#blood+ russian rose | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sergeantbarnessdoll · 1 month ago

Text

Thrown Around and Manhandled » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Week of October 27th-31st

Pairings: Winter Soldier x Female Reader

Summary: You get thrown around and manhandled a little by the Winter Soldier.

Warnings: Smut (18+), language, manhandling, dirty talk, kissing, hickeys, fingering, unprotected sex, praise kink, metal arm kink, size kink, choking, hair pulling, spanking, orgasm denial, degradation, name calling (slut, whore), pet names

A/N: I used Google translate for the Russian translations. My apologies if I got anything wrong.

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buckys-wintersoldier

Halloween divider made by @buckys-wintersoldier

GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!🔞

The sound of a door being opened echoed through the room. You were sitting on the small bed when someone walked in the room. It was the Winter Soldier. He closed the door behind him. He walked towards the bed. His eyes never left you for a second.

“Stand up.” The Winter Soldier demands.

You didn’t dare to move a muscle. You stayed in your spot on the bed. A squeak left your lips when his right hand grabbed your arm with a bruising grip and yanked you up from the bed so you were standing up.

“When I tell you to do something, I expect you to do it.” He says, his face close to yours.

“Y-Yes, Soldat.” You replied with a stutter.

His hand released your arm and shoved you back on the small bed. You sat up on your elbows, looking up at him. He studied your body language. He watched the way your chest rose and fell as you breathed.

He then leaned over you, placing his right hand next to your head while his metal hand grasped your jaw with a firm grip. Not hard enough to hurt you. Before you knew it, his lips were on yours, kissing you roughly. You moaned against his lips.

You were so distracted by him kissing you that you didn’t realize his metal hand left your jaw. His metal hand found the neckline of your shirt and ripped it off, throwing the ruined fabric somewhere in the room. You gasped against his lip when you felt the cool metal of his metal hand touching your skin.

“Are you going to hurt me?” You asked nervously.

“No.” He simply answers.

His metal hand found its way to your breasts, giving it a squeeze. A tingle went through your body when his metal fingers pinched your nipple. He repeated his actions with your other breast.

“Такая красивая.” He mutters in Russian.

His lips moved down to your neck, kissing all over. A whimper left your lips when he bit your neck. Not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough for a hickey. He pulled his lips away from your neck to look at the hickey that was starting to appear on your skin.

“Мой.” He says, looking at the hickey.

His hands found their way to the waistband of your sleep shorts, yanking them down along with your panties. You are now naked and fully exposed to him.

You watched his right hand go in between your legs, his fingers grazing over your pussy, making you gasp and grab his wrist out of instinct. That resulted in him wrapping his metal hand around your throat, giving you a warning look. You stared in his blue eyes that are now dark with lust and let go of his wrist and let him do whatever he’s about to do to you.

Without warning, he slid two of his metal fingers in your pussy. A loud moan fell from your lips. His fingers moved in and out of your pussy at a fast pace.

“Fuck!” You moaned.

“You liked that, don’t you, кукла?” He says huskily.

You moaned and nodded in response, but that wasn’t enough for him. His right hand grasped your jaw, making you look him in the eye.

“I expect you to answer me when I’m talking to you.” He almost growls.

“Yes!” You finally said. “I like it!” You tell him. “So much!” You say.

He smirks and let go of your jaw after he got the answer he wanted. Your hands grasped onto the sheet beneath you, clutching the thin fabric in your hands. The cool feeling of his metal fingers felt so fucking good in your pussy. You love the feeling of them rubbing along your walls.

He unexpectedly curled his fingers, hitting your sweet spot perfectly. Your hips bucked against his metal hand and a loud moan fell from your lips. He placed his right hand on your stomach to hold you down so you couldn’t move.

“No moving.” He said.

His fingers sped up their thrusts. His metal thumb began to rub your clit, applying pressure. Your hands clutched the sheets tighter. Your head tilted back against the mattress and your eyes fluttered shut. The Winter Soldier didn’t like that. He wants your eyes on him at all times, especially right now.

“Open your eyes.” He demands. “Don’t make me ask you again.” He says.

You obeyed his demand and opened your eyes and lifted your head so you were looking at him. His fingers curled again, hitting your sweet spot again. Strings of moans left your lips when he did so. Your orgasm began to build up the more his fingers curled against your sweet spot.

“I-I’m close.” You moaned, almost whimpering.

“No.” Is all he said.

He abruptly took his fingers out of your pussy, making you whine and throw your head back against the mattress in frustration. His right hand grabbed your jaw again, getting you to look at him.

“What the hell have I told you about your fucking whining?” He asks, his face getting close to yours.

“Not to.” You answered.

“Then quit your fucking whining before I give you something to whine about.” He says.

He gave you a rough kiss before letting go of your jaw. He pulled away from your lips to stand up straight. He grabbed your arm, pulling you up from the bed. He turned you around so you were facing the bed and pushed you onto the bed. You were now laying on your stomach. You looked over your shoulder, glancing back at him.

“Eyes forward.” He orders, turning your head so you were looking at the wall in front of you.

A tingle went through your body when you heard the sound of the zipper of his tactical pants being unzipped. He pulled down his tactical pants and boxers just enough for his cock to spring out. He put his hands on your hips, forcefully lifting you up enough so your knees were on the mattress and your ass was in the air. His right hand landed a harsh smack on your ass, making you squeak. A red hand print mark would soon appear.

You felt the mattress dip behind you in between your legs. You shivered when you felt the cool metal of his metal hand against your upper back. His metal hand pushed your upper body against the mattress, keeping you in place. He wrapped his right hand around his hard cock, stroking it a couple times before lining it at your wet and tight entrance. Your hands clutched the sheet again, bracing yourself for his cock, knowing how big he is. Your mouth fell open and a whimper left your lips when he slid his cock in your pussy. The stretch from his cock stung, but it also felt good.

The Winter Soldier gave you no warning and no time to adjust to his size whatsoever when he started thrusting. His thrusts were fast and rough, but you were all for it. His metal hand slid up to the back of your head, grabbing a handful of your hair and pulled you up so your back was against the front of his body. You winced at the tight grip his hand had on your hair, but you didn’t complain one bit.

“You like it when I do this, don’t you, кукла?” He says in your ear.

“Mhmm, yes!” You answered.

He chuckled lowly in your ear. The Winter Soldier can easily throw you around if he wants. Not in a way to hurt you. If you’re being honest, you like it when he basically throws you around like a rag doll and manhandles you. He knows it too. It catches you off guard sometimes, but other than that, you like it.

His metal hand left your hair and snaked its way to your throat, wrapping his hand around your throat and squeezing it, not hard enough to cut off your airway. You moaned at the feeling of it. Your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your head. You brought a hand up to his metal wrist and wrapped your hand around it, keeping his metal hand there.

“Fuck, you’re such a whore for my metal arm.” He growls, squeezing your throat a bit tighter.

You moaned at the feeling. He sped up his thrusts. His pelvis pressed up against your ass every time he thrusted. The material of his tactical pants rubbed against your skin. The sound of skin slapping and the smell of sex filled the room.

“You like being my own personal cockslut, don’t you, кукла?” He says, his voice sounding husky.

“Y-Yes!” You moaned.

Your moans urges him on. His thrusts became harder. His right hand found its way to your clit, his fingers rubbing you clit vigorously. You arched your back off of his body. Your pussy squeezed around his cock. The Winter Soldier moaned at the feeling. At this point, your nails were digging into his metal wrist. Your legs began shaking from the amount of pleasure you were receiving. That’s when you felt your lower stomach tighten. Your orgasm was building up so fast. Your moans got louder and high pitched.

“Oh f-fuck!” You moaned. “Can I cum please?” You asked.

“No.” Is all he said.

“Please!” You begged.

“I don’t care how much you beg. You’re coming when I do.” He says.

You squeezed your eyes shut. It took everything in you to hold back and not cum. You were right there too, but he told you to hold it. Your pussy fluttered around his cock once more, making his cock twitch inside of you. His orgasm was building up too. He is just as close to coming as you are.

“Fuck!” He moans as he came inside of you.

His cum painted your walls. There was a white ring of cum around his cock as he continued to fuck you.

“Cum.” He says, finally giving you permission.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you came hard, soaking his cock and the front of his tactical pants.

“Good girl.” He praises, patting your clit a couple times.

He gave your clit a rough rub before he stopped rubbing it. His thrusts came to a slow stop. He let go of your throat and pulled his cock out of you. You nearly lost your balance on your knees. He spun you around, manhandling you. You moaned against your lips when he kissed you roughly. He pulled away and pushed you backwards. You fell back on the bed. The Winter Soldier glanced down at you cum filled pussy. His right hand reached down and his thumb began rubbing your sensitive clit. You whimpered and squirmed. He chuckled lowly. He put his cock back in his boxers and zipped and buttoned them back up.

“Until next time, кукла.” He says softly, lightly patting your cheek with his metal hand.

-Bucky’s Doll

595 notes · View notes

ajkiel89 · 2 years ago

Text

Roses just finish your job by killing Sml for now

#Sml #Logan #sml logan #roses #polar bear #Russian assassin #muscular women #human #spine ripped #Fatality #blood #spine #Gore

0 notes

copinghex · 4 months ago

Text

The noose | T.S

Summary: Tommy's wife returned home after the failure of his plan got the whole family arrested. The way they deal with her trauma ends up sending her to a worse place.

The feeling of the noose around her neck still haunted her. At that moment, all she thought about was her family, Rose was a daddy's girl, she would be fine eventually, but what about Violet? What about Tommy? What about her brother and mother? What about Finn?

What about Polly? The woman was side by side with her, tears ran down her face as she muttered a prayer and there was nothing Y/N could do, except hoping that her in-laws on the cells aside met a better ending.

With a deep breath, she revisited the past, the smell of Grace's hair as she held the spy from behind, the sound of the train coming and the bitter taste on her tongue, reminding her Tommy that could be dead by then, that if she let Grace go, she’d certainly reach for the gun a few steps away. Her only choices were to kill or die.

Then, the saving yell came, a desperate guard who didn't truly care for the Shelbys' life and was only complying with the king's order of setting the family free.

As they met again in the hallway of jail, no words were said. Polly cried in Michael's arms while Arthur and John hugged each other. Y/N stood there, speechless, waiting for someone to cross the door and hold her too, but no one did.

Somehow, she knew they also blamed her, because she should've talked Tommy out of the russians' business, because she should've given a warning before their arrest. She wished she had then, if she only hadn't choked on her own fear, perhaps their forgiveness would come easily.

On the way out, a driver waited for her, Y/N scoffed at the realization Tommy was too ashamed to face her. She wondered if he still blamed the stupid cursed sapphire for all their misery.

Finally, she was home again, Rose and Violet ran to their mother's arms, crying about how much they missed her. Tommy watched the scene from afar with too many words stuck in his throat, if he was able to kneel and apologize, it still wouldn't erase the guilt he felt.

After Y/N promised she'd never leave again, the children left her alone and she had to encounter her husband. However, while he had too much to say, she had nothing.

The truth was that Tommy always had too much to say, he was a clever, eloquent man, no one ever struggled in maintaining a conversation with him because his views of life were beyond intriguing. The war had taken away his will to speak, but his mind was still a powerforce capable of generating the most fascinating speeches.

On the other hand, Y/N carried herself silently, preferring to show than tell. Every time Tommy spoke about politics, science, religion or even boring mundane tasks, she paid close attention, not bothering to hide the adoration in her eyes. She believed displaying genuine interest was more flattering than attempting to engage in the conversation.

Standing at the entry of the house, they remained silent and silently the days went by. No talks about what happened, no apologies, no touches or significant looks. Everything went back to normal as they ignored the elephant in the room.

That lasted until a particularly warm night, the children were in bed, all the windows were open and many watch dogs guarded the garden. The summer was coming and Y/N decided to welcome it by getting a new style, joining the new fashion of haircuts above the shoulders, as if a new external could cease the mess in her head.

That night no comments were made about her sudden change, everyone sensed the tense atmosphere including herself, who was in desperate need of relaxing, then the idea popped in her head, she needed a long, warm bath.

Heading to the bathroom, she denied the maids' offers of help, aware that she regenerated better alone. She filled the bathtub with cold water and enough soap to make bubbles.

The sudden temperature change sent a shiver down her spine, the blood running on her veins matched summer and took a while to cool up. Resting her head on the tub's edge, Y/N closed her eyes trying to focus on the delicious smell of lavender soap.

However, her heart beated fast and her chest held a tight feeling, as if someone was stepping on her, crashing her ribs and making it hard to breathe.

Her jaw clenched as she ran hands through her recently cut hair, the strange feeling persisted and her blood traveled to her face, heating up her cheeks.

