrunching in pain at the thought of how his father planned to complete the rest of that thought, trying to cut him off before he could get any further. 

“Lo siento (Sorry)! God forbid I try to do something to ease the tension!” Chucho chuckled, throwing his hands up in defense at his statement. 

“I don’t think where you were headed was the way to do that, Pops.” Javi muttered, letting out another deep sigh of embarrassment. 

 “Well lucky for you, it looks like we’re here.” Chucho smiled, pulling into one of the parking spots outside of your gate and turning off the ignition. “Here, let me help you with the bags in the trunk and-” 

“Nope, already got it, Pops, please do not get out of the car.” Javi begged, practically sprinting out of the backseat to the trunk, you quickly following behind him, beginning to sheepishly unload your luggage from the car. 

Of course, Chucho being Chucho was not about to take no for an answer, slowly fumbling his way out of the car to greet the two of you at the trunk with a mischievous grin stretched ear to ear. 

“Pops, please, I told you I’ve got it, I-” 

“Oh hush, Javier, I am just coming out to say goodbye, yo promento (I promise).” Chucho laughed, grabbing Javi by the shoulder, giving him a little shake. 

“Bye Chucho.” You grimaced, leaning in reluctantly for a hug. “Thanks for dropping us off. S-sorry about earlier.” You couldn’t help but wince again, eyes darting to the ground at your last sentence. 

“Oh mija, don’t apologize. Could be worse.” 

“I’m not really sure how it could be…” You whispered under your breath, just loud enough for Javi to hear, making him hold back a snort. 

“Besides, I think this bodes well for my bet I have placed.” Chucho smirked, crossing his arms over his chest as the two of you looked at him in confusion, 

“Your bet?” Javi asked, raising an eyebrow at his dad. 

“Mhmmm. The bet between me, your family, Mija, and the Murphy’s.” 

“As much as I love a vague and cryptic guessing game, any chance you’re gonna tell us what that bet is?” You laughed uncomfortably, looking back between Javi and Chucho. 

“Oh, don’t you worry, Mija. I think the two of you will know soon enough. Okay, enough of that! I will let the two of you go. Have a safe flight and a wonderful trip. I couldn’t be happier for the two of you. Enjoy your first of your many amazing adventures as a married couple.” 

While you couldn’t deny you still weren’t far off from wanting to find the nearest hole and disappear in, you couldn’t help but feel your cheeks warm at the sentiment of Chucho’s well-wishes, placing your hand in Javi’s and squeezing it tight, beaming up at your husband with love and excitement. 

“Thanks, Pops.” 

“Claro (of course). Alright, mijos, adios. Have fun. But not too much fun, if you know what I-” 

“Yup, we know exactly what you mean, bye, Dad!” Javi grunted, gently turning his father around and pushing him back towards the car making him laugh, giving the both of you one last wave goodbye before disappearing down the road. 

“Jesus Christ, I’m glad that’s over…” Javi sighed, wrapping his arm around your waist, pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

“You can say that again. What bet do you think he was talking about?” 

“Honestly, no fucking clue. And truth be told, right now, I couldn’t care less. Because right now,” He paused, leaning down to hold your cheek in his palm, forcing your gaze up at him, “all I care about,” he paused once again, planting a playful kiss on your lips, “is getting my beautiful wife onto this plane so we can start our honeymoon.” 

“Say it again.” You smiled, pressing up on your tiptoes to kiss him back. 

“My wife. My beautiful, amazing, drop dead gorgeous wife, who has single-handedly made me the luckiest man in the entire world.” Javi smirked, biting down on his lip as his grip tightened around you, making you giggle. 

“Easy there, Romeo, we still have a whole flight to get through, ya know.” 

Fortunately, your flight and arrival to the Bahamas was much less eventful than anything that had happened this morning, the embarrassment of your father-in-law’s unfortunate timing quickly fading away as you strolled up to the front desk to check into your room for the next ten days of nothing but what you had deemed your three favorite “S’s”- 

Sun, sand, and sex. 

Lots of sex. 

“Hi there! Welcome! My name is Cassandra, how can I help the two of you today?” A woman smiled politely from behind the check-in desk, quickly clacking away at her keyboard. 

“Hi. We’re checking in for Peña.” Javi beamed, grabbing your hand in his, gently rubbing his thumb over both sets of rings wrapped around your finger, knowing there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d ever get used to the fact he was lucky enough to get to call you his wife for the rest of his life. 

“Perfect! Let me get right on that.” She nodded, fingers tapping across the keys as she looked up your information. “Any special reason for your stay here?” 

“Honeymoon.” The two of you answered in sync, laughing to yourselves at your well timed response. 

“Well why didn’t you say that to begin with?! Let me see if I have anything I can upgrade you to for your stay!” Cassandra scoffed, almost comedically offended that your opening line hadn’t been “It’s our honeymoon, upgrade our room please!” 

“Oh, you don’t have to-” 

“Oh, honey, please. This is my favorite part of my job. Absolutely the least I can do for the two of you. Congratulations. Just give me one second here and…. Ah! Yes! I thought this one was available. Let’s upgrade you to the Ocean View King Suite. This one is one of my favorite rooms. You get the most beautiful view of the sunrise right from your balcony!” 

You and Javi looked at each other beaming, grins plastered across your faces in surprise. “Thank you so much, this is so nice of you to do for us.” You smiled. 

“Of course. Least that I can do. Like I said, it’s one of the highlights of doing this job. Alright, well, here are your room keys!” Cassandra grinned, passing the key cards and room information over the concierge desk and handing them to you and Javi. “If you head over to your right, there’s a bay of elevators that will take you to your room. I hope that you two have a wonderful stay, and enjoy your honeymoon!” 

“Thank you again, we really appreciate it.” Javi nodded, stuffing things into his pocket before leaning down to give you a kiss and reaching back to grab his suitcase and your hand in his. 

As Javi turned, leading the two of you towards the elevator, you couldn’t help but laugh at Cassandra’s face, her eyebrow playfully raised and head nodding in approval, pointing at Javi and giving you a thumbs up, as if you needed more confirmation that you had made a top-tier choice on the man you were going to spend the rest of your life with. 

“What’s so funny?” Javi smirked, tilting his head in confusion at your giggles as the two of you stepped into the elevator with the small crowd of people on their way back to their hotel rooms. 

“Nothing. Just some reassurance that I cleaned up pretty damn well in the husband department, which I can’t say I disagree with.” You snickered, reaching up to wrap your hand around his jaw, squeezing his cheeks in your grasp. 

“You’re such a dork, you know that?” 

“A dork who is now your wife, thank you very much.” You sassed, crossing your arms over your chest, making the two of you laugh quietly to yourselves until the ding of the elevator caught your attention. “Oh! I think this is us!” Quickly scrambling to grab your suitcase, you dashed out of the elevator as the doors parted, followed by Javi, trying to keep up with your excited pace. 

“Alright, Mrs. Dork, we’re room 2331.” Javi grinned, pulling the information from the front desk out of his pocket, scanning the hallway for rooms approaching your number, watching you search in front of him with detective-like accuracy. 

“Okay, let’s see, 2329… 2330… Here! Here it is! 2331!” You beamed, showing off the number of your room Vanna White style to Javi as he began to slip the room key into the card reader, pausing for a moment to stare at you with his sweet brown eyes in the midst of your goofiness. “What’s that look for?” You teased, smiling back at him. 

“Just reminding myself of how lucky I am. I love you, Mrs. Peña.” 

Mrs. Peña. 

You couldn’t help but let your heart skip a beat at the sound of him saying it, still not quite sure that the incredible reality of your new last name had completely sunk in with you yet. 

“I love you too, Mr. Peña. Now, you gonna open this door so we can put this room to use or what?” You smirked, raising your eyebrow at him playfully, gesturing towards your hotel room door. 

With a quick swipe of your room key the two of you unlocked your door to get a first glimpse of your hotel room. At first, the both of you were convinced you must have been in the wrong place, because this was the most beautiful, luxurious hotel room that you had ever laid eyes on. Complete with a giant king bed covered in fresh white sheets, free standing tub, huge couch and living room area, newly renovated, and most impressively, a huge set of sliding glass doors that lead to your balcony overlooking a breath-taking view of the beach and ocean below you. 

Mental note to self- you owed Cassandra at the big desk the biggest thank you ever. 

“Holy shit, Javi. This is gorgeous.” You muttered to yourself, dropping your bags off at one of the closets at the front of the room as you began to wander and explore, gently poking and prodding around as if you were a tourist in a museum, rather than a hotel guest in your own room. 

“It’s got no lack of options, that’s for sure.” Javi laughed quietly to himself, following behind you as he set down his own bags before doing an investigation of his own, the majority of which was spent watching you excitedly explore the in’s and outs of your new home for the next 10 days. 

“No lack of options?” You asked, tilting your head in confusion, as you turned towards Javi, hands resting on his hips with a smug grin spread from ear to ear. 

“Mmmhmmm.” He replied, making his way towards you until his hands were wrapped around your waist, pulling you against his chest to force your gaze up at his brown eyes, pooling with an equal combination of excitement and mischief. “No lack of options in this room for places I get to fuck my beautiful wife.” 

“You’re so bad!” You teased, giving him a little slap to his chest as the two of you laughed, knowing that you had the exact same thought, he was just the first to say it. 

“Oh c’mon, like you didn’t think the same thing.” 

“Okay listen… you’re not wrong. I would be a liar if I didn’t walk in here and think about how many different furniture choices we could fuck on before we had to leave.” You sighed in a playful defeat, your breaths slowly transforming to light and giggly to low and needy as Javi slid his hands resting on your hips down to your ass, palming it in his grasp. 

Craning his head down to rest in the crook of your neck, you couldn’t help but moan as he sucked at your pulse point, wet kisses consuming your neck and jawline as a damp patch began to pool in your underwear, falling apart under Javi’s touch. 

“Well if that’s the case, what should we break in first, Osita? What does mi esposa (my wife) want? ” Javi hummed, slipping his hands under the waistband of your shorts and underwear, pushing them over your hips and down your legs until they pooled around your ankles, leaving your bottom half bare. 

Snaking his hand between your bodies, you whimpered as his fingers ghosted over your core, grazing over your clit with just enough pressure to make you shutter in anticipation, feeling the slick of your arousal beginning to coat your thighs with want and need. 

“F-fuck-” You stammered, trying to string together anything that resembled a coherent thought, “The b-bed. Fuck me on the bed, baby, please.” 

Without another word, Javi had scooped you up under your thighs, forcing your legs to lock around his waist as he carried you toward the bed, mouths crashing together in a hungry mess of tongues and teeth. 

Javi set you down, gently laying your back on the bed just enough to let your lower half hang off the edge so he could make a home between your legs, draping each one over his shoulders and pushing them open further to reveal the wet, puffy mess in between your thighs. 

You should have been embarrassed with how worked up you already were from a few kisses and some ass grabbing, but with how excited you were to be here with your husband, without a worry in the world besides how many times you could disrespect your hotel room before you had to leave, you had no shame in how you were already dripping with anticipation as Javi’s eyes locked on your core. 

“Fuck, she’s so pretty.” Javi cooed, admiring the glistening sheen of your slick covering your folds, planting gentle kisses along the soft skin of your thighs, creeping closer and closer to your center. You sat up on your elbows to watch as Javi’s fingers lazily traced your cunt, collecting your arousal, rubbing with just enough pressure to make your clit throb even harder than it already had been. “Always so wet for me, Hermosa. My perfect wife. Fuck, I still can’t believe you’re all mine forever.” 

“Forever.” You whimpered, breath hitching in the back of your throat as Javi’s tongue dragged across your core with a broad, flat stroke, looking up at you with those devastatingly sweet, chocolate brown eyes, pulling off you with the look you knew all too well meant you were absolutely a goner. 

“Tastes so fucking sweet, baby.” Javi hummed, carefully bringing two fingers to your core, sinking them inside your weeping hole to prod steadily against your g-spot 

“Oh my god, fuck-” You whimpered, Javi working at a painstakingly slow pace that still had you writhing under his touch, his mouth and fingers moving in the perfect combination of pressure to already have a tingle beginning to build at the base of your spine despite the fact he had just started eating you out. 

Your jaw went slack as his digits prodded faster, his tongue swirling and flicking against your sensitive bundle of nerves, ragged moans and whimpers escaping from your lips, growing louder and more wonton by the second. 

“That’s my girl.” Javi cooed, pulling off you just enough to catch your attention, his fingers never faltering in pace, “Fuck, I could listen to you like this all day, Osita. All the pretty noises my wife makes just for me. C’mon, baby. You want everyone here to know who makes you feel this good, huh? Tell them, sweet girl, who makes you feel this good?” 

“Y-you, Javi, fuck- You do, baby.” You moaned, feeling your pussy begin to flutter around Javi’s fingers as his smug smirk pressed back against your cunt, now sucking at your clit with a ferocious switch intensity he knew would send you over the edge in an instant. 

Squeezing Javi’s head between your thighs, you cried out louder, chanting his name like a prayer with each second you grew closer and closer to your end, feeling arousal creeping through your body at a rapid rate. 

“Javi, Javi, fuck- Oh, baby, Javi, I’m gonna- gonnaahhhhhhh-” 

In an instant, your orgasm crashed through you, filling you with all consuming pleasure that had you seeing stars, sobbing out as your cunt clamped down around Javi’s fingers that were pulsing inside you through your high. 

At this point, you were probably close to suffocating your poor husband, but it was his own damn fault for knowing how to make you cum so hard, your soul just about left your body. 

Finally regaining enough inhibition, you let your legs fall open, freeing Javi from the thigh prison he had trapped himself in, still smirking with delight despite his red face and shortness of breath. 

“Jesus Christ, Osita.” He laughed, standing up as he began to shed his clothes, tossing his shirt and shorts in a crumpled pile on the floor, followed by his already tented and stained boxers, revealing his painfully hard cock, slapping against his stomach and bobbing between his legs as it was freed. “You tryin’ to kill me, baby?” 

“I could ask you the same thing.” You huffed, chest still rising and falling with heavy breaths as you came down from your high. “Sorry, not my fault you make me cum so hard I put you in a headlock between my legs.” 

You and Javi both couldn’t help but laugh as he helped you slide further up the bed, crawling over you and caging you under his broad body, peppering every inch of your body with kisses and intentionally tickling you with his mustache in all the places he knew made you giggle the most. 

“If I die between my wife’s thighs buried face deep in her pussy, I’d die a happy man.” 

“Well I have no plans on intentionally murdering you on this trip, so count yourself safe this time, Peña.” 

“Baby, I’m convinced you’re just trying to kill me slowly this entire trip, considering you have nothing packed in your suitcase besides bikinis and sundresses.” Javi sighed, arms planted around your head as he laid overtop of you, kissing up your collarbone and neck, all the way up your jawline. 

“Javier Peña, we are literally on a tropical vacation to the Bahamas. Would you have liked me to pack, a parka and snow pants?” You teased, breath hitching in the back of your throat between giggles, trying to maintain your composure between the wet, hot kisses, Javi was planting across your skin. 

“No,” He grumbled, “You’re the hottest woman I’ve ever fucking met, baby, you don’t think people aren’t staring at you everywhere you go? I can’t fucking blame ‘em, but they better notice that ring on your finger and know you’re off limits.” 

Heat crept through your cheeks, butterflies swirling in your stomach from what he had said, picking up on the notion behind his thoughts. Javi wasn’t a jealous man, but fuck, was he a protective one, and God help any man who tried to knowingly make a move on you while he was around. 

He wanted everyone to know you were his, and you just as badly wanted everyone to know he was yours. 

“Maybe just the ring isn’t enough, baby.” He smirked, nipping and tugging at your skin with his teeth as he snaked his hand between your bodies to stroke himself and line his cock up with your entrance. “‘Cause you know what else isn’t in your suitcase?” 

Your birth control. 

You didn’t have to say a word to know exactly what Javi meant, your face swelling with a mixture of excitement and want. 

“Javi, oh fuck-” You moaned, cut off by the sweet sting of Javi pushing into you, filling you up with every inch of himself until he had bottomed out, stalling for a moment to let you adjust to his fullness before slowly dragging his cock in and out of your cunt. 

“Maybe,” he groaned, biting down on his lip at just how good you felt around him, warmth and wetness coating his length with each stroke, “Maybe that ring on your finger isn’t enough, Ostia. Maybe once they see you pregnant with our baby growing inside you, they’ll know you’re mine.” 

It never failed to amaze you just how Javi knew how to make you short circuit with words alone, hoping the entire resort didn’t hear the absolutely pathetic whimper you let out at the idea of finally carrying his baby, showing off your family to the world, and the man who had given it to you.  

“Fuck, knock me up Javi. Wanna- wanna make you a daddy.” You whined, wrapping your arm up around his neck, running your fingers through his dark and sweaty curls, tugging him closer to you until your mouths were molded in a messy clash of tongues and teeth. 

“Christ- Yeah, baby girl? Fuck, I’ll give you whatever you want. I’ll fuck myself so deep inside you, it’s got no choice but to fuckin’ take. Keep you stuffed with my cum every day until it sticks.” Javi groaned, gritting his teeth as he grabbed the backs of your thighs, pushing them to your chest and pulling you closer to him so your back began to arch, giving himself the perfect angle to split you open and keep every last drop inside of you. 

You could feel every inch of Javi filling you, perfectly punching against that soft, spongy spot inside your cunt with each thrust, keeping your thighs still pressed against your chest as the lower half of your legs wrapped around the small of Javi’s back, ankles locking together to keep him as close and deep inside you as you could. 

“Dámelo, papi.” You cooed, wicked smile stretched from ear to ear watching Javi physically having to stop himself to let out a strangled groan, clenching his jaw and scrunching his face to keep from busting right then and there.  

“Jesus, fuck-” Javi grunted, finally gaining enough composure to open his eyes and look back down at you beneath him, smugly smirking, “That’s how this is gonna go, huh?"

The chocolate brown of Javi’s eyes began to darken with lust, dragging his cock out and ramming into you so deeply, a pathetic whimper fell from your lips, nearly knocking the wind out of your chest feeling him practically in your stomach. Your whimpers quickly turned to sobs as he did it again, slowly dragging his length out of your wet, warm walls before pounding back in to you with a blinding intensity. 

Leaning down, Javi grabbed your arms, pushing them outstretched above your head until your wrists were crossed over each other and Javi had them both in his firm grasp, pinning you to the bed with the weight of his body and grip. It was like something feral had ignited inside him, brow furrowed and teeth gritted with a laser focus, snapping his hips to thrust himself deeper and harder, melting you to a helpless puddle beneath him, your cries of pleasure and desperation only egging him on more. 

“You want me to fill you up, baby? Then you’re gonna be a good girl and take every last fucking drop. Every. Last. One.” He huffed, syncing his words to each thrust, keeping a bruising grip over your wrists with one hand, and digging his fingertips into the meat of your hips with his other. “Tell me what you’re gonna do for me, baby girl. Tell me whose pussy this is.” 

“It’s yours, Javi. Fuck, fuck, fuck- it’s yours, baby! I- oh shit- I promise I’ll be a good girl and take it all. Want you to fill me up, Papi.” You sobbed, arousal seeping through your veins as Javi’s cock punched against your g-spot over and over, each stroke faster and more intense, blinding your body with pleasure. 

Your hotel room was drenched in the borderline pornographic sounds of skin slapping against skin, wet squelching of your pussy squeezing Javi’s cock tighter and tighter as you could feel the coil beginning to tighten in your stomach, crying out without any inhibition for your volume, Javi grunting and panting with equal intensity. 

“That’s my girl. You gonna let everyone hear who this pussy belongs to? Let everyone know that I’m gonna fill you up and get you pregnant?” Javi mewled, watching the way your eyes were nearly rolling in the back of your head, snaking his hand gripping your hip down between your bodies to rub firm and frantic circles around your clit to help push you over the edge knowing how close you were. 

As soon as the calloused pads of Javi’s fingers were pressed against your sensitive nub, you were seconds away from the brink of collapse, cunt clamping tighter and tighter around Javi’s cock, choking it with your velvety walls. 

“Yes, yes, yes, fuck, fuck, I’m so close baby. Don’t stop, don’t stop, please, fuckfuckfuckfuck!” 

Instantly, your orgasm crashed through your body, blinding white heat flooding your vision, pleasure shooting through every inch of you to the point you felt like you had left your own body. You could feel your body going limp beneath Javi, knowing he wasn’t far behind you given all his tell tale signs as you soaked his length with your arousal. 

Javi’s thrusts had forgone any type of rhythm, now sloppy and erratic, his balls tightening and tensing in his stomach, babbling and moaning in your ear, whispering sweet nothings before he found himself in the same state of you. 

“That’s it, hermosa. Cum all over my cock. Cum all over me before I fill up this tight little pussy so full it’s got no choice but to take. Oh fuck- Fuck, can’t wait to get you pregnant. See you carrying our baby. Gonna make you the prettiest fucking Momma-ahhhhhhh, fuck!” 

With one final stutter of his hips, Javi was painting the inside of your cunt with thick, warm ropes of his spend, keeping himself flushed as tight as he could to your pelvis, making sure a single drop didn’t escape as he plugged you with his cock, cumming so hard he couldn’t help but whimper. The weight of his body slumped on top of you, syncing your heavy breaths, the sticky and sweaty sheen of your chests pressed together as Javi planted a slow and sensual kiss on your lips, swallowing your moans in his mouth. 

“Holy fuck.” You half whispered to yourself, letting out a bliss-filled giggle.

“Jesus Fucking Christ.” Javi panted, quietly laughing along with you, gently brushing the damp and wild strands of your hair out of your face, “Fuck- You gotta be careful with that “Papi” shit, Osita.” 

“Oh yeah? And why would that be?” You teased, smirking as you raised an eyebrow at him and bit down on your lip, knowing damn well why. 

“Because if you keep that up, I don’t think we’re ever leaving this room.” 

After dinner and giving a few more pieces of furniture in your hotel room a good test run, the two of you had happily called it a night on day one of your honeymoon, eager to explore the rest of the resort as the two of you rose with the golden rays of the sun beaming over the horizon of your ocean view window, flooding your room with warm and welcoming sunlight. 

As much as the both of you were convinced you could have easily spent the next 10 days without leaving your hotel room, you made a pact that you would spend some time going to explore the rest of the resort after spending some much deserved post-wedding de-stressing in the sun by the pool, drinking as many mojitos and frozen daiquiris as you could stomach. 

And as amazing as non-stop sex with Javi would have been, soaking up in the sun poolside with a drink on one side of you and a shirtless husband on the other, you’d say that this was a pretty close second. 

“Another one?” Javi smirked, eyebrows raised at you as his brown eyes peeked over the edge of his aviators, gesturing at your nearly empty glass. 

“I mean… if you’re offering.” You giggled, tipsy after a few drinks and hours baking in the sun, happily holding out the remainder of your mojito for Javi to exchange for a new one. 

“I think the bartender and I are about to be on a first name basis pretty soon.” Javi laughed, shuffling out of his beach chair, grabbing his empty cup along with yours to bring back with him to the poolside bar that had been visited a questionable amount of times by the two of you since you had gotten to the pool this morning. 

“Yeah? Are you gonna tell the bartender the frozen strawberry margaritas you’ve been getting from him all day are for you and not for your wife?” You teased, pulling your sunglasses down to look at Javi, playfully rolling his eyes back at you. 

“Shut up. They’re fucking addicting. You had one, can you blame me?” 

“I’m just giving you a hard time, Mr. I Won’t Drink Anything But Beer and Whiskey. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. Although, I’m sure Steve would get a kick out of knowing you’ve downed like, 7 of these since we’ve gotten here.” 

Setting down both of the drinks, you found yourself in a fit of squeals and giggles as Javi reached down to scoop you up out of your chair, carrying you bridal style to the edge of the pool before jumping in with the both of you, the refreshing cool of the pool water crashing over you as your bodies bobbed under the surface. 

“Pendejo!” You laughed, splashing Javi as your heads peered above the edge of the water, Javi shaking his hair, damp and clinging to his forehead from your added assault, grabbing you by the waist before you could go any further, shifting you to wrap your legs around him as he held you, childishly swaying you through the water. 

“Te amo, esposa.” (I love you, wife) Javi teased in a mocking tone, responding to your name calling. 

“Joke’s on you, because I wanted to get into the pool anyways. You’re lucky you’re handsome. Mojito me, Peña.” You splashed again, rolling your eyes at his over exaggerated kiss before he swam away, shooting you a wink while he waded his way to the poolside bar. 

It wasn’t long before Javi was making his way back, a drink in each hand, happily handing you your mojito as he got to the edge of the pool where you were sitting, lifting himself up to sit beside you and take a swig of his margarita. 

“Miss me?” He smirked, raising his eyebrows at you. 

“Terribly. Most agonizing 6 minutes of my entire life.” You teased, playing into the dramatics as Javi picked up your left hand, admiring the diamond ring and wedding band adorned on your finger before gently kissing it. 

“Sorry to keep my wife waiting. I hope that you’ll accept this mojito as a token of my apology.” 

“I think that’s a fair enough compromise.” 

After a few more hours and several drinks later, it was safe to say that you and Javi had definitely both been in better states than you currently were, too far gone to care about the potential consequences of tomorrow’s hangover to stop yourselves. 

“What time do you think it is?” You asked, sunkissed body sprawled out across the pool chair. 

“Wife O’Clock.” Javi answered, snickering to himself at his answer. 

“Javier Peña, that’s not a real time, you dork.” 

“Half past mojito. A quarter ‘til my next margarita.” 

“Jesus Christ….” You paused, one of the life guards crossing behind you catching your attention, “Hey, excuse me! Do you know what time it is?” 

“Uhhhhh, looks like it’s almost 6!” The lifeguard replied, looking down at his watch before continuing on his path. 

“6?! Oh shit!” You gasped, sitting up straight in your chair. 

“What? What’s happening at 6?!” Javi inquired, seemingly less concerned with whatever was supposed to be happening then that had you so riled up. 

“Javi, we're supposed to be at dinner right now! We made reservations at that italian place, remember?!” You grimaced, frantically starting to grab the towels and clothes you had scattered around the pool deck. 

“Oh fuck! Shit, uh- okay, here, lemme help you!” Javi joined in on the gathering of any item that belonged to you that he could find, tossing it into the bag you had brought down with you, hoping that you didn’t forget anything that had come with you to the pool. 

While the haphazard gathering of items was a good enough sign to any onlooker that you and Javi were more than likely intoxicated, the both of you didn’t realized just how drunk you were until you both tried to stand up out of your beach chairs, grabbing on to each other in a wobbly dance of giggles.  

“Woah, I think I drank a little lotta margaritas.” Javi stammered, laughing to himself. 

“Fuck, I did too. Jesus, how many do you think we had?” You giggled, face scrunching in anticipation of the number that was definitely going to be higher than you had intended when you came to the pool this morning. 

You could see Javi trying to drunkenly calculate his trips to the pool bar in his head, counting across his fingers in a serious concentration, tongue sticking out of his mouth, as if it was going to help him focus better. 

“Let’s see, I think after adding them all up… We drank a lot.” 

“If we can’t even come up with a number, that’s not good. Fuck, I didn’t even bring real clothes! Our room is so far from the restaurant, there’s no way we’re even gonna be close to making it!” You pouted, shrugging your shoulders in defeat. 

“Just put on the cute little dressy thingy over your bathing suit. Or just go in your bikini. You’re so hot they have to let you in.” Javi smirked, biting down on his lip as he looked you up and down, giving you his best drunken attempt at his bedroom eyes. 

“Unfortunately for you, I don’t think the other patrons of this resort want to watch me eat pasta half naked, ya sicko.” You teased, giving him a nudge to his stomach a little harder than you had intended. “Okay, cover up will have to do, I guess. Do you have your shirt?” 

“You don’t wanna watch me eat pasta half naked?” 

“As much as I’d love to, maybe another time, weirdo. Okay, we have to go! Or else we’re not getting any pasta, naked or not! Focus, Peña, focus!” You commanded in your best pretend stern voice, grabbing the rest of your things in your hands while Javi stood there, admiring you like the drunken, lovesick fool he was. 

“You’re so fucking sexy when you’re bossy.” Javi smirked, raising his eyebrows at you, “Okay, fine, fine fine, let’s go. Lead the way, Mrs. Peña.” 

If you didn’t feel drunk enough after simply trying just to stand up out of your pool chairs and collect all your belongings within a 5 foot radius of you, you sure as hell did trying to drunkenly navigate the resort to find the restaurant you were looking for. After asking several employees, you somehow managed to stumble your way through the hotel to find your intended location, “Ciao!” , one of the higher-end dining experiences the two of you had planned for your vacation. 

“Hi. We are married, and we are here to eat pasta.” Javi proclaimed to the hostess at the front of the restaurant, who was looking back and forth between you and Javi, riddled with confusion not only by Javi’s opening statement, but from the fact the two of you were nearly out of breath from running around every inch of the resort, clearly drunk, and still dressed in your swimsuits. 

“Ummmm, okay? What’s the name on the reservation?” The hostess asked hesitantly, flipping through the pages of names and times written down for seating tonight. 

“Peña. We were supposed to be here at 6 but we had a lil too much fun at the pool, but not enough fun that we completely forgot about dinner! We’re really sorry!” You explained, trying your best to keep your composure, biting your tongue to subdue your drunken giggles. 

“Yeah, like, so sorry. I had a lot of margaritas today.” Javi added, turning his head to let out a little burp at the end of his sentence. 

“I don’t see any Peña’s on the reservation for tonight….” The hostess sighed, flipping back and forth between today’s pages, clearly not amused by either of your antics. 

“Oh no… Does that mean we’re not getting pasta? Shit.” Javi pouted, crossing his arms over his chest like a little boy. 

“Oh wait, are- are you sure it was a reservation for today? I see Peña on here at 6 for tomorrow?” 

“Oh shit…” You and Javi replied, nearly in sync, visibly grimacing at the fact that you had spent the past 45 minutes in an alcohol induced frenzy, running through the resort to find a restaurant you weren’t even supposed to eat at until tomorrow. 

Whoops. 

“My bad….” You shrugged, sheepishly frowning as you looked back and forth between the hostess and Javi, “Okay, well, um, we’re gonna- We’re gonna go then.” You winced, grabbing Javi by the hand to slowly drag him away from the restaurant, hoping that the physical distance would somehow spare you the embarrassment you had just subjected yourself to. 

“You’re fine, just- We do ask that our guests wear more, um- appropriate attire when they come to dine with us.” The hostess scoffed, huffing at you and Javi, looking you up and down with your beach bound outfits and hands full of pool accessories as you continued to back away. 

“She doesn’t wanna see us eat pasta in our bathing suits?” Javi whispered in your ear, making you snort so loud it almost hurt your chest, trying to keep from bursting into full blown laughter before making it out of eye and earshot of the hostess, jabbing him in the stomach with your elbow, only spurring him on further, “She doesn’t know how sexy you’d look shoving a fist full of garlic bread down your throat with nothing on but a bikini? Her loss.” 

Now out of sight of the restaurant, you and Javi exploded into an obnoxious fit of drunken giggles, feeling completely idiotic for wasting nearly the last hour of your night in a whirlwind journey to nowhere. 

“Well, looks like no pasta for dinner tonight.” You sighed, playfully throwing up your hands in defeat. “I am starting to get really hungry though… Like too hungry to go back up to the room and change and then come back down and wait at a restaurant for more food.” 

“Yeah, shit, I’m really hungry too… Wait!” Javi paused, his face lighting up with excitement. 

“What, Jav?” 

“Didn’t we pass a pizza place on the way up to the room when we first got here? 

The grin on your face was now equally as wide, almost certain that you and Javi were having the same drunk recollection. 

“I knew there was a good reason I married you.” 

Somehow or another, you had not only managed to find your way to “Papa’s Pizzeria”, you had managed to successfully order an extra large pizza for the two of you to split, and make it back to the room without any pizza casualties on the way. 

Even a drunken you couldn’t help but realize how lucky she was to have married a man like Javi, and not just because of his excellent memory for pizza restaurants- What you had been through in the past hour and a half could have easily sent any other couple into an ugly spiral of arguments and blame they’d cast upon each other for “ruining” the rest of their night. 

You’d been witness to so many relationships and marriages where couples barely managed to genuinely enjoy each other’s company, let alone have fun together. Cohabitation drenched in resentment and unhappiness towards each other, forced proximity the only thing keeping them together.  

You were positive that there would never be enough “thank you’s” that you could send out into the universe for letting you marry your best friend. 

Because what would have been a soiled evening for so many others, was quickly turning out to be a better night than you could have ever imagined, plans tossed out the window to sit cross legged in your king sized bed together, bodies draped in fluffy hotel robes as you mowed down on slices of pepperoni pizza, giggling over shared, drunken secrets with your favorite person in the world. 

“Okay, your turn now.” You snickered, shoving another bite of lukewarm pizza into your mouth, giving Javi a playful shove into the sea of pillows at the head of your bed. 

“I just went!” He protested, trying to talk through the mess of cheese, sauce and crust he was still chewing. 

“Nuh uh! I just did, remember? We got off topic because we started talking about the Farrah Fawsect poster you had in your room that your mom made you take down, but you were the one who asked me about who my first celebrity crush was, remember?” You insisted, pointing your half bitten piece of pizza at him, forcing him to hold up his hands in defeat. 

“Okay, okay! Can’t blame me for forgetting after thinking about that poster, though.” Javi shrugged, smirking at the thought of his 12 year old self gawking at the beautiful blonde actress hanging above his bed, “Shit…. Gimmie a second, let me think.” 

“I’ve given you plenty of seconds, goofball! Like all the seconds I spared you thinking about Farrah.” 

“Shut up. Okay,” he paused, taking another bite of pizza, “who was your first kiss?” 

“Really? Why, you gonna go hunt him down?” You snorted, feeling like you were gossiping with your teenage best friend at a sleepover rather than with your husband, Javi laughing along with you as he shook his head, “It was Jack Mullins in the 7th grade.” 

“Okay, and?” Javi prodded, smirking as he interrogated you for more information. 

“It was at a Halloween Party my friend Sarah had at her house. I’m pretty sure we were playing truth or dare, and all my friends knew I had a massive crush on him because he was the cutest boy in the 7th grade. So they dared me to kiss him and I did it. It was so awkward, and I had no idea what I was doing. Pretty sure we kissed while the “The Monster Mash” was playing, too. I was so embarrassed after that I cried in the bathroom and then walked home and didn’t even say goodbye to anyone. Didn’t ever think I’d speak to him again and he ended up being my date to prom.” 

“Wow. That was a way better story than I was expecting to get. “The Monster Mash”? Truth or Dare?” Javi chuckled as your cheeks turned red, watching your eyes at his enjoyment of your story. 

“Okay, I was 12 Javi, some of us were weird, awkward teenagers. I’m sure that you were very easily the Jack Mullins of your middle school and had girls at the door lining up to kiss you.” You rebutted, having seen plenty of pictures of teenage Javi, thanks to Chucho, knowing whatever awkward phase he went through was only a fraction of your pre-teen pain. 

“No, I wasn’t. I was a pretty shy kid. All my friends had their first kiss way before I did.”  Javi shrugged, now sounding slightly more embarrassed. 

“Okay, so what? They were 12 and you were 13? I don’t believe it. I would have had the biggest crush on you in middle school.” 

“I’m being serious!”  

C’mon, Javi, if I’m telling you about my Monster Mash kiss, I get to hear about yours!” You insisted, giving him the biggest fake pout that you could muster until he gave in. 

“I- I was 16 when I had my first kiss.” 

“You’re joking.” 

“Why would I joke about that?” 

“16?!” 

“Osita, you’re making it sound like I was 72 when I had my first kiss, not 16.” 

“Considering how cute you were, yeah, I am! Okay, spill! Now I need to know!” 

“I’m telling you, I was a shy kid. Didn’t really come out of my shell until 10th grade when I started doing swimming. There was a girl on the team I always thought was really cute, but I was too chicken shit to do anything about it. All my friends had girlfriends and dates to go to homecoming with, and I didn’t have anyone, so they forced me to ask her. She turned me down, told me she already had a date. I was devastated. Went to a party with the team after, got drunk for the first time because I was so upset, and ended up kissing my friend’s older sister, Katie. Made out in the laundry room in the basement for the rest of the night. My friend found us after he realized we both had gone missing and ended up punching me in the face and almost breaking my nose.” 

“Holy shit. That’s a way better story than mine.” You gawked, eyes going wide at the turn Javi’s story had taken. 

“I wouldn’t say way better, just stupid.” Javi huffed, “You do dumb things when you’re young.” 

“Well, you must have been a pretty good kisser even back then if she made out with you for an hour. Honestly, would have been dumb if she didn’t make out with you, in my humble opinion.” You giggled, scooting closer to Javi as you snuggled into his lap, resting your head on his outstretched thigh and letting out a big yawn. Resting his hand on your back, Javi pulled you closer, running his fingers through the sun kissed ends of your messy hair, smiling at all the tell tale signs sleep was beginning to creep through your body and the way you snuggled up next to him. 

“Okay, one last question because all these mojitos are catching up to me and I’m getting sleepy.” You mumbled, feeling your eyelids begin to droop as you curled up in the warmth of his body, comfort flooding over you from Javi’s presence. 

“Okay, hermosa. Your turn.” Javi cooed, his voice softening to match your sleepy tone, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. 

“If you could change anything about your life, anything you want, what would it be?” 

Javi paused for a moment, his fingers still daintily stroking across your hair and back as he thought. Truthfully, there were plenty of things he wished he could change about his past. It would take him less than a minute to come up with a list longer than most people could muster in a lifetime. He had wasted so many years of his life, bitter and remorseful about the things he had done, condemning himself to suffer the consequences of his actions. And yet, somehow, despite all of the things he could have said, out of all the painful things he wished he could go back in time to change, there was one answer that prevailed above all the rest, an answer that couldn’t have been easier to choose.  

“I wish there was a world where I would have met you sooner. That I would have gotten to love you just a little longer.” 

