#but they won’t even run simple blood tests it’s ridiculous

[rowanhoney]

Just having one of those regular little panics about the incompetence of the NHS

[ppersonna]

my only wish - knj | m

“ santa can you hear me? i have been so good this year. and all i want is one thing. please tell me my true love is here ” - my only wish (this year), britney spears

✹ summary- There are few things you hate most in this world. Hornets, unnecessary fruit pieces in otherwise perfectly good jello, certain shades of orange… But nothing takes the cake more than two simple things. Christmas. And Kim Namjoon. So why did you agree to pretend to be Kim Namjoon’s girlfriend at his family Christmas party? Bah-Humbug.

✹ rating- explicit/18+/nsfw

✹ pairing- kim namjoon x reader

✹ word count- 15.1k OOF

✹ genre- smut, fluff, tiny tiny angst if you squint, enemies to lovers, fake dating au, idiots to lovers, brief mention of YoonMin

✹ warnings- penetrative sex, unprotected sex (dont do it), daddy kink lolol, namjoon has a big dick, oral sex (m/f receiving), cum swallowing, light cum play, dirty talk, light degradation (very light tbh), praise kink, lots of mentions of joon being a beefy boy, masturbation,

✹ a/n- its here!! finally! my contribution to rockin around the christmas tropes. big big big shout out to @ladyartemesia​ @xjoonchildx​ @untaemedqueen​ @underthejoon​ @yeojaa​ @snackhobi​ for being my co collaborators. and a warm shout out to @wwilloww​ and @hobi-gif​ for being some very lovely betas. thank you thank you! i hope you enjoy!

There are few things you hate most in this world. 

 Hornets, unnecessary fruit pieces in otherwise perfectly good jello, certain shades of orange…

 But nothing takes the cake more than two simple things: 

 Christmas. 

 And Kim Namjoon. 

Christmas, in your opinion, is nothing more than a consumerist holiday, anchored on ensuring you’re guilted enough from November 1st to the 25th of December to spend your hard earned money on shit your friends and loved ones won’t even use. It’s a time for people to pretend they love giving and caring, while shoving you out of lines in stores, buying up all the groceries as if it’s the end times, and forcing party after mindless party for “celebration” that ends in seeing your boss drunk and pants-less by the punchbowl. 

 And don’t even start on Kim Namjoon. 

 On paper, he’s your colleague, to put the terms friendly. In reality, he’s your opponent, your adversary. He’s annoying, rude, stuck up, and not to mention a douchebag heartbreaker. He’s everything you hate wrapped in one disgustingly handsome face. 

 The man never misses a chance to steal a case from underneath your nose, rub the praise he receives from your bosses in your face, and look ridiculously delectable in his tight suits that he insists he wears around the office. He absolutely infuriates you. 

 And now, as you sit in the company-wide meeting, your heart sinks as you realize the worst thing about Namjoon—he’s about to get the promotion you’ve been vying for your entire career.

 That position was as good as yours—at least, you had thought.

 That was until lead counsel, Seokjin, stands in front of all the attorneys present and calls out Namjoon’s name, commending him on winning his latest case—the case that you had done the bulk of the work for. Seokjin even tells the rest of the lawyers in the room that Namjoon is “someone to watch” with a glint of pride in his eyes. 

 The smug smile Namjoon sends in your direction as he teasingly nibbles on a pen with his sultry mouth is enough to make you want to tear his eyes out and use them as olives in the martini you sorely needed.

 Namjoon smirks as he walks past you once the meeting ends.

 “Make sure you watch me, baby,” he whispers into your ear. 

 His hand rests on your lower back and you hate how much he aggravates you, and hate even more so that he frustrates you sexually as much as he does intellectually.

 Unfortunately, your body can’t keep up with your mind’s distaste for the elder lawyer. His presence around you makes your blood vessels tighten and your head feel light—nipples prickling against your bra when he winks at you.

 “Asshole,” you whisper under your breath as you pack up your notebook.

 “Oh, ___!” Seokjin calls out just as you’re about to leave the all-glass meeting room.

 Your head suddenly screeches to a very frustrated, sexual halt when you turn to face the lead counsel of your company.

 “Yes, Mr. Kim?”

 “I’ve got a case for you.”

 The smile on his face makes you relax. Maybe he sees your potential. Maybe he’s testing you just as much as he’s testing Namjoon. Maybe you’ll be the “one to watch” and you can rub that right in Namjoon’s perfect, stunning face.

 A thick manila folder slides across the oak table towards you from Seokjin’s hands. The impressive volume of the dossier makes you giddy with anticipation.

 “I know you won’t let me down.”

 You nod, nibbling at your lips, before bowing to your superior and dashing out of the room as fast as your Louboutins can handle.

 It’s not until you sit at your desk, a cramped little cubicle next to Park Jimin, your best friend and paralegal assistant, that you open the folder.

 Your heart sinks as your eyes hurriedly rush over the title page.

 Personal Injury Suit.

 A dejected sigh leaves you as you throw the folder onto your desk and slouch back in your ergonomic office chair.

 “What’s up, pussycat?” Jimin smiles as he rolls his chair over to your side of the cubicle. “Namjoon got you worked up again?”

 You groan as you take off your reading glasses, setting them aside to rub at the burgeoning headache building at your temples. You had momentarily forgotten all about Namjoon in the hurried hope that you’d land a case of significance, something you could finally use to prove yourself.

 Instead, you gained yet another in-and-out, settle outside of court case. Likely some elderly geriatric suing a corporation for too-slippery floors.

 “Another fucking personal injury suit,” you whine as you thrust the folder into the lithe paralegal’s hands.

 He looks over the documents and sucks his teeth.

 “Man, Seokjin really has it out for you.”

 You level a look at your best friend, before nodding and holding your head in your hands.

 “Namjoon is getting all the good cases! He gets the media attention, the litigation deals, everything! It’s like I’m not even given a chance to show what kind of lawyer I can be when I’m stuck with all the nursing home and car accident suits!”

 Jimin bows dutifully, nodding his head as you express your woes.

 “I can do more than just personal injury litigation… and Seokjin knows that! It’s just that Namjoon keeps getting all the air-time!”

 “I know, babe. I know.”

 With one last sigh of disbelief, you take the folder out of Jimin’s hands and sit upright at your desk.

 “Well, I guess if I’m going to be a personal injury lawyer, I’m going to be the best fucking one yet. Let’s get to work.”

 “Yeah! Fighting!” Jimin cheers.

  Namjoon sighs as he listens to his mother blabber on and on through his phone. He leans back in his chair and surveys the wide expanse of his corner office.

 Seokjin gave him this space, an upgrade from the desolate cubicles when he won his last big case, Kim Taehyung, artist v. the city of New York. He can’t help but smirk as he glimpses you from his window, pouring over a case file. He notes the curve of your back in the silk blouse you’re wearing and the way it tucks into your pencil skirt. He wishes he could see the outline of your ass and watch as it sways back and forth when you walk.

 “I just don’t understand why you can’t ever bring anyone home for the holidays!”

 His mother breaks him from his silent reverie of detailing every aspect of your backside.

 “You know your grandmother will not be alive much longer! And all she wants is her only grandson to be happy and in love! And a few grandchildren won’t hurt!”

 “I am her grandchild, Mom.”

 She’s silent for a moment.

 “Well, I wouldn’t mind some grandchildren either.”

 He groans again and presses his fingers to his forehead, a headache bubbling up behind his eyes.

 “Don’t you act like that, young man! You have a big empty house, big car, big life, and no one to share it with. I just want you to be happy.”

 She continues on and Namjoon can’t help but let her words sink in.

 He has it all. Expensive luxury apartment, enormous bed, gorgeous kitchen, money to spend on traveling and enjoying life. Yet he spends most of his time here, stuck in his office. He’s utterly alone, regardless of how many social guests he tries to entertain, horrid dates he attempts to go on. He’s always left alone, and he feels it deep at the very bottom of his heart—the loneliness and desire for a companion.

 “Mom! Mom!” He interrupts her diatribe on the futility of his adult life. “Stop!”

 “Namjoon, I’m just conce-”

 “I’ll bring home my girlfriend for the holidays, okay?”

There’s a stunned silence on the other end.

 “A girlfriend?” she asks, tentatively. “Really?”

 “Yeah,” he breathes, wincing already at the lie he’s spoon-feeding his poor mother—all in the name of getting her off his back. “She’s kind of shy, so I didn’t want to tell you about her yet, but now seems like the best time. I’m... I’m even thinking of proposing.”

 The words come out of Namjoon’s mouth before he can stop them. His mom bursts into screams of delight, and he can tell she’s running to his beloved grandmother to tell her the news.

 “Oh, Namjoon! This is all we’ve ever wanted for you. I’m so proud of you! I can’t wait to meet her! Oh, goodness, I can’t want to tell your father. Goodbye, son! I’ll see you two soon!”

 She hangs up before Namjoon has a chance to even breathe.

 “Fuck.”

 He drops his phone to his wooden desk and grimaces. 

 How the hell is he going to find a fiance in the next 3 days before the holiday break? 

 There’s Jennie, his ex.

 He thinks about it for a moment, before quickly dismissing it. No, much too clingy and possessive. She’d take it to be real, and he’d be stuck with her.

 His last hookup, Jihoo?

 No, too aloof. His mom would never buy that they were a love-sick couple on the brink of engagement.

 A crash outside his office startles Namjoon, making him stand and exit the large corner suite.

 The commotion is coming from your cubicle, where he can see you’re struggling to use the decrepit computer. The crash must have been from you slamming the keyboard to the desk, causing the individual keys to pop off the board.

 “Shit! Jimin, help me put this keyboard back together!” 

 You shimmy out of your chair and onto your knees, an excellent sight for Namjoon if he wasn’t so concerned about your well-being.

 The paralegal is standing above you, watching as you kneel to gather the pieces of the obliterated keyboard.

 “Oh no, honey. It’s against my personal constitution to be on my knees unless it’s for a handsome man.”

 “God, Jimin, come on.”

 “Hey, it’s not my fault you hulk-smashed the life out of that poor keyboard.”

 Namjoon smirks, turning back into his office and sliding into his desk. He easily opens his MacBook and emails Yoongi in IT, requesting a brand new computer for your desk—no holds barred. He wants the top of the line for you.

 He suddenly has just the person in mind to be his fake fiancée. 

  A brand new, gorgeous computer is at your desk the next day you arrive.  You nearly spill your hot peppermint mocha when you see the sleek machine atop your old plastic desk instead of the broken clunker that was there the day before.

 “What the hell?” You ask Jimin as you set your coffee down gently as if any movement might scare the new computer away. “Did you order this?”

 “I love you, but I would never order you something this nice.” 

 You can’t help but roll your eyes as you sit down to marvel at the modern machinery. At least Jimin is honest.

 “Maybe I’ll call Yoongi and ask him where it came from,” you wonder aloud, hand hovering over your phone.

 “YOONGI?” Jimin screeches, eyes suddenly wide and crazed.

 “Yeah? The IT guy?”

 “I know who Yoongi is, you dumbass! Here, let me call him! I’m your assistant!”

 He scrambles to grab the phone out of your hand.

 “You literally refuse to do anything I ask.”

 Jimin smiles cherubically, completely ignoring your confusion. He’s suddenly the picture of a model employee.

 “Don’t you worry! I’ll be right on it!”

 He hops from your desk with your cell phone gripped tight, and saunters away to a secluded area out of your eyesight.

 “What the fuck is going on today?” You ask out loud, settling into your chair and unloading your bag of files.

 “How's the new computer?”

 The sudden intruder makes you jump, nearly spilling your coffee, yet again.

 “Fuck!” You shriek as you attempt to right yourself and the dangerously hot liquid sloshing in the paper cup. “You scared me!”

 The chuckle that comes from behind you makes your stomach flip. You know that laugh. You could recognize that laugh a hundred miles away, in a hurricane, with headphones on.

 That laugh is the sultry demon himself, Kim Namjoon.

 “I—How did you know about my computer?”

 Namjoon takes a knee, bringing his face to your level in your chair. He’s close to you, so dangerously close. You can smell the Giorgio Armani cologne applied to his pressure points—the heat of his skin warming the scent and mingling with his own subtleties. Your eyes nearly roll back in your head. He smells so comforting—like a home you never knew you were missing until he arrived.  

 “I saw it when I walked in this morning.” 

 He breaks you from your daydreaming of warm, firm hands caressing your body and you’re thrown headfirst back into reality—the reality where you can’t stand the man mere inches from you.

 You push back from where you are and stand, eager to get away from Namjoon’s sudden interest in close proximity. He smirks and rises from his spot, pocketing his hands in his tight cream suit.

 “Care to join me in my office for some coffee?” He asks.

 His office. The one he scored after he won the Kim Taehyung case. The bitter betrayal still lingers in your mouth. 

 For the longest time, you had been equal in every sense; both living in the dingy cubicles with the computers long-destined for retirement. Then, Seokjin awarded him with the corner office, the one with the view of the entire city. You’d never forgiven either of them.

 “I have my own coffee.”

 Namjoon smirks as he eyes your paper cup, clearly a quick grab from the 7-Eleven around the corner.

 “Looks fancy.”

 You purse your lips and clutch your coffee even closer.

 “Please,” he asks again. “I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

 Namjoon’s face loses its snark, and you’re curious about what could cause the man to become so serious.

 “Fine.”

 You motion with your arm towards his office, encouraging him to walk ahead. He smirks again, ah—there’s that smirk, before he turns and heads into the gorgeous corner room.

 He lingers by the door as you enter, waiting until you’ve crossed the threshold to close the door behind you. It surprises you. Something about being in a closed room with Namjoon sets you on edge. You can nearly imagine the man bending you over that fine oak desk, hiking your skirt up and spanking your ass until it’s red.

 “Coffee?” He asks as he moves towards the in-office espresso machine.

 “Are you fucking kidding me? You have a Nespresso in your office?” 

 All desperate and wanton thoughts of Namjoon sliding into you leave once you see the stainless steel contraption in the room's corner. Of course he has a $500 coffee machine in his office. He has everything you want.

 “You like it?” His question is cocky. He already knows the answer.

 “Fuck off.”

 Namjoon grins and turns the machine on, pulling out two mugs while you sip your now lukewarm coffee. It suddenly tastes disgusting.

 “So, what’s the deal, Namjoon?” You ask as he rests against the wall and waits for the coffee to brew. “You said it was important.”

 Namjoon nods, a more reserved look taking the place of his usual cocky grin on his face. His gaze turns down to his shiny dress shoes.

 “I need a favor.”

 “No.” Your answer is quick.

 Namjoon looks up at you in surprise.

 “You haven’t even heard it yet!”

 “Yeah, well…,” you huff. “I’m not interested in helping you.”

 Namjoon leaves his post by his elaborate coffee maker, forgetting about the piping-hot liquid drizzling into white mugs, as he stands in front of you. There’s that fucking cologne again. Why does he have to smell so good?

 “You’ve got to help me. Please.”

 His sudden closeness to you sets your brain off—your steely resolve begins to crumble.

 “Fine, I’ll bite. What is it?”

 His face lights up again. God, he has such a handsome mouth.

 “I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend for my family Christmas party.”

 If you hadn’t had such a good grip on the convenience store cup of coffee, it’d surely drop from your clutch and splatter on the expensive carpet of Namjoon’s office.

 Your eyes widen, and your mouth falls agape.

 “You—You what?!”

 Namjoon sighs and lowers his voice.

 “Look, I…” he struggles. “I told my mom I have a girlfriend, so she’d get off my back about it.”

 “And why am I suddenly your best option for that?!” 

 You step away from the man, determined to clear your mind as the scenario weaves its way through your head. 

 Namjoon’s girlfriend. He wants you to be his girlfriend.

 Well, his fake girlfriend.

 He would hold your hand. He would kiss you. He would touch your body in ways you convince yourself you don’t think of often. 

 “You’re the only girl I know who’s got a good enough poker face to go along with it. And honestly… you’re the only girl I really know well enough.”

 His last admission shocks you. Namjoon seems like the womanizing type—one to bring a different girl home every night.

 “That doesn’t explain why the fuck I would want to help you.”

 Namjoon steps back and moves towards the coffee machine again.

 “If you help me, I’ll take all your shitty cases that Jin is giving you.”

 Your eyes narrow at the tall man. It seems too good to be true.

 “How d'you know about them?”

 Namjoon shrugs and grabs a mug full of freshly brewed expensive coffee.

 “I can hear you complain to Jimin about it every day.”

 You grumble under your breath, sucking on your teeth as you try to process the terms of Namjoon’s deal.

 “So you want me to be your fake girlfriend for your family…” you muse.

 “Yes,” he agrees. “And I’ll do all your worst cases for the next 2 months. I’ll even give you my next big one. I know you want that.”

 God, he’s right. That’s all you want. A chance to prove yourself to Seokjin, to the company.

 With an aggravated sigh, you relent. 

 “Fine! But it better be a good fucking case. And, I’m using your coffee maker every morning.”

 Namjoon can’t help but chuckle, loving the fire in your voice. 

 “Deal?” He murmurs.

 He holds out his hand to shake on it, and it takes you by surprise how warm and soft his large hands are once you slide your own into his grip.  

 “Deal.”

 Jimin is not going to let you live this one down.

  Jimin doesn’t let you live it down.

 He’s sitting on your couch, legs crossed underneath him as he hoists his wine glass filled to the brim. He holds it away from his body as he shakes with laughter.

 “You’re telling me,” he wheezes. “That you agreed to be Namjoon’s fake Christmas girlfriend? You hate that man!”

 Flopping into the couch beside him, you sigh.

 “Yeah, well, it was my only option. He made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

 “Okay, Godfather,” Jimin snickers. “Lord knows you still want to bone that man, anyway.”

 “Jimin!” You admonish. “I do not! And that wasn’t the deal!”

 He sips at his red wine with an impish smile. You hate it when Jimin looks at you like that, like he can see behind the lie you’ve so carefully crafted of your hatred for Namjoon.

 “Then tell me, what was the deal?”

 You fiddle with the stem of your own wine glass, sighing.

 “He’s offered to take all our shitty personal injury suits for the next two months. And he’s giving me his next big case.”

 Jimin actually looks surprised—as if he didn’t expect Namjoon to provide a deal so worth the cost.

 “Wow,” he breathes.

 You nod in reply, taking a large gulp of the pinot grigio in your glass.

 “You’re still going to fuck him though, I know it,” Jimin adds.

 You splutter your wine from your mouth, hand reaching over to gently slap Jimin on his taut abdomen.

 “Shut up!” You cry.

 Jimin looks proud of himself, sipping his red wine gleefully while he settles further into your couch. Wine nights with Jimin is the highlight of your weeks. Together, you bitch over cases, coworkers, dating struggles, and eat too much cheese and cured meats and nurse a hangover the following day with brunch.

 “Hey,” you say to Jimin as you set your wine down on the coffee table. “Did you ever talk to Yoongi?”

 Jimin’s cheeks immediately turn a shade of rouge.

 “Yoongi? Yoongi who?”

 “Oh my god,” you groan. “Yoongi from IT. You stole my phone to call him today? To ask about my new computer?”

 Jimin swallows a large swig of his wine.

 “Oh. Yes, I did.”

 “And?” You encourage the blonde to answer further.

 “And he’s doing well,” Jimin replies demurely.

 “Jimin!” You huff. “The computer?!”

 Jimin makes an ‘O’ shape with his mouth and bites his lip.

 “I… might have forgotten to ask.”

 Your mouth drops open.

 “You literally stole my phone out of my hands to call him! What did you talk about?!”

 There’s his blush again. The shade of pink on Jimin’s cheeks would be adorable if you weren’t so flabbergasted by his answers.

 “I have a date tomorrow night.” He takes another sip as you let the reply sink in.

 “Oh. My. God.” You gasp, a smile now overtaking your features. “You have a crush on Min Yoongi!”

 Jimin sets his wine glass down next to yours and turns to you.

 “I had no idea if he was into me! But when I called, I totally forgot why I was calling him and we sort of just… started talking and next thing I know, he’s asking me out to dinner tomorrow night.”

 You playfully slap at Jimin’s thigh.

 “You little slut—using my phone to get yourself a date. On company time!”

 Jimin sticks his tongue out at you, before grabbing a pillow and slapping you with the overstuffed cushion.

 “At least I didn’t agree to be his fake girlfriend!”

  It’s the sound of your phone ringing at 7:32 am that wakes you from your spot on the couch, wine glass still clutched in your hand.

 “What the fuck?” You grumble, eyes blearily seeking the offending object disturbing your sleep.

 Jimin grumbles next to you, kicking at your foot as if it will stop the phone from ringing.  

“Stop,” he whines and cuddles into his fetal position. “Turn it ooooff.”

 You locate your cell phone and groan as you recognize the name on the caller ID. Namjoon. What the fuck could he possibly be calling for? And why did he have to call at seven in the goddamn morning? 

 “What do you want?” You snap as you hold the phone to your cheek and throw yourself back onto the couch.

 “Well, good morning to you, sunshine.”

 Namjoon’s voice, as sexy and sultry as it sounds, still aggravates you.

 “Why are you calling me? It’s Saturday. Its seven am.”

 Namjoon chuckles and you fight the shiver that works through your spine at the sound.

 “I tend to keep human hours on the weekend.”

 You can’t hold back the sarcastic guffaw that escapes you.  

 “Okay, Mr. Perfect,” you sigh. “That doesn’t explain calling me.”

 Jimin kicks at your foot again. 

 “Stop talking,” he grumbles.

 God, Jimin is such a diva when he’s hungover.

 “Meet me at the cafe on First Street,” Namjoon says casually. “I’ll tell you when you get here.”

 “Right now?!” You ask, incredulous.

 “I’m literally already here. Hurry before your coffee gets cold.”

 You let out a whine that could rival a 5-year-old’s temper tantrum.

 “Fuck you. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

 There’s no care about your phone when you end the call and throw it to the floor.  Jimin grumbles and rubs at his eyes.

 “Why the fuck are you having phone sex with Namjoon so early in the morning?” He asks.

 “Jimin, I swear to God.”

 He wraps himself in the throw blanket and buries his face back into the couch while you stand and retreat to your bedroom to throw on some semblance of appropriate clothing for the occasion.

 “Fucking Namjoon,” you grumble under your breath as you change into jeans and a sweater. “Fuck him and his stupid, sexy face. And his unbelievable ass. And his stupid, probably enormous penis. Man, I hate him.”

 As you’re re-entering the living room and grabbing your important items (keys, wallet, lip gloss just in-case), Jimin pops his head out of his blanket cave.

 “Where are you going?” He asks, suddenly less annoyed and more pathetic. “You’re leaving me?”

 “I have to go meet Namjoon for coffee. I don’t know why, so don’t ask.”

 “You’re really going to let me suffer here? Alone? With no coffee?”

 You spin around to face your best friend, who’s giving you an absolutely soul-crushing pout and puppy eyes.

 “Yes. Call Yoongi.”

 His precious pout is wiped away, and a devious smirk takes its place.

 “Great idea!” He says as he digs around for his phone. “Be careful out there! It’s icy! Wouldn’t want you to slip and fall on Namjoon’s dick.”

 Your only reply is one singular middle finger in Jimin’s direction as you exit your apartment.

  Namjoon can’t help but smile as he sips his warm coffee. The cafe is warm and bright, despite the chill outside. 

 Things feel peaceful. Tender flakes of snow trickle down outside and frost up the shop’s window. There’s something about this time of year that strikes him down to the core. Something cozy, something warm.

 It’s odd to think this will be his first year not celebrating the holiday alone.

 Even if it is... well, fake. 

 The bell over the door chimes an arrival, and Namjoon can tell by the grumbles and grunts and stomps of snowy boots that it’s you.

 “Over here!” He calls, raising a hand and turning to face you.

 Wow, he thinks. You look gorgeous, even without trying.

 You hurry your way over to the booth and plop yourself on the opposite side, immediately lunging for the obvious mug of coffee waiting for you on the table. You don’t waste a minute gulping the liquid down your throat, then spluttering when you realize it’s still hot.

 “I thought you said it was getting cold!” You cry, airing out your burnt tongue. Namjoon can’t help but imagine that tongue sliding up and down his cock.

 Not now. Wrong time and place to get a boner.

 Namjoon smiles as he sips his cappuccino. 

 “I got you a fresh one.”

 You make a face, but your features soften. As if you’re pleased with the idea that Namjoon cared to freshen up your cup.

 “Oh, well--”, you manage. “Thank you.”

 Namjoon doesn’t reply, but merely tips his head. The silence is thick enough to cut with a knife. Normally, you’re both normally so wound up in aggravating the other that a moment of calm is strange, but not unwelcome.

 “So, why the early morning wake up?” You finally ask, fiddling with the handle of the mug.

 Namjoon settles his cup down.

 “We need to get to know each other. Deep shit, you know. The shit that lovers would know about each other.”

 He notices you, watches as you nibble at your lip. You try hard to hide it behind the mug you lift to your lips, but Namjoon notices. 

 “I’m hoping maybe we could spend the day together,” he adds. “I need to get some Christmas gifts for my family and… well, it’s rather lonely doing it on my own.”

 There’s a slight smile at the ends of your lips.

 “And you needed me at seven thirty in the morning to do that?”

 He stifles a laugh.

 “Like I said, I operate at regular human hours. Even on weekends,” he replies.

 With a dramatic sigh, you agree.

 “Fine,” you say. “I’m an open book. Ask me anything.”

 He watches as you settle into the seat of the booth, hands gripping the warm mug like it’s a personal heater. He notices you’re only wearing jeans and a sweater--no properly warm clothing for the snow storm ahead. He’ll have to fix that, and soon.  

 “What are you doing for Christmas?” He asks.

 You level a look.

 “Spending it pretending to be in love with you.”

 Namjoon can’t help but snort a laugh.

 “I meant after that.”

 You shrug as you settle back into the seat.

 “I don’t like Christmas. I don’t do much other than force Jimin to kiss me under the mistletoe and watch shitty movies with a gallon of boxed wine.”

 “Hmm,” he hums. “You’re sort of a Grinch.”

 A scowl comes over your face.

 “I am not! I just don’t buy into this whole ‘prove how much you love me by buying me things’ shit. It’s a big scheme, I tell you! Capitalist propaganda! They encourage you to spend all your money, and if you don’t, they shame and guilt you by telling you you don’t love your family enough.”

 Namjoon can’t help but laugh as you rant. It’s what makes you such a talented lawyer—your ability to feel a passion so deep within you you’re able to convince a stone-faced jury of your side.

 “Don’t laugh at me!” You cry. “I’m serious! My family doesn’t celebrate, I don’t celebrate. I’d rather just buy gifts for my loved ones when I see something they’d like. Why do we have to put a time of year on it?”

 He shrugs and scooches his mug around the carbonate table.

 “I suppose that makes sense,” he muses. “But you’re still a Grinch. And a Scrooge. You’ll definitely get visited by some Ghosts at midnight.”

 “Ha ha,” you snark sarcastically. “Hilarious, Namjoon. Don’t tell me you’re a big festive guy.”

 “Somewhat. It’s my Mom’s favorite holiday. It’s why she’s so bent out of shape about me having a girlfriend. Something about family and love and shit.”

 You nod, understanding him completely. Your own mother, despite her reservations towards the holiday, still makes a fuss over your single status. There must be some Mom code to obsess over your children’s woeful dating life.

 “Well, I say let’s get on with it then. Ready to hit the shops?” He asks.

 You’re mid-sip of your finally cooled coffee and you send a desperate look to the man in front of you.

“Already?!”

 “We’re burning daylight, baby.”

 Namjoon stands and you can’t help but feel a roar of flames in your belly at the pet-name. Your cheeks are surely flaming up and you admonish yourself for getting so peaked about such a trivial name.

 “Please don’t tell me we’re walking,” you murmur as you sneak a peek outside.

 The snow is falling down harder now, and you’re dreadfully underdressed for the weather.

 Namjoon tsks at your lack of outerwear, but then shakes his head.

 “No, we’ll take my Range Rover.”

 You roll your eyes and grimace.

 “Of course. You have a fucking Nespresso machine and a Range Rover. Asshole.”

 Namjoon doesn’t even think about it as he grabs your hand and laces his fingers in between yours. If anyone asked, he’d say it’s practice—to familiarize himself with the way your fingers slot between his own so it’s not such a foreign concept when he does it in front of his family.

 “Yeah, but I’m your asshole now, princess.”

 Christmas shopping with Namjoon is mostly painless.

 Normally, you dread the lines and the crowds and the confusion and the expense.

 But with Namjoon, you relax and banter away with the tall lawyer. You’re completely at ease as you walk through crowded aisles and sort through racks of cashmere sweaters and stacks of fuzzy blankets.

 “Mom will love this, don’t you think?” Namjoon asks, holding up a thick, exquisite looking blanket.

 You’re about to answer with an affirmative when you catch yourself. You don’t even know his mom. You’ve never met the woman. Why does it feel as if Namjoon is someone you’ve known your entire life? 