Ignoring the situation, she took deep, slow breaths and rationalized the symptoms. She had an awful couple of months, her body must've been too warm when she got into the cold water. That was all, it would pass.

In the frustrated attempt to calm down, Y/N conjured happy memories. The night her and Tommy celebrated the first legal betting license. Their first honeymoon night and how delighted she was to be officially his wife. When they moved in and inaugurated the house by spending the night together in the bathtub.

Everything with the same Tommy she hadn't spoken to in weeks, the same Tommy she had killed for, the same one to send her to the noose.

The rope squeezed her braid and neck together, Polly's silent prayer was all to be heard, but God wouldn't save them, what would happen next? Was it all done? Would she wake up somewhere else? Was the sapphire really cursed? What now? She wasn't dead but she couldn't breathe,

She couldn't breathe…

She couldn't breathe…!

Y/N opened her eyes, noticing her cheeks wet with tears, gasping for air, her shaky hands grabbed the bathtub's edge in a quick impulse to stand up. Water drops trickled from her naked body making a mess on the bathroom's door, the dogs were barking outside and her sight was getting dark.

Clumsily, she managed to reach for her robe, covering herself with the soft piece of clothing. The tears still came out as her legs got weak, holding onto the walls, she supposed she bumped on something because maids were knocking on the door, "Is everything alright, Mrs. Shelby?"

Y/N recognized Frances' voice, unable to answer, she shrunk her legs and pressed her lips together.

"I think we should call Mr. Shelby," another maid suggested.

Despite feeling weak, her feet moved rhythmically, quick with the energy the rest of her body was lacking. In a matter of seconds, Tommy called for her.

"Y/N, are you alright in there?" the worry in his tone was clear, "Y/N, I need an answer even if you don't want to talk to me!"

Gulping, she brushed off her wet cheeks and sobbed, "Tommy?"

"Y/N, are you alright?"

"...no,"

Everything got silent, the fear was slipping away as she heard the door unlocking. The extra keys, every single door in the house had extra keys. Tired and confused, she remained still.

Tommy rushed to her, it was his turn to panic, he kneeled to her level looking for injuries. Not finding any, he worried even more.

"What the fuck happened?" he sat her up, "What happened, love?"

Ashamed, she stared at the floor, a knot formed on her throat with the urge of crying again, "I don't know- I-"

She sobbed, shrugging off. He immediately pulled her to his chest, not caring if her wet hair would ruin his shirt, "No, no, it's alright, eh? You're alright, I got you now,"

Words were unnecessary for Tommy to acknowledge he was the root of her suffering. He knew how badly he fucked up and seeing his wife like that was the worst punishment ever. Worse than his family's hatred, worse than the possibility of her leaving him, worse than himself being hanged.

Together at bathroom's floor, they grieved her near death. Not all the money, cars or jewels they had could fix the damage, perhaps not even time could, a scar would remain forever regardless of her forgiving him or not.

Feeling her snuggled into him, Tommy muttered, "We need to talk,"

Fidgeting with the buttons of his shirt, she quietly answered, "I think we do."

#tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinder fanfic #reader insert

217 notes · View notes

intuitive-revelations · 6 months ago

Text

The near future in the Doctor Who universe sure gets dire doesn't it? Especially if Mad Jack / Roger ap Gwilliam is still part of history.

I thought I'd have a bit of fun listing things out, combining as many sources as possible. Turns out he fits in shockingly well with what we know. There's a lot missing here or cut out, and for obvious reasons it's very UK / Europe focused, but nonetheless:

[ID: Scene from The Christmas Invasion showing Harriet Jones on BBC News. The news ticker reads "PM HEALTH SCARE", "Unfit for duty?", and references a "SECRET GOVERNMENT MOLE" and a quote: "BLOOD ON [HER HANDS]".]

2006-2021 (obviously the past now, but still noting for the resulting temporal and political butterfly effect) - In the original timeline, Harriet Jones remains Prime Minister for 3 consecutive terms, presumably 15 years assuming no snap election was called, referred to as a 'golden age' [World War Three]. The Tenth Doctor deliberately changes history to cause her deposal [The Christmas Invasion], leading to numerous disastrous terms in the meantime, including those of Harold Saxon [The Sound of Drums et al.], Brian Green (who tried to appease the 456) [Children of Earth], Boris Johnson (an auton host of the Nestene Consciousness) [Rose (novelisation)], and Jo Patterson (responsible for deploying cloned Dalek defence drones in the UK's streets) [Revolution of the Daleks].

[ID: Scene from Revolution of the Daleks. A 'defence drone' Dalek is used to support anti-riot police in a test, dispersing protestors with mock tear gas.]

2010s-2030s - The European Union gradually integrates further, eventually becoming the European Zone / Eurozone, a global superpower which competes with the USA through the 21st century. The UK eventually forms part of the bloc [Trading Futures].

It's likely that Harriet Jones's deposal led to this and related events being delayed or erased, with Brexit (driven by, among others, one of Jones's successors in the new timeline) reducing european unity. Most notably, Ramón Salamander's rise to power occurs now not in the 2010s [The Enemy of the World], but in the 2030s [Doctor Who and the Enemy of the World]. There are other events that are seemingly delayed by ~20 years by changes to the timeline, including future events like the dictatorship of Mariah Learman [The Time of the Daleks, Trading Futures], and yet also possibly past events like the death of Queen Elizabeth II [Battlefield, The Longest Night et al.], which may suggest something else (eg. the Time War) may be responsible.

~2030 - During a time of rising global tensions [73 Yards], Ramón Salamander convinces a group of scientists in an underground shelter endurance experiment that nuclear war has broken out on the surface. They are convinced to generate artificial "natural" disasters to fight back against the enemy. Between this and ongoing climate change, several global food sources collapse as a result, including Canada and Ukraine's corn and flour production [The Enemy of the World].

2031 - Tensions culminate in the "Great Russian War". Despite posturing, not a single nuclear weapon is fired, at least by NATO [73 Yards]. This may be later considered World War III [Trading Futures].

~2032-2035 - Following the war, tensions rise again, now between the Eurozone and the USA [Trading Futures], possibly in reaction to actions (or lack thereof?) taken by NATO during the war [73 Yards]. Both send separate peacekeeping forces to conflict in North Africa. Meanwhile, Italy is engaged in civil war [Trading Futures].

[ID: Scene from The Enemy of the World, showing Ramón Salamander.]

Over the decade, Ramón Salamander rises in power in the World Zone Authority, using his patented "Sun Store" satellite technology to aid the growth of crops by controlling sunlight over agricultural regions. In the background, he murders and blackmails officials to place loyalists into powerful positions, with the goal of ruling over the World Zone Authority as a dictator. Salamander's treachery is later discovered and he disappears [The Enemy of the World].

2037 - 2042 - Several militia declare wars of Independence from the USA. Notably, Phoenix, Arizona is destroyed in a terrorist attack. While the country largely persists after the conflicts, some territories seem to successfully secede - with, for example, a Montana Republic seemingly being in existence in 2054 [Alien Bodies].

2038 - The World Zones Accord is signed. This is later considered to have reduced the United Nations to a 'joke' compared with the World Zone Authority [Alien Bodies]. Given the extensive power it gives to the WZA, this was likely originally part of Salamander's plan, but due to his disappearance he is not around to reap the rewards [The Enemy of the World].

2039 - A group of Mexican astronauts studying minerals on the Moon go missing [Kill the Moon].

~2030s - 2040s - The Earth begins to experience major climate change effects, including "appalling storm conditions" which harm agriculture [The Waters of Mars]. The ice caps melt and flood much of the Earth [K9] with nations like the Netherlands ending up entirely flooded [St Anthony's Fire]. Some regions experience corrosive acid rain [Cat's Cradle: War Head, Strange Loops]. One summer sees Britain experience a 22 week drought. At this time, the Eurozone closes its borders to millions of North African and Baltic Sea refugees [Hothouse]. This time period may be known as the "Oil Apocalypse" [The Waters of Mars].

[ID: Scene from K9 Episode 13: Aeolian. Big Ben stands in the middle of a colossal storm of wind and rain.]

With Earth's ecosystems collapsing [Davros], humanity begin to realise it's facing extinction [The Waters of Mars]. An artificial cooling agent is spread in the atmosphere to semi-successfully combat the effects, but leads to dramatic side-effects, including freezing some areas of the globe. This is known as the "Great Cataclysm" [K9].

2041 - A three-human team, including Adelaide Brooke, lands on Mars for the first time [The Waters of Mars]. However, with this accomplishment, and increasing turbulence on Earth, Humanity gradually loses interest in space exploration [Kill the Moon].

Before 2045 - Around this time, the UK falls into a dictatorship ruled by the "Director", head of a military council that has allegedly (secretly?) controlled the government since 2028 [Britain Protests]. It is possible that this Director was previously the "Minister of War" for previous governments [Before the Flood].

2045 - The World Zones Authority evolves into a World Government, with Nikita Bandranaik being elected President. The UK is not part of the organisation [This is 2065].

2046-2050s - The Director is overthrown [Down with the Director] and the rest of the government "collapses in shame" [73 Yards]. Some of the revolutionaries celebrate now being "masters of [their] own country" [Down with the Director]. Despite the hopes of the World Government for international integration, this nationalistic streak continues.

[ID: Scene from 73 Yards. Roger ap Gwilliam, with an Albion Party ribbon on his chest declares victory on BBC News, live from Kennington High in London. Headline reads "LANDSLIDE VICTORY FOR ALBION PARTY: Majority of 92 predicted. Roger ap Gwilliam declared Prime Minister."]

Roger ap Gwilliam is elected Prime Minister, with the far-right nationalistic Albion Party gaining a majority of 92 MPs [73 Yards]. While his government does take the step to officially join the World Government senate [Down with the Director], he seeks greater independence from other nations. One of his first actions is to expand the UK's nuclear arsenal, purchasing missiles from Pakistan and withdrawing from NATO. In his term, the world is brought to the brink of nuclear war [73 Yards], likely in the pre-2050s "Euro Wars" [The Time of the Daleks].

In this time, the "Department", a (private?) multinational security organisation is born, based primarily in the UK. They gain broad powers, which they use to control populations with propaganda and use of "CCPC"s: robotic law enforcement notorious for their surveillance and brutality. Despite its recent revolution, the country is rendered practically a police state [K9].

[ID: Scene from K9 Episode 1: Regeneration. CCPCs, hulking police robots, march down a dark alley.]

2049 - The Moon starts to dramatically gain mass, causing massive tides on the Earth, flooding entire cities. In a last ditch at survival, humanity plans to try and destroy the Moon using an array of nuclear bombs. Despite the people of Earth being offered the vote on what to do by turning off their lights, it appears the decision is made on a national level, with lights going off grid-by-grid. Nonetheless, the Moon is allowed to hatch, leaving behind a new less massive egg "moon" with minimal further destruction [Kill the Moon].

[ID: Scene from Kill the Moon. The Moon hatches in the background, as the TARDIS stands by the sea.]

Humanity's interest in space exploration returns [Kill the Moon], starting a new space race. Among these projects, Australia begins constucting a space elevator, Spain a project called "SpaceLink", while Germany and Russia each begin a series of new Moon missions. The Philippines are rumoured to be planning their own landing on Mars [The Waters of Mars].

~2050 - The UK Government (ap Gwilliam's?) is couped once more, by General Mariah Learman. With the King's permission, elections are suspended for at least a couple years, with her ruling over a "benevolent dictatorship". She is later abducted and forcibly mutated by the Daleks [The Time of the Daleks]. Despite the previous description, her promotion of Shakespeare in schools is remembered as the only good thing about her rule [Trading Futures]. (Note: As mentioned prior, it's likely that Learman's rule may have been delayed as Salamander's was. This is suggested by the mention of her in Trading Futures, set seemingly ~2030s or earlier, despite The Time of the Daleks taking place around the 2050s.)

~2050s - The Gravitron is built on the new Moon. This is used to artificially control the tides and weather [The Moonbase]. It likely also is intended to study and monitor the new Moon for future changes [Kill the Moon].

[ID: Scene from The Moonbase, giving an external shot of the base.]

2058 - 2059 - Bowie Base One is established: humanity's first colony on another planet and an international collaboration between the UK, USA, Russia, Germany, Turkey, South Korea, Lithuania, Australia, and Pakistan. One year later, it is mysteriously destroyed in a deliberately triggered nuclear explosion. In the original timeline, there were no survivors. However, after the interference of the Time Lord Victorious, the true story is eventually told on Earth. Regardless "a veil of darkness" sweeps over the planet over the next few years. [The Waters of Mars], as international tensions heat up once more... [Total Eclipse of the Heart].