He waited for your response, settling into the silence until it was broken by one of your soft snores humming against his thigh, signaling to him you were sound asleep in his lap, not having heard a word you said. He laughed softly to himself, remembering the first night he had stayed at your apartment, and how it had ended just like this, conversation flowing until the early hours of the morning until you couldn’t fight sleep any longer, eyelids shutting as you fell asleep in his arms. How he watched you gently drift to dreaming, wondering if he was, too. That somehow, some way, the world had managed to bring the two of you together. And even if he wished he would have gotten more time to love you before you’d met, Javi knew that he’d be forever grateful for every minute he had left with you. 

Despite the raging hangover the two of you had the next morning after you woke up from your alcohol and pizza induced coma, the rest of your honeymoon had been some of the most fun that the two of you had had in years. You’d spent multiple days at the pool, soaking up sun on the beach and swimming in the ocean, eaten so much delicious food you were convinced you were going to combust, drank more mojitos than you’d like to admit, and had even gone snorkeling on a tour through some of the islands outside your resort. 

You also had been having so much sex, you were starting to feel bad for the rooms on either side of you. 

Everything about your honeymoon had been everything you’d ever hoped for and more, but with only one full day left of your vacation, you couldn’t help but feel a little sad that your perfect trip to tropical paradise was coming to a close. 

“What’s that look for, porbrecita?” Javi laughed, sneaking up behind you on the edge of the balcony, watching you watch the sunrise with your cheeks propped up in your palms, pouting at the way bright pinks and oranges were greeting the sky. Standing behind you, he snaked his arms around your front so he could bring your back to his chest, kissing the top of your head while his arms settled around your middle. 

“I don’t want our honeymoon to end.” You sighed, craning your neck just enough to look at Javi over your shoulder, “I’m sad it’s gonna be over.” 

“I know, mi amor, me too.” He softly chuckled, planting a long kiss on your cheek, the whiskers of his mustache making you giggle, “But what if I told you I have one more surprise for us before we go home tomorrow?” 

This made you swing all the way around, now chest to chest with Javi as you looked up at him in confusion, “What? I thought we were spending our last day on the beach just hanging out?” 

“Well we are, but what if I told you I rented one of those fancy cabanas at the end of the beach for us to use to celebrate our last day here?” Javi smirked, watching your face light up at his proposition. 

“Wait, actually?” 

“Yes, actually.” 

“But aren’t they like, super expensive to rent for the day?” 

“I mean… they’re not that expensive.” 

“Okay, the pause tells me that you spent way more money than you needed to on this, Jav.” 

“And what if it was? I’m not allowed to wanna spoil my wife on our honeymoon?” Javi grinned, gently cupping your face and playfully shaking it, making you laugh again. 

“Your wife doesn’t need to be spoiled, just getting to be here with you is more than enough.” You paused, giving Javi a little nudge as he dramatically rolled his eyes at you, chuckling to himself, “What, you goof?” 

“I hope you know that because you’re my wife, I’m planning on spending the rest of my life spoiling you, whether you like it or not. I’d give you the fucking moon if I could, Osita.” 

“Well lucky for you, a day at a beach cabana will do just fine.” 

While you never would have asked Javi to purposely spend extra money on things you really didn’t need to make your trip any more special than it already was, you couldn’t deny that spending the day in your own private cove of the beach in a luxurious cabana with food and drinks being served to you at your request wasn’t a bad way to spend the last day of your honeymoon. 

The daybeds in the cabana had made a perfect place for a shady, mid day nap for the both of you, lazily waking up from the soft kiss Javi had planted on your shoulder, exposed from your bikini top, freckled and sunkissed from days in the tropics. 

“I’m gonna go for a swim, Hermosa. Be back in a sec.” Javi cooed, gently stirring you from your catnap. 

“Mmmmmmkay.” You smiled, flipping over for another kiss on the lips before Javi slipped out from the flaps of your tent, softly blowing in the breeze. You sat up on your lounger, the sight of Javi in nothing but his bathing suit waking you from your brief sleep in a matter of moments. 

Even though you had seen Javi in nothing but bathing suits for the past 9 days, you were convinced it was a sight you’d never find yourself getting over. There was no doubt that you had always found him incredibly attractive, but something about this trip had skyrocketed him to another level of sexy you didn’t even know was attainable. You weren’t sure if it was the unbuttoned floral shirts, excessive time spent shirtless, his messy and wet beach hair, or just the fact that now you got to call him your husband- truthfully, it was most likely a combination of all of the above. 

You perked up, pulling back the fabric door of the cabana enough to watch Javi’s arms stroke through the ocean, popping his head above water with a brief shake before he was shallow enough to touch the sandy bottom again. As he sauntered in from the ocean, you couldn’t help but admire the width of his shoulders and chest, glistening from the sun and salty water. You let your gaze travel down to his swim trunks, feeling your mouth water at the way they hugged his waist and crept up his thick thighs. With each step closer to shore, you couldn’t stop staring at the way his trunks were clinging to his lower half, perfectly outlining his generous length. 

Javi must have noticed the way you were staring at him by the subtle smirk that had broken out across his face as he approached the cabana, eyeing you up and down right back. 

“You have a good swim?” You asked, feeling your stomach swirl as you took in every inch of him, glowing in the sunlight. 

“Mhmm. Did you have fun watching me swim?” He teased, tongue tracing over his teeth while he raised his eyebrows, knowing damn well the effect he was having on you. 

“Maybe. What, I’m not allowed to enjoy the view? Not my fault my husband is so handsome.” Your smirk was almost as wide as his, biting down on your bottom lip as Javi entered the cabana, letting the flap to the entrance close behind him before caging your body under his on the lounge chair, trailing hot, wet, kisses across your chest and stomach. 

“Say it again.” He mewled, looking up at you with his big, brown eyes as his kisses trailed lower and lower, watching as he began to settle himself at the edge of the chair between your thighs. 

“My husband is so handsome. You’re so handsome, Javi.” You sighed, feeling the damp patch in your swimsuit bottoms growing, soaking the fabric with your slick and arousal. 

“You’re so fucking good to me. Fuck, I’m so lucky.” He groaned, slinging your thighs over his shoulders, eyes still locked on you while he began to tug at the strings of your bikini, leaving your bottom half bare. 

There was a part of you that knew you should be worried about someone catching the two of you, barely concealed by the flimsy confines of your cabana, but the part of you staring at your husband between your legs about to eat you out seemed a lot more convinced that this was the best idea Javi had all day. 

“You’re so fucking perfect. Everything about you. I’m the goddamn luckiest man alive, you know that baby?” 

Your response to his question was nothing but a ragged moan, feeling him draping his arm over your hips to hold you in place as he slid two fingers into your heat. He curled his hand to reach the spot inside you he knew made you crumble before diving back in between your legs, beginning to lick you up like a man starved.

His tongue swirled against your clit, the firmness of each stroke and the deep press of his fingers making you writhe under his touch, shooting your hand down to grab fistfulls of his damp, curly locks to brace yourself as he ate you out relentlessly.

“Oh my god, fuck, Javi. Fuck, you feel so good. Fuck-” 

You could feel him switching tactics, latching his lips around your sensitive nub, rapidly sucking at the throbbing bundle of nerves, working his fingers deeper in your cunt as he felt you begin to clench around him. 

“Fuck Javi, fuck, right there baby- fuck, I’m close.” Your fingers were buried so deep in his curls, tugging just enough to pull his face closer to you as you could feel your orgasm building at the base of your spine, desperate for him to give you your sweet release. 

His thick fingers bumped along your g-spot, curving them ever so slightly in the way he had memorized like the back of his hand to make you come undone. The tingle along your spine quickly spread down your legs, pleasure building rapidly throughout your body as you felt yourself on the edge of release. Lifting his arm off your waist, he reached up to grab your hand laying out on the lounge chair, engulfing it in his grasp as he intertwined his fingers with yours. 

“Dameló, (give it to me) sweet girl. Let go, baby, I’ve got you.” 

You could feel the pressure inside you snap, the tingling in your veins quickly transforming into full blown pleasure as your orgasm swept through you. You gushed around his hand, cunt clenching down on his fingers as you came, losing all sense of inhibitions as you cried out with a volume much louder than intended. 

But with Javi’s fingers still curled, prodding against your g-spot, you had a feeling those cries weren’t coming to a halt any time soon. It was only moments after your orgasm had finished he was already on a mission to give you another, tongue lapping up every ounce of your slick as it pressed against your clit. 

“Javi, holy shit, baby, oh fuck.” You whined, bucking your hips towards his face and arching your back as he circled around your bundle of nerves, your moans and whimpers only egging him on more. 

Even after all this time, there was a part of you that still couldn’t believe how fast Javi could make you cum. He had memorized every twitch, every tug of his hair, every breathy whisper to know what made you fall apart under his touch, loving every second of watching you come undone for him. 

You could already feel the tingling of your next orgasm beginning to creep up your legs and into your stomach as Javi sucked at your clit, greedy for him to help you hit your second high. 

“Please don’t stop, Javi. Fuck baby, fuck, fuck, I- ahhhhhhhhh.” That was all it took before you could feel the waves of pleasure rushing through your body again, your pussy throbbing as your orgasm flooded over you. 

Your legs were all but jello at this point, trembling around Javi’s head, still buried between them. Your last two orgasms had been so intense, you weren’t sure you could take a third, but with the way Javi knew your body, you also were convinced it would barely take anything for you to cum again. 

“J-Javi- fuck, baby, fuck I can’t-”   

“Gimme one more, Osita. C’mon, sweet girl. Wanna make my wife cum one more time.” You nodded, looking down at the shine of your arousal covering his smirk, knowing that at this point, you were so worked up and overstimulated that just the fingers already inside of you really were all you needed to give him your last orgasm. 

Javi’s fingers had already sunk so deep into your cunt, already so overly sensitive to every push and pull of his hand, that the grip you had on his hand had become so tight, you could feel your knuckles turning white. You cried out his name as it fell from your lips, babbling incoherently as the third rush of pleasure crashed over you, gushing onto Javi’s fingers.  

“That’s my good girl. My perfect fucking wife. I love you so much.” Javi carefully pulsed his fingers a few more times as he felt you clench around him, making you hiss as he withdrew his hand now soaked in your slick, bringing the digits to his fingers to suck them clean with a satisfied smirk. 

It was only moments before his sly grin had quickly shifted to full blown panic, you, still too blissed out to wonder why he was scrambling to throw a towel over your bottom half and one to hide the erection under his as he sat himself in the chair next to you. Thank god Javi still at least had an ounce of inhibition left to see the footsteps of the server who had been periodically checking in on you strolling their way through the sand under the edge of the cabana, saving you both from what could have been an incredible amount of embarrassment. 

“Hi, how are you two doing? Anything else I can get for you right now?” Your server asked, peeking his head in through the flaps to see you and Javi trying your best to act as natural as possible. 

“N-no, I’m good. You good, honey? Need anything?” Javi asked, looking over at you as his hand ran over the back of his neck, trying his best not to grimace at the awkward tension stewing between him, you and your poor, unsuspecting server. 

“You know what, I think I’m gonna have another drink.” 

“Alright! Another mojito for you, ma’am?” Your server asked, whipping out his pad of paper to note down your order. 

“No, can you make this next one a Sex on the Beach? That sounds really good.” 

It truly took everything in Javi not to burst out laughing, choking on his own spit at your perfectly timed order, shaking his head at you in a humorous disbelief. 

“Perfect, well I’ll be right back with your drink!” 

“Thank you so much!” 

Once your server had disappeared, you and Javi erupted in hyena like laughter, the combination of your joke and almost fatal timing throwing the two of you into a fit of giggles. 

“You’re fucking ridiculous, you know that?” Javi chuckled, looking over at you as he shook his head. 

“What? It’s our last day, figured we might as well have a little sex on the beach. The drink sounds like it’ll be good, too.” 

Your mid-afternoon flight had made for an easy morning to pack up and soak in the last little bit of your honeymoon. It had given you just enough time to enjoy your favorite breakfast place, and have one more of the best blueberry waffles you’d ever tasted before your last shower (and shower sex) to get ready for your departure home. 

While you were sad your vacation had come to an end, there was no denying that every last bit of your trip was absolutely perfect, and even more so that you got to spend it with the most perfect person you could think of. You were convinced you could have gone anywhere in the world for your honeymoon and you would have felt the same- in the end, it wasn’t the destination that mattered, it was the fact you got to spend it with your husband. 

The fact that you got to spend every vacation together for the rest of your lives only made it that much sweeter. 

While flying would never be enjoyable, you were thankful your trip home was fairly painless, granting Javi’s hand some grace, considering you didn’t feel the need to keep it in an iron grip for the two hours it took you to arrive back home. 

You were also thankful that it was Steve and Connie who had offered to pick you up from the airport instead of Chucho, sparing you and Javi the same sort of awkward embarrassment you had endured on the ride to start off your honeymoon. 

Well, it may not been the same kind of embarrassment that you had experienced with Javi’s dad, but it was foolish of you to think that Steve was letting you get away scott free. 

At least he had managed to get creative with it, making a greeting poster with “Welcome home, lovebirds!” on it to help you find him and Connie in the airport crowd, making Javi let out a sigh loud enough that Steve probably could have heard it from the tarmac. 

“Hey! There they are! Welcome home, Mr. and Mrs. Peña!” Steve grinned, pulling you and Javi in for a hug as you found him, Connie following suit with a much less dramatic greeting for the both of you afterwards. 

“How was the honeymoon? Did you guys have a great time?” Connie asked, offering to take one of your suitcases, nudging Steve to do the same. “ 

“It was really nice. It was everything we could have hoped for. The resort was beautiful, the food was great, and the weather was fantastic. It really was perfect.” You smiled, looking up at Javi, nodding in agreement, reaching out to wrap his arm over your shoulder. 

“Thanks again for picking us up.” Javi chimed in, the two of you now following along behind your friends as they began leading you through the airport towards their car. 

“Don’t mention it, Jav. Least we could do.” Steve replied, reaching out to give Javi a little punch to the arm. 

“We’re super excited to hear all about your trip!” Connie added, looking back at you and Javi with a genuine grin. 

“Excited to hear if I’m gonna make good on my bet…” Steve muttered, laughing under his breath. 

“Steve! Seriously? You promised in the car you weren’t gonna bring this up!” Connie huffed, giving her husband a slap to the chest, and a grimace that clearly was the silent way to ask “Will you please shut up?” 

“What?! I put good money on it, I’m confident!” 

“Wait, is this the same bet that Javi’s dad was talking about on the way here?” You asked, looking back and forth between Javi, Steve and Connie in confusion, perplexed as to what you and Javi had to do with whatever bet he and the Murphy’s were in on. 

“Go ahead, Steve! Why don’t you explain?” Connie scolded, hands on her hips as she stared down her husband in all his big mouthed glory. 

“You bet on it, too!” Steve retorted, holding his hands up in defense, pointing at Connie to claim her as part of the guilty party to whatever was going on.

“What the fuck are you guys talking about?” Javi asked, trying to cut to the chase of whatever cryptic game they were playing. 

“After y’all left on your wedding night, we- shit, this does sound kinda bad when you say it to their face, huh?” Steve paused, letting out a huff as he turned back to Connie, grimacing in agreement, “Us and your family and your dad made a bet.” 

“A bet on…” You led, waiting for your answer. 

Steve sighed again, hands on his hips as he stared at the ground before looking back up at you and Javi, “A bet on how quick it would take after the wedding until the two of you announced you were pregnant.” 

You didn’t even want to know how red your face was turning, but judging by the sudden pink flush of Javi’s cheeks, you had no doubt you looked exactly the same, if not worse. 

“To be fair, your dad was the one who started it!” Steve exclaimed, pointing at Javi to let him know he wasn’t to blame for his friend’s embarrassment before shifting his finger to point at you, “And your brothers were the one who said we should make it a bet! I just wanted in on it!” 

“Jesus fucking christ.” Javi sighed, face in his palm as he rubbed his temples with the pads of his fingers. 

“I hope now you know we’re not gonna have kids just to spite all of you.” You teased, crossing your arms over your chest as you tilted your head at Steve. It was enough to catch Javi’s attention, eyes going wide that there was even a shred of you being serious, laughing to yourself as you watched the relief flush over him when you shook your head at your own joke. 

“Yeah, okay, whatever you say.” Steve chuckled, his voice oozing with sarcasm, simply shrugging before turning back around to continue your journey to the parking garage. 

Javi took his free hand, intertwining it with yours and giving it a gentle squeeze as the two of you trailed behind the Murphy’s soft smile on his face that despite his friends and families bet revolved around your sex life, there was a very real possibility that sooner rather than later, someone was bound to make their fifty bucks. 

“What’d you bet?” Javi asked, feeling entitled to know how Steve had gambled after he’d spilled the beans on his little wager. 

“Well, let’s see, y’all got married at the end of July, so July to August, August to September,” Steve paused, doing the quick math on his fingers as he calculated his answer, “9 months from now would be April, so I’ll be damned if you’re not tellin’ us your havin’ a baby by the fall and it’s here by the spring. And I know for a fact neither of y’all would be mad about that one bit.” 

And as much as you both hated to admit it, it was one of the few things in life that Steve Murphy was very, very right about. 

@chaotic-iguana @rhoorl @whyjuliaaa @bbiophiliaa @pertinentpostmortem

@angelofsmalldeath-codeine @pedrobaby @fatima-marisa @beboldbebravethings @poodlebae

@kittenlittle24 @3sriracha @jungchloee @perennialdoll247 @prettyinpunk85

@partyofone3413 @harriedandharassed @pedrohoe04 @theorganasolo

@endlessthxxghts @beware-my-thorns @missladym1981 @messinadresa @milly-louise @jay-zzle

@the-one-with-the-grey-color @persephone-girl @bitchesuntitled @pedropascallvr @millennial-teenybopper

@nastiasnow @vee-bees-blog @hopplessilse @mxtokko @its-nebuleuse @mandoisapunk

@msmorningstaarr @amyispxnk @honeyedmiller @mountainsandmayhem @picketniffler

@burningnerdchild @copperhalfcent @theoraekenslover @bloodyinspirationaldemon @vee-bees-blog

@samgirl4life @pigeonmama @pedr0swh0r3 @survivingandenduring

@javierpena-inatacvestnotifs

[just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace]

Inspiration (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which you struggle coming up with new designs for the Nine, and the Lord of Gifts helps you overcome your creative block

Warnings: smut (p in v, cockwarming, tease and denial, dom!Annatar vibes), reader hesitates at first because she’s surprised by Annatar’s advances but she’s on board with it, manipulation cause she doesn’t know Annatar is Sauron, small discrepancies with the canon timeline for the sake of the fic’s (very little) plot, unrealistic(?) method of solving artistic blocks (the irony is that I wrote this fic to get out of writer’s block with another one and it worked😆)

Mature content below the cut - minors DNI!!!

“How fares your progress?”

Lord Annatar’s voice nearly startles you when you see him approach. You thought you were alone in the forge room, with nothing but your thoughts and the unfinished Ring designs currently staring in defiance up at you from a piece of paper.

“Well enough,” you say, reflexively. Then sigh, letting your pencil fall on the table. “Well, in fact... it is slow,” you confess, glancing at Annatar as he walks towards you. You wince internally when he looks over your shoulder at your sketches. “My skills are no match for Lord Celebrimbor’s, and even he has had difficulty finding the right designs.”

“And yet he chose you alone to carry on with the efforts in his absence,” he argues, even when faced with what you deem to be your far-less-than-satisfactory attempts. Looking up, you find him offering you a sympathetic smile. “You sell yourself short, my friend. It is a real pity.”

You avert your gaze, attempting yet surely failing to conceal your fluster. His compliments, however small, always have a sincerity about them that touches you deeply.

Lord Celebrimbor had, quite literally, worked himself into oblivion after one too many failed attempts at crafting the Nine, and more hours without rest than even an Elf could endure. He had refused to retire to his chamber for some much needed sleep until he had fainted upon his own worktable, and even then, he had refused for anyone but you to even attempt to create new designs for future tries in his absence. He had been odd, of late, mistrusting and, dare you say, even irresponsible at times. But you were his oldest and most trusted apprentice, and that seemed to earn you some of the good will he still had left.

Not that you feel he has made you much of a favour, leaving you to labour alone on such an intricate task. You are not exactly freshly rested yourself, and you have seen so many Ring designs in the past few weeks, you seem to have been drained of the ability to come up with any fresh ones.

There was only one idea you had that might help you, and you had risen from your seat and sat back down two or three times already, changing your mind about whether you should seek out Lord Annatar or not. Whether it would be appropriate. Now that he has come to you, however...

“I was wondering...” Your eyes wonder about the room, hesitating to meet his. “If it isn’t too bold to ask...”

“Be at ease,” Annatar intercedes with that same gentle smile, and it isn’t so difficult to look at him anymore. “My very purpose here is to aid you in your endeavours. You need not hesitate to ask for my help.”

All of a sudden, you feel quite silly for ever doubting you could speak with him openly. He has been most willing to share his knowledge as he worked closely with you these past few weeks. It’s just that now, he has taken on Celebrimbor’s duties as Lord of Eregion as well, and you hate to feel as though you are keeping him from more important matters simply because you cannot seem to handle your own given task.

“It’s just that I feel so... utterly uninspired,” you confess, casting a dismayed look to the sketch-filled papers in front of you. “The proportions, the aesthetics... I cannot seem to get all the elements right at the same time and the more I try, the farther I stray from the desired result.” You raise your gaze to Annatar’s. “Might you spare a moment to assist me, if only with one design? I’m sure it’ll be inspiration enough for me to finish the others whilst you tend to the affairs of the city.”

“Of course,” he says, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. With the other, he picks up the piece of paper, and you are now grateful that his attention is solely on the drawings, for the sudden contact has made you rather flustered. “You see,” Annatar says, contemplating the sketches, “sometimes the artist’s mind, though creative as ever, tends to... restrict itself, in the most frustrating way. So great is the desire for perfection in the end result, that it stifles the natural flow of the precious ideas without which no result may be reached at all.”

You resonate with the wise words, but you are not sure you understand the advice they carry.

“Are you suggesting I... draw whatever design I like first and worry about the practical aspects of it later?”

“I am suggesting,” he says, putting the paper down, “that you do not worry at all.” You frown. With that, you do not resonate at all. But your main focus now is that Annatar steps behind you, this time placing his hands on both your shoulders. Your heartbeat quickens as he speaks, at leisure, “That you do not even... think about the task at hand—not entirely—and that you simply... give in to your most natural instincts.”

“I am... not sure I understand,” you say quietly.

After a moment’s silence, Annatar asks, “May I show you?”

You knit your brow, unsure. You had expected him to help you by simply completing one of the sketches, or even just discussing some new ideas. These cryptic words, along with the physical contact, is all quite peculiar.

But you do trust him. You more than trust him, if you’re being honest. That is why the sudden closeness feels rather nice, though you do not wish to make a fool of yourself by showing it.

In the end, you give a small nod.

“Very well,” he says, and you hear the pleased smile in his voice. “For that, you need only resume your work, and trust me.”

Failing at producing quality designs right before his eyes doesn’t sound exactly ideal, but you put your faith in his methods, whatever they are. You pick up the pencil once more, bring a fresh sheet of paper before you, and begin your fumbling attempts anew.

You note—how could you not?—that Annatar has yet to remove his hands from your shoulders. Because of that, you sit more upright than you usually do, but you doubt changing your posture is his sole purpose. Slowly, he begins to move, thumbs brushing your skin, then softly pressing down onto it in a languid rhythm.

You are grateful that he cannot see the wide-eyed surprise on your face as it dawns on you that the Lord of Gifts himself is giving you, a common Elf, a massage. His thumbs come to knead the flesh at the base of your neck on either side of your spine, and the slight pressure feels divine, especially when you have spent so many hours hunched over the table. You bite down an audible sigh, willing your hand not to waver while you work. You still do not feel particularly inspired, but if he meant to bring you relief from the constant stress of the past few weeks, his efforts are most certainly appreciated.

You mean to offer him a polite and rather bashful thank you, when one of his hands begins to stray. His fingers leave a tingling trail across your skin as he draws them up your neck, softly cupping your jaw from behind. You are quite stunned by the gesture, and find yourself retracing the same pencil line a few unnecessary times before you move on. His fingertips graze their slow way up your jaw, straying briefly through your hair before they reach your earlobe. It’s almost as though he is drawing his own intricate pattern along your skin, and your hand slows in its movements as your heart races in your chest.

Surely, he would not— oh, but if only he did—

And he does. His fingers take their sweet time tracing the shell of your ear, and finally, they reach the tip, where they catch the pointed bit of flesh between them, tugging ever so gently.

Your breath catches in your throat, shivers rain down your spine, and your hand freezes on the page. Because your kind do not touch one another’s ears in such a manner unless they are, or wish to be, courting. The simple reason is that, as you are now vividly reminded, those pointed tips are quite sensitive to touch, erogenous in nature for most Elves—including yourself.

You do not question Annatar’s wisdom or the grace with which he has assimilated into your ways of life, but perhaps he is somehow not aware of this particular intimacy-related aspect? Should you let him know, as courteously as possible? But then how would you explain that you had felt his intent, and despite having been given all the time in the world before his fingers had reached that most tender spot, you had done nothing at all to prevent such a caress?

Before you can decide, his hand returns to your shoulder, any movement halted.

“Is something the matter?” he questions, concerned.

You cannot tell him. You simply cannot. In truth, you miss the touch already.

“No—” you clear your throat, willing the waver out of your voice. “No, my lord.”

“Then, why have you stopped?”

He sounds genuinely curious, as though he could not fathom what had affected you so. You give no answer, other than to put pencil to paper once more. The moment you resume your work, his hands resume theirs—massaging, caressing. He does not touch your ears again, though his fingers do come dangerously close to doing so as he runs them through your hair, and you berate yourself for hoping each time that they would find those sensitive peaks again, catch them in their delicious hold.

So distracted you are by the prospect of it and the images you strive to continue creating, you do not even sense Annatar leaning down. Not until you catch a glimpse of long, blonde hair at the periphery of your vision, and then there is the soft graze of his lips over your neck. You draw in a sharp breath as your skin is set alight, and the pencil slips from your fingers.

“My lord!” you gasp, chest heaving as you whip around to fix him with a most alarmed look. There is no misinterpreting the intent behind that particular gesture, and he knows it very well.

But he doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest as he stands to his full height, seeming to you more majestic in appearance than ever as you look up at him.

“Keep drawing,” he instructs calmly. “Unless you wish for me to stop.”

Your brow furrows even further, your confusion growing, and then—

It all clicks in your mind.

The rules he has demonstrated thus far are simple enough: you stop, he stops. It’s both a condition and a reassurance. You do not have to outright refuse him. You need only refuse to continue drawing, and he shall leave you be, and all will return to the way it was before. But if you do pick up the pencil, it would be tantamount to confessing to the desire you have held secret within your heart for weeks, and that would change everything. Not to mention it would be unprofessional. Most inappropriate.

Your skin still sings where he has touched it.

Be it courage or folly, you turn away from him, pick up the pencil, and draw.

You think you can feel a smile on his lips as they return to your neck. This time, you close your eyes, finally able to savour the sensation—only for a moment, though, for the blissful touch depends on your ability to keep forming shapes on the paper, so you open your eyes and do your best to conjure some semblance of a coherent design as Annatar peppers your skin with unrushed, tender kisses. His lips are even softer than you had imagined, and you tilt your head lightly to offer every inch of skin within his reach. Now that the door has been opened, there is no more use pretending like you do not crave his affections.

Before long, his fingers ghost along the neckline of your dress, then his hand ventures below, to the swell of your breast. You do not make the slightest move to stop him. In fact, you pray to the Valar for the ability to keep your hand drawing at least somewhat relevant lines on the page. For you keep reminding yourself that if you stopped, so would he, and you cannot fathom the loss of his delicate grasp of your soft flesh. He easily finds a stiff nipple, peaking through the fabric of your dress, and tugs it between his thumb and forefinger. You shudder, holding back a whimper—but to your embarrassment, the beginning of one does escape you when his hands and lips suddenly leave you.

“Do you need a respite?” he says with a tinge of admonishment. You’ve abandoned your efforts on the paper without even realizing. You shake your head, not trusting your voice, wishing for nothing more than to feel his touch again, and resume scribbling lines on paper.

“Very well,” he says, and his hands return to you.

It’s increasingly challenging to keep drawing through each graze of lips, each brush of your ears, each tease of your nipples through your dress. It’s already so much, so fast, and yet it only makes you long for so much more. You’ve given up biting back the soft moans in your throat, lacking the power of concentration to spare for that purpose as well. And you certainly cannot help how your thighs press together in a futile attempt to ease the ache growing between your legs.

The sketch of one Ring is already finished, but you don’t even stop to consider whether it’s satisfactory before you begin another. His method shall be most efficient in increasing the quantity of your work, if not the quality. Would he do this with any other smith, you wonder, simply as a means of encouragement? Is this what he has been doing to Lord Celebrimbor on the late nights when the other smiths have gone to sleep, and they alone remain to carry on working in the forge? The thought stings, but the only question on which you can truly focus at the moment is how much further will he go with you, right here and now? As if in answer, his hand begins a most tantalizing descent, over your stomach, down to your navel, and you desperately repeat to yourself to do not stop drawing, no matter what, as you part your legs to receive him without shame.

When he cups you intimately through the fabric of your dress, you truly do not know by what force you are able to keep the pencil on the page, let alone keep wielding it. But thanks to the muscle memory acquired over many years of training, you do, even as you whimper and rock your hips into Annatar’s hand, even as he massages the throbbing bud which had longed for his touch on the shamefully many nights you had stroked it yourself while thinking of him. You wonder if he can feel how wet you have grown for him even through the fabric of your dress, wantonly hope that he does—

He stops. Even though you haven’t—you are so sure of it, you’ve been so careful. You only cease drawing when he lifts himself from you and you turn to him with a questioning, pleading look.

“Stand,” he instructs simply.

You nearly protest. But you remember yourself, that you are meant to be putting your trust in him, and do as you are told. You are hyperaware of the wetness between your legs as you stand, leaning against the table for support. The haze of desire has left you pleasantly weak.

Annatar steps towards you, facing you fully for the first time since he has begun to touch you intimately, and it is both relieving and electrifying to see that desire darkens his gaze as well as he takes in your breathless state. Taking gentle hold of your chin, he lifts it so your eyes meet his, and not a moment later his lips are upon yours, soft and tender. It’s barely more than a short peck, just enough for you to melt into the kiss only for him to pull away before you can fully savour it. This teasing of his is so maddening, like a game to which the only rule you know is that you either submit to his rules, or forfeit altogether, and you can only hope he will not leave you wanting in the end.

Stepping back, be pushes his robes to the side, and proceeds to unfasten his trousers with relaxed, steady movements under your longing gaze.

He pauses whilst he is still decent, and patiently asks, “Will you welcome my flesh?”

Welcome it? You could think of little else for weeks.

“Yes, my lord,” you murmur.

Only then does he bear himself to your gaze. He is a masterpiece, hard and swollen and glistening at the tip. The state of his cock denotes much more impatience than he demonstrates as he gracefully seats himself in your chair. Your cunt clenches around a gnawing emptiness at the mere sight.

“Return to your seat, then,” he invites with a cheeky little smile.

You find it strange that he has not pulled the chair away from the table, sitting in it as though he means to work there himself, rather than receive you in his lap. But you obey either way, a daze of elation coming over you. It’s such a foreign, illicit feeling, pulling up the skirts of your dress with trembling fingers as you step between the chair and table to face Annatar, ready to straddle him.

Before you can lift one knee onto the chair, he stops it with a gentle but decisive hand.

“I do not believe you have finished the designs,” he says. “Have you?”

Frowning, you give a slow shake of your head. His tone nearly makes you feel like a chastised student. Disoriented, you are nothing but pliant as his hands guide you into turning around so that you are now facing the table. Surely, he cannot mean for you to keep drawing once he is inside you? You could barely manage to control your pencil strokes whilst you sat relatively unmoving with his hands upon you, you could not even manage to find the paper if you begin to ride him.

You are about to ride him. Lord Annatar. The thought banishes any such concerns from your mind, leaving nothing but blinding lust in its wake. He adjusts you so that your legs are bracketing his thighs, pulls your garments out of the way to expose your soaked folds, and guides you down so that the tip of his cock is only just breaching your entrance.

That initial stretch alone pulls a small whimper from you, and you plant your hands on the arms of the chair for support, trying not to make any rash downward movement that might hurt you both. But his hands are strong and so safe on your hips, and you surrender to their guidance as he eases your joining. He slowly teases the tip of his cock in and out of your cunt, each time reaching a little deeper than before, until you cannot take it any longer and and sink onto his length completely.

The stretch pulls a mewl from your throat as you finally settle in his lap. You strive to catch your breath, looking down as if to reassure yourself that this is, indeed, real. Your dress covers the place where he has disappeared inside you, but you are so heavenly filled by the length and girth of him, you fear the sight alone might cost you your sanity. You whine, your eyes falling shut as Annatar pulls you to his chest, one hand pressing down on your belly whilst the other gently wraps around your neck, and he whispers in your ear, “How does this feel?”

Your voice is no more than a trembling whisper, “Wonderful.”

You cannot bear to wait a moment more. You try to circle your hips in his lap, moaning as his cock begins to prod at all the most delightful spots within you—

He plants his hands on your hips, trapping them in a firm hold.

“Be still,” he demands. It’s no easy feat, but you settle down, awaiting his direction. “Good,” he purrs in your ear. “Good. Now...” he pauses, letting you quiver with anticipation, “you shall remain still until you have finished the designs.”

Your eyes shoot open, wide and confused as you twist your head to look at him. There is no trace of jest in his eyes. Even the pleasure he feels in the warm embrace of your cunt is a faint glimmer beneath the surface of his determination, subdued with utter discipline. You realize he truly means his words, and you despair.

“But...” You cannot even make a coherent plea. So dreadful is the thought of enduring the pleasure of having him inside you without pursuing it, you are reduced to little more than a pitiful whine, “My lord—”

“Shh,” he coos, tenderly kissing away a tear that had slipped down your cheek, aiming to soothe you as if he is not the very source of your torment. “I know,” he murmurs. ��I feel it too. This all-consuming ache to reach fulfillment, this longing for release... the wonders of your mind crave the very same. Open the door to set them free, as you have opened yourself to allow me in. You managed well enough before .”

“Yes, but you were not...” You grimace, clenching around him without meaning to in your anguish. “It’s so deep—”

“And you are so warm. So tight,” he breathes out, hoarse with want. “Yet I shall wait, patiently, for as long as I must. For your sake.”

His tone leaves no room for argument, which only worsens the ache between your legs. But you know by now—either play by his rules, or stop the game altogether.

You sigh, defeated, and nod. “All right.”

Annatar presses a light kiss to your temple, a gesture so sweet and chaste, it makes your head spin as much as his praise. “Good girl,” he rasps out. “Go on, then.”

He offers some support as you will your limbs into cooperating and begin to lean forward, towards the table. The movement jostles his cock within you ever so slightly, and you groan as you withhold from moving your hips in search of any further friction. The position is somewhat awkward, with you leaning over the page from a slightly too high angle, but you plant your elbows on the table and get on with it, determined to see this through.

If someone had told you this was how you would finish the designs—seated in Lord Annatar’s lap, his cock buried snugly inside you, so perfectly stretching you out that it drives you to the brink of insanity—you would have called them a most impolite adjective, and slapped them for good measure. But even less probable, even more scandalous, is that it’s almost easier this way. After a few moments of adjustment, you no longer scratch out attempts before they’ve even begun to take shape, or overthink each stroke of the pencil to the point where you forget what your overall intention had been in the first place. The wonderfully torturous stretch of Annatar’s cock within you takes over that part of your mind, and what is left of it is high on the thrill of it all, the anticipation, the graze of Annatar’s fingers as they trace the occasional languid line along your spine, so tender and encouraging.

The practical knowledge is there, deeply rooted in your mind from years of practice, and the creativity is a gift that’s never truly left you. But it is only now that you finally understand how to let them intertwine without trying to control it, to give in to the flow of inspiration the same way you are giving in to him.

And he keeps his word, sitting silently until the last stroke of your pencil, his hips never once giving the lightest stir. Only when you sit back to show him the finished sketches does he lean forward slightly, taking the paper from your hand as you take deep breaths to cope with the new stimulation.

You plant your hands on his knees for support, nerves filling you now that the creative haze is over. You are left only with great unfulfilled lust, and the creeping doubt that, perhaps, your work is no more adequate than it was before. You’d found a way to push through so far, but you are not sure you could manage such a feat a second time if he asked it of you.

But you would try. You would try anything, if it allowed only the sliver of hope that your Lord Annatar would finally take you, unrestrained and to sweet completion, at the end of it.

To your great relief, when you turn your head, you find him studying the paper with a most appreciative smile.

“See what you can accomplish when you give yourself permission to do so?” he says, caressing your thigh as if in reward. “These are splendid.”

“Thank you, my lord,” you murmur. Before, you would not have dreamed to ask for more than such words of praise. Now, you bite your lip and entreat, “May I... May I, please...?”

“Seek your pleasure?” His voice is knowing, teasing, as if he is not furiously hard within you this very moment. Even after all this, a bout of shyness makes you avert your gaze briefly as you nod. “No,” he says seriously, and your eyes snap to him in alarm. “Not in this manner,” he goes on. “I wish to look upon your face.”

You have no doubt he meant to have your heart lurch in your chest. There is a wicked side to this messenger of the Valar, a shadow hidden within the light with which he surrounds himself. It only arouses you further.

Annatar helps you stand, and the emptiness left behind as he slips from within you would render you an inconsolable mess, if it weren’t for the promise of soon-to-be-found relief. You can’t help but eye his cock, drenched in your arousal and bobbing enticingly as he rises to his feet as well. He sets the precious sketches on the table with care, then turns to you with, at last, unveiled hunger, and reaching to the back of your thighs, hoists you in his arms in one swift move.