 Why do things feel so easy with him?

 “Sure, Namjoon,” you reply. “Seems like something most mother’s would be into.”

 He smiles at you. It’s a genuine smile too, one that nearly knocks you on your ass. Your body is sent into overdrive constantly. He holds your hand, he places his hand at the small of your back to guide you through a thick crowd. He calls you baby and princess and doll.

 It’s confusing.

 It’s amazing.

 You can’t tell if you love it or hate it.

 Namjoon pushes the shopping cart and walks beside you, chatting easily about his various aunts and uncles names that you likely must remember at some point but you just can’t think about anything but Namjoon, Namjoon, Namjoon.

 You hate him. He stole that corner office from you. He’s going to take the promotion you want from right under your nose. He has a goddamn Nespresso in his office and a Range Rover. 

 And yet, you can’t help but fall in place next to him and listen to him tell stories of his childhood, weaving tales of uncles who snuck him his first sips of alcohol and aunts who spoil him rotten. He’s easy to listen to, a natural story-teller. Your body feels warm, as if you’re sitting on a large hearth by a roaring fire. He’s comforting.

 It’s infuriating and wonderful all at once. 

 “And that’s when my cousin Jungkook got caught smoking cigarettes. My grandma beat our ass so bad I couldn’t sit for a day.”

 Namjoon finishes his story and turns to look at you. You’ve been staring at the man for nearly a minute straight now.

 “Hey,” his voice is soft. “You listening?”

 You shake out of the trance Namjoon’s deep voice sends you into.

 “Yeah!” You reply with a smirk. “Sounds like this Jungkook is a guy I’d like to meet.”

 Namjoon sucks his teeth and nudges you.

 “Hey, you’re my girlfriend, remember.”

 You stick your tongue out at him playfully.

 “Fake girlfriend. I’m still a single, desirable lady at the end of the day.”

 Namjoon hesitates before answering. He wants to reply something snarky, something sarcastic and witty. But he takes a moment to pause, allows himself to fully immerse himself in you. Even hungover, in yesterday’s jeans and an old sweater, you’re still an absolute catch. You’re the definition of desirable and Namjoon can’t help but allow himself to desire.

 “Hmm, is that what you call it?” He asks, now allowing the sarcasm to permeate his words. “I was thinking you’re more of the spinster, cat-lady type.”

 “Hey!” You pout as you slap at his arm. “I’m allergic to cats!”

 “But you don’t deny being a spinster.”

 “Fuck you, Namjoon.”

 He grins and pushes the carts towards the candle aisle, a sure-fire gift for his aunties.

 “In due time, my love.”

  By the time Christmas Eve arrives, you’ve spent nearly every day with Namjoon. At work, he brings you fresh coffee from his Nespresso and buys you lunch. You’ve even landed his big case, an incredibly complex lawsuit that will showcase your skills. Namjoon gives you pointers and space to talk through the case with him.

Namjoon is, in fact, simply being kind. And it unsettles you.

 Your heart and brain are at war with each other constantly. You should hate him, loathe him. He’s going to nail that promotion regardless of what you prove to Seokjin.

 But your heart tells you he deserves it. He’s an incredible attorney and has earned every ounce of respect. You want Namjoon to get that promotion just to see that smile on his face. He’d do incredible things as Seokjin’s protege to take over the firm.

 You hate to admit it, but Namjoon has melted the ice around your heart. And you’re dreading the day after all this is over, because it will be the day Namjoon stops holding you close and pressing soft kisses to your temple. It will be the day he stops pretending this is all real.

 It’s Christmas Eve and you’re sitting in Namjoon’s expensive Range Rover, plush leather seat toasty from the built-in seat warmer. You can’t help but marvel at the way the oncoming headlights brighten up Namjoon’s features as he drives you down a snowy mountain lane. They always hold the Kim family holiday party at Namjoon’s late grandfather’s cabin in the mountains, a quiet getaway for the family to gather and spend the night together to wake up on Christmas morning and gather around for presents and food.

 Which means waking up to Kim Namjoon.

 It’s something you’ve dreamt of often, but denied yourself any actual possibility of it. Namjoon was always out of reach, and it was easier to hate him for his success he rightfully deserved than it was to admit the feelings that were always inside.

 And now, although it’s artificial, you can’t bear to think of not spending your time with Namjoon anymore.

 You steal a glance again at him, and smile as you hear his faint humming. He loves Christmas music. You learned that early in the week during another early morning coffee and ‘get to know you’ before work. Namjoon couldn’t stop singing Mariah Carey’s classic pop song under his breath as it played over the speakers in the cafe. 

 “It’s so pretty up here,” you muse as you force your vision away from Namjoon’s gorgeous face to the snowy scenery outside. 

 The snow is falling gently, not enough to cause a blizzard but enough to make it seem like you’re trapped in a picturesque snow-globe. Leaving the city and entering the magical forest stirs an emotion inside you you hadn’t felt in some time.

 It’s Christmas Eve and there’s just something magical.

 Ugh. Unbelievable.

 Namjoon has even made you actually enjoy Christmas.

 He nods. “Yeah, it’s my favorite place in the world, I think.”

 “I can see why,” you sigh. “It looks like a painting.”

 Namjoon glances over at you peering through the window. His heart hammers in his chest hard as your glittering eyes bounce around from tree to tree, a pretty smile on your face. The diamond ring in his pocket feels like it weighs a literal ton and he nibbles at his lip.

 He bought it for the showmanship of it all, initially. It was his first purchase he made when he set up this whole rouse.

 But now, it feels real. It feels like he’s really about to get on one knee and ask you, the girl he’s absolutely head over heels for, to marry him.

 And then it will be over.

 He’ll make up some story to tell his mom about how it didn’t work out and you’ll go back to being his coworker, and nothing more.

 Namjoon can’t fight the sinking feeling in his stomach.

 Nothing more.

 He pulls into the driveway before you even have time to realize you’re there. He puts the car in park and smiles over at you. 

 He looks so cute in his puffy winter coat, hair pushed to the side and a smile that’s all dimples and cheeks.

 Fuck.

 “We’re here,” he whispers. “You ready?”

 Suddenly, the nerves of meeting your fake boyfriend’s entire family slap you right in the face. You hope that you’re a good enough actress to get Namjoon through the night and into the morning.

 “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

 He nods and squeezes your hand, an unspoken comforting ‘I got you’.

 Namjoon gathers his wrapped gifts and stacks them all in his arms, ignoring your pleas and giggles to help carry them in.

 “No, no,” he assures. “I have to make sure my mom sees me being manly and helpful.”

 As if on cue, the front door opens and Mrs. Kim is bursting out into the snowy night.

 “Namjoon!” She shrieks, completely overjoyed. The rest of the family is standing by the door, eyeing you carefully with smiles and whispers. You pray to whatever Christmas God that’s listening that you can do this.

 Namjoon sets the pile of gifts down just in time to wrap his delicate and tiny mother in his arms, hugging her tightly while she gleefully buries her face into her tall son’s chest.

 “Oh, my son, I’ve missed you.”

 Namjoon kisses the crown of her head and smiles.

 “Missed you too, eomma.”

 The scene has you misty-eyed and you swipe at your eyes to stop the tears. There’s no way you’re ruining the fantastic makeup you did for the occasion, but the reunion of Namjoon and his mother is heart-warming. He clearly cares for his mother more than he would outwardly admit. 

 Namjoon and his mother unwrap from each other and Namjoon turns towards you.

 “Everyone, this is ____,” he breathes. “My girlfriend.”

 His mother’s gleeful squeals now turn to you, and within an instant she’s gathering you up in just as tight of a hug as she did to her son.

 “Oh, darling, we are so happy to meet you,” she beams.

 The excitement in her voice makes you feel bad—like you’re conning an old woman out of her retirement. You’re instilling a sense of hope in the kind woman, and you can’t help but send Namjoon a look as you wrap your arms around her and return the embrace. His eyes sparkle with something you can’t read.

 “I’m happy to meet you too,” you smile as you pull apart. “Thank you for letting me come.”

 “No thanks necessary,” she admonishes with a wink. “We had to beg Namjoon to bring you. It seems he wants to keep you all to himself.”

 “Eomma!” Namjoon snaps. “Be appropriate!”

 She nudges you with her elbow knowingly, which makes your cheeks flame hot, before she leads the way back into the house.

 “Come in, come in! Let’s get out of this snow.”

 Namjoon encourages you to step inside with a gentle hand at the small of your back—a touch that makes your body light up brighter than a Christmas tree.

 “Thank you,” he whispers in your ear from behind. You can feel the warmth of his lips and your body reacts.

How is it that any simple act makes you desperately horny for the man? You pray for some respite from your sexual frustration over the next day. How are you going to last over 24 hours?

 Namjoon deposits his massive haul of gifts under the tree and returns to your side, wrapping an arm around your shoulders to bring you close. He introduces you to uncles and aunts and cousins. He even introduces you to his infamous cousin, Jungkook, who smirks at you in a way that makes Namjoon pull you in closer to his body.

 “Are you doing okay?” Namjoon finally asks after the rush of relatives greeting you dies down. He turns you towards him, to face him directly with his hands on either of your shoulders. “You’re killing it.”

 You can’t help but smile. Namjoon’s family is all incredibly kind and funny. They welcome you into the family with ease and it chips away a little more each time at your heart.

 Because this is all fake. 

 One day, Namjoon really will have a girlfriend to bring to Christmas and to show off to his relatives and it won’t be you. You’ll be back at your apartment, watching shitty TV re-runs and binging on Chinese takeout, as you do every year. It’s a jab at your heart each time the bitter truth rears its ugly head.

 “Yeah,” you nod. “I’m great.”

 “Look!” Jungkook shouts. “They’re standing under the mistletoe!”

 Namjoon blushes a shade of red that likely matches a blush on your own cheeks. Sure enough, the green branches of the mistletoe taunt you from above. 

 You’ve never kissed Namjoon before. In all the skinship and closeness of the last week, you’ve still yet to close the gap to kissing the man. 

 “Oh, come on Kook, that’s a stupid tradition,” Namjoon murmurs awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck.

 Jungkook smirks as he steps up next to you.

 “Well, if you’re not going to do it, I’d be more than happy to take your place.”

 Jungkook wraps a loose arm around you and gives you a charming smile. He must be very popular with the ladies, you think. That’s a charming smile.

 “Hey!” Namjoon grabs for your hand and tugs you out of Jungkook’s predatory gaze. “She’s my girlfriend.”

 Namjoon looks at you for a moment, assessing your comfort level with everything about to take place. His lips look so inviting, so plush and warm. Now that you’re thinking about kissing him, you can’t help but focus on the way his lips pucker so gently and naturally.

 And then it happens. Namjoon lowers his face towards you and it feels as if the world is in slow-motion. It’s happening.

 The first press of his lips is soft and conservative. You take a split second to register, but instinctively you press against his lips with determination and wrap your arms around his neck to deepen the kiss.

 He groans softly as you trail your tongue out to seek purchase in his mouth, and he opens for you without hesitation. His hands grip at your waist and bring your body flush against his. You can feel his cock twitching and rising from the kiss that’s gone from innocent and playful to passionate and deep. It feels like the world around you has stopped and the only thing that matters is Namjoon, his mouth, his body against your own. He tastes like hot chocolate and peppermint, and you want more, more.

 “Oh my god, stop,” Jungkook’s voice shatters your illusion of being all alone with Namjoon. “Now you’re just showing off.”

 Namjoon pulls away from you, eyes dazed as he tries to right himself. 

 “You two are just so perfect for each other,” Namjoon’s mother says, who’s suddenly appeared in Jungkook’s place. “Let me show you your bedroom.”

 “Oh, we’re sharing?” You ask without thought. It’s a large house, with ample bedrooms surely for you to have your own space.

 Namjoon nudges you in the ribs gently, eyes widening and mouthing a ‘what the fuck do you mean?’ 

 “Of course dear, don’t be silly,” his mother replies with an eyebrow waggle and a chuckle. “I remember when your father and I were dating. He would sneak into my room after my parents went to bed and keep me up all night long. Your grandfather would ask me if I had terrible dreams that night, because I looked so tired.”

 Namjoon makes a face. “Eomma, please,” he begs. “Please don’t talk about my parents like that.”

 As his mother guides you down a long hallway, your mind is whirring with too many thoughts of Namjoon, of sharing a bedroom with Namjoon, of seeing his sleeping face and waking up next to him. It’s all too much, too overwhelming. You pray there’s a couch in the room you could sleep on, because you’re far too weak and you’d rather fight the desperation in your body than face the fact that you want nothing more than to curl right into Namjoon’s strong arms and let him hold you all night to sleep.

 Fuck.

 “Here we are!” 

 His mother opens the door with grace, and flicks on the light. The room is beautiful in its simplicity. A king sized bed, a fireplace, and a balcony with a view of the sprawling snowy scene outside. It’s cozy and warm and decorated with its own Christmas tree.

 “Wow,” is all you can muster.

 “Aish, Mom,” Namjoon sighs as he drops his bags. “You didn’t need to do all of this for us.”

 Mrs. Kim holds his hand in both of hers. “Well, I know how special this Christmas is going to be,” she winks. “I want you to enjoy your time here. Now, I’ll leave you two alone for a bit. Dinner is in an hour, so ‘freshen up’!”

Another wink, and Namjoon makes another face. She definitely wants grandchildren, that much is for certain.

 She closes the door behind her and you’re left standing in the room, overnight bag in hand.

 “This is—Wow, this is amazing.”

 You’ve never experienced Christmas like this—with decorations and warmth and family. It’s as if the love of the Kim family permeates the very walls of the expansive cabin, like it’s built into the foundation itself. For a moment, you allow yourself to soak it all in. This is all yours. It’s your Christmas and you finally understand why so many make such a fuss over it. The results are nothing short of remarkable.

 “Yeah, she really does the most,” Namjoon laughs. 

 He takes the bag from your hand without your notice and you step towards the balcony to peer into the night. The landscape looks as if everything has been covered in soft marshmallow. The snow is untouched—picture perfect.

 “I’ve never had anything like this before.”

 Namjoon settles your bag and his on the bed, watching as you soak in your own wonder. The smile on your face is not one he sees often, one of pure joy. Namjoon swallows hard as he realizes he wants to be the one to always put that smile on your face.

 “Not such a Scrooge after all, eh?”

 You turn from the still-life view outside and back to Namjoon, where he stands at the foot of the bed. He looks so different outside the office. He’s wearing skinny jeans and a flannel shirt, his puffy jacket hanging by the door. No cream suit, no slicked back hair or shoes shiny enough to see your reflection. Just simply Namjoon.

 He’s no longer the man who steals the limelight in the office. He’s no longer the man you see as your adversary or your rival.

 He’s the man who’s showing you the magic of Christmas, the spirit of love and kindness that embodies the season.

 He’s the man you’ve fallen in love with.

 And yet, he’s the man who will leave once this is over and return to his proper life, and you to yours. He’ll return to sleeping with models and movie starlets, and you’ll return to binge watching Great British Bake-Off with Jimin and a carton of Chicken Tikka Masala.

 And Christmas will never feel as special as it does now. 

 So, you’re determined to soak in it for a little longer. It’s going to hurt regardless, so why not push that hurt off until tomorrow and allow yourself to pretend you live the lie you’re spinning for Namjoon’s family?

 “I think I’ll just freshen up and change into my dinner outfit, then?” You ask out loud, grabbing for your overnight bag and heading towards the ensuite.

 Namjoon, who expected a witty retort, takes a moment to reply.

 “Oh,” he coughs. “Yeah, sure. I’ll err—, I’ll just get ready out here.”

 You quickly escape into the bathroom, closing the door and resting on it as you exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

 The tension in the bedroom with Namjoon was too thick, too powerful, especially after the kiss you just shared. His cock had been there, straining in his jeans as you licked into his mouth. The kiss felt so natural, as if you had always kissed Namjoon like that. Your heart beats loud and hard in your chest just from the thought of it.

 You really needed to get a handle over yourself. You still have dinner to get through, and an entire night in a bedroom with Namjoon. A bed with Namjoon.

 No, you won’t allow yourself to go that far. You can pretend you’re his girlfriend, but all thoughts of his delectable body doing scintillating things to yours is strictly off-limits. You shake all thoughts of a thick, heavy cock sliding into your mouth and warm hands spreading you open, and set about fixing your makeup and changing into the gorgeous cocktail dress you purchased for the occasion. It wasn’t often you got to get dressed up. The emerald green velvet dress clings to your body and highlights your curves. It’s a sexy dress, definitely, but also appropriate for a formal evening with your boyfriend’s parents.

 Well, your fake boyfriend. Right.

 After fixing your hair and buckling your heels, you take one last glimpse in the mirror for good luck and exit the room.

 Your breath is nearly knocked out of your lungs as you see Namjoon. 

You’ve seen him dressed up for court and for TV appearances millions of times, but you’ve never seen him like this.

 He wears a blood red button up without a tie, a few buttons open to emphasize the casual look, tucked into the tightest and sexiest slacks you’ve ever seen. They hug his thighs and sit at a spot on his waist that you just know is rippling with cut lines from his work in the gym. His hair is tucked back with a bit of hairspray, and he’s fixing the sleeves of his shirt when he sees you.

 His eyes widen and his hands fall to his sides as he soaks in your appearance.

 An absolute vision.

 He can see the gentle valley between your breasts and the way your dress pushes up your cleavage and displays your collar.  The dress follows the delicate curve of your waist and hips and ends at your knee, but teases him with a glimpse of thigh that has him wiping his mouth in case he’s drooling. 

 “You look incredible,” Namjoon murmurs as you step closer.

“So do you.”

 You swallow hard as he continues closer to you, breathing harshly as he stands right in front of you. You could reach out and unbuckle his expensive slacks and fist his cock right there. You’d fall on your knees for him, if he asked.

 There’s a moment of silence as Namjoon’s face inches closer and closer to your own, each unable to verbalize just how desperate either of you feel for the other.

 “Namjoon, I—,” you start. You want to tell him. You want to tell him everything—that you don’t want this to be fake, that you want this to be real, and you want to be his and his forever.

 “Yes?”

 You swallow hard, shaken by just how close his lips are to yours. He’s inches away and all you can focus on is the way his plush lips look and how well they fit against your own under the mistletoe.

 “I just—, I really um, I’m just very…” 

 You’re not making sense. Comprehension of language is quickly soaring out the window because the only words you know are ‘Please, for the love of God, kiss me and make me yours’, but you can’t bring yourself to speak them out loud.

 Namjoon’s hand cups your cheek, as if he can tell what you’re trying to say.

 “Yeah,” he breathes. The inches between you turn to centimeters, to bare millimeters. Your eyes flutter close as you feel his breath dance over your lips and your heart beats so loud you’re sure the entire household can hear it. He’s right there and moves in to close the distance—

 “Knock Knock!!”

 The forceful, cheery voice of cousin Jungkook forces both of you to jump away from each other as if you’ve touched a burning stove. Your head feels light, like you’ve forgotten to breathe for the last ten minutes and you’ve suddenly taken in too much air.

 The wooden door squeaks open and Jungkook pokes his head in, a shit-eating grin on his face.

 “Auntie sent me to get you. It’s dinnertime!”

 Namjoon rubs his face frustratedly. “Yes, thank you, Jungkook.”

 Jungkook doesn’t leave, however. He smiles at you and winks. 

“Would you like an escort to dinner, madame? You look tastier than the roast beef downstairs.”

 A blush creeps over your cheeks as Namjoon storms to the door where his cousin laughs.

 “That’s enough, Kook. We’ll be down in a minute.”

 He sends you one more grin, then retreats from the door and closes it behind him.

 “Sorry about that,” Namjoon apologizes. You’re not sure what he’s apologizing for—Jungkook, or the moment before.

 “It’s alright. Let’s go?”

 Namjoon nods and holds out his hand with a smile.

 “Let’s go, girlfriend.”

  Dinner with the Kim family is as delightful as every other interaction with them has been. They’re polite and funny and ask questions about your life and your family.

 They ask how you met Namjoon (at work), what your favorite quality about him is (his smile and his ass), and what your first date together was (coffee at seven in the morning).

 You tell stories of Namjoon in the office, of your best friend Park Jimin who’s secretly trying to date the IT manager, of your parents and Christmases past.

 By the time dessert is served, Namjoon’s mother looks at you as if you’ve put the very stars in the sky.

 Namjoon doesn’t miss that look either. He can see the way his family is falling in love with you and somewhere deep in his stomach, he feels the guilt rising. All of this is a lie. Not only is he going to break his own heart, but every heart of his family member’s too. 

 “We’re all just so overjoyed that Namjoon has found someone to share his life with,” his mom speaks softly. It’s the first time she’s been thoughtful and quiet. She’s a woman who’s larger than life, you’ve found, so the softness in her tone strikes a chord. “You’re absolutely perfect for him. I’ve never seen him happier.”

 Fuck. 

 “Thank you,” you murmur sincerely to his mother. “I’ve never been happier.”

 Namjoon peers up from where he’s been pushing around his uncle’s famous chocolate cake on his plate to watch as you speak.

 “Truthfully, I never cared much for Christmas. I thought it was a rubbish holiday and spent it alone every year with a bottle of wine and some takeout. Namjoon really changed that for me,” you smile at the man and place your hand in his lap to hold his free hand. “He showed me more about Christmas in one week than I’ve felt in my entire life.”

 Namjoon’s mom wipes away an errant tear and he squeezes your hand under the table.

 “I guess the Grinch’s heart has grown 3 sizes, after all.”

 Namjoon’s joke lightens the soft mood, and suddenly there’s chatter around as the family members move about to wash dishes and clean up the mess of dinner. Everyone leaves the table except for you and Namjoon.

 “That was some good acting,” he whispers with a sad smile.

 “Right,” you whisper back, nibbling your lip anxiously. “Acting, of course.”

  You should have thought through the bedroom sharing thing more.

 Because sharing a bedroom is one thing.

 And sharing a bed is another.

 And of course, the only pajamas you thought to bring tonight is a very sexy long shirt that says “no coffee, no talking” with a bedazzled pair of shushing lips. That’s it. Just a single shirt. Not even a pair of shorts or pajama pants.

 You slip into the bed first, as far onto one side of it as possible. It’s a king sized bed, and it still feels too intimate, too close.

 Namjoon exits the bathroom after his shower, rubbing at his wet hair with a towel. He’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of flannel pajamas, leaving his bare chest on display.

 Sweet lord in heaven, you nearly cry out loud. He’s absolutely ripped, pecs defined and droplets of water from his hair streaming down. You want to chase each drop with your tongue and circle back again. You shut your eyes tight and clench your teeth. Why, oh why, does he have to look so fucking sexy at a time like this?

 Namjoon sees you at the edge of the bed, shutting your eyes closed like you’re a shy schoolgirl afraid to see a naked man’s body. He feels guilty for making you be here. He knows you’ve likely got better things to do than spend time with a man you openly hate.

 “I’m sorry,” he apologizes for nothing in particular. 

 You ignore it. Instead, you’re trying to think of every un-sexy thing in the world you can possibly imagine. Taxes, a bunch of bees, old people, shark attacks.

 There’s absolutely nothing that can stop the image of Namjoon’s perfectly sculpted body from bursting into your mind. You’re nearly pleading with yourself to just go to sleep and contemplate how hard you’d need to hit your head to knock yourself out as fast as possible.

 “I’ll sleep on the floor,” he says as he grabs a small throw blanket from the closet and throws it to the ground by the fire.

 It snaps you from your musings of how best to forget how badly you want to suck Namjoon’s cock through his pajama pants.

 “What?” You sit up in the posh bed and finally make eye-contact. “Why? It’s freezing. There’s a literal snowstorm outside.” You motion to the window of the balcony. What was once a gentle snowfall is now a full-on winter storm.

 “There’s a fire. I’ll be fine, I sleep hot anyway.” Namjoon’s voice is low and without energy. He almost sounds sad.

 God, is being with you that hard for him? You know you’re just the artificial replacement until he has the real thing, but you’d actually hoped Namjoon had found it as comforting and warm as you had.

 “Namjoon,” you sigh. “This is a king-sized bed. You don’t need to be waking up with back pain because you gallantly slept on the floor.”

 To emphasize your point, you tug back the blankets on the other side, beckoning him to join.

 He hesitates for a moment, as if he’s weighing the pro’s and con’s and sliding into bed next to you in his mind, then stands and pads his way on the plush carpet towards the bed and slips in.

 There’s an entire football field of distance between you two in the bed, but it feels like he’s right beside you. You imagine sliding in right next to him, wrapping your arms around his taut chest and pressing soft kisses to his stomach.

 You squeeze your eyes closed again. Stop it, you horny slut.

 “Thank you, again.” Namjoon breaks the silence. “I really appreciate you helping me out.”

 “Yeah,” you swallow hard. “Of course. What else was I going to do? Jimin’s probably sucking Yoongi’s dick right now, so I’d be watching baking shows alone.”

 Namjoon laughs for a moment, then quiets.

 “You know, I don’t even really want that promotion at work.”

 You’re surprised by the sudden change in topic, but you turn over to face Namjoon.

“What?! Really?”

 Namjoon nods and stares at the ceiling. “I don’t think I’m that good of an attorney to get it, anyway.”

 His statement makes you sit up in bed again, staring at the man in disbelief.

 “Are you fucking kidding me, Namjoon? You’re the best lawyer in the firm.”

 Namjoon says nothing, just turns to stare at you curiously as you continue.

 “You’re like… literally better than Seokjin, too. The way you handled the Taehyung case was nothing short of historical. Like, that was an impossible case, and you nailed it. That was your ‘OJ’ case, you know?”

 Namjoon barks a laugh.

 “My what?”

 “Your OJ case!” You use your hands to emphasize the importance of what you’re saying. “Like, they’ll write about you and how impossible the odds were of winning that case. And you won it! Not even Seokjin could have won that case.”

 He’s silent again, watching as you speak directly from your heart with all the fire and passion you feel about the things you care about. It’s what makes you such an incredible lawyer, too.

 “Wow,” he breathes. “Thank you.”

 You settle back down from your excitement, suddenly bashful at how fanatical you became.  

 “You’re welcome,” you murmur. “You deserve that promotion. And the office.”

 Namjoon smirks.

 “And the Nespresso?”

 Your eyes narrow and send a glare to him he can see even with the faintest of light in the room.

 “No, no one deserves the Nespresso, except for me.”

 He chuckles and settles down into his pillows.

 “Goodnight,” he whispers.

 “Goodnight, Namjoon.”

 There’s a beat of silence and your eyes flutter shut easily. It’s quiet, and all you can hear is the crackle of the log in the fireplace and the wind blowing past the balcony windows as the storm outside rages.

 “Oh,” Namjoon whispers again. “And, Merry Christmas.”

 You can’t fight the smile that creeps onto your face.

 “Merry Christmas, Joonie.”

  “Happy Christmas!” A voice bellows through your bedroom at approximately seven fifteen am.

 You groan, immediately grimacing and burying your face into your firm, warm pillow.

 “Nooooo,” you whine, trying to hide from the offending noise.

 Namjoon shakes awake, and notices Jungkook standing at the bedroom door once again.

“It’s time for presents!” He giddily explains. “And, they gave me the job of waking you two up.”

 “Of course,” Namjoon yawns.

 “You look a little wrapped up,” Jungkook smirks, eyeing your sleeping body. “I’ll give you two a minute. Don’t get distracted.”

 Namjoon rolls his eyes and watches as the door closes, before he turns his attention towards you.

 Somehow, in the middle of the night, you’ve scooched yourself to his side of the bed and draped your body around his. Your face is buried in his chest and your legs are haphazardly intertwined in his own.

 He bites his lip. His cock is rock solid, not just from his usual morning wood, but from the way he can feel your tits through your shirt, and from the sight of your pink panties. Namjoon wants to take them off with his teeth and bury his face in your delicious cunt, and his cock is nearly screaming at him to get on with it.

 “Hey,” he whispers to you, actively ignoring the demon that is his turgid length. “Wake up.”

 This causes you to cling harder to his chest, rubbing your sleepy face on him.

 “What is it with you and early mornings?” You ask, blearily raising your head to peer at him judgementally.

 Namjoon bites his lip, curious about your reaction to the tight embrace you’ve got on him. He doesn’t want to say anything, doesn’t want to break the spell. Frankly, he wants to push your sleep shirt up and stuff you full of his cum.

 “Merry Christmas?” He offers shyly.

 You take a full minute to recognize what’s happening.

 You’re no longer on your edge of the bed. You’re wrapped around the man like a koala, legs strewn over him without care and clinging to him like he’s a lifeline.

 “Oh!” You gasp as you jerk out of his grasp. 

 In your movement, your leg brushes over an obvious tent in Namjoon’s pants, making him groan softly. You shut your eyes, embarrassed at how disgustingly horny you are for the man who’s not even interested in you sexually.

 “Christ, I’m so sorry,” your cheeks flame bright red and you scoot further from him.