[ID: Scene from The Waters of Mars, showing an internet news website. Various articles appear focused on the Bowie Base One incident, including "SURVIVORS STORY - BROOKE SAVED EARTH", "THE MYTHICAL DOCTOR", "BROOKE'S HEROIC ACTIONS SAVE EARTH", and "HOW THE COUPLE ESCAPED MARS". The feature image shows the two survivors: Yuri Kerenski and Mia Bennett.]

2060s - The "Great War" breaks out on Earth, involving every country on Earth. This is likely World War IV. Details are vague, but it ultimately ends in a ceasefire, when it's realised the conflict is risking Earth's habitability [Total Eclipse of the Heart].

#Doctor Who #DW Spoilers #Doctor Who Spoilers #73 Yards #DW Theory #Canon-Welding #Long Post

337 notes · View notes

prettyboypistol · 10 months ago

Note

merc Valentine headcanons if you're up for it?

TF2 VALENTINES HEADCANONS!

no art for this post because I've posted 3 times todayyyy

Scout

ridiculously corny and a tryhard- you're getting the whole shebang with him! Flowers, dinner(?), a teddy bear!

gets really frustrated/anxious when things don't go exactly as planned

you thought his planned pick up lines were cheesy? just wait til you put him on the spot. You could probably quote them all from specific books of pick up lines.

Soldier

He'd make an honest effort to try and romance you- but nothing would really turn out as you would expect traditionally. With your luck, the date will be fighting a pack of bears for more of his honey stash!

In the end though, you can tell through Jane's actions that he loved you with all his heart. Even if the romance was a bust, he's still going to be your ride or die forever!

The day would end with you two covered in various ratios of blood and honey staring at the setting sun. So I guess that's a win?

Pyro

Doesn't really have a concept of Valentine's Day, but once explained to them, they are so on board with pampering you the entire day!

Of course, the way to make their day is to just relax by a bonfire and snuggle up next to a radio.

They give you one of your shirts back as a gift- only to see that they embroidered little rings of fire around the cuffs! (who let them touch needles????)

Engineer

definitely a lot more relaxed about valentines than most of the other more "passionate" mercs, but he's still earnestly sweet nonetheless.

His gift to you is a little music box he made and a rose he welded together out of sheet metal.

Dell probably had your gifts done ahead of time then subsequently forgot what day it was (you had to remind him of the dinner date that you two planned earlier that week)

Heavy

Mikhail lust loves kissing and loving on you, he will play coy about valentine's day until the evening, where he spoils you senseless.

Dinner and drinks get shared over a movie and cuddles. Nothing feels better than your big teddybear of a boyfriend and the smell of mulled wine as you laugh at some stupid movie you two are barely paying attention to.

Once you fall asleep in his arms he murmurs poetry to you in Russian, all of them written just for you.

Demoman

He... well, honestly, he kinda blows it.

He remembered the special day, but he's really just lackluster. Valentine's day is just another day to him and he thinks he doesn't need a specific day. When he realizes that you are hurt, he overhauls it in the next few days. He shows off the multimillions that he actually does make and pampers you rotten.

Apologies and kisses and wonderful dinners aside, Tavish holds you close and murmurs just about how much he loves you.

Medic

He trained his doves to do little tricks just for youuuuu awww

Remember that shitty ex you had? Yeah, that's their heart. Mhm. Yep. Go ahead. Stab it. :) (Gift giving, act of service, quality time)

Puts a record on and dances you around the medical room with little kisses and flirtatious lines of how cute you look when you're flustered and trying not to step on his feet.

Spy

Romance KING! The fright of commitment is still there and paralyzing at times, but he powered through it for you! After all, you see him at his worst every day and to see him, he is slightly more comfortable to be honest with you.

Roses and a bottle of wine are in your room, along with a card signed by "Your handsome rogue"

You two go to dinner and then to his smoking room to really relax, those parfaits were perfectly handmade just for you two.

Sniper

He invites you out to camp with you and hunt, but he really liked showing off his survival skills in front of you. You ever had gator?

Mick loves cooking in front of you and really putting on a show. It feels like the one time he can really accept praise is when you look in awe.

Everything is done for you whenever you try to do something. Making coffee? "Nah love, I'll get it." Your back hurt? "Lay down, chickadee, I'll give you a massage."

385 notes · View notes

russicnroses · 2 months ago

Text

RUSSIAN ROSE | VOLUME TWO | PART 4

CHAPTER THREE: [N/A]

PAGES: 128 - 144

TRANSLATION TOOL: Chatgpt

CONTENT / WARNINGS: long post, blood, death mention.

As the first breath of spring thawed the snow, the village stirred with a quiet energy. It was tradition in this small, isolated hamlet that as the snow melted and the earth softened, people—adults and children alike—would gather in the single tavern that doubled as a diner. The building, worn by time and weather, stood like a gathering point for weary souls, a sanctuary where laughter and sorrow could blend together without judgment.

The tavern itself was a rough-hewn place, with dark wooden beams and a large stone hearth where the fire flickered like a heartbeat. On such days, the villagers came to drink, eat, and share the latest news of births, deaths, and fortunes. Today, as children played in a corner, the tavern was no different. Laughter bounced from the low ceiling, the scent of stew and ale filling the air.

"Hey, kid," a gruff voice called out, pulling the attention of a boy who was engrossed in a game with his friends. "Can you tell me if my mare is going to give birth to a filly or a colt this spring?"

The boy’s eyes flickered with a strange light as he stood up, brushing the dust off his worn trousers. People often asked him such questions, though he was no older than twelve. His reputation for knowing things—strange things, things that others couldn’t—had spread like wildfire through the village. His answers always seemed to come true, and though no one could explain it, no one dared to challenge it either.

He glanced at the man who had asked, a middle-aged farmer with a face weathered by years of hard labor. The boy could see the desperation in the man’s eyes—this horse was more than just livestock. It was the key to the farmer’s future.

"I think it’ll be a filly," the boy said, his voice calm, though his eyes seemed to look past the man, as if seeing something beyond. "She’ll be strong. And by next year, she’ll give birth to a healthy foal. Your family will grow richer with each season."

The man’s face broke into a broad smile, his eyes lighting up with hope. "Is that so? A filly, huh? Well, well! That’s some good news, boy. Some real good news!"

With a hearty laugh, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins, pressing them into the hands of the boy’s father, who had been sitting at a nearby table, deeply immersed in a card game.

"Buy your boy something to eat, will you?" the farmer said, slapping the father on the back with enough force to make him lurch forward. The man left the tavern, whistling to himself, hope radiating from every step.

The boy’s father chuckled, pocketing the coins as he stood up from the card table. His movements were slow, deliberate, like a man who had seen too much of life and learned not to rush through it.

The father ruffled his son’s hair as he approached, a faint smile tugging at his lips. There was pride in his eyes, but also something else—a flicker of doubt, perhaps even worry.

"You’ve got a knack for saying just the right things, don’t you?" he muttered, kneeling down so that his lips were near the boy’s ear. "You’re clever, no doubt. But don’t get too carried away, alright? If a colt is born this spring, people might start calling you a liar."

The boy looked up at his father, his innocent face a mask of quiet certainty. "It’s not a lie, Father. I just know. Like how I always know where you’ve hidden the pebble in your hands."

His father sighed, that wry smile returning as he remembered the many nights they had spent playing that game. He would clasp his hands together, hiding a small pebble in one fist, and the boy would have to guess where it was. More often than not, the boy guessed correctly, though there was no logical explanation for it.

The boy loved those moments—the look of anticipation on his father’s face, the way his father’s hand would linger on his head after he guessed right, ruffling his hair with a mix of pride and affection. For the boy, it was a small price to pay, just to see his father smile like that.

But now, as his father’s smile faded, the boy felt a tug of something heavier in his chest, something that felt like responsibility.

A few nights passed, and the tavern buzzed with the usual clamor of drink and dice. But tonight, a new tension gripped the room. The man who had asked about his foal stormed into the tavern, his face flushed, his steps unsteady. He reeked of cheap liquor, and his eyes were wild with anger.

"My horse is dead!" he bellowed, his voice breaking through the din like a knife. "My mare is dead! Do you hear me? She’s dead!"

The room fell silent as the man stumbled forward, collapsing onto a table where a group of men had been playing cards. In a fit of rage, he swiped his arm across the table, sending glasses and cards crashing to the floor.

One of the men at the table, furious at the intrusion, stood up, his face red with anger. He grabbed the drunken man by the collar, but the man was too far gone, his body slumping like dead weight to the floor. His anger quickly dissolved into tears, and soon he was sobbing uncontrollably.

Everyone in the room knew how hard the man had worked to buy that horse. His mare had been his pride, his hope for a better future. Now, with her gone, that future was slipping through his fingers like sand.

The boy watched from the corner, his heart heavy. He saw the man’s friend, a quiet figure who usually kept to himself, standing near the bar. Without thinking, the boy approached him and tugged on his sleeve.

"You should take him home," the boy said quietly.

For a brief moment, the man turned, and in that fleeting second, the boy caught something in his expression—a cruel smile, sharp and bitter, like a hidden knife. But just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, replaced by the familiar, stoic face of a simple village man.

The man helped the drunken farmer to his feet, speaking in low, calming tones. "Come on, get up. Everything that lives eventually dies. It’s the will of the gods. You’ll save up again, you’ll manage."

As they left the tavern, the boy felt a sudden wave of dizziness wash over him, a strange sense of wrongness.

He had seen it. The man had poisoned the horse. On the day the boy had said a filly would be born, he had seen the man’s face, twisted with envy. The boy knew, deep in his bones, that the mare’s death had not been a tragedy—it had been murder.

---

The evening was heavy with silence when the boy’s father returned home, his face clouded with unease. The lamplight flickered in the small house, casting long shadows that seemed to sway with the man’s troubled thoughts. Without a word, he removed his coat, soaked from the cold night air, and sat heavily at the table, his eyes distant. Across from him, his son, now a young man in his own right, quietly ate his meal, the clinking of utensils against the wooden bowls the only sound between them.

“It got out,” the father finally said, voice low and rough. “That man, the one who mixed the poison—everyone knows now.” He paused, the weight of his words sinking into the stillness. “They beat him. Beat him within an inch of his life.”

The boy didn’t stop eating, his expression unchanging. “So they found out,” he muttered, half to himself.

The father’s gaze snapped to his son’s face, catching the fleeting flicker of indifference there. His eyes narrowed. “And how did they find out? You weren’t supposed to say anything.”

The boy shrugged, his tone casual, almost bored. “I just told them it was probably him. They were happy to hear it. I thought you’d be too.”

The father’s face froze, his weathered skin pale under the flickering light. For a moment, neither spoke, the tension growing thick between them. The father’s hands, rough and calloused, gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white. He stared at his son, not understanding. Not recognizing the boy he’d raised.

“Don’t you see what you’ve done?” he hissed, leaning forward as if to contain the anger boiling inside him. “You told them something out of spite. You played with people’s lives like they were a game. What you did... what you said...”

The boy’s eyes flickered up, meeting his father’s gaze with a calmness that bordered on defiance. “I just said what everyone wanted to hear. It’s not my fault they acted on it.”

The father, unable to comprehend the cold detachment in his son’s voice, felt a chill seep into his bones. The boy before him was no longer the child he once knew. There was something else there now—something darker.

---

The bell from the village church tolled in the distance, its sound clear and sharp in the cold night air. Outside, the wind stirred the fallen leaves, sending them skittering across the ground like whispered secrets. The young man, now far from the village where he’d once lived, stood quietly in the courtyard of a small, isolated church. He listened to the bells as they rang out, marking the passage of time in this place he had come to know as home.

It had been several years since he left the village, choosing the life of a pilgrim. His departure had not been a noble one—he’d left with no goodbyes, only the weight of his father’s disdain and the village’s unspoken judgment. For a time, he wandered, aimless, until his journey brought him here, to this church where the priest had taken him in.

At first, the priest’s kindness felt strange. Unfamiliar. But over time, the young man learned how to navigate the expectations of those around him. He knew how to read people, to understand their desires. It wasn’t difficult to earn the priest’s favor—just say what he wanted to hear, perform the duties asked of him, and life would continue quietly. Peacefully.

He had no complaints. The routine of church life, though monotonous, was not without its comforts. The solitude, the silence—it was far from the chaos of his past. But there were still those who resented him, the outsider who had somehow earned a place of respect.

One cold evening, when the priest was away at a gathering, the young man was called by one of the monks, a man who had been part of the church long before he arrived. There was something in the monk’s voice, a tension that hadn’t been there before. Without thinking much of it, the young man followed him, curiosity gnawing at the edges of his mind.

As soon as they were alone, the monk’s fist came down hard, striking him across the face. The blow was sudden, shocking, and the young man staggered, his hand instinctively going to his cheek. But the monk wasn’t done. With a snarl, he struck again, his rage spilling out in furious, disjointed words.