You wrap your legs around his waist, cling to his shoulders, and gasp as he carries you to the nearest wall, pressing your back against it. He holds you up effortlessly, even as one hand slips between you to touch your clit directly for the first time. The bundle of nerves has been helplessly throbbing for so long, it only takes a few firm strokes of Annatar’s fingers to have you fall apart with a brisk whimper, burying your face in his neck.

“How sensitive,” he muses, quite content as you pant through the sudden burst of pleasure. “You have craved my touch for a long time, have you not? I admit it has been quite distracting.”

There is the slightest hint of accusation in his voice, and you know he doesn’t just mean since he first touched you today. You must have failed, in all those weeks you worked together, to withhold the lustful thoughts he invoked in your mind from showing in your eyes. And so you had distracted a messenger of the Valar from his work on the crucial task to save all of Middle-Earth.

“Forgive me, my lord,” you whisper into his hair.

“Whatever for?” he asks as though you’ve said the silliest thing. Cupping your face, he tilts your head up so your gaze meets his. “Have you forgotten my name?” he speaks softly. “I am here to give.”

And give, he does. He slides inside you to the hilt, gladly welcomed back by your still-aching cunt, and this time, finally, finally, he withdraws and sinks back in once, then again, thrust after thrust until he builds to a quick rhythm that has you drowning in the pleasure after which you had thirsted for so terribly long. A string of ‘pleases’ leaves your throat, unbidden, even though you can hardly ask for more than the stretch of him inside of you, the relentless press and drag against places so sweet and deep within, the ceiling is filled with all the stars in the night sky as you throw your head back against the wall with abandon. Annatar leans in to kiss your neck, his tongue setting your skin even more ablaze. Your sole remaining ability is to moan and cling to him, receiving the pleasure you are being given.

Sauron is deeply satisfied as he takes his own. He has been aching as well, though the Maia is far more skilled at mastering the urges of his flesh. You had been quick to obey, eager to follow his commands, even without his influence nudging at your mind to suit his purpose, which in itself was as pleasurable as having your tight cunt wrapped around him as you worked. And now you are so pliant in his embrace, moaning in sweet submission as you reap the reward he most graciously offers—the very picture of the peaceful surrender he seeks to accomplish through the Rings. If only every being in Middle-Earth would accept the blessing of his authority as easily as you have, they would spare themselves so much wasteful bloodshed.

Perhaps he will keep you safe from it. Perhaps he will keep you to himself.

But you don’t know what is to come, nor would you care as your pleasure crests towards its peak, and you cry out with the force of your release, clenching around Annatar’s cock.

“Thank you,” you mindlessly gasp in between whimpers as he generously fucks you through it, “thank you, thank you, thank you—”

With one last, brutal thrust that pins your hips to the wall, Annatar groans, long and deep as he throbs and spills inside of you. It occurs to you that he has barely made a sound besides his laboured breathing throughout your coupling. Before he even slips out of you, spent, you wonder if you might have the privilege of hearing more in the future.

He is gracious enough, as your high subsides and you catch your breath, to carry you back to your chair. You doubt your legs would support you this very moment. He sets you down, fixes his robes, then stands before you as poised as ever. If it weren’t for the spark of mischief in his eyes, one would think you had done nothing but discuss Ring designs over a cup of tea.

“Thank you, my dear,” he says, retrieving the sketches from the table, “for your most valuable work.” He admires them for a moment, then gives you a knowing smile. “Do not hesitate to ask for my aid, should you need it again.”

With a polite nod, he leaves you sitting in your chair by the table, much as you were when he had found you. Only, at that time, his spend had not been pooling between your legs, and it was hard to imagine it ever would be.

You smile to yourself. What an unconventional emissary, and how lucky you are that the Valar have sent him to guide you in your endeavours. For indeed, you are sure you shall require his assistance again quite soon.

Sequel -> Further inspiration

[sunboki]

⎯ caught in the webs. ( teaser ) ⟡ featuring han jisung

🕷️ : Spider-Man! Han Jisung x implied! fem. reader

TROPE. Spider-Man! au, nerd Jisung! au, high school! au, pining, confessions (somewhat), slight self-doubt, a little angst, nervous sungie :(

WORD COUNT. estimated to be around 4k-7k words

WARNINGS. cursing, mentions of an existential crisis, slight anxiety/degradation of oneself

AUG'S NOTES. hi hi—! although my initial plan was to produce some cute, enemies to lovers teachers! au with our beloved seungmin (which will eventually come to be, don’t worry), a bit of dialogue came to me one night for a spider-man au with hannie. ….i wrote nearly 3k in a day. as for now, however, tell me your thoughts and please enjoy this snippet!

PLAYLIST.

SYNOPSIS. To everyone else in high school, Han Jisung is just a nervous, somehow ingenious chemistry nerd. And yet, beneath the glasses and long hours studying, a secret lies. Because Han Jisung isn’t just a nerd, but Seoul’s one and only, friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. But what happens when he finds himself head over heels for no one but you? No less scrambling for the courage to ask you out before the Valentine’s Dance? Between the fine-line of his secret identity and the more he falls for you each day, he finds himself hoping you feel the same way.

or alternatively :

In which the tangle of webs makes for complications, and love.

“And- I mean, it’s not like she knows I’m Spider-Man so,” Han rationalizes, hands flailing about in an awkward manner of both panic and hope, currently spilling his worries out to a luckily, ever patient Chan.

That is, opposed to Minho (Han’s official roommate) whom the two both know would nod his head and eventually (bluntly) tell Han he’s thinking far too hard before going back to studying. 

And yet, at this very moment, Minho might be the sole reprieve in calming said boy’s nerves with his no-nonsense attitude.

Because in less than three weeks their high school’s annual Valentine’s dance will be here, and if anyone knows something about Han Jisung, it’s the borderline pitiful way he pines over you like some neglected puppy, a factor it seems only you don’t notice.

As for the thing nobody knows of apart from some greatly trusted compadre’s, Han Jisung isn’t simply a dorky high schooler, but Seoul’s one and only, (trying-to-be) friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. 

Who.. is having a heart attack merely thinking of your face, your laughter, your smile, your— ugh.

Three weeks to gain as much style and confidence as he can muster and, first and foremost, the balls to even ask you out when the time comes. 

To put it simply, he’s fucked.

Completely, utterly, fucked.

Biochemistry with Mr. Jang is the pits when it comes down to his hour-long lectures, but it isn’t the boredom itself grasping his attention so deliberately, it’s you.

Two seats ahead, one seat to the right. 

And oh, if Han isn’t smitten.

You’re smart, stupidly smart. With your pretty hair and pretty face and crinkling eyes when you smile, where your lips curl in delight. You seem to glow, as if an ethereal fae he’d learn of in childish folklore, come alive amid his wildest daydreams.

So it’s the shrill ring of the dismissal bell that has him jumping from his seat, palms slapping against the wood of his desk with a stinging force effectively gaining the attention of most everyone in the class.

And the harrowing silence.

Trust, his face goes beet red, and Jisung had never choked on an apology faster in his life beneath Mr. Jang’s scrutinizing stare.

Though, from the corner of his eye, he can see it: that breathtaking smile of yours hidden behind a hand as you laugh. 

Jackpot.

Han Jisung has just hit the lottery.

Even if it was his scolding earning your laughter. But he’d brush off the matter a thousand times over to see that smile again. And again and again, like a selfish itch incapable of being satiated.

He really is hopeless.

.

.

.

“No you don’t get it! She smiled at me and—“

The rest is a series of groans and oddly unintelligible sounds, ones the partner of his decides not to inquire about.

Now squirming around the hallways, Jisung buries his face into his hands, whining loudly. Third period leads both him and Minho to Physics together, the decently spaced walk across campus to the classroom allowing leeway for (currently-kept-secret) Spider-Man’s groveling. 

Funny story, actually.

The way Minho found out, that is.

Having grown used to his webs over the few months of adjusting, he’d been ignorant in forgetting his roommate would be home as well.

Which.. ensued the piece of bread he used his webs to beckon over—while making the glorious concoction donned as a grilled cheese—met with Minho’s furrowed, evidently confused brows and an equally, albeit slow, acceptance whilst continuing on to the fridge.

A predictable reaction, Jisung would’ve supposed.

If not for the fact he downright begged the boy to not tell, dread forming in his stomach merely watching that sly, mischief-filled sneer curl at his roommate’s lips. 

Laundry and dish-duty for a week.

Thanks, Minho.

As for Chan’s introduction to Seoul’s friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, the two had been approaching each other after Chan’s football practice when the older of the two tossed a football at the younger counterpart, under the (accurate) impression Jisung couldn’t catch to save his life.

That was correct.

The unable-to-catch part, yeah.

But of course, per his luck, if Han couldn’t catch it, that damned radioactive spider would help him catch it.

And he did. Both hands, firm and fast.

Quick enough to freak the quarterback out and, given a few weeks time, unveil his secret after one too many tests on his reflexes and a downright scary amount of footballs thrown at his head.

“So you’re diseased.”

“I am not, we’ve been over this.”

“You’re walking on the ceiling.”

Fair enough, he’d admit if not for the cereal (that he currently figures out how to hold upside down- or right side up? It’s hard to tell) stuffed in his cheeks, feigning a glare matching Minho’s where his roommate pokes his nose indignantly prior to beginning off towards the bathroom.

Nearly 8am, and he’s aiming to keep comfy pajamas on as long as possible before having to exchange for school clothes.

Curious, observant umber irises waste time peering at the expanse of his torso visible where he hangs upside down, lips forming into an ‘o’ of awe seeing the defined lines descending down his belly flex with every move.

Those are new.

Perks of a spider bite, huh. 

Of the few.

Eventually resorting to doing forgotten dishes, he patiently waits for the grumpy roommate of his to finish in the bathroom, rumbling echo of the hairdryer synthesizing with the morning news’ daily report.

Weather, local updates. But the portion gathering his attention comes in the form of the headline: Creeping villain, Lizard, once again detained by Seoul’s mysterious vigilante, Spider-Man.

And simultaneously, listening in on the story, he finds a glow of pride settling in his chest.

He did that. With a few bruises and scrapes sufficing as evidence but, overall, his doing.

Nevertheless, with the rising pride comes the rising stupidity.

Apparently. 

Resulting in, while lost in the throes of his inflating ego, the reckless unleash of webs upon random surfaces as fast as he can manage, failing to notice the risky positioning of a web by his foot until—as if from a cartoon—he trips over it. 

“Ow! My foot- and my coffee..”

The shatter of his mug and Minho’s exasperated sigh seem to speak for themselves.

sunboki, may 2022 ©

[dduane]

Dear DD, I'm wondering if you could show examples (from your own work or otherwise) of what really, *really* rough drafts of fiction writing look like. I'm talking the earliest stages of the process that normally most people don't show to the public; whenever I look around online, what folks seem to post as "WIP" samples are usually more like 80-90% polished excerpts.

While my brain logically knows these are the late-stage stuff, it has an ill-advised habit of trying to draft to that 80-90 level of quality from the get-go--I think it might help to see what the equivalent of "thumbnails" or "sketches/doodles" look like in writing, especially from someone who's been At The Work for a long time. Hopefully it's an alright request! I understand if for various reasons you can't.

I'm more than willing to show people my stuff in process, every now and then. ...But in my case, your initial query poses an unusual challenge. And it's this:

After pushing fifty years of doing this work (or indeed, you had it right, this Work) for money, everything comes out looking fairly polished.

And this can't be helped. Once you've been doing this work for long enough—once doing it well starts being the thing responsible for keeping you and your family fed—you will inevitably (eventually) evolve the ability to exude smooth-looking prose at minutes' notice. Over the years your internal prose filters will get trained into being increasingly fine-meshed... and the longer this goes on, the more flatly they'll refuse to let clunky stuff out onto the page any more. You don't really even think about it. You just keep refining a given phrase/sentence/paragraph in your head until it feels acceptable.

After a couple/few decades, this ability becomes an ever more finely-honed survival characteristic. You can no sooner emit actively coarse prose (without trying purposefully to do so, which is another story...) than you can stop breathing for minutes at a time without suffering the consequences. (shrug) It's just the way your life experience has taught your Drafting Brain to conduct itself, going forward.

Now... this doesn't mean at all that the drafted material, be it ever so polished-looking, is necessarily what you intended (or needed!) to write. Oh no. I could this very day show you some prose that by my standards is still really rough, because I wrote it five minutes ago... and you'd look at it and be very unlikely to be able to see what my problem was with it.* Whereas I'm sitting staring at it and muttering "Dammit, something's missing here. No idea what. I'll come back to it tomorrow."

And indeed I wrote something about three hours ago that (as I got it onto the page in its earliest form) left me literally gasping about how obtuse I'd been about the situation and emotions described in it, as recently as early this afternoon before I had lunch. It was a scene that had been missing from something I'm completing at the moment—indeed not merely missing but completely uncontemplated—and as it spooled itself out on the page all I could do was shake my head at my own idiocy at having missed the opportunity earlier, while I was nailing down the plot.

And I would love to show you that piece of prose right this minute, so that you could see what minutes-old prose from me looks like. Except it's seriously spoilery, and I refuse to sabotage a larger work by allowing out any material that's so loaded... and which viewed out of context would deprive it of most of its power. So, as we say around here, 'Sorry not sorry.'" Though I promise I'll come back to this and talk about it "in the clear" later, when that work's published.

...Anyway. The best advice I have for you just now is that trying to make your filters-in-training less effective is—to put it as gently as Captain Amelia might—a mistake.

That urge to have the first draft—or the "zero draft" as some are calling it these days: I use this myself—be as good as possible is frankly a lifesaver. Indulging it, sentence by sentence and paragraph by paragraph, will only leave you with less frustration, less editing and re-editing, and way less Flat Forehead Syndrome over time. You are going in the right direction, even if it makes you feel like you're losing valuable time.

Your brain's attempts to draft to the highest possible level are not ill-advised. Indulge the urge to get your drafting more right, even if it makes you suffer a bit. No one ever said this writing lark was going to be all fun. (And if they did, they lied to you.) Also: hunting through other people's WIP excerpts, be they rougher than yours or more polished, in a search for something that your excerpts or drafting style should or could theoretically look like, will do you no good in the long term... and may do you harm. All you're likely to be left with, after you haven't found anything useful in the wake of the shoulder-peering, is a sense—almost certainly an inaccurate one—that you're somehow doing it wrong.**

You're not. You're finding your own way, at your own speed. This is the Writer's Journey. (As opposed to the Hero's, which I have characters shouting at me about at the moment.) (eyeroll) As you continue going your own way, your drafting will gradually pick up speed without losing quality. ...And don't neglect your outside reading. You need to be reading outside your own genre and your own century to pick up, as it were, new (or old) plugins for your filters.

Anyway. If (as it seems) you're in this for the long term: get right down here with the rest of us and suffer your way (briefly) through it. We all agonize unnecessarily over the effectiveness of our process from time to time. The only cure is to say "fuck that noise" to the back of your Writer's Mind, and get back to the actual writing, where these problems are worked out in the only way that counts.

So: go do your thing, and let the chips fall where they may. And I hope this has helped! Let me know, over time, how things go.

*This situation is also, BTW, a bit of a problem for a writer in a career stage like mine. In an inversion of the usual rule—where "the Perfect becomes the enemy of the (Merely) Good"—the "Really Not Bad At All" becomes the enemy of the "Could Have Been Way Better If You'd Given It A 'Should I Maybe Sweat Over This A Little More?' Pass". Because the Not Bad At All genuinely isn't... but if you're not careful, you stop seeing where to kick it into the next stage when you're distracted by all the other junk going on in life.

**...But this is one of the downsides of the community, and communality, of the writing life online. We wind up endlessly looking over each others' shoulders to try to find answers that—in many cases—were already sitting between us and the screen, on the keyboard.

(And now a suggestion for those who find these occasional excursions into the Advice Barrel useful: at various folks' request, I have a Ko-Fi now. If you find the advice useful and you feel so inclined, send me a sign.) :)

[corroded-hellfire]

Tiny Dancer - Eddie Munson x Reader

An As You Wish Story

Summary: It’s your daughter Eliza’s first recital and Eddie couldn’t be prouder

Note: This idea came to me and would not leave me alone until I wrote it 💕

Warnings: older!eddie, dad!eddie

Words: 1.9k

[As You Wish masterlist]

“Why did I have to wear a tie?” Luke complains, yanking at his buttoned-up collar. 

Eddie leans forward so he can see Luke around Ryan, who is seated between them.

“Because this is a special occasion. Your sister’s first recital.”

“They’re three-year-olds,” Luke hisses in a whisper, one hand gesturing towards the empty stage. 

“Hey,” Ryan says to his brother, “she cheered louder than anyone for you at your baseball game. You can do this for her.”

Eddie nods at his oldest in thanks. 

Luke turns to you and asks, “Think her hair is still all up in the bun?”

Wrangling your daughter’s dark curls into the ballerina bun on the top of her head had been a massive undertaking. Some spirals were shorter than others, so there were always a few popping out right as you would go to secure the hair with the white bow. It was an immense test of patience to try time and time again all while Eliza became more antsy and less appreciative of you tugging on strands of hair. She ended up with enough hairspray on her little head to make her hair as hard as a helmet. 

“It’s out of my hands now,” you say, wiping your hands and holding them up in defeat. “If Ms. Benson wants to deal with a curl going rogue, that’s on her.”

The lights dim and eight little ballerinas walk onstage, all with hands on their hips, poofy pink tutus flaring out just below them. Their instructor, Ms. Benson, follows them out to make sure they’re all in the spots they should be. 

Eliza is the third ballerina from the left, and she looks so precious you think your heart might burst. Her white tights and ballet slippers somehow aren’t stained even though they’d been in your house longer than forty-eight hours. The pink leotard and tutu give her the regal air of a princess, though that might just be Eliza’s own aura. She’s nothing if not captivatingly glamorous. It looks like all of her unruly curls are still on their best behavior, but it would be hard to see one or two offenders that sprang loose from the audience anyway.

You peek over at Eddie and see him beaming as he looks at your little girl up onstage. He feels your gaze and turns his head to meet your eyes. The pride on his face makes your heart melt against your ribs. Eliza hasn’t even done anything yet and Eddie is over the moon.

“She’s so beautiful,” Eddie whispers.

“Like her dad,” you reply, giving him a wink. 

He playfully rolls his eyes, but you don’t miss the touch of pink that colors his cheeks. Luke puts his hands on his stomach and pretends to gag. Eddie thunks him on the back of the head. 

Ms. Benson finishes her inspection and gives the girls a thumbs up. She scurries off stage, all ballerinas still with hands on hips. None of them can truly stay still, though. A few are swaying, one is twisting from side to side, and Eliza shakes one little leg, her knee bouncing up and down. You’re unsure if it’s due to nerves or anticipation. 

A few moments later, the speakers above the stage crackle to life. The opening notes of music tinkle and the voice of young Shirley Temple singing On The Good Ship Lollipop floats through the air. 

Eliza and her fellow dancers start to move, tapping the slipper on one foot on the stage in front of them, then switching to the other foot. It’s hard to tell what foot they’re all supposed to be on, since it’s split about fifty-fifty with what foot each girl is using. 

On The Good Ship Lollipop

It's a sweet trip to a candy shop

Where bon-bons play

On the sunny beach of Peppermint Bay

Arms go above Eliza’s head as she spins around, little feet stomping around in a small circle rather than spinning on one foot. Once she’s facing forward again, her arms come down to shoulder level and her knees bend and straighten, bend and straighten, as the ballerinas bounce. Again, all girls are going at different times and speeds, so it’s hard to know on which notes they’re supposed to be up or down on. 

Lemonade stands everywhere

Crackerjack bands fill the air

And there you are

Happy landing on a chocolate bar

Next, it’s one hand back on the hip and one hand waving out to the crowd as the dancers rock from side to side. You specifically remember Eliza practicing this move at home and she kept reiterating how her toes needed to be pointed on the foot she wasn’t balancing on. Only two other girls have their toes pointed at the appropriate times, so you can tell they didn’t take this step as seriously as your daughter. 

The moves of the eight tiny dancers are clunky and mismatched, which makes the performance all the cuter. When they all walk to the right on tippy toes, they’re at varying heights, some more flat-footed than others. On the march back to the left, one girl stomps so hard you can hear the clacking of her slippers. 

With arms out, the girls do one more twirl and then take their bows. 

The crowd breaks into applause and the small girls smile, appreciating the praise for their performances. The ballerina farthest on the right jumps up and down in excitement and the one on Eliza’s left waves furiously to her family. But Eliza stays in her final position, grinning from ear to ear as she looks out at you and her guys. 

“Yay, Eliza!” Luke cheers. 

Ms. Benson comes out, leads the girls in one more bow, then ushers them all off. The applause is still going.

“There’s my ballerina!” Eddie grins and catches Eliza as she runs over and leaps into his arms. He presses a smacking kiss to her cheek and squeezes her in his arms. “Mwah!”

“I did good?” she asks as the other girls reunite with their families all around you. 

“You were wonderful,” you tell her, leaning in to give her a kiss on the opposite cheek. “Did you hear me cheer for you?” Luke asks.

“Yes,” Eliza says with a giggle. “So loud!”

“Of course, it’s Luke,” Ryan says. He ignores Luke’s jab to his ribs as he reaches up and presents his sister with a bouquet of white flowers or different varieties.

Eliza beams and takes the crinkling plastic wrapping from him. She leans in to sniff the flowers and giggles as a few brush her nose.

“I got flowers!”

“For being the best ballerina ever,” you tell her.

“I love! Can you hold ‘em, Daddy?”

“Of course, my little ballerina.” He takes the bouquet from her with his free hand.

Ryan pulls on the bottom ruffle of his little sister’s tutu. “You look like a pretty poof ball.”

“Mama, can you take bow out?” Eliza asks.

“Sure thing, sweet pea.”

Eddie bends down a bit so you can see the top of her head. As gently as you can, you unwind the bow from her hair, wincing when you accidentally tug on it. Tough little girl that she is though, Eliza doesn’t whine.

Once you get it out, you do your best to stifle a laugh. It’s not good enough though, a snort of laughter breaking through your hand covering your mouth. Luke and Ryan laughing as well doesn’t help, either. 

“What?” Eliza asks with a pout.

“Sweetie,” Eddie says, also with a small chuckle, “I think Mommy used so much hairspray on you that your hair is stuck up in a bun all by itself.”

She gasps and her hands go to the top of her head. She feels around the stiff hair, moving backwards to the curly bun that hasn’t fallen one little bit since you took the bow out. Short fingers inspect the bun and Eliza turns to look at you with panicked eyes.

“Mama!” she cries. “My hair!”

“It’s okay, Liza,” you tell her, not able to help a small giggle coming out with your words. You pat her back soothingly. “As soon as you take a bath, it’ll be good as new.”

Your words visibly calm her. Her shoulders lower, though she still keeps her hands up on her hair. Now that she knows it isn’t stuck that way, she’s able to find the humor in it. Small giggles turn into loud laughter as she begins to shake her head from side to side like a wet dog getting out of the bath. Her hair hardly moves, only wobbling a little when she really whips her head around. 

“Do you want me to put your bow back in since we’re going out to eat?” you ask.

Eliza gasps. “We are?”

“Yep! Wherever you want,” Luke says, but adds under his breath, “despite my begging.”

“Yes, bow please.”

“What do you want to eat?” Ryan asks as you secure the soft white bow back around her stiff bun.

“Mmm…pancakes!”

“Ooh, breakfast for dinner,” Luke says, nodding his head in approval. “Nice choice. I’ll gladly wear my fancy schmancy suit while eating a waffle.”

“Okay, you can take off the tie now,” Eddie says. “I don’t feel like washing syrup out of it.”

“You don’t feel like washing syrup out of it?” you ask, raising your eyebrows at your husband.

Eliza pats her dad’s shoulder three times, as if she didn’t already have his attention.

“Mama does wash.”

“You tell him, kid,” Ryan says to his little sister. 

“Why you taking the girls’ side?” Eddie asks as you all begin to head towards the doors.

Ryan looks over at his little brother who is wrestling to get his tie off over his head. It’s currently stuck around his eyes and Luke just keeps tugging on it. 

“I’m not on his side,” Ryan says, looking back towards his dad. 

“Well, help him!” Eddie scolds Ryan.

“I gotcha, Luke,” you say.

A few strategic pulls and you have the knot undone, the green tie falling away into your hand.

“Thanks,” Luke says as he reaches up to rub his nose. “How’d you learn to undo ties?”

“Taking dad’s off,” Ryan says with a smirk.

Both you and Eddie whip your head towards Ryan with wide eyes. Luckily, both of his siblings are too young to get his innuendo. The further he gets into his teenage years, the more subtly inappropriate comments he makes.

“Dad doesn’t wear ties a lot,” Luke says.

“You’re right, Luke,” you say, ruffling his curls. Then you step closer to Ryan and wrap your arm around his head, your hand closing in over his mouth. “And you need to watch yourself, Mr. Teenager.”

Ryan mumbles something beneath your hand and the muffled sound makes Eliza laugh. When you still don’t move your hand, Ryan licks it, and you yank it back. Eliza laughs even harder at that. 

“You think it’s funny?” you tease, wiping your saliva-coated hand off on your daughter’s tight-clad leg. She squirms in Eddie’s arms, her legs kicking and almost catching him in the crotch.

“Ewww!” Eliza squeals. 

“I don’t have germs,” Ryan says.

“Yes, you do,” Luke and Eliza say at the same time. 

“Can I eat at a different restaurant?” Ryan asks.

“Nope,” you say, looping your arm through his. “You’re stuck with us.”

“Yep!” Eliza echoes. “You’re stuck!”

[erwinsvow]

𝐜𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐞, 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤, 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐬

summary: aaron hotchner is a lot of things. in love with you is one that you never saw coming.

word count: 7.1k

author's note: bau!reader + hotch is my favorite combo ever. i haven't written and posted in, like, two years so please be nice :) i've written so many other versions of hotch but this one just wrote itself. inspired by the amazing @luveline and so many breathtaking hotch stories and isabel (alisdas on ao3, not on here anymore i think :( ) who wrote of terrible coffee and late-night rides which i think started all of this and my immense aaron brain rot when i read that fic, like, three years ago. enjoy!

This was wrong, Aaron thought to himself. He seldom committed acts that others might say were wrong, or argue they could potentially be wrong, but this was different. Aaron felt wrong, a feeling he was not used to.

“I’m worried about you, that’s all,” you had said quietly on the jet early one morning. You two were sitting across from each other on the flight back from the team’s latest solved case, an excruciating long ride home from the coast of Oregon.

Your book laid open on your lap, unread and a bookmark tucked between the earlier pages. The spine was cracked, like you’d read it a hundred times before. He knew that wasn’t true though, it was just a used novel probably from the thrift store around the corner of your apartment.

You had told him once, back when you first started—back when he was still married and you were less affected by this job—that you liked finding used (pre-loved, you call it) books and picking the most worn out ones to take home. You said it means that someone used to love this book.

It felt wrong because you were too young for him, and too innocent to be mixed up in his life. What could you know about his thoughts? About the love of his life that divorced him and his son he only sees once in a while.

The rest of the team makes jokes with you, in particular JJ and Penelope. He’s even heard Emily pitch in, about your not-so-secret fondness for your boss. For him. 

Back when you had first started, it was nothing. Passing glances, working extra hard to please him and earn his praise—which was never given out generously. He hadn’t even taken the time to notice, never paid more attention than any other member of the team. What he did notice was your work ethic.

Being among the youngest of the team had instilled a drive in you to prove your worth. You always stayed an hour extra, came early, and spent  nights working the case even when you were yawning every few minutes. The most attention he’d given you back then was commenting that you’d had a good insight into the unsub, commending you on well-written reports and briefs, and offering you a cup of coffee when it was just you and him left in the sheriff’s office. He’d be rereading seemingly endless pages of the case reports and you’d be diving headfirst into the victim’s lives.

Your specialty was always understanding why the victims did what they did, figuring out their routines and ascertaining important details from their personal belongings. He was used to you flicking through diaries and boxes of mementos that were once treasured by another young girl, not so much older than yourself. 

He’d be lying if he hadn’t thought it was impacting you—reading through the journals of dead women who had been very similar to yourself, with similar hopes and dreams. It was depressing, he knew, and yet if you were bothered by it, you didn’t show it in the slightest. At least not to him. 

And back then, he’d never notice the sweet smile that always graced your face when he was asking you if you’d like coffee. You’d shake your head no, and take sips of water between your yawns. You didn’t even tell him that you don’t drink coffee until a few months later, after he asked if you’d ever like a cup when he offered. He can remember it clearly even now.

“Actually, Hotch, I don’t drink coffee.” Your cheeks were tinged with color like you were embarrassed to even be admitting this to him.

“Why didn’t you say anything sooner? I would have stopped asking three months ago.” If he sounded stern, he didn't mean to. The burning on your face deepened.

“I didn’t want to be rude. I drink tea though, but I didn’t think to mention it. It’s not as easy to make.”

“Well, let me know if you need a cup of hot water then.”

You had smiled at that, and he had turned around to take another picture on the bulletin board. He smiled a little too.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” he said, maybe a little too gruffly. He didn’t mean it, again, but it just came out that way. He thinks some part of him is trying to warn you to stay away before you get too close.

“We’re all worried. You went through something really big and didn’t tell any of us and even if you don’t care about us like that, I care about you. I just want to make sure you’re okay.” 

Aaron’s gaze casts around the rest of the jet.  Derek has his headphones in, staring out the window and trying to resist sleep. JJ and Emily are playing cards—they should be sleeping, but they had a little too much espresso a few hours before. They’re too far away to hear you and Aaron speaking, but he notices JJ’s eyes darting over every once in a while. Spence is asleep, and he realizes that’s why it’s so quiet. Dave is reading a book, too, but he’ll stop and interject into JJ and Emily’s conversation.

He looks back at you, sleepy-eyed and wrapped in a warm, boxy pullover from your alma mater. He thinks a little bit too much about you these days, and he can’t get it to stop. He shouldn’t profile anyone on the team, they have a strict moratorium on that, but especially not you.

You, who never fails to try to make anyone feel better when they’re down. You, who doesn’t make it seem like you’re analyzing their behavior, but rather observing and offering comfort in hard times. You remember everything the team tells you about their likes and dislikes, never forgetting a birthday or special occasion. He can distinctly recall fresh chocolate chip cookies on Derek’s birthday, carrot cake from the Italian bakery Rossi loves to celebrate when his latest book became a bestseller, and a new knick knack for Penelope’s office after a particularly brutal case.

You say it’s all in passing, but he knows it’s not. You’re trying your hardest to keep the team together in the little ways, strengthening bonds that extend beyond coworkers. You want to fit in and be accepted, and you worry so much that you won’t. This is your way of trying to show that you’re a part of this team too, not just the new girl and one of the young ones. 

Aaron blinks twice. You’re looking at him expectantly, and he wishes you wouldn’t. All he’ll do is disappoint you. 

“You don’t need to worry,” he repeats. “I’ll be fine.” 

“I wish you wouldn’t say that. Why is it so bad for us to worry about you?” You look like you’re starting to get upset—it hurts Aaron more than he realized it would. It’s not bad for the others to worry, it’s bad for you. If you get attached, if he lets this get unprofessional, he doesn’t think he’ll ever forgive himself. Hurting himself is one thing; hurting you is another entirely.

“Let it go, Agent. Try to get some rest.” He looks out the window. He can see the sun coming up, and realizes he hasn’t slept since the night before last. He still needs to drive home—not really home, he remembers sadly, his empty apartment— and work on reports before he can even see Jack. He doesn’t think resting now is a good idea, and yet his body is so tired.

When he looks back, you’re reading your book again but your eyes are really paying attention to the words on the page. You’re just skimming, and blinking rapidly, and he realizes then he’s made you tear up.

His phone goes off—Haley, and he feels guilt building up in his chest, almost overwhelming him. He steps away to answer and talks quietly. He doesn’t want you to overhear and worry even more. When he comes back to his seat, you’ve fallen asleep. He takes the book from your hands gently and puts the bookmark in, closing it and resting it on the seat beside you. He watches you sleep and wonders if he’s making a mistake trying to hide from you. He thinks, and not for the first time, that you see right through him.

The plane lands an hour and a half later, and everyone is beyond exhausted. Even Spencer, who normally doesn’t need much energy or caffeine to start talking fast about something interesting he noticed about this case and this unsub, is unusually quiet. They’re all running on fumes, staying up two nights in a row profiling and then catching the unsub with the latest victim at one in the morning, and then boarding the jet soon after.

Aaron makes a decision, everyone can work on their notes from home and the report is due no later than day after next. Derek pats him on the shoulder and says no one is to call him for the next twenty-four hours. JJ and Emily exchange a laugh. Y

ou, he notices, though he wishes he wouldn’t, go up to Spencer and talk with him quietly. When you’re done, he beams at you and you at him. He wonders what you two talked about when they’re all heading out, listening to Spencer ramble about how the unsub’s use of his childhood spots as disposal sites offers insight into the abuse of his youth. Prentiss tells him to save it for the report. 

He and Rossi are walking back to their cars when Dave speaks up for the first time.

“You’re wondering what she said to him, aren’t you?”

Aaron stops for a moment. 

“You should know better than to profile me.”

“Oh, I’m not profiling. This is just me being observant. You should stop fiddling with your ring finger when you talk to her. It’s a dead giveaway.”

“Dave, I don’t need to tell you that this conversation—“

“I know, I know. I won’t mention it again if you don’t want me to.”

“Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“See you tomorrow, Aaron. And by the way, she offered to write his notes for him if he wanted. He said it’s hard for him to write about unsubs with schizophrenic tendencies and she said she can try to help, if he wants. That’s all. Let me know when you’re ready to talk about this.”

Aaron gets in his car and doesn’t stop thinking about you the entire ride home.

-

You wish you could make it stop. The way you feel about your boss. It started so long ago, it’s almost a part of you now. Aaron is stern and his disposition is frightening, to the say the least. But only at first, you’ve realized, after so many late evenings spent discussing the case with him, breaking down the tiniest details, and him paying attention to your every word when you discuss the victim’s demeanor and behavior to try to figure out what had really happened.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, you thought. You had gone to the overpopulated state school with the hopes of entering the medical field. You were a true empath, and there was no one’s suffering you couldn’t relate to, no one that you wouldn’t try to make feel better. All your life, people cried on your shoulder while you offered up words of comfort. And because of this, everyone thought you were a shoo-in for nursing or medical school, where you could help people through the worst days of their life.

All it took was a few days at the hospital where you had been working, a string of murder victims being wheeled in one after another, for you to reconsider your life’s work. None had survived the incident, but the killer let them live just long enough to be seen by the doctor, who then had to declare them legally dead.

Something about the victims seemed familiar to you, how they’d all come from wealthy families and were sliced up in their expensive clothing, expensive jewelry and watches smashed to bits instead of being stolen. You mentioned it to one of the officiers, who told someone else, and somewhere in that chain of events, your insight helped them catch the killer.

It was then, you thought, that maybe you should be working on the other side of these situations. Stopping the killer before it ever got to this. 

Then you’d done a one-hundred and eighty degree spin on your career, electing to pursue becoming an agent. You had been young, and motivated, and you chose to overlook when everyone told you this job might become your whole life, leaving no time for a husband and kids and a family.

You had ignored it all, working your way up from the local field office to child crimes in just a year and a half. The transition out of sex crimes to homicide was disturbingly hard, because at least before you’d had a victim to interview. You were no expert, not yet, but a unique asset altogether, combining a true mission to uncover the best in each victim, and figuring out their behavior patterns from bedrooms and diaries.

It was a unique skill-set, acquired mostly because a lot of traumatized children didn’t offer much to go off of. You had to turn to their childhood homes, toys, and scribbles to figure out what had been going on in the first place.

You reflect often on why you decided to leave child homicide when news spread that the BAU had an opening for one more agent. Truthfully, you hadn’t considered it at all, since you were more than happy with your current position and coworkers. You were solving cases, delivering justice, and bringing whatever comfort you could bring to grieving families.

In fact, you had been requested specifically. You, out of a hundred or more well-established, intelligent agents that could be a huge asset to the team. You were never special, and you didn’t like to think of yourself in that way either, but you couldn’t deny how good it felt to hear that the team wanted you. 

And when you transferred over, everyone was so nice. The team was inviting, they respected your opinion, and especially in cases with younger victims, they revered your knowledge. You felt included, and invaluable, and as hard as you worked, you wanted to work even harder. 

Your boss was a brilliant agent and profiler, and so hardworking that you wanted to do anything you could to make his workload a little easier. You wrote the most detailed reports, so he would have to edit them as much.. You offered to pick up extra briefs, so he took home a couple less papers. And no matter what you did, acknowledged or not, you knew you were making the kind of difference you’d always dreamed you would. 

Aaron—he was only ever Aaron in your head, and Hotch the rest of the  time—liked you as an agent, and it made you happy. A little happier than you should be, considering he was happily married with a toddler and a perfect life outside of work. It was almost wrong, but it didn’t stop you from trying to impress him with your work ethic.

You always put aside your other feelings and focused on the team, and somehow in all of that, you felt like you were finally making your difference. You were close with the team and close enough with Aaron, that you hadn’t been worried to start that conversation on the jet now that all these circumstances were changing. Haley had asked for a divorce and he hadn’t muttered a word of it to anyone.

He’s so tired, you can see. You wonder if everyone else notices it too, or if it’s just you observing so closely. He has dark circles now, because he never sleeps, always working, and the furrows on his forehead are seemingly etched in and permanent. He misses his wife and his son, and you know it, and maybe it’s wrong to care about your boss so much that your heart hurts when you see him glancing at the framed photos of his family on his desk, or the tiny polaroids in his wallet, but you do. You think you’re in love with Aaron Hotchner, and you don’t know how to make it stop. 

You’re gonna get hurt, you remind yourself every now and then. 

Aaron and Spence have just come back from the prison, where they had an encounter with Chester Hardwick that they won’t really talk about. You’d been with the rest of the team in Indiana, and then two days later in Oregon. 