 “No, no, don’t be,” Namjoon wheezes as he tries to fix himself. “It’s fine. It’s more than fine. It’s great. It happens. Don’t worry.”

 He continues to stammer out reassurances as he leaves the bed and bolts into the bathroom to fix his unruly tented pants, leaving you sitting atop the bed washed with shame.

 “Fucking hell,” you whisper to yourself as you rub at your cheeks. “Get a grip of yourself.”

 Inside the bathroom, it only takes Namjoon a few fisted jerks of his cock and the mental image of you beneath him, begging for him, until he’s silently cumming on an expensive towel. He bites his free hand to stifle the moans he makes as his cock pulses.

 By the time he arrives back in the bedroom, you’ve changed into a hoodie and yoga leggings that accentuate your ass so delectably that Namjoon thinks about turning right back into the bathroom for a second round.

 “I’m sorry!” You nearly shout when he walks into the room. “About the bed. You were warm and I was cold. That’s all.”

 Nmajoon simply nods, doesn’t want to have to explain how he wishes he could wake up like that every day. Doesn’t want to describe in vivid detail how he’d wake you up with his tongue buried deep in your cunt.

 “Let me grab a shirt and we’ll head out, yeah?”

 Your eyes dance over the defined ridges of his body, a little crest-fallen at the idea that this might be the last time you see him shirtless, but you nod anyway.

 “Yeah.”

The ring box sits in a deceptively large box beneath the tree. Namjoon wrapped it last night and hide it at the very back. His heartbeat hammers in his ears as his family passes around gifts and opens each with squeals of delight.

 His mother gave him new ties for the office, ones that Namjoon prefers. She’s even gifted you with jewelry, which makes your eyes water at the sentiment.

 It all begins to be too much. It’s harder and harder to hold back the tears as each of Namjoon’s family members gives you gifts. It doesn’t matter the value, not at all. The fact that they specifically set out to include you in their gift-unwrapping makes your heart snap in two.

 This is all too much, it’s too real.

 It’s everything you never dreamed you could have. A loving partner who lets you sit in the space of his legs and rubs your arms soothingly. A family who goes out of their way to include you in the abundance of love and company. A cabin so warm and cozy.

 The tears don’t stop.

 It’s at the end of the gift exchange that you finally allow yourself to breathe. 

 “There’s one more,” Namjoon whispers as he moves from behind you and fetches a large box from behind the tree. “It’s for you, princess.”

 Curiously, and suspiciously, you eye him as he sets the enormous gift in your lap. You had done nearly all his Christmas shopping with him, and can’t remember a single thing he would have gotten for you.

 “I hope it’s the Nespresso from your office,” you snark with a smile. His family members all laugh and exchange knowing looks to each other.

 Namjoon doesn’t think he can breathe. He watches as you begin to carefully unwrap the large box, which reveals another box, slightly smaller. He can’t help but grin as you continue to unwrap the nesting-doll style gift until you’re down to the smallest one, the one that holds the ring box.

 With one last tear of paper, your eyes widen as you recognize the velvet box.

 “Oh--,” you breathe as you delicately pry open the gift.

 Inside sits a dazzling and gorgeous diamond ring. It catches the light from the fire and sparkles like a firecracker.

 “Oh my god,” you whimper as the tears flow again.

 He’s proposing.

 Namjoon settles himself onto one knee and tucks an errant piece of hair behind your ears.

 “You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me. I knew from day one that you were always the girl I wanted to marry,”

 Namjoon’s speech sends daggers to your heart. He’s so convincing for something so counterfeit. 

 “I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember, much longer than we’ve been together. You’re who I want to come home to every night, and who I want to wake up with every morning.”

 It hurts. It hurts so badly that you’re crying even harder as he continues to speak. His family must think you’re simply overcome with emotion and love that the crying doesn’t give it away, but inside you’re absolutely dying.

 There’s no way you can recover from this.

 Tomorrow, Namjoon will take the ring back to where he got it from and return to what he had before. He’ll leave you behind, broken and hopelessly in love with a man who faked a relationship so well that you fell for it, hard.

 “____, will you marry me?”

 You take several large, gulping gasps to reply. You can’t shatter the illusion. Namjoon’s parents are weeping with joy, while his relatives record the moment on their phones and wipe away errant tears. Even Jungkook looks soft, proud of his cousin for taking the next step in his life.

 Oh, how you wish this were all real.

 “Yes,” you lie with a smile. “Yes, Namjoon, of course!”

 Namjoon grins and pulls you to standing, gathering you in his arms as he hugs you tight. His family cheers and hollers in the background, and you sob into his shoulder as you cling to him.

 He easily slides the diamond ring out of the box and onto your finger, where it sits and taunts you. The weight is heavy, and you whimper at the realization that this will never be for you. It will sit atop a pretty model’s finger sometime soon, when Namjoon resumes his regular life.

 “Oh, my darlings, I am so happy for you!” Namjoon’s mother appears and wraps you both in a hug, weeping and kissing cheeks. “We must discuss planning!”

 It’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back. The tears and weeping turn to wracking sobs, which quiets the family as they watch you hold your face in your hands.

 “I’m sorry,” you apologize through your grief. “I—I just need a moment.”

 Without another word, you turn from the scene and bolt back towards the bedroom.

 It’s silent and Namjoon’s heart sinks. 

 This must be too much for you, too much for you to pretend to love him. He knew it was too much and he should have discussed it with you beforehand.

 “She’s just a little err--,” Namjoon tries. “Easily emotional. I’ll go check on her.”

 His family understands as Namjoon hurries towards the bedroom and gently opens the door.

 You’re sitting over your overnight bag, trying to shove any clothing into it you can, while you sob openly.

 “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I should have told you. I sort of... told my mom I’d be proposing to my girlfriend.”

 There’s pain in your eyes as you snap your head up to look at him. It nearly destroys him.

 “You should have warned me!” You gasp. “Namjoon, I can’t do this.”

 Namjoon lowers his head and shoves his hands into his pockets of his pajama pants.

 “I get it. I know you want to go back to your regular life. I can take you home now.”

 You’re silent for a moment, standing and moving towards the man.

 “Don’t you get it, Namjoon?”

 He raises his head to look at you curiously, brow knitted together with confusion.

 “I’m in love with you, you asshole!” You cry, pushing at his chest. “I can’t continue to pretend this is real anymore. I love you, I absolutely love you and I can’t go on watching you pretend you love me too. It’s too much for me to handle.”

 Namjoon’s world freezes in time as he watches you slide the ring off your finger. He grasps your hand to stop you, his eyes boring into your own.

 “I never had to pretend.”

 Before you can speak, Namjoon cups your cheek and pulls you in close, mouth sealing over your own in a desperate kiss.

 You don’t fight it, not at all. You sink into his grasp and kiss him back with fervor, with all the pent-up emotions you’ve held back all this time.

 “I’m in love with you,” he whispers as he pulls away from the kiss. “I meant every single word I said.”

 More tears stream down your cheeks, and Namjoon is quick to wipe them away with his thumb.

 “I know it’s maybe too soon for us to really be engaged, but I—I want that, with you,” he adds. “I want you to be my girlfriend… for real.”

 “Are you being serious right now?” You ask as your hands cling to Namjoon’s waist.

 He can’t help but to laugh, nodding in reassurance as he leans down to press his lips to yours in a tender kiss.

 “Never been more serious in my life.”

 “I can’t believe you’re mine,” Joon murmurs into the nape of your neck.

 You were supposed to be driving home to your apartment now, back to real life, but the snowstorm raged on and Namjoon decided it might be best to spend yet another night in the cabin. Together. As a couple. A real couple.

 You didn’t put up much of a fight.

 He’s pressing soft kisses into your tender skin as he closes the door to the bedroom.

  “All mine, all mine.” He chants it like a mantra. 

 You’re trying to maneuver your way into the dark bedroom, only guided by the light from the fireplace. Namjoon stops you and pulls away from your neck, eyes soaking in every inch of you.

 “You have no idea what I’ve been dying to do to you,” he speaks after a moment of appreciating your beauty.

 “Hmm, I think I have some idea,” you say, a finger at Namjoon’s chest, directing him towards the bed. “I’ve been dying to suck your cock, Joon,” you whisper in his ear as he makes his way backwards. “Will you let me?”

 Namjoon nods in a daze as he sits on the edge of the bed and watches as you kneel. Your eyes are full of hope, full of lust. It makes his cock harden further.

 “Please do,” he breathes. “I’ve wondered what you’d look like with your mouth full of my dick.”

 You smile as you tug at his flannel pajama pants, pulling them down thick thighs and calves until they’re completely off. Your mouth waters at the sight before you. Namjoon’s cock is thick, head weeping with pre-cum and straining hard against his taut chest. He’s been working out more, you can tell. His arms are full and strong, and his chest is so firm and defined. 

 He’s an entire three-course meal.

 Before you move closer to his cock, Namjoon stops you.

 “Take your shirt off.”

 You comply easily, already settling well into an obedient role. He discards the shirt to the side and marvels at your breasts. He can’t wait to mark them up, suck them until you’re crying.

 “Perfect,” he sighs. “You’re fucking perfect.”

 He allows you to resume your work, eyeing the length of his cock before wrapping a hand around it and gently pumping.

 “Shit,” he breathes as his head falls back. “I’ve dreamt about how it’d feel having my cock in your hands.”

 “What else have you dreamed about?” You ask with a teasing smile, bringing your lips to the tip to paint tiny stripes. He tastes salty, somewhat earthy, and the pre-cum that’s gathered at the top gets swept up by your tongue. 

 Namjoon can’t believe how lucky he is. Can’t believe how incredible it feels to have you here, licking at his cock like a lollipop. He’s enchanted by the way your delicate tongue swirls around his head, testing and teasing.

 “You look so good, princess,” he whispers as he tucks stray hair behind your ears. 

 You’re encouraged by his sweet-talk and soon descend to take his cock fully in as far as you can go. You’re definitely out of practice, but you steel yourself up to take him completely to the back of your throat. Namjoon’s desperate moans and cursing only encourages you further.

 Soon enough, you’ve started a rhythm of bobbing your head and swirling your tongue and pumping your hand down his thick length. The noises leaving your mouth are sinful—slurping and sucking and whining around him. Namjoon’s got a hand on the back of your head, holding your hair in a makeshift ponytail and coaxing your bouncing head further down his cock.

 “Oh, shit, baby,” he grits through a tight jaw. “I’m gonna cum baby girl, fuuuuckkk—oh god, yes baby, just like that.”

 You slurp and swallow around his cock as much as you can, head bobbing at a frantic pace while you cast your eyes upwards to the man to watch him come apart. He meets your eye contact and loses it at the fire burning in your beautiful eyes.

 “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he gasps as his cock pulses. “Cumming, baby—ohhhh, shit, take it all, baby.”

 After slowing your pace completely, you sweetly moan around his length as his salty cum splatters on your tongue. Bringing Namjoon to climax with your mouth is already one of your favorite hobbies, and you’re desperate to do it again.

 When he’s completely spent in your mouth, you pop off carefully and present your tongue to your boyfriend, who smiles.

 “You gonna swallow my cum, baby girl?” He asks, cupping your cheek sweetly.

 You nod in reply, and he groans as he watches you close your mouth and visibly swallow his load.

 “Fuck, that was so hot. Fucking kiss me already,” he demands, pulling you up gently by the hand and pressing his mouth to yours. He doesn’t care if he can taste himself still lingering in your mouth. In fact, he thinks your mouth should always taste like him.

 Namjoon holds you close as he kisses you, tongue diving around and seeking purchase in your mouth. His hands are roaming your body, cupping your breasts and caressing your curves. He can’t get enough. He doesn’t think there will come a time in his life when he won’t love touching you.

 His hand smoothes over the satin of your panties and he smirks into the kiss as he feels how wet they are.

 “Oh my,” he tuts as he rubs at your clothed slit. “All this from sucking my cock, princess?”

 It’s too late to be ashamed of it. You simply nod and whimper as his thick fingers rub at your core. You’re dying to feel those fingers inside you, scissoring you open to prepare you for his massive cock.

 “P-please,” you gasp, needing more of him. “Please, Joon.”

 He lets out a breath of contentment, loving the way his name sounds in your breathy moans. In one quick swoop, he flings your panties off and onto the floor and slides down to his knees where you knelt moments before.

 “I want to see this pretty pussy up close,” he murmurs as he lays you out at the edge and spreads open your thighs as wide as he can. 

 You’re gorgeous, absolutely mouth-watering. He licks his lips as he watches your folds drip with arousal and takes a delicate finger to trace the slit gently.

 “Fuck,” you gasp as he swirls his finger around your sensitive clit. It’s been so long since someone else has made you orgasm, you’re sure you won’t last a second with the man of your sexual dreams face-first in your cunt.

 “This is my pussy now,” he states as he leans in close and licks a fat stripe from your hole to your clit. “I’m going to make you cum every fucking night, baby. Gonna claim this cunt as my own.”

 You’re trembling from his words and his actions as he soon buries his face into your pussy and eats as if he’s a man starved. His tongue swirls around your hole before swiping up to your clit, making your back arch and keen off the bed. His lips wrap around your throbbing clit and sucks gently, lewd noises echoing off the walls of the bedroom.

 “Namjoon!” You squeal as he slides two of his fingers inside you and slowly pumps. They’re thick and perfect, and they’re better than you could have ever dreamed.

 “Cum for me, baby,” he coaxes as he licks at your clit. “I know you want to.”

 He’s right. You’re desperate for it and the string inside your belly that tightens with each thrust of his solid fingers has it nearing a snapping point.

 Namjoon speeds up, adds a third finger and fucks into you like a man on a mission. He watches your face pinch in agonized delight and is hypnotized by the way your tits bounce with each thrust up. His cock is rock solid again, aching to bury itself deep inside your womb and coat you with his cum.

 “That’s it, baby girl,” he breathes as he watches your body quiver. “Cum on my fingers, let daddy see you fall apart.”

 He presses his lips to your clit one last time and sucks, and it sends you reeling over the edge into bliss. Namjoon moans as he feels your cunt convulse and squeeze his fingers as if they’re his cock, and he nearly whines at how good it’s going to feel when he’s balls deep inside of you.

 “Fuck!” You cry as your back lifts off the bed and your legs shake. “Oh, my god!”

 Namjoon kitten licks at your pussy as you come down, cleaning up the juices that coat his fingers. He doesn’t break eye contact with you as he does it, sucking up your essence like it’s an expensive wine he won’t waste a drop of.

 “You’re so fucking sexy,” he says as you try to catch your breath. “I can’t wait to fuck you in my office.”

 The smile on your face turns lustful as you spread your legs open once again and present yourself to him.

 “Why don’t we practice right now?”

 Namjoon grips the base of his cock and gives himself a few pumps as he stares at your gorgeous body—laid out and ready for him.

 “Merry Christmas to me,” he murmurs as he presses a kiss to your lips and lines himself up.

 In one swift motion, he slips inside your juicy channel and buries himself to the hilt. You’re so wet and warm and tight that Namjoon falters and groans out loud.

 “Holy shit,” he cries. “Sweetest fucking pussy I’ve ever felt in my life.”

 Namjoon filling you up to the brim is something you’ve only ever dreamt of, and now that it’s happening you feel intoxicated. He’s so thick inside you, stretching you past what you thought you could handle, and the burn is so sweet.

 “Fuck me, Joon,” you beg as he continues to still inside you. “Please, fuck me, daddy.”

 It’s the magic word for Namjoon and instantly he’s snapped back to feral, ready to claim you as his own. He grips your hips tightly as he pumps in and out of you, delighted by the squelching juicy sounds of your cunt as he takes you.

 “That’s right, baby girl, I’m your fucking daddy,” he grunts. “Take this fat cock for daddy.”

 Your legs quiver with each thrust and Namjoon sucks a nipple into his mouth, nibbling gently on the bud which makes your body thrum with electricity. He’s marking you, claiming you inside and out, you realize. You whine and keen for him to continue, and Namjoon growls as he doubles his pace. 

 He thrusts into you without abandon, desperately seeking his release that will have him spilling his cum anywhere he possibly can.

 “Mmm, look at my pretty princess,” he groans as he stares at your blissed-out face. “Taking daddy’s cock so good, being a perfect little slut.”

 His words make your eyes roll back into your head. You’d never had someone speak so nasty to you while being so kind and praise-worthy that you don’t think you can now ever live without it.

 “G-gonna cum, daddy!” you cry as you feel your body nearing the edge. “Please let me cum!”

 Namjoon gasps for air and drops a thumb to your clit to rub circles on the sensitive bundle.

 “Yes, baby girl, cum for daddy. Cum on my cock, princess.”

 Namjoon’s unrelenting pace and thumb handily stroking your clit brings you to the end, sending you screaming into orgasmic delight.

 Namjoon nearly weeps at how good your cunt feels convulsing around his cock, walls coaxing him and gripping him tight as if your pussy is begging for his own release. 

 “Cum inside me daddy, please,” you beg as you try to catch your breath. 

 Namjoon needs no more permission. He gasps as your channel tightens around him impossibly and sends him into his own release. He whimpers as his cock pulses with ferocity, loads of cum splattering your walls.

 He doesn’t pull out. Instead, he rests his sweaty forehead on yours as you both try to catch your breath.

 “Holy shit,” you gasp as you feel yourself returning to Earth.

 Namjoon laughs and presses a kiss to your lips, before nodding.

 “Yeah,” is all he can manage.

 After a few shuddering breaths, you wrap your arms around your boyfriend’s naked body and hold him close, as close as you can.

 “If this is what Christmas is all about, sign me up.”

 Namjoon buries his face into your neck and kisses you sweetly, before lifting and giving you a playful smile.

 “I guess all Scrooge needed was a good fuck. Dickens got that part all wrong.”

Returning to work after the New Year was easier this year than it had ever been in your career.

 Namjoon was given the promotion. He told Seokjin he wanted to keep his corner office near you because he “likes the view”, and that he would give all his top cases to the best lawyer in the office—you.

 Jimin won’t stop screaming when he sees the diamond ring on your finger. You haven’t wanted to take it off since the moment you put it on. Maybe it’s not an engagement ring quite yet, maybe it’s just more of a promise. Either way, Jimin is ecstatic and confused as he shakes you down for answers.

 He walks with you to your desk, chattering away about his week with Yoongi, while you sip your convenience store coffee.

 “What the fuck?” Jimin asks as he notices something on your desk. “What is that?”

 As you round the corner, your eyes catch sight of a gleaming silver contraption on your desk, right next to your brand new computer.

 A Nespresso.

 A smile crosses your lips as you approach the expensive machine and notice a folded up card on top.

 Inside, the card is simple.

 “To the only girl in the world who deserves a Nespresso. Love, Namjoon.”

taglist - @ardoren​ @devilion14​ @bykookie​ @rageyoudamnednerd​ @holynamtiddies​ @thejooncrew​ @dee-ehn​ @yrc1963 @fireheart2003​

[not-me-simping-for-blasty]

bakugou thoughts pt 2001847471 :)))

- if u go to the park, and somebody is like, walking their dog n the animal barks at y’all??? bakugou is barking back. mans full on squares up, n barks at the dog until it backs off

- he rarely gets into shows/series, but when he finds one he likes, he’ll only watch the first few episodes and then make u watch the rest with him. he’ll always say sum “if i dont watch with you, then i gotta make extra time for your needy ass. ‘m prioritizing my fuckin’ time. it doesn’t mean anything, shut up.” ...... he’s lying. it does mean something. it means he wants to share the things he likes with u

- pls he’s so smart, and generally pretty aware, but sometimes he’ll just do something so duMb. like, u kno that thing that happens sometimes with hair?? like, when it sticks to ur fingers and no matter what u do, u can’t get it off?? bakugou is literally breaking his wrist a foot away from u, shaking his hand back and forth and cursing soooo loudly. u just gotta go up to him and gently remove the hair from him like “oh honey- no.”

- peanut gallery comments. lots of them. mans will sit fully dead silent, not talking for the whOle day, but the second u do something embarrassing?? like trip??? suddenly he has a LOT to say ..... smh men

- animals just always like him. its absolutely unexplainable bc he’s so loud n moves super suddenly,,, but the amount of street animals that follow him home is ridiculous. srsly. sometkmes he even has other people’s pets trying to follow him home

- respects absolutely no one n that somehow strangely makes him the most respectful u’ve ever seen??? like- he hates everyone the exact same so u won’t ever catch bakugou in an act of discrimmination

- he can’t draw at all but if u asked him to draw something, it’ll be the same skull every single time. it’s a good skull, but it’s soooo obvious he learned how to draw it from a tutorial in the midst of his emo phase

- will fully make fun of others for baby-talking around their s/o, n then just fully go home n look at you like “tired.” “hungry.” “kiss.”...... like okay baby man, maybe try putting a full sentence together before u start trying to run your mouth. hypocrite.

- probably sleeps like the dead. contrary to popular belief, i absolutely do not believe he’s up at every single noise. man’s could sleep thru an explosion, im sure of it. that being said tho, it’s probably actually hard for him to turn his brain off n fall asleep. he prob goes to bed so “early” bc he has to wind down for a good hr or two until he’s ready to actually sleep

- he’s got a vendetta against salespeople. like, if his phone rings with some bullshit about a product? if somebody, god forbid, tries to walk up to your door? fully frothing at the mouth annoyed. will chew out any employee who’s too underpaid not to listen to him

- eats like an absolute animal. no rlly, its bad. holds his spoon with a fist and digs at his meal like its the gold rush. the worst table manners you’ve ever seen rlly

- he gets sorts antsy if he sits for too long, so he’s always off doing random shit. like, u’ll look out the window n he’s just like, raking the .3 leaves from ur driveway, probably trying to guess where the wind will be so they wont blow back

- ik this with my heart and soul okay,,, bakugou has never had a conversation with u that wasnt from exactly .2 meters away. like,, if he’s comfortable, then he’s just close all the time. like he’s waving his hands around and yelling and you just have to take his face in ur hands and go “im literally right here. ily but pls tone it down for the sake of my hearing.”

- very much guard dog behavior when y’all go out. absolutely will not leave ur side for even a second, like, at a bar or during a concert. even if u go to the bathroom he’s like, leaning against the wall and waiting right outside the door

- gets absolutely bitchy about your phone blowing up while you’re hanging out. its not that he’s suspicious that ur, like, cheating on him, it’s just that he doesnt understand why u’d even leave ur phone on in the first place since he always has his turned off when ur around. if he gets annoyed enough he’ll fully take the phone out of ur hands, say sum “yeah, you don’t fuckin’ need this anymore. you’re done with this.” n toss it across the room while he kisses u senseless

- tbh his ultimate love language is 100% playfighting. v much would go heart eyes if u even seemed like u might try n wrestle him. obvi u dont win, but his favorite is how u laugh while he pins ur hands above ur head

- he sneers at other angry people. will fully, fully sit there like “jesus christ, they need to calm the hell down. annoying as shit- fuckin’ loud too.” ....... -i. who’s gonna tell him

- silent conversations with ur eyes. no rlly. if y’all are with friends and somebody says something questionable, bakugou is immeadiately turning to u, eyes hardly even shifting but u just know he’s hurling insults in his head

- he doesnt realize his own strength sometimes. like- he knows he’s strong, but if u ever open a door n ur like “woah, careful, this is heavier than it looks” bakugou is .2 steps behind u practically ripping the damn thing off it’s hinges. he’ll look at it, huffing like he doesn’f even understand the issue

- he rlly likes when u call him by his name. pet names are fine, but he srsly is super soft for the simple stuff. like when u look over at him, all excited, smile wide like “hey katsuki, u gotta see this! c’mere!”

- his road rage is severe. no rlly. bakugou drives like every day is a race n he’s one win away from going formula one. you’re pretty sure that the only reason he passed his license test is bc the instuctor was too terrified to tell him no

- bakugou probably does that thing where if you’re sitting on the counter top, watching him cook, he’ll stand between ur legs. hands on ur thighs or resting on ur hips while you tell him about your day

- can’t explain this one, but he doesnt kill spiders. he takes them outside. says sum “they eat ticks, idiot. what- you actually want a fuckin’ blood disease? Hah? ‘m not gonna kill it. motherfucker’s gotta earn his keep before dyin’ just like the rest of us.” while he v gently picks the spider up into his hand and walks it outside

- ik that his one cheat food is sugary cereal. like, he’s a health freak, but the one thing he can’t help but make a concession for is sugary cereal on the weekends

- he’ll sometimes get in this over-stimulated mood where everything pisses him off, n the only thing u can do is leave him alone. u learn this quick bc his anger doesn’t discrimminate and if u push him even after he tells u what’s up?? pls bakugou will lash tf out. at u. like, ik y’all like to write it but that whole “it’s okay- it’s just me. just look at me.” thing does not work with him,,, u literally gonna get merc’d if u try

- he’s probably a guy who’s gonna be super big on passing touches. like he drops his hand on ur head when he passes, or bumps his shoulder into urs when he laughs. no footsies tho. too sappy even for him- pls if u tried to initate that he’d crush ur toes under the table aHAHAHA

- feeds every street cat he comes across. is probably super fond of the ones with a bunch of scratches/scars on them. he’d die if u knew, but one time u caught him feeding a scratched up calico n going “bet u beat his stupid ass, right? that’s my girl. we always win, huh?”

—/—

surprise suprise,, my brain rlly never shuts the hell up about this man

[xenia-cenia]

Razor x Fem!Reader - Trust

A/N - I... have been avoiding writing this one, but he and Albedo are the last two before I can finish off the Mondstadt part of this series. Here’s hoping it doesn’t take me as long as the other ones lol

Post writing authors note: only took 2 hours so a lot better than my other ones

Trigger/Content Warnings: Injury, blood mention, slight manga spoilers, kidnapping, human experimentation mention, abusive sibling, food mention

Word Count: 1,552

Request: No

Summary: Ooooh dottore bad... razor good.... its 1am i have school tomorrow pretend this makes sense

---------------------------------------------------------------

You came to him on accident. 

You didn’t mean to stumble into the Wolvendom with blood coating your arm and chased by people who thought of you as nothing more than a Harbingers sister. You hadn’t planned on slipping in the mud and watching with fear in your eyes as your pursuers celebrated their victory. How could you of known that the scream that’d fall from your lips would alert a nearby boy?

Electricity remained in the air as he set his weapon down. He turned to you with a blank expression, “...hurt?”

“Who are you? Do you know what you’ve just done?”

“Hurt.” He pointed at your arm. “I fix.” Razor walked over to you and kneeled, carefully grabbing your arm.

“The Fatui! You’ve just... oh Archons, please help me. I’m so sorry, I got you into this mess and now you’ll be in danger, why did I scream?”

“Fa... tui?” He slightly cocked his head to the side.

“T-They’re people who want me back. I... I’m the sister of-”

“Family?”

You shook your head violently, “No! Not family!” You sighed, “I’m the sister of one of the harbingers. P-Please, tell me you haven’t heard of Dottore...”

“Dottore. Dottore bad?”

“Very!” 

“You scared Dottore?”

“Yes.”

“Razor protect you from Dottore. Join lupical.”

“Lu...” you echoed, “Are you Razor?”

“Razor is me.”

You looked at the mysterious boy and considered your options; either be found by the fatui and forced to face your brother or... follow the boy who saved your life without knowing you.

“Okay, fine.” You sighed, “I’ll come with you.”

He nodded, “Follow.”

You walked in silence and you noticed kindness in his subtle actions. He would hold branches above your head until you were safely past them or pointed out puddles so you wouldn’t step in them.

Finally, you arrived at an opening. Wolves stalked the exterior, looked at Razor and you, and continued their business.

“Ra... Razor?” You whispered, gripping onto his arm and stepping behind him. “Why did you take me to wolves?”

“Lupical. Family.”

“These are your family?” 

“Yes.”

“Okay.” You nodded, drew out your words as you started to regret your decision to trust him. “Wolf... family. Alrighty. Annnd... I’m here now. This is what I’m doing with my life.”

“Lupical protect Razor. Razor protect Lupical. Razor trust you. You smell nice.”

“I’ve been on the run for multiple weeks. There’s no way I smell nice.”

Razor scrunched his eyebrows as he searched for the right word, “You smell... kind. Razor trust you.” He turned to you and tried to manage a smile though it looked more like a ferocious snarl, “You trust Razor?”

And maybe you were just tired but for some reason, you did. 

It didn’t take long for you to merge with the rest of the wolf pack, though you couldn’t understand their words you learned their body language. 

The pups would run over to you and wouldn’t leave you alone until you pet them behind the ears. You would pick grass and would weave it into a shoddy crown, and each time you gave it to Razor he’d wear it the rest of the day. 

Happy. You were happy. 

Hunting, flower picking, star gazing. It was simple, but it was the best life you could’ve asked for. A life outside of political intrigue, violence, anger, and human test subjects.

A life where you could smile. A life where your shoulders relaxed. A life where you were trusted and you could trust.

Lupical. Family. You would give anything to keep these peaceful days ongoing. 