“You—! You think you can just come here, take everything?! The priest, the church—everything was fine before you came!”

The young man didn’t understand at first, his mind reeling from the violence. But as the monk continued, the truth became clear. He was hated. Not for anything he had done, but simply for being there. For being favored. For being different.

The monk, his face twisted with fury, grabbed a hot iron rod from the nearby brazier. Before the young man could react, the monk pressed it against his face, the searing pain unimaginable. He screamed, but the monk didn’t stop. Blow after blow landed, each one more brutal than the last, until the young man could no longer feel the pain. He slipped into darkness, his body limp, his mind barely clinging to consciousness.

When it was over, the monk dragged him outside and left him in the snow, his breath shallow, his body broken. The wind howled around him, the cold biting deep into his skin, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t.

Am I going to die here? he wondered, the thought echoing in his mind as the snow began to cover him. Is this how it ends? Is this the price for being different?

Just as the last flicker of life began to fade from him, he heard a voice—a girl’s voice, clear and sweet, like the chiming of a bell.

---

“What beautiful hair.”

Even though he couldn’t see, he could hear the softness in her words, feel the warmth in her presence. How could anyone be here, in this storm? His mind, already drifting into oblivion, struggled to make sense of it.

Something delicate touched his forehead—fingertips, gentle and impossibly soft, as though they might disappear at any moment. Was this an angel, come to take him away? Or was it a delusion, a final illusion in the moments before death?

The voice spoke again, closer this time.

“How wonderful. You are one of the chosen.”

Chosen? He tried to understand. Was she talking about the power he had? The power that had brought him nothing but suffering? To him, it had never been a gift—only a burden.

“Poor thing...” The voice was filled with pity now. “You’ve suffered so much. The foolish can never understand.”

There was an edge to her words, a sharpness that didn’t match the tenderness of her tone. Who was she? And why did she speak as though she knew him?

“I like you,” the voice said, almost playfully. “It’s alright, isn’t it?”

As her words intertwined with the howling wind, the young man felt a strange sensation—a power, ancient and deep, stirring within him. But he was too weak, too far gone, to grasp it.

Somewhere, in the storm, he thought he heard another voice, low and distant. But perhaps that, too, was just his imagination.

A presence draws closer, an eerie sensation filling the air. Suddenly, a hot liquid rushes into his mouth, its taste and scent unmistakable—blood.

The instant the realization strikes him, a violent convulsion sweeps through his entire body. Against his will, he rises momentarily before crashing back into the snow, the cold stark against his skin.

“What... is this? What is this?” His mind races, confusion clouding his thoughts.

An intense rejection grips him, nearly drowning in a tide of fear. A shock pierces through his body, one that he should have long since become numb to, and in that moment, he loses consciousness, spiraling into darkness.

After an indeterminate amount of time, he awakens to find himself in a decaying church. Dust dances in the sunlight streaming through a broken dome window, illuminating the faded remnants of a once-sacred space. It appears that no one has visited this place in ages; the air is thick with silence. The howling snowstorm has subsided, leaving behind an unsettling stillness.

As his eyes adjust, he notices a small figure silhouetted against the light. His heart skips a beat.

A soft gasp escapes his lips as he recognizes the figure, astonishment washing over him despite the belief that it had been burned to ashes.

The girl steps forward slowly, her presence almost ethereal in the glow. As she approaches, the young man feels an inexplicable pull, as if all of his consciousness and being is drawn toward her. It dawns on him that the blood he had tasted moments ago belongs to her—DIVA.

Gently, the girl reaches out and brushes a strand of his silver hair, her small, red lips hovering close. “You’re so beautiful, shining in the sunlight...” Her voice is like a melody, soothing and enchanting.

Her smile seems to illuminate the dim church, reminiscent of an icon brought to life.

Memories flood his mind, tales of a black-robed statue of Mary that was once venerated in this region. According to legend, that icon, housed within its church, was the source of countless miracles, drawing pilgrims from far and wide.

Now, as the girl stands before him, she possesses a divinity that eclipses even that storied Mary.

“Do you have a name?” she inquires, her eyes shimmering with curiosity.

Even when asked such a question by a girl who appears to be merely sixteen or seventeen, he feels an unexpected warmth instead of anger.

“Grigori...” he replies, the name slipping from his lips like a confession.

With an overwhelming sense of surrender, he bows his head.

“Grigori Efimovich Rasputin—your faithful servant.”

The words resonate in the high dome of the church, where people stand with heads bowed, their murmurs echoing around him like whispers in a sacred sanctuary.

Before them lies the iconostasis, a magnificent wall adorned with various icons of saints and angels, each telling a story of faith and devotion. This grand structure serves as a barrier between the sacred space and the congregation, shrouding the altar in an air of mystery and reverence.

At the heart of the church, the most sacred throne, separated by this iconostasis, holds an air of sanctity. Only the chosen may approach its divine aura, leaving the congregation gazing in awe from a distance.

Suddenly, a section of the wall opens, revealing a priest holding a censer, the delicate aroma of incense wafting through the air. This signals the beginning of the prayer ritual, and the people bow their heads once more in unison, lost in their devotion.

As the priest walks, the censer sways gently, releasing fragrant incense with each measured step. The gentle tinkling of a bell attached to the censer rings out, its sound reverberating throughout the hushed chapel, drawing the attention of everyone present.

Father Grigori returns to the iconostasis after completing a circuit around the altar, his face breaking into a wry smile as he notices the girl, absorbed in her own world. She flips through the pages of the Gospel on the wooden altar, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Outside the confines of the iconostasis, the people begin to chant their prayers once more, their voices rising in a harmonious plea to the heavens.

“Lord, I call to you from my depths; Lord, hear my voice.”

In this solemn setting, the girl’s swinging legs appear entirely out of place, a contrast to the gravity of the ritual. Yet, with her flowing golden hair, white dress, and striking blue eyes, she radiates an innocent beauty, resembling an angel who has stepped down from the hallowed pages of an icon.

As the ritual unfolds around her, the young man feels the weight of destiny pressing upon him, intertwining their fates in a way he cannot yet comprehend. The air crackles with anticipation, hinting at the extraordinary journey that lies ahead.

___

In the dim light of the dilapidated church, the air was thick with an otherworldly stillness. Grigori stood amidst the peeling paint and crumbling walls, a place once vibrant but now a shadow of its former self. It was here, in this sanctuary of decay, that he first encountered her—the girl who radiated a pure, almost blinding light. From that moment, an unexplainable bond formed between them, pulling him closer to her ethereal presence.

As he became her servant, Grigori found himself liberated from the chains he had placed on his own power. No longer did he fear the shadows lurking beyond the church doors; he felt their weightlessness as he embraced his true self. While repairing the church, he dedicated himself to listening to the visitors—each tale of woe and hope drew him deeper into the fabric of their lives, transforming him. Initially, he dealt with simple matters, like helping a child find a lost toy or tending to small injuries, but gradually, he began to sense the vastness of his growing abilities.

With each encounter, he realized that his powers surged, unfurling like wings from their long-held confinement. The darkness that had once haunted him faded, and for the first time in years, he embraced the night. Sleep became unnecessary; he thrived on the energy of the moonlight, feeling invincible and timeless.

Women began to visit him, drawn not only by their ailments but by something deeper, a yearning that transcended the physical. Some offered him glances filled with regret and longing, and he found himself captivated, as if he were feeding off their emotions. Their presence transformed his solitude into a banquet, satisfying his hunger for connection and purpose.

News of his talents spread like wildfire among the nobles of the capital. Whispers of his miraculous healing reached the ears of Empress Alexandra, who was desperate for assistance for her frail son. With a mixture of hope and desperation, she invited Grigori to Petersburg, unaware of the girl who lived with him in the shadows of the church, a secret that lingered like a ghost.

As he awaited her arrival, Grigori sensed a shift in the atmosphere. During the prayers, he leaned closer to the girl beside him, ensuring their conversation remained hidden. “It’s rare to meet here,” he remarked, his voice low yet filled with a playful lilt.

Her eyes sparkled at his words, a mischievous grin blossoming on her face. With a flourish, she closed the Gospel she had feigned reading, her fingers resting thoughtfully on her chin. This childlike gesture reminded Grigori of her innocence, untouched by the harsh realities that surrounded them.

“Didn’t you enjoy the ball?” he inquired, noting the way she watched the guests from the shadows.

The girl pouted, crossing her arms defiantly. “Because you didn’t even notice me! You were too busy dancing with Mother the whole time!”

He chuckled softly, his heart swelling with affection for her. The innocent frustration in her voice was endearing, a reminder of the simplicity of childhood. “I’m sorry,” he replied, stepping closer, feeling the magnetic pull between them. “You know how it is; I have to keep up appearances.”

With a playful flick of her gaze, she looked up at him, her blue eyes shining like sapphires. Taking his hand, she rose gracefully, her movements as fluid as water. She perched herself on the edge of the ornate throne, her presence commanding yet gentle.

“Doing that everywhere will get your outfit dirty,” he warned, concern lacing his voice.

“Why should I care? I have plenty of the same,” she retorted, her lips curling into a defiant smile. “It’s all white anyway, thanks to his peculiar taste.”

Anastasia’s gaze fell to her dress, a delicate white chiffon that shimmered in the faint light. The gown was designed with a square neckline adorned with ribbons, the bodice elegantly tucked. Yet, despite its quality, she scowled, pulling at the fabric. “Doesn’t it look like a funeral shroud?” she asked, her voice tinged with mockery.

Grigori could only nod, aware that the court’s obsession with white had consumed not just the Empress but also her daughters. It was a stark reminder of the sorrow woven into their lives. “Does she want to die or something?” Anastasia mused, her laughter mingling with the shadows around them.

Her words hung in the air, a blend of humor and a darker reality that struck a chord within Grigori. “But I understand,” she continued, her tone shifting. “Death is sweet compared to this overwhelming boredom.”

“Anastasia?” he said, concern flickering in his eyes as he noticed her mood shift.

Without warning, she leaped from the throne, her movements effortless as if she were defying gravity itself. Her skirt swayed, dancing with her every step. “I’m really bored here!” she exclaimed, spinning around to face him, her hair catching the light and glimmering like strands of silk.

In that moment, Grigori felt a surge of emotion—a blend of protectiveness and an undeniable bond that tethered their fates together. Here, in this forgotten church, surrounded by echoes of the past, he understood that their connection was more than mere circumstance; it was destiny unfolding before them.

Mischief.

Grigori sighed, a wry smile tugging at his lips as he gazed into those mischievous eyes. Such a playful expression was surely one that only Anastasia had ever elicited. “I suppose you really liked that name,” he mused, recalling the moments when he had been summoned to the palace time and again to treat young Alexei.

On those occasions, he remembered how his sister, filled with genuine concern, would grasp his hand tightly, her worry palpable in the air. He had once sent the hysterical empress away, claiming he needed to focus on the treatment; her dramatic outbursts had been distracting. The taste of bittersweet blood, remnants of his sister’s frantic emotions, lingered on his mind.

Now, having infiltrated the court, Grigori immersed himself in his research on the wings. His goal was clear: to create beings superior to humans, born of DIVA, destined to envelop the world. “Very well,” he declared. “It won't be long before someone notices the anomaly,” Yuri added, acknowledging the growing chaos surrounding them. The truth weighed heavily on them—this country had lost its value, its purpose fading into the shadows.

“Well then,” he continued, the hint of mischief returning, “what shall we play with in the end?”

The Supreme Living Goddess, you are the great protector of those who mourn.

The citizens’ prayers, oblivious to the dark undercurrents, continued to resonate in the air. Anastasia’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she rushed to Grigori, throwing her arms around him in a burst of affection. “I love how perceptive you are! That person listens to anything Grigori says. It’s as if they think he’s a god.”

Yet her playful tone shifted, a cruel edge emerging as her vivid blue eyes narrowed. “But there’s no god anywhere, you know.” Grigori’s gaze turned frigid in response, a reminder of the harsh truths they faced.

“People see only what they wish to see. What truly lies beneath is hardly a matter of concern.” His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of their reality. “But it is precisely because of this that we can exist in this manner,” he added, gently stroking Anastasia’s golden hair. Their contrasting appearances—Grigori with his silver hair cascading to his waist, and Anastasia adorned in pure white—created a scene reminiscent of a divine painting, evoking beauty and grace.

Slowly, a familiar expression returned to Grigori’s face. “Then let’s end this with a flourish. How about we host an opera? What shall we choose? The Queen of Spades? No, perhaps Boris Godunov?”

“Ugh, not that old man’s story,” Anastasia replied with a lighthearted scoff. “Invite her to something nice instead. It would suit you, sister.”

She giggled as she released Grigori’s arm, her white laced shoes echoing against the stone floor as she spun gracefully, a picture of youthful exuberance. With a melodic voice, she began to sing, shaping her tone as if casting a spell. “How lovely the moon is! Like a blue rose. Cold and pure, the moon is...”