Aaron and Haley were divorcing, and it hurt him so much, you knew, because it wasn't for a lack of love. It was a lack of time, a shortness of hours in the day. He couldn’t be the husband Haley wanted and the father he thought Jack needed while being an agent for eighteen hours a day. It hurt you too, seeing him like this. You wish he felt better. 

The days and weeks seemed to blend into months. Somewhere in between Hotch’s divorce and JJ’s pregnancy, you had become complacent with your relationship with Aaron. Walking in together from the parking lot, leaving together at the end of a long day—usually alone and sometimes joined by Emily or David. Sometimes you’d have a frothy drink from a nearby coffee shop in your hand—to which you always hear, “My coffee’s not better than that stuff?”

“It’s not coffee, remember-”

“I know, you don’t drink coffee. That stuff is full of sugar. I don’t need you bouncing off the walls like Reid and Garcia too.”

You laugh, and then you wonder if it’s because he really cares or if it was just a passing comment. You share a lot of little moments like that. 

When his eardrum was nearly blown out after New York, you almost offered to drive back with him from Ohio to Virginia. It was instinct, because you just didn’t want him to be alone. You had exchanged a glance when he handed you the plate of brownies from the victim’s mother, and you knew he had read your mind. But he didn’t say anything, and you left it at that. You’re not nearly stupid enough to think that your boss reciprocates your feelings for him. Hell, most days you don’t even know what feelings you have for him.

Your seats on the jet are almost permanently fixed; near the coffee machine towards the cockpit. You sit across from each other, and sometimes you don’t even speak. He’ll bring you a cup of hot water, and he doesn’t ask if you need a tea bag from the make-shift coffee station, because knows they’re in your go-bag. 

When it’s his weekend with Jack after two weeks of back-to-back cases, Aaron is always working on the reports on the jet. It’s because he’s trying to reduce how much work he has to do at home, and even when everyone’s fallen asleep and your eyes are close to shutting, you get up and make him a cup of coffee. He’s never once told you how he takes it, and he doesn’t know if you’ve seen him make it either, but somehow you know, and it’s always right. When you offer him the steaming paper cup, he looks up at you with an entirely new look—something you’ve never seen before. You two don’t exchange so many words.

He says it all with his eyes, sometimes, even when you’re not looking. It’s gratitude. (When you get off the jet a few hours later, you tease Morgan about his snoring. Derek asks you where his cup of coffee is, and you shove his arm so hard he almost drops his bag.

In the end, it was you who had figured out there was something wrong with the Reaper’s last few victims. 

“Why would a nineteen year old girl date her teaching assistant?” You had questioned, looking through a file that everyone’s eyes had already seen. “An honors student, a freshman, I mean, none of this points to an illicit affair with faculty. She knew it was against the rules and her roommates said she’s never so much as skipped class.”

“That could have been because she wants to see him,” Derek interjects. “If they were truly in love like Foyet said, she’d take every opportunity to be with him.”

“But in an environment where no one can know you two are together? I mean, if she was in love and close to getting engaged, wouldn’t she tell her best friends? Her parents? How many teenage girls keep something like that just to themselves?”

The pieces of the puzzle that had once fit together so nicely were coming undone. It felt like the blink of an eye, from catching Foyet to him escaping. Everyone was on edge, no one more than Aaron, and your empathy still knew no bounds. Where you had once been able to focus on work and dedicate all your thoughts to the cases, you now were distracted and distant. Every other thought was about Aaron, as wrong as that might be. 

Canada had been something else entirely. It was difficult for the entire team to fathom, but nearly impossible for you. You had lost your temper twice—something you’d never done before— and thrown up when the team discovered all the shoes. JJ had run after you but in the end, Aaron was the one who found you outside.

“I’m sorry, JJ, I’ll be fine—I-I just need a minute,” you breath out, chest heaving and tears brimming. 

“It’s okay,” Aaron says, “take your time.” 

You turn around so fast, your breath catching, and you hate this situation. You could never hate Aaron but you hate this, you hate that he followed you and that he’s seeing you like this. You look weak, after two and a half years of trying to prove to him that you’re strong—strong enough to handle this job, do what needs to be done, and not cry at a crime scene.

“I-I’m sorry, I-” 

“Why are you apologizing?” He doesn’t sound mad, or like he’s belittling you, and you don’t know why that’s what you expected. This is Aaron, your Aaron, and even though he’s not really yours it doesn't seem to matter much right now.

“I’m making a scene. I-I shouldn’t be throwing up on the job or screaming at those unsubs or anything else-”

“It’s okay. It happens.” Aaron says it so concisely, you almost feel better for a second. Isn’t this what it’s always come down to? You need Aaron like air, and somehow he always knows what you need to hear. He doesn’t treat you any differently compared to the others but it feels different today. You can’t describe it in words. If JJ or Morgan had followed you out here, you would have said the same things, but you wouldn’t have felt this way. Like if you crumble here today, Aaron will be there to pick you up.

“Take your time, please,” he repeats. “I know you think you have something to prove to me, but you don’t. You’ve proven it already, to all of us. Admitting that all of this gets to you isn’t a bad thing. That’s what separates us from them.”

At that moment, a dam bursts. Tears flow down your face like they haven’t in so long, as long as you can remember. You think you should feel embarrassed, crying in front of your boss, but Aaron takes you into his arms and you can’t remember the last time you felt this safe. Cheesy, you think, but this is everything I thought it would be and more.

You’re not sure how long he holds you there, but eventually once the front of his shirt is covered in your tears and he offers you a tissue (Does he just carry this around waiting for one of us to cry?) and you head back together. This is the embarrassing part, you think, bracing yourself and biting your inner cheek. But if the team is judging you at this moment, they certainly don’t show it.

You join JJ and Emily inside the house, who ask you if you’re okay when you sniffle for the last time. Spencer asks you later, on the way home. Derek tells you to call him if you need anything. Dave tells you, “You’ll be okay, kid,” and somehow, you believe him. Penelope texts you once on your phone, checking in and promising a distracting, gossip filled girl’s night out soon.

Aaron walks you to your car, and says goodnight. You’re delusional, you think, once you're back at home. You’ve taken the longest, hottest shower imaginable and your record player is emitting the scratchy sound of your favorite Beatles album. You’re in a big shirt that’s getting wet while you brush your freshly cleaned hair and all you can think about is how it felt to be wrapped in Aaron’s arms a couple hours ago. 

You are delusional, you remind yourself. You’re checking your phone every couple minutes like a love-sick teenager. You think Aaron’s going to call you to check in, you almost feel it in your bones. You leave the ringer on incase he calls later—maybe he showered and sat down to work on some reports before sleeping. You fall asleep thirty minutes later, exhausted down to your bones, and wake up startled by your phone going off. In your sleepy delirium, you answer without looking who it is—assuming it’s Aaron.

“Hotch?” 

“Hey, sorry it’s JJ. We have another case, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, JJ, um, okay, I-I’ll be there in ten. Text the address, okay?” Your cheeks burn at the slip.

“I sent it just now. Listen, I’m sorry, but can you try Hotch’s cell? I called and texted and he’s not answering.” You feel your stomach turn, first because Aaron isn’t answering and he always answers, and second because JJ thinks he’ll answer if you call.

“I’ll try him now. I’ll call you back.”

You try him twice while changing and another time in the car. Your only explanation is that maybe he went to see Jack and put his phone away, but even that doesn’t check out. 

When you get to the scene, you inform the others about Aaron not answering.

“Alright, let’s split up for now and I’ll keep trying Hotch,” Derek says. They don’t seem that worried, and maybe that lulls you into not worrying either. After all, they’ve known him a lot longer than you have.

You end up with Spencer and Emily at the doctor’s house, combing through patient files Garcia sent over. There’s tens of dozens, and even though you want to go with Emily to Aaron’s place to get him, you know your experience with kids and in the hospital is vital. You and Spencer start working, but something feels off. You just can’t place it. 

In the end, you attribute it to your nerves from the last case. Your fear of embarrassing yourself carried into today, and even though you know no one judged you for losing it in Canada, the feeling lingers. Spencer answers the phone from Emily and says that Hotch was busy with something at the bureau that now requires Emily too. In the end, you and Spence figure it out just in time. Your body is so tired, it hurts, and then on top of that, Spencer gets hurt. You can barely process what’s happening, and you don’t feel better until the doctor says it’s through-and-through.

“God, Spencer, never do that again,” you say, your hands wet with the blood from his wound. You wipe it on your clothes, thinking you’ll change soon. 

“Guys, guys listen to me, something’s happened to Hotch.” The blood drains from your face and your breath stops in your throat. 

“What?” 

“Emily told me not to say anything until we got the unsub, but he’s in the hospital.”

The next hour is a blur. You all show up to the hospital, and Emily is talking to a bunch of agents. Their faces are blurred because you can hardly think straight. 

“Em? Is he okay?” your words must be coming out frantically because everyone’s looking at you like you’re about to crumble. 

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t say anything because I knew we wouldn’t be able to think straight about the case, I know it’s wrong but-”

“Is he okay?” You didn’t mean to cut her off, it just happened like that. Your mind is so clouded right now with a petrifying vision of Aaron dying alone on the floor of his new apartment that he hates so much, while you were waiting for a call for him.

“He-he hasn’t woken up yet.” 

You sit on a chair by Aaron’s bed. He looks like he’s sleeping, and a part of you had always wanted to see him like this. It would be comforting, if he actually was sleeping. You’d imagined it a little differently—you thought for sure he snores and sleeps on his side. You always notice sleep lines only on one arm when you guys have just woken up and continue working on the case. You stare extra hard when he rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt on particularly hot days. Everyone would moan and groan about another case in the heat of Texas or Arizona, but not you.

It seems like those memories were a million years ago. 

When he wakes up, everyone pours in and it distracts you for a few heartbeats. When they realize what Foyet is actually after, the terror is apparent on everyone's faces. You realize how long it’s been since you last saw Haley and Jack when they finally step into the room. You and Emily leave to give them privacy. 

Later that night, you’re back in that chair. Aaron wakes up for a few minutes at a time, and when he finally stays awake, he notices you.

“How long have I been out?” 

“Thirty minutes. Give or take.”

“Is there water?”

“Yeah, yeah.” You scramble up to get the pitcher and pour him a glass. There’s a straw too, which you put in the cup and hold still for a second so he can drink.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.” He can see all your emotions on your face. It doesn’t take him long at all, not anymore. You’ve been crying and your clothes have blood on them. He’s alarmed again.

“Is that your blood?” he asks, swallowing hard.

“No, no, Hotch. We had a case, the-the unsub shot Spence. He’s okay though, it just got on me and I haven’t been back home to change yet.”

“Why don’t you? Go home?”

“I didn’t want to leave you.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I let you go home alone yesterday and look what happened.” You smile meekly at your own joke, hoping he appreciates it. He lies still though, not smiling. 

“I think you should go home. Get some rest after everything.”

“You know, Hotch, only you would tell me to go home and rest up when you’re the one who’s currently in the hospital.” 

“I just think-”

“Do you want me to leave? If you do, I will. I swear.” There’s silence between you two for a moment.

“No.” 

“Good, because I wasn’t going to.” The corners of his mouth turn up a little. You barely even notice it. “I can’t leave now. I don’t want you to sit alone here.” You should stop talking, you think to yourself. But you don’t. “You know yesterday, I got home and the whole time I sat there wondering if you were gonna call my cell. I even turned the ringer up all the way so I didn’t miss it. And I know that’s stupid because why would you call me? But I had this feeling. And now all I can think is why didn’t I call you?”

“Don’t think like-”

“Don’t think like that? Yeah, I knew you would say that. But if I had called you like I wanted to, and asked you to come over like I wanted to, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. But I didn’t because I was scared and I don’t want to be scared anymore. And I know this is the last thing you need to hear right now, but I guess I can’t hold it in any longer.” 

You want to clamp your hand over your mouth. Your favorite cheesy rom-coms have infiltrated your brain, and you can’t fathom how stupid you must sound right now to Aaron. He’s just almost died and the kid who was the last to join his team is declaring love for him on his hospital bed. But it won’t stop coming out.

“Can I tell you something Aaron? I mean, more than I already have? Emily said she didn’t tell me you were hurt because she knew I wouldn’t be able to think straight about the case anymore. About anything, anymore, if I knew you were missing or that you were hurt or dead. And I’ve been trying to hide it for so long, because I know you don’t need any more complications in your life right now, but, I think I have feelings for you, Aaron.” Hot tears stream down your face. You try to stop them but you can’t. They’ve been building up for two years.

“Please don’t cry. I don’t have a tissue for you this time.” You smile through your tears, but your entire body is still tense. It’s because you’re still expecting bad news, still waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“Do you want me to leave? I can call Emily, she’ll sit with you if you don’t want to be alone.”

“I don’t want you to leave. And you don’t have to tell me these things, I already knew them.” Another few tears drip down your face. Aaron’s chest hurts more than it has ever before. He thinks back to your conversation on the jet that day, when you told him you cared about him and he hadn’t said much of anything at all. “I hope you know that I have feelings for you, too.” 

“You mean you care about me and the team?” you question half-heartedly. You think you’ve already gotten your answer. “I mean I care about the team a lot. And I care about you more than I should, more than what’s right. More than a superior should care about one of their agents. And I think if this hadn’t happened, I would have called you last night. Not because of the case, because of you. Because I need to make sure you’re okay.”

Your heart thumps uncomfortably in your chest. Aaron reaches out his hand a little, and you take it into yours. You sit like that for a long time, and you know there’s so much else going on, but a small part of you sighs in relief. Aaron is okay, and he feels about you how you do about him, and maybe everything will be okay in the end. 

The months after Haley’s funeral are tough for everyone. It’s weird going to work and not seeing Aaron. Sometimes you inadvertently make a cup of coffee how he likes it and have no one to give it to. You started drinking some, even though it tastes bitter and terrible, it makes you feel close to him.

How stupid is that, you wonder one day, sipping the coffee and looking over files with JJ. If the rest of the team thinks you're stupid, they haven’t shown any signs of it yet. You’re sure they mostly feel bad for you and your pathetic behavior. You’ve gotten sloppy because you can’t stop thinking about how Aaron is doing. 

You and the team will go visit him and Jack at his new place. You make cookies, snickerdoodle for Aaron and oatmeal raisin for Jack.

“What kind of a kid are you?” you questioned, helping Jack scribble in his Captain America coloring book. He’s munching on a cookie while you try to figure out what part of the shield is blue and what part is red. “I mean, who likes oatmeal raisin cookies at the tender age of 5?” 

“I did,” Spencer says, taking another one out of the tin. 

“You don’t count, genius,” Morgan says, and then directs his gaze at you. “And I mean come on, no chocolate chip for me? None at all? That hurts.”

“I made you some like two weeks ago! I have a job, you know,” you fire back. Aaron laughs, eating the snickerdoodle after dipping it in milk. It’s so domestic, you feel yourself staring. You only turn away when he catches you looking. 

When he comes back, you wonder if it’ll ever feel normal again. That silly routine you two had, the chairs on the jet near the coffee machine that you still sit in, walks to your car. 

At first, it just feels strange. So much has changed yet the team’s dynamic remains the same. You get through cases with the same ferocity you had when you first started, eager to prove your worth again. Your reports detail every detail and then some, and you stay even later than Aaron some nights. You need something to focus on, and your cases seem like the best option. The other option is to have another conversation with Aaron about your feelings and you think you might die if that happens.

When it finally does happen, it’s plenty embarrassing. You were so sure about your theory about this unsub, so sure that he would confess if he was confronted about his crimes and reminded of the humanity of his victims—three little kids, all under ten. Maybe that’s why it bothered you so much, and that’s why you stormed into the residence even though the rest of the team was screaming at you not to. In the end, you talk him down, but Aaron runs in behind you anyways and nearly spooks the unsub into suicide.

“You do not have the authorization to make calls like that,” Aaron yells at you, and though you had once thought you would die if he yelled at you, it’s all too easy to yell back. 

In that moment, when you had known what would happen, dealing with your area of expertise, he stormed in and questioned you and your abilities as an agent and as a profiler.

“I don’t need authorization, I knew what would happen, and I knew how to talk him down without this ending in gunfire—”

“I don’t care what you think you knew. This is a team, and we don’t make decisions that jeopardize a case without agreeing on it!” “You mean you have to agree with every decision I make? I had it handled, Hotch, you almost blew that whole thing up because you didn’t believe in me!”

“That’s not what this is about,” he fires back, and it feels strange to be yelling at you. He can’t recall the last time he’s ever done this. The rest of the team is just packing up in the police station, trying not to overhear but not really having any choice in the matter.

“Yes it is! You don’t trust me! Not to make decisions for this team and for our cases, or for anything. You just proved that back there. You don’t trust me.” It’s happening again. Tears brew in your eyes. They spill down before you can stop it. Aaron softens before your very eyes at the sight of them. “Stop! Stop feeling bad just because now I’m crying, they’re not tears for you, they’re angry tears and I can’t control it-”

“Of course, I trust you.” His voice has dropped from a yell to just above a whisper. “How could you think that I don’t?”

“I’m not stupid, Aaron. I know what I’m doing. My plan was going to work and you shot me down in front of everyone because you didn’t believe in me,” you say between tears. “Nothing’s changed.”

“And what do you think would happen if you stormed in there and I lost you too?” His voice is gentle. You hadn’t noticed that he was so close to you now. You can see the eyelash on his cheek and feel the heat radiating from his body. 

“That’s not what this is about.”

“That is exactly what this is about. You think I don’t trust you, so I won’t let you walk into a confrontation alone? That I think you don’t know how to profile, how to handle these unsubs, so I get into a screaming match outside a crime scene? Tell me, does that check with any of my behavior in the years I’ve known you?”

“I don’t know, Hotch, I don’t profile you.”

“You call me Hotch in front of everyone, and especially when you’re upset with me. When it’s just us you use Aaron. You know how I take my coffee even though I’ve never told you, because you pay attention even when no one else is looking. Cases with children affect you the most, especially when it takes us longer to work them, because you think you should be quicker and figure out the unsub faster since you worked with kids before joining the team. You remember the little things everyone says because you don’t want them to think you’re not paying attention to them. You cry about cases when you feel like there’s something more you should have done, even though there’s nothing else any of us can do. And you cry about me the most of all, that time on the jet, in the hospital, and just now because you think I don’t share your feelings. You think I know all this because I’m profiling you, but it’s not. It’s because I pay attention to those whom I love.” 

Shell shocked. You are shell shocked at Aaron’s speech, eyes wide and mouth open. You’re sure the rest of the team, hidden behind a bulletin board and the conference table is much the same. 

“I’m going to kiss you now. And that’s the end of the conversation about me not trusting you, okay?” You nod dumbly. Aaron’s lips are sweet and taste like his coffee—black, with two sugars. You feel another tear falling but it’s only because you hadn’t expected any of that. 

“That took long enough,” David says from behind the partition. 

and voila <3

[boydepartment]

three strikes - nishimura riki x fem! reader

a/n: HIIIIII this was a request from my 🧈 anon :3 i hope you love it my dear

warnings- jealousy! nothing insane tho, mostly fluff 😋 i added a small inside joke that riki would call ricky from zb1 “discount ricky” all jokes tho (pls don’t kill me)

wc- honestly over 750

MASTERLIST

“here.” you looked over to riki setting your drink down on the table, you looked up at him and smiled as he sat down across from you at the cafe table.

“did you-“

“ask for extra peppermint? yes. even though it’s gross..” riki mumbled, you giggled and sipped your hot coco. it was freezing cold at least to you and so the coco helped a lot.

“when is your project partner arriving?” riki mumbled, sipping his coffee.

you shrugged, “any minute.” setting your coco down riki watched you, he wasn’t necessarily happy over this whole project partner thing. riki knew your project partner, and safe to say he was just irritated by his presence. he didn’t know why, but he was just irked.

so when the OTHER ricky walked in, he just waved and watched as the other boy sat next to you.

“hey y/n!” he smiled, you grinned back at him.

“hey! it’s cold outside are you sure you’re bundled up enough?” you asked, grabbing your books. riki just decided to go on his phone to pass time.

“yeah! it’s crazy how quickly the weather changed huh? are you warm enough?”

you and ricky made small talk which didn’t bother your best friend. that was until one sentence.

“your hands are freezing y/n!”

riki’s eyes shot up to see the discount ricky’s hands on yours. if stares could kill a man, discount ricky would be six feet under.

“oh! yeah that’s why riki, well, my riki got me hot coco.” you let go of his hand and turned to your hot beverage.

nishimura riki would be lying if he said some pride didn’t bubble up inside him, which didn’t go unnoticed by the boy sitting next to you.

riki didn’t take notice and he went back on his phone, he just wanted your project to be over so he could walk back to the car with you and just be away from people. by people he meant discount ricky. this was strike one for his patience.

“i think we should work more on the details of the piece of art itself. like things that normal people look past in monet’s art. there’s a story everywhere.” you suggested, this art project was pretty big for your grade. and you were just relieved that your project partner agreed to do monet.

“that’s such a good idea y/n.” ricky smiled.

oh please riki thought to himself, at that point discount ricky should just get on his hands and knees and beg for your attention. that’d be way less embarrassing than kissing your ass at every little- wait what the hell

to riki’s horror, discount ricky, was readjusting your beanie so your hair didn’t get in your face. this pissed him off, strike two of his patience gone. riki was the one who spent HOURS trying to crochet you that beanie last year and now he’s going to have to make you another one because discount ricky’s grimy hands touched it! riki felt his eye twitch, he ended up making eye contact with the boy next to you. a smirk ghosting his features.

riki wanted to kick his shin under the table or maybe throw his hot coffee-

“i think we should also choose one of monet’s less known works aswe- oh ouch…” you mumbled rubbing your hands, whenever you wrote or sketched too long your hands would hurt. riki always took notice of this so he looked up proper hand massages- safe to say he could be certified- WHAT THE SHIT?

discount ricky grabbed your hands and started massaging them.

strike three

“can you get your hands off her?!” riki finally snapped, “god at this point it’s revolting! i’m right in front of both of you!”

your eyes widened as you watched you best friend actually lose his temper, yeah you’d seen him bicker but this was different.

“what are you two dating?” ricky asked, if you were in a tv show you’d see the angry lightening bolt hit both of them. this was not good, you quickly packed your bags and grabbed your best friend. apologizing to your project partner.

“what’s his fucking problem?!” riki stomped through the fresh snow to your car.

“what’s his problem?! what’s your problem? what the hell was that?! are you okay?!” you had a million questions. and they were flying out.

“i- what- how is this my fault!? he had his grimy discount ricky hands all over you! only i’m allowed to do that as your best friend!”

it was really hard to take him seriously as you finally got to the car laughing. you leaned against the hood trying to catch your breath.

“y/n this isn’t funny!” he stood right next to you.

you finally caught your breath, “i’m sorry where did the nickname discount ricky come from?”

“well obviously i’m the better one way more deserving of, um hello, touching your hair, massaging your hands because im youtube certified, AND THE COLD HANDS THING?! he was flirting with you shamelessly in front of me!” riki swung his arms around like a crazy person trying to explain that the end was near.

your hat fell slightly as you laughed again which riki fixed gently before speaking again, “then he’d smirk at me like he knew he was getting on my nerves! like that discount version of ME KNEW HE WAS MAKING ME ANGRY!”

“should i take my hat off and give you sanitizer? since you touched my discount ricky infected beanie?” you asked, unlocking the car and throwing your backpack in the back. you turned around and bumped into riki.

“actually yeah take off that hat. i will sanitize it and crochet you a new one.” riki grabbed the hat off your head and gave you his own beanie.

“should i sanitize my hands too?” you asked giggling, going to open your door but slipping on black ice.

riki immediately caught you, “um guess who couldn’t catch you- discount ricky. i’m clearly better for you so.”

you started laughing again, hitting his chest playfully, “you’re acting like a jealous boyfriend.”

“is that a bad thing?” riki asked quickly, suddenly unsure of himself.

you shook your head no, “it’s cute.”

riki smiled down at you; it was obvious he was at least a little smug.

“you know what he didn’t contaminate?” you asked, still giggling, your eyes flickered from riki’s eyes to his lips. immediately he got the hint and took his chance.

discount ricky is out and nishimura riki hit a home run

[corseque]

I honestly just wanted one single plot step that I could not predict given the 10 year wait. More behind the cut, I talk about Emet too, and I'm comparing his writing favorably to Solas' writing and why it worked better for me personally, but I am just talking about the writing skill that went into the games and not the dudes themselves, I love them both dearly of course. idk this is a mess and I am not going to edit it for clarity

For me, the game was a series of me saying

"ok I knew that. cool."

"oh yeah, I knew that. I guess it's good that the larger fandom knows about that now."

"nice, but yeah I already knew that too"

"that was something we've been talking about a lot for years"

"this thing they are acting like is a huge enormous reveal that the characters could not possibly have deduced through simply thinking about it in depth over the 10 years... the fans easily figured out by thinking about it in depth 10 years ago. So you would think his girlfriend would be able to figure it out more easily than we did. Like, why couldn't the game have been like 'oh lavellan already figured that out a while ago' it would have cost them nothing"

"this is something I've been thinking about for years, and now that it's being revealed, the companions' reactions to it are very irritating and jarring and unnecessary and I really dislike the experience I'm having right now, in this, the hour of my greatest triumph"

"this thing that is happening on my screen right now is something that I wrote an essay about 2 years ago describing how it would be a letdown if it happened without the correct setup"

"this way that they're characterizing Solas makes him less likable and less interesting than I have been finding him for all these years, and I have had people tell me 'no, he's simpler than you think' for years but I guess I was wrong, he really is simpler than I thought, so that fucking sucks. I wish I could take that information out of my brain."

"this thing is a retcon of information I have been thinking about for 10 years, and so I don't know how to follow along with this new direction, and I'm not sure if I even want to because it's not particularly interesting anyway"

"aw that was sweet"

"why is it like, so very impossible to have an honest back-and-forth with my favorite character about the dilemma that was most interesting to me about the previous game"

and then, as soon as, like, the other fans had caught up to the Solas lore that was really obvious from the other games, the game was.... over without anything surprising happening, or introducing a new element or plot point or perspective, or a real true twist (or two, or three) for those of us who have thought about it too hard for too long. It was very simple and easy, much, much, much, much easier than I was imagining. It all felt sort of like that Nicholson quote:

The thing was, the whole story was so interesting to think about because in 10 years, I couldn't figure out a good solution to it!!!!! It's why I was never able to write post-game fanfic about it. So I was stoked to find out some reveal we never knew about, some new information, in maybe a SERIES of steps of new information, that made the situation more complicated but also something that could be navigated by everyone involved. I know it was asking for a lot, but they had TEN YEARS, and they seemingly had set up the things they did in DAI on purpose, so surely they had some idea of a complex and satisfying narrative that would reconcile everyone.

The reason why I was expecting this is because FFXIV did a very similar story arc, which was started AND concluded WITHIN those 10 years (so it took the FFXIV team far less time to deliver as well). And the conclusion to the story in FFXIV did what I was expecting Dragon Age to do. So I thought, "holy shit, if this is the FFXIV version of this plot, how much more complicated is DA4 going to be!?!?" The DA devs also PLAYED FFXIV so they were completely aware, several years ago, of a satisfying story ending that was pretty darn similar.

People are probably going to think "oh, well Chelsea was disappointed because she spent too much time building it up in her head" but that's exactly it - I actually speculated and thought about FFXIV's story IN DEPTH NONSTOP for a year+ before its ending came out, and the ending absolutely blew me away. FFXIV Endwalker managed to introduce information and new story elements that I was not able to figure out in the YEAR I spent speculating on the ending of FFXIV's story. It took a complicated situation and revealed several several more facets to it that I was not able to predict, but were very interesting and thematically compelling, and took us all to surprising and climactic places that we could not have predicted.

Endwalker ("end" is in the title on purpose) too, was written to be THE ULTIMATE SATISFYING ENDING for a very long-running story in the exactly way that Veilguard SHOULD HAVE for Dragon Age, so while this complexity is being explored, FFXIV also gave catharsis to many different plot threads that have been built up through the previous expansions, until finally it ends with a bang. The story is desperately good to me, I loved it, it gave me closure for Dragon Age long before Veilguard was even revealed, and going back and looking at its story has made this whole thing far less painful for me.

So, I actually did not have a picture in my mind for how things SHOULD go. I just had the thought "I hope it's complicated and there are points of view or facts that we haven't before been exposed to, and the situation is resolved respectfully for Solas, not making him look like a fucking idiot (lol, the only thing I asked for). I don't even care what happens to Solas and Lavellan, I just need the story to be complicated and interesting to think about. Please, god, don't let it be "solas is wrong and he just needs to be convinced" because that's like the simplest story you could tell with this setup"

(btw they managed to tell Emet-Selch's story without making him seem like he's being an idiot on purpose or can never get anything right, and in fact the more the story goes on, the more you think of him as smart and capable and cool, so it is possible to write.... I wasn't asking for the entire moon)

And I played it and... yeah. Most of the story beats were more simple than I wanted them to be, a lot of them didn't make sense in my heart given the writing from Inquisition. (This is another essay, but if Solas' thematic story arc was always about him needing to let go of regrets, why was his personal quest the way it was? After that quest, doesn't he end up regretting not doing more....? Why did he never really talk about regret during Inquisition? If he was so trapped by regret, why was he able to do so many actions? It doesn't mesh well to me. The whole regret thing was very quarter-baked to me, I don't even like thinking about it.) His story never seemed like one that was as simple as being about one man's regrets, but then, I guess, it was always just about one man's regrets.

Emet-Selch's personal storyline (and the way it interacts with and affects the larger story) is very similar but much more cohesive and satisfying to me. It would be difficult to explain why without the aforementioned 5-hour essay. Emet-Selch's story IS about grief and anguish on a world-shaping scale in a similar way that Solas' was apparently always about letting go of regret, but Emet's story was also very pointedly and beautifully about that one theme for the entirety of his story from every tiny detail, from beginning to end - meanwhile, it seemed to me that they tried to introduce 'regret' as the main thrust of Solas' story only in the short story with the Regret demon onward.

From Inquisition just by itself, the closest I personally could get to a story theme for Solas was his inability to trust others hurting him and the world, but his trusting others in DA4 wasn't really addressed to my satisfaction. He is never required to trust anyone before the ending, he never opens up or makes himself vulnerable at all. People find out information about him, he never really dynamically opens himself. So the personal story I thought he had was never addressed at all, while a new one about regret was introduced that never made a ton of sense to me. And I don't think this is just because of my expectations - my reaction to FFXIV proves that I am able to meet good writing where it goes in surprising directions, as long as it's interesting and thoughtful and clear.

And I think this might be part of what people felt was off about the ending - Solas is sort of uninvolved in the revelations that are about him, and doesn't do much to be part of his own ending. Part of what I loved about Solas in Inquisition is that he is not controlled by you in any way, and so he feels like his own person with a very strong sense of character.

Anyway, Emet-Selch, in a very comparable and arguably more extreme plot position, is very involved in the revelations about himself, he always feels like a very strong character who cannot be affected by the player, and the whole situation is handled with deft emotion and care and delicacy. The story is comparatively very uninterested in litigating Emet-Selch or putting him on trial - the story allows you to simply feel the way that you feel in an organic way, and Emet's story spends that energy instead actually exploring his thematic material about grief and legacy, and the larger story theme of existentialism instead, in a way that is very refreshing and interesting. I've seen a lot of western stories tie themselves in knots over "redemption" and frankly it's almost never been interesting at all. Who cares about any of that. lol

(Now, I guess this is a matter of preference, because some people really like being able to shape a character's story, but idk I rewatched the ending of FFXIV and even though there wasn't a choice with Emet, because it isn't a branching story, his story felt more satisfying to me, maybe because there isn't a patronizing choice to be made for him. He is who he is, and he fulfills a very beautiful narrative role and purpose that no other character could in the story.)

I don't know how this could have been improved to me and still allowed players to choose Solas' ending for him, but I can actually think of a few different methods, none of which involve Rook condescendingly and patronizingly lecturing Solas as if Solas had never thought about a single aspect of this horrible situation he's in before that very moment that Rook lectures him lmfao.

All this to say... idk I'm writing this and I am not going back to edit it so it's stream-of-consciousness. But yeah

I just wanted the story to be complicated on a few more levels than I could have predicted. I genuinely don't care what happened, but I thought of a few twists like the Veil coming down and yeah, I was expecting A Single Twist or reveal to happen. In a Dragon Age game.

I wanted Solas to seem cool and capable and noble and smart, and actually feel like he was as old and experienced as he is.

I wanted a clear theme I could sink my teeth into

Like notice I didn't even say anything about Solavellan. Like I never in 100 years thought they were getting a happy ending where they were both alive in bodies, and I like that we got that, but I would honestly trade it for a more complicated story. To me, if a story is sad you can always write fanfic, but if a story isn't COMPLICATED, that's a much more urgent issue.

These 3 things DA4 didn't give me in a way that satisfied me but FFXIV did. anyway idk the way my hyperfixations work, I completely switch to a new subject so talking about Dragon Age is actually hard for me right now.

[witchywithwhiskey]

the mistletoe tradition

pairing: intern!bucky barnes x boss!female reader

summary: the young intern in your office catches you under the mistletoe for the fourth time during the office holiday party, and it leads to both of you confessing to the feelings you'd been hiding.

warnings: age gap romance (ages aren't specified, but reader is older—i imagined late 30s to Bucky's mid-to-late 20s), power imbalance relationship (but not really because of reasons explained in the fic), fluff, kissing, making out, some dry humping, some dirty talk, some dirty thoughts, implied/referenced sex, pet names (doll), happy ending

word count: 4.5k

a/n: here's my last entry for @the-slumberparty's december daze challenge, using the prompt: "How is the mistletoe following you around?" i wrote like three different versions of this fic and i wanted to include smut but i just ran out of time and energy. this month has been a lot harder than i thought it would be, so this is gonna be my last holiday fic. hope y'all enjoy ♡

december daze challenge masterlist

The cheerful chords of some pop star’s Christmas song filtered down the dim back hallway of the office building. The jaunty, joyful tune was the soundtrack of your awkwardness as you stared up at the little bundle of mistletoe that hung above your head. 

You looked back down at the person who, moments ago, caught up to you to wish you a final merry Christmas, and had then noticed and pointed out the mistletoe.

If it had been anyone else in the office, you would’ve laughed off your annoyance at being chased down when you were on your way home—because leaving the company Christmas party early was less of a faux pas when you co-owned the business—and given them a quick peck on the cheek. 

You’d been practically ecstatic to leave your employees to enjoy the festivities without you, even if all you had waiting at home was a bottle of wine and a cozy winter romance novel. But that joy had twisted into something else, something too tangled for you to decipher, when you saw who’d caught up with you.

Because it wasn’t your fellow co-owner Natasha Romanoff, or the rising star of the art department, Steve Rogers, who you’d been half-certain was flirting with you over the spiked eggnog earlier. It wasn’t even the obnoxious playboy that was Tony Stark, who only kept his job because he was a genius. 

No, the person who caught you alone, in the dark back hallway near your office, under some traitorous mistletoe, was the worst person in the office who could have—the intern, Bucky Barnes. The decidedly young and egregiously handsome intern, the one you had a little crush on, the one Nat teased you ruthlessly about finding insufferably attractive. 

“How is the mistletoe following you around?”

The whining words slipped from your lips before you could bite them back, your tongue loosened by the half glass of wine you’d sipped throughout the evening. The petulant tone of your voice should’ve been embarrassing, but you were too twisted up inside to care. 

Bucky had caught you under the mistletoe no less than three times in the few short hours you’d been at the company Christmas party, and if Nat hadn’t been conveniently across the party on each occasion, you would’ve thought she was setting you up to make a fool of yourself with the young intern. 

As it was, you’d demurred each time Bucky had found you under the mistletoe, offering him your cheek while your employees looked on and chanted for you to kiss. You’d thought a kiss on the cheek from the handsome intern would be fine, but it was anything but.

Each time Bucky had brushed his lips to your cheek, his rough stubble rasping against your soft skin, you’d lost your mind a little bit. When he kissed you, your heart rioted in your chest and your body went warm all over. When he was close, you breathed breathed him in; he smelled of bourbon and vanilla, and all the constant anxieties in your head went quiet. 

Each kiss on the cheek from Bucky Barnes had been delicious and intoxicating and wildly inappropriate. And you’d had to endure it three times. So you felt your petulant whine was entirely justified when he caught you under the mistletoe again. 

But Bucky only chuckled, one of his hands finding your lower back while the other caught your hand. He reeled you into his hard, firm chest, holding you close beneath the mistletoe.

Something about the embrace reminded you of an old couple slow dancing in their living room, and you almost smiled before you remembered you were annoyed and excited and curious about what Bucky was about to say.

“Just lucky, I guess.”

Mischief sparkled in Bucky’s blue eyes, the corners of his mouth curling up in a playful smirk, and you suddenly, desperately, wanted to kiss the expression off his face. 

But, of course, you didn’t.

Instead, you forced yourself to press your lips into an unamused line. You glanced over your shoulder and down the long hallway, where the rest of the company was laughing and talking and, if you weren’t mistaken, singing along to the Christmas music playing from someone’s bluetooth speaker. Then you turned back to the young intern.

“I’m going home, Mr. Barnes,” you said stiffly, knowing exactly what you were doing by referring to him so formally—creating some figurative space between the two of you. It was needed since your body seemed reluctant to pull away from his warmth and create actual physical space between you. “You should go back to the party.”

Bucky cut his eyes over your shoulder, giving the party a dismissive glance before returning his focus entirely to you. There was something heady about having the attention of the younger man, something you stubbornly wanted to ignore until you were home alone.

“I believe I’m still owed a kiss, doll,” Bucky murmured, the pet name rolling off his tongue so deliciously, it should be criminal, especially since you’d never heard him refer to anyone else with such an endearing nickname.

A fierce heat ignited between your thighs, spreading through the rest of your body like you’d just taken a big gulp of hot chocolate, and you gasped. At the last second, you tried to fix your face into a glare and make the sound come off as affronted, but somehow you knew you weren’t fooling Bucky. You certainly weren’t fooling yourself. 