But, as with every spot of happiness you found, it needed to be crushed. 

Crushed by your older brother and the troops he controlled as he tracked down your location. As he demanded they wait until nightfall to grab you by your arm and drag you back into his clutches.

“Scream and they die.” He had said with a smile. You knew better than to doubt him. 

“Can I...” you tried to blink the tears out of your eyes, “Can I give them a final goodbye gift?”

Dottore rolled his eyes and waved his hand dismissively. You picked grass, quickly weaved it into a shotty flower crown, and lied it on Razor's chest. And just like that, you were gone.

You were halfway to Liyue by the time Razor realized that you were missing. He gripped the flower crown as if his life depended on it, and tried his best to stay calm. To breathe.

His Lupical were quicker to pick up on your disappearance, they whined and hounded him until he finally picked up on it. 

What was he going to do? You trusted him and you’re gone. Razor hadn’t felt this awful since part of his Lupical died in front of him. He didn’t spend much time grieving, however, he dropped right onto your scent.

You walked next to your brother, your eyes locked onto the ground, you were surrounded by trees and there was a cliff behind you. 

“Why, (Y/N), you gave us quite a scare!” He chuckled after hours of pure silence, “3 months and no message. I almost began to think the worst.”

“I bet you wished for it.” You grumbled under your breath.

“What?” He looked at you, “How could you say that? I love you.”

“You never loved me.” You snapped, your fingernails digging into your palms, “You used me. You only want me back so I can’t tell everybody the awful things you do. Dead or alive, it doesn’t matter to you. I’m just here for your appearances.”

“I wanted you back because you’re my fami-”

“Don’t you dare say we’re family. They were my family. They loved me.”

“The-the wolves?” He laughed, “Don’t be absurd! Wolves can’t love you.”

“And why not?” You finally made eye contact with him, “They surely love me more than you.”

He looked at you with a slightly agape mouth, “Surely you hear how ridiculous you sound. You... you need some food. When's the last time you had a whole meal? Is that it? Are you starving? Are you sleep-deprived? What’s making you act like this?”

“I finally found someone who truly cares about me, and you take me away from them! You never want me to be happy. I hate you.” You took a deep breath, “No... hate isn’t strong enough. I despise you.” 

Dottore looked at you with almost seemed like genuine pain. But you knew better. This was the man who’d set scientists to dissect your body if he got bored. This was the man who turned countless children into experiments. 

You hated him. You hated the way he made you doubt yourself. You hated his confident smirk. 

He sighed heavily, “They always did say these teen years were hard... (Y/N), I don’t understand why you’re angry.”

“And that’s the issue! You never understand me. You don’t even try to.”

“Can’t you just listen to me?”

“I have! I’ve listened for years and nothing's ever changed! You take me away from where I’m happy and try to convince me I’m in the wrong for getting upset. You are a terrible brother and even worse person.”

“Ter... oh. Oh, (Y/N), I tried to be reasonable with you.” He shook his head dismissively, “It really is your fault. You forced my hand. You’re going back to Snezhnaya and you’re staying there until you learn your lesson.”

“No, I’m not.” You took a step away from him. “I’ll run. I’ll run each time and I’ll tell everybody what you do.”

He stepped towards you and grabbed your wrist, “If you disappear again, I’ll just be forced to kill all of your... ahem... friends.” 

You bit your lip and tried to keep the tears pooling in your eyes to spill over, “Fine.” You pulled out of his grasp. 

“Are you finally going to listen to me?”

You turned around and looked over the edge of the cliff. A flash of white caught your attention. You smiled to yourself, turned around, and let the tears fall. 

With outstretched arms, a huge smile, and a torrent of tears, you spoke, “I’ll always run from you.” You stood on the edge and let your body fall.

Dottore ran to the edge and grabbed at your clothes, missing by mere inches. He looked over the cliff in fear as he watched you fall through the branches of trees. 

He sighed to himself and tried to contain his frustration. “Damn brat.” He turned to his troops who took the time of your argument to rest, “We continue on. (Y/N) is dead.”

In the tree, Razor looked at you in relief as you sat in his arms. “Safe?”

“Safe.” You replied with a laugh as you hugged him as best as you could considering he was holding you. “He won’t... he won’t bother us anymore.”

“Dottore? Dottore hurt you? Razor not protect.”

You pulled back from the hug, “You saved me.”

He blinked, “Razor... save? You are safe... Razor save...”

You pulled him down by his collar and kissed his cheek, “I love you.”

His cheeks turned bright red. “Love... Razor love... Razor love you.”

You giggled as you pulled him into another kiss, happy to be free from your brother and in Razor's arms. 

“I love you,” you whispered again, “I love you so much.”

[my-writings-and-musings]

hello! if you are taking requests, can you please do the oxygen loss prompt with megatron and whirl?

I did Whirl in part two, so I have Megatron here with a ridiculously long one and I hope that's okay! I added Thunderclash as well so I can keep my pattern of two because... I like patterns. I might be getting super into this prompt...

Part One: Here!

Part Two: Here!

Part Three: You're Here!

Part Four: Here!

Part Five: Here!

Part Six: Here!

Part Seven: Here!

Part Eight: Here!

Part Nine: Here!

Part Ten: Here!

Part Eleven: Here!

Part Twelve: Here!

Megatron

·You're in the ship's recently finished classroom organizing lesson plans on your own, having been working with Megatron to try and set up more structured class schedules on the growing list of topics he's begun to cover. You're thrilled he's found a kind of calling on the ship, especially one that seems to be allowing bots to see the side of him you know best. He's made it quite clear in his own way that your assistance in this endeavor means the world to him.

·He's on the bridge, scouting out potential locations for refueling on the next leg of the journey with the rest of the commanding officers. For once there's mostly cohesion in their efforts, and his insistence on choosing planets hospitable to humans is met with agreement, if not surprise. They're on schedule to finish early for a quiet afternoon off when everything turns to a level of chaos even the experienced crewmembers have to call extreme. The rumble that shakes the entire ship is one Megatron and experienced space travelers know well; they've been ambushed.

·You're nearly knocked off the desk you're standing on by the unexpected tremors. While you're trying to figure out what could possibly have caused the disturbance, a message is appearing up on the bridge, where alerts of failing systems and corrupted codes almost make it impossible to hear an alien captain decree an intent to storm the ship. Megatron attempts diplomacy before lives are lost, but the enemy makes it clear; this ship and its contents are more valuable than anything they could offer. While the captain notes their species has heard of the famed Lost Light and its crew, their hack of the security systems proved embarrassingly simple, and they look forward to the easy payoff from selling the scraps of the Cybertronians onboard!

·With communications down and systems struggling through an ongoing sabotage, Megatron still prepares to coordinate a defense, but is stopped before he can begin by a final taunt from their enemy. Their hack of the security cameras showed his fondness for his new pet, a homo sapien of all things, and thus his current concern should be for the atmospheric regulation instead of battle plans. But considering how many dead organics he's left in his wake, surely one more shouldn't perturb him too deeply, yes?

·The line goes dead just as the ship's alarm attempts to sound, signaling an impending attack before it too crashes with everything else. His fellow officers are moving to get defenses up however they can, preparing to get the resident tech experts on the job of restoring key systems while trying to plan a counterattack with no way to reach anyone. He's near to frozen as he tries to message you to no avail, the cruel mockery of the enemy cutting deep in ways words rarely do for him, if only because the implication terrifies him like nothing ever has; he's all but helpless to save you.

·Only experience and an undying determination allow him to break through the fog. Without asking for guidance or permission, he states his one intent; to rescue you however he can. If there are any objections, he does not hear them, and soon his pedes are tearing down the hallway to where he last saw you and prays he'll find you; the classroom. Oblivious to his rush, the only thing you're aware of is the fact that something is amiss, but you don't have a clue as to what. Between the tremor, the brief blare of the alarm and your inability to get your communicator running, you only know there's danger inbound.

·Not having much information to work with, you surmise that the classroom is probably not the safest place to hunker down, and recall that the medical and scientific wings aren't far. As the doctors on the ship have added human medicine to their repertoire, and are hardly defenseless, trying to get to them seems your greatest hope for securing yourself. Not wanting to panic, you push your supplies into a somewhat neat pile and climb down the small ladder that's been added to the desk for your sake. Somehow you don't find yourself at the top of your worries at all. Your thoughts center almost entirely on Megatron, who will undoubtedly be forced into whatever conflict might erupt, and even an unexpected staleness in the air around you hardly registers amidst your anxiety.

·Megatron is still too logical of a bot not to stop every crewmember he sees to give them a brief list of orders. He knows that, without a united defense and victory, there won't be any way you can be saved at all. So he takes the hindrance, though bots hardly take long to move when he issues a command. But his growing fear gnaws at him with a simple truth; without communication, he can't even be sure of your location, let alone your condition. Perhaps he's going the wrong way. Perhaps you're already beyond help. Perhaps you've already been discovered by the enemy. All he can do in the face of blinding terror is keep moving, keep coordinating, and keep hoping beyond reason that he'll be fortunate for once.

·You can't remember the classroom ever taking so long to cross, but that's hardly important, especially with your communicator still failing to function. Reaching Megatron would give you incredible comfort right now, if only to hear he's alright, yet that's obviously not going to happen. Honestly, it sounds silly to really think about it, the human worrying for the Cybertronian... But your anxiety isn't comforted merely to remember he's a gigantic combat veteran, not knowing anything about his current status is all it needs to wander to scary places...

·Closing in on your position, the mech in question echoes your worry, but his knowledge of the current danger puts his feelings closer to panic. All he knows is that he's coordinated a not insignificant number of bots for a better defense on his way through the ship. With better resistance on their side, he knows they can win, because they must. The alternative won't come to pass while his spark still flickers within him. That promise comes to an early test when he overhears enemies moving on the path ahead, and he takes the charge without hesitation, his terror converting quite easily to rage for extra assistance.

·By the time you're at the door you know something is wrong with you. Each step comes with a wobble you can't explain, and soon the dizziness you thought was worry has grown to almost debilitating levels. Why is the room spinning? Why does your body feel so heavy? It doesn't worry you as much as it probably should, but you know it needs to be fixed, especially with the ship potentially in jeopardy. Faint activity from the hallway outside spurs you to finally trigger the door to open, which thankfully appears to be one of the few systems still working. Heavy footsteps not too far away register in your ears just as you're forced to lean against a wall for support.

·The aliens that come into view before you quite unexpectedly are large, tough, and well armed. Most races would have found them an insurmountable challenge, and even an experienced Cybertronian combatant couldn't expect an easy victory against a single fighter, leaving you quite hopeless as you stare upwards in confusion. Megatron is not the norm, and his drive to win is fuelled by far more than just survival, so he feels little more than irritation when he finally arrives to the hallway you're pinned within. More than a dozen mark his path to you, their forms clustered around the helpless human in sick curiosity, and as a result they're heedless to his appearance.

·Hulking forms most definitely not of Cybertronian make tower over your body as it struggles to keep upright, the ceiling spinning overhead as you try to connect thoughts and move your legs to flee. A language you don't understand precedes a slow swipe in your direction, one that you stumble away from more than dodge, resulting in you roughly collapsing to the floor. Something like cruel laughter greets your painful tumble. You should be angry, being mocked like a bug skittering from its inevitable squishing, but God you're so exhausted. It's not even in you to be afraid when the barrel of an alien gun is pointed at your head and the scent of ozone fills your nose while the barrel fills with light.

·A second tremor shakes the ship, but this one proves to be far more deadly than the last. Your would be killers are obliterated by a blur of gunmetal gray that pummels them into the floor, and before you can blink the carnage begins and seems to escalate to unimaginable levels of ferocity. Only your familiarity with Megatron allows you to discern him amidst the flurry of quickly diminishing combatants, but he's nothing like the mech you know in this instant, going for sheer brute force over strategy as he tears aliens apart with his bare servos. In the bloody chaos you can't tell if he's taking damage or not despite the sheer numbers he was initially facing.

·The end of it all is somehow more startling than the beggining. In one final attack he ends the last soldier, quieting the cacophony of battle to leave only the steady drip of alien blood down the wall and his own haggard ventilations. There's a dash of bright energon amongst the mess, glowing in rivulets down his side, and somehow that's what gets your cloudy brain moving again. Pushing exhausted legs against the floor, you try to rise as you cry out in concern, reaching for him before you collapse right back against the solid ground.

·Heedless to his own injuries, Megatron is over you in a single instant, no longer blinded by the fury he'd experienced at the sight of you in peril. All he'd known was that your attackers had needed to die, no hesitation, and tearing them apart had come easily from there. Now things are once again far from simple. The blood on his hands doesn't stop him from picking you up as gingerly as he can, though your impossibly tiny body appears more delicate than ever in his massive palms. Though it makes him sick to realize, he does indeed know a struggling organic when he sees one, making the captain's words burn in his audials once more.

·Guilt is forced down to a minimum so he can focus on what matters; you. He needs to get you somewhere safe but with access to oxygen, and the only place that can happen is the medical bay or the laboratory, and he knows both are quite close. He couldn't care less about his own gashed side, so even if the medics and scientists are elsewhere he should likely be able to rig something up before energon loss impacts him. Holding you close, in a way that will permit him to shield you with his body, he starts moving while he speaks to you. It's obvious even to him his words aren't motivating, but at least they seem to get your attention.

·Looking up at him, feeling like you're tiny beyond belief thanks to his incredible size, you wonder how much of this could be real. Megatron had just hurled himself into battle for you, enduring agonizing wounds in the process, and beaten back what should have been impossible odds... If he wasn't so close you could touch him, you'd certainly think he was just a figment of your imagination emerging from the spinning hallways around you. His deep baritone rumbles reassurances to you as your eyes slowly drift shut, your perception fading around the edges until he's all you can see, and you can feel sleep beckoning like never before.

·He truly has seen enough organics dying to recognize that you're fading in his arms, and seeing the connection between such atrocities and you is slowly starting to tear into him with guilt that refuses to be ignored. How many lives just like yours has he snuffed out? How recently was it that he could have ended your life amongst the billions of others, unaware of what a gift you are to the universe? More specifically, because of this, what right does he have to so much as look at you? The thoughts are a dark and unmanageable tangle by the time he arrives at his destination, where an already overwhelmed medical crew is tending to the injured from an apparently victorious battle. He's near to shock when he hands you over to a frantically rushing Ratchet and simply explains you need oxygen, his hand gingerly cupping his injury before he firmly insists on being the last to be repaired. If he's spoken to afterwards, he doesn't remember any of what is said.

·The medical bay is dim when you awaken, and you see that you've been placed in your own private room when you look about, oxygen mask holding secure to your face as you do so. A massive shape against the wall would have startled you if you didn't immediately recognize Megatron. He smiles almost sadly when you awaken, and while you initially attribute his uncharacteristic weariness to the welded injury on his side, he quickly makes it clear that isn't the case. Whispering a simple wish for your recovery, he excuses himself and makes to leave, and you know that something is amiss m

·When you merely call for him to stop, he breaks, confessing that his relief to see you alive is equal only to his certainty that he's not worthy of you and can no longer pretend otherwise. It takes all of your strength to sit up and demand he stay; you refuse to let the bot who just saved you walk out, especially when you've made it abundantly clear his past is something you've accepted, and your firm reminder is cut short only by dizziness forcing you to lay back. The sight stirs him to return to your side, concern in his optics, and you lay a hand on the tip of his digit in a breathless and wordless reminder; he's more than his past to you, and you made that decision knowing the struggles ahead. He smiles as his digit gently strokes your forehead, recalling that he too had made a decision that day; to trust you meant yours.

Thunderclash

·The two of you are in the hangar practicing sparring, which for your benefit mostly consists of him holding up a training dummy against his palm while you whack at it, and as is often the case you've become sidetracked by conversation over actual work. He's laying on his front to keep the two of you closer to eye level, leaning his chin against his spare hand for comfort, talking about all the little things that come to mind as opposed to the grand topics he's used to being asked about. Frankly, this freedom a big part of what he likes about these moments with you. He gets to just be a bot with interests like any other.

·Your casual chat is interrupted by a communication from the command team on the bridge, who summon him for assistance tracing where a series of small anomalies across the ship might be coming from. Systems are glitching in ways that can't be explained, the defensive radar can't seem to decide if there's something in the apparently empty space around them, and in an ironic twist the message goes dead just as communication problems are mentioned. It's quickly apparent something needs to be done.

·Apologizing for having to cut things short, the massive bot offers to give you a ride to the heart of the ship, which he'll have to pass on his way to the bridge. Always eager to spend more time together, you happily oblige, taking the place of the training dummy in his palm as he lifts you to rest beside his spark. While his shoulder is arguably a more dignified location, you take more than a little comfort feeling the hum of his energy at your back, and thus have chosen this as your travel spot. Between his wound and the many setbacks it's taken to get him back in shape, it's just nice to feel his spark going strong.

·Not long after setting off, he gets the sense there's more to these troubles than technical error, and that something less than desirable may be the culprit. It's not something he can explain, but being more attuned to the subtler things in his environment just gives him a feeling. When he voices this to you, along with the thought you should probably be left somewhere safe, you ask what he believes might be coming. Not because you don't believe him, but you know he only drops his smile when he is preparing for something bad, and you haven't seen proof of any concrete threat.

·With almost comedic timing, the ship lurches at that very moment, nearly knocking the big bot off balance. Only his firm but careful hold saves you from a twenty foot fall. The rumble fades off with something like a great dragging sensation through the ship, which you'd compare to a Manhattan sized car grinding to a halt. Now cupping you in both hands, Thunderclash asks earnestly if you're alright, to which you reassuringly reply that a little turbulence isn't enough to do any damage.

·Smiling at the fortitude of your tiny body, he begins walking straight away, shifting to strategy as his red optics narrow in contemplation. He explains that the particular nature of that shake confirmed his suspicions something is planning an attack. Rather, they're initiating an attack. The sensation of a ship being locked to another and anchored is a particular one, and combined with their systems crashing it's obvious an enemy has come prepared to strike for a well planned ambush.

·You see that he's worrying, but you say nothing of it, taking hold of his thumb to communicate support. Being with him in private has made it clear his existence as a perpetual source of strength for others exhausts him, so you've since committed to acting as his well of certainty in difficult times. Not letting your fear bleed in to your words, you instead ask what the two of you should do, confirming your own communicator is uselessly jammed as you do so.

·Moving through the ship at considerable speed with his long legs, he decides that you'll still need to be secured rather quickly, as enemy combatants are probably already storming the ship or preparing to do so. You'd debate him if you weren't well aware of the logic in his plan. No matter what the enemy is, you won't stand much of a chance in a full on brawl, as anything confident enough to attack a Cybertronian starship is likely to have the firepower to back itself up. Still, it's impossible not to be dissapointed by your inability to offer aid, though it's probably for the best as you're rather exhausted from sparring anyway.

·It happens in a blur, but that's partly because of the shocking reaction time of the bot carrying you, something few would expect due to his size. Thunderclash registers the threat as soon as he turns the corner, a feat aided by the very much not Cybertronian appearance of the figures he sees, and then made far easier by the multiple clicks of weapons preparing to fire. Your presence in his hands became his central point of focus in that instant. Turning on the spot, he allowed the first hail of bullets to strike his armored back, keeping you well out of the line of fire before ducking behind an opposite corner for cover. The sting of the gunfire matters little when he sees you safe in his hands, and less when he instructs you to stay low after setting you down and charging in to fight.

·In the heat of it all, you're embarrassed to be caught so frazzled, as this is hardly your first exposure to alien combat. But there's little time to admonish yourself when chaos unfolds just around the corner, and your tiny size permits a small peek... Thunderclash is the gentlest giant in the world to you, but in just a few blinks the hulking aliens are on the losing front, and while his fighting style is far from gratuitous it is effective. You're still trembling from the rush of the initial shock when the last enemy of the group is on the floor, but even with your shaky vision you can see your bot is unharmed. For a moment that little burst of relief supersedes everything else.

·In usual fashion though, he expresses worry for you when he returns to pick you up from where he left you, drawing an affectionate chuckle from you at how impossibly selfless this mech can be. But he doesn't back down from the question like he usually does. His expression of concern intensifies as he starts moving again, and his sharp optics find ample to worry about on your seemingly unharmed body, with particular attention being paid to your face. Those brilliant eyes of yours are well known to him, and so he can tell something is... off in their beautiful depths. Even if his medical studies focus very little on organics, he's able to recognize the signs of a body struggling, and your paleness combined with the way you labor for each breath tells him something is very wrong.

·Now in a race against time, he has no choice but to move, gunning it towards the ship's tech wing where the laboratories and medical bay are located. He doesn't yet know what's wrong with you for certain, but aid will be there if it's anywhere to be found. There's no time to be wasted in securing you somewhere either, he's going to have to face any threats as they come in the moment whilst ensuring your protection in the process. It's a set of circumstances he's encountered before in his long and eventful time as a soldier, but there's an entirely new variable this time around; you. He adores you, like no one he's ever met before, and perhaps it's selfish but the very thought of losing you... he's not sure his spark could take it.

·The soothing tone of his voice and the rhythmic thumping of his footsteps make it surprisingly difficult for you to heed his requests to stay as awake as possible. Even though your breaths are coming in with difficulty, it seems like sleep would be a fantastic idea at the moment, even if only to rest your eyes. His cupped hands just support your body so nicely, and are so warm, and his voice is so delightfully melodic. Why does he seem so intent on keeping you conscious? Why does he look so incredibly upset to see you struggling to keep your eyes open?

·The pathway he chooses is mercifully free of conflict at first, but that matters little due to your rate of deterioration, as you may not make it even at his full speed. Driving isn't an option due to his need to be combat ready, and the lack of options and hope is absolutely tearing him apart. He hasn't had someone like you in his life before, and the desperation in his voice begins to show that, cracking as he loses his steadfast control of his usually impervious wall of confidence. The selfishness of his desire kills him; how dare he put his own feelings on you due to his weakness? Begging you to survive for his sake?

·No amount of haze can prevent you from startling at his pain. There are tears in his optics, though he doesn't even seem to notice them, letting them fall down his face as he pleads. In the warm fog clouding your brain, you feel a surge of worry, and your hand instinctively grabs at his nearest digit to give it a squeeze. Before you can even offer a breathless reasurance, he ceases running and dives from gunfire that seems to erupt from nowhere, laying you in a tiny maintenance crevice before hurling himself at the second delay he knows you don't have time for. The last thing you see before drifting off is the grief in his optics that you wish you'd been able to comfort...

·While his combat skills always make things quick, in this blur of pain and rage he's downright brutal, ending each foe swiftly but with absolute contempt for their existence clear in every torn limb. Hits to his own frame don't register at all. Bullets and blades mean nothing in the face of what he's about to lose, and the vengeance fueling his strength turns foes into scattered body parts more effectively than any grenade ever could. By the end of it all he's likely set a record for the swiftness of his takedown, but it matters as little as his multitude of bleeding wounds. All he can see is your now limp body as he pulls it from the hiding spot, and his vision narrows to only your faintly moving chest and his pedes moving one past the other through the carnage.

·There's a mass of activity in the technology wing, likely due to injuries as well as the many bots ordered to stand guard in the event of battle, but he doesn't hear the reaction his arrival triggers in the slightest. His sharp processor is reduced to one goal, and anything unrelated doesn't exist. At the sight of the crowded medical bay he starts to strategize. Ratchet appears in his vision, first focusing only on his obvious injuries and the alien blood he didn't know was spattered across his frame, before well trained optics catch sight of the tiny human limp in his hands.

·There's a rush of an explanation; they think one of the systems downed was the atmospheric generators, resulting in a loss of the oxygen the ship maintains for your needs. It's all the information Thunderclash needs to act. Brushing off any help for himself and encouraging the more egregiously wounded to be tended first, he requests only to be provided what you need. Busy tending the injured, medics still assist him getting a supply of oxygen going where they can, with Ratchet using his particular knowledge of human anatomy to ensure the ratio is correct for your biology while Thunderclash prepares it all. Dexterous hands set you on a medical slab where an oxygen mask and scanner are used to return your blood oxygen to normal, and just like that, he knows you'll eventually be okay...

·By the time you wake up your tiny frame has been moved to a private room, both to keep you from the chaos of crammed in bots and to give the two of you privacy from adoring admirers. He's beside you, his wounds patched but his frame still dirtied with blood, a sight that shocks you enough to force a gasp into your mask. Perking up the instant he hears you, the hulking mech is as close as the berth allows in a flash. A stream of questions about your wellbeing passes his lips before you can get a word in. Between the dried blood, the patched wounds, and the faint discoloration of his optics that suggests recent weeping... It's hard to know what to ask him, so you vaguely request a rundown of what happened.

·His face falls, and in between recounts of alien attacks and near death experiences there's overwhelming self depreciation. To hear him tell it the entire affair might as well be his fault. You've always known him to be humble, even critical of his actions, but this borders on self destructive. Worse, the crux of his crisis seems to be that he was motivated to save you not just by duty, but by his selfish desire to protect the one he loved so dearly and can't bare to lose. His own desires are inexcusable in these things, as he puts it, and could have hindered him at your expense. Shaky arms rise so that you can grab the nearest part of him, a digit once again, as you encourage him to stop tormenting himself. You owed him your life, several times over just for today alone, and there wasn't a bot in existence less selfish than he. The kindness of his spark was what you'd fallen in love with, and what you still loved now, because he was more than a legend to you. You loved Thunderclash the bot, not the expectation everyone else had built around him, and thus he'd always be enough just by being himself. Finally relaxing after everything, and his spark singing at your ability to become his rock when he needs one, he allows himself to just rest and exist as he is. Laying his helm on the berth beside you, he nuzzles close, allowing himself to feel simple gratitude to have and love you as you do him.

[cozycryptidcorner]

The Mad Prince, Chapter 13 (slightly nsfw)

tw: alcohol/drinking, drunken consensual groping.

“What are you doing?” Clementine asks, almost amused.

You’re busy rummaging around all available cabinets in the kitchen, several of them open, plates, glasses, and other kitchenette stuff laid out on the counter. While you’re pretty sure there’s a far better kitchen below your feet, this one appears mostly for aesthetic and midnight snack reasons. You, though, have a very intentional way of searching, fingers nimble as you run your hands over the inner panels, just one.

“I’m bored,” is all you say, as if that’s the only explanation she needs. Unsatisfied with what you’ve found so far, you begin to put everything back, sealing the cabinets firmly on the latch. Jumping down from the upper counter, you continue on your quest on the lower compartments.

Once you resume your rummaging, it doesn’t take you too much longer to find a strangely shaped bottle, glass long and ornately spun around a strange purple liquid. All you have to do is unlock the seal at the top, and the scent of the thin, violet liquid makes your eyes water. You haven’t had a single thing to drink with any kind of percentage since the Starward Matchmakers™ took you into their loving flock, and to say you’ve been itching for a goddamn shot would be an understatement.

“Holy shit,” you half gasp, half wince. Whatever is in the bottle smells like paint stripper, your body is already trying to cough back up the liquor you haven’t even had a chance to drink.

“What are you going to do with that?” The shell slips as a touch of her real personality peeks through, her face scowling before she catches herself.

“Drink it, duh,” you can’t read the label, the large, swooping lettering elegant and filled with opulent promise.

“Is that a good idea?” Clementine prods further, arms on her hips.

“Oh please,” you glance over your shoulder just to make sure no one else is eavesdropping on the conversation, “if I couldn’t keep my mouth shut while drunk, I’d never have a job. Besides, I have a super fun idea.”

“Super fun,” Clem echoes, eyebrows arching.

“Come on, bestie, let’s go find two other players.”

It doesn’t take a lot of time to locate the prince, in his own makeshift office he’s turned one of the rooms into. The desk has a holographic screen hovering just slightly over the slab of dark metal.

He looks at the crystalline bottle in your hand, then back up at you. “Yes?”

“I thought we could have a fun game night.” You say, gently swirling the bottle around and offering it up like a vicious cat bringing its master a dead thing as a gift. “Involving liquor, of course.”

His eyes widen as his brow arches, a quizzical gesture, you’ve come to learn, and you feel his gaze flicker over your shoulder and land on Clementine, who is probably doing her best to appear like she thinks that this idea is the motherfucking best. Then he looks back at you. “And what games are you thinking?”

“Well…” you try to wrack your brain, “I was thinking poker, but I’d be fine with blackjack, diamonds five, lemon lemon…. Or like, old maid. Monopoly, even, if you like.”

The prince blinks. “Most of those are forms of gambling.”

You feel Clementine’s aggressive aura on your back, but you offer up a nonchalant shrug. “I suppose so, but like… we don’t have to play for money or anything. Winner or loser, doesn’t matter.”

There’s a beat of silence, you can see the synapses firing within his brain as he thinks over the suggestion. Then, calmly, he suggests, “I suppose that there are things we can gamble other than money.”

“I like your style!” You shake the bottle, “I was thinking about inebriation.”

”Babe,” Clem says, her voice slightly grated, “fun idea… but no.”