By the time Grigori recognized that she was quoting an opera, Anastasia was standing right before him, her delicate fingers—fragile and almost breakable—touching his chin. The moment their vivid blue eyes met his gray-blue ones, the air thickened with tension. She spoke with a theatrical flair, “I shall kiss you, Yohanan.”

Holding her slender waist, Grigori replied with a teasing smirk, “You are before the Lord...” His voice, laced with playful sarcasm, suggested that their banter was never to be taken seriously; it was merely an extension of their elaborate game.

Anastasia wore a coy smile, one that danced upon her lips like a secret waiting to be unveiled. “And that’s why.”

A sultry whisper escaped her lips, resonating with a depth that belied her youth, mingling with the damp warmth of her breath. It brushed against Grigori’s ice-cold neck, sending shivers through his skin. As the sweet numbness enveloped him, an unexpected sharpness broke through—the skin beneath her touch suddenly split. Warm blood welled up, cascading down and staining his chilled skin, leaving a trail of crimson that reached up to his chest.

The sacred items around them—a Gospel resting on the throne, a candelabra, and a cross—clattered to the floor, their fall echoing in the stillness of the room, a stark contrast to the intimate chaos of the moment.

Anastasia, reveling in the rich taste of blood that had pooled on Grigori’s chest, slowly lifted her gaze. Her lips, once pristine, were now stained crimson, droplets cascading down to mar the purity of her white dress. There was an eerie beauty in the scene, as if she were a dark angel clothed in innocence, untouched yet marked by a profound experience.

With no sign of concern for Grigori, she detached herself from the throne, stepping away with an effortless grace. She approached a hidden door, one designed to remain unseen by the devoted followers who lingered outside, unaware of the sacred act that had just transpired.

A young man awaited her just outside the door, his presence subdued, yet attentive. Without a moment's hesitation, she commanded, "Send an invitation to my sister. Make it something lovely." Her voice was melodic, yet laced with an undertone of authority that brooked no argument.

The young man bowed his head silently, acknowledging her request without question, his expression a blend of admiration and respect.

Suddenly, as if a thought had just crossed her mind, Anastasia’s eyes widened. She looked down at her white dress, now marked with fresh blood. A flicker of surprise crossed her face, soon replaced by a playful smile as she grasped the fabric at her chest. The blood created a stark contrast against her garment, transforming her appearance into something both haunting and enchanting.

With a lighthearted tilt of her head, she admired the dark stains as if they were an exquisite design. "It's a perfect pattern," she mused, her tone bright and innocent, a sharp juxtaposition to the earlier intensity of the moment.

#rr: volume 2 chapter 3 #rr: volume 2 #blood+ russian rose #blood+#bloodplus

2 notes · View notes

ncis-nerd · 7 months ago

Text

A Misson Gone Wrong

grey november au

You were holed up in Natasha's room, basically your room by now. The Russian welcomed you with open arms. She knew of your nightmares and sleeping problems so she was careful not to wake you when she came back from late night missions.

Though this did not always work due to your being a light sleeper and the moment her body hit the mattress your eyes opened. "Natty?" you'd mumble sleepily, pressing your hands into fists against your eye. Natasha hated when you did this, as she didn't want you to harm your vision.

"Shh, t's okay. M' here sweet girl, go back to sleep." She'd hum, pressing a kiss against your forehead and soothing you back to sleep. The older woman loved when you called her Natty. A nickname you only called her in your softest hours, when it was just you and her. She picked up on this the next day when you guys were in a meeting.

"Natasha" you'd address her. She'd look at you with a raised eyebrow. A little hurt but she understood you were just trying to maintain professionalism. The woman obviously teased you about it afterwards. In the kitchen, when you were getting one of your granola bars. One of very few things that you ate, due to texture issues you couldn't stomach certain foods.

Natasha obviously noticed this after finding multiple snack wrappers in the trash. She would dismiss it for right now. A conversation for another time. You sat on the counter, your legs swinging off the side. Unintentionally kicking the cabinets below you. Natasha stood between your legs, holding your cheek in her palm.

"Natasha, huh?" The older woman hummed, looking at you munching on your snack. Stray crumbles fell off the side of your mouth. She smiled softly at this. You met her gaze with a pout falling upon your face. Your whole demeanor shifted, you fell silent. She took this as a sign of you not wanting to talk in such a public place. She dropped it for right now.

----☆---------☆-------☆------☆---------☆----

You were back in the red-head's room. She had gone away on a mission but before she did, she told you that you were welcome to stay in her room to work or whatever.

You sat on her bed, your computer on your lap. Softly, you hummed to the beat of Hamilton as you looked over the notes from the last meeting. You had a bad habit of overworking yourself. Unfortunately for you, this was a habit you had not grown out of. You soon realized after doozing off in Natasha's bed, with your laptop still on.

A door squeaked, the attempted closing of it quietly failed. As you arose out of bed and began to rub your eyes. What time was it? Why was Natasha home so soon? The Russian did not address you, you sat up and tried to locate her in the room. However, due to her deathly quiet flootsteps you failed to.

You heard water running in the spy's bathroom. You knocked on the door, sensing that something was up. Why wouldn't Natasha at the very least say hi? She always welcomed you with a kiss on the forehead. "natty, it's me. is everything okay?" you asked sleepily. a soft yawn escaped your lips.

"just go back to bed detka, i've got some work to do before i can join you." Natasha spoke, her voice sounded cold. No emotion in it. This scared you. But there was nothing you could do so you let her know that you were here if she wanted to talk.

Not wanting to go back to sleep, before seeing if the woman was okay, you went to the kitchen to make hot chocolate for the two of you, nearly burning yourself in the progress. When you returned, the Russian was still in the bathroom. You set her cup down on the nightstand and opened your computer. You continued to work on the document from before you fell asleep. A few hours pass, your eye lids feel heavily and you are fighting off sleep when the older woman finally opens the door.

Her eyes blood-shot red, as if she had bene crying. Immediately you rose to go comfort the Russian. Your arms open and ready to hold her. She accepts your embrace, your arms wrap around her, though you are shorter than the woman, you make up for it in your hugs.

You just stand there in silence. Natasha buried her head into the crook of your neck, holding you close. You had never seen her like this and it made you concerned. So vulnerable and hurt.

taglist: @ssa-shaylam@madamevirgo

part 2

234 notes · View notes

unholyhelbig · 7 months ago

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/unholyhelbig/748001277238181888/ive-reread-the-entirety-of-oversight-again-and

i’ve done this as well. i think u should 😌😏😉☺️🥰

Title: Rose Colored Glasses [An Oversight Oneshot]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff

Summary: Reader gets word that Natasha is hurt and rushes home to assess the situation.

Warnings(PLEASE READ): injury to nose & foot, slight blood, and shrimp

[a/n: Did someone request more oversight? Because I've got you covered. This is pure fluff, sorry for the lack of angst! It's short, and sweet, and not proof read because I don't have time :( ]

Check out the full Oversight universe

A quiet house was never a good sign. Growing up in the foster care system teeming with other wards of the state had taught you that. Often, you were three or four to a room. There were bunk beds with sheets slotted against the ceiling or stuffed under the mattress above your own, just for some type of barrier. It was an illusion of privacy, most of the time. Because houses like that were never quiet.

When you’d moved in across from Darcy after your 18th birthday, things weren’t quiet. Above you was a Latin-American couple that would wait until just past midnight to turn on a slow, rhythmic song and dance. Their steps were soft, and calculated. They carved out time for one another every single night between shifts. Just for the two of them. You often let the thumping base lull you to sleep.

The city was just outside your window. In the summer, you could prop it open with a brick and let the sounds of cars become a backdrop. There were sirens, and when the fire hydrant on the corner was loosened, the world welcomed a cold blast of water, sprinkling into the street. That was the opposite of quiet. That made your chest feel light, and warm.

After marrying Natasha Romanoff, you settled into the loudness of her home. Your home. Veronica was constantly running around the twists and turns of the bottom floor, Clint or Kate or Darcy galloping after her with a big smile on their face. They slowed themselves to make sure they didn’t break anything, but they wanted her to win, too.

Yelena often came with the muffled sounds of Russian techno bands coming from the headphones around her neck. It was a staple to find her in the kitchen with her head down, slicing into an apple from the backyard with precision unknown. Natasha would tug the headphones off to get her attention, or to send her into annoyance.

The night that Natasha got hurt was stifled with the sound of rain. It had soaked you to the bone, dripping onto the linoleum floor and then the carpet as you ascended the stairs two at a time. You’d been at the docks later than usual, the storm that had plagued the side of the harbor was relentless and delayed shipments.

The captain of the shipping boat your family had utilized for decades wanted to discuss something over whatever crap coffee you could beat out of the machine in your office. He spoke with a thick southern drawl, his mustache was encrusted with salt and sand. You had shed your coat and tried to warm yourself up by hugging your mug to your chest. Nothing seemed to work.

While you weren’t opposed to giving the man a raise, you were not the final say. Natasha was, and you figured he could use the company more than anything. The captain flicked through books that were on the shelf, taking two or three for his next journey out to sea. It was like clockwork with him, and you indulged his need for quiet companionship each time.

When your phone rang, you never looked at the caller ID. Those who were privileged enough to get your number knew to talk without any of the pleasantries that they were used to. Clint’s voice came through the receiver in a smooth, hushed tone that made you believe he wasn’t supposed to be calling you in the first place.

“Look, y/n, there’s been an… incident.”

“What kind of incident?”

He was meant to escort her to one of the many cocktail parties that Carlos LaMuerto was throwing at his mansion that bordered the same body of water that you resided on now. They were lovely get-togethers that you often attended with your wife. This, however, was the fourth one this month and your stomach was turning at the idea of another cocktail shrimp and lamb pate.

Clint had offered, seeing the desperation in your eyes. And while Natasha was reluctant, she ultimately agreed. No news of a bust had reached you yet, nor had a gun blazing argument. While the Captain licked his dry lips and scanned the books in front of him, you continued in hushed tones.

“Nat’s hurt. It’s not a big deal, you can finish up your business. She’s just being stubborn is all.”

An escaped sigh “I’ll be there.”

No shit, she was being stubborn. Your wife was bull-headed and wouldn’t admit to the smallest defeat. It eased your nerves slightly, and only slightly, that Clint said it wasn’t a big deal. No gunshot to the back, or knife to the throat. It wasn’t good enough, however.

Natasha would be upset that you tracked mud into the house and left your boots sloshing by the door. You were panting by the time you reached the double doors that led to your bedroom. They were, of course, blocked by Clint and Kate. Yelena was leaning lazily against the railing that was parallel. She regarded you with an uninterested stare.

“You did not have to come here.” She said, “We’ve got it handled.”

“She kicked all of you out, didn’t she?”

“What? She certainly did not!”

Yelena’s voice pitched with her lie. Kate’s cheeks turned an off-shade of pink and Clint just rthe hallway, that was a good sign. Still, neither of the two moved to let you into your own room.

“If you’re not going to get out of the way, can you at least tell me what happened?”

There was a muffled reply from behind the door. With the way that the voice flitted, you knew that she was trapped on the bed. Otherwise, she would have leveled you with a glare right here and now. The words were simple “Do it, you die.”

“Oh, come on,” You whispered harshly, turning your attention to Kate instead. She was the easiest to break. “Katie, what is the harm in letting me through? I’m going to catch my death if I stay in these clothes.”

“Catch your death?” Clint scoffed “What are you? A poet from the 1800’s?”

“I’m about to be breaking your fingers if you don’t-��

“You can’t even break wind,”

The two of your voices combined as you kept at it. You didn’t’ miss the wary look that Kate shot Yelena. One way or another, you’d get into your room. You refused to be banished to the couch again, especially in wet clothes. If you had to threaten ruining the rugs with your muddy footprints, so be it.

“Oh, Jesus Christ!” You held up both of your hands, silencing the chaos of the corridor. “Nat, you are my wife, you’re hurt. Whether you like it or not, I’m coming in. Does anyone have any objections?”

Kate went to raise her hand, but Yelena yanked it back down and shook her head no. You tore into Clint with a look that could drop him dead. He relented and stepped away from the door. While you had a moment of peace, you walked into the dark of the room. She’d turned out the lights, save for the half-moon that showed a pale pattern against the carpet.

When you reached for the light switch on the wall, Natasha let out a noise that was similar to a wounded animal. You halted, your actions and made out her form on the bed. She was folded in on herself, her silhouette rigid.

“Baby,” you cooed, closing the distance between you and the bed. She grunted again, this time in pain. She attempted to turn away from you. You lowered yourself onto the sliver of bed, approaching the situation softly. “Can I turn on a light?”