“You shouldn’t call me that,” you huffed, attempting to hide the breathiness of your voice with annoyance. But your protest felt feeble when your hand had come to rest on Bucky’s bicep, which felt firm and nice beneath the bright green cardigan he’d worn to be festive for the party.

“Maybe I shouldn’t,” Bucky conceded, tilting his head to the side as he considered you. Then, so casually—like he thought if he did it casually enough, you might not notice—he brought your joined fingers up and settled your hand on his shoulder, leaving his arm free to wrap around your back. He held you close and stared into your eyes while he said, “But I think you like it.”

Another soft, sharp inhale sounded in the back hallway as you gasped. Heat rose to your cheeks, and you were forced to confront your body’s reaction to Bucky when he’d used the pet name. You had liked it, but you couldn’t tell him that.

“It’s unprofessional,” you muttered, because you couldn’t deny his observation without lying. 

But you couldn’t meet his eyes, your gaze lingering on the dark stubble dusted across his jaw like fresh snow. You could still feel the rasp of his scruff against your cheek and, for one wild moment, you wondered if it’d be just as wonderful to feel that delicious scrape against other parts of your body…

Bucky chuckled, and the low, mirthful sound took you by such surprise, you didn’t even think to protest when he spun you around and backed you up against the wall. His big body pressed in close, and when you glanced in the direction of the party, you found that you were shielded from sight by the large ficus you’d gotten to brighten up the hallway.

“You know what’s unprofessional, doll?” Bucky asked, the rough, nearly desperate tone of his voice dragging your attention back to him. 

The young intern’s blue eyes were heated, intense, and just a little bit melancholy, the mixture so tortured, it surprised you enough that you didn’t know what to say. He seemed to take your silence as your only response, and continued on. 

“It’s the way I can’t stop thinking about you,” he rasped, his eyes drifting down your face to alight upon your lips, his already darkened gaze deepening into the even more pitch-black of lust. “It’s the way I can’t stop wondering what it would be like to kiss you—really kiss you—the way a woman like you is meant to be kissed…” 

Bucky’s confession settled around your shoulders like a cozy sweater, so sweet and comforting that you wanted to bury your face in it and giggle as giddily as some lovestruck girl—and just as suddenly as you had that urge, you stopped your thoughts in their tracks. What were you doing, Bucky was too young for you! 

But…was he really? He was younger, sure, but he was a grown man. You were both adults. 

Of course, there was the issue of you being the boss of the company he worked for. But, actually, you couldn’t do anything without Nat’s input. So it wasn’t like you could abuse the power you had over him. 

But you and Bucky getting together would still be wrong…wouldn’t it?

The silence dragged out while you warred with yourself, and Bucky pulled back a little, his eyes darting around your face like he was trying desperately to read your thoughts. 

Somehow, that little bit of space he gave you felt like a whole gulf, which meant that this—whatever this was—had gone on too long. You gathered your professionalism around you like a coat of armor, sucking in a breath to let Bucky down easy. 

“Y’know what’s really unprofessional?” Bucky murmured, his tone turning teasing as he lifted a hand to cup your face gently. 

His thumb tapped your lower lip and you watched his eyes darken for a second before he shook his head and shot you a playful smirk. Then he answered his own question. 

“The way I can’t stop thinking about your pretty mouth when I’m supposed to be showing Fury how to convert a document into a PDF file,” he said, giving you an exaggerated, exasperated eye roll like he was asking, Can you believe my life?

A surprised laugh burst from your lips, taking you off guard. You caught a glimpse of the way Bucky’s eyes softened, and the grin that began to bloom as he took in your reaction, before you buried your face in his shoulder to muffle the sounds of your amusement. 

“I swear, I’m not laughing at you,” you managed to huff in between hysterical giggles, your voice nearly inaudible between your snorting and the cotton of Bucky’s sweater pressed to your mouth. 

You’d realized almost immediately how it must’ve looked for you to laugh at what Bucky said, and you didn’t want him to take it the wrong way—you just couldn’t get over the image he’d painted of your gruff, no-nonsense head of security, Nick Fury, trying to figure out how to save something as a PDF.

“I know,” Bucky murmured, his lips grazing your temple softly. You could feel his smile against your skin, and it sent warm tendrils of delight curling around your heart. “Fury’s so intimidating, no one would ever expect he’s completely hopeless with technology—the guy barely knows how to send an email.” 

You snorted and laughed harder even as you tried not to, because this was the worst part about your attraction to Bucky Barnes—you genuinely liked him. 

You didn’t cross paths with him too much, since his role was to help others around the office with odd jobs, and you had your own dedicated assistant. But when you got a moment with him while he was setting up the projector for a meeting, or fighting with the office copier, he never failed to make you laugh. 

He also never failed to make you question your resolve to never show him your true interest, even with Nat whispering in your ear that you should go for it. Most days, you didn’t waver from the decision you’d made not long after Bucky had joined the company to keep things professional.

But in that moment, with half a glass of wine mixing with his scent of bourbon and vanilla, making your mind feel fuzzy and light, you teetered on the edge of confessing everything you’d wanted to say to Bucky for months—how you thought about him all the time. 

How, especially after that evening at the party, you couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to let him kiss you. Really kiss you.

The thought sobered you, and you straightened up, leaning back as much as you could with Bucky’s arm still wrapped around your waist. You forced yourself to look him in the eye, prepared to put an end to the inappropriate moment you’d allowed to go on for too long. 

But your breath caught in your throat when you saw the sweet affection mixing with the sincere desire in his sparkling blue eyes. He was looking at you not like some young intern chasing after their older boss for the fun of it, but like a man who truly enjoyed your company and wanted to get to know you better. It was more than a little terrifying.

“You should…” you started to say, trying to tell him to go back to the party again, but the words died a quick death on your tongue. 

You couldn’t do it. You were so tired of pretending you didn’t have chemistry with Bucky, that you didn’t want to see where things could go with him if you just took the leap.

Bucky’s brows furrowed in a question while he waited for you to finish your sentence. When you didn’t, he began to pull away, like he was worried that he was crowding you too much—only for your fingers to dig into the soft fabric of his cardigan, halting his retreat before it had barely begun.

For a moment, Bucky froze, looking down at your hands clinging to him, a pleased smile spreading across his face when he realized you didn’t want him to pull away. Instead, you tugged him back against your smaller form so he was caging you in against the wall. 

Carefully—so, so carefully—he slotted his body against yours, his knee pushing between your thighs until your bodies were lined up perfectly, pressed so tightly you wondered if he could feel the way your heart was beating a hard, staccato rhythm against your ribs.

“You keep trying to tell me what I should do,” Bucky murmured, picking up the thread of your conversation as he ducked his face close enough to yours that you could smell the hot chocolate on his breath. “But until you tell me you want me to stop, I’m going to stick to the mistletoe tradition and kiss that pretty mouth of yours, doll.”

The word ‘stop’ was on the tip of your tongue. It was what you knew you should say, just like you knew you should extricate yourself from him and put an end to the inappropriate moment. But that wasn’t what you wanted. 

What you wanted—desperately, hopelessly—was for Bucky Barnes to kiss you.

The man’s eyes roamed over your face, bright and eager for your response. When you didn’t say anything for a long moment, his gaze dipped to your mouth and a rough noise sounded in his throat that was half growl, half moan—and all yearning. But he still held himself back.

“Tell me, doll,” he begged, his voie ragged like he’d just sprinted to you through a snowstorm. “Tell me you want this just as much as me.”

Instinctively, you angled your face closer to Bucky’s, so your mouths were almost slanted together. You could taste the sweet richness of the hot chocolate he’d drank at the party, and your lips tingled with the need to close the distance between you. 

You held out as long as you could, but the truth was, you’d somehow always known it would come to this. So you said the words that would condemn you to your fate and make your wildest dreams come true.

“Please, Bucky, I want this so bad,” you rasped in a voice husky with the depth of your desire for the man who had caught you under the mistletoe four times that evening. “Just kiss me already.”

Then, what you would’ve thought was the impossible happened—Bucky Barnes kissed you. 

And, boy, did he kiss you.

Bucky’s mouth crashed down on yours, stealing the breath from your lungs as his lips pushed and pulled against yours, dragging you into a steamy dance that had you gasping and opening for him. A groan rumbled in Bucky’s chest and vibrated across your tongue as his own plunged into your mouth. 

His hand cupped your face, tilting it exactly where he wanted you so he could kiss you harder, deeper. He kissed you like he’d been dreaming of it his entire life, and he was worried you were in danger of ripping it away from him before he was ready.

But you weren’t going anywhere. You kissed Bucky just as fiercely, months and months of desire rising up in your body and spilling free in the moans that fell unreservedly from your lips. Your hands raked through his hair, grabbed his shoulders, tugged on his cardigan—anything you could do to bring him closer, to consume him just as he was consuming you.

With a rough sound, Bucky fell against you, pinning you to the wall at your back while the arm he’d wrapped around your waist pushed you down onto his thigh between your legs. Your hips rocked against him on instinct, and it was so delicious, warm, greedy pleasure surging through your body, that you did it again. 

“Yeah, baby, take what you need, make yourself feel good,” Bucky rumbled against your jaw, where he was busy pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses that were making you feel practically feverish with desire. 

“You’re making me feel good,” you murmured heatedly, turning your face into the column of his throat and sinking your teeth unrepentantly into a spot just beneath the edge of his jaw. Bucky’s big body shuddered in your arms and you felt something like pride surge inside you.

“Careful, doll,” he teased, his voice ragged as he kissed his way back to your mouth, sucking on your lower lip hard enough to wring a soft, keening sound from your throat. “You almost sound like you like me.”

You huffed a laugh, but then a thought occurred to you and you curled your fingers into the hair at the nape of Bucky’s neck, pulling his head back so you could look him in the eye when you spoke. 

“I do like you, Bucky,” you said, and once those words were out, you couldn’t seem to stop the rest. “I’ve liked you since I met you, I just—it was my job to keep things professional.”

“I think we’re a little past professional now,” Bucky pointed out, but a grin was spreading across his face, the expression delighted and not the least bit smug. “And it’s all because you like me,” he teased, capturing your mouth in a sweeter kiss. 

You hummed an ‘mhmm’ and pulled him closer to deepen the kiss. 

That time, Bucky’s kiss was slow and precious and devastating—the beginning of something real instead of the culmination of so many months of repressed desires. 

You could feel the surety in the way Bucky held you, the way he took his time learning you, his mouth exploring yours and discovering what made you sigh and moan and whine. 

When Bucky finally pulled away again, both of you were breathing hard and your mind was fuzzy around the edges in the best way possible. You were so lost in the hazy, delicate pleasure of the moment, you almost missed Bucky’s question.

“So, what are you doing for Christmas?”

For the first time since Bucky wrapped you up in his embrace, you jerked against his hold, more out of surprise than a desire to get free. But you still had to shake your head to clear the lust from your mind and focus on what he’d asked.

“What?” was your brilliant response.

You were stalling and you knew it, but you didn’t exactly want to tell the man who’d just kissed the hell out of you that you were planning to spend your Christmas alone with some wine and a holiday-themed romance novel. Or that, maybe, if you were feeling wild, you’d bake some cookies for yourself—but that was a strong maybe.

“My family’s back home in Brooklyn, and I can’t make it back,” Bucky explained, ducking his head so he could catch your gaze, which had drifted away from him in your silent musings about your sad Christmas plans. His expression was tentative, but hopeful. “I heard from Nat that you’re on your own, too.”

A sound huffed out of you that was half sigh, half laugh. Leave it to Natasha Romanoff to make sure you didn’t spend Christmas alone even after you’d turned down her invitation to spend it with her and her sister. Your business partner and best friend could always be counted on to meddle—you were surprised you hadn’t seen this coming somehow.

“I am,” you finally confirmed, knowing there was no way to get around the fact that Bucky already knew you’d been planning to be alone on Christmas. There was some relief in it though, and you found yourself smiling as you told him, “I have some wine and I was thinking about baking some cookies…”

“That sounds perfect,” Bucky jumped in, giving you what you could only assume were his best pleading puppy dog eyes. He looked so happy and excited, even as you could tell he was trying to keep a lid on it. “I love wine and—it might surprise you—I’m pretty handy in the kitchen.”

“Handy how?” you asked, fighting the smile that wanted to spread across your face. Based on the way Bucky’s eyes were dipping down to your lips, though, you figured it was a losing battle. 

“Oh you know, I’m great at licking cookie batter off spoons and whisks, and…” Bucky trailed off, dropping his voice to a smooth whisper that sent shivers down your spine. “I can lick other things, too.” The innuendo was thick in his tone.

“Mr. Barnes!” You faked an affronted gasp and swatted his chest playfully, but you couldn’t keep up the act and burst into laughter.

When you’d gotten yourself under control and looked back at Bucky, his expression had softened. His blue eyes were sparkling with so much warm affection in his gaze, he looked like he was thinking about a day when he’d be able to teasingly call you Mrs. Barnes. 

For some reason, that idea didn’t scare you as much as you would’ve thought it might. Your feelings for Bucky must’ve run deeper than you thought. Besides, Mrs. Barnes had a nice ring to it, you decided as you leaned into Bucky’s chest, brushing a kiss to the underside of his jaw.

“Come home with me,” you murmured into his skin, breathing in the bourbon and vanilla scent of him and knowing you’d never get tired of it.  “Let’s start celebrating Christmas tonight.”

A grin spread across Bucky’s face and then he was pulling you in for another kiss, even longer and sweeter than the last one you’d shared. 

By the time you separated, the sounds of the party down the hall had dimmed and you could tell it was winding down, or moving to a bar so the office could be closed up for the holiday break.

Once you’d gotten your coats, you and Bucky slipped out the back door and he followed you home in his car. The two of you were in agreement that everyone in the office could find out about your relationship after you’d figured it out yourselves, and you planned to spend the holidays doing exactly that.

That Christmas, you spent your days laughing and talking with Bucky, getting to know him while you baked cookies and he kept himself busy hanging more mistletoe around your home, which he used at every opportunity to steal a kiss.

True to his word, Bucky was good at licking spoons and whisks and other things—to the point that you nearly burned more than a few batches of cookies. Bucky ate all of them happily, claiming he preferred his cookies to be nearly burned, which made you smile and kiss the powdered sugar off his cheek.

In the evenings, you’d curl up with Bucky on your couch, reading together or watching a movie by the light of the Christmas tree. He’d lay his head in your lap or you’d put your feet in his, or you’d lay entwined together under a cozy blanket until you fell asleep.

Between all the holiday celebrating, you’d take Bucky to bed, where you’d learn each other in more carnal ways. It turned out, the two of you were a better match than you ever could have believed, fitting together in ways that had you seeing stars and coming apart beneath him, on top of him, beside him…

By the end of Christmas, you were happy make your relationship with Bucky Barnes official. You could both see a future together, and you were excited to see what a life together would look like.

Of course, that didn’t stop you from giving Natasha a stern talking to for her meddling. Bucky admitted that she may have hinted to him about your crush, and that she’d made sure Bucky was able to catch you under the mistletoe those first three times during the office Christmas party—though the final time had been all his doing. 

He’d always planned on confessing his feelings to you, even if it wasn’t in exactly the manner he’d done it, while holding you under the mistletoe for the fourth time during the office holiday party. But he was just as glad as you were that things worked out. 

And he backed you up when you talked to Nat, who was just thrilled the two of you had gotten together. So much so that she immediately started telling Bucky about what kind of rings and jewel cuts you liked while you could only roll your eyes.

The next Christmas, at that year’s office holiday party, Bucky caught you under the mistletoe a new record of five times. The mistletoe tradition was his favorite, he reminded you. Which was, of course, why you made it easy for him to find you under the mistletoe.

Besides, you enjoyed it too. Each time Bucky caught you under the mistletoe, he wrapped you up in his arms and gave you a soft, sweet kiss on the lips. He kissed you proudly in front of the entire office, and neither of you worried about how it might look. 

After all, it seemed silly to care about your colleagues seeing you kissing Bucky Barnes at the Christmas party when you wore his ring on your finger. Everyone knew you loved him, just like they knew he loved you more than anything else in the world—even more than the mistletoe tradition.

december daze challenge masterlist

[thischarmingmandalorian]

A Certain Species of Turtle

Eddie Munson×Reader

Summary: It's Christmas Eve and you're stuck at your sorority house. Your boyfriend Eddie calls and keeps you company.

Look, people. I don't know. I saw Black Christmas yesterday and that first Billy phone call really stirred something in me and I couldn't get this out of my head fast enough. I wrote this in not a lot of time, barely proofread it, take it away from me I beg you.

Warnings: Copious amounts of dirty talk, phone sex, cool turtle facts.

Rating: Very much E!

Word Count: 1.3k

Christmas Eve should have been a happy time for you - you had just finished your fall semester, your presents were bought and wrapped, and you were all packed for a trip home to Hawkins for the long break. 

Except you're still in the living room of your sorority house because the flight your parents had booked wasn't for another four days. Much cheaper to fly after Christmas, you see.

You sat in front of the fire that morning and watched your sorority sisters flit in and out of their rooms, packing their things and waiting on rides home. You were the only person in the house who didn't live less than an hour away from campus, having opted to attend an ivy-covered New England college. Throughout the day the house got quieter and quieter, until it was dinner time and you and two other girls were the only ones left.

Katie and Molly were cool, and there were worse people you could think of to spend this time with, but the reality of not being home with your friends and Eddie, the boyfriend you left back in Indiana, left you feeling pouty and not super fun to be around. They had a conversation that they had tried to loop you into, but once they realized your mind was elsewhere, they shut you out. 

After dinner the phone rang, making the three of you jump. The sorority house had far too many phones all connected to the same line - the main house phone in the living room, one in the hallway upstairs, and 4 in bedrooms. Some girls had their own phone number, but yours was connected to the main line. Katie was closest to the living room phone and picked it up, grumbling when she shouted your name into the dining room.

"It's The Moaner!"

You blush. The call is from Eddie.

Eddie was given the unfortunate nickname "The Moaner" from a phone call he made during your freshman year. He hadn't realized you didn't have your own phone line, and when one of your sorority sisters picked up, Eddie was… well, he was moaning. He was apparently really putting on a show, you were told later, the squelch of his spit-soaked palm against his cock reverberating into the receiver, his soft moans and near begs to "see you, touch you, fuck you." 

The poor girl who had picked up the phone asked just what the fuck he thought he was playing at, which sobered Eddie up real quick. His tone turned on a dime: "I'm so sorry, ma'am, I must have the wrong number. I'm looking for my girlfriend, you see, and…"

There was a calendar pinned above the phone where girls could request to reserve the line. You'd penciled your name in for that date and time, writing "Eddie Munson" and a little heart next to it. Your sorority sister rolled her eyes goodnaturedly and hollered through the house, "I've gotta an Eddie "The Moaner" Munson on the phone!" 

The nickname stuck and he'd never lived it down. 

You were expecting a call from him tonight, but it still filled you with joy to hear that he was on the line. You'd shouted to Katie that you'd take the call in your room and rushed up the stairs, nearly slamming your door shut. You slid across your silk sheets on your stomach and reached for the receiver on your side table. 

"Hey, Munson." You hope your smile is evident through the phone.

"Sweet thing…" Eddie moans. 

You chuckle, "really living up to that nickname, huh?"

Eddie laughs, "what are you wearing?"

You roll your eyes. "Nothing special. Sweatpants, band tee, the usual," you shrug.

"What band? Who you wearing?" You hear Eddie's rings clink against each other, which has you trying to picture his fingers lightly dancing down his chest, gently fisting his cock.

You roll onto your back and pull your shirt taut so you can see the graphic. The band's name is emblazoned on your chest, having been screen printed in an extremely limited merch run. You and maybe ten other people had a shirt just like it.

"Not sure you've ever heard of them, they haven't quite made it big yet, but they're really somethin'. Called Corroded Coffin."

Eddie groans loudly and you hear his head knock the air out of his pillow as it lolled back. 

You giggle. "I miss you, Eddie," you coo, pushing the hem of the t-shirt up and over the swell of your breasts, nipples pebbling as the cold air hits them.

"Miss you so much, sweet thing. Can't wait to see you. Can't wait to parade you around town and brag to everyone about my smart college girl," Eddie says, the clinking of his rings speeding up slightly, making you chuckle.

"That the only thing you can't wait to do, baby?" you chuckle.

"Not even close," he chuckles. "Can't wait to kiss you, can't wait to hold you, have your perfume stuck onto my clothes."

"Eddie…" you sigh, your free hand trailing under the waistband of your sweats, pulling your panties to the side and dragging a finger through your folds, gathering your arousal and swirling it gently around your clit.

"Not done, baby. Can't wait to get you alone. Get my hands on you, get my mouth on you."

You moan loudly into the receiver, not caring that your roommates downstairs probably heard. "Miss your mouth, Eddie."

"Yeah? Gonna let me lick it when I get you under me, baby? Gonna let me lick that pretty pink cunt?" 

Your fingers speed up on your clit and you nod feverishly despite knowing Eddie can't see you. "Gonna let you do anything you want, gotta make up for fifteen weeks away from you."

"Not gonna let you go while you're home, sweet thing. Your friends, your parents, they'll be lucky if they get ten minutes with you before you're sinking that perfect pussy down on me. Gonna waste no time fillin' you up, baby." 

You know he's close when he rambles like this, his horny stream of consciousness broken periodically by breathy moans and whimpers. "Gonna cum, Eddie?" 

"Not alone, sweet girl, gotta cum together, you close?"

You groan, cradling the phone between your ear and your shoulder to reach between your thighs and hastily shove two fingers inside your weeping pussy. You're met with no resistance, matching pace with the fingers strumming along your clit. "Close, Eddie, keep talking."

"Sweet thing," Eddie sighs, breath heaving, "did you know that there's a certain species of turtle that can fuck for three straight days?"

"Eddie, what the fuck -" you begin, confused by his sudden pivot in conversation but too far gone to slow your hands.

"Gonna break that turtle's fucking record, baby. Gonna fuck you for three straight weeks. You're gonna forget how it feels to not be full of me. Shit, sweet girl, gonna cum, please…" he rambles.

"Me too, baby, wanna hear you," you coo, vision whiting out when you hear his strangled moan of release catch in his throat. The clatter of his rings loses all rhythm and you know he's gone, shirt pulled up under his chin and cock spurting up his chest.

The image you conjure in tandem with Eddie's harsh breathing sends you over the edge, cunt clenching around your fingers as you all but scream your release, not caring at all that there are still two people downstairs. 

You both lay in bed, panting into the phone. It feels like minutes before Eddie breaks the relative silence. "Fucking love you, sweet thing."

"Love you too, Eddie. Four more days and I'm all yours."

Eddie starts to say something when Molly picks up the phone in the hallway.

"You two lovebirds almost done? I've gotta call my mom."

Ahhh! That's it! No one look at me!

@strangergraphics made that cute lil phone divider and @ali-r3n wanted to be tagged, so hi!!!

[1920sladydectective]

Hey i saw requests and had to ask, ambessa x reader for a wounded reader. I mean like a well executed plan goes to shit and Reade gets hurt much to ambessa's suprise. Passed and frustrated, ambessa traces readers old scars and stews on the new ones.

Hello my lovely! Thank you for your request! Very awesome and fun idea, I hope you like what I’ve done with it 🫶🫶🫶

I’m always happy to take them, especially with Ambessa if anyone is wondering! I shall try to get to them all.

This may not be quite what you wanted, I wrote it at half three in the morning and it’s a tad sillier than I’d intended. I’ll probably rewrite/add to it, but here it is for now!

Some mentions of blood etc - reader is hurt after all ❤️

Hurt Reader x Ambessa Drabble -

It was a shock, the warm slice sinking through your abdomen as a tall knight appeared.

This plan had been ridiculously simple and after ten years working under and loving Ambessa Medarda, you were notoriously difficult to surprise.

That being said, you were currently bleeding out as you stumbled away with the stupid bastard’s blood covering your front. You couldn’t let him live, but you did hope you didn’t die in the process.

Nearing the Noxian camp, you allowed yourself to cry out, spluttering slightly as everything blended into one.

Ambessa was discussing land division with Rictus, eagerly awaiting your return so you could retire to bed and then finally leave this back water hellhole.

Cries and clamouring had her dashing from her tent. You were there, unconscious, dragged along by shaking rookies.

The physician was already running to you, a loyal and efficient member of Ambessa’s staff, had it been anyone else her worries would have ended there.

She could tell all the blood was not yours, but it did nothing to dissuade the bile in her throat. This was impossible. This couldn’t be right. Part of her, foolish and soon to be carved out, had mistaken you for invincible. Despite the war wounds you wore as proudly as she wore her own, you were faster than her, always less risky. You were her sly fox, and the stab of fear she felt at you being caught made her snarl.

Hours seemed to drain into nothingness, her large hand stroking your serene face, muttering your favourite pet names and telling you stories. You had always hated the silence of rest, a feeling that only dissuaded with Ambessa. Her feelings were a muddle of thick, pulsing anger and desperation. Her fingers traced against the most faded of your marks, a melancholy filling her. Your story was mapped here, your journey with her visible in each gash and cut. It had seemed beautiful to her before. It still was, but as the cuts grew newer and fewer an uncharacteristic reservation filled her.

You were too precious to lose, and this had been your worst brush with death. The reason was inexcusably stupid, as Rictus had found out. A knight leaving his rotation slightly late because he was chatting up some maid, meant you’d been caught mere seconds before you would have fled. Ambessa felt hypocritical wanting to suddenly bundle you in furs and lock you in your chambers, but as she traced the crimson bandage on your midriff the plan seemed more and more plausible.

It took two days for you to wake and she never left your side. Murmuring all the while, her voice growing hoarse, Ambessa brushed your hair and ensured you stayed warm. The physician had said you would be fine and that she could benefit from some rest herself. Ambessa had nearly killed her, for some reason.

That, it seems, was what woke you.

“Do stop being stupid,” Your drug addled lips slurred, glassy eyes looking between the physician and your imposing wife, “She’s right, you look like shit,”

“Hello, Dear,” She muttered, dropping her blade and kneeling at your side.

“That was a tricky one, eh? What happened was-”

She let out a relieved sigh, kissing you tenderly on the lips, “We are not debriefing right now you fucking idiot,”

It took five months, eight hours of continual sex and a trip from Mel, but Ambessa finally seemed to mellow at the idea of you returning to her side in combat.

In the end you think it was your constant gasping and fawning at her own scars that did it.

Overreacting to your lover’s aged scars as if they were fresh was irritating apparently…

It was nice to know you were loved

[steppin-on-the-last-train]

The End of Love

Natasha Romanoff x Taskmaster!Reader

Although I encourage everyone to read this, full disclosure it is male!reader. I tried to keep specified pronoun use to a minimum, but it can’t always be helped. There might be some mental rewriting required if you decide to go on.

Synopsis:

“You think too much,” she says.

You can’t argue with that. Because now that you’re looking at her in the light and you’re so close you can see each fractal of green in her eyes you're thinking there’s nothing more intimate than this.

She’s not your friend but if she were she’d be your best one.

Or, a look at who Natasha Romanoff was before the Avengers. Told through the eyes of the person who loved her the most.

Word Count: 43,000

Foreword: I wrote most of these scenes out of order and then proceeded to edit nothing so if something disagrees with something later on that’s why.

Acknowledgements: One) Title from the song with the same name by Florence + The Machine. Two) The final scene with Willem is indeed a copy from that scene in Good Will Hunting. Three) All rights to the original media.

It’s spring and something has shifted. You’re in bed with her when the feeling hits you. You are in bed together, legs twisted together under the sheets, the callous pads of her feet warm against the inside of your calf. You wonder if she feels it too.

You’ve been like this for hours. Nothing more, not tonight. Just the simple act of breathing in tandem with someone. Of holding tight until you don’t know how you could ever part again. 

She likes you because you are hers. Her mission partner, her choice, hers. There is power in choosing who you give yourself over to. And you understand but you prefer this. You hate to disappoint her, to stop her after just a kiss, knowing there is want for much more.

But her head is tucked beneath your chin and she’s so close she might as well have burrowed herself inside you and you hope it’s enough. Because this is safe. Her, always. But there are some things which you can’t speak. So she starts with a kiss on your cheek and you end with a kiss on her lips.

You are not at peace, but for now, wrapped in her arms and the scent of something that is so distinctly her, you are content. And you’ve done this so many times before, too many but somehow not enough all at once. 

The first time had been after your plane went down shy of returning to the Red Room. You were smaller then, less muscle and too long limbs and grief enough to suffocate. The walk back had taken two nights to complete. You would freeze to death if you didn’t share body heat after the sun went down. You both knew this. You slept back to back, bundled in extra shirts and the parachute from the jet. You both pretended you didn’t trust each other just a little more in the morning. 

Now you roll and stretch and Natalia makes a small noise of protest. You tell her you’re getting a glass of water, ask if she wants one too. She doesn’t answer.

The air in the motel room is stale and the light in the bathroom stutters like a heartbeat trying to stave off death. You fill a glass under the tap and drink until it’s empty again. Your breath wavers ever so slightly. You push down on the countertop a little too hard, your palms beginning to sweat. 

Then she’s behind you with a steady hand creating a rhythm of up-down, up-down on your back. You had tried to be silent, hoping she would not notice. You didn’t want her to see you like this. But she extricated herself from the warmth of the bed to be by your side anyway.

She knows you. And it’s terrifying.

She is not gentle but in these moments she is human, and so are you. 

“I’m sorry,” you say. You are not a person who apologizes. So you say it when the only thing it can mean is nothing. When it’s as weightless as the breath from which it comes from.

“It’s okay.” She is not a person who forgives. She is both the bullet and the finger behind the trigger. She is the dazzling starlet who shines the light in your eyes so you do not feel the knife in your back.

Your reflections in the mirror do not feel real. You make a point not to look too closely. Because when you do you see with the eyes of those who would put a bullet in your head for this. No, not quite. Because they would do much worse.

Lately you’ve been dividing time by the moments with Natalia and the moments in between. By one stolen night followed by a week, five weeks, a dozen. You never know. And it’s an adjustment because you can’t quite pinpoint the moment you stopped sleeping down the hall from her more nights than not.

You spend the time without her taking orders, putting on the Taskmaster mask, leaving messages in the form of bodies with sword-shaped slits. Then you’re still taking orders but wearing a different sort of mask, one where they can see your face but still can’t see you and you’re shaking hands and learning real politics is nothing like what you’ve studied. 

“You see what sort of dogs I have to deal with?” General Dreykov asks. Ever since the military dress uniform appeared in your room and you flew to Moscow as his “second” he’s been speaking to you more and more as a peer. Far from most of the time. But occasionally. Enough for you to remember and collect like they were some sort of medal. 

And Madame B, who has always detested you for being too emotional, had finally seemed to approve. One day on your way out after you had been training some of the young recruits she spoke to you across the wasteland of the dance studio. You stopped at the doorway to turn back toward her, but she stayed facing the wall like it was a window to another studio where she must judge a dozen more girls with bleeding feet.

“I never understood why he kept you around.” She always spoke clipped, enunciating each syllable like the crack of a cane. “You were an insolent child. Yes, you can dance but this power makes you think you’re invincible.” You watched her, too stunned to feel indignant about the criticism, too apprehensive to notice how small she was now that you were grown. “But. Perhaps it was not such a bad idea to rear you here. You will lead with an iron fist. And most importantly, you will understand.”

You left without saying anything.

What was there to understand. This place was all you knew.

You come back with a hand on your cheek. Natalia is staring into your eyes like they reflect the answer to life. But if your eyes were mirrors all she’d see was herself.

“You think too much,” she says.

You can’t argue with that. Because now that you’re looking at her in the light and you’re so close you can see each fractal of green in her eyes you're thinking there’s nothing more intimate than this.

She’s not your friend but if she were she’d be your best one.

She asks you to come back to bed. You nod and follow her into the dark. She is sitting up. On your stomach you drape yourself over the edge of the mattress and take her hand. Already you mourn this night. You cannot enjoy the time you have when you don’t know if it will be your last. You have become far too important to each other.

You can tell she feels the same. Misery has settled over the both of you like a cold, wet snow. She is tense as she runs her fingers through your hair. You lay your head in her lap and close your eyes against the danger lurking outside.

It is spring and something has shifted.

—

And it is that stupid feeling which makes you turn yourself over to the Americans after she is captured. That feeling which has transformed since you were small and angry. That feeling which has always been evolving; this new chapter taking an ugly turn. Perhaps you have let this go on for too long.

You are grown now, but still very much full of rage.

They show you a file they have on you which you think looks very hastily put together. Because they would have no reason to suspect you of anything. That’s the way your life has been curated. There is what you do in the daylight and what you do in the dark with a skull mask over your face and a hood over your head. These people are not the same. 

But you’ve made a purposefully big mess on American soil as Taskmaster and they’ve finally connected his face with the official headshot of one Junior Lieutenant of the Russian military.

Is this you, they ask and despite the handcuffs cutting into your wrists and the four guards with guns on their hips you laugh and call the man asking an idiot. The other guy is your twin brother. 

You don’t think he appreciated your answer because the next thing you know you’re being cuffed on the ear.

Along with the picture of you in your official uniform there is a mugshot of you from the day they brought you in. You don’t often see photos of yourself. The guy in this one looks dangerous. There are also two very grainy, very dark photographs pulled from security cameras of a figure who might be you from assassination runs you went on. You recognize yourself in one, and you’re pretty sure the other is of someone in a Halloween costume.

They’ve taken you in with nothing but the clothes on your back and your weapons and a watch of Dreykov’s he had given you a few years ago.

Even though your stomach is empty and your face is bruised you don’t help them put the pieces together. You tell them the same thing you’ve been saying. You know they have the Black Widow. You want to talk to her.

And weeks later when they think they have broken you down and built you back up with S.H.I.E.L.D.’s name around your neck they let you out of your cell.

The guy who slapped you that first day is your new handler. His name is Richard Kremer. You don’t think he likes you all that much. He’s old and he acts like he can go back and win the Cold War if he gets you to roll over.

But you’ve learned he can’t hit you now that you’re not a prisoner. So when you tell him you know his type, that he probably got discharged from field service because he broke down and nailed some kid in the head all he can do is tell you to shut up. I’m right, aren’t I? You ask and he is silent. Oh come on G.I. Joe. He tells you to get out and you happily oblige.

It is when you are outside on the track one day that you finally see Natalia again. You are allowed time outside with supervision–like you are a dog–and you don’t think you’ve ever been happier to see the sun. It’s just you, the rubber beneath your feet, and the wind in your hair. Because you are not worried about the rookie who’s been assigned to watch you. You can pretend you are somewhere else. You can pretend you are running back home instead of pacing holes through this American ground.

You tense when you hear another pair of steps. You do not want to go back inside. Five more minutes. But you look over your shoulder and the figure has bright red hair and astonishment in her eyes. 

You are so surprised to see her because you thought maybe you weren’t going to again that you stumble in your haste to stop. You skid and your feet fly out from beneath you. You catch yourself on your hands, bits of track sticking to your palms. 

Natalia laughs and you can’t fight the grin on your face. She offers a hand and you take it. You let her pull you to your feet. She doesn’t stop there. She is strong and you fall into her. You throw yourself over her, wrapping your free arm around her back. Your hands are still clamped tightly together. You are too relieved to see she is okay to care about who may be watching. Let them see. They know why you came here. And right now, she feels so familiar. 

She pulls away first. “You’re here,” she breathes, eyes wide. Her irises glitter in the sunlight. “Блять. I didn’t believe it.”

“You’re okay,” you say, still breathless. “They didn’t kill you. I thought they were going to kill you.”

“No, they didn’t.” She grows serious, the initial shock wearing off. “Change of plans, I guess.”

You switch to Russian now because you are finally leaving this place. “What idiots. To spare us both. Natalia, we can be out of here tonight.”

She stares at you for a moment, looking guilty. Finally, she shakes her head and very slowly explains, “I’m not going back to Russia. I’m staying here with S.H.I.E.L.D. We’ve come to an agreement. I’m going to defect.” You are bewildered and it must show in the whites of your eyes because she reassures, “I’m okay. This is my choice.”

You don’t know what to think, much less what to say. “Are you serious?” 

“Yes.”

“Look, it doesn’t matter how they��re threatening you. I can get you out.”

“I’m not under threat.”

You narrow your eyes at her and back up a step. They must have messed with her mind, then. Because the Natalia you know would never do this. She was vicious like the edge of a blade and she was strong-headed like no one you’ve ever met. She could not be harnessed.

She grabs your hands. “Look at me. I’m still here.” You jerk because it is like she can read your mind. “It is better here,” she says. “They’ve offered me freedom and protection. That’s all.”

“How could you–” you start, but words don’t feel like enough to convey your disbelief. You shake your head. This can’t be happening. Because you’ve quit and run without permission. You were going to get forgiveness on your return. But you can’t go back without her. You tell yourself it’s because they wouldn’t accept that kind of failure, but you think she would be a tolerable loss compared to you. No. You don’t want to go anywhere without her. “You have to go back. We need to go back. I came here to free you from them.”

“And I’m telling you there’s nothing to free me from,” she says. “I’m using them to free myself.”

But you don’t hear her. You leave, a new word coloring the image of her.

Traitor.

And she’s dragged you to hell with her.

—

Inside your pillowcase is the newest spot you’ve chosen to hide your stash of stolen items. It’s not much, a rock from outside, a fork from the cafeteria, a broken matchstick you found on the ground. 

You are not allowed to have things. Nothing is yours, they tell you. Everything is shared as part of the collective. Don’t get caught up in the scheme of materialism. That’s why everyone takes turns doing the laundry and scrubbing down the showers and disposing of waste. But you don’t really want these things to own. You only do it because they tell you not to.

They found your collection when you put it under your bed and when you began carrying the things in your pockets. Both times they beat you for it. You’re sure they’ll find this one and make you count to fifty instead of twenty-five but there is something rotten inside you and you can’t help it. Maybe after this time they’ll finally thresh it out. 