Oh, now it seems like the prince is very much interested, but only on account of Clem’s quick attempt to shut it down. “What do you mean?”

You’re quick to talk over Clem’s continuing protests, “instead of gambling money, the loser of the round takes a shot. Uhhh, but since your body’s like three times bigger, you get to take two.”

“Oh, I get to take two?” He asks, cocking his head with a slightly amused look. And he’s not immediately refusing, either, you knew he wouldn’t, but you supposed he wouldn’t actually consider it so seriously. “Is this something humans do?”

“Yes,” you say, nodding, “for fun.”

“And you would like to play it with me?”

You nod again.

He mulls it over, looking back at a now-silent Clem, and says, “and will you be playing.”

“I suppose,” she says, pursing her lips.

“We were also hoping that Elias would play as well,” you say, almost slyly, “to make it an even four.”

“I will let him know.” He says, completely serious, as though he’s talking about affairs of the state, and not about getting drunk while gambling.

“Okay,” you say, bouncing on the edge of your toes in excitement.

“Okay,” he echoes, as though tasting the word on his tongue.

“See you later, then,” you take a step back, trying really hard not to smile.

“Oh my god,” Clementine mutters as you turn around, quietly enough for only you to hear. “You two are ridiculous.”

“I hear most couples are,” you whisper conspiratorially back at her as the door to the office closes.

“And here’s to thinking you were at your wit’s end just a day ago,” she says, and you can feel the motion of her eyes rolling even though you’re not looking at her. “I can already see you making out with him in your head.”

“Okay but also consider: inebriation makes for honest conversations,” you say, running your fingers along your scalp, “and I plan on having a very calm and collected conversation about things like how many people he thinks are planning to kill me, while you, my dearest and most precious friend in the entire universe, are going to be keeping Elias distracted with your fantastic tits.”

She chokes, scrabbling for words, voice cutting in and out as though her brain is fried. “He does not think my-”

“You may be trained to clock someone’s fighting style twenty klicks away by the way they shake their ass, but I,” you turn around and walk backwards to drink in her glaring face, grinning, “have been teaching myself to recognize carnal lust on sight.”

“Princess,” she says, her voice full of warning, “you’re on thin fucking ice right now.”

“See you later!” You sing, escaping into your room before she sees fit to smack you into the next century.

---------------------------------------------_

“Okay,” you say, shuffling the cards between your fingers, “rules are simple.”

To your right side, the prince, and to the left, Clementine, with Elias sitting across the table. The bottle of liquor is in the center of the table, four shot glasses in front of each person as a grim reminder that you’ll have to drink the moment you lose your hand.

“So the loser of each hand has to drink the shots placed in the betting pool,” you say, cheerfully, “except for Aksanos, who has to take an extra two because his blood alcohol level is more difficult to raise since he’s bigger than my first studio apartment.”

Their first mistake: letting you deal.

“We bet with alcohol shots based on how confident you are with how good your hand is.” You begin to deal out cards, mentally counting to five for each stack. “High card is when you have no matches, two of a kind is when you have two of the same numbers, three of a kind is the same but with three-” etcetera, etcetera. The winner isn’t the important hand, here, it’s the loser. “Folding in this context means that you take the shots you threw into the pot. Any questions?”

“I don’t understand why I have to be here,” Elias says, holding his cards like this is a game of Go Fish.

“I mean any questions in regards to the game rules?” You skip over him, just for the sake of being annoying.

“What does the winner get?” Clementine asks, lounging with one arm swung over the back of her chair. “I think the person who wins first the most should get something.”

“You mean besides an intact liver?” You ask, taking a peek at your cards. Nice, unless everyone has a really fortunate hand, you should be alright this first round. “I don’t know, I’m not exactly in a position to hand anything out.”

All eyes turn to the person with the fattest wallet, and, to his credit, the prince actually looks like he’s pondering the question. “A favor,” he seems to conclude.

“From you?” Clementine asks, sounding suddenly like she’s ready to put her competitive hat on.

“Yes.”

“And what if you’re the winner?” She asks, prodding.

“I suppose that my prize will be peace of mind.” He says, looking at his cards. “Since I won’t have to offer up my services otherwise.”

“Awesome,” you say, reaching over and pouring the potent liquor in every single one of your shot glasses, sliding one into the center of the table. “Let’s begin.”

When you first pitched the game, you thought your only real competition would be Clementine. After all, you’ve seen soldiers like her lay waste to the poker tables before, especially since ceasefires make for bored tacticians with little outlets for their strategies. As predicted, Elias continuously seems to either fold or lose, he doesn’t seem to have much of a grasp for the game in general, nor does he even care to try. The prince, however?

He starts out slowly, cautiously. Like he’s testing his boundaries. He folds once or twice, watching you closely as he throws back his shots of purple liquor. After you’ve leapt into a significant lead, the thrum of hot alcohol from your folds burning through your blood, he seems to take a sharp turn and starts winning, as in, beating you as time eats into the night.

As you shuffle the card stack once almost every hand possible could have played, you observe him closely. He’s staring at your hands, intently, watching the way your thumb flicks one half into the other, head shifting slightly as you twist your wrist to part the deck once more. Almost in an accusation, you don’t look down at your hands as you shuffle, knowing this movement by heart, and then begin tossing everyone their cards.

Elias doesn’t even look at his hand as he folds, face and ears a mottled blue as he nurses a glass of water. Clementine is ‘resting her eyes’ for ‘just a minute,’ head slumped over on the table, her bra hanging from the side of the chair (when did she even take that off?).

The prince has already learned to only look at his cards once, hand over the backs, then gauges you for any sort of reaction as he pushes his filled shot glasses in. Luckily, though, the more you drink, the less your face works, so all you offer up is a resting bitch face that would kill any human man, matching him without hesitation.

You lay your cards out, revealing a four of a kind.

He lays his out, revealing the same hand… but with straight aces.

Four shots. You have to take in four shots.

“Careful,” he says, as though he has no cares in the universe, “I hear alcohol poisoning is a terrible way to go.”

You drink the first, wiping your mouth with your sleeve and refusing to give him the satisfaction of wincing from the burn of the liquor. “I’ve had worse.”

The second shot is harder to drink without making a face, you think your nose twitches despite your attempts not to move.

Your body is sending warning signals to your head as your fingers wrap around the third shot glass, not exactly nauseous yet, but with the knowledge that you definitely will be if you finish what you started.

“I fold,” the prince says just before the liquor hits your lips.

“What?” It takes you a moment to process what he just said.

“I fold,” he repeats, pushing his winning hand to the center and grabbing the remaining shot glass.

“You can’t fold after you’ve played the round,” you say, though your body screams in relief at not having to finish the shots.

“I don’t remember that being in the rules,” he says, “besides, it’s not going to be fun if you’re passed out on the table like your friend here.”

“-’m wrake,” Clementine mumbles, her words so slurred you can barely recognize their meaning.

You wait for a beat, then put the glass down and push it in his direction. “Fine. Here, don’t forget the extra.”

“I would not dare,” he says, amusement in his tone. True to his word, he pours another shot, drinking all three in quick succession.

For a while, you didn’t think he was getting drunk, blaming his more spidery bits for his supposed immunity to alcohol, but the more you stare, the more you notice unusual symptoms in his body. Like the flushed skin around his eyes and nose. Or the way his shoulders slant as he sits. How he’s started to rest his chin on his hand.

Slowly, you begin to shuffle the cards, keeping an eye on how he seems to be watching you with more intensity than before, and you realize something. Oh, oh, for fuck’s sake, you should have noticed it before, but now that he’s drunk, he’s not hiding it so much.

“You’re counting cards,” you accuse.

“And you’re playing with a marked deck,” he responds just as snidely.

You hesitate for just a moment because you hadn’t expected to actually get caught, and then you realize; oh. OH. That’s how he started making a heavy-hitting comeback, he figured out the almost nonsensical pattern on the back of the cards is actually a code.

Fuck.

And then you think further, hands folded like you’re praying. Yes, your mind is clouded with drink, but you’re still capable of weighing the pros and cons of an extremely critical concept. It’s not about the how he figured it out, you decide, but the fact that he quickly adapted, continued playing, and even started winning… without saying anything. He could have demanded a new deck in the face of fairness, but he didn’t.

That’s so…

So…

“Hot,” you say out loud.

“What?” He sounds confused.

“I mean,” you lean back in your chair, clarifying, “if you’re going to continue being so smart and attractive, I’m going to have to have sex with you.”

Elias coughs into his glass, bless him, you forgot he was even there, with his eyes bugging out of his skull. ”Keias,” he almost sounds like he’s begging, “please excuse me for the night, I’m afraid in order to best serve you, I will need to rest and recover.”

“You are dismissed,” the prince says, face a shade of blue you didn’t think he was capable of having.

And oh boy, does Elias leave like the entire goddamn room is on fire, though with the efficiency of an incredibly drunk individual. Even though his first few steps are wobbly, he still manages to flee the thick sexual tension your aura is probably emanating through the air, shooting out the door and disappearing into the ship.

Mercilessly, as soon as the door shuts, you turn back to the large drider at the receiving end of your arousal. To his credit, he seems to be so unused to blatant invitations to use someone’s body like a goddamn carousel that he’s at a loss for words. On the other hand, you have a variety of positions you would like to try out if what the anatomy charts they showed you back at the Starward Matchmakers™ are accurate.

But first… you need to take some measures to dull the oncoming hangover.

“Let’s raid the kitchen,” you say, knowing the sudden change of pace will give him whiplash.

“I’ll call someone to carry her to bed,” the prince says, gesturing to Clem’s body, “someone who isn’t inebriated.”

“Excellent idea,” you say, knowing full well you would drop her halfway through the hallway and somehow end up breaking both your noses in progress.

A servant is ridiculously quick to retrieve her, as though they had been lying in wait just outside the door at the prince’s beck and call, but you find yourself not caring about that creepiness factor in the face of food.

“Shall I call the chef?” He asks as you push through the doors leading into the kitchen.

“Nah,” you say, “they’ll need all the sleep they can get for the breakfast we will collectively want tomorrow. I can cook, I’m not an animal.”

Already, your vision blurs as the last two shots fully hit your system. Even with the glass of water you absolutely chug like a dehydrated lava scrapper, you know it’s going to be a hot minute before you start seeing straight again if you don’t start shoving carbs down your throat. So, quick as you can, you start rifling through the many different cabinets and the three (?!) refrigerators to locate something that your drunk stomach positively craves.

“Normally,” you say, “during my nights out, I go to one of those hover-stands that park out by the clubs and stuff specifically for the drunk hungry people leaving. I don’t know how to describe just how good Abuelita’s Tacos are when it’s three am, and you’re stumbling out of the club, exhausted.”

“And is that something you often do?” He asks, voice slightly slurred.

“It’s a good way to meet people,” you climb up one of the counters, rifling through bags of food with labels you can’t read. “Especially if you’re freelance. You never know who needs to transport cargo if you don’t start asking around.”

“Mmm,” he muses, “and do many pilots tend to frequent bars for customers?”

“Only the ones that aren’t in a guild or privately hired,” you say, hopping down from one counter and heading for the other.

“And you’re not?” He’s wheedling you for information, but you’re comfortable with offering up more than usual.

“Do I strike you as someone who likes being told what to do?” You ask instead of answering. “Oh, my god, the guilds have so many rules. Cut your hair like this, wear these clothes, go to those places, don’t do drugs. Gets old fast when someone is in charge of how you live your life.”

“Hm, we will have to agree on that.” The way his hands are cradling his head is… cute, you think. “Unfortunately, sometimes we don’t have a choice.”

“Yeah I’ve heard that your mom’s a mega-bitch,” you say, surprised that you’ve never outwardly spoken against the queen before.

For a moment, you think you’ve gone too far, but then he laughs. He laughs. And it’s a beautiful laugh, you think, head empty but for the warmth of the sound. Sweet. Gentle. Nothing like the stories of a cruel, maniacal shriek, you have to stand there, speechless, committing that fucking delightful voice to memory.

“What?” He asks when he notices you’re uncharacteristically still.

“You’re cute,” you say, resuming your hunt. Aha, bread! Finally! Your stomach gurgles with joy, and your liver sighs with relief.

“Oh,” you can hear a bashful tone tangled with his words. “Thank you. It’s not every day I am observed to be so.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll just tell you every day from now on.” You find a knife and a slab of plastic you assume is a cutting board, and unwrap the bread from the clear wrapping plastic. Everything in your body screams for protein, so you begin to rummage through the fridge for anything that smells vaguely like it will satiate the craving.

Once you bring a pile of stuff to the counter, the prince says, almost like he’s taking a gamble, “you’re not exactly what I was expecting.”

You start cutting slices of bread. “You mean today? Or just in general.”

“You were such a meek little thing when we first met,” he says, almost dreamily, “I was afraid you would be so easily crushed by my enemies, and so I tried to protect you like a little, delicate flower.” He holds his hands out, as though simulating how he might hold the aforementioned plant.

“But?” You prod, adding a slab of… meat? Maybe. Cheese? Also maybe. It’s a gauntlet of stuff you’re adding to your strange sandwich.

“But, I now see that you’re a manipulative, lying cheat.” Even though those words should make your heart sink, he says them with such fondness you don’t feel an ounce of rejection. “It takes a very smart person to outdo my careful planning, and you’ve done so many times.”

You lick your thumb clean of a spread you found in the door shelf, finding it strangely savory. “And… you like that?”

“Absolutely,” he says with no hesitation. “You challenge me in all the best ways. No one does that, not anymore.”

Trying to come up with a response that doesn’t involve crying on the floor, you slide the finished sandwich in his direction. “Oh.”

“That wasn’t very romantic,” Aksanos seems to realize, eyes snapping back into reality. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to sound so terrible-”

You kiss him. Hard. Without the tentative shyness you had kissed him with before. Oh, no, this kiss is hungry, it’s starving, it’s full of desperation and adoration, laced with heated attraction and stifled desire. It doesn’t take long for you to introduce a tongue to this equation, and even though you don’t think he’s familiar with that concept, he’s a fast learner.

The cold metal of the counter presses up against your ass as you use it for leverage, lifting one of your legs and slinging it over his waist, pulling him closer. His hands come to rest on your hips, gilded claws pressing through your clothes, you can tell that he’s unsure of what your boundaries might be. So you help him out, breaking the kiss long enough for you to find the hem of your shirt and lift it up over your body. Just as quickly, you unclasp your bra, tossing it to the side.

He stares at your breasts like he’s never seen a pair of naked tits before, and you suppose that anatomy differences between your species might be throwing him for a loop.

“Wow,” he says, and immediately looks like he regrets it.

You laugh softly, tracing his jawline with your fingers. “Thanks, I grew them myself.”

And then you’re kissing him again, guiding his hands up to your chest as a way of encouragement. He’s careful and slow, the cool sharpness of his claws ghosting over your skin, lips and fangs so eager to please. There’s a heat building between your thighs, one that the seam of your pants only marginally relieves as you grind up against his waist.

“Give me your hands,” you manage to whisper, breaking away from him long enough to draw breath.

He’s a tad confused but obeys.

“I’m going to show you where to touch me,” you murmur, “but those knives strapped to your fingers need to be off.”

“Good idea,” he breathes in agreement.

You take his dominant hand in both of yours, taking a quick moment to kiss the heel of his palm. Then, carefully, you reach for the piece of clawed jewellery on his index finger, picking at the clasp with your fingernail until it comes loose, pulling it off and setting it to the side. You keep your hands as steady as you drunkenly can, knowing each individual ornament is worth more than what you would make in a year.

Next, pants- you need to get the last barrier between him and you off and gone. Hands shaking, you manage to undo the button just above the zipper, clasping that tiny piece of metal between your fingers-

The door opens to someone who looks like they immediately regret every single life decision that’s led them up to this point. And, in fact, they look like if you and the prince weren’t staring at them at this very moment, they would duck out and act like they never laid witness to this mess.

“A- a thousand and million apologies-” they begin.

“State your business.” Like a switch is flipped back on, he’s a regal and terrifying monarch again.

“It’s first shift for the kitchen staff, my keias, I didn’t- if I had known-”

You look up at the clock, realizing just now how late- or early, really, it is. If you were still on the planet, the prince would be getting up to start his duties soon, so... conceivably? A cook would need that head start for a fancy breakfast.

“Yeah, thanks,” you say, twisting your body to protect your nakedness as you find your shirt. Though, through your panic and drunkenness, you can’t seem to locate your bra. Oh well, the sooner you’re out here, the better. “Sorry we wrecked the place, this should have been a bedroom activity, anyways.”

And then you drag the sole heir of Lolth’s monarchal throne out of the kitchen before he decides to kill that poor cook.

[dashedwithromance]

Slithered Here From Eden - Princewitch

KINGDOM OF THE WICKED SPOILERS!!! I CANNOT STRESS ENOUGH HOW SPOILERY THIS FIC IS. THE HEIGHT OF SPOILERS!! THE PEAK OF SPOILERS!! THIS IS A VERY LOUD WARNING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! KINGDOM OF THE WICKED SPOILERS BEYOND THIS POINT DO NOT KEEP READING IF YOU DONT WISH TO BE SPOILED THANK YOUUUUUU

anyways here is my first princewitch fic!! i hope you guys like it, and let me know if you have any ideas for fics for those two. im a little nervous to put this out here - ive written only cressworth and original stuff for a while, so im kinda nervous this wont be in character or will be weird in my style. anyway, please let me know if you like this, and if its something you want more of. im already working on a few others, courtesy of @duchess-of-nothing-and-nowhere ‘s brilliant ideas, but send in any requests you have!!! i hope you guys enjoy, thank you!!!!!

---

Hell was, well, hell.

Her husband was busy doing whatever kings of Hell did in their spare time, which she was thankful for. She didn’t wish to run into any of the Wicked, but Pride was close to the top of the list. Not the worst offender, however. The Prince she’d once tentatively called an ally had claimed that spot with his spectacularly humiliating betrayal. 

The worst part was that she still didn’t understand. His motives, his feelings, his aims - all were shrouded in mystery, one that seemed to taunt her at every twist and turn. Bastard. 

Contrary to her preconceptions, her rooms were actually rather beautiful. Similar to the style of the house Wrath had rented in Palermo, but it felt different. Darker. Her quarters were styled in black and gold, with serpent scones lining the walls. The fire flickered in a menacing fashion, though she’d long since learned it had more bark than bite. 

Shadows crept along the floor until they curled at her feet like a cat, announcing the presence of the one demon prince she wished to see the least. 

“What do you want.” Emilia barely gave him a glance before he walked him, arrogance pouring off him. As if he owned the damn place. 

Infuriatingly beautiful as usual, he wore a dark suit, flecked with golden patterns, not unlike the tattoo she knew adorned his shoulder. Her attention flicked to the wicker basket he held gingerly in his hands. Covered with a soft blue tea towel, it looked like something plucked off the streets of her home, not something that belonged within the obsidian walls of the kingdom where wickedness ruled with abandon. 

Silence was his only reply as he looked her up and down. The gaze threatened to set her alight; with rage or desire, she wasn’t entirely sure. Once, the bed that loomed behind her would’ve offered a taunting distraction and a fragile but desperate wish. Now, it only annoyed her, reminding her of the moments she’d failed so magnificently at seeing through his façade.

Still no response. They hadn’t spoken since her wedding, and their last words had been less of a conversation and more of throwing of well-deserved insults on her behalf. He’d told her that she knew nothing of his motivations, and to assume he wished her harm was foolish. She’d told him a few carefully chosen expletives, complete with a hand gesture that would’ve had her mother wringing her hands. Wrath had spent the days prior skulking outside her quarters, never saying a word, only letting his shadows pollute her already foul mood. She might’ve had the slightest amount of sympathy for him, had he not betrayed her, lied to her, married her to his brother and thoroughly pissed her off in the process.

He placed the basket down on the table at the other side of the room. Looking up, Wrath raised a carefully groomed brow. Apparently, princes of Hell had beauty routines.

His mood was undetectable through his face, but the shadows that followed him gave it away, if only slightly. They were the same dark as a summer night; dark enough for comfort, but not the soulless black pitch she’d seen him wear so often. An interesting combination for a prince who seemed to care not a whit whether she lived or died after he’d gotten what he wanted.

Wrath pulled back the cloth covering the basket to reveal – food. A carefully curated selection of her favourites, smelling like they’d been plucked off the serving plates of the Sea & Vine.

She nearly salivated at the sight – the food she’d eaten in Hell had been a sore spot for her. Though nothing was wrong with it, it lacked the love of homemade food. The flavour that came with knowing that someone lovingly made every single bite. There were no laughing families who cooked here, no fathers to taste-test, or sisters to tease while they made sangria side by side.

  “How on earth did you find this?” The words slipped out before she could correct herself. ‘Earth’ was perhaps not the right term, though she couldn’t truly tell where she was. Under, felt more accurate. Below.

He looked at her as if she was missing the obvious – and she was.

The food smelt like she was used to because it was what she was used to. The same recipes, made with the same care as every meal that came from the Sea & Vine kitchens.

Panic enveloped her faster than joy.

“Did you hurt them?” She hissed, desperately searching his appearance for any sign of violence. He was wearing black, that much was true, but either he cleaned up exceptionally well, or there was no blood to be found.

“Hurt them?” Wrath’s tone was even, but she could hear how he scoffed. The nerve, “No. I even paid for it.”

Her heart still beat fast enough to burst from her chest, so he continued, “Relax, witch. No harm has come to them, nor will it, if you comply with my brother’s terms.” There was no audible threat in his tone, but she knew it went without saying. Comply, be Pride’s blooded wife, or her family would receive the same fate as Vittoria. It hurt to even think about, however brief the thought was.

She was going to throw something right at his beautiful, awful face. Maybe the basket, once she was finished devouring her favourites. Wrath would certainly look ridiculous enough with a basket slammed over his head, if he didn’t kill her first.

“It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you fear.” Emilia blinked, unsure how to respond. He seemed to be lingering, if demon princes could ever linger. Why wouldn’t he leave?

She nodded, restraining a biting retort about how she was sure that fact was a deep disappointment for him. Remembering the odd rules of demonhood, she thanked him.

Still, he wouldn’t leave. Just stood there, watching her with those golden eyes that peered into her very soul, reaching inside and setting her alight. His gaze was unnerving.

Her patience, which had thinned dramatically since becoming a co-ruler of Hell, waned, “Are you waiting for payment?”

He laughed. Actually laughed. A short, biting sound, but a laugh nonetheless.

“I could smell your foul mood from my own House. Perhaps this will appease you.”

Appease her. As if it were that simple. As if he hadn’t tricked her, lied to her by omission, made her into an even greater fool than the one she was.

“Perhaps if you deigned to be truthful, I would be more polite.” Lies, but worth a try. If only he would tell her something, anything by way of explanation. Even if it was brutally cruel and benefitting a member of the Wicked. Anything but the agony of anticipation.

Apparently this evening was full of more surprises, because Wrath then pulled out a chair, and gestured for her to sit down, like they weren’t sworn enemies. The thought of a biting retort was attractive, but the smell of food was too much. The scent of all her favourites, food she’d spent hours labouring over in the past, wafted towards her like an irresistible gift.

The basket held everything she dreamt of. Wrath laid the table with his harvest as she tried not to gape at the sight. Twin glasses of sangria, somehow still delightfully cold. The comforting smell of garlic and fresh herbs permeated the air. Plates piled high with a mix of all her favourite things: a selection of antipasto, a side plate of bruschetta, a bowl of pasta, and a small dish of cannoli. If she closed her eyes, and forgot the presence of the prince in front of her, she could picture being back home, surrounded by her family and loved ones. If she thought hard enough, she could faintly smell Vittoria’s favourite perfume, the one she made for herself.

When she opened her eyes, the dream faded away, and there was only Wrath sitting across from her. Despite all the effort she presumed he must’ve taken to fetch the food, he sat watching like he thought it was attack him. Or she would. A laugh escaped her lips, almost hysterical, at the situation. Her, Queen of Hell, sat with her husband’s brother, another demon prince, as they ate food from her family’s restaurant. Comical, if disturbing.

“It won’t bite,” She said, eagerly helping herself to a plate. His eyes flickered with the promise of his bite, and she fought to keep any sign of her reaction off her face. Now was not the time to think of his kiss, or goddess forbid, his tongue. Watching carefully, he followed suit, piling his plate high with a mirror of her own. If she didn’t know the strength that lurked beneath that bronze skin and manicured hands, she would’ve called it sweet.

The food was – the food was heavenly. The taste of home, the love of her family, the promise of safety offered in those few bites brought her more joy than she thought possible. She wanted to stretch out the meal forever, as long as time would permit. If this was the last time she would taste such heaven, she wanted to remember it.

Despite her anger at the demon sitting across from her, curiosity embedded itself in her mind. How could he have known? How could he have known this was exactly what she needed, what her soul craved? Just as he’d done with the orange blossoms after Lust, he’d somehow known her mind and soul needing nourishment, and brought it as a gift to her door. Perhaps there would be a price to be paid, someday, but for now, her happiness was enough.

It was ridiculous and Nonna would’ve scolded her dearly, but it was the first semblance of normal she’d had since signing her name over to Pride. The meal sent flashbacks of the time she’d spent after Lust had invaded her mind; the days she’d spent lying in bed, a stranger in her own body, while Wrath sat like a comforting guardian demon. They hadn’t spoken, but he’d delivered her meals thrice daily, and never left her side unless to fetch her clothes from his mysterious source, or to give her privacy if she’d asked. He’d even brought her reading materials, though they were filled with battle strategies, not the steamy romances she craved. At the time, she’d thought it was a sign that maybe, just maybe, Wrath was different. Now, she only felt the white-hot flush of shame. Her appetite faded, and she pushed the plate away.

He catalogued her change in mood with a barely perceptible nod of his head. Truly, she had no idea what he was thinking. Sometimes she thought he was terrified for her, her witch-blood and mortal heart acting as a beacon for all those whom Pride had made an enemy. Sometimes she thought he wanted to kiss her until her lips were swollen and she begged him for release. Sometimes she thought her presence disgusted him to a never-ending degree. A mystery.

“You need to be careful,” He broke the silence with a warning, as if she treated Hell like a stroll along Sicilian streets.

“It would help if you told me anything.” She hated the petulant near-whine of her voice, but it couldn’t be helped. She had nothing and no-one in the world, but she needed an ally. Or, if she couldn’t have that, information would have to do.

“I’ve already told you too much.” Lies. Complete lies.

Her questioning had bored him, she assumed, as he stood up to go, leaving the remnants of their meal scattered around them. Wrath cast one last look at her before stalking out, taking the shadows with him.

Just as she was about to curse his name, she spotted a bouquet of orange blossoms on the dresser.

Bastard.

---

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Tags: @shadowturtlesstuff @otome-azarada @chococannolii @beccalovesbooksstuff

[fangirlovestuff]

A Thin Line - Natasha Romanoff x avenger!reader

a/n - hey lovely people! i’m so excited for this one! it’s for @candy-and-writing ‘s 1,000 followers challenge - congrats lovely!! i’ve never written for Natasha before, but i hope i will again because i love her:) divider is by @firefly-graphics and italics are for thoughts. enjoy!<3 

Summary: Natasha seems like she wants nothing to do with you, but you two get sent on a mission together. It was supposed to be a simple in-and-out, but when things get complicated can you count on her to come to your aid? aka, a sort of enemies to lovers :)

Prompt: “How the fuck do you turn it off?” (bold in the fic)

Word Count: 3,385

Warnings: blood and violence (both pretty brief), mentions of insecurity, explicit language 

You closed your eyes and sat back, relaxing in your seat. Natasha was the only one with you on the quinjet today, and she was flying it, so you didn't need to deal with her. For now, at least.

Most times, dealing with Natasha just meant not talking to her. Or looking at her. Actually, just… try to get out of her way. You weren't sure why, but for the moment you two met, Natasha always tried to push you away, always giving you hard glares and cold shoulders. You got the message and promptly removed yourself from her immediate surroundings every time it was possible. But, being Avengers together was a serious flaw to this plan, seeing as you needed to go on missions. Luckily, this should be a pretty easy mission today; get in, disable the missile system, get out.

You never understood Natasha's coldness towards you. In the beginning, you had tried to get close to her, talk to her even. Every time she would just brush you off, so eventually you just stopped trying. You spent countless hours wondering what on earth could make her dislike you this much. Maybe she thought you weren't good enough to be an Avenger? Or maybe the other way around – she thought you were a threat to her, because you were so little women in the Avengers? but that's absurd.

You were certainly no threat to Natasha Romanoff, who was a way better spy than you, has more field experience than you, and was prettier than you. Like, ridiculously pretty. Pretty enough that the first time you met her in person, you had to physically stop your jaw from hitting the floor, and you had to admit – she was really hot. And if you weren't working together, you would've totally asked her out right that second, but you knew better. You thought you could at least be friends, but those hopes were also crushed fairly fast.  