“No, I’m hideous.”

You chuckled softly “I highly doubt that, my love. I can’t help if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Natasha had never liked being vulnerable around you. It had taken a full weekend of you nursing her back to her feet after the incident on the pier for her to let herself cry. You held her for hours, her nose pressed against the small of your neck. She’d gripped onto you, as if you’d leave. But you never would.

Eventually, you saw her shadow nod. Before she could change her mind, you flicked on the lamp on the side table. It didn’t’ have a far reach, but the light was less harsh on the both of you. It was impossible not to notice the blood that had dried against Natasha’s nose, a split right down the middle.

You’d seen her with broken bones before, bruises that wrapped around her midsection. You’d put ace bandage around her ribs after drawing her a bath. This was nothing to be ashamed about. In fact, she often saw them as battle scars that would heal in a pink gash.

Her foot was wrapped up with a bag of peas and one of frozen carrots that Clint, or even Yelena had situated. There was bruising around her ankle, it looked painful and you internally winced at the coloring. She groaned into the small of her elbow.

“I want to die”

“Natty, it’s okay. This is nothing a cozy weekend inside can’t fix.”

She said something that was quiet and muffled by her arm. You didn’t understand her one bit, but she squeezed a single tear from her eye that you wiped away dutifully before it could reach the silk of sheets.

“What was that, baby?” You asked gently.

She threw both of her hands down and glared at the ceiling. Her fingers eventually found yours, squeezing your palm in reflex. Her words came out in a quick breath, “I tripped over a carpet at the stupid dinner party and hit my face on the catering table.”

You were effectively silenced. That was very un-Natasha. But lately, you and Clint had been pestering her about her eyesight, especially at night. It wasn’t something she wanted to hear. In fact, each time you brought up the idea of glasses, she would effectively silence you with a glare, or even a kick to the shin under the kitchen table if you had company.

You bit the inside of your cheek and ran your thumb over her hand. She clutched your hand tighter. Now was certainly not the time to laugh, and while you fought back the initial giggle, you were more concerned about your wife.

“I’m so embarrassed.”

“I bet you got right back up.” You said, pressing your palm against her cheek. “None of those fancy party types would dare question your influence on this city.”

“Shrimp went flying everywhere.” Natasha pouted.

“Everyone was tired of shrimp anyway, even the shrimp.”

She grasped at the collar of your jacket and pulled you closer to her, pressing her lips against your own. They were warm, the warmest thing that you’ve felt since getting caught in the passing storm. You were careful not to lean on her ribs, breathing in the rosewater scent of her.

Natasha pressed her forehead against yours, running a hand up your spine. She grimaced. “You’re all wet.”

“Well now I am,” You smirked against her jawline, leaving a little nip in your wake. “You need to get glasses.”

“Don’t change the subject. You’re getting the sheets all damp, and you smell like fish.”

“I smell like fish?” You giggled, pressing a kiss to the exposed part of her neck. You felt Natasha laugh too, using her hands to cover her face from the blush that was blooming against her cheeks. “We’re talking about me?”

She laughed harder, attempting to shove you off but you let your body go slack against her, not using your arms to hold yourself up anymore. “Yes! Go shower!”

“Mm, but you’re so warm.”

“You’re not going to be warm if I make you sleep on the couch.”

You gasped dramatically, pulling your head off her stomach and meeting her dark green stare. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me. After the day I’ve had, I refuse to sleep next to my wife when she smells like a marina.”

Even while she said it, her voice was gentle, her fingers working over your scalp to brush the wet hair from your eyes. You pulled yourself up to give her another peck on the lips, careful to avoid the split nose and busted ankle.

“Fine, but only because you need more aspirin.”

She grunted, crossing her arms over her chest. “Can’t believe I let you through my defenses.”

“Uh-huh. Get some rest. I’m going to go talk to your defenses about getting you an appointment with an optometrist.”

You turned to move towards the bathroom, already craving the warmth of a shower and some clean pajamas. Two steps from the doorway and you felt a plush throw pillow hit you directly on the back of the head. Natasha had amazing aim, always had, and always would.

You bent down and picked up the gold upholstered pillow, giving her a faux glare. “You’re not getting this back.”

“Oh, come on, baby.” She stuck out her lower lip “I have to prop up my foot.”

“You should have thought of that before you launched it at my head.”

[Taglist🕷♡: @dumbasslesbi, @lostremind, @toouncreativeforausername @autorasexy @eringranola @mikookaaaaaao @marvelwoman-simp @pacmanmiles @mostlymarvelsstuff, @mrsrushman, @milfsandtittyenthusiast, @random-raccoon4, @ravenromanova, @mysticalmoonlight7, @ahintofchaos@cowboyboots236 @lissaaaa145, @natsxwife@a-spes, @kyleeservopoulos]

#Natasha Romanoff #Natasha Romanov #Natasha Romanoff x reader #Natasha Romanoff x y/n #Natasha Romanov x y/n #Natasha Romanov x you #Natasha Romanov x reader #Mafia au #Yelena Belova #Kate Bishop #Clint Barton #Reader insert #request #natasha romonova #Bishlova #kate bishop x yelena belova

288 notes · View notes

princesskenny1998 · 1 month ago

Text

Harry Potter | Draco Malfoy x pureblood!Reader ~ Promised One

Growing up in a prestigious pureblood family, you had known Draco Malfoy almost your entire life. Both of your families were ancient and influential in the magical world, with histories that stretched back hundreds of years, and the arrangement between the Malfoys and your family had been made long before either of you could remember.

The first time you were introduced to Draco, you were only five, and he was a year older than you. You didn’t know it at the time, but you were both being introduced as future partners. Your parents had emphasized the importance of keeping family lines pure, maintaining the power of the blood, and protecting the family name. Draco had been told something similar by Lucius and Narcissa.

Summers became the time you were always forced together. Your family’s home in the Russian countryside had long, sunlit days that were spent mostly outside, exploring the gardens or playing games under the watchful eyes of your parents. At first, Draco had been something of a mystery to you. He was brash, opinionated, and seemed to take pleasure in teasing you. As you grew older, though, that teasing started to feel less like a childish bother and more like something... interesting.

One summer afternoon, when you were both thirteen, you were sitting on the grass beside a sprawling garden of enchanted white roses. Draco had just made a remark about your Russian accent, imitating it with a smirk on his face. You’d rolled your eyes, used to his teasing, and shot back a quick remark about his pronunciation of certain charms — a sore spot for him, considering how seriously he took his studies. He’d laughed, and you realized then that his teasing was almost affectionate, in a way.

When you reached fourteen, your parents’ efforts to push you together became even more obvious. They started planning more activities, often giving you time alone together in the expansive rooms of Malfoy Manor or your family’s home. At that age, you and Draco both understood the implications of your families’ plans for the future. You had moments where the idea of being tied to someone so arrogant grated on you. But there were also times when you looked at him and felt strangely comforted by the familiar presence.

One summer day, during the warm month of August, you found yourself in the sitting room of Malfoy Manor, watching Draco as he read a book on magical history. The air was thick and still, and you found yourself growing restless.

“Is this what we’re going to be doing every summer?” you asked, breaking the silence. “Sitting around, reading, waiting for our parents to tell us what to do next?”

Draco looked up from his book, one eyebrow raised in amusement. “What would you rather do, then?”

“Something exciting,” you replied with a slight grin, standing up and walking to the window. “Surely, with all the magic we have at our disposal, there’s something better than sitting around.”

He closed his book and stood up, crossing the room to stand beside you at the window. “I suppose we could explore the manor,” he suggested. “There are places even I haven’t been to.”

Intrigued, you agreed, and the two of you ventured into the depths of the manor, laughing as you slipped past portraits and explored hidden rooms. At one point, Draco dared you to go down a narrow, winding staircase that led to a shadowy room filled with dusty old relics from the Malfoy family’s past. The air was thick with mystery, and you couldn’t help but feel a thrill of excitement.

When you turned to Draco, he was watching you with an intensity that caught you off guard. “What?” you asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

“Nothing,” he replied, but his gaze lingered, a small smirk playing on his lips.

As the years went by, your connection deepened. You saw each other’s flaws, yes — you knew he could be arrogant and quick-tempered, and he knew you could be stubborn and sharp-tongued. But there was a familiarity that came with growing up together, and it made you feel closer to him than anyone else.

During the school year, while he was at Hogwarts, letters became your main form of communication. He’d send brief notes, detailing his experiences at school, and you’d reply with stories of your own studies and family gatherings. There was something comforting in the routine of it, in knowing that you’d hear from him every few weeks.

Then came the summer of your sixteenth year. You arrived at Malfoy Manor, expecting the usual formal greetings and small talk with his parents, but instead, Draco was waiting for you in the gardens. He looked different — older, more serious. The playful smirk that you were so accustomed to seeing was gone, replaced by a somber expression.

“You’ve heard about what’s happening, haven’t you?” he asked quietly, once you were out of earshot of the others.

You nodded, understanding the gravity of his words. Voldemort’s return was no longer a secret, and the pressure on the Malfoy family was growing. “Yes. My family… they’ve spoken of it.”

For the first time, you saw a crack in Draco’s confidence. He looked away, his hands clenched at his sides. “It’s... complicated,” he admitted. “The expectations, the pressure. It feels like... I don’t have a choice.”

You stepped closer to him, placing a hand on his arm. “Draco, I know. We were both born into this. But maybe... maybe we don’t have to follow the exact path they set for us.”

He looked at you, surprised. “You think so?”

You nodded, giving him a small smile. “There’s always a choice. And whatever happens, you won’t face it alone.”

In that moment, an unspoken understanding passed between you. Despite the weight of the expectations placed on both of you, there was a sense of unity, a feeling that you could face whatever came your way — together.

That summer was different from the others. Your interactions took on a new depth, a sense of shared struggle and understanding. Draco confided in you more than he ever had before, and you found yourself opening up to him as well. Late one night, as you sat in the library, he turned to you and said quietly, “You know, I used to think this arrangement was just... something our families imposed on us. But now…”

He trailed off, looking away, and you felt your heart skip a beat. “Now?”

He met your gaze, a rare vulnerability in his eyes. “Now, I think I’m actually glad it’s you.”

The words hung in the air, and for the first time, you allowed yourself to fully acknowledge the feelings that had been growing inside you. This wasn’t just an arrangement anymore. It was real.

When Draco returned to Hogwarts that autumn, you felt the ache of his absence more than you ever had before. Letters came, but they were fewer, more guarded. You knew things were becoming more dangerous, that the world he was returning to was growing darker by the day.

One winter night, as you were reading by the fireplace, an owl arrived with a hurriedly scrawled note from Draco. His words were brief, but they conveyed a desperation you’d never seen before.

“They’re expecting things from me that I don’t think I can do,” he’d written. “I’m trying to protect my family, but it’s getting harder. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.”

You read his words over and over, your heart aching for him. You wanted nothing more than to be there, to offer him some comfort, but there was only so much you could do from afar. Still, you wrote back immediately, pouring as much reassurance and strength into your words as you could.

The next summer, when he returned to Malfoy Manor, you saw the toll the past year had taken on him. His face was pale, his posture tense, and there was a haunted look in his eyes. But when he saw you, some of the weight seemed to lift from his shoulders.

You spent long hours together, walking through the gardens, talking about everything and nothing. He confided in you more than ever before, sharing his fears, his regrets, his hopes for a future that seemed increasingly uncertain.

One evening, as you sat together under the fading light of the setting sun, he reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. “I don’t know what the future holds,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I know I want you there, whatever happens.”

You squeezed his hand, feeling the truth of his words resonate deep within you. Despite the shadows that loomed over both of your families, despite the uncertainties that lay ahead, you knew one thing for certain: you wanted to face it all with him by your side.

In that quiet moment, under the soft glow of the twilight, you found solace in each other. And for the first time, you allowed yourself to hope — to believe that maybe, just maybe, the two of you could carve out a future of your own choosing.

#draco malfoy x reader #draco x reader #draco lucius malfoy #draco malfoy #harry potter #slytherin #x reader

72 notes · View notes

cenittxnadir · 27 days ago

Text

Logan Howlett Canons

I'm trying to make a list of all the canons I know and I have seen on the comics and authors notes about him. This list has the purpose of giving some ideas for your fanfics, works and your own headcanos. I really just like to ramble about my favorite characters and share what I know :). Maybe I'll do one for Kurt. You know the drill; English is not my first language so they might be some orthographic errors

Logan had two half brothers: Dog Logan and Jhon Jr Howlett -who died quite young-

His real father's name is Thomas Logan (her mom had an affair with him while she was married to John Howlett.)

Logan´s relationship with her mother wasn't the best. He was usually neglected by her, but his dad (John) used to love him very much.