It is night and you grope through the dark until you find the items. You find all three tucked safely where you left them. But something else pokes your finger as you retrieve your things. Your hand grasps a fourth item and you can’t see it but it feels like a small needle. You don’t remember taking this. Did someone put it here? How did they know about your stash? 

You lay curled on your side and take turns holding each item. You decide the mystery object is definitely a sewing needle. Maybe you did take it and you forgot. You move on. You’ve found a good rock this time. It is small and smooth and almost perfectly round. 

You think about throwing it at Madame T’s head. Then, you hide them again and fall asleep.

You wake up with a cold hand over your mouth. You slap it away and tackle the offending person to the floor before you’ve formed your first conscious thought. 

“Сука!” She hisses as her back lands on the wooden floor and you sit on her stomach. “When are you going to stop doing that?”

You stare down at the vague outline of a body before you slowly let her up. “When you stop waking me up by choking me out.”

“I’m not choking you. And it’s not my fault you cry in your sleep. I’m helping you. Would you rather have a guard come in here?”

“I do not cry in my sleep.” You wrinkle your nose.

“Yes you do. Like a little baby.” You imagine her smirking through the dark. You don’t know who keeps visiting you in the night, only that it’s the same girl each time and she’s probably in your class. You can’t see anything at night here. You know her voice, but there is little speaking during the day. And none of the girls talk to you anyway. Her hair is a little past shoulder length, but that’s the way most of theirs is. 

And she won’t tell you who she is. 

“Shut up,” you say, shoving her in the shoulder. 

“Hey, no fighting in the dark. It’s not fair.”

“I’ll stop when you tell me who you are.”

“What, so you can rat me out?” You’re sitting close so you don’t have to talk very loud. You can feel her breath against your face.

“I won’t,” you say. “I promise.”

She laughs. It is too bitter a sound for someone your age. “Like that means anything.”

“I’m going to figure it out eventually.”

She shakes her head, hair swishing against your cheek. “You haven’t yet. And you never will.”

“Yes I will.”

“No you won’t.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Yes,” you say, pouncing on top of her. You’ve taken her by surprise. She reacts quickly, rolling the two of you an extra time so she can sit on your chest. 

“I’m too good for you,” she says. 

“Arrogance will get you killed,” you retort. You struggle beneath her but you’re about the same size and she knows exactly how to pin you down.

“That’s a big word for you. Who’d you copy that one from?”

You ignore her, still focused on trying to get up. 

“Stuck?” She asks, her voice light. “Don’t start fights you can’t win, Markov.” She lets you up and pads toward the door. “See you tomorrow.”

Another week passes and something else appears inside your pillowcase. It’s a ribbon from a ballet shoe. You take it out and hold it up in the light of day. You know for sure, you did not take this. Someone else was messing with you. Or helping, you don’t really know.

You watch the girls around you. There are the mean ones–which are most of them–and the nice ones–of which there used to be more. You think it’s one of the nice ones who comes to you at night because she is waking you from bad sleep. But then again she likes to argue and wrestle with you. So maybe it’s a mean one.

You keep fighting and dancing and learning things like how to blend into a crowd and how to craft the perfect lie. You don’t find out who’s been adding things to your collection. But you hope you do before the guards find this new hiding spot. 

They find it when you have to strip your bed for laundry day and realize you have nowhere to hide the new things. You stuff it all in your pockets again and they call you stupid for not learning your lesson last time. So they drag you screaming and kicking downstairs and strip you naked. You bite one of them when they try to tie your hands to the pole because you remember what they told you would happen for the third time you were caught stealing. A boot collides with the side of your head and you go limp for a second. The big things in your life make you forget how small you are. 

There is a moment to breathe and for the ringing in your ears to subside. Then, just as the world refocuses, hellfire is released upon your backside.

You lay upstairs on your stomach and do not sleep. There are deep trenches of blood carved into your back. You could barely crawl into your unmade bed after they dumped you back on the floor in your room. 

You find a flower when you have to go outside the next day. It is bright and yellow and a rarity out here where everything is dead most of the year. You don’t take it.

The fourth night after you finally sleep, your body forcing itself to shut down despite the pain. You are getting better. But not fast enough. 

You only groan when you wake and realize there’s a hand on your face. 

“Shhh,” she says. Then she is silent. You think she is looking at the door. 

You push yourself up, drawing blood as you bite your lip. You slide into the corner away from her. “I can’t do this tonight,” you say. “I’m so tired.”

“I had to. It was going to be them or me.” She pauses. Then, slowly, the mattress dips as she climbs onto the bed.

“I’m serious,” you say. You are hurting and she is strong. She cannot know this. “It’s not fucking funny anymore.”

“Geez, I’m not going to hurt you,” she says. “I would’ve done that a long time ago if I wanted to. Here. Take this.”

“I can’t see you.”

“You are impossible.” She brushes your arm. You recoil. She grabs your hand. It feels odd, like she’s trying to be gentle. She flips your palm up and places something in your open hand. It’s soft and delicate and feels a little like rubber. You roll it carefully through your fingers. You brush your other hand over the top and feel the petals. They are silky. Nothing can compare. It still smells like outside, like life. 

You realize she is the one who has been collecting prizes for you. 

“You’re trying so hard to watch out for me you forget I’m looking out for you too,” she says.

“I can’t take this,” you say. “They’ll find it. You have to take it back.”

“No,” she says. “Scoot over.” 

You obey, trying to hide how much it hurts to move. She takes your spot in the corner and you hear a ripping sound. “What are you doing?” You hiss.

She doesn’t answer. “Give me the flower.” You hand it to her, brushing her hand as you do. You wait in silence until she turns back around. “There’s a little hole in your mattress. I put it in there. They won’t find it. I promise.”

“Like that means anything,” you say, mimicking her tone. And as you do, you realize who you’re speaking to. It just clicked. You know this voice. “Natalia.”

“Look who’s finally earned his detective badge.” You wish you could see her smile instead of just hearing it.

—

You stay at S.H.I.E.L.D., thinking she will see sense eventually. You can’t leave the campus yet so you spend a lot of time wandering and watching. You count how many paces it takes to get from one building to another, estimate how quickly you could run. You look up at the buildings, wonder if you could climb any of them. Every day that passes is excruciating. You can feel the Red Room getting farther away. It’s been far too long since you’ve been in contact with them. You haven’t had the chance to tell them you’re coming back. That you’re not a traitor.

The only thing that makes life bearable is Natalia. She said she just wants to be called Natasha now and it confuses you even more. She really is changing.

You tell them you want to defect too. You pretend like you are fine. Like you are not in fact drowning.

You spend time in Natalia’s room, which is exactly like yours but she has a couple of books and a badly drawn picture of what looks like a person. You can’t really tell.

You point to it. “What’s this?”

She smiles. She’s been doing a lot more of that lately. It’s certainly not the worst thing. “It’s you. In your combat suit. You like it? Clint drew it.”

“He must be some kind of artist then. I could barely tell that that thing was a human.”

She laughs, and for a second the sound makes you forget how she has turned traitor. Because it is sweet and real and uniquely hers. “Look,” she says pointing. “This is your mask. See the eyes and the jawbone?”

“So those are teeth?”

“Yeah. And this arc is the hood, and these lines are the cape.”

“What are those?”

“Your katanas.”

“Why are there five of them?”

“There’s not. These are the swords,” she says, pointing to two lines angled toward the bottom of the page. She moves her finger to three lines above the figure’s head. “I think these are anger lines.”

“Anger lines?”

“Yeah. To signify danger. You know you’re pretty scary in that thing.”

You shrug. “Sure, I guess. And what did I do to have this honor?” You ask.

“You put yourself on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s shit list.” She takes her attention from the sketch and looks at you. “Clint said they didn’t know who they had at first, so he drew me this.”

“And you kept it.”

“I needed decoration. What’s better than a picture of you?” She smirks and nudges you in the ribs. “Like a guardian angel.”

You nod because she’s flirting with you and it’s making your head spin just a little bit. You like her even though you know you shouldn’t and you think she likes you too. You aren’t dating because people like you don’t ‘date’ but there’s something, just below the surface. Like an undertow waiting to drag you under if you wade out too far. You can sense it, like a coming storm.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” she says. “Why did they send you after me? And in such a dramatic fashion. It doesn’t make sense.”

“I don’t know,” you lie. No one sent you. Maybe you were already out in the middle of the ocean. “You’re the best they’ve got. There’s two dozen widows but there’s a reason you’re the one everyone’s been chasing.”

She shakes her head. “No. You’re the best they’ve got. Dreykov would never trade you for me.” She’s looking at you like she knows you’re lying. You hate to find that there’s hope in her expression. Like she’s waiting for a confession. But the truth is unacceptable. You cannot say you ran after her like a prince in a storybook. You cannot open yourself up. 

She has never hurt you. And you will not give her the opportunity now.

So you gamble on the chance she doesn’t know for sure. You shrug and look away. Because you’ve never been as good as her at hiding things. “Guess he did.” You open your mouth again.

“I’m not going back,” she interrupts because she knows what you’re going to say. She puts a hand on your chest, the other on your cheek. “We can make a place for ourselves here.” Despite her conviction she still sounds disappointed. Doesn’t she know she’s won?

“I know,” you say.

Eventually a month goes by but you have not left. By some sickness she has you trapped. This is why Dreykov had warned you against the widows. Because they spun and they lied and now you could not bear to leave her in this strange place.

There are weekly mandatory shrink sessions you must attend as part of your agreement. You aren’t cleared for missions unless you get their green light. It’s a whole fraud that seems to have everyone in this country up in arms but you are sure it’s just S.H.I.E.L.D. trying another clever way to extract information from you. The discussions at least have been mildly amusing. You don’t have much else to focus on right now.

You’ve been transferred to a different “professional” twice now. The first one had obviously been scared of you so you played into it. He was asking you about your life and about guilt so you spent the entire hour making up stories that were unbelievable even by your standards. You told him your job used to be to torture political enemies and captured agents. You stared him down and tried to blink as little as possible when you told him you enjoyed skinning them alive and hearing them scream.

So the next time you go in it’s office 109 instead of 212 and there’s a woman instead of a man. She’s kooky and has you lay on a couch as she asks about your childhood. So you tell her a story too. 

“My father,” you start, even though you hadn’t had one since you were six years old. But none of these people knew anything from where you came from. “He was a terrible alcoholic. He used to slap my face and shake me like a rag doll. I mean, is that what a real man is supposed to be?”

“No, honey. But it’s okay. You’re safe now. Go on,” she says. “How did that make you feel?”

“It made me so angry, doc. So one day I said to him, ‘I’m gonna show you what I’m made of.’ I grab his shotgun that he keeps under his bed and blam! Gunpowder and lead.” You open your eyes and her face is looming over you, confusion starting to bloom. You break out singing, because this is the good part. “I’m goin’ home, gonna load my shotgun. Wait by the door and light a cigarette. He wants a fight, well, now he’s got one. And he ain’t seen me crazy yet!”

You’re smiling because you heard the song on the radio once and you’d remembered it and the singer’s accent after all these years. Her confusion has turned to anger and suddenly the session is over. Oh no.

Kremer has a talk with you after this incident. He tells you to cut the shit and sit through it like everyone else does. Then he reminds you what will happen if either him or one of these therapists deems you unfit for work at S.H.I.E.L.D. But you don’t care. They’re not going to get the best of you twice.

But you go another week to a new office with something to prove. You’ve got a winning streak to maintain. This guy has glasses and graying hair and a stomach that’s a little round. There are shelves and shelves of books and you pace the room, grazing your hand over the spines.

“You got one in here that’s going to tell you how to fix me?”

“Hello,” he says. “My name is Dr. Francis, but you can call me Willem.” He is soft spoken and you think you can break him like you did the first one. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

“Okay Willem. Sure.” You slouch across from him in a chair level with his. He’s not behind a desk like the first man or hovering over you like the woman.

“Do you like to read?” He asks, because you’re still scanning the shelves.

You used to, but not really anymore. “I’m not working here because I’m some genius who sits around reading all day.”

“No. Certainly not.” Was he making fun of you? “Has anyone told you how this works?”

You shake your head.

“Well I, along with my colleagues, are not ‘S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.’ We’re privately contracted. You know what that means, yes?”

“It means you probably get more money for sitting around and talking nonsense all day.”

“Sure. You’re not wrong. But it also means I don’t owe S.H.I.E.L.D. anything. Whatever is said in this room stays in this room. My only obligation is to make sure you’re not a danger to yourself or others.”

You eye him and his cardigan, wondering how he could walk out of the house with something like that on. “That’s what I’ve been missing!” You snap your fingers. “You’ve got my full trust now Willem, goodness I can’t believe what a great resource this is. What do you want to know? I’ll tell you everything.”

He chuckles. “You’re funny, aren’t you?” 

“I’m only as serious as this whole charade is,” you say gesturing around at the office which looks so out of place here at S.H.I.E.L.D. The clutter on his desk in the corner, the old wood furnishing, the acoustic guitar lying among stacks of books. “But okay sure. Let’s say you’re not going to turn around and blab to Kremer so he can be more efficient about making my life harder. You’re only here to make sure I’m not a danger.” You make little air quotes with your hands when you say this. “You do know what kind of missions are conducted here, no?”

“Of course. I did my time in the military.”

“Really?”

“This surprises you.”

“Yeah, I mean, come on,” you wave your hand at him. “I could kill you with my eyes closed.”

He raises his eyebrows. “I have no doubt you could. But as I was saying. I don’t mean you can’t be dangerous. Just that you have to know when to pick it up and put it away. For example, now was not the time to threaten me with mortal violence.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, getting out of the chair. You couldn’t do that. Violence was who you were. And you were tired of this anyhow.

 You make it to the back wall where there’s a window and on the sill there’s a picture frame. You pick it up, showing it to him. “Is this your family? Your kids are pretty cute.”

“Watch it,” he says.

 You flip the frame around and look down at it. “How old are they? The little one can’t be older than eight, no? What a shame I know her father’s name.”

Maybe it’s because you don’t actually plan to find his family or maybe it’s because you’ve underestimated him that your heart pounds when you look up and he’s in your space with a serious look on his face. 

“Don’t fuck with my family or I will end you.”

“Touchy, touchy,” you say.

“Get out.”

And that’s how your first interaction goes. So you’re surprised the next week when you hear you’ve been ordered back with Dr. Francis.

You stroll into the office like nothing ever happened. “You again. How are your kids doing?”

“Shut up and sit down,” he says.

You mock pout but sit anyway.

“How old are you?” He asks.

“You’ve got my file. I’m sure it says somewhere in there.”

“Yes, but I want to hear it from you.” He’s wearing another ridiculous outfit. A gray polo shirt with a brown patched cardigan.

“So you can make some big point about how I’m young and don’t know anything, right?” You ask. Because this feels awfully familiar. 

You remember a time when you were twelve and told this Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR) officer named Evgenia you were eighteen when she asked. Zhenya laughed and said, yeah right, if you’re eighteen then I’m forty. When you’d finally told the truth she looked at you funny. Do you know what this assignment is? You told her this was a joint mission to take out high-ranking members of a certain Russian mob family who had overstepped the line between civilian and state.

You’re a little young for this, no? She’d asked. 

No one had ever given pause because of your age before. You assured her you were capable of this assignment. 

She let it go but didn’t stop calling you “kid” for the whole two weeks. You hated it until you realized she didn’t mean it in a bad way. It was kind of nice, actually. To feel looked after. Carrying things on your own was so exhausting.

She made you try Oreshki as you sat in a hotel working on the mission reports because she couldn’t believe you’d never had it. Then she asked what your parents were feeding you at home because she’d never seen someone your age so strong. You told her your parents were dead and she’d stared at you for a few minutes. You pretended not to notice. 

When it was time to go back she told you to look after yourself. She seemed reluctant to let you go.

You assured her you would be fine. You always were.

Now you stare at Willem and wonder where he wants to go with this question.

“Something like that,” he says. “Come on, it won’t hurt you.”

“I’m twenty-eight,” you lie. Because there’s no way the number in the file isn’t just an estimate.

He’s quick with his response. “No you’re not.”

You’re about to tell him yes, you are but there’s something in his eyes, in his posture. He’s confident you’ve lied. “Fine. I’m twenty-two. Happy?”

“Exactly. You’re twenty-two. You’re a kid. You’ve barely reached the age we let kids have alcohol in this country. Tell me, have you ever read anything by Shakespeare?” You shake your head. “You ever swam in the ocean?” Another no. “Been to an art museum? Hiked up a mountain? Fallen in love?”

You stop him then. “Love is a scam. It’s some great ideal everyone chases like an idiot because they think their worth resides with another person. It’s an opiate for the masses. You tell someone they’ll be fulfilled if they find this ‘love’ and they’ll blind themselves in pursuit of it. People are more easily controlled when they are distracted by emotion.”

“I don’t think so. And I’ve been in love for twenty years. Almost as long as you’ve been on this earth. Love has brought me great joy and great sorrow. But you wouldn’t know about that. About giving yourself over to someone else. About allowing someone to open your eyes, to challenge you. I am not distracted by emotion, and even if I was I wouldn’t care. Because at least I’ve lived.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

He raises a hand. “Or you’re a coward. You want to think you’re above it all. You had Dr. Casey thinking you were a psychopath. You wanted me to think you were a monster. But you’re not. You’re a scared kid with his chest puffed out. You’re the kid who pushes others on the playground because you’re getting pushed at home. But guess what. I can’t be pushed.

You’re scared to talk because you don’t know what might come out. Scared to let people in because you think they won’t like what they see. How many people have you talked to since you’ve been here? How many people knew you, and I mean really knew you back in Russia? What about that young woman who got here a couple weeks before you? You’re unique. I’ll bet I’ve never met someone like you and I never will again. So I can’t get anywhere, I can’t start if you don’t help me. You have to talk to me.”

And after that he dismisses you, just like that.

The next time you come back the ball is in your court. He doesn’t talk to you, just sits and stares expectantly. Well two could play that game. You’ll show him you won’t talk if you don’t want to. So you sit and count away the seconds and leave when the hour is up.

Another week passes and you’re in his office again. And he’s silent, again. 

You won’t be the one to break. But you’re looking at the guitar on the stand in the corner with all its dust and you think it’s as safe a conversation starter as any.

“Do you play?” You ask, nodding at the instrument.

Willem sits up and blinks a couple times like he hadn’t been expecting you to speak. “No. Not really anymore. And to be honest I could never really play even when I used it. Shame, it’s a beautiful instrument.” He gets up to retrieve the guitar and begins to tune it. “I’ve never really had the ear for music.” He plucks at a string and goes onto the next one.

“Wait,” you say. “Go back. That one’s not right.”

“Too flat or too sharp?”

“What?” Just turn it a little more.” He complies and finally it sounds right. You nod and he goes to the next.

“I didn’t peg you as the musical type,” he says as he plays and you nod or shake your head.

“I’m not. Just a feeling, I guess. I know what notes sound like.”

“But you don’t know this is the ‘E string?’”

“No, nothing like that. I can play a song though.”

“Let’s hear it then, champ.”

He hands you the guitar and you play a song you saw someone playing one time on a mission in Mexico City. There are the movements of the man in the street who had captivated you to stop and watch, and there are your own hands, years later, mirroring his. 

When the song finishes Willem is quiet, then asks, “When did you learn that?”

“I didn’t really learn,” you shrug, like it’s not a big deal. “Saw a guy do it once. Copied what he did.”

“Do you know what chords you used? Can you play anything else?”

“No.”

“Unbelievable.”

You smile, because you have impressed him. “Neat party trick, huh?”

“Seems like it could be more than just a party trick.”

You tilt your head back and forth because he’s right but you don’t want to talk about that. “I don’t use it to sing pretty songs, that’s for sure. Where’d this interest of yours come from anyway?”

“My wife got it for me actually. When we were overseas I used to go on and on about missing music. About how I was butthurt having to join the army because it meant I never got to learn how to play the guitar. And she remembered. And the first Christmas after we got home, even though we barely had enough money to get by, she got me this. That’s part of what love is.”

“She’s ex-military too, then?”

“Yes,” he says, like he’s trying to recapture an old dream. “Let me tell you something. Wait, actually, this first. You ever been in a warzone?”

You hesitate for a second and he must see the debate in your mind so he clarifies.

“I mean a real warzone. Out in the trenches with a couple hundred other guys trying to fall asleep to the sound of bomb fire. Not knowing who’s going to have their leg blown off or their head opened up before the next sunrise. Knowing you’re all out there as nothing but cannon fodder, that everything they told you about the army before you left was nothing but a load of horseshit. And you ate it because your life was shit too.” You shake your head. “Well, it’s damn lousy. You have to keep each other’s chins up somehow. There was this joker in my squad, you see. Terrible sense of humor but we all laughed anyhow because things were just that bad. One day, she looks over at me and says, “Imagine this. Two fish are in a tank. One looks at the other and says, ‘Hey, do you know how to drive this thing?’””

You blink at him but can’t help the laugh that escapes. “That has to be the most awful joke I’ve ever heard.”

“It is!” Willem agrees. “But you know what? That’s the moment I fell in love with my wife.”

Now you are surprised. “Because she told you a bad joke?”

“No. Because she was so serious she didn’t know how to be funny but she always cracked herself up anyhow. And I loved her for it.”

“She was?”

“Pardon?”

“You said she was serious. Is she dead?”

“No. We are,” he pauses, quieter now. “We are separated for now. I suppose it’s been long enough that I've started talking about her in the past tense.”

“But you said she’s your wife.”

“She still is, nothing’s official, but,” he trails off, like he’s given up already.

“What?” You smirk. “You cheat on her? She cheat on you? Found some other guy who thought she was pretty and laughed at her dumb jokes?” When he doesn’t react you try something else. “You beat her up?” His head snaps to you and his eyes harden like you’ve pulled out a gun. “That’s it, isn’t it? You talk about war and all this stuff like I need a lesson but you can’t even handle it yourself so you spend all night drinking and you come home and she’s there with her ‘where were yous’ and her idiocy that you didn’t see before because you told yourself you were in love but now she’s annoying the life out of you so you try and put her head in the wall. Right?”

His glare has faded and it makes you a little nervous because it was always a bad sign when Dreykov stopped yelling and got quiet. “Yes,” Willem says calmly as if you hadn’t just gutted him open. “There’s one thing you’re wrong about though. I never had to tell myself I was in love with her. I just was. And I still am. She was right to kick me out.”

You puff your cheeks and blow out air. “You are a bigger идиот than I thought. Have you apologized?”

“Yes. I did the next morning when I realised what I’d done.”

“And she didn’t accept it.”

“No, she did,” he says, dragging a large hand down his face. “She did but I thought some time apart would be for the best.”

  “So you could get yourself a shrink.”

“Not exactly. They say therapists make the worst patients. I’ve found that to be true.”

“Well,” you say. “Sounds like you’re a coward too.”

Willem smiles. Just the smallest upturn of his lips. “Time’s up.”

—

The wilderness is no place for two children. Especially not the barren wasteland of Siberia. The boy has a rifle slung around his shoulder and no coat. The girl has two coats. Blood from a wound on her side drips out onto the snowy terrain underfoot. But she is strong. She refuses the boy’s offers to help her walk.

A long trail of footprints in the otherwise unblemished landscape leads back to a small massacre site.

The children are hungry but cannot stop because something is chasing them. It’s why they had to leave the little house with the fire and the old woman. 

They will hide, they will kill, they will walk until they collapse so the ground may swallow them whole. 

Because the wilderness is no place for two children. It certainly cannot be the place for three.

—

More weeks pass and you keep living and you try not to think too much about how Natalia is doing fine for herself. She has a team now with agents called Barton and Hill and Coulson and May. 

You do not talk so often, even if this is the most freedom you’ve had to talk since you’ve known each other. At first you tried to convince her to go back but no. She is adamant about staying here, about untying herself rope by rope from the Red Room.

The things you exchanged seem so trivial now. You know her favorite color is blue and that she is fine with coffee but would much rather have tea and that she has a scar beneath her collarbone. But here such information is freely given. 

You see other men talk to her in the cafeteria, watch her in the gym. She has always been the most beautiful woman in the room. 

And it is one day when you are eating lunch together that another agent approaches. He has an apple in his hand and sits next to Natalia like he knows her. “Natasha,” he greets. You don’t like how close he is. He extends a hand across the table. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting,” he says. “I’m Agent Matthew Hunter.”

You take his hand and shake it, squeezing a little harder than necessary. “Nice to meet you.” This is a lie. He is entitled and he is American and you would prefer he left you alone.

“Matt,” Natalia says, smiling.

He turns to face her like you aren’t there. “Listen I got to run, but I haven’t had the chance to say how great of a job you did on the Berlin mission last week. I wanted to catch you before I forgot.” 

She licks her lips and turns her shoulders toward him. “You weren’t too bad out there yourself.” 

He waves her off. “Are you kidding me? I have never seen someone handle a room like that before.” Agent Hunter looks at you next but his body is still facing Natalia. “Did she tell you about this? I mean what a fucking bombshell.”

“No,” you say. “We haven’t had the chance.”

“Ah, well. You should really ask her. Hell of a story, hell of an agent.”

Natalia looks down at her lap, her cheeks reddening ever so slightly. 

“Anyway. I have got to go hit the gym. No days off, am I right?” 

He is looking at you and expecting a response so you just say, “Sure.”

“Alright, nice to meet you, man. See you later Nat.”

You watch him walk off like he owns the place and it’s only when you turn back that you realize Natalia had been watching him too.

You take a drink of water and ask, “Do you like him?”

She snaps her attention to you. “Who, Matt? Yeah he’s nice. A bit talkative, but that’s all right. What did you think?”

You ignore her question. “No, I mean. He was flirting with you.”

“I know that.”

“So,” you gesture. She would lead you in circles until your head twisted off if you let her. “Are you going to get with him?”

Her smile fades like you’ve asked if she was planning to kill him instead. “No. I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Why not?” You ask. “He’s handsome, young enough. You said you liked him.”

“Because I don’t want him.” And there is this look on her face like you have grown a second head. “I’m not just going to go run around sleeping with people.”

“I didn’t say you should. I was just wondering because I could tell you were into him.”

She scoffs. “I’m not ‘into him.’ He’s friendly. He gave me a compliment. What's so bad about that?”

“Nothing. It was just a question, that’s all.”

She is quiet for a moment, dragging her fork through the last grains of rice on her plate. “You know I like you too, right?”

“Of course. And I like you.”

“No. I mean, in the way you think I like Matt.”

Now it is your turn to choose silence. The two of you kissed and shared a bed sometimes when you had only ever slept alone before. And Natalia was the only person you’ve had sex with, at least in any way that counted. But that didn’t mean anything. You didn’t know any better and neither had she. There was bad and there was worse. You just happened to be sufficient for her when the bar was six feet under the ground. 

“You know, that doesn’t mean anything. You don’t owe me,” you say.

“I know I don’t owe you anything. It’s not about owing,” she says, shaking her head in incredulity. “You’ve been weird since we’ve been here. It’s not a death sentence anymore.”

“I’m saying just because we got together before doesn’t mean you can’t go after this guy now. It was a matter of circumstance you know. There was no one else to choose so you chose me, I get it.”

Her eyes narrow as you say this. You speak for her, but you do not know.  “What are you talking about?”

But you’ve built up steam now and you think if you stop you won’t get the words out because you’re sure they’re not true. You speak for the man you want to project. The one Dreykov would approve of. “And you’re pretty and you came on to me so,” you shrug. “But come on. You were a warm body. So were a lot of the other widows. And so was I. Let’s not make it a bigger deal than it is.” 

But it is a big deal. You ignore all the times you held each other in the middle of the night. The time she taught you how to braid her hair. All those times you made each other laugh. These are the things you take great effort to minimize.

And you are so focused on pushing her away because you are a bird with its wings clipped hurtling toward the ground that you don’t notice her own rage building.

She is used to being silenced. She just never thought you would join the long line of others who’ve treated her as lesser than. She thought you understood, that you were different.

“Fuck you,” she says, looking you straight in the eye. You can’t read the expression on her face. She has always been good at making her face vacant, like marble.

She leaves. Not that there was anything to leave in the first place. 

You tell yourself this is what you wanted. For her to be free. Free of you and free of any guilt that might plague her. Not that the Black Widow felt guilt.

But if this is what you wanted, then why did you feel like you had just severed a limb?

But you are fine too. You have a team with agents called Rumlow and Ward and Rollins. They are callous and crass and they remind you of the guards back home. They do not care where you have come from, despite the fact you still bear the title Junior Lieutenant, technically. Despite what everyone else thinks.

You are strong like the fabled Captain America and could home a bullet into any target with a blindfold on. That’s all they care about.

They say they do not care about your accent that you wear like a scarlet flag. And sometimes, you join them when they go out to drink. Ward and Rumlow are outspoken. Rollins is not. But they all share the same cynical view of the world. And so do you. Maybe that’s why you get along.

There is control and there is chaos. You are all agents of the former.

After word about your squadron placement gets around, no one eyes you in the hall like they want to fight. No one questions your–albeit minimal–authority. At least not to your face.

Missions with them are quick and bloody. You use a rifle most of the time now. One that is bulky and can fire an unnecessary amount of rounds per second. You are a strike unit, so you creep up to the outside of an office or warehouse or home and when everyone is crouched like predators in the shadows you jump out with blazing muzzles. You can’t really call what you do fighting.

It is one day you are out with them that you run into an old friend. She is one of the ones you are hunting. S.H.I.E.L.D. likes doing that, you’ve figured out. Sending you out on missions to destroy what you’ve spent your life building. What you were supposed to sit at the head of the table of one day.

They want to see when you might snap. They want you to cut and run. They do not believe you can change. You don’t believe it either.

But she tells you, and oh is it nice to speak Russian again, that Dreykov wants your head. You cannot go back. You hadn’t wanted to be a traitor, but you’d lit the torch when you let the Americans take you in. And now when you look back, the bridge is engulfed in flames.

She says rumor of your defection has grown and spread like a tumor on Dreykov’s name. You’ve humiliated him by turning your back, and now he is losing power.

“But,” you say. “I didn’t. I don’t want–I’m not loyal to S.H.I.E.L.D.”

She stops you. “It doesn’t matter.”

“But I’m still–”

“You’re not listening to me.” She grabs you by the arm. “If you go back there you will die. Apparently Dreykov was kind of a black sheep. They were all looking for a reason to strip him of his rank, and now that he’s lost his two best weapons no one will listen to him. The entire Red Room is on alert, looking for a way to capture you.” She stabs a finger to your chest.

“Oh,” is all you can manage to say. “But there must be some way to clear this up. If I could talk to him I know I could explain. Or if I could get back. If I talked to the Headmistress.” You know she would understand and she would not be mad. Because she was stern but she never hit you. You used to talk every week in her office, just the two of you. You missed her.

Your friend shakes her head. It’s a “no,” but it’s also full of admonishment. 

“What?” You ask.

“Always so eager to please.”

“It’s called having honor.” 

There are footsteps outside the office you’ve pulled her into. She tugs on your arm and you retreat around the corner.

“We don’t have much time,” you say.

She’s silent for a moment, then, “Come with me.”

“What?”

“I’m leaving. It won’t be hard. No one will be looking for me as long as you have that S.H.I.E.L.D. emblem on your chest. I’m saying you should leave too.” She puts a hand on your cheek, makes you look her in the eye. “We could be extraordinary.”

“I can’t,” you whisper.

“Why not?” There is disbelief, there is frustration. “You just said it yourself. You’re not loyal to them. And these brutes have nothing on us. We can disappear.”

“You should go. I really think you should. It’s what you’ve always wanted, right?”

“I wanted it with you.”

“Goodbye, Svetlana,” you say, kissing her on the cheek. She is still.

On your way out, she speaks up. “It’s because of her, isn’t it? It’s funny. You’ve always been so blind when it comes to her. You think anyone can know the Black Widow? She will drain the life from you.”

She leaves you with a note with an address on it.

“In case you change your mind.”

When you get back you hide the slip of paper in the nightstand with Dreykov’s watch.

—

You pull on the hideous shirt with the too large sleeves and try not to think about how ridiculous wearing tights is. You grab your shoes and head down the hall to the other dressing room. 

When you enter the dancers that are actually a part of this company stare at you. The four widows–excluding Natalia–don’t bat an eye. Modesty was a long lost concept for all of you. Especially around each other. Nastya looks over and smiles at you. You wink back.

The understudy for the lead part–who like the rest of you earned the role after members of the main cast suddenly became ill the night before–finds you like a heat-seeking missile. Her blood red hair is pulled back tight in a bun, and the fluorescent lights pale her skin to a moonlight shade. She looks like she has come from another world to ravage war upon this one. She is muscle and sinew and bone. She is magnificent. 

She snakes an arm around the back of your neck and kisses you on the jaw. She wants them all to see. You are hers in this show and hers backstage. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

You go out and perform on auto pilot because you watched a recording of the show once and now the movements are ingrained in the memory of your muscles. You focus on the crowd, try to spot your targets. There is a war going on in the shadows. You’ve all been sent to end it. To show them the Red Room is superior. They won’t even know what hit them. 

You have a break to watch Natalia perform her solo. You stand in the right wing and watch her under the spotlight, dazzling the crowd. Even here she is dangerous. She is like a panther getting upwind of its prey. Every move is measured, every step beaten into submission because of how many times she practiced. She makes herself delicate, but you know better.

There is a part where she almost rushes off stage as if reaching for something, but an invisible force drags her back to the center. You are standing in the spot she reaches for. Maybe you knew she would end up here, maybe you didn’t. It doesn’t matter because her eyes snap open and for a half second you lock eyes. The audience members aren’t the only ones she’s made believe in her desperation. 

After the first act ends Anastasia and Yeva leave for the targets’ hotel where they will be waiting. The four of you who are left finish the show and keep eyes on your targets. When you take your bow you are holding Natalia’s hand. Then you slink into the shadows, ditch the outfit, and put on your mask and hood. 

You leave as a unit out a back door and climb to the roof. It is raining outside. Not more than a drizzle, but the brick underfoot is slick and your targets will be hiding under coats and umbrellas. Stefanya kneels to assemble a rifle that had been packed into a violin case. You crouch in the shadows, feel the rain begin to soak through your pants. 

The crack of the rifle is loud like lightning and the crowd parts around the dead man. An ambulance is called but you know it is too late. The four of you split there. You will find each other later in an apartment building across town. 

You know Natalia will beat the ambulance to the hospital and an accident will befall the entourage of the dead. Nowhere is safe.

You follow a fleeing family of four to their car. The father is a high-ranking official of your enemy, the mother a scientist. They both know tonight is no accident. They run into the dark, down an alleyway instead of along the main road. Smart. You watch them go. You know where they will end up. 

You get in a vehicle which has been left for you and follow them out of the city. You drive until the houses have become sparse and so has the light. The rain is pouring down in sheets now. You step on the gas and flip the car’s brights on. The front of your car rams into the back of theirs. The sedan spins out of control, tires squealing against the wet asphalt. The car drifts into a ditch and you pull up beside it. 

You step out of your car and draw your swords. Because this is a message, not an accident. Two shots are fired your way. You duck behind the car and let the guy shout insults at you. But you hear the fear in his voice. He saw who they’d sent for him.

You rush through the dark, cape heavy and soaking behind you. You ram your fist into the passenger window and slide the end of one sword through the woman’s mouth. There are more shots but you have already disappeared again into the night. 

The children in the backseat scream. Their anguish refuses to be drowned out by the storm. You hear them as if they are crying right into your ears. The man gets out and slams the door shut. You see him in the flashes brought by the lightning. He yells for you to come out. So you oblige. You launch yourself onto the car roof and stare down at him. Here I am, you say. He points the pistol at you and you slice his hand off. He goes down, still cursing. The last thing he does is ask you to leave the kids out of this.

You go up to the backdoor. Didn’t he know? This was a family affair.

You tell yourself what you have done tonight is for the greater good. Many more will live off the blood of this sacrifice. 

When you get back to the rendezvous point you find only Stefanya and Marina. You were supposed to be the last one back. Where are they, you ask. They are quiet. Stefanya looks you in the eye and says none of them ever showed. You know she is lying. You take a breath and step closer so you may look down on them. They are not intimidated by you. Even in the dark, even with the rain outside, even with your face behind a mask they know you will not hurt them. 

Because you all grew up together. And that means something. 

So you draw back your hood and remove the mask. You let them see the worry in your eyes. Come on, you say. What happened.

They are quiet for a moment longer. Then, Marina whispers. Yeva and Nastya never returned. Natalia went after them. She told us not to tell you. 

You put your gear back on and rush out the door. Stay here, you call over your shoulder. You fly through the night to the hotel they were supposed to be at and find Anastasia sitting against the wall bleeding. She raises her gun at you when you barrel through the window. You take off your mask and rush to her. Nastya, you say. She is shot and she should be dead but widows are not ordinary humans. You ask if she is all right and she laughs. Clearly, I am not. She already has a shirt tied around her stomach and she is holding another tight to staunch the bleeding. 

Natalia has been here, you say. Yes. You ask where she has gone and where Yeva is. She tells you she doesn’t know. That Yeva and she were ambushed and overwhelmed. The room is trashed. Bullet holes in the walls and broken furniture. There are bodies littering the floor. They must have had two dozen men up here to overpower just the two of them. 

You ask if she will be all right if you go. She tells you yes she thinks so. Then you hold a hand out. She takes it. Her hand is clammy and cool to the touch. Are you sure, you ask. Because Katya might actually kill me if you die on my watch. Go, she tells you. Find Yeva. 

So you leave out the window and try not to think about it all being too late. If they had the chance to drive off they could be out of the city by now. You weren’t even supposed to be out hunting for them. You should’ve taken Stefanya and Marina and gone back to base. The others’ failure was theirs alone to bear. So you stand in the dark collecting raindrops, wondering why this has come as an afterthought. You realize in your haste you’d left your mask back in the hotel room. Water drips down your face as you stare up at the sky. Maybe the stars know.