Safe to say, things between you and Natasha were never smooth. Right now though, you could simply rest until you got to your destination, the middle of nowhere.

You were dosing off, and you opened your eyes abruptly at the sound of Natasha's voice. "Buckle up," she said, "we'll land in five."

You did as she said and braced for the landing.

You and Natasha went out of the quinjet side by side, silently observing your surroundings. The icy land stretched out before you, the warehouse that was your target just out of sight because of a hill, but you knew it was there. You started walking, and it didn't take long for you to be on the top of the hill, the warehouse a mere 3 minutes away from you. You could see the missiles system on the roof. Very poor installation, but what could you really expect from lowlifes like the ones who used to run this place.

"It looks abandoned," you remarked, feeling awkward about the lack of conversation.

"The files said it was," Natasha answered dryly, moving forward to continue walking. You swallowed your questions and quickly caught up to her. Even on a mission, agent Romanoff just can't seem to make conversation with me.

You stood in front of the back door, and took your guns into your hands, while Natasha took her gun and tested the door handle. It was locked, as expected, but she wasted no time kicking the door down, pointing her gun at whatever emerged from the darkness, but nothing did, and she lowered her gun a little, entering cautiously. If you were friends, you would've told her she looked totally badass kicking down that door, but you weren't so you stayed quiet. Besides, I'm sure she already knows, you mulled as you followed her inside. You felt along the wall closest to you, finding a light switch and turning it on, squinting slightly at the fluorescent light.

Before you was a long hallway. The warehouse was turned into a makeshift building, different rooms for different people or occasions. You had memorized the blueprints, but even without them you could find what you were looking for – it was kind of hard to miss.

A huge room with glass walls was at the end of the hallway, and even from this distance you could see the big, old-fashioned computer system used to control the missiles.

You and Natasha moved wordlessly towards it, opening other doors in your way to make sure there was nothing there, but you found mostly supplies, which is unsurprising since this place is abandoned and in the middle of nowhere, you thought, fighting your disdain at the frankly stupid protocol of checking every corner. This whole mission seemed a little boring and unnecessary to you, disarming a missile system just so no one could get their hands on it, but sometimes that's how it is.

And it is a pretty massive missile system, you thought as you entered the big room, your eyes scanning over the large machinery. Natasha stood guard by the door while you approached the main computer, turning it on. The program was old, but very effective, you noted as you observed it for a bit, contemplating how to turn it off for good. There was always the option to set the place on fire, but that's never a good idea when the missiles are stored on the roof.

You found the self-destruct but without blowing up part of the software and were just neutralizing it when you heard heavy footsteps. You were about to call out to Nat from the other side of the room, but a hand clamped down on your mouth, and a foreign voice growled into your ear, "Shhhh. Who else is here?" the man asked.

You quickly looked over at the door and found that Natasha wasn't there, and you sighed in relief. She must've gotten away.

You quickly picked your plan of action. "Please, I'm alone, I didn't know there was anybody here," you said, allowing the panic that was rising in you to be heard in your voice. Because Natasha may be safe for now, but what if she can't turn the missiles off? Or what if she just left you here? She was a spy, it would be so easy for her to just lie and say there were complications and you died, and no one would question her because they like her more than you, and she would've gotten rid of a person she hates while you rot here and—

You took a breath as deep as the hand on your mouth allowed you. This wasn't the time to spiral. She's a professional, she won't leave you here even if she hated you. And you were a valued member of the team. You forced yourself to relax, your irrational thoughts fading. You can act panicked without actually being panicked.

The man looked around the room and clearly didn't see anything else, because he started leading you through another corridor, one you hadn't been in before.

When you left, Natasha went out of her hiding spot and cursed under her breath. She hid when she heard the footsteps, but before she managed to signal you to do the same, she saw the man grabbing you and seizing you away.

She wanted to go after you, but instead went and after seeing that it's all clear, stood in front of the computer you just stood in front of a couple of moments before.

Every fiber of her begged her to succumb to her initial urge and go after you. And she wanted to slap herself for it, because if it would've been Cap or Tony, she wouldn't have felt like this. She knew you could handle yourself, and besides, she was extremely good at containing her emotions.

She stared at the program in front of her, trying to make sense of it, trying to remember what little she knew about it, but that was your specialty.

"How the fuck do you turn this off?" she whispered under her breath before willing her mind to calm down and start figuring it out.

You let yourself be dragged by the man until you eventually entered another large room, filled with people, seemingly of the same age as the man who took you. Currently, he sat you down and tied your hands to a pipe behind your back.

"Why are you here?" he asked, taking a knife from one of the men next to him. Everyone in the room quieted down, listening.

"I just…" you said, feigning panic to buy you some time. "I was hiking and I was getting really cold but then I saw this building and it looked abandoned so I thought…" you willed yourself to look as scared as possible, tears coming to your eyes, and you inwardly thanked your mom for making you sign up for that one acting class. "I thought I could come here and get a little warm. I didn't come looking for trouble, I promise," you wavered your voice.

The man punched you in the face and you clenched your jaw at the pain. "Then why were you in the control room?" He reached inside of your pocket. You tried to get him off you, but two of his friends held you down quickly. You squirmed when he entered his hand, pulling out a paper that you had prepared to help you disable the missiles – it contained the program shortcuts for you to use if you needed them to destroy the missiles. A valuable part of your pre-mission research that the man tossed aside. Thankfully, he probably doesn't understand the program.

"Keep an eye on her," he said, leaving the room, probably to sweep the perimeter once more. Hopefully, this little interrogation bought Natasha enough time to figure out how to disable those missiles, because if not… you were definitely screwed.

Natasha spent about one minute trying to disable the program before realizing it was useless. Without you, she could never do it. She ran back to the quinjet, making it twice as short as it took you both to walk. She contacted the team back at home, and thankfully Tony answered her right away.

"Nat? What's up? Did you and—"

"Tony, I don't have time for your stupid quips. The warehouse isn't abandoned. We need backup, asap."

He could hear the urgency in her voice and told Jarvis to call for backup.

"Did you disable the missiles?" he asked.

"No," Natasha answered, moving around the quinjet in a hasty search for anything that can help her when she goes back in.

"Why? Let me talk to-"

"You can’t talk to her, Tony, they took her," Natasha said, straining to keep her voice leveled.

Tony was shocked at the display of emotion that still managed to be heard, a sign she was really upset. Things were probably going to shit over there.

"I already sent in backup, they'll be there in a bit," he said. He wanted to live, so he ignored her anxious tone.

She hung up without saying goodbye.

The people who were sitting around the room started closing in on you, looking at you.

"Poor girl," one of them said, smirking down at you, "you got into the wrong building." He took out a knife and slashed the rope that was tying you. The others still kept you in place while he grabbed hold of your wrist. You tried to pull away from him, but your face was already painfully puffing up from the punch you got before, and you couldn't break away from his grip. He moved the tip of the knife across your inner forearm, and you stopped moving, realizing if you did it would rip into your skin.

He smiled an unpleasant toothy smile when he saw you stopped moving and cut you across your arm, a long line that immediately started bleeding and you yelled at the sudden, burning pain, actual tears rising in your eyes right now. You were done for. He reached for your other arm, no doubt to do the same. Before you could struggle away, the door was kicked open.

It was kicked open by one very angry Russian spy.

You had never been happier to see Natasha than at that moment. She went in, her gun securely in her hands, steadily shooting the people who were holding you before they had the chance to realize what was happening. You fell to the floor, clutching at your bleeding arm. Everyone else scattered away, leaving the room quickly, and Natasha rushed to your side.

"Did you disable the missiles?" you asked her, your tone urgent.

"I couldn't," she shook her head, kneeling next to you and helping you up.

You couldn't help but lean on her a little, dizziness clouding your head. "Let's go to the computer room," you said through gritted teeth.

"You need medical help, you can't-"

"I can and I will. Let's go before they come back," you said. You instantly regrated taking your aggravation out on Natasha, but apparently it worked, because she started making your way to the room.

When you got there, you leaned heavily on the table, blinking a little until you could focus. You entered the final few lines and the system shut down. You sighed in relief. Natasha was back at your side, helping you move out of the warehouse, making your way to the quinjet.

"I called backup," she said, "they should be here soon." She looked at you, a frown on her face. You were losing too much blood.

"Great," you nodded, before you tripped, nearly falling on your face before Natasha caught you.

"Stay with me," she told you. You barely made the rest of the way to the quinjet, collapsing against the nearest wall. Natasha told you to stay awake, and she went to get the medical supplies.

"Keep your eyes open!" you heard her call out to you. And you tried, you really did, but you just couldn't. Your arm hurt like hell, so did your face, and you were almost grateful to feel your consciousness slip away from you, your eyes closing.

You awoke in a seat that was propped back to make a sort of bed. You could feel that your arm was bandaged. You tried to get up, but as soon as your head lifted you felt a wave of dizziness hit you. In an instant Natasha was by your side, grabbing your healthy arm and lowering you back into your previous position. "Wow, I wouldn't do that if I were you," she chuckled. "How are you feeling?"

"Dizzy," you smiled. "What happened? How long was I out"

"Twenty minutes. You lost a lot of blood, but you managed to disarm the missiles," she smiled. "The backup team got here fifteen minutes ago, and hey went to deal with everyone that was there."

"Who were these people?" you frowned, "how did we not know they lived there?"

"They were a part of the gang who used to run the place, and our intel that they all left was wrong. A bunch of psychos," she said, frowning at your now bandaged arm.

"Thanks," you said and moved it a little, "for that. Also, for coming back for me."

"Of course," she said. "Why wouldn't I come back for you?"

"I'm pretty sure this is the longest conversation we've ever had," you chuckled. "You hate me. It's fine, I got the hint. But I'm just glad you're professional enough to disregard that. Thank you."

"I don't hate you! Why would you think that?"

"Come on, it's okay, really. You don't talk to me, you escape every time I enter the same room as you, you're never in my presence unless you have to. I'm not dumb. I just can't figure out why you can't stand me," you shrugged as best as you could from your lying down position.

"But I don't do these things because I hate you," Natasha said. "I… okay, I almost got you killed, you deserve to know," she gathered her courage. "I don't want to talk to you or be in the same room as you because I think I'm going to make a fool out of myself, like I'm doing right this moment. I'm scared that if I spent enough time with you, I'd start… feeling, and for a spy that's a disadvantage. But the joke's on me I guess, because even when I distanced myself from you I still feel enough to lose my head, not be able to diffuse those missiles, and almost not get to you in time."

"Feel what?" you asked, still a bit puzzled.

"Feel…" she looked for the right words. Apparently, she couldn't find them, because the next thing you know she was gently cupping your bruised face in her palm, leaning down and putting her lips on yours. She kissed you gently, not wanting to hurt you, but you couldn't care less, pushing your face up against her to deepen the kiss, until you flinched in pain and broke apart from her, lying back down.

"Well, why didn't you just say so?" you smiled at her, biting your lip.

She laughed. It's corny, but it was one of the most beautiful sounds you've ever heard, and knowing you made her laugh made it all the sweeter.

"I was taught that feelings will only ever get in the way of my missions. And… I thought you wouldn't feel the same about me, so it would be all this trouble for nothing."

"Well, I do," you said and smiled brightly at her. "And see? You did great on this mission. No matter what you felt or didn't feel about me, you don't know programming and you couldn't have disarmed that system. But you saved me, and just in time," you said.

"So what you're saying is it all turned out for the best and I should take you out to dinner?" Natasha smiled.

"Mostly the first part, but dinner would be very nice," you smiled back at her.

She leaned down to kiss you again, and you broke apart with a smile. At that moment Tony entered the quinjet, calling out to you and Natasha. She promptly stood up, checking the bandage on your arm.

"Agent Romanoff, I see you've become a nurse," Tony quipped.

"I can currently think about 50 different ways to kill you," she shot back and you fought the giggle that arose in you at her sudden change of demeanor. "I have a reputation to uphold," she shrugged, as if answering your thoughts.

"Yep," Tony agreed, "Nat, you can go, and we can take it from here."

"Why would I wanna go?" Nat quirked her eyebrow.

"Well, no offense, but don't you, you know," he pointed at you, "don't like her?" he stage-whispered.

"First of all, if I did, that would be the rudest thing to say ever, but second of all, why does everybody think that?" she said incredulously.

"Okay," Tony said, raising his arms in mock surrender. "I just thought you'd both be happy to know we found everyone we could. The lunatics confessed to everything right away. And you have a week off," he added and walked out of the quinjet.

"A week off," you whistled. "That's a lot of dinners."

"It is," Nat agreed. "Why, do you have any plans for them?"

"Not unless you make them with me," you said, smirking.

"Good thinking," she smiled.

"Thank you. Now, I don't know about you, but I'd die for a shower right now, and I'm gonna need help because of this bandage," you smiled, falling into a banter with her easily.

"Oh really? I wonder who could help you," she chuckled as she left to fly you both home.

You would've pinched yourself but the pain you were still in was enough to confirm you weren't dreaming. Natasha didn't hate you, she wanted to take you out on a date. And there was nothing you wanted more than that date. A smile on your face, you dosed off into a peaceful slumber, feeling secure and happier than you have in a long time.

hope you liked it! tell me what you thought and if you want to see more nat in the future, i definitely want to write more for her! also, next on my agenda is a new Cycle update, so keep an eye out for that;) Thank you so much for reading!<3

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[florvinhara]

felt it ripping me apart (part 1)

summary: kira deals with the aftermath of turning

warnings for heavy angst !!!

word count: 2.2k

read on ao3 or below the cut:

Kira wakes from a nebulous, pained darkness to the memory of a familiar voice- beloved, broken- calling her name. 

At first, she wonders if she’s hungover; the lights are dimmed but too bright, and she feels sick with a hollow emptiness that tangles her stomach into knots. She sits up with a groan, and scrubs at her face with her hands until flashes of recollection start to surface from the depths of her foggy mind. They are more sensation than anything else, brief impressions of moments in time. Blood. Please. Pain. I’m sorry. Cold. Stay with me.

Blood… no, she is decidedly not hungover. She had woken up before, she recalls, feeling stiff and strange all over, and upon trying to stand up had been overcome with a tidal wave of nauseated exhaustion so strong she’d had to sit hunched on the edge of the bed holding her swimming head between her knees until she’d stopped feeling like she might pass out. Her second attempt had not been much more successful, and she had resigned herself to laying back and irritably shoving at the scratchy sheets until someone came to explain why she was once again in the Agency’s medical wing.

She had remained entirely silent while Elidor gently explained what had happened, pushing aside complicated swirls of emotion and focusing only on the concrete facts, of which there were three. In order, she’s been going through them again and again, turning them over in her mind like puzzle pieces which don’t quite fit into the rest of the picture.

One- she had been mortally wounded.

Two- they’d turned her; there had been no other option to save her life. Which means that:

Three: she is not going to die. Not now, perhaps not ever.

It’s a short list, but she repeats it religiously- one, two three, one, two three- because otherwise, her mind will start wandering. The trek from these simple isolated truths to their messier implications is a short one she can’t stand to make. Will she have to leave Wayhaven? It had been in her plans, eventually, but there’s a difference between moving and having to slowly disentangle yourself entirely from human society as an unforgivable amount of time passes you by untouched.

More pressing, how will she leave this hospital room? Because beyond this controlled environment, with its drawn shades and soundproofed walls, is a noisy, chaotic world that had already at times overwhelmed her until she couldn’t breathe.

And there is one more concern; she has pointedly not allowed her train of thought to drift in that particular direction, but the seed of fearful doubt is rapidly taking root in the back of her mind anyway, snarling around her spine and curling purposefully at her throat. After all, it is one terrifying thing to love someone knowing that your lives run on different tracks, that you must fit the vast expanses of your devotion into the span of 60 or so years. To promise your eternity to another person is another animal altogether, and she cannot ask Nate to give her that- it is a gift she doesn’t deserve, and why would he want to offer it anyway? She knows how much he misses humanity, seeks out the echoes of it wherever he can- without hers, will he recognize her, or just see the chasm where that mortal part of her used to be?

It doesn’t bear thinking about for long, the inevitable, and so she pulls her focus back to the safety of the past, the proven. She’s managed to delay whatever is going to come next so far, having asked Elidor for some time alone to rest. It had been a flimsy excuse, but he had kindly pretended to believe it and let her be, staring blankly at the wall and mentally reciting the concise points that comprised her list until sleep had claimed her.

Perhaps it had helped after all; she still feels hollowed out and numb, but the sickly dizziness is gone and the lights above her no longer leave sharp, star-like patterns in the backs of her eyes. The signs are promising enough that she decides to try standing again, shoving the blankets off and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. This time, she does manage it, though she immediately stumbles upon making contact with the ground as a strange, shaky sensation skitters up her calves, pins and needles pressing against the soles of her feet and making her wobble like a newborn foal. She grabs at the pole where an IV bag would usually be hanging for support, wincing at the bright spark of unexpected chill where her hands make contact.

Did this get shorter? she thinks distantly, and then remembers that the pole isn’t shorter, she’s just taller now, and she wonders if that means she’ll have to buy new clothes. Which is just so stupid, so ridiculously not important a detail in the grand scheme of things, the fact that her mind jumped there first makes a laugh just left of hysterical fizzle in her throat, and it is so profoundly unlike her that it makes her feel sick. She stumbles to the adjoined washroom as she feels her chest constrict painfully in feverish panic, dragging the IV pole behind her half for balance and half for comfort, and leans over the sink, gasping for breath, until her heart stops beating against her ribs like a caged animal and she can inhale without the air stabbing knife-like at her lungs.

Slowly but surely, her breathing evens out, and she glances up at her reflection in the mirror- then freezes.

The differences are slight, so much so that at first she thinks it must be a trick of the light, but the more she casts her gaze over the face reflected back at her, the more she is sure it cannot be hers. Or, more accurately, it is hers in the way that an old picture is one’s self- similar enough to recognize but changed enough to be almost another person entirely.

It looks as though she has never lived in this body, never tested its limits by climbing that one unsteady tree branch and knocking a deep, jagged scar into her forehead for her trouble. Never pierced her own ears with a needle and ice cube in a misguided attempt at rebellion. Never stayed up through the night and marked the sleepless hours by the dark circles under her eyes. She grips the sink as she searches for familiarity in the reflection before her; the porcelain crumbles like sand beneath her shaking fingers, and this too is hideously unrecognizable, the strength and the unintentional destruction it can bring, the need to exist cautiously.

The more she looks, the more untethered from herself she feels, unmade and reformed by an architect with little regard for detail, the outline and not the shape itself. And she supposes she has been, in a way- she remembers, if nothing else, the searing agony as her bones had separated and knit themselves back together. It shouldn’t be real, it shouldn’t be possible for these traces of her life, the storms she has weathered and the consequences of her recklessness, to be wiped from her body as if they had never existed. A map unmade. A history forgotten. Even the scar she’d gotten from Murphy is vanished, a feat not accomplished even by the Agency’s healing magic. And for some reason it is this, the absence of a scar she never wanted, that finally breaks her as she sinks to the floor with a dark dismay rising in her throat like bile.

---

The linoleum floor is cold against her shins, but she welcomes the bracing shock it gives her, focuses intently on the sensation of it pressing on her legs as another swell of dread threatens to drown her. Her hands find each other, twisting anxiously until she realizes she does not recognize them either; the familiar divots of old scars and callouses are gone, as are the crooked slant where she had broken her fingers. Frantically, she wrenches them apart, despising their unfamiliarity.

Enough of this, she reprimands herself sternly, one clear thought in a swirling sea-storm of panic and confusion and what-ifs. She latches onto it desperately, presses her hands, still fluttering nervously as they seek out the comfort of a repetitive motion, flat against the cold floor and thinks it over and over again- enough, enough, enough- until the word has lost its meaning and she feels somewhat calmer again.

Her mind is still spinning in anxious circles, tying itself in knots the more she thinks. There’s only one surefire solution she knows of to ease the worried maelstrom; it’s time to remove herself from the equation, consider this from a more scientific standpoint. This doesn’t have to destroy her. Or maybe it does- after all, creation is a promise of violence, in and of itself born from destruction. Cells beget new cells by ripping themselves in two; the body is constantly sloughing off parts of itself which have outlived their usefulness. And this must still be true, even though so much is different, because stasis is death to the thousands of systems constantly at work to keep someone operating. Maybe there is some comfort there, then, that even though she cannot see it, at the smallest level, the familiar processes are continuing.

She imagines she can hear them now, blood rushing from her heart to deliver oxygen to the rest of her body, cells splitting apart and bursting as they die only to be replaced instantly, even her DNA unwinding and reforming as it encodes new strands of her genetic information. How much of it changed along with her- which genes were snipped out of existence and remade in a different, ‘better’ image?

Damn. Not even two minutes later and she’s already cycled back to her horror at the transformation, visible and invisible- perhaps this won’t destroy her after all, she’ll just do it herself fixating on the sharp, shattered pieces of the dissonance between the self she recognizes and the one she sees reflected in the mirror.

A worried voice cuts through the thick miasma of dismay choking her like poison- Elidor, knocking at the door and asking if she’s alright. Is she? No, she thinks, even as she calls out, “Yeah, just a minute,” and feels so much sudden relief to hear her voice, unchanged, that she nearly blacks out. Slowly, and with much aid from the IV pole, she pulls herself to her feet and chances another glance at the mirror. Immediately, she feels an overwhelming urge to punch it, to shatter the glass until her reflection is torn apart by the spiderwebbing shards, but she shoves it down forcefully, searches for resolve in the eyes looking back at her. She finds nothing there, but knows Elidor is waiting outside and opens the door, resigned.

“I was wondering where that pole had run off to,” he says with a teasing smile that falters the moment they make eye contact. Well, that was a short-lived act. “Kira, what’s wrong?”

Nothing that can be fixed, nothing that she doesn’t just have to get over and deal with. She starts to tell him as much, but her throat is so tight that her voice grates painfully as she speaks and she gives up halfway through the sentence, ending with a dismissive wave that falls too far flat of insouciant to be convincing.

Elidor’s brow furrows in concern. “I’ll get the rest of the team, and-”

“No!” she cuts in, flinging a hand out to stop him. If there’s one thing she’s absolutely sure of, it’s that she cannot be around them right now, can’t let them see that she can’t handle this, can’t deal with their thoughts or feelings or opinions when her own are still such a confused mess. And she especially cannot see Nate, not when she knows what’s going to happen; of course, he is going to be perfectly kind, even as he tells her this can’t work, she’s too different now that she is divorced from her humanity, he had never intended for this relationship to last centuries.

His gentleness will cut deeper than the words themselves, and if she could, she would do it herself, end it for him quickly and impersonally so she can spare them both the pain. But she is too unmoored right now, too frustratingly unsure of herself, to face a reality that has fundamentally shifted. “No, please, just- can you tell them I’m not awake yet? Or- just, anything?” Some small, unchanged part of her mind rebels violently at that, hates her for the cowardice, but it is too easily drowned out by the tumult of dazed doubts and worries shadowing her to be heard.

It takes about ten minutes of pleading for Elidor to uneasily agree to give her more time; eventually, he concedes, and leaves the room with a concerned glance over his shoulder. The door closes behind him, and she lets herself sink to the ground once more, curled over like she could belatedly shield herself from the injury which necessitated all this, until she drags herself back into the bed and seeks relief in unconsciousness.

[batmansymbol]

fellow ADHD/chronic sleep issue friends: try SleepTown

Hey everybody! Sorry for the long post, but I wanted to spread the good word of this app, which has actually, legitimately changed my life. (this post isn’t sponsored lmao i wish)

I’ve had sleep problems for half my life. Around 8th grade, I lost the ability to make myself shut down for the night. I’d sit in front of devices, wanting to stop working or studying or messing around on the internet, but I couldn’t make myself. This was about ten years before I learned what “executive dysfunction” was, and about 13 years before I got diagnosed with ADHD, go figure.

So, when I was a student, I’d pass out at 4 AM, then wake up every morning feeling like I’d been hit by a truck. It was a running joke in college how I would sleep in public places, trying to snatch 15-minute naps here and there because of exhaustion.

After college, it got worse. I’m self-employed, so I stopped waking up in the morning at all. I worked until later and later times, until 3, 5, 7 AM. I woke up at 2 PM, then 4, then 6. Eventually, fully nocturnal and trying to reset my inner clock, I’d pull all-nighters and try to stay awake through the following days. Then I’d pass out for 14 hours, after being awake for 30 hours straight. Rinse, repeat, for years.

Due to sleep issues, I have: nearly driven off the road in high school, dropped classes in college, fallen into depressive episodes, developed a Vitamin D deficiency, gone days without eating, and lost friendships due to self-isolation. It’s been a blast!

I tried so many things to fix the constant grogginess, fatigue, and messed-up schedule. I tried a sleep study at the hospital, repeated blood tests to check for hypothyroid or anemia etc., melatonin, Zzzquil/other sleeping pills, the “multiple non-phone alarm clocks” strategy, a light-emitting alarm clock, and about six different apps, including that one that makes you solve math problems to shut the alarm off.

There’s one called Sleep Cycle that’s pretty good at what it does - it helped me feel less groggy when I woke up - but within a few days of starting it, I was back on my bullshit.

Then, about a month and a half ago, I downloaded an app called SleepTown. It costs two dollars. The concept: you set a goal for your nightly sleep parameters (mine is 12:15 PM to 8:45 AM). Before you go to bed, you hit the Sleep button.

After you hit Sleep, a construction site pops up and begins to build a cute cartoon building like the one above! If you leave the app after pressing Sleep, or if you don’t press Sleep before your bedtime, then the building is destroyed, leaving a sad-looking demolition project :(

So, you have to leave your phone alone. The next morning, the alarm goes off as scheduled. When you press “Wake Up,” and shake the phone for a minute to prove you are awake, the cute cartoon building will be completed and added to your Sleep Town! This is mine so far:

The app has various game-like features. You don’t know which building you’re going to get every night, so when you wake up, it’s like unwrapping a present. There are dozens of cute buildings to unlock, and achievement badges like building every kind of tent. Every seven days you meet your goal, you get a red ticket to help unlock a rare building (like the red-roofed library in the picture above).

There’s also a simple social feature. The pyramid in the pic is from me being in a Sleep Circle with a friend, meaning we have the same bedtime goals. This would be especially good for a couple who’s trying to get more regular sleep.

Despite the gamelike feel, though, it’s not an addictive app. It’s not designed to keep you fiddling around with it all the time and waste more time on your phone. It’s just gamelike enough to create a really good carrot/stick balance. Most sleep-related apps are only the stick, featuring louder or more relentless alarms - but that doesn’t make you excited to go to sleep on time.

This app makes sleeping feel like a fun, purposeful activity. I want to see which building I get, and it makes me really happy to see this town that I’ve been constructing through taking care of myself. And I don’t want to “let down” a building by destroying it.

It’s borderline ridiculous how dramatically my entire life has changed. Excepting a couple times I’ve stayed up for a social situation, I haven’t been awake past 1 a.m. for six weeks. I cannot believe how good I feel. I eat regularly. I have a meal plan and a calendar. I have hobbies and a work-life balance and I stick to (virtual, covid-responsible) hangouts that I make with friends.

It’s not totally failsafe. You CAN lie to the app and press “Sleep” while continuing to do things (except your phone, which will be locked down). I tried to do this a couple times. But I wound up feeling guilty about lying, because it felt stupid to want this little reward when I hadn’t actually met my goals.

In the same way, you CAN technically hit “Wake Up” and go back to sleep, but the shake-awake feature helps with that. I’d like it if they added something even more aggressive, like a step counter or something that won’t count you as Woken Up until you’ve taken 20 steps around your house or similar.

As it is, though -- I'm still groggy when I wake up at 8:45, but 1) keeping a regular schedule has lessened the grogginess and 2) when I wake up, I know for a fact I’ve gotten 7-8 hours of sleep the night before and I’ll feel fine in half an hour. So, in order to push past the groggy phase, I usually play a few chess puzzles on my phone or do a crossword, and by then I’m awake enough to get up.

I doubt this app will work for everyone, but I wanted to share it in case there is anyone else out there like me. Hope y’all are hanging in there, and happy sleeping :)

[doing-an-okay-job-miranda]

Sunflower Skirts

AO3 / Masterlist

Warnings: Janus wears a skirt, little bit of insecurity

Ships: Thomceit (could be seen as platonic or romantic)

Summary:

It's sort of ridiculous to worry about it. It's just a skirt, after all, Roman and Remus at the very least have worn extravagant ballroom dresses before so a simple silly yellow skirt wasn't going to raise any brows besides the normal "Oh hey, your outfit is different." So, Janus really shouldn't be nervous, especially since the side actually wears this skirt a lot when in the safety of his room.

Or, Janus is nervous about showing off this one of his favorite pieces of clothing and Thomas shows him really has no reason to be.

----

Janus is nervous.