Logan had two best friends as a child: Dog Logan and Rose O'Hara (Theres no info if she's related to Miguel O'Hara. Although she was Irish as well. She was Logan's first love, unfortunately he killed her by accident, and yes, Jean resembles a lot to her, that's why Logan felt attracted to her.

In the comics, Logan got the name Wolverine as a nickname from his workmates when he worked in mine, referring to his animalistic way of work. In the movies he got the name from the legend of Kuekuatsheu.

Logan spent a while leaving with a pack of wolves, part of his mutation allows him to communicate with animals in a basic level

Logan has superhumanly acute sense, like the five of them, his skin is more sensible as well as he tastes (Use this information with caution) he can see in the dark with no problem and can get sensory overloaded pretty easily

In the movies, Logan smokes a lot because this helps him to disguise some smells that for him can be overwhelming. In Logan due to his age and loss of his mutation he doesn't smoke that much because strong smells are not a problem anymore

Against the common belief, Logan its quite intelligent, he's a weapons and computer expert

Believe it or not, he is a skilled pilot and a vehicle expert, he can drive pretty much everything and is good at vehicle repair

He had trained Black widow, Rogue, Storm, Nightcrawler, Colossus, Sunspot, Jubilee, Shadowcat and among other in hand-to-hand combat.

Logan is a polyglot. He speaks: English, Japanese, Russian, Mandarin, Cheyenne, Korean, Lakota, Spanish, and Krakoan.

Logan's blood type is O-

Wolverine carries a medical card stating that he is a war veteran who has a metal plate in the head, to help him bypass metal detectors in airports

Logan has used the E-Mail address '[email protected]' (Love him so much) Also, Deadpool has claimed to have hacked Wolverine's Tumblr account (He knows about us, he is among us, probably he runs a fanfic account, who knows)

Logan have claimed that his biggest and greatest love is beer

Logan burns a lot of calories while healing so needs constant fuel. (He has a big stomach)

Logan had a bunch of biological kids, but the ones that stand out more are Laura, Gabriela (she is Laura's direct younger sister/clone, I love her so much and they like to hang out a lot with Wade) and Daken. They are comics of them together

#logan howlett #xmen #x men 97 #logan howlett imagine #logan headcanons #wolverine #wolverine headcanons #laura kinney #laura x23 #x23 #logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader

68 notes · View notes

halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year ago

Text

CAKE FOR A DEAD MAN (I)

NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER II

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 4.6k

WARNINGS: Angst, problems with food & image, mentions of stalking, unwanted gifts, death, violence, gore, blood, etc. (Series 18+)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Color, as most would say, is one of the best aspects of sight. It allows such a myriad of emotions to be expressed—even felt. Red reminds us of passion; navy for elegance and a certain mystique. Not only seen but processed on such a deeper level. Refractions of light that explode into the retina, rod and cone cells that send signals to the brain to help detect that phenomenon like a gift of evolution.

But when you can’t see any of that—color—who’s to explain what the red of the roses actually looks like above a deep shade of gray? That navy blue looks even darker, too. Closer to black. Light purple becomes the same hue as the curtains your mother hangs on the windows, but you can’t tell if that’s really purple or not. How can it be anything other than slate? People tell you it is…at least, those who’ve already met their partners. Their soulmates.

But there’s little hope for you on that front, really.

You wave to the photographer, calling out a broken Russian goodbye as he smiles warmly at you, nodding his head in your direction before watching you walk out of the studio room’s doors. A large gaggle of other finely-clad women surrounds you on the way to the changing rooms.

Even with three-and-a-half years of living in this northern country, your mastery of the native language starts and ends with simple pleasantries.

The modeling agency was packed today and you still had so much to do. You stuff down your internal list of scheduled fittings, meetings, and more booked photoshoots that extend into the chilled evening of Yekaterinburg, Russia. There was just so little time.

Gray hallways and white overhead lights meet your eyes between blinks, potted plants boring and drab. If you could see the shades in between the leaves you’d know you would find them beautiful, but like this…well, they’re just sad.

You shake your head and shuffle to the back of the group, throwing tiny smiles to the kind, and stunning, women who you’ve had little real conversation with. One kisses you on the cheek and pats your shoulder, and you laugh brightly before pulling to the rear, face heating.

“The bastard is finally dead!” The familiar voice causes you to freeze with one heeled foot in the air—fingers picking at the strap of your silk dress absentmindedly before it, too, stills. They were always forcing you into silk with feathered accent pieces of intricate detail. Like a bird, or, Seraph, more precisely.

Blinking in surprise, you turn around just in time to lock onto the drained shades that make up Alyona Arkadyevna Solovyova before she grips your shoulders harshly.

Her collarbone-length hair swishes heavily, but it’s not as violent as the smile on her sharp face.

“Finally, little Солнышко! This is perfect news. The bastard is dead!” Alyona’s English is very good, and of course, it would be—when she was younger she dreamed of being an English teacher. That was before she realized she was just about the most attractive woman of her generation. The harsh Russian accent still bleeds through.

You laugh and grip her long, pale, arms; seeing her in a blouse and pencil skirt as you tilt your head, asking, “Christ, Alyona, give me a warning next time. If I rip anything I’m in deep shit.”

“Gah,” Your friend waves a hand and releases you, tiny eyes creasing, “forget about that—did you not hear me the first time? My father, Seraph, listen to me! He is finally dead! It happened just this morning but I only got word ten minutes ago.” She laughs, throwing her hands up, and you hide your amused exasperation, limbs tired but it won’t stop you from appreciating your friend’s enthusiasm. Alyona squeals, “A train hit him!”

You cringe internally, face pulling taunt. “Oh,” your chest sputters as you clear your throat, “that’s, uh, that’s…great?”

“Of course it is!” Hands capture your cheeks, squishing as you worry about the state of your makeup. Alyona speaks brightly, “We need to celebrate, Солнышко. Come.”

Before you can protest she’s dragging you away from the other women and the direction of the changing rooms, all had stopped and were listening intently from behind; nosey. Everyone in the Allurement Modeling Agency building, AMA for short, just had that way about them—your business was their business and vice versa.

And Alyona had no problem airing out her grievances with her estranged father to the choir. She lived for drama.

“Aly,” You huff a soft breath at her and her bobbing hair. She said it was blonde and you had no other option but to believe her. Not yellow-blonde, she had specified. Ice-blonde. “I can’t go out in company property. Plus, I have a photoshoot for Chanel in under an hour. The photographer needs me to be ready.”

But it seems your concerns fall on deaf ears and you can’t help but chuckle and grin at your friend's lack of care about work. She herself was a model, but the entire company halted when she said it should.

You were truly surprised they hadn’t fired her yet.

“And I’m sure Chanel has an absolutely hideous dress for you, my Seraph.” Ashen eyes turn back to stare at you, and once she realizes you wouldn’t fight her, her grip releases. “Some Медовик will do you good before the vultures close in, yes? Let us hope they don’t shackle you to those damning lace lingerie sets over cake.”

Your head tilts with a short sigh, and you walk beside the woman in your clacking heels. The sound of the authentic honey cake seemed to itself to coat your insides with a lust for it—dripping layers of plush gray sponge with pale cream. Your mouth waters.

“I’m only eating half a piece.” You settle slowly, though you hate your own words as your stomach rolls with hunger. Some time outside will do you good, anyway. Perhaps you’ll learn to photosynthesize like a plant. “I still have to be able to fit into those fabric contraptions, you know.”

Alyona squeals and loops her arm in yours easily, bright teeth in a grin like a cat. Ever one to run into objects and lacking a general ability to walk in a straight line, the support from Alyona was much appreciated. Her help with lending an arm went far, especially for you.

Your heart warms with soft care.

“I’ll take it! We can split one.” When you both make it to the front of the building, having grabbed your jackets and purses on the way there, you come to three familiar faces while chatting with Alyona about both of your upcoming bookings.

“I was under the impression you had the day filled,” Petya speaks, heavy accent like stone. The clean-shaven man in his late thirties was built and wearing a dark suit, the tallest out of the other two—Aleksandr and Yefim—who both wear similar outfits. They were resting in the front seating area of AMA as they’d been doing for weeks already, waiting for you to come and go like escorts.

Well, bodyguards, to be more precise. Yours.

You smile politely to them while Yefim sends one back with his boyish charm and dimples. “On break. We’re off to get some Medovik down the street. I can pay for you if you’d want a piece.”

“Of course, the three will have to tag along, hm?” Alyona huffs, staring blandly as you both slow to a stop near the large white entrance, colored as if it was Heaven’s gates. Your friend had said coloring around this building was rare. Whites and grays. Green chairs, apparently. “I’m just ecstatic.”

Petya didn’t like you, and, you assumed, Aleksandr didn’t either. With the ladder, his sharp face was always too blank to tell; body tight and unwelcoming with weasel-like eyes. Petya was simpler, blatantly more outward with his distaste.

“Not a smart idea. This isn’t a game to play, девушка.” Alyona’s face tightens, and you swiftly placate her with a squeeze to her bicep. You level Petya with a tilt of your head and a calm look.

“What harm could a bite to eat do? It won’t cost you your life.” You chuckle smoothly. “Let me get you all something—it’s nearly noon, I’m sure you’re all hungry.”

“I could eat,” Yefim eases in, hands resting in his pockets as he stares at you. His accent was calmer than the others, and his face softer. Out of all of them, you liked him best.

Your eyes rest on Yefim with a thankful expression. He smirks and nods. Aleksandr, as always, says nothing beyond a small scoff and a look around the room with shifting feet.

When the tallest of the group does nothing to push back his sneer and heavy glare, you hum under your breath as you expect the words before they rush from his sharp mouth.

“I will have to speak to your mother about this.” The accent makes him sound so stiff—like a statue. A man built up of gravel and snow; concrete in his veins instead of blood.

“Oh, yes,” Alyona mutters, “the Consul herself.”

Your nose moves in a sigh, but you ease the situation with a simple, “Do whatever you need to, Petya. I know it’s your job and I’m thankful regardless, but we’ll be back in less than an hour. It’s no big deal.” You pause, plastering on an innocent look. “We’re hungry.”

For whatever reason you always envisioned Petya with dark eyes—blacks more deep than the clothes they put Alyona in to off-set your given whites when you two are fitted together. But the man’s eyes were so painfully light it made you not want to stare into them.

Petya grunts and continues to glare, working his jaw. After a moment he lets off a large huff and shakes his head in disapproval.

“Half-an-hour. No more.”

Alyona manhandles you out the door quickly, growling, “I do not know how you can stand this, Seraph. Bullshit, all of it.”

“It’s only until everything goes back to normal,” you reason, hearing three sets of footsteps behind you as the guards follow into the chilled air of Yekaterinburg. There was no reason to take a car, everything was within walking distance of one another in this dense city populated by over one million people. “My mother’s worried is all. I’m not going to make their lives harder while they’re only doing what they’re told to do.”

Light eyes dart to your face, your friend’s hand guiding you along the concrete with a dim concern. “I do not like all of this, Солнышко. It’s been months…Are the gifts still coming?”

Your expression tightens, lips going stiff. Alyona notices and changes the subject for now.

“Ah, but what am I doing—I’m ruining the celebration! Come, come, we will talk about my engagement to Nikifor while we eat.”

Nikifor, her soulmate. The one who brought her color and music with his performance at a nightclub two years ago; the only thing standing in the way of their marriage was Alyona’s strict father. Something about the man wanting someone with higher standing than a musician for his famous daughter.

“How is he?” You ask, blinking away the thought of finally being able to see color for the first time and how that must feel. A piece of you would always be envious of that.

Alyona must have blushed because she always tilts her nose lower when she does. You smile and chuckle under your breath.

“Wonderful,” is all she offers, but the giddy grin on her lips is knowledge enough.

You both make it to the small bakery at the end of the long street, heels clicking and cheeks chilled. People had turned to look at you, gaping at the two models still in their expensive clothes and attempting to take pictures on their phones. All were strong-armed by the three men close behind you who bark things in Russian.

Alyona opens the door of the bakery for you and you accidentally knock your shoulder into the frame, giving a sheepish smile before carefully walking to your regular corner table. Your tall friend goes to order while you take your seat with a sigh, Petya, Aleksandr, and Yefim all shuffling in and sending glances to you; looking over the interior with sharp and calculating eyes.

It’s like they think the sky’s going to fall, you surmise, twitching your lips their way. They’ve been here before with me, do they still not trust it?

Back when things had been less serious they’d allowed you to go where you wished with them—parks, for walks, stores—now it was only work and home. As if you didn’t already feel so trapped.

“You boys can pick what you want,” you call to them softly. “My treat.”

“On the job,” is all Petya grunts before he takes his normal seat at the table closest to the door; everything in his bright sight. Your hand lightly tightens on the table, but you keep your expression placid.