Then, through the stench of the storm and the dirt and oil the rain has sloughed from the ground you smell blood. It is sharp and metallic and unmistakable. You trot down the near pitch black alley in search of the source. There are a number of irregular shapes down a perpendicular alleyway. You can barely see they are there. You stop, your boots splashing in a puddle. 

With measured steps you stalk forward, unsheathing the swords on your back. The shapes are bodies of men in ruined suits with ruined faces. One’s eyes have been gouged inward, pushed deep in toward his brain. Belly-up he stares unseeing into some void. And as if he hadn’t suffered enough he is also eviscerated. Guts and blood leak from him onto the dirty ground as if from an overfilled trash bin. No wonder you were able to smell it.

There is another with his throat slit and his head bashed in. Another with his jaw ripped wide open. He has been shot, but only in the leg. None of these men went out with a clean death. All of them suffered.

You find Natalia in the middle of the carnage, holding another body. Yeva is limp in her arms, eyes closed. You kneel beside both of them. She’s gone, Natalia whispers. You try to ignore the awful pang in your chest. Because she died in the service of her country. She died a soldier’s death. It is an honor. 

But alone in the rain in a struggle is no way to die. Dark blood is still seeping from the hole in her forehead to stain her blonde hair. She looks so young. 

There are footsteps at the entrance to the alleyway. Stefanya and Marina have Anastasia supported in between them. Stefanya is taller than them both which makes it an awkward position but they have made it. You’re not surprised they didn’t stay at the rendezvous either. 

The cops are here, Marina says. We need to go.

Natalia stands, Yeva in her arms. You pull your hood deeper over your face and lead them away. In a stolen car you drive out of the city. There’s a field and it’s on its way to being flooded but it will have to do. You have no tools so you dig with your hands and you try to ignore how familiar the action is. Even Nastya insists she helps. 

Dawn has already broken when the grave is finally dug. You lower Yeva’s body in and replace the dirt under the young sunlight. None of you care about the consequences the day will surely bring.

Very few will ever know that she lived. And only you will know about her death, about this gravesite. It’s only fair you take a moment. They tell you you are nameless, faceless, inconsequential and that it is selfish to believe otherwise.

But dammit Yeva was a person. They refused to give her a place in the world. So you suppose that’s what the four of you have done now. What a shame it could only be given after her last breath.

—

The next time you’re being briefed on a mission there are forty agents in the room. You go to the side of the room where your squad along with the rest of the platoon are standing. Rumlow tells you there must be a big fucking fish to fry.

Crowded on the other side of the conference table are members of STRIKE Team: Delta, including Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff. You lock eyes with her for a moment but you turn away because Agent Matthew Hunter is right there next to her. Rumor has it they’ve been “going out.” Last week Ward asked you how it felt to have some tool like Hunter steal your girl. You told him she wasn’t your girl. That she’d be fucking a new guy in another week. You don’t know why you said that last part.

Then everyone is quiet because Fury is here and the Director never bothers with things as trivial as mission briefs.

Turns out there’s a huge freaking terrorist compound in Iraq and you’ve been authorized to take it out. Agent Barton is in charge of tagging the leader. Everyone else, don’t get killed.

So you fly out in three separate jets and you’re on the one holding a mix of both teams. Everyone’s keeping to their own side but Natalia comes over to stand by you.

“Hi,” she says. 

“Hi,” you say back. You hadn’t realized how much you’d been missing her. But now that you’ve heard her voice and she’s so close your shoulders are almost brushing it hits you like a bucket of ice water. “How’ve you been?”

“Good. It’s odd though, you know.” 

“What is?”

“Not speaking with you.” she says. “I mean we’re in the same building most of the time now. It’s just been too long.”

“I agree,” you say. And because you cannot bring yourself to admit you feel less alive when she’s not around, that now that she’s here you have to stop yourself from grinning like a moron, you say, “I don’t think we’ve been on a mission together yet. Not since coming here.”

She’s looking at you and now you’re thinking about the furrow in her brow and the shine in her eye when she’s thinking hard. The little things you’re sure only you know because you’re the only person she’s shown them to. “You’re right,” she says. “We haven’t.”

“Kremer was probably scared shitless about the potential the two of us have together.”

“Kremer?”

“My handler. He’s an absolute asshat. I feel like he had one look at me and has already sentenced me. Nothing I do can change his mind.”

“That’s too bad for him,” she says. “He’s missing out on a great agent.”

You finally allow a smile to crack through. “How’s Barton?”

“He’s good. I think the two of you would get along.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you both know how to be a huge pain in my ass.” She smirks and you shove her lightly on the shoulder.

“Oh you don’t know what you’ve got yourself into Romanova.” 

She takes your hand and traces circles on the inside of your palm. “You’re the only one who calls me that anymore,” she murmurs.

Your face flushes because you hadn’t even realized what you’d said. “I can stop. I just, I forget sometimes. And besides.” You lean in and switch to Russian because someone is always listening in. “Natalia Romanova is the strongest person I know. I don’t think you should be ashamed of her.”

She turns her face toward yours and responds in kind. “You don’t have to stop. I like what it means when you say it.” You can feel her breath on your cheek and you wonder if she might kiss you. But she pulls away to smile at you again. “And you’re the only one who can pronounce it right anyway.”

You touchdown and by some force of habit you and Natalia pull away from the others and slink into the shadows. You pull your pistol out and shoot a figure with his gun out before Natalia can get to him.

She turns back to you. “Since when do you use a gun?”

You shrug. “Since I became American.”

“You don’t have your swords?”

“No. Those are still confiscated. But,” you take a retractable blade from your belt and unsheath it. “I’ve got this.”

“Can you use it?”

“Well enough,” you say. You could use a sharp stick if you needed to. “Actually, it’s quite different from using my katanas. First of all there’s only one of whatever this is. It’s pretty terrible. Americans have no idea about blades. Whoever made this shaped it like a toothpick.” You thrust it forward into the empty air. “You can’t slash with it, which is what you want to do,” you say, drawing an arc this time.

“Easy, tiger. I can’t believe I almost forgot how much of a nerd you are.” You’re about to retort but she stops before a corner and gives you a look. Down the hall there’s an open door and a light on. You edge up to it and count four guys smoking and playing cards. As one you jump out, Natalia covering you as you barrel into the thick of it. There are two guys with bullet holes in them and one writhing on the ground from one of her taser discs.

You’ve plunged your sword through the last one and are still trying to wrench it free when she kicks the one getting shocked in the head. Finally you get it free, his ribs cracking from how hard you had to pull it out. 

“That’s disgusting,” she says.

“Oh please,” you respond, wiping the blade off on your sleeve. There’s blood on your hands and face and more spreading over the concrete floor. “You’re the one who likes making messes on purpose. I told you this sword is atrocious.”

She shrugs. “I only do that if they really deserve it.”

“So that’s like everyone, right?” You turn away from her, shaking your head hard enough you know she must see. “It’s appalling really. I mean have some decorum Natalia. Twenty-three times is a lot to stab someone, you know.” 

Silence is the only answer you receive. But the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and in a flash she’s on your shoulders trying to bring you down.

You keep talking in between the short bursts of laughter rising from your chest. “At that point it’s disrespectful.” She covers your eyes with one hand and your mouth with the other. Then she twists with just enough force to signal she wants you down and you get to your knees to soften the blow before you completely collapse on your back. 

“The cops can’t even recognize the poor bastards.” She’s on top of you with a glint in her eye like she’s hungry. You put your hands up. “Please don’t, oh no I have an ounce of cocaine I still need to snort tonight.” She puts the handle end of a knife against your cheek and drags it down toward your chest. “I have so much to live for,” you say, suddenly putting on an American accent.

She cracks, a little smile emerging on her face. She stands before she thinks you’ve seen and leaves the room. “Get up. We’ve got a job to do.”

“I saw that,” you say, jogging after her. 

“Saw what?”

“You think I’m hilarious.”

“No, I think you’re dumb.”

“I can be both. It’s called having range.”

You wouldn’t say you enjoy what you do, but it’s all you know. At some point you had to become numb to it or you’d drown in the guilt. But you have missed working with Natalia. Your team is fine. But it’s different when she’s had your back in the field since you were ten years old. When you could pass out right now and know she’d keep you safe. When you know exactly what move she’s going to make next.

The end of the hall splits off and you go left while she goes right.

You pass a couple of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and give them a nod before turning down another hall. You check another room and there’s a woman in there with a gun.

You raise yours, and you don’t know why but something makes you hesitate. Maybe it’s because you don’t think she’ll shoot. Maybe it’s because there’s been this bug in your ear nagging about innocence until proven guilty. 

But she doesn’t and there’s a shot and a bullet in your side. You don’t waste time before you fire a return shot that shatters her kneecap. She drops her gun and goes down screaming.

Rage explodes hot in your chest. At her, for shooting you. But mostly at yourself for slipping. “You bitch,” you seethe in Russian. The pain in your side is mixing with the anger in your chest and the storm is deafening. 

“I’m sorry. Please don’t kill me,” she sobs, laying on the ground. “I didn’t mean to. I’m not with them. I won’t fight anymore. Just don’t kill me. I’m sorry.” But you’ve seen this act before. You won’t underestimate her twice.

“Shut up,” you say in English. You put your foot on her broken knee and stand on it. She wails even harder. You’re looming over her as you unsheathe your sword. Her sobs are the only sound left in the room. You seethe in silence. Like you always have. 

You raise the blade above your head like an executioner with his axe and bring it down over her neck. Her head comes apart from her body. There’s a thud as she settles on her back. The sword snaps as it strikes the concrete from the weight of your full strength. You stumble forward. Sometimes you forget how strong the serum has made you.

For a moment, it’s quiet. Just the sound of your ragged breathing. You can’t tell if you can’t catch your breath because you’ve been shot or because of something else.

Then, “Holy shit.”

You whip around and aim your gun at the voice by the doorway. 

“Woah, woah, woah. Don’t shoot me, partner,” says Agent Hunter.

Блядь.

You put your weapon away but don’t say anything.

He looks at the blood on your face and the broken sword you’re holding onto like a lifeline and the body at your feet. The woman’s eyes are still open. Locked in a panicked gaze. Then he blanches and turns away. The sound of him throwing up almost makes you hurl too.

“Hunter,” you pant, finding your voice.

But he’s backing away with his hands out like you’ll get him next. “You’re sick.”

More footsteps come down the hall and a group of agents checks on him. It’s over for you as soon as the first new arrival sees the body and the blood on your hands. Oh my god, he says. The judgement rolls through the crowd that’s begun to amass. 

Agent Hunter is out of your sight now but you can hear him. “He fucking killed her. She was on the ground begging for her life and he fucking chopped her head off.”

Your face heats up and your heart is pounding something crazy in your chest because you still haven’t caught your breath. There’s too many people in the room. Too many eyes on you. You can hear every gasp, every hitch in their breathing, every whisper. It’s driving you nuts. Why can’t they just mind their own fucking business. 

They’re going to kill you for this. You’re injured and vulnerable. There’s a dozen of them now and they’ve all got guns. 

“What the fuck are you all looking at?” You yell. “Get out!” 

They stare at you for another moment before shuffling away. 

You think you see a glimpse of fire-red hair in the crowd. There one second, then gone. Like the flicker of a flame.

Rumlow is the first one to approach you. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t come too close. “Come on, man,” he says in the same rough voice he always uses. The familiarity is good. “It’s time to go.”

—

The girl with the blood red hair stops at a small grove of trees. She tells the boy it is time. She cannot go further.

The boy stops because the girl is the strongest person he knows. If she says she cannot go on she must mean her feet have fallen off. But he is also confused because there are supposed to be weeks and weeks left. This is not right. 

The girl curses and curls into a ball at the base of a skinny, bare tree. Because she knows this too. Stupidly, she thinks if she makes the area around her stomach just a little warmer everything will be okay. She is desperate.

But their luck has run out. The girl was good at keeping secrets and when the secret could not be kept any longer a man named Ivan put her on a long-term espionage mission. The boy has always disliked this man whom the girl looks to like a father but he owes him for this. 

But things went sour as things happen to go and when the girl sent the message from the cabin the boy should not have come. But this was a thing worth running for. 

Miracles do not exist.

The boy sinks into the snowy ground next to the girl. She turns her face toward his and they press their foreheads together Like a kiss, but with the tenderness that can only be born from the innocent. I love you, the girl tells him. 

The boy tries to be brave even though he is scared. I love you too, he says. No matter what happens.

—

They make you go to medical when you get back because everyone was watching you on the plane and it was obvious you had a bullet in your side.

You sit in a private room that’s got a door instead of just curtains between beds. But it’s not really private because there’s a doctor and two armed guards at the door. All three of them stare at you. They haven’t gone so far as to handcuff you but you know you’ve taken a huge step back. 

The doctor introduces herself as Helen Cho and asks, “Are you able to remove your shirt?”

You don’t want to take your shirt off. It leaves you too vulnerable. And you don’t want them to see your back.

“Agent, there’s a bullet in your torso. Remarkably it hasn’t hit anything vital. And by some miracle you’re sitting up like nothing’s wrong. But I still need to take it out. It’s not supposed to be in there.” She is direct but still somehow soft-spoken. You don’t like being in this white room with these strange people but you suppose she could be worse.

You fidget with your hands. You’ve washed them but there’s still red on your palms, dried flakes under your fingernails. Finally, you say, “I can get it out myself. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”

“I would be more comfortable if you would let me do it. Have you ever extracted a bullet before?” You shake your head. “It’s tricky, it requires precision, and it hurts the person it’s in. It’s hard to keep your hand steady when you’re in pain.”

You glance up at the agents keeping guard. “Sure I know.” 

Doctor Cho notices and waves at them. “Would you mind giving us some privacy?”

“Ma’am, we have orders to keep him under supervision.”

“He’s injured. You can stay right outside the exam room. Nobody is going to disappear into thin air.”

“But–”

“I’m the doctor. And this is my patient. You can wait outside,” she says sternly.

And this time they listen. “We’ll be right outside.”

She turns back to you. “Better?”

You nod slowly, finally drawing in a larger breath. Your side ignites in fire and you gasp, which only makes it hurt worse. Your hand flies to the wound, hovering over it. 

“Getting shot isn’t fun, is it?” She asks, not waiting for an answer. “Now there’s two ways we can do this. You can lay here and let me help you or I can have you sedated.”

“No,” you wave a hand at her. “No, don't do that.”

“Okay I won’t,” she assures. “But I’ve been at this long enough to know some people need a little extra help. It’s all right.” She pauses. “I still need to see the wound site. I’ll walk you through it every step of the way,” she offers.

“You will?” 

“Of course.”

You hesitate. Maybe it’s to stall a little longer. Maybe because you actually care. “You’re not worried about being in here alone with me?”

“Why would I be? You’re not going to attack me, are you?”

“No,” you say. “But you have to be wondering why I’ve got a couple of angry looking sitters.”

“Sure,” she shrugs. “‘I’m curious. But I don’t make a habit of judging people I don’t know. And besides. I’m a doctor. I’d treat you no matter what.”

“So there’s no limit?”

“No, I’ve got a limit.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“It’s for people who think they can talk their way out of treatment,” she says, looking you in the eye. “Come on.”

Slowly, you maneuver your right arm out of the t-shirt. The movement stretches your side and it hurts but you grit your teeth and push through the pain. You leave your shirt on around your neck and left side. The wound is still oozing blood just above your right hip. You figure she has enough room to work.

Doctor Cho sighs. She takes a once-over glance at your body. Her attention locks on the bullet wound then flickers to your back then refocuses again. 

“You’re probably going to want to lay down.”

You oblige and she comes over with gloves on her hands but no mask on her face. You’re grateful for this. The doctors in the Red Room always wore masks and headgear that made them look less human. They also didn’t talk. Not to you anyway. And their notes always had the word “Subject 094” instead of your name.

You swallow as she sits on a stool by your side with a pair of forceps and a pen light. You don’t know when you'd gotten so sweaty. 

“I’m going to locate the bullet and extract it. Sound good?”

You nod and she waits. “Yes,” you say. 

She clicks on the flashlight and puts a cool hand on your stomach. “Last chance. You sure you don’t want to go under for this?”

“I’m sure.”

She presses down lightly with two fingers around the entry site. It hurts but it doesn’t really hurt until the fourth spot she touches. You suck in air through your teeth and clench your fists.

“I started working in the medical field because I wanted to cure cancer,” she says. “My passion was research, but my parents wanted me to get my M.D. They said there’s no success in research. So I did both. I have an M.D. for them and a Ph.D. in biomedical research for myself.” 

You focus on her words, imagining a younger Doctor Cho in your mind. She can’t be much older than you. “You must be some kind of genius,” you grit around a clenched jaw.

She blushes, and even though there’s a pair of forceps lodged way too deep inside your torso the pain eases a little. “Nothing like that. I just worked hard. And you know the crazy part? I ended up loving the patient work almost as much as I loved running tests in a lab. So my parents had the right idea after all, just for the wrong reasons.”

You’re looking at her face now instead of her hands and trying to memorize the slight purse in her lips and the brightness in her eyes. This is her arena, her fight.

“Сука!” You curse and jolt a little.

“Steady,” she says. “I’ve got it. Just have to pull it out.”

You try to draw in deep, steady breaths through your nose and out your mouth. “Great.” You can’t watch anymore so you squeeze your eyes shut and tell yourself pain is only a mental construct even though it really doesn’t feel that way right now.

There’s a clink and a rattle and Doctor Cho says, “The hard part is done. I’m going to clean, stitch, and bandage you now.”

“So you’ve given up on curing cancer to take bullets out of idiots instead?”

“No. Actually, I work in research almost full time now. They’ve got a pretty nice lab here. You should stop by, if you’re not too busy catching more bullets.” She doesn’t look you in the eye as she says this. 

“This is my first time getting shot.”

“There shouldn’t be a first time,” she counters.

“You said you do research almost full time now. Should I feel special, then?” You smile.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. You’re a disturbance to my day off, actually.” She takes a bottle of water and flushes it through your wound. 

You hiss. “Please remind me never to get shot again.”

“If you come through here injured again I’ll kick you out,” she says, smiling. “I thought you all had armor for this type of thing. What’s it called, again? Oh, yeah. A bulletproof vest.” She wipes the rest of the blood from your skin.

“I don't wear those. Too much of a restriction on movement. Agility is the most important thing out there.”

“I don’t know about that. Sounds like I’d want this thing that keeps me from ending up on the wrong side of this bed.”

You shrug. Because she’s running thread through your skin and it hurts more than you try to let on. Maybe she has a point.

Doctor Cho retrieves a roll of bandages from a cabinet in the corner. “This part will be easier if you stand up.”

You stand and stumble. You have to catch yourself on her shoulder. “Sorry,” you say. “Might have lost a little bit of blood recently.”

“You don’t say.”

You fix her nametag, the picture smiling shyly back at you.

She wraps the bandage taught around your stomach. “No strenuous activity until I clear you, understand? Nothing that raises your heart rate too much. And I want to see you back in three days. Think you can manage?”

You shrug back into your shirt. “Does that mean I can’t go to my underground fighting club tonight?”

She makes an overexaggerated frown. “I’m afraid so.”

“Thank you, Doctor Cho,” you say earnestly.

“Don’t mention it.” And as you put your hand on the door knob, she adds, “Call me Helen.”

You smile over your shoulder. “See you in a few days Helen.” 

Your personal guards march you down to Kremer’s office. You tell them you’re sure you can get there on your own but they’re not in all that talkative of a mood.

Kremer is standing over his desk, arms braced against the wood like he’s trying to ground himself. He has his glasses on but removes them when you enter. He makes a dismissive motion with his hand and the guards disappear, shutting the door behind them.

“Sit down,” he says. When you don’t move he says it again, louder. “Sit down! That’s an order.”

You sit but he doesn’t. He stands, hovering over you like some angry buzzard.

“What the fuck was that? I’ve got a dozen eyewitness reports saying you beheaded some defenseless woman. You want to tell me something different happened?”

“Sir,” you start, cautiously. Because even though a plan is already in your mind to bolt you would rather not have to sleep with one eye open tonight. “I don’t know how you have a dozen eyewitness reports. Agent Hunter was the only one present for the moment of death.”

“I don’t care,” he says. “I don’t fucking care if it was one person or fifty people or just God himself as witness. Did you do it?” “She shot me first. She wasn’t exactly defenseless.”

Kremer mutters to himself under his breath. “But you didn’t need to chop her goddamn head off! I’ve seen the pictures. Looks like an excessive use of force to me. Was she threatening you when you did it?”

“She could’ve had another weapon under her shirt or in her waistband. I made a call.”

“Hunter said she was sobbing, begging you not to kill her.”

“That doesn’t mean anything! She could have been acting. I’ve seen it done a hundred times.”

“You Reds and your excuses,” he shakes his head. “It’s my ass when you pull some stunt like this, do you understand? I don’t know how you did it back in Russia but here we don’t go around beheading people like barbarians. And if you don’t want to end up in some hellhole I suggest you get yourself up to our bar, quickly.”

“You think I did that just because? The bitch shot me first! I just spent twenty minutes having a bullet dug out of my stomach because of her.”

“Yeah, I think you did,” he points a finger at you. “I think you’re a fucking animal who was just waiting for some excuse to make another person suffer. I know your type. You get off on this kind of violence. If it was up to me you’d be rotting out in the middle of the ocean right now.”

“What the fuck?” You sputter. “I don’t–”

“We’re done here. You’re on a month’s suspension.” He sighs, putting his glasses on and sitting down. “But if you step one toe out of line you’re out of here.”

You stand up far too quickly. The ache in your side flares like you’ve ripped it open again. 

“And I think you should know,” he adds. “Fury has given me complete authority over this matter. Whether you stay or go is my call.”

You salute him before you go, pretending your eyes could burn holes through his skull.

The agents turned guards aren’t waiting for you when you leave Kremer’s office so you head back to your room. Your side hurts even worse now. The adrenaline has worn off. Every step you take makes you want to sink to the floor. 

By the time you make it across campus to the barracks you’re sweating a little and breathing hard. You’ll have to tell Helen you broke her rule. 

Natalia is in your room, sitting on the edge of the bed in her mission suit. Her hair is still braided back, little flyaways sticking to the back of her neck. 

“How did you get in here?” You ask.

“You’re all right,” she says in relief. She crosses the room, one hand on the side of your neck, the other on your cheek. 

“Yeah,” you breathe, putting a hand on her arm. “Can I sit? I’m not exactly totally good.” You don’t wait for her to answer before almost collapsing into the chair at the desk in the corner.

“What happened?” You look up at her, thinking about how you saw her in the crowd. How she didn’t come up to you. Didn’t defend you.

“I was shot,” you say. You lift the edge of your shirt up, just enough to reveal the bandage.

She sits on the bed again. “And?” She prompts, head tilted slightly. 

“And I got it patched. But it still hurts,” you say. Because you’re not going to give her what she wants to know yet. She has to play her hand first.

“I heard what happened. On the jet. People were talking.”

“People were talking,” you say, looking away and nodding your head. 

“They were,” she answers. “And I thought maybe you weren’t coming back. You know how people like to talk. Things get embellished. But you’re okay. They let you off. Right?”

“I don’t know,” you say flatly. You look right at her so she can’t hide. “Were they embellishing? You can cut the shit Natalia. I know you were there.”

She is quiet, but she doesn’t look away. “I saw the aftermath. That doesn’t mean I know what happened. Only you can know that.”

“Why don’t you ask your buddy Matt?” You spit his name like it is a curse. “He saw most of it. And I’m sure he wasn’t shy about telling everyone.”

She stands, says your name. She is already close, but takes two steps to completely close the distance anyhow. “I don’t care about what happened. I just care that you’re okay.”

You look up at her. She is frowning down at you like you are some wounded dog. You want to ask her why she did not ask this thing when you were standing alone, a dozen pairs of eyes on you. But you know. Oh you know. She did not want their judgement to pass to her, did not want to be seen with the outsider with blood on their hands.

And maybe, part of her was scared of him too.

So you don’t ask. Instead, you say, “And if I told you they were outside the door waiting to take me away?” You come back to a way she has already disappointed you.

She takes a breath. You search her face. She searches yours. “Then you would need to disappear.” You wait for the second part. About how she would let you go but in a month’s or year’s time it would be her sent to hunt you down. It would be her with the gun to your head. Because she was the only one smart enough to find you, ruthless enough to betray you. She was the only one you would ever lose to.

You lower your head. You need to stop pulling open this wound. Things are hard enough.

But then. She rakes a hand through your hair. “And I would need to disappear too. I’d kill everyone in here for you, you know that. If it came down to it, I would leave with you too.”

This is new. She has not yet chosen you over them. You feel an opening.

Your head snaps back up. “We can go.”

“But they’re not coming. They’re giving you a chance.”

“I don’t want a chance,” you say. 

“Don’t say that,” she shakes her head. “You can’t say that.”

“Why are you so adamant about staying here?” You are getting frustrated. “You left the Red Room because you were a pawn but now you want to serve some other cause. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Because I’m not going to spend my life on the run, in the shadows. Not when I can do something with it.” She sighs, her gaze turning melancholic. “I need. I need to make up for all the pain I’ve caused.”

“There’s nothing to make up for,” you argue. She was already perfect. “The world needs a little pain. Humanity will never go in the right direction without it.”

She shakes her head. “We can’t control everything.” She puts her hand on your cheek. You hate yourself for leaning into it. You hate her because she knows how to make you pliant. 

You think of all the other times she’s touched you like this, the times she’s made you feel chosen only to turn away the next moment with apathy in her eyes. Because she is a mask of indifference, a one-night flirt. But for you she’s made an exception. You’ve seen her come apart, seen her struggle to be human. But still. Some part of you whispers, “trap.” She is just using you to keep herself afloat. After all, she is first and foremost a survivor. If anyone was going to make it out alive it would be her.

“But we could,” you say.

“No,” is her only answer. She says it like she is watching you drift away and she cannot follow. 

Maybe you are. Or maybe she is the one leaving you.

—

You dread having to talk to Willem after the incident. You know what he is going to ask about before he opens his mouth.

“I heard you had an eventful last week.”

“Are you going to lecture me too?”

“Maybe,” he smiles. It’s a cheeky smile without teeth, but the corners of his eyes wrinkle all the same. “I heard you got yourself on some kind of double probation. I didn’t know that was possible.”

“You hear what I did?” You ask. Part of you hopes he hasn’t. You’d never admit it, but you don’t mind him. Whatever this was was weird. But it would be a shame for it to change now.

“No,” he says. “And I don’t care to. I want to know what you think. I’ve known Kremer for a long time. He’s a hard ass.”

“You’re telling me,” you scoff. “He needs to come in here.”

Willem laughs. It’s a nice, hearty sound. But he keeps whatever he had found funny to himself. He steadies himself with a hand on his knee. “You think he’s unfair.”

“I mean, yeah. He doesn’t give me the time of day. It’s like he’s out to get me.”

“Do you think he was wrong to suspend you?”

You hesitate. “I don’t know,” you shrug.

“Oh, come on, you can do better than that.”

You hated Kremer but you also hadn’t lost control like that in a long time. But that wasn’t exactly your fault either. She was dead the moment she pointed a gun at you. What did it matter how you’d done her in? And she’d only shot you because you’d hesitated. That was Kremer’s fault for yelling at you so much about restraint. You pivot instead. “Have you ever killed anybody?”

Willem frowns at that. You think it’s not so much at the content of the question, but at your lack of answer for his. “Yes,” he replies.

You wave your hand in a vague gesture. “Then you know.”

“You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

“The feeling,” you wave again. “I don’t know. That rush when you, you know.” 

“The bloodlust,” he supplies.

“Sure,” you say. “That seems a little extreme.” 

“That’s the name we had for it in the army. Everyone had a similar story. Some guy in their platoon you wouldn’t have thought would make it a week. He’s too skinny or he wets the bed or he cries at night. Whatever. But by some miracle he survives. And one day he’s toe-to-toe with some enemy combatant. Everyone thinks he’s a goner. But he gets his first kill. And it’s not from some machine gun a few hundred yards away or a mine he rigged up. No. This is personal, it’s bloody. From then on the guy’s an animal. Nobody makes fun of him anymore cause he might claw your eyes out. The bloodlust.”

You shake your head. “Not like that. Just in the moment. When it’s you or them. Everything else fades out. You get this urge. Like something has to break. And it can’t be you.”

“Sure,” he says. “In the moment. But you can’t go on living like that all the time. Or you end up like that batshit private.”

“That’s all it was,” you say. “I don’t get why it’s not acceptable for me to blow off a little steam.”

“Because it’s dangerous. If you can’t control yourself you shouldn’t be out there.”

“So you’re taking Kremer’s side, now?”

“It’s not about sides. But you have a job to do. And there’s standards you have to abide by. You think I could do this if I flew off the handle with every client?”

“You’ve yelled at me,” you point out.

“You’re the exception.”

You roll your eyes.

“Do you feel good about what you do?” He asks.

“I don’t feel bad about it,” you say, although it’s only a half-truth. You used to feel terrible when you had to hurt someone. You didn’t want to do that. But time went by and you got used to it. You had to. There’s only a twinge left now. You call it respect for the dead.

“Let me rephrase. Do you like what you do?”

“Define ‘like.’”

He ponders for a second. “If you were free to do anything you wanted, would you still be here?”

“That’s a stupid hypothetical. No one is free to just do as they please.”

“I think we are. Or at least we should be.”

“So walk up out of here right now,” you say, gesturing at the door. “Try your luck begging for money on the street. See how you like your freedom then.”

“I’ve walked away once before. That’s how I ended up here.” Of course he’s got a story for everything. “My first job after I left the military was private security. Ex-military means a lot more to civilians than it does to anyone who actually served. It was nice. I never once pulled out my gun. I had to babysit these assholes who thought way too much of themselves but it paid. About two-and-a-half times what I’m doing here. And all I needed was my high school degree.

I worked awful hours. Wasn’t at home much. But it didn’t matter because I was supporting them. Giving them the life my father couldn’t give me.

Then I got this gig. Full-time bodyguard for some idiot who was going to pay half a million a year. I took it and realized I wasn’t happy. My family wasn’t happy. So one night I don’t show up. They called and I said I couldn’t make it. My kid had a ball game.”

“You just left?” You ask.

“Yes. I realized life is short, and you only get one. I needed to reprioritize, so I did.” Willem pauses to give you that look he always does. As if you can’t hear him if he doesn’t stare you down “It can be done. So let me ask you again.You’ve been given a second chance. What the hell are you going to do with it?”

“Of course that’s what this is about,” you say, throwing yourself into the chair back. “You just want to make sure I’m on the right side. You and Kremer playing ‘good cop, bad cop.’”

“Cut the crap,” he retorts. “I couldn’t care less about that. You’ve been given a fresh start. You have a world of opportunity ahead of you and you’re throwing it away. Do you know how many people would kill to have a re-do like this?

“I didn’t ask for this,” you say, throwing your hands up.

“Then why are you still here?” He asks, his voice flat. “Someone like you, the prodigy you are doesn’t just get taken in by the enemy without a fight. And he certainly doesn’t stick around for no reason.” 

You are silent. You can’t admit that you came here for Natalia. And you definitely can’t admit you’ve stayed because this place hasn’t been so bad after all.

“Nothing to say?” He taunts. 

You don’t answer.

“Then we’re done here.” He stands and walks to the door.

“What?” You ask, incredulous. Because he can’t just quit. That’s not how this works. You jump up and follow him.

“You think you’re some martyr,” he says, opening the door. “You’re crucifying yourself for things you’ve been given a real chance to overcome. I’m not here to watch you jump into an early grave.”

“Fuck off,” you yell, slamming the door shut. “You want to talk about martyrdom? Why haven’t you made amends with your wife?”

“Because I did a terrible thing,” he says in that annoyingly calm voice of his.

“You fucked up!” You pace a few steps away. “But you don’t want to put in the work to fix yourself. So much for all the love you have for your family.”

“That’s my call to make.”

“That’s right. It’s your fucking call and you’re making the wrong one. Some people they fuck up and they own up to it! What are you doing? Coming in here and hiding behind someone else’s problems so you don’t have to look at what a mess your own life is!” You’re shouting and you can’t keep your hands still. 

He stands across from you, hands in his pockets. He says your name, tells you to look at him. “Why are you here?”

You stop and put your arms down. Because he is calm, and you are not. It’s like nothing you’ve said has stuck. 

“Look at you, tough guy. You’ve got a smart remark for everything but you won’t answer this simple question. Because you can’t face the truth.”

He opens the door again. And this time, you walk through it.

—

You wake tied to a chair. It is because your eyelids are heavy like lead that you jerk and try to escape without reason first. You breathe from your nose because when you tried to take a panicked inhale through your mouth there was something gagging you out. 

Look who’s awake, a deep voice says. Looks like you won the bet.

You settle because the rope wrapping over the entire length of both your forearms and your ankles gives you no other choice. You are stripped down to your underwear but still you sweat. You are in what looks like an office with the furniture removed. There is a man you do not recognize and a woman you do.

Evgenia looks nothing like the woman you have been working on and off with for six years. Nothing like the woman who scolded you but not for the same reason as anyone in the Red Room. She told you you had to stop hiding your injuries because you are a kid and not a dog and showed you the real world was not as intense of a picture as you believed. 

She showed you new foods and taught you the songs her grandma taught her even though she could not sing. And one night after a particularly gruelling mission she told you you had to draw lines between what was okay and what was not. That nobody could tell you what those were except yourself. You have to listen in here, she said, pointing to your heart. And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

There is more to life than just the fight. You just need to look up.

Her face was also the one you saw as you felt a prick in your neck and a tiredness began to consume your body.

You look at her now, at her cold gaze and think what a glorious trick she has pulled on you. You challenge her to be the first to look away as you search for an ounce of guilt in her posture and find none. In the end it is you who breaks away first.

The man, who is dressed in a black shirt and black pants approaches you and takes the gag from your mouth. He tells you he has a few questions about Dreykov and the Red Room. He tells you you all are an outdated parasite on modern Russia and need to be excised. Let me demonstrate, he says, picking up a thin knife. He grabs your bicep and you try to jerk away but the rest of your arm is tied down and even though you are awake the world still feels out of focus.

Everything becomes clear real fast when he starts sawing at your arm. You don’t scream, managing to minimize your agony into a series of gasps and grunts. This is a yet undiscovered pain. He comes away with a little piece of your skin. He holds it in front of your face and flaps it like it is some sort of banner. Like this, he says. You know the air is not burning even if your arm is trying to tell you it is.

You look at Evgenia. She is standing back a few paces, arms crossed. 

Where is the Red Room? The man asks.

I’m not telling shit, you say, even though it feels a little like your brain is having trouble connecting to your mouth. You think I’m some traitor? You would all be lost without us. Dreykov is going to–

He slices at you again, this time on your shoulder and you can’t stifle the yell that emerges. You clench your fists and fight to get away but it's no use. 

You can’t help but look at Zhenya like she is a source of comfort. Like she might help you. She says your name. Just tell him and this can end. Please, you don’t have to do this to yourself.

Go to hell, you grit. The man grips you by the hair and takes a large patch of skin from your neck. You scream. You had never thought there could be this much pain without a single drop of blood.

He steps back. Where is the Red Room? You stare at him, breathing hard. The rope digs into your skin. You ache to put your hands around his throat. You are going to regret this, you say. You should know who you’re messing with. 

Oh, he says, cocky. He waves the knife at you. But no one will know it was us, you see. 

Kill me, go ahead.

I’m not going to kill you, no. You’re very valuable property. Very marketable. You are only the second man in history to get Russian version of super serum and not go batshit insane. Did you know this? Yes, there are powerful people who would pay a lot to have you in their arsenal. And they already have. You’ll be someone else’s little hound soon. And guessing at who our buyer is, you won’t even remember this conversation after they do what they do.

He holds the knife to your cheek. Too bad keeping this pretty face intact was not a part of the deal.

Wait, Evgenia speaks up. Let me.

He backs off and shrugs. All right.

She takes the scalpel and kneels before you. Hey, she says. Hey, hey, look at me. You must still be pretty out of it because you thought you were looking at her. Just tell us what we want to know and this can end. Don’t make me do this. 

You are looking into her eyes and you think you see a little bit of the woman you thought she was. I trusted you, you whisper.

I know, she frowns, mocking. I’m sorry. She starts to cut at the skin on your thigh. It feels more painful than any of the other times because she is the one doing it. You watch the strip of skin come loose and then think you must be dreaming because she turns away and rushes at the man. 

She stabs him in the stomach with the scalpel and throws a punch at his head. He is caught off guard and stumbles back. Without hesitation he rips out the blade and swipes at Zhenya. She takes a couple of quick steps back. 

You strain anew at the rope holding you down but it is thick and unforgiving and wrapped around your arms and legs like a python. 

He presses forward with the blade out, forcing her to work around him. She takes a step too close and he slices her across the stomach. Blood begins to bloom and stain her shirt a shade darker. But she is quick, she cuts at his wrist and forces him to drop the knife. Then, without missing a beat, she tackles him to the ground.

But he is bigger than her, stronger. He shoves her into the wall and dives for the scalpel. It lies just outside of his reach. Evgenia seizes the opportunity. She kicks it farther from his grasp and scoops it up. 

She turns around just as he tries to get her from behind. The scalpel cuts deep through his throat. Blood sprays from his neck onto her face as if from a fountain. His hands raise and try to staunch the bleeding but it is already too late. He falls first to his knees and then flat on the floor. He gurgles as he tries to draw his final breaths and then it is quiet. 

Zhenya stumbles backward, holding the wound on her stomach. You are still trying in vain to break free from your bonds. She curses and comes to you with the knife. You flinch a little when she points it at you. She apologizes. I didn’t know what to do, she says. This was the only way. I didn’t want to hurt you.

It’s okay, you tell her as she saws through the coils and coils of rope. You forgive her easily, instantly. You don’t think you could have been mad even if she truly had betrayed you. Because you will always be that twelve year old kid with fists aching from the weight of your anger. And she will always be the one to catch your wrists and demand you let go. 

She gets your clothes for you and you try to ignore how the fabric sets your raw skin aflame. Then, you stare down at the body of the other SVR agent. Zhenya has made herself a traitor because of you. She has ruined her life. You are not worth that sort of action. You shouldn’t have done that, you say. You should’ve let him have me.