He really has no reason to be, it's sort of ridiculous to worry about it. It's just a skirt, after all, Roman and Remus at the very least have worn extravagant ballroom dresses before so a simple silly yellow skirt wasn't going to raise any brows besides the normal "Oh hey, your outfit is different." So, Janus really shouldn't be nervous, especially since the side actually wears this skirt a lot when in the safety of his room.

It was a gift from Remus after all, something the other dark side had struggled to create without any flaws or horrible twist to it. A long flowy yellow skirt with black lace along the bottom and an embroidered sunflower at his waist that would be hidden if he didn't have his shirt tucked in. It even had hidden pockets! Remus had been very excited to show him that fact, no bugs inside or anything.

The skirt is Deceit's favorite piece of clothing next to his gloves and hat, he wanted to wear it around freely without judgment but the nagging tiny piece of doubt that makes him bite his tongue. This skirt is something precious to him, he wants to keep it close and hidden away where no one can ever scorn it or taint it with any bad memory or words.

It's irrational though because even if the others and Thomas still hated his guts, they would never actually judge him for his clothing.

What if they even like it?

The thought makes him disgustingly giddy, gripping the smooth fabric of the skirt and watching at how flows as he moves it. Patton would surely compliment it, whether he actually likes it or not but he couldn't actually imagine that fluffy bright side not liking it with how pretty it is. Logan and Virgil probably won't say anything about it, Logan because it doesn't matter and Virgil because he probably won't want to say anything nice relating to Janus. Roman would surely love it, might even ask him to spin to show how it twirls and Remus would be ecstatic to know Janus had shown off his gift.

Or the more realistic option of none of them really saying anything, maybe a small comment before returning to the issue at hand but that wouldn't be bad either if not a little disappointing.

But what if Thomas likes it?

Janus feels the flush in his face at the very idea of his host complimenting him.

What if Thomas says he look nice or pretty?

The elevation of the idea quickly fades though because what if Thomas doesn't care or asks them to stay in his usual outfit? Suddenly changing clothes in a video can throw people off, not that Deceit plans on wearing his skirt in a video, that would be far too much. There's no way they could show off this side of him to the world, that would give them too much that Janus couldn't take back.

He goes back and forth on the topic for the next hour, standing in front of his mirror and debating the pros and cons until he hears a little lie whisper in his ear.

It's a summoning, an obvious and intentional one even if Thomas thinks he's being sly. Janus almost thinks to ignore but soon enough Thomas calls out his actual name as he appears to take too long.

Janus almost snaps his fingers instinctually to change his clothes but stops himself.

Thomas is alone right now, summoning him for whatever reason and Janus could use this as a test run because if Thomas likes it then surely the others will too.

So, with a deep breath Deceit sinks out and appears in the living room before he could lose his nerve. Thomas is sitting on the couch with his laptop, not looking up right away.

"Hey, Janus." Thomas greets casually instead of screaming his title at him. "I wanted to ask you about-" The host pauses as he glances up to look at his Deception. "Oh, that's so pretty!" He immediately gushes as his eyes land on Janus's skirt.

And Janus- Oh, Janus's heart melts just a little bit. "You think so?" He asks, gripping the fabric to sway the skirt back and force.

"Yes!" Thomas sets the laptop to the side to stand up and come closer to him. "Oh my goodness gracious, you look amazing!"

"Thank you." Janus has to fight really hard to keep the smile off his face, a useless battle as eventually the snake side finds himself mostly focusing on repressing giggles with a stupid grin. He presses his palm to the human side of his face, hoping to cool down his blush. "It was a gift from Remus awhile back."

"Really?" Thomas looks over the skirt again, looking surprised and mildly impressed. "I didn't think he could- You know."

A small giggle escapes Janus's throat but he forgives himself as it sounds more like a snicker. "Oh, I know. I was just as surprised but he worked very hard on it."

Thomas only nods, giving his own bright smile. "He did an amazing job, it's so pretty!" Janus is sure that any semblance of suave villain is ruined as a few of those horrid giggles escape him, how is he expected to keep his composure when his literal reason for existence keeps flattering him?

He finally manages to make himself meet his host's eyes and nearly loses the air from his lungs. Thomas's eyes a bright with fondness and joy, he looks at Deceit with a gentleness that Janus has seen only directed at the others.

It makes his heart soar and his stomach sink.

He can salvage this, he tries to convince himself as he clears his throat. "Yes, well. You called me for a reason?" He keeps his voice low but he's sure the effect is ruined by how red half his face it.

"Oh! Uh..." Thomas blinks a few times. "I, um." His host glances back to the laptop and stares blankly before turning back to Janus with a small chuckle. "I completely forgot what I was doing."

Janus fights back his smile once more, instead just letting a smirk grace his lips. "I'm sure you'll remember soon but if you don't need me-"

"No!" Janus doesn't even get to finish his sentence. Thomas reaches out and grasps his hands. Thomas holds his hands. "You should stay, I was just about to watch Tangled." His hands, Janus can feel the warmth of his host's palms through his gloves. Thomas is holding his hands. "Jan?"

"Hm? Oh-" Janus snaps out of his daze. "I don't know, I'm very busy at the moment."

Thomas only huffs out a laugh and tugs him towards the couch. "I'm sure you could spare a little time."

"Oh, I do have a packed schedule." Janus makes no effort to pull away from Thomas at all, even sitting back comfortably as his host sits him down. "But I'm sure I could squeeze this in for you."

"How gracious of you." Thomas chuckles and sits beside Janus, even going as far as to lean against him slightly.

Janus tries to keep himself together but before the snake finds himself curled up against Thomas while the host idly fiddles with the bottom lace of Janus's skirt before they even get through Tangled's intro. Purely because of Thomas's warmth, of course. No other reason at all, that would be silly. Janus is just a cold-blooded snake, after all.

This is completely necessary and totally some evil plot and not cuddling.

Yeah, no. Janus doubts he could even get Remus to believe that.

[basicallywhiterice]

moonlight (xu minghao)

Genre: Fluff, one scene with angst, college!au, graduation!au, established relationship, moving in together

Summary: Your relationship with Minghao, told through phone calls

Word count: 2k

Warnings: One cuss word I think

a/n: This is lowkey the foil to sunny but the plots are completely unrelated. Happy Minghao day y’all

D-17.

You wake up to a phone call from Minghao.

“Good morning!” he chirps. You respond with a noncommittal grunt. “Aw, baby. Rise and shine!”

“Five more minutes,” you yawn, turning over in your bed.

“C’mon, chop-chop. Get your exams over with! Get that bread, get that head, then leave.”

You still want to go back to sleep, but Minghao’s ridiculousness makes you open your eyes. “You want me to get that head? When you’re a hundred miles away?” Static. “That’s what I thought,” you grin, closing your eyes as another yawn escapes your mouth.

“Hey hey hey, don’t fall asleep on me again. You got this. Turn your camera on!”

“Why?”

“So I can see your beautiful face,” he sing-songs. A grin spreads across your face almost involuntarily—after three years of dating Minghao, simple statements like these never fail to make you happy. It’s because of how genuine he is, you think. He means it from the bottom of his heart. “Plus, you’ll have a harder time falling asleep again.”

“If you insist.” You sit up, turn your camera on, and prop your phone up on your blankets. Minghao pops up on screen a few moments later. “Hey.”

The call freezes for a second, displaying a pixelated jumble of his smiling face, before it resumes to show him blowing a kiss at you. “Hey.”

You blow one back, feeling the sleepiness leave your body. “Mm. Last day of exams. Can’t wait to get this shit over with.”

“That’s the spirit!” His grin is contagious, and you can’t help but break into a smile yourself.

“Thank you for cheering me up, Minghao. You just helped me start my day right.” Minghao’s the more laid-back person in your relationship, but he has no problem being your personal hypeman. He’s good at it, too—he never fails to brighten your day.

“Thank you for overcoming your sleepiness for me, baby.”

“Mhm, just for you. I think I’m gonna take a quick shower before I finish my exams.”

“Can I join?”

“Minghao!” You burst out laughing. Minghao grins.

“Hey, at least you’re fully awake now, right?”

“Oh my god, you dork. Anyways, what are you doing today?”

He explains some of his new designs and marvels at the amount of creative freedom his upcoming project has. Before you know it, it’s 8:28 and Minghao has to leave to catch the metro. You say your goodbyes like normal.

“I love you, Minghao.”

“I love you, y/n.”

You pause before you hit the ‘end call’ button. “I’ll see you soon.”

D-13.

Sometimes, you wonder if suffering through two years of graduate school was worth it.

Then, you remember the job offer you landed a few months ago, and the long hours seem like a small price to pay. Getting a job in New York City is no small task, and your learning through your graduate program certainly helped.

Plus, listening to Minghao get excited about how you’re finally moving in makes the process sound more than worth it, no matter how long it took.

“—so I asked my boss for the afternoon off to pick you up, and she said yes! And I was super happy, and she was super happy that I was happy, you know? She also suggested getting flowers—do you want flowers? I told her you don’t like flowers because they’re impractical, but I can get you a bouquet if you want, if you’ve changed your mind. Or I could get a flowerpot for our apartment. Or do you want a succulent for our apartment? They’re cute—”

“Minghao, calm down. Take a deep breath.” You wait until you hear his exaggerated huffing and puffing, and you smile. Minghao talks a mile a minute when he gets excited, but you love it. “Great. I’d love to get a plant for our apartment. I’m bringing my cactus with me, so we could draw cute faces on the flowerpots and have them be friends.”

“Didn’t you already draw something on your cactus’ pot, though?”

“Yeah, but there’s plenty of space to add on. Wait, let me show you.” You stand, padding toward your window and throwing open the curtains. Outside, the faint streaks of sunset paint the sky, illuminated by the fading glow of daylight. You grab your cactus from the window sill and walk back to your desk, holding it up to your phone.

“Oh, I like all the doodles,” Minghao remarks as you turn your plant this way and that. When you show him the back, where you’ve painted a crescent moon, his eyes soften. “You painted a moon on there.”

When Minghao graduated and left for New York, he promised that he’d always be there for you in spirit. After all, he had said, when you could look up to the same moon he saw, it was almost like he was there with you. “Whenever it’s cloudy at night or when there’s a new moon and I can’t see the moon, I just look at this instead,” you admit, running your finger over the paint.

“God, I’m so in love with you.”

“I know,” you smile softly, looking back up at your phone screen. “That’s exactly how I feel about you.”

“I know.”

Minghao stays on the phone with you for ten more minutes before he hangs up to go grocery shopping.

“I’ll see you soon, Minghao,” you say before you end the call.

Outside, the moon hasn’t risen yet, the sky an inky black. Tonight, though, you don’t need to watch the moon to deal with missing Minghao. Tonight, you sit back, content with waiting thirteen more days to see him.

D-10.

“I’m always so worried that this might be the last time I see my friends,” you whisper into the silence. It’s nearing midnight, but your mind is racing. You just got back from a long dinner with your friends and classmates, which was a fun affair, but now existential dread is creeping up on you.

“I felt the same way when I first graduated,” Minghao admits. You’re Facetiming him again, but your phone lays flat on your bed as you shuffle around, trying to drink in all the details of your room before you have to leave. “I still worry that I’ll never see some of them again. But they’re always one text away, and I make time to see everyone important to me.”

“Yeah. True.” You sigh. “Still, though. I’m gonna miss everyone. I miss you too, you know, even though I’ll be in New York soon.”

“I know. I miss you every day.”

You fall back onto your bed, grabbing your phone and holding it above your face. “I don’t… I don’t want to suffer through missing my friends while knowing that we probably won’t live in the same city again, you know? Missing you is slightly more bearable because I know we’ll end up in the same place, but there’s no guarantee for everyone else.”

“Yeah, and it sucks. But you’ll still be in touch with them, and you’ll make new friends.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

In the middle of the night, after you hang up and you’re all alone, you gaze up at the moon for strength.

D-5.

After walking across the stage and throwing your graduation cap in the air, you’re finally free from school. You don’t have much time to talk to Minghao—your day is packed with ceremonies and parties—but he’s just as excited as you are.

“Two years and I’m done!” you half-shout over the chattering in the background.

“I’m so proud of you, baby. Show me your graduation cap!”

You pluck it off your head and hold it in front of you with one hand, rotating it this way and that like a steering wheel. “It’s about the same as the undergraduate cap. I did get this hood, though. It almost feels like a cape.”

“You could be a superhero that has caffeine for blood, or something, and your kryptonite could be history tests.”

“God, don’t remind me of those. I’m free now, remember?”

You talk for a few more minutes before your friends remind you of the graduation party at 4 pm, and you have to hang up to get ready. Before you hang up, Minghao bombards you with reminders of how proud he is, before you finally have to go.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says.

D-1.

“Really? You’re still doing last-minute packing?” Minghao asks as you throw some shoes into your suitcase.

“Shh, I blame you for distracting me with late-night calls.”

“You find me to be distracting?”

You roll your eyes, ducking down to grab your folded towels and plop them on your bed. “Mhm, always have. Don’t get cocky, though.”

He’s smirking when you look back to the phone screen.

“Minghao! I just said not to get cocky.”

“C’mon, let me have this moment.”

You sigh dramatically, glancing around your nearly-empty room and making a mental checklist of things to pack in the morning. “You’ll get to the airport at 2 tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah. Terminal C, right?”

“Right. Can’t wait to C you then.” He groans, and you can’t help but prolong the joke. “Get it? C you?”

“I feel so bad for your roommates. I bet you tortured them with constant bad puns during exam season.”

“No comment.”

At 8:21, your roommate Jieqiong starts the last movie night you’ll share together, and you bid Minghao goodbye. Still, you find comfort in the fact that this is the last goodnight you’ll send over Facetime for a long time.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Minghao,” you say, blowing him a kiss.

“See you tomorrow.”

D-Day.

“I just got done picking up my suitcases,” you say, slipping an earbud into your right ear as you drop your phone in your pocket. As you grab the handles of your luggage, you scan the baggage claim area for an exit and start walking toward the sliding doors at the end of the row of conveyors.

“Awesome, I just saw some people walk out,” Minghao says. “I’m here waiting.”

Suddenly, you feel very small as the gravity of the situation weighs on you. Minghao is behind those doors, waiting. You’re about to start a new life together, staying in the same city for the first time in two years. “What if I can’t find you?” you all but whisper, halting your footsteps.

“Then we’ll just keep looking for each other. Take your time, baby.”

“I—yeah, okay.” You will your legs to move again. “Will you stay on the call with me?”

“Of course.”

“Okay.” A comfortable silence falls as you pass the exit checkpoint, stepping out of the sliding doors to the pickup area. “Okay, I just walked outside and—”

And then your gaze falls on a certain young man wearing a top in your favorite shade of light blue. What catches your attention is the poster he’s holding, with ‘my moon’ written on it in loopy handwriting and a cartoon moon doodled next to it.

Your face nearly splits open from how wide your smile is.

“I see you.”

Day 1.

You wake up with your face pressed into Minghao’s chest.

“Good morning,” you whisper. “Are you awake?”

Minghao groans. “Five more minutes,” he mutters. “What time is it?”

You glance around the room until you find his clock on his bedside table. “9:45. We have lots of time before we have to meet my parents for lunch.”

“Mm. Good.” He wraps an arm around your waist. “I’m glad you’re here, sleepyhead.”

You scoot closer. “You’re the one asking for more sleep, mister.”

“You’re the one who’s warm and soft and cuddly. I love you, y/n.”

Closing your eyes, you nuzzle your head into his chest and relax into his embrace. “I love you, Minghao.”

[yandere-mha-blog]

Chapter 9: Test

words: 2257

The news story about U.A having a false alarm quickly died down as you were changing your bandaids, this isn't how you thought life on the run would be, why was it so boring, still not like you could do much while you were healing, Hawks was out doing who knows what, and you looked down at your thumb, still black and blue. You had rummaged through all his stuff the only thing you found weird was an endeavor plush that was stuffed in his pillowcase.

Finally, Hawks came back, he opened the window and stepped in

“Heyo i'm back,” he said

“I can see that,” you said

“Hey what's with the snappy remark?” HAwks asked

“I am bored, what else is there to say, you left me in here with nothing to do, meanwhile you can fly around all you want,” you said crossing your arms and glaring him down

“Sorry sorry, here I got you a gift.” Hawks said handing you a box, you shrugged and opened it up to see a glove, well it sorta looked like a glove, there was a place for it to wrap around your wrist, and your left thumb, you decided to try it on.

“Okay now flex your fingers like you usually do.” Hawks said and you did, and your long-lost thumb talon came out with your other fingers.

“Oh wow.” you said looking at it “Is this my talon?”

“Yup, I found it and got a broker to make it, I also got you a few other things if you are going to go out with me.” HE said handing you night visors, a thick jacket, and nonslip boots, and a belt for some weird reason.

“I can understand everything else but why a belt?” You asked

“OH easy, there are two ports where I can put my feathers in, so I'm not yanking you out with your shirt, also here is a book.” HAwks said handing you a medical book

“Oh thanks, but I already read this,” you said

“Drat.” HAwks said, so anyway get dressed in your new rags, we are heading out, you said you were bored right.”

“Finally.” you thought

“The break out of a college student from the Hero public safety commission with the help of the high-rank VIllain nighthawk has no new updates, if you have any information please contact the HPSC we asked a couple of her classmates and this is what they had to say.”

“I mean she was always very quiet and attentive with her work, never would have thought she would do something like this.”

“I didn't really notice her that much, she never really talked to the other class members.” “I just invited her out to drink one night and next thing I know she is being arrested.”

Your dad turned off the tv and sighed to himself, he never would've thought that any of this would happen, it really did come out of nowhere. Still, he knew you and he knew the HPSC, truth be told he always thought you would make a good hero but after the loss of his wife and your mom he never wanted that life for you, so he was more than relieved when you never showed any interest in becoming one yourself. Still, the fact that now this was where you were in your life just made him even more on edge, he just hoped you were safe where you were.

And right now you were on top of a building looking down at the people walking around, some were drunk and happy, where others were drunk and toppling over and vomiting on the side of the alley wall. Some high school girls were out late and came out of an arcade holding a new stuft animal and looked happy, while some guy who was holding a bunch of gacha capsules looked pissed off.

Oh, the duality of humans.

“So how are you enjoying the nightlife?” hawks asked, as you pressed your hand against your chin and kept looking down

“Hmm I'm just people watching.” you said “Beats doing an all-nighter before a test, but why are we up here again?”

“Good question.” Hawks said leaning over the side and placing a hand on your head and turning it towards a man “That's why we are here.”

“What about him?”

“I have been getting information on this guy for a while, he is well, why else would I be tailing him.” Hawks said

“Just looks like an overworked businessman.” you said “but looks can be deceiving.”

“Yup, he is overworked to the point where he makes other people's problems, he got off with a slap of the wrist after attacking a middle school student, and well you were people watching those two girls right, look who is he following.”

You looked ahead and sure enough there they were laughing amongst themself as they were taking turns squeezing the stuft animal they won, now some random guy was coming to ruin their night, it was crowded, but the fact the girls had already made four left turns and the man was still about ten feet behind them was concerning, the two of them were just looking at the different shops, window shopping. Then the two waved as one of the girls held a cab and the other walked in the other direction towards the train station, and there was the man following her.

“So what are we going to do?” you asked,Hawks just gave you a pat on the shoulder

“I think you mean what are you going to do?”

“Me?” you asked “But I have not fought anyone, well I have but not like this, what if he overpowers me, You saw how easily Akio was able to overpower me.”

“You got nothing to worry about, think of this as a test run.” Hawks said as you followed him through the top of the buildings, he had two feathers and each side of your belt that was in a compartment so flying around was getting easier since he was basically piloting you around the area “And besides if the situation gets out of control I'll swoop in and handle the rest.

You nodded your head, still, he did look like an out of shape middle-aged man, you walked down the fire escape and waited for the man to walk by, Hawks gave a thumbs up and sent a few of his feathers into the man's back shoving him into the ally way and into a brick wall, he was all yours now.

“What the...what happens, who are you?” the man asked

“That doesn't matter,” you said as you flexed your right hand your talons shooting out the man backed up

“Hey look, I don't want any trouble.” He said, “I'll hand it over okay.” “I'm not interested in your money.” you said ‘i saw you stalking that girl what were you planning on doing to her.”

“I- I wasn't stalking anyone,” he said as you raised your hand and slashed his chest

“I hate liars.” you said as he held his now open wound, now tell me what were you planning.”

The man was just gasping, you didn't even cut him that deep, just a warning scratch, what a baby, Hawks was looking down, you looked hesitant would you kill him or let him go after roughing him up a bit, he placed a hand on his chin and continued to watch.

“I'm telling you I wasn’t doing anything-” he said before you gave him a swift kick to the chest causing him to fall on his back, you loomed over him “Please just let me go.”

“No, you won't learn your lesson, you hurt women with your hands so you don't need them anymore,” you said grabbing his wrist and pressing your fingers to the wrist before flexing your nails, bones could heel, tendons and ligaments were harder. The man cried out in pain as someone stopped and looked down the ally way

“Hero, we need a hero down here!” the person yelled as you let go, leaving the man on the floor and hawks using his feathers to fly you back up and the two of you getting out of the scene of the crime as you hawks gave you a thumbs up.

“So what exactly did you do to him?” he asked

“Hm oh simple I cut his tendons and ligaments that connect to control hand movement, see bones can easily be fixed, but tendons and ligaments once they are slashed it's really hard to get them working again if you aren't a hero with the top medical practitioners in the region.”

“Huh smart, I would have just cut his hands off, like your idea though,” Hawk said as he picked you up from under your arm and lifted off

“This is very effective, using the two on your sides is cool but this takes less work.” Hawks said as you grabbed the sides of his arm and looked down at the city till he landed on a building far away from the scene of the crime, he pulled out a napkin and started whipping the blood off your hands “still I think this partnership is going to work out just fine.”

“You think so.” you said,” still hawks I have a question, what is your real name?”

“Whatcha mean my real name, just call me Hawks.” he said

“...but Nighthawk is what the commission calls you, I call you hawks because saying Nighthawk is just ridiculous to say every time, you do have a name right?”

“Hawks is a good name for now.” He said as he perched himself by the side of the building “you came up with that name so ill use that.”

“But...okay I can tell you don't want to tell me.” you said, “you sure are secretive.”

“Add that mysterious charm to me, don't you think?” he said, “your charm is your smart wit, glad to see you're not wasting it anymore.”

“Thanks?” you said, “still, I can't help but feel sad.”

“Sad?” Hawks said, “Why are you feeling sad?”

“My dad mostly... can't get him out of my head, he is most likely shocked and worried and upset, i mean who wouldn't be.”

“Ah come on Chickadee, I'm sure your dad isn't upset.” Hawks said

“How would you know?” you asked

“Well mostly I left a feather in the house, he is mostly worried you are going to get hurt.” Hawks said

“You put a what in his house,” you said

“A feather I can kinda hear people talking through them if I really focus, mostly through vibrations.” HAwks said

“Like how an eardrum work,” you said, and hawks nodded

“Yes, like that.” Hawks said patting you on the head with a wing and pulling you in closer “We have a lot of work to do, I'm sure the HPSC is still on the lookout for you and I am not about to let someone else get in there grubby little mitts.”

“HAwks, why do you hate them so much?” you asked, he sighed

“Well guess I can tell you this story.” Hawks said, “See my dad was an assassin for hire and one day got caught, man I was so happy that he was gone, my mom wasn't, we had to go on the run, she had me steal things for our survival, one day when I was walking back to see her, I saw a crash about to happen, so I used my feathers to save everyone, but then the HPSC got a hold of the incident and started looking for us even harder, my mom was upset and she...well I wasn't any use to her, so she just tossed me to the side, so I had to fend for myself that day on and evading them, the more I ran the more I saw how messed up they were, seeing them go down was the thing that was making me keep going each day.” Hawks said

“You never saw your mom after that?” you asked

“She tried looking for me, once she learned that they would have paid her a great sum of money if they could take me in, she tried to help them find me, never did, I almost turned myself in for her, but I kept remembering her words when she shoved me away.”

“What did she say?”

“I don't need you anymore, what good are you if you aren’t of use to me, what makes you think i would want a brat like you around now that the whole damn HPSC is looking for you.” Hawks said as his wings dropped, you walked over and pet them

“I'm sorry you had to hear that from your own mother.” you said as his wings got puffier “Not every parent deserves a child.”

“I'm...okay now, I've been preoccupied with life and all.” Hawks said, “I just want to see a world where there isn’t a real need for organizations like the HPSC to exist, maybe one where heroes can just relax, and where good people can just relax.”

“Well I'll be here to help see that though,” you said

“Thanks, partner, I'm glad to have someone next to me for this.”Hawks said, pushing his night glasses up and taking in the bright lights of the city, with you next to his side.

[melissanovels]

♡ Here they are!! Chapters 1 & 2 of TRANSIENT TIME TRAVELLER are out! ♡

○ Read on my Website ○ Read on Tumblr (below) ○ Read on Ao3 ○ 

TTT  is an LGBTQ+ historical fantasy novel about Aida, a time traveller hellbent on proving the innocence of a 1,200-year-old dead queen, and Lorian, an escaped princess-turned-officer who wants to drain the royal blood from their body, & the two coming together with the help of their mischievous future selves.

♡ Reblogs are appreciated! ♡

Read Chapter 1 + 2 Below:

Chapter 1: Six Weeks Before

Aida’s life was forever changed when she received a letter in the mail.

She never got letters. Being adopted into a small family in a smaller farm in Bělico didn’t bless her with birthday gifts or congratulatory mail. She estimated that no one other than her stepmother and her stepsisters knew of her existence, so Aida ghosted through life without much interference.

But she knew this letter, had been anticipating it for weeks since she’d sent in her application under her mother’s nose. It was handwritten on high-quality paper, the feeling new to her, foreign, and was branded with the seal of the Roman lion. She’d dreamt of getting these royal letters in the mail, wishful hope turning into dread come nighttime, but she hadn’t thought she'd receive a reply, let alone a letter of acceptance.

She’d been tending to the farm, or the cows, mainly. The chickens, pigs, sheep, and goats had been taken care of and her stepmother and stepsisters had their two horses out on a carriage ride to the village, so all that was left to handle was their five highland cows. Big, burly creatures more fur than hide. It took Aida more time to heave the heavy bales of hay into their stables, to groom them, wash them, clean out their troughs. She’d hadn’t even heard the post carrier arrive, she’d been on the other side of the property. When she realized her family would be home soon, she hurried to get everything done so her stepmother would be in a better mood.  Well, a less shit one.

There was one piece of mail that day, and it’d been addressed to Aida.

When her mother and sister finally came home and found Aida on the floor, frantically rereading the letter with the envelope torn with her teeth, they must’ve assumed she’d had jumped and was writhing in pain as a result.

She was writhing, but not because she’d travelled backwards in time. Her brain was spinning, eyes watering due to some type of emotion she couldn’t name. After fighting for years, she’d finally earned this damned six-year scholarship to Durante Academy.

Not that wanting to dorm at a school named after King Durante’s lineage was something she was excited about. She detested almost everything the royal family did, and she didn’t even live in Roma. Roma, or Roma City, was 1,500 kilometers away, across the sea and doing far better for itself than her home country of snow-covered farmlands. She should’ve loathed becoming a student in the country with the bloodiest warpath, the worst, most prejudiced ruler, and the shittiest armed forces since the time of gladiators.

But how she’d dreamed of walking through those academic halls, taking in the prestigious lessons in fervor and staying up late to perfect a soon-to-be perfectly marked test. Schools in Bělico, you were expected to drop out of after primary school to work your family’s farms. It made sense for some people. Agriculture was the biggest export for the country, so families expected many hands to tend to the fields.

But that wasn’t Aida’s path. Ever since she’d been adopted, Aida Mirko had set her sights on becoming a historian, and that path was only attainable in the sparkling, problematic country of Roma.

It was only after Aida heard her mother slam the door did she realize her mistake: being indulgent.

“What’re y’all doing?” one of her stepsisters, Ekaterina, asked.

“You tracked in mud,” her other sister, Olga, said. She had her upper lip curled as she looked over where Aida had run in from the fields.

Her mother looked over the mess Aida had made, then at the letter still in her hand.

Then she slapped her across the cheek and sent her glasses across the living room.

She should’ve expected it. How dare her. Here she was, trying to better herself in a world where most people wanted her kind dead, and she’d just been accepted into one of the world’s most prestigious academies known in Roma. It had only a seven percent acceptance rate. To any parent, that would’ve been cause for celebration.

Her mother grabbed Aida by the collar and dragged her upstairs to her room. Her mother and sisters lived downstairs near the warm fireplaces, while Aida had the joy of taking the stairs she struggled with and lived in the cold attic at the top of the steps. She had a fucking cane and a limp, and these people couldn’t care less.

“Mo’mma, wait—”

Her mother slammed the bedroom door behind her. “How dare you?”

Aida fell backwards into her bed.

“You ain’t going,” she decided. “You have obligations here. You work the farm, you care for us. How selfish can you be, leaving all of that to become a damned academic?”