You’d tried to get him to lighten up, Aleksandr too, but the two weren’t as open to you as Yefim. There was a blatant distrust of Westerners here, even if you had given up your citizenship to move where your mother works in the Consulate building of this very city.

While she was still employed by the American government, that didn’t stand in any sense with you. But on top of you being a famous model, your mother was well-known, regardless, and that ultimately fell back on you.

Yefim’s gray eyes flickered to a case of Bird Milk Cake with a hidden longing as he grasped the back of his chair and slid into it—floorboards creaking loudly. You notice and chuckle under your breath, cheeks heating at the sight as the man’s gaze moves to you and blinks in surprise. He quickly averts his gaze and clears his throat, fixing the collar of his dress shirt.

You’d buy him a piece before you left; maybe kiss his cheek just to see him go all blurry-eyed. He certainly was adorable.

“The baker’s boy is staring again,” Alyona’s voice snaps into your head, and you peer at your friend’s face, startled.

“What?” You ask as a plate is set in the middle of the table holding a single piece of Medovik. Your mouth fills with saliva, fingers immediately moving like a starved dog to grab a fork and cut into the layers; you shovel it into your mouth before you hiss to pace yourself.

You chew slowly, swallow, and give Alyona a confused look.

She slides you an unimpressed frown. “The boy. At the front.”

“He’s probably gaping at you,” you take another bite, rubbing at your cheek with your free hand as people walking by the front window peek in with wide eyes; your men glare and move their chairs as the ground squeaks again.

Your friend scoffs and mutters in Russian, shaking her head. Her hand waves quickly, barking, “Look!”

Rolling your eyes with a small smile, you look over and dab your face with a napkin before you get locked into a staring match with the dark eyes of the man up-front.

He wears an apron, head a mess of curls, and his upper arms stained with flour. You blink and pause, wondering if…perhaps…A pause, a sickly hope in your chest…but nothing happens and the contact is broken when he ducks his head before looking at the counter.

Gritting your teeth, you focus back on your cake and shove aside the sinking feeling in your chest.

Idiot, you criticize yourself. Now why would you think that would work?

“Nothing, then?” Alyona clicks her tongue and takes up her own fork. “Do not fret, we will find him eventually, Seraph.”

“It’s not like I would know.” The air goes a temperature warmer—bodies stilling.

While soulmate colorblindness was simply the reality of life, diagnosed colorblindness was still a curse that couldn’t be solved. If you ever saw your soulmate…you wouldn’t even know it.

All because of that stupid accident.

You act unbothered by the shift in the conversation and sigh. “You said you wanted to talk about your engagement,” your words remind the woman and she sets off into a tangent about the dress and the location after a moment of quiet concern. A church, she explained, the big one down the road where they’ll be a few days after the civil ceremony and the outer city venue.

Alyona is only twenty, but you know that it’s incredibly common here to get married this early. Listening, you offer input here and there, but as it always does, the topic falls back to you as you eat the slice of cake dedicated to a dead man.

Your knife-driven problem.

The gifts.

Already, you begin feeling uncomfortable.

“Aly,” you try to grumble, resisting the urge to eat the entire piece of Медовик as you put your utensil down. Your hand jerks over the table and you glare down at it in annoyance, ignoring the tensed nerves. “It’s not important—”

“How many more pieces of jewelry has he sent, hm? Letters?” The woman shivers and rubs at her arms. “It is horrendous behavior. Total fuck-up. And the fact that no one has caught him? Gah!”

Your spine straightens itself, eyes sliding to the people gawking outside the window and seeing the multiple faces, shuffling bodies that pile next to each other like sardines in a can.

“I just don’t want to think about it, okay?” You shake your head, turning away as a pit forms in your gut; realizing the fragility of your psyche when you think about the fact that anyone outside could be the source of your problem. The stalker. “If it’s just the gifts I can deal with them—the letters I never even read. If I ignore it they’ll stop eventually. All of this can be one big bad dream.”

Your hand continues to shake on the table, not exactly in your realm of control just as the inability to walk in a straight line is. It was no wonder why they never let you do runway shows, you think sarcastically. You’d be stuck in a photographer’s room for the rest of your career.

Alyona pushes a strand of her hair out of her face.

“Seraph…you know it does not work like that.” Of course you did, but asking for help was never your strong suit. And your mother had already given you three well-trained bodyguards to escort you to and from work—that was more than enough protection.

When you think of the expensive parcels that had been dropped at AMA’s front desk you had to restrain the honey cake coming back up your gullet. All of them had been expensive; pieces you could afford on a model's pension but still wildly elegant to even touch much less own in multitude. Gold bracelets inlay with black opal and sapphire, necklaces with Tanzanite, and rings of ruby, your mother had told you this when you had brought them to her off of only seeing washed-out tones on your part.

You never showed anyone the letters; they lived in a lockbox under the bed in your apartment. Concerningly, lately the ‘presents’ had been losing the plot. Random bits of glass and shiny items—a slow deterioration but somehow even more scary.

Even the older women at the front desk were softening the usual sneers they wore when you walked in every day, no longer chiding you in Russian they know you can’t understand. The way they seemed pitiful rubbed you the wrong way.

You pull your jacket closer to you and rub a hand slowly along your thigh in a soothing gesture. Aly pulls her brows in.

“I want to help you, little Солнышко, but I don’t think this is something I can fix with my womanly charms.” Your lips release a snort, tiny chuckles hitting the air.

Alyona joins you before silence once again lapses.

“...Do you feel alright?” Your friend asks honestly. Worry was plain on her face.

You smile, but your lungs tighten in your chest while your heart acts like a dancer and lightly skips beats. “By next month,” your hand shakes over your thigh, “all of this will be in the past. No one could keep this up forever. I just have to…wait it out. It’s only the gifts, I can live with that—jewelry isn’t hurting anybody except his wallet.”

The woman narrows her eyes at you and frowns, but it’s not long before she goes back to her half of the Медовик and takes a bite with a moan of enjoyment. You rarely lied, so you supposed she had no trouble believing you.

If only you could fraud yourself like that.

“Quite a wealthy bastard, though, no?” Alyona slyly pokes fun and you blink quickly.

“Aly!”

“I am just saying!”

You press your hand to your lips to hide your loud laugh, Yefim looking over with a certain airiness to his expression before Aleksandr jerks his shoulder to face him back forward. The two glare at each other as Petya stares violently at the front door—daring those outside to try and come in and ask for a picture.

While you hadn’t come back to this bakery in a while, the three men always seemed to pick the exact same table; the one with the perfect view of everything going on near the door. While it was a small distance away, it allowed for quick action in any direction.

You blink away as the wooden boards under the bodyguards’ table creak again, loud enough to cause Alyona to frown in that direction. Petya sends an annoyed look down and scowls.

“How do you know he’s not just stealing them,” you bring back the conversation, smirking. “You know? Maybe he’s a,” your voice lowers an octave in fake secrecy and Aly’s eyes roll, amused, “jewel thief.”

“God above,” the woman huffs. “That would be the twist.”

The both of you joked and picked fun, but that half an hour went past quickly, and soon it was time to get back to the agency so you could change again. The photographer couldn’t take pictures of air and play it off as you with a smile and a nervous stutter.

As you stand you stare long at the cases of baked goods, licking the remnants of cream off your lips

“We can buy another, Seraph,” Aly suggests, fixing her coat. You shake your head immediately.

“No, no, I’ve already had enough sugar. I had two muffins for breakfast. Chocolate.” Your face pulls into a cringe at the words. “Cheat day.”

Alyona’s lips go tighter, but she says nothing as her hair is puffed out of her face. She out of everyone knows how demanding modeling can be—your entire life is dictated by two things: calories, and appointments.

You turn to Yefim with his wavy hair and his soft, dimpled, smile; casual eyes. Not your soulmate, based on his lack of reaction the first time you had met, but in that time you’d grown a tiny crush on the man, admittingly. He was kind and treated you with respect. Capable and reliable—how could you ask for more than that?

“Yefim?” Your voice calls out, a smile on your lips. The man looks over and blinks in surprise. He clears his throat, stuttering as he shifts in his seat. The wood tilts slightly under him and he steadies himself on the edge of the table.

“Да, Ma’am?”

Restraining a giggle, you cock your head as Alyona snorts.

“Do you want a slice of Bird Milk Cake?” Petya slides you a blank look and Aleksandr taps his fingers to the table. You poke fun, “For when you’re on break, of course.”

Yefim’s eyes sparkle in their colorless state, a handsome smile taking his lips back along his face. He makes a move to stand up, floorboards squealing loudly as weight is lessened.

“I would be in your debt—”

The world explodes into a slate-gray blaze of heat and hellfire.

Your body is thrown back before you can even begin to understand that you’re in danger, panic completely bypassed for a total blank sensation of confusion. Spine slapping into the glass of the window, your form is hurled by a vast boom out of the bakery entirely before it slams to the concrete multiple feet away.

You slide, rolling in a mess of limbs and ripped silk. For a good moment, you have no idea what just transpired, confusedly lifting your head from the ground and blinking below you as everything rings. Your hand grips the side of your head, the thick liquid seeping in between your fingers as you peel it back and look with shaky vision.

Blackened blood is coated along your palm, slipping along your wrist as you tilt your hand up in horrified uncertainty.

Everything comes back in a millisecond of screaming and running feet; like a switch being flipped. You snap your head back to what remains of the bakery as blood slides down your temple.

“A-Alyona?!” Heels sliding, you stand but stumble back down just as quickly, hands slapping against the ground as you raggedly cough more, chest burning from the force at which you’d been thrown.

What the hell had just happened? An explosion?

There was little left of the bakery beside the front door, smoke billowing out of the broken windows as gray flames spark with the familiar sound of burning material—a sharp burn is taken into your nostrils.

Dragging an arm forward, you grasp something warm and wet in an attempt to get up again. You look to the side and immediately scream at what you see.

Yefim’s upper body was completely fine besides the burns and the lack of his hair, the peeling flesh…it was the absence of the entire lower body that struck you with waves of horror. You slam a hand to your lips and wail, slipping back on kicking legs as tears well in your tear ducts.

Guts were leaking over the concrete, and the dark, gaping, wound spread a fast puddle out around the sputtering that made his chest look like it was moving. Eyes flutter, lashes flapping quickly.

He looked confused, and that was perhaps the worst part of it.

Yefim died only half a man, his entrails pooling out of his ribcage, only twenty seconds after you’d asked him if he wanted a piece of cake. Your fingers hide the loud sobs as you stare into this blank expression, hand shaking so bad that it hits your nose.

“I…I,” you stutter, shapes and flashes rushing back and forth at the sides of your vision. Pressure holds at your left shoulder.

“Seraph!” The sentence falls off into feminine Russian cursing and screaming, a grip shaking you back and forth, urging you to listen.

There are wails and the roar of cars, but you don’t have to be given a speech to know the truth about the toll as the fire burns hotter and the blood runs faster. Petya, Aleksandr, and Yefim are dead. They had been sitting on top of something that had triggered when Yefim had released weight from it.

The creaky floorboards.

“Seraph!” Alyona tries again, grabbing you under the shoulders and dragging you away from the corpse as bystanders’ phones flash with pictures being taken. There’s just so much screaming. “Seraph, please, we need to move! The fire is spreading!”

They had been sitting right on top of it. But…but they always sat there…they…they were always…

In the corner of your eye, a dark phantom looms across the street as the first sirens of the police cars race down the road; a burning silhouette of black mist and ashen smoke.

As the bakery burns and the corpse of Yefim grows cold, it slips away into the forming crowd.

TAGS:

@anna-banana27, @random-thot-generator, @midwesternwitchery, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @halfmoth-halfman, @alpineswinter, @blingblong55, @kra-rino4ka, @cryingnotcrying, @lxne20, @not-eclipse, @theecoffeebean, @phoenixhalliwell, @h3ll-guttz, @tiinkerbell, @genjilvr, @azush4rp, @escapefromrealitysm, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @finnigansxz, @cowboybaby2, @delaynew, @doggydale, @zapphir, @littlemisstrouble, @xxtmoe, @grizzersmamma, @andreas-river, @blogdddxx, @jade-jax, @emthegrace, @lovebugmsyd, @makariaspresence, @noisyprofessorhoundsalad-blog, @scythebot, @blueoorchid, @caramlizedtomatos, @strawberymilk,@frazie99, @homicidal-slvt, @develised, @crispyhusband, @cathnoneofyourbusiness, @ghostslittlegf, @generalcloudtraveler, @azsteris, @rvjaa, @creminemisinthehizzyforshizzboy, @comsyki

#cod nikto #nikto #nikto x reader #mwii nikto #cod #cod x reader #cod x you #cod mw22 #x female reader #call of duty mw2 #call of duty x reader #call of duty x you #ravishing allure

745 notes · View notes