No, she says. You are where I draw my line.

Her words make your heart pound and your face heat up. You will not cry because you haven’t for years and it would be ridiculous to now. You have recently turned eighteen after all. You are a proper adult now with proper responsibilities. That’s why they came after you.

You’re going to have to disappear, you say. 

I know.

I can’t know where you go.

I’ll find you, she says. When it’s safe. I promise.

You want to say it will never be safe. But you cannot entertain the notion you will never see her again. When it’s time you walk out first. So when they ask you where she went you can look them in the eye and say you don’t know.

—

Two months later and you have been carving room out for yourself. There is no back so you look forward. You tell yourself you can leave anytime you want. 

The hole in your side has healed, thanks to Doctor Cho. You went and saw her three days later like she’d asked. You checked the medical wing first, asking after her. Most of the staff avoided looking at you, but one nurse told you she didn’t work around here anymore and that you should check the laboratory building.

You thanked her and apologized for the disturbance. Perhaps your reputation was getting a little too out of hand after all.

The scientists in the research building weren’t much better either. They all stared at you when you entered, but that might just have been because they’re not used to talking to a huge circle of people.

“I’m looking for Doctor Helen Cho,” you said.

You were directed down a hall and into a different room. She was there, black hair tied up in a bun, talking to another person in a white coat.

“Doctor Cho,” you said, feeling somewhat off-put in this place. You couldn’t even name half of the equipment in here. 

She turned around, a smile lighting up her face when she saw you. That was nice. It didn’t happen with a lot of other people. She greeted you. “Let me wash my hands,” she said. “We can talk in my office.”

She discarded her gloves and safety glasses and the two of you walked down the hall into a small office.

“How are you feeling?” She asked, sitting on the edge of her desk.

“Okay,” you replied. “All things considered.”

“Can I take a look?” 

You shrugged. “What am I here for?”

She unwrapped the bandage and stared down at your side. You could see the gears turning in her head. “Well this isn’t right,” she said.

You couldn’t help but smile, just the edge of your mouth turning up. “Am I going to die, doc? Don’t tell me it’s too late.”

She shook her head, still unable to look away from the wound. “No,” she replied, so enraptured she’d missed your joking tone. “This is. This is incredible. It looks like a graze wound. Are you sure you got shot?”

“I didn’t let you take a bullet out of me for kicks.”

Now she looked up at you, eyes wide. You were smiling because her awe was infectious. You’d never impressed someone like this before. You were never good enough. They always wanted you to be faster, stronger, more durable. But the way she was looking at you said this was more than enough.

“How?” She breathed.

“I heal fast,” you said. 

She laughed and you found yourself thinking of more ways to draw the sound out of her. “No shit,” she said. “But I mean, this should be impossible. It won’t even scar.”

“You’re the genius scientist,” you said. “I don’t know how it works either, to tell you the truth.”

“I’ve never heard of anybody having genetics like this. But I suppose it’s possible. People have different heights and intellectual traits. Your cells must be able to process energy at triple the rate of anyone else.”

You tilted your head. “Eh, not exactly.” Then you paused because you’ve never talked to anyone about this before. And it was sensitive information. You eyed the woman in front of you. If you told her about the serum they’d stuck in your veins maybe she’d tell someone else, and then you’d be a rat in a cage. You couldn’t. So you smiled and said, “I should get back.”

For a second you thought she might press for more. She looked like she had a million more questions. “Do you think you have time for me to show you the lab?” Was all she said. 

You sighed in relief. You decided you liked her. So you let her take you into the lab and explain all the things you’d never understand. She was excited because they were on the edge of a breakthrough, she could feel it. She told you she was working on growing tissue so they wouldn’t have to rely so much on transplants. She hoped their work would save a lot of lives some day. She would be happy if she lived to the day it would save just one.

She was almost winded when she’d finished speaking. “Sorry,” she shook her head bashfully. “I’m not usually so talkative.”

“It’s all right,” you said. And it was. Because you’d had more attention on you in the last week than you thought you could handle. “The world needs more people like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re good. You’re not doing this for yourself. You’re going to help a lot of people.”

She looked down at her shoes. “I hope so.” When she looked back up at you her cheeks were a little red. “We should talk again. Outside of work.”

“That sounds nice,” you agreed.

Now you have come back from a mission gone slightly awry. The intelligence had been perfect, the lab waiting for you like a glowing jewel hidden beneath depths of concrete maze. There was nowhere to run when you broke the doors down and aired the place out.

The lead scientist put his hands up as soon as the bodies of his colleagues hit the floor. You were supposed to bring him in for questioning. You are looking right at the man and his empty hands when there is shouting and a single gunshot.

The target is dead, his head all exploded like rotten fruit. Ward holsters his gun. He says he thought the man had been reaching for a weapon. And that’s what all four of you report when Agent Hill asks you about it later.

It’s a problem because you are supposed to be the most seasoned strike team there is. It’s a problem because that scientist also functioned as an administrator and he could have led you to more cells.

It’s a problem because it’s not the first time something like this has happened.

It’s the third one since you’ve been here. There was the neo-Nazi who claimed he was part of a huge underground organization and the Russian politician who swore he would tell all in exchange for asylum. Both of them had become suddenly violent at the moment you tried to bring them in. Both are now dead.

The first time you had been confused. Then Rumlow looked you dead on and smiled, holding his index finger over his lips. Then you understood why they wanted you on their team.

Because they are imperfect, and so are you.

So you don’t tell your superiors the target had been subdued at the time of death. And they believe you because strikers are always like this, a little jumpy and a little imprecise. Consequences of pulling from ex-military and ex-police force pools.

But now you’re getting back from a long flight and an even longer debrief and Natalia is in your room with her arms crossed and an indecipherable look on her face. You’ve been on good terms. But you haven’t done that thing which is not a thing because it’s nothing where you lay with each other in the dark and communicate without speaking. 

So you find it odd that she’s in your room. 

“Hi,” you say, like a question.

“What are you up to?” She’s not asking what your plans are for the day. It’s dark out, and you’re exhausted.

You shake your head. “What are you talking about?”

“Maria is pissed. About the mission. And so is Fury.”

“So? It’s a shame the mission went bad but the target was hostile. He might’ve shot one of us. We’ll get the next guy.”

“Except this is the third time something like this has happened in as many months,” she says, slowly. “And you don’t make mistakes.”

You aren’t alarmed. She’s smart, smarter than you maybe. So you keep your face and body still like you’ve been taught and say, “I don’t. But they do. You must know I was never the one to pull the trigger.”

She huffs because you’re right. On paper nothing is afoot. But you know she has a feeling. You’re stubborn but so is she. “If something is going on you can tell me.”

“Nothing is going on,” you lie. Something definitely is. But you don’t care.

“I’m trying to help you,” she says. “Those agents you work with, you can’t trust them.”

“And how would you know that?”

“Because Clint,” she pauses to rub at her temple, “he doesn’t like them.”

“And that’s the end of the conversation?” You scoff. “Your new buddy says one bad thing and my team is suddenly suspicious.” 

“It’s not just him. Your ‘team,’ is made up of a bunch of assholes. Everyone knows it.”

“I didn’t know you held such high moral standards. Tell me, what is your squad up to, huh? You go out and you spy on people so you can throw them a big party?” You don’t want to be angry, not with her, but she is different now. She is jumping on you when she always used to give you the benefit of the doubt, when she always used to be on your side.

She has become a stranger and now she thinks she can barge back in and make you behave as she sees fit. Perhaps you never knew her in the first place.

“I never said that,” she says.

“No, but you think you’re better than everyone else. You always have. And now you’re acting all righteous because the director has made you his pet project.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“What does that mean?”

She scoffs. “Really? Dreykov Junior?”

“I’m not his son.”

“No, you just wish you were.”

You turn away and take a deep breath. 

Her voice is closer and softer the next time she speaks. “I didn’t mean for this to get so out of hand.”

You shake your head as if the motion would fling all the anger away like it was some pesky bug. “Me neither.” “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t in trouble. That’s all. I wanted to help you.”

You turn back to face her. “I don’t need help.”

“But you do.” Her face is a stone wall, a chiseled mask of indifference. 

You blink at her. It is dark outside, and you are exhausted. Your quarters which have always felt a little like a jail cell shrink in on you. “What?”

She sighs, like you are a child who doesn’t understand. “They think you’re a spy,” she hisses, like she’s not supposed to be telling you this. “They think you are a spy and that you are trying to find a way to bring them down.”

“I’m not.” They have it all wrong, you want to say. You’ve been exiled, but you can’t tell them that. Because then they’d know you’re cornered, and there’s nothing more vulnerable than being caught with your back to the wall.

“Then why are you here?” She asks. And you feel like she’s pushed you off the top of the building. Because she is truly asking this question. She thinks you are working against them too. Working against her. “You came here to retrieve me, right? And I said I’m not going back to that hellhole. So you have a new mission.”

You must have some sort of surprise on your face because something clicks in her eyes, like she’s solved a mystery. But you can’t tell her that no, no one sent you here after her, because she’d ask you why you had jumped ship like an idiot and you’d have to tell her you were scared. You don’t have the words to describe how panic had seized you by the throat when news of her capture reached you. How even the daydream of her death made you want to die too.

Because you are not a savior. And she is not supposed to be worth saving anyway. Everyone is expendable. No one is special. And she was just a warm body all those years.

And because you cannot say all this, cannot accept that you ruined your life like some emotion-poisoned whore, you say, “You don’t understand.”

She is quicker with her response, because she has the power. She has always had the power between the two of you. “Then help me understand.”

You shake your head more furiously and back away. “Why do you even care, huh?”

“Because I want to understand you! You have to give me something. You have to show them you’re trying.”

“I am trying.” Could she not see that? How you were killing yourself everyday you woke up in the name of S.H.I.E.L.D.? You shake out the wrist you normally wear your watch on.

“But they don’t think so. You can do better.” She approaches you a little too quickly. You can’t tell if her outstretched hands are trying to support you or strangle you.

You seize her by the shoulders before she can touch you. “That’s what this is about? You’re worried I might be a stain on your reputation?” You are loud but you don’t care because you are furious.

“No. No, I never said that. I don’t care about my reputation. I want to help you, but I can’t because I don’t recognize you anymore!”

Her face is flushed red like it’s never been before and it scares you so you let her go. “You think I need help?” You throw your arms up because she is ridiculous and so are you. “You think I can’t handle this?” And she is shaking her head and getting redder and the corners of her mouth are turned down in the shape of a frown. She is saying no but you aren’t hearing her. “My whole life I’ve been handling everything just fine! And guess what. I have never needed you.” You’re pointing at her and every time you shake your fist it feels like pulling the trigger of a gun.

“You think I don’t know what you’ve been through? I was there too. I get it but it is no excuse to keep protecting them!”

“It’s not that simple.” Because you had fought and you had suffered and you had had a role to fill. You still do. No, you weren’t just going to accept that you’d lost and roll over for the enemy. You can’t.

“It is!” She says. “S.H.I.E.L.D. is not perfect, but it is a fucking haven compared to back there. Why can’t you see that?”

“Because I’m not willing to turn my back on things so easily. I can’t just run from one thing to the next, changing who I am to fit in. I’m not like you.”

“Well then you are an idiot and a coward. And I see right through you.” You believe her. You feel so exposed under her gaze. “I’m not pretending to be someone else to fit in. I’m trying to be more than them, to be better. Fuck you.”

“Yeah? At least I’m not a spineless traitor. How could you leave? What has S.H.I.E.L.D. ever done for you?”

“Are you being serious right now?”

“Yes! The Red Room gave us everything.”

“The Red Room didn’t give us anything. It took our choices and our lives and it’s taking still. Look at yourself!” She thrusts her arms out at you and you flinch. Just a little, but you know she sees. Because you thought she didn’t care about all the ways in which you are ruined.

“I am better for all they put me through. It wasn’t easy, sure, but I’m not crying about it. They saved me!” You eye her, up and down, pretending you hate her. “And where would you be without them? Starving and pregnant by some guy you married who spends all his money on booze?”

“You’re fucking unbelieveable. I am not who I am because of them. I made myself.” She glares at you. You can’t look away. You hate this intimacy. She speaks slowly, making sure you hear every letter. “But they broke you.”

“I’m not broken,” you say, low, like the warning of thunder. You’ve been made in their image.

“You are! It’s not normal to beat children because they do not act like soldiers. It’s not normal to think of sex as a means to an end at twelve years old. But you still think it is! You think it’s all okay when it’s not! You are stuck with what they have told us and you’re too scared to break out.”

“I’m the scared one? You’re the one who ran away because she couldn’t handle it!”

“Maybe you’re not scared. But you should be. You should be terrified of the person you’ve become. Because the boy I knew, the boy who would take a slap over having to slap someone else wouldn’t be okay with this. But they told you you were the chosen one and suddenly it’s okay to let others suffer because you’re on top, right? You’ve forgotten what it was like to be treated like a slave.

Things changed for you. You got your uniform and they told you your name meant something. But things didn’t change for me, or for any of the other widows. They are still trapped like the dirt under someone’s shoe. Their names don’t matter because they are called ‘whore’ and ‘weapon.’ Just like mine didn’t. Until I forced people to see me.”

Her words scare you because there is a truth in them you’ve pretended like you could manage. It’s why Svetlana always dreamed of running off. Why Ekaterina tried to kill you after you’d accidently walked in on her and Anastasia. 

But you can’t let go. There is fear and pain when you submit. But there is so much more if you dare to go against them.

You scowl. “Well who had a hand in making me ashamed of that kid? I changed because I was chasing after you.” You point at her. “Perfect little Natasha.”

“You think I wasn’t scared too?” She retorts.

“Fine,” you say. “I’m evil then, is that what you want to hear? If I’m so bad, why don’t you just kill me for it?” Your heart is racing like you’ve been in a fist fight and your muscles keep flexing like you’re about to hit something.

“I don’t want you dead. I don’t. You придурок, I never said that.” Her eyes are shiny like she might cry and it spooks you because you can count on one hand how many times she’s looked like that. “I want to help you. But I can’t when you don’t talk to me.”

“And I don’t need help. I’m not some victim! You want some explanation for why I’m not good like you? You want to hear how they used to take me downstairs and whip me until I passed out and that’s why I’m so messed up? How I got into an argument with Dreykov once and he broke my jaw? You don’t want to know that shit!”

She is shaking her head and speaking calmer now, but you don’t hear her. You are somewhere else, lost in the storm of all those nights you can’t quite remember right. You are drowning in anger. Yours and Dreykov’s and the Widows’ and the Madames’ and the guards’. Building and building in your chest because you cannot let it go, it is not in your nature to not feel, to not care. 

She is coming at you again and she looks a little like Marina did that one night you slept together only because you had never been taught to say no.

“Get off!” You yell. She is blocking the door so you make a fist and pound it into the drywall next to her head.

She grabs your wrists and tells you to calm down. She says your name. “Look at me. Look at me.”

“I am looking at you!”

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know. But this is what I’m talking about. These are the things you have to say. The things I don’t know about you.”

You sneer back at her because she is strong and you are not and it’s the only way to protect yourself. “Don’t act like you don’t have your secrets too. But you wouldn’t tell me because you have to be so perfect all the time.”

 “I couldn’t, you’re right. But I will now. I will. Trust me.”

“But you’re a widow,” you say, cold and sober. “How could I ever trust you?”

“You don’t mean that,” she says. Because what she hears you say is that she is not human. That all she’s ever been and ever could be is a weapon. “Look me in the eye and say you don’t trust me.”

So you do. You look her square in the eye and say, “I don’t trust you.” 

Then there is fire in her eyes as she stands there and stares. “I hope you’re proud of yourself. You really are just like him.”

You almost slap her. She is standing tall with her chin up like she is waiting for it and you think you should knock her down a peg. 

But you don’t. You just walk around her and leave. Because she isn’t worth it.

Continue

[cirqosmos]

Did I, A Side Character Became the Male Lead's Wife?!

2023 | 13+ | ONESHOT | YANG JUNGWON × READER | -> PART 2

SUMMARY you — a side character in a royal novel doing absolutely nothing but enjoy your rich ass yet boring life, only watching over the female lead and doing your job in protecting her, only for a pair of kittenish eyes to fall not upon the female lead but on you, unfortunately.

AUTHOR'S NOTE not me writing a whole ass oneshot at 5am bcs of that sweet ask from that one anon, imma name u serotonin dopamine anon lmao- and jungwon bae u r truly my muse.. also inspired by sum manhwas cuz I binge read 90+ chapters in less than a day 💀💀💀 plus happy 900+ followers for me <333 mom wake up I'm famous even tho I'll never let u know what my secret writing blog is about 😊😊

a side character, how cute?

well, you only came to know of this very horrible (not really) fact that you're nothing close to a main character's vibes cause look at you babe, where's the sparkling shiny starry dust on you as you walked through the red carpet at the ball?

and did they even spare a glance at you? unfortunately, nope. because the female lead, Liz; was your enemy, at least in how your character was written in the novel by the goddamn author which was you.

yes, that's right!

you, a hella introverted author dwelling in the deepest corner of her room doing nothing but spent an ungodly amount of hours creating the perfect and enchanting characters after crying for major character death of a fic a few years ago. wiping your dripping tears off your cheeks in a comical way as you pull open your laptop and risk your 20/20 vision for life, just so you can reverse the aching pain in your chest that you wore a thick ass glasses now.

Liz, the female lead. Swooning over her was your religion, throwing not one but a ten whole buckets explaining how perfect she was—or how tremendously kind she was, delicate and utterly sweet. patting yourself on the back for creating such a goddess of a character, so it's only wise for you to give her a fitting male lead, right? Okay we'll talk about that later since it's about you right now.

So how did you end up in your novel? Well, because of one fateful day of you doing absolutely nothing but taking a goddamn rest, and whoever the god in heaven that just randomly decided to throw you in the novel you wrote yourself—must be utterly insane. Perfect indeed!

it took you a humongous realisation to see yourself in a dark green puffy dress that represents jealousy, envy, and betrayal—which also represents the side character standing behind the female lead on the thick cover of your book. you've originally written her as that wicked best friend that uses her seductive way of speech to seduce men, and at last turning her back at the female lead by accusing her of a horrendous crime.

her fatal fate consists of her head being snapped by the guillotine, unfortunately. but for you, not really, cause you are so in for destroying wicked characters but jokes on you—you're now in the body of that character.

pfft, can't the gods put you in a character that lives near the sea, with your straw hat on and as you drank your lemon juice away from the public drama, angsty dialogues, cringe moments you yourself have created because you don't have atleast an ounce of social skills that's why you pour it all on your characters.

"oh my apologies, milady— pfft—" three ladies sticking with each other like a super glue, had thrown the glass of wine on the female lead's gown—earning a series of gasps from everyone who saw but you were sure won't pay an ounce of consideration towards her as you had written almost everyone in this novel as "the world against the weak, fragile character."

oh, right. the hyena laughters of those you describe in episode 3 of "the flashy ball"; the three evil sisters, because why not? they added the extra spices in your tongue to the point you couldn't wait for them to get slap by the female lead or possibly someone.

ah, the tremendous satisfaction.

and you were one of that person whose hands itching to smash their skull apart, you cringed enormously at them as they were the ones that brought total trouble wherever they went or whoever are unlucky enough to get in their way. unfortunately, you seal your female lead's fate with them as she need some little obstacles, doesn't she?

you as hell were not sure what you're supposed to do, whether to just let things happen as the story goes or you do the male lead's job in protecting the female lead cause you have no idea why is he taking such a long time to appear, when he should've made his grand entrance at the freaking introduction?

and you wrote it that way cause you got fed up with male leads making their first appearance at the ball, and somehow quickly gaining the female lead's heart like Cinderella cause dear lord where's the slow burn?

just say, you're a conservative grandma type of a mindset or that you are skeptical over love at first sight. yep, you're right. that's why you ain't gonna let your precious female lead get bullied in front of your very eyes. she's like your granddaughter right now, seriously.

a shriek echoed through the entire ball, gaining everyone's attention. "oh my god! my dress! you— lady Liz! who did you even brought with you?!"

oh right, you forgot it's your first time at the ball either. "my apologies, milady. it's just that i saw a bunch of hyenas roaming around.." you rubbed the back of your neck.

"hyenas?! guards—"

"chill, what's the commotion here?" a bright dashing blonde haired man in a red royal suit came around, with sets of stars dusting upon his form which you already realise to be part of the main characters but unfortunately you forgot. you ain't having that extra superhuman memory just because you are an author.

the bunch of hyenas before you reasoned with the prince, but you slowly realise that the prince was none other than Prince Jake. Inspired by that one puppy image idol from fourth generation of kpop, you were apparently slurping your noodles in the local restaurant when you watched him imitating a dog from the tv, causing you to choke on your noodles.

it's safe to say, he's hot enough that he had to be part of your main characters. aah, that signature dashing smile of his as he defended the female lead with his wisely chosen string of words which immediately melted everyone's heart at sight.

times like this you wish you were actually the female lead, but the logical side of you beg to differ; you are not emotionally capable of spewing cringy romantic words for that's only reserved for writing. So thank you, i'll pass.

Surely, Prince Jake ain't the male lead for your precious female lead but you just let them converse with each other despite her with her absolute kindness, urging you to talk with them too, atleast a word. it sort of felt for a moment like she was trying to match you with the prince.

like no please, you'd rather not to. hot guys are hot, but they're not worth the emotional investment past the fangirling section.

plus the prince doesn't seem interested you as he doesn't spare not even one look at you which obviously you couldn't care any less, you sneakily went out the ball after a series of mishaps—for example your heavy puffy ass gown with its sole purpose to only look pretty but the reality ain't that pretty to say the least, panting like a dog as you took each step towards the entrance all while cussing yourself for ignoring your logical part of brain that you shouldn't have been adding humongous useless words to describe the gown just to make it sound extremely pleasing to the readers.

now you're the one to bear the consequences of your own writing, the fuck.

"one! two!—" a long, long, depressing sigh echoes. "three! ah!—" consequently falling upon your face, what a perfect day indeed. you just wanted to go home, tuck yourself in your comforting blanket, eat your hot cup of ramen or indulge yourself in the sea of chocolate while daydreaming of your favourite idols and fictional characters.

not this awful disaster of you getting tangled in the courts' affairs.

"i suppose, you need help, milady?"

oh no, certainly not. don't call me milady, pretend i do not exist for i certainly do not have the social skills to pretend that i like you, or form a decent conversation especially with men.

"milady?"

you curled yourself, burying your head into the comfort of your gowns. wondering quite a bit of how odd you look in the middle of the hallway.

"milady?" his voice-like whisper came closer, obviously standing beside you right now. "are you okay?"

fuck it. "please, i beg of you to kindly leave me alone as my day has been utterly ruined and—" oh wait, he seems oddly familiar. those lush fluffy hair and kittenish orbs that only softens among those he were close enough.

prince jungwon.

oh! the male lead, oh my god! your jaw hang so low it fell on the ground, your eyes sparkled in dozens of star like universe as you took in his marvelous beauty that you had spent creating meticulously after studying all the '101 rules of how to create the perfect male lead that had the readers heart evaporating & a huge ass green forest that certainly would cause blazing flames'.

"oh my god! you look absolutely gorgeous, i've done it really well didn't i?! oh my god!"

"o-oh—! absolutely, you did well!" he immediately replied back, pressing his lips tight nervously.

wait what? what did he say? oh shit, oh well, covering your mouth instantly as you accidentally let it out before the prince, your precious male lead that you solely created for the female lead. "i—.."

the prince, your very precious character—obviously taken aback with a slight blush dusting of his adorable cheeks as he raise his fist up to his lips, coughing a couple of seconds. a personality trait you very well are familiar of cause that's how you wrote him when he fall in love with the female lead.

your eyes ogled out at that familiar sight, screaming at the back of your mind—wait, wait! you're not supposed to fall in love with me, you idiot! go back! go inside the ball, she's inside there!

"that's oddly brave of you, milady. i'd certainly go as far as to say that i've never seen such traits from a lady." kitten eyes softening at you, crouching down as he lend both of his hands for you. you raised your eyebrow confusingly at what is he trying to pull at but you realise he was intending to get you up.

"u-uhm? uh, sorry. i could get up on my own, actually." yeah, that's what you did. pushing yourself back up despite his protests because you ain't gonna let him fall any further for you, nah uh, not in this life, your mission is to get him and your female lead together inside the frames of birds holding flower wreaths as they went on to their happily ever after.

not with you!

"may i have the honour to know your name, though, milady?" why the fuck isn't he leaving, what is there so interesting in you that he is still standing here asking you such generic questions.

you shouldn't be having the characters attention on you as you obviously wrote it that way, and that even though your character in the novel had tried to get the prince's heart, despite resorting to foul actions, that he never truly had been attracted to her despite this characters' seductive aura.

for you squealed so loud at the scene you wrote, with jungwon putting her in her place. "you are not her, and you would never be her." along with the bunch of your readers hosting a flamboyant celebration under the comments, screaming over how loyal he was.

so what in the actual fuck is this?

"you don't need my name." you nonchalantly answered.

"my apologies?"

"you see, my best friend is in the ball—" you gestured your hands to the entrance of the ballroom, "and she needs your help more than i do."

"wait? why would she need my help?" his eyebrows knitted together in utter confusion as you pushed him through his back.

"of course, she do! don't ask anything!"

"wait!— my name is!" he forcefully turn to face you again, but you immediately covered his mouth with your hands—kabedonning him against the wall.

an excruciating silence occured between you two in the silent hallway, Jungwon freezing to his core when your other hand shoot beside his head.

"listen i don't need your name, dear sir." you emphasise each word, you certainly don't need to know his name nor his status as a prince, not wanting to risk any possible connection with him judging by how he acted before you just now.

"b-but!" his words were muffled into the void as you cupped his mouth tighter.

"shh, shh. stop talking and listen, will you?!"

jungwon nodded slowly, what an odd situation he was in right now, he thought. but somehow he likes it.

"so first step, is go inside the ballroom. second, look for the lady in pink gown, and third—"

"t-third?"

"third is tell her your name! my best friend needs it more than i do!" you release him from your grasp as you went to swing open the huge double door, "now go!" waving a goodbye before kicking his body through the entrance, pulling the door back with your entire strength despite his protests.

oh of course, you finally let out a gag after suppressing it in front of him the entire time as you've never had a proper conversation with a male without stuttering, somewhat a sad tragedy for you, unfortunately. you felt quite guilty about your readers who swoon over the romances you wrote between your leads, weeping over how you're so good at it—not knowing you're a complete introvert with only a gigantic ass dictionary with you.

finally, the male lead and female lead's romances are about to start! you squealed with your hands clasping as you went on your way to the carriage, gesturing for the rider to embark on the way to your heavenly puffy manor with the widest big grin ever that it had him questioning you, "has any gentleman had caught your heart, milady? a couple of hours ago, you were often beyond distraught to attend the ball but insisted when you heard Lady Liz was going."

"oh, you silly." you giggled as you swayed your hand, "of course, that's one of the reasons. but there's another one.."

"may i ask what is it, then?"

you leaned in closer, urging him to get closer as you whispered. "i got the chance to become a Cupid!"

"a Cupid?" you squealed before the old man, hopping like a child for quite awhile before flying into the carriage much to his surprise, but only shook his head in amusement—appalled by how his mistress had changed so much.

"so?" you couldn't help yourself from pulling out the widest eccentric grin at the female lead, extremely curious and ecstatic over what romances had bloom between her and Jungwon.

Liz raises her eyebrow in confusion, "so?.. what do you mean, milady?"

you shrugged, falling back to your seat as you raise your eyebrow in a comical way, "that.." whispering ever so seductively, "prince."

"p-prince?

"yes!" the teacup rattles at your excitement oozing so much that you tapped the table a couple of times. "what happen? what's the tea~"

she lets out a soft giggle, a bit amused by your excitement. "i have no idea what you're trying to imply, milady."

"wait? what are you saying? didn't the prince went to you last night?"

Liz shook her head slowly, her expressions clearly stating that she absolutely don't know what and who you were talking about as a smile pulled up on her lips once again, taking a few sip from her teacup.

veins popped out from your neck as it dawned on you, your head snapped towards the castle on top of the mountain, you stupid of a prince! you cussed at him endlessly at the back of your mind, tightening your fist as your ears and nose fuming in anger. how dare he? he didn't listen to you at all? what in the actual fuck? would this somehow divert the original route? a dozen question arise into your mind one after another, causing you to let out an exaggerated sigh.

facepalming yourself as you imagined the imaginary heavenly light on top of you, weeping to yourself about how tremendously unlucky you are to have a hard headed male lead. it's impossible, you have never added a trait so irritating like this in his profile so how could this happen?

"milady?" the gentle voice of your precious female lead pulled you out of your inner desperation, you leaned in closer, whining so much over how unlucky you were and such, the rest only being in your mind as you pouted.

"ah, i remember now, the prince—"

"WHAT?—" you immediately seated yourself after giving her a potential heart attack, "my apologies, what did you actually.. remember?"

"i assume you were talking about the prince from yesterday? prince jake?"

"no not that bitch— oh certainly not him, ehem.." you took a couple of exaggerated coughs, avoiding her evident confusion. "isn't there a prince.. name jungwon with you that night?"

"oh my goodness! right! prince jungwon!" she shook her head in disbelief with her finger on her head.

right, how did you even forgot that the female lead in front of you had a "weak ass memory" in her profile description. tsk tsk, truly a forgetful author you are. you should be trying your best to remember the things you wrote before and revise it as best as you can, to avoid any possible problems in the future, atleast.

"right, how did i even forget, the prince asked me for your name, milady—"

"huh?" you look at her with confusion, as you were out of reality a couple of seconds ago. your orbs terribly widened as her words slowly sinking in to your brain. "HUH?"

ask your name?! why your name, why not hers?! what did the prince ate that night before stumbling onto your way that he had to ask for your name before the female lead—his own lover?!

laughing awkwardly, you raise your leg on top of another as you nervously swayed your hands repeatedly. "oh dear, oh dear. you might have heard it wrong, the prince?—" snorting outloud as you gestured to yourself, "asking for my name? what a funny news!"

"i didn't, milady. the prince came to me and asked me for your name, as he was immensely curious of who you are so i—"

"so what?—" you can't believe this, you really can't bring yourself to believe any words she was uttering. you should have been bestowed by the news that the prince had taken an interest in her, a hand in marriage, or anything, anything as long as you're out of the picture! "y-you didn't tell him my name, d-didn't you?"

"of course, i did!" exclaimed she did with the widest grin ever.

why are you so freaking happy over this?! clasping your head in your hands as you tragically fall on your knees causing the lady to gasp in shock, ushering to your side to get you up.

"milady?! what's wrong?"

"d-dear," you pouted as you look up to her, "you didn't tell him where my manor's at, r-right?"

she simply replied, "i did? the prince informed me that he's going to send a letter for you to be his partner to the ball."

an imaginary arrow struck back to your heart, forming a humongous hole that threatens to give you a panic attack. what? what in the actual fuck? did you accidentally did something to divert the original story you yourself created? but you didn't even do anything! you tried to do your best to keep the interaction with him as short as possible and he dared to take an interest in you?!

"milady, a letter from the royal palace had arrived for you."

"discard it. throw it. keep it away from my sight."

"milady?!" Liz and the head of the maid exclaimed in utter shock at your nonchalant answer.

"forget about it, forget about it." you clasped your forehead in utter disappointment, yet your brain were creating another plan b for this unexpected turn of events. what should you do? even more so, what would you do now that the prince had asked for you to be by his side to the ballroom?

this won't do, you won't let this happen—you had to look as unattractive and ugly as possible for him to cringe on and finally divert his attention back to the rightfully person who deserved it; the female lead.

your maids could only fall apart every single time you pluck out the enchanting gems they attached on your hair, ears and wrists. their efforts deemed futile as always as you had no mood for any sort of events, it was like a slap to their face as you initially weren't like this. you overheard them that they couldn't get used to how you were adamant in staying behind the spotlight as you often did your very best in dressing yourself up before, with the sole intention of gaining the favour of men and even more better, a prince.

of course, they are totally oblivious to your real identity. only a series of jaw gaping one after another with your change of character, at first—you had a dilemma over whether you should act like the character you created but you later scrap the idea as soon as the anxiety of being engulfed in the crowd suffocated your chest. opting to avoid as many as balls or public events as possible, but that obviously didn't work out that well since you heard of the female lead's arrival from the country side—just like you intended it to be.

and being the proud mother (writer) you are, of course why wouldn't you take one single look at her and see of how far she had came? but alas, one interaction leads to another one and so on—till finally, you became her best friend throughout her entire journey. waiting for the male lead's arrival, and watch their romances blooming and per se—but oh well, look at the situation you were in right now; total disaster.

you truly despise being in such an extravagant puffy gown and the numerous accessories hugging your skin, it's tremendously uncomfortable that you wanted to rip it off part in front of the prince standing before you right now, and right here.

asking for your hand to dance with that odd kittenish smile, that you swore you had never ever written in his personality profile; he should never have been this casual and chill over a person he had just met. he should've been cold as fuck, icy to touch, and a spiralling disaster if you dare to talk to him, so why?

plus how could he have taken an interest in you? you couldn't possibly have added a dose of the love at first sight trope, didn't you? you despised that trope to your very core.

"milady? may i?" he extended his hand before you, patiently waiting for your answer.

you had decided that you're going to reject him quick and efficient—just like the local fast food restaurant your mouth kept drooling over for, smashing a five star review for their inhuman speedy delivery.

"you see, prince jungwon. i have no desire to have a connection with you, a relationship, as a matter of fact."

he raised his eyebrow, seemingly unfazed by your bold words. "i'm curious milady, why so? have i done something that perhaps had annoyed you?"

cliché question, you loathe that. "what if i said you did?"

"then tell me, milady. i'll try my hardest to own up to you—" he took a steps forward, which causes you to immediately step back as well with a frown on your face. you can't, not in this life, to even give him a single chance to get close to you. nah uh.

"no need, and stay one meter apart, please." you pointed your index finger towards the floor and he hesitated, but complied immediately.

"i." you raise your index finger back to yourself and then at him, "don't like you. do you understand?"

"b-but?"

"stop questioning me, prince jungwon." you stayed firm in your spot, "i believe it's a common decency to step back when a lady had voiced out her opinion, a prince like you certainly would understand, am i right?"

Jungwon was clearly taken aback, the fact that you didn't give him a single chance to utter a word nor take a step closer was a hard punch to his face. It feels as if he was trying to reach for you, but you efficiently dodged it with ease. It kind of.. annoys him.

"base on how you didn't say anything anymore, i assumed we're done here! well then, goodbye prince jungwon." you turned your heels towards the entrance, not bothering to waste any time at this goddamn ball. "i hope this will be the very last." you scoffed inside your mind, eager for the story to return to it's original route, and that the prince would soon deem you useless and such—returning to the female lead's arms.

hm, now where's your precious female lead? she should've appeared right now and right here, strike the pot while it's hot!

"i'm afraid i can't back down that easily, milady." jungwon took a few steps forward, wrapping his hand round your wrist as he spun you around to face his eyes filled with blazing determination. one that you specifically added on top of his profile so that your readers would kept it in mind.

your breath hitched down your throat as you remembered there's only two reasons he could have this; one that reminds you when he was at war, shouting at the top of his voice to encourage his soldiers as they push through the enemies, and another reason of it appearing is when he have to get what he wanted, or else all hell will break loose, chaos will ensue.

right, you're truly an idiot. staying a few years in this novel without any memories, and only for it to surface back when you stumble upon the library—dozens of books flickering a series of eccentric images in your mind. It had cause you to lose all memories of important details, only emerging everytime you are presented with a situation you couldn't comprehend. such as when you forgot that the female lead had memory problems and such.

"i'll only present this choices to you, milady. since you tremendously intrigued me over how well spoken you were and fascinating indeed—" bitch, you don't even know how you had the sudden ability to confront him but you were just sure as hell that you don't want to ruin your own novel. no fucking way.

you can't let him have the upper hand on you.

"let me go." irritated to your core, you tried untangle Jungwon's tight grasp on your wrist but he won't budge even an inch which only had you fuming in anger. "i said let me go, bitch!"

the crowd emits a series of gasps and murmurs as you spun around—twisting the prince's arms which had him yelping in pain, and ultimately pinning him onto the ground. with rage consuming you that nothing was going in your way, you slammed your hands on the both side of his head. clenching your jaw and gritting your teeth as you emphasised each word. "you are one a dumb hell of a bitch, when i said i do not want to see you anymore. i mean it. so—"

"so what?" his smug look resurfaces, one that emerges whenever he was being challenged. yes, do that! he should despise you, not take an interest in you! he should loathe you so much that he can't even gaze at you for a second. excitement surged through your veins as you open your mouth, preparing for the last blow.

"so, get lost. just because you're a prince doesn't mean every girl would fall for you, idiot."

an even more louder gasp emits from the crowd as they clearly heard what you said, their jaw gaping and some covering their mouths with their hands as their mind are now bombarded with random questions over how exceedingly brave you are to insult the royal prince, and of what fate will you met now that you've done such an atrocious act.

a low giggle sent shivers down your spine, and goosebumps to riled over your neck as you realise the prince under you had the widest smirk on his face. you frowned deeply, he shouldn't be smirking! he should be fuming in anger and throwing you out of the palace at this moment. so why?!...

"oh milady, how truly fascinating you are." you let out a loud yelp when he grabbed both of your wrists, pulling you closer to his face—a dangerous close proximity against his fluttering eyelashes and lips that your breath caught up in your throat which causes your cheeks to heated up in embarrassment of what kind of position you two were in right now. "i like you, you would certainly be a perfect fit to be by my side."

"what?!" you exclaimed, jaws dropping and eyes about to pop out at his very words. "i don't want to be by your side—"

"a lady like you, i'm afraid to say, intrigues me very much..." Jungwon shots a kittenish wink right through your heart. "be my wife, milady. i'll show you how good I can be for you."

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