“I want…to be a historian,”  Aida said, trying so hard to carefully explain something she’d wanted for years. With her limp, it was difficult to do any sort of manual labor. She got tired easily, her dizzy spells were becoming more frequent. Her sisters, they weren’t expected to do half the chores she was forced to do, yet she did them. She hated herself, but she did as she was told because it gave her a roof over her head and food on the table and a bed to dream about a life better than this. In the rare hours she had for sleep, she studied and overworked her abilities to prove that a Visatorre deserved to learn, something that’d been barred from her people for centuries.

She didn’t expect praise, or admiration. She couldn’t dream like that. All she wished was for her mother to stop hitting her. She didn’t know why she was selfish asking that. 

Her mother stood tall over her. “You ain’t going.”

Aida fixed her broken glasses over her nose. “I was accepted.”

“I ain’t paying for it.”

“I know that.”

“What do you mean ‘I know that’? You won’t be able to afford it. The journey ’cross the sea alone is ten gold.”

To her mother, it’d seem that way, but Aida had been saving up. For years, she’d been putting away her childhood allowance underneath the broken floorboard next to her bed. After turning fifteen, her mother had stopped paying her for her work. Aida had thought it was because her mother had finally seen her as a daughter more than a servant. Then she found out Ekaterina’s and Olga’s allowance had doubled.

So, she’d taken to writing school papers for the local village kids. Those who were able to write had trouble forming their thoughts in persuasive essays, so Aida wrote them top-grade papers about history, war, massacres of her own people and the rise of these dictatorships she hated, all behind her mother’s back. If her mother had found that out, she would’ve thrown Aida into the village stockades for lying because “Visatorre folk weren’t smart like normal folk.”

“I have the money,” Aida summarized.

“I don’t care if you got a fortune! Y’all ain’t gonna throw away your life and waste it on an academy when you’re needed here.”

“I’ll be gone, isn’t that what you’d want?” she shot back, the fear of speaking back pitching her voice. “I’ll be gone for six whole years, and I swear, whatever money I make—”

“‘Money I make’, she says. What money you gonna make there? You know Roma don’t take well to you folk as well as Bělico people do. You’ll be ridiculed. You’ll be ostracized.”

“So how different would it be from here?” Aida wanted to ask. Circa, how she wished she was brave enough to say that. If she’d been high, that defiance would’ve come out, but it would’ve only resulted in her being hit harder.

Aida lowered her head, feigning a defeat.

Her mother harrumphed and tied up her brown hair in a messy bun. “That’s what I thought. Now.” She held out her hand. Aida flinched. “Give me that letter.”

“No,” Aida said. “Please, just…let me keep it. For memory’s sake.”

Her mother rolled her eyes and wiped her hands on her apron. “Get up and help with the groceries, since you didn’t want to help when we came in. The rest are in the carriage.”

Aida nodded and went for her cane. It was a dark, simple thing made from a tree branch in the woods around them.

Her mother kicked it and knocked it into the wall. The force made it tip and spill Aida’s half-filled drinking glass to the ground.

Aida froze.

“Realize your stance in this house,” her mother warned, “and stop making such foolish decisions behind my back.”

“I will,” Aida said, and waited for her mother to leave down the stairs, where she heard her sisters whispering about what their mother had just told their servant daughter.

She gripped her cane as tightly as she could. The one thing about being in your twenties was that, while you might’ve been afraid of your parents and they’d wrecked your self-confidence and self-worth beyond recognition for more than a decade, if you had the money and the drive to defy the Gods, you could change your future for the better.

After hearing her mother leave, Aida went for her travel bags.

---------------------------

Nights at the Mirko household came early, as they—she—had to get up at four in the morning to take care of the livestock. Feed them, gather the eggs, change the hay, sweep out both barns, weed out the gardens. Aida half-expected her mother to put more energy into their own livelihood instead of working on how to destroy her own daughter’s confidence, but she couldn’t expect much of anything from them anymore.

Aida knew she was smart. She wouldn’t have gotten her scholarship if she hadn’t been. All the years of extra-credit and letter after letter of recommendations had paid off. It didn’t matter what her mother thought of her. She would reclaim her dignity without her.

The night she received her letter, Aida woke up at three and began packing. It’d taken a chunk of her savings to leave now, as she’d planned to leave later towards the school year where travel costs decreased, but she’d manage. She always did. She currently had seventy pieces of gold lyria to her name. It wasn’t much—it barely covered a month’s worth of groceries for her family—but if she used it right, it’d get her a life without them in it.

Because, in all her twenty-three years of living, she knew that “family” could go fuck themselves with how much good they did for her.

She dressed in a black dress fit for the night and braided her hair in her favorite way, down her front in two braids that never seemed even. She was bigger than most girls: both of her sisters’ weights combined. She hoped the school uniforms could accommodate her, and that they weren’t tacky. She needed a self-esteem boost, not a downgrade from what clothes she’d been given.

After packing her non-essentials, she got to work packing the more important items: her journals, thick with cut-outs and pictures from used books she’d pasted into it; her history texts on the once luxurious country of Siina and its murdered queen; the first book in the En Tempore Rose sextet, Pinnacle Isle; and the signed playbooks from the opera-ballet adaptation she’d bartered for in exchange for an eight-page essay.

She’d gone to see the opera once, and by “seen,” she meant she’d snuck away into the theatre for ten minutes during a family trip to Roma City when she was six. It’d been during a trading festival where they earned their summer wealth. She’d snuck into the massive theater constructed within the colosseum and caught the last few minutes of the performance before being discovered.

She’d been beaten so hard that she didn’t remember much of the opera, but she remembered loving it. Those few minutes near the stage that made her heart stop and restart with the love of her favorite stories, both real and imaginary. The ballerinas dressed in snow-white lace, the glitter that danced from the rafters.  It’d sparked her desire to be a ballerina before she found out that Visatorre were neither allowed to be performers on the stage nor were they allowed to even watch a costly opera to begin with. They were a “risk” to those around them if they travelled backwards into time.

At least she had her journals. She had a dozen or so hand-bound journals she’d made herself because God knew her mother wouldn’t have bought them for her. They detailed her favorite moments in history. Nothing of wars or tyrannical, egotistical kings she couldn’t stand learning about. She was interested in the people, the interpersonal relationships between the royal families and their citizens. Their dresses, the food they ate, the ways they lived their menial lives a millennia ago.

And Eve, a magnificent, tolerant queen to a dead city-state that once held 100,000 Visatorre within its peaceful walls. Aida loved her, knew everything about her life from the minute she was born to the day she was executed. Her city-state, Siina, had once been a well-established community within Roma that could’ve rivaled the country in time.

History said Eve had murdered the Roman king’s wife, so in retaliation, he’d killed her, her lineage, and all 100,000 Visatorre of Siina, burying them within the Catacombs underneath Roma City.

Aida knew for a fact that that part of history was wrong. She’d written papers and thesis on Eve for years, and she couldn’t see the dead queen dipping so far as to murder someone she should’ve seen as an ally. She’d been a young, proud, dedicated Visatorre that housed and raised and loved the biggest population of Visatorre the world had ever seen. Yes, she was rash with some of her decision-making, and she might’ve been labeled “eccentric” in today’s terms, but to murder someone so powerful for no reason, it didn’t add up. It didn’t make sense.

So, Aida was bent on becoming a historian, to rewrite the history books with the truth rather than the propagated schlock crammed down their throats.

After zipping up her final bag, she readied her three-kilometer-long walk to the village. It was mostly leveled terrain, but still, it always burdened her legs. One bad jump six years ago had fucked up her hips, or her back, or her spine, or all three, given her exceptionally bad luck. No doctor had a concrete reason as to why Visatorre were injured when they jumped into the past, they only knew the farther back you went, the worse you came back. Some Visatorre who’d jump 100, 200 years back would come back burning from the inside or with missing limbs, screaming in pain until they needed to take something to their skull to mask the pain. Aida, with all that was stacked up against her, always considered herself lucky that she only needed a cane to get around.

She closed the garden gates slowly, taking the back entrance so she didn’t wake the easily spooked ducks. No more farmlands, no more chores done by six and being hit behind closed doors. Despite years of fucking up, making her think she was useless, too slow, too stupid to be anything more than a servant in her own home, Aida was to mentally burn this place to the ground with her accomplishments.

Or physically, if she became so bold and dire for actual jail time.

She paused at the start of the cow field, eyes darting left and right. While she wouldn’t burn down the farm—she couldn’t hurt the animals—she could do something else. Something more.

She crept into the chicken coop and burgled twenty-four of the largest eggs, enough to keep her fed for a few days, and another six for the carriage. Not hers, but her mother’s, or the one she’d already promised for Olga when she eventually married. Keeping her movements quiet, Aida smashed her extra eggs into the seats and dug the yolk deep into the hides. Then she took charcoal she always kept in her dress pockets and ruined one side of the barn in graffiti. She dumped the milk she’d gotten for that day, she let the chickens loose from the coop. Dumped the drinking water over the hay, overturned the trough. Everything she could do to make her family’s life horrible, but not enough to send an officer after her.

If they connected it to a Visatorre’s doing, she might’ve had one on her tail. Luckily, she wasn’t planning on ever coming back.

She paced herself as she made her way into the village. Idti, a racist outcropping of 500 farmers who’d sell their own daughters for a lick of gold. She kept a knife in her pocket when walking down the dirt roads, waiting to hear someone run up behind her and rob her. Luckily, the carriage house she was planning on using was close to the main road. Beyond the village stretched out a long path to the sea. She could almost smell the cold, salty air.

One driver was smoking near his carriage and reading the paper with his boots kicked up. As Aida neared with lantern and cane in hand, he gave her a look. He made no attempt to hide his ogling at her Visatorre marking: a white circle engraved in the middle of her forehead. Every Visatorre obtained one the first time they travelled, but that didn’t stop non-Visatorre from staring like she had three legs.

“I need a ride to the harbor,” Aida said, keeping her face devoid of emotion.

“Now?” the driver asked.

“Not yesterday,” she said, and gave him three of her gold lyria coins. “The quicker, the better.”

At the sight of priceless gold, the driver instantly folded his paper and sat up. “You’re the Visatorre girl who works up at that farm, ain’t you?”

“Aye.” She took out one of her own cigarettes and had him light it for her. She needed one after this week, and her mother hated the smell in the house. “Let’s say I got fired.”

“Didn’t you live there?”

“Didn’t you need to bring me to the harbor?”

The man clicked his tongue and helped her with her bags.

She took one long inhale as she surveyed the land. The morning birds had yet to begin their songs, and the lack of light let the Moon and stars shine over the country, painting it a deep blue.

“Did you hear the news?” the driver asked, making unneeded small talk. “The princess of Roma, Lucia, she just went missing. Paper’s sayin’ she vanished from her own wedding. Say she got kidnapped or something.”

“Wouldn’t be a change from what we see,” Aida said. While the royal family now was in charge of what she did, she didn’t care for them nearly as much as she cared for the dead ones. The dead ones had more of a history to them that always intrigued her. Plus, she never saw the two twin princesses. One had been married off to the shitstain of Bělico’s King Dmitri as a kid, the other barely left the palace. What was the difference if she went missing?

“Do you think they’ll find her?” asked the driver.

In the distance, Aida saw the faint outline of her home. Her mother’s home—it had never belonged to her. Her mother had tried to be a good mother when she’d first adopted Aida, but the years had tainted her into a villain Aida couldn’t wait to see get their comeuppance.

She gave her home the finger and hopped into the carriage. “Who cares about some dumb princess?”

----------------------------------

Chapter 2: Six Weeks Before, Continued

Lorian had dreamed about escaping her bedroom through the window. She never thought it would be her last-ditch effort to save her life.

She wasn’t in life-threatening danger. She wasn’t going to die if she stayed the night. Acted proper. Went back downstairs and apologized to her wedding guests, and let Prince Zaahir take her hand like she’d been proclaimed to do since she was six.

That wouldn’t kill her per se, but if it came to that, she’d kill herself. No remorse, no second thoughts. She’d warned her parents that if they followed through with the marriage, it would’ve been the final straw out of the many that they’d already broken for her.

Well, her father had. Everyone knew that despite being the reigning queen, it was Lorian’s father who controlled the country.

That night, after tearing up the wedding dress and ruining every last piece of notable art she had left in her bedroom, Lorian had collapsed into her bed and sobbed so hard, she’d thrown up. Out of everything her parents forced her through, this marriage was the one constant. Let her ruin her dresses, let her throw her infamous temper tantrums hidden from the country. But this marriage, just like her sister’s, would happen. Alliances needed to be formed between the three major countries of the world to keep war at bay, and it’d happen whether she liked it or not. Country before individual. Alliances before children.

The only way out was death.

She’d contemplated it, then kicked herself and fought for another way out. She couldn’t end it here. She had to show her parents that she did have aspirations, just ones outside of royal duties.

The giant clock just outside of Lorian’s room chimed for eleven. Per Roman customs, the wedding kiss would occur at the stroke of midnight, and so far, Lorian hadn’t let any of her maids or officers near her. Not even her own family had come into her room, though they’d tried.

First, her mother, whose frail knocks almost made her heart break. Then her twin sister, Beatrice, born only twelve minutes earlier and thus married off first to a man older than their father. Her methodical, emotionless explanation as to why this needed to marry Zaahir made Lorian break a vase to get her to stop talking.

Carmine was the last person to come. He was the queen’s right-hand man—a Constable, the highest rank given to officers—and childhood friend of the queen. He was the most sympathetic about Lorian’s plight, she’d give him that, but he, like the rest of them, told her to come downstairs and finish what was destined for her. He used to be better, back when he was more a family friend who wasn’t weighed down my medals of honor, but those days were gone, as was Carmine’s carefree nature. It’d been replaced with duties that outweighed Lorian’s happiness.

Her father didn’t come up to check on her.

But she didn’t need any more of his anger tonight. Nobody could talk her into this. She had her mind set, and it was anywhere else but this godforsaken palace.

The only one she’d let come near was Missus Sharma. She’d been Lorian’s and Beatrice’s nursemaid since they were in the womb. She’d taught Lorian mathematics, both the piano and violin, and had guided Lorian through speech therapy to get rid of her lisp yet failed. She also knew almost all of Lorian’s secrets, all of her hidden passions without the threads of marriage and princesshood dragging her down.

Lorian had told her, last year, that she didn’t want to be a princess any longer.

“I know your frustrations, Your Highness,” she’d said, this sixty-year-old maid who deserved so much more than what Lorian gave her.

She didn’t know, however, so when Lorian explained more, that she didn’t want to be a princess, or Lucia, or only a woman but something more, something different, that’d puzzled her. Her generation still lived in the mindset that’d fizzled out during this ruling—people could be who they wanted to be, whether they were a boy, girl, neither, or something in-between.

Those rights weren’t given to royal heirs, especially when it involved the procreation of royal children.

Lorian held her stomach as she thought of a way out of this. Even though she was still figuring out her identity, she was sure as fuck not marrying Zaahir for the sole purpose of bearing children. That thought was so far out of her comfort zone, it was off her radar.

Frustrated by her dwindling time limit, Lorian groaned, took the last of her pillows she hadn’t torn, and threw it against her writing desk. It scattered the letters she’d tried to write to her parents only for her to rip them up because, while his mother might hear her out, her father wouldn’t listen. He never did.

A letter fell to her ornate rug. It was hidden behind one of her jewelry boxes and slipped out when the box fell. It didn’t have a name on it, but it’d been stamped with her family’s seal.

Curious, Lorian picked it up.

Out the window & down to the forest.

Good luck.

She flipped over the note to read the rest, but that was it. It wasn’t even signed, meaning the person didn’t want to be traced back. She examined the handwriting, but that didn’t click either. It looked like the person, whoever had written it, had concealed their own personhood to make the letter untraceable.

She looked back at her door. It was locked, as well as barricaded with her wardrobe. Nobody was coming in any time soon.

She crept towards the window that faced the outer walls. In the past, they were meant to keep enemies out, like the fallen city-state of Siina. It’d once been a wealthy state where most of the Visatorre population lived some 1,200 years back. Tensions back then had been high, she was taught. Visatorre were seen as part-God, part-monster, these people who could travel, or “jump,” back in time for hours to witness a single moment in history. Stories had been created around them, painting them as the voyeuristic, nosy ghosts that deserved all the pain their jumps caused them.

Her father despised time travellers for their unpredictable powers, but he never brought it up to the public. They were a reminder of a bloody history most Romans wanted to forget, but Lorian hadn’t forgotten. She knew that the queen of Siina had murdered the Roman king due to some type of disagreement, and as punishment, she, her lineage, and all 100,000 Siinans had been brutally slaughtered in an unfair and unjust bloodbath.

Lorian grit her teeth. She hated it. She’d hated it ever since it was taught to her by her scholars and meant to sound like a victory. It wasn’t. It was the royal family’s insatiable bloodlust, and it was all the more reason why she wanted nothing more to do with the crown trying to be placed over her head.

The orchestra music from her own wedding ceremony echoed from outside. Six hundred people had been invited and were likely all dining and eating and placing bets as to whether or not Lorian would come down by midnight.

So it was odd that out of all of these guests and bustling maids and officers in the palace tonight, nobody saw Lorian’s horse, Ether, nibbling on the flowers next to the palace walls. She was bridled and had on her saddle, but it wasn’t the official, royally-sanctioned one with all the gold and rubies stitched into it, it was Lorian’s personal riding one that was worn and made of coarse leather.

And attached to Lorian’s windowsill, weighted down so as not to blow in the summer night air, was a silk bedsheet tied into other bedsheets: a less than perfect escape ladder.

Lorian pressed her lips together. Who’d set this up for her? She’d dreamed of this day for years, and it only became more real that week.

She touched the start of the makeshift ladder. It’d been tied several times behind her window and secured behind the jewelry box. Not even Missus’ Sharma would’ve seen anything awry.

Lorian turned so quickly on her heel, she tripped on the rug given to her by her mother’s mother. She pulled out the drawers of her second wardrobe not currently holding back the only door to the room and packed what she considered to be her real clothes. No dresses, nothing that was too uncomfortable to wear. She did pack her corsets to bind her chest and hide her hips. She didn’t hate her body; her boobs were fun to play with when she was in the bath or getting ready for bed. They just meant too much to her past self, and she didn’t want to remember that.

She would no longer be Lucia Maria Carolus Durante di Romano, future princess to the country of Roma and Aldaí.

She would be Lorian. Lorian…

Something. If she was going to run away, she’d have to change her surname, but she’d only landed on “Lorian” when she was a child, a nonsense name that meshed her name with Carmine’s father’s name. That was back when she respected him.

Despite living here all her life, she had nothing of real importance. Clothing she felt comfortable in, 350 pieces of gold lyria she kept in case she ever decided to really run away, utensils—she ate quite a lot in her room. She grabbed documents with her father’s and Carmine’s signatures in case she needed to forge them for her new life, and she kept her signet ring and skeleton key because she was sentimental like that. She had her dagger because her rapiers would be too long and too distracting on the run. She wouldn’t need a map because she knew the whole layout of the kingdom by heart. As for her underwear…

She looked at the dagger in her hand, then at herself in the mirror. The blond hair she’d tied up in a ponytail to get it out of her face still curled to the middle of her back. She liked her hair; it was a staple for Roman women to keep it long. Her mother’s must’ve been worth something for how beautiful it was, reaching her thighs in elegant waves, and her sister’s must’ve taken hours to prepare every day with all the braids and swoops she kept it in.

Lorian gripped the handle of her blade. She didn’t think it over because she knew she’d regret it. Nobody in the kingdom could know she was Lucia. If she were to live as Lorian, Lucia needed to die.

Her locks fell around her in spirals. Her head instantly felt lighter than it had in years, but she knew it didn’t look right. One part was uneven, the next cut too close to her scalp. She didn’t touch her bangs, as Missus Sharma had just styled them the day before, and when she was done, she didn’t look back in the mirror. She retied it into a small ponytail. Her neck felt cold yet free, another chain broken.

Someone knocked on her door.

She nestled her knife against her thigh.

“Your Highness, are you alright?”

The voice, so sweet and motherly, Lorian knew it better than her own mother’s.

“Yes, Missus Sharma,” she called out, and slowly opened her window all the way. Her curtains fluttered. It kissed her cheeks, her newly uncovered neck.

“I don’t want you to feel alone right now. I know this’s terrifying for you, and unfair. Oh, sweetheart, I know. Can you talk to me? Have you eaten?”

Lorian lifted one leg over the windowsill. She’d once climbed out of this window as a child to the giant clock tower above. When they’d found her, her father had slashed her palms. It seemed so much easier as a thirteen-year-old. “I have, and I’m alright now.” She dared a peek down the four stories and closed her eyes. It wasn’t high up. It wasn’t that high. “I’ll be okay.”

“Do you need anything from me right now?”

She swung the rest of her body out of the window. Vertigo hit her like a crashing wave. She wrapped both arms around the blanket and gave a firm tug. “No. You’ve done enough for me this week, and I do appreciate all that you’ve done.” She put more of her weight on the bedsheet ladder, then more. “G-go tell my mother and father that…I’m contemplating coming down soon.”

“Oh, you are?” Missus Sharma asked. “How wonderful! Let me bring them up.”

“I-I’ll just need a minute,” she called out, hoping her voice wouldn’t travel. “Do give me that, okay, Missus Sharma?”

“Of course, Your Highness. Oh, their Majesties will be so thrilled.”

“I’ll bet,” Lorian muttered under her breath, and looked down. What was four stories, really, other than a two-second drop to your crushing, painful death?

She bit her lower lip, said a prayer to any God that would hear her, and let gravity take her down.

Her boot snagged on a jutting brick  and, while it might’ve been a two-second controlled fall, it felt longer. She anticipated hitting the ground but didn’t expect to feel the dizziness that accompanied her once she hit the earth. Her feet gave out from underneath her and she rolled over like a turtle. Ether looked down at her, chuffing.

Lorian stayed on the ground, fingers curling into the cold grass. She counted the eerie seconds of silence. Someone always noticed when she acted out. She’d be caught, subdued, reformed into what her father wanted.

Nobody came. Missus Sharma didn’t run to her bedroom window and call out for her. No patrolling officer asked what she was doing.

She breathed in a gulp of fresh air, then slowly lifted herself up with her horse. She pulled on her reins and waited. She climbed onto Ether’s back and waited.

Nobody was coming.

Nobody knew she was here.

Lucia had been killed, and Lorian had taken her first step.

She blinked back the tears. She didn’t know what had brought them on. Her cutting her hair, her knowing that this one decision might strip her away from everyone she loved for months, years. If this worked, if she really pulled everything off, she might never see them again. Beatrice, Carmine, her mother, Missus Sharma, the maids and officers who treated her far better than she deserved, her father…

She violently turned her head away and broke Ether into a gallop. She tore through the gardens, through the first gate. A lone officer on duty hadn’t been expecting anyone to pass through here and certainly wasn’t prepared to stop a galloping mare running past him. He also probably hadn’t been expecting Lorian to be crying.

She knew she hadn’t. Isn’t this what she’d wanted? To be free from a marriage to a man she’d met three, possibly four times in her life? To be free from her father’s expectations of being a subservient princess and to finally do what she wanted to do?

She ran her horse as fast as she could into the Roman night. Tonight, she was Lorian. And tonight, she was unshackled.

[akkalatechlabs]

The Rise of Amadeus.

So after some talk with @artisticzaati I’ve decided I’ll post the side storyline that blossomed the most Amadeus art and really shows how he is at his peak. It’s written by him and I but I altered it a bit to make it more... readable for tumblr. You’re welcome!

--

TW: Extreme descriptions of violence and major character death.

--

Ravii awaited at the spot they made the deal at; Fort Hateno. The corrupted king sat upon a decaying guardian, looking up at the clouds slowly moving across the moon. Round and bright... Closing his eyes he listened to everything around him, the crickets, the wind blowing into the hollow guardians... it was honestly, peaceful. Not for long however, once that man step foot on the field, the kingdom was going to fall into his hands. If everything fell into place as he planned, like pawns on a chessboard, he would sweep this land and take it by force. It all depended on one man. The one who better hold his end of the bargain. If he did not show however...

Ravii takes out the locket in his pocket, looking at it. Opening it up it has a simple name in it beside the picture of that man and a woman together: 'Purah.'  

"Purah... Hm.." He closes the locket and shoves it back into his pocket, "I will see you soon it seems." He sighs, hopping off the guardian.  

Robbie, far from Ravii looked down at the new sword hybrid in his hands, swallowing nervously. This was all Ravii wanted and it was over.  

  Simple.  

“... Alright. Alright! Get ahold of yourself...” Robbie whispers to himself.

  (HE IS GOING TO TURN ON YOU.)  

Robbie freezes in place. No... not him. Not now!

“... everything will be alright.” Robbie reassured himself and... the other.

Nodding to himself he walks to Fort Hateno, raising his gaze on Ravii walking away. Robbie inhales and runs over to meet him, breathing heavily.  

“Wh-wait-! I am here, as promised! I... I also brought this, as promised!” He holds out the sword bladesaw combination, looking up at him for a moment then bows his head down, holding up the sword over his head.  

“It is light and swift as a normal sword but when you pull the trigger, it activates the bladesaw part...” He swallows nervously, staring at the ground. He can feel the other's gaze on him. Looking down on him. Burning into him... He hated every moment of it. But he needed to protect Purah and their child from this man at all costs.

"Impressive... you made it pretty quickly too." Ravii raised an eyebrow, taking the sword out of Robbie's hands. He takes out his other sword to compare the two blades carefully. Testing out the weight of each blade. He swings the ancient tech sword, humming to himself. Swings his other sword right after.  

Another amused hum leaves the King.  

"You are quite talented. Never met someone who can craft such weaponry like this before..." He glances at Robbie, seeing his head still bowed, "You impress me." He pulled the trigger and gasped as it went off.  

Immediately Ravii dropped his old sword on the ground to grasp the new blade with both his hands. Swinging it side to side, full force. Turning around he looks at the decaying guardian and swings at one of the legs, immediately cutting through it.  

"It is incredible! Such power..." Ravii smiles and looks at Robbie once more, pulling the trigger to make it stop, using the tip of the blade to lift Robbie's chin to make him look up.  

"You have my trust. All of it."  

  That was no easy feat.  

Sweat dripped on Robbie’s forehead as he looked up at Ravii, forcing out a smile.  

“Of course! It is always a pleasure to create new weapons... this was a difficult one but I did it! It is one of my best...” He slowly stood up, carefully pushing the tip of the sword away with his finger and took a deep breath.  

“Are... Are we done here? I brought you the sword. That is all you asked for, right? Is... is there anything else?” The Sheikah regrets opening his mouth already. He HAD to ask if there was anything else... Careless again.

  ... As always.  

Robbie's expression slowly changes to a grin, crossing his arms and shrugs.  

"Not that I would give you anything else. The sword is all yours now, can I leave, your Majesty or whatever you are.”  

Robbie suddenly snaps out of it, his eyes widen and he covers his mouth.  

“NOT NOW... NOT RIGHT NOW... YOU IDIOT” Robbie thought to himself, directing it to the other.

“ ... M-My apologies I... I...” Robbie swallows nervously. The other one was going to get them both killed at this rate.  

Ravii was taken aback by the sudden expression change of the other. His sudden... tone of voice and atmosphere around him sent the King to a genuine shock.  

"... What did you say to me? Repeat yourself." He aims the sword to Robbie's face, the tip of the blade just mere inches away from nose. Ravii leans closer to Robbie, glaring intensely at him. Eyes sharp as the blade itself.

"Say that again to me." Ravii glared at the Sheikah.

Robbie’s eyes widen as he gazes at the tip of his own creation in from of him. Slowly his eyes travel up to Ravii's face.  

“I... erm, I don't remember. I have this uh, c-condition it's uh... very serious. My brain just mutters weird things and I cannot control it!” This was incredibly unbelievable. Lying was not his best suit, that's for sure. But there was half-truth even with how ridiculous it sounded...  

“K-King Ravii, I apologize if I said anything to trouble you. Please forgive me. I beg of you! I'll make it up to you! Another weapon! Or... or... just...” He had to remain calm, this would go very badly if he screwed it up.

“... Th-the guardians. I'll make you a custom one that only listens to you! I can d-do that! Simple!” Robbie held his head down now, looking at his own legs wobbling from the amount of tension and fear he was facing right now. He felt sick, unstable... as if he could faint right here from the high stress.

"... Such disrespect for me will end up being your end. Do not speak to me again like that." Ravii lifts the blade slightly, tilting it to the side, slicing a bit of Robbie's cheek deeply.  

"... Understood? You are mine. You speak ill towards me and you will face the consequences. I do not care if you were to die, I'll get to you and..." Drawing back, Ravii nods his head up, ordering Robbie to stand.  

"... Purah, was it? If you wish to go against my words or even disrespect me even slightly... her blood will be on your hands. Do you understand me?”

All the color in Robbie’s face drained when he spoke her name... He knew her name.

   He... knew her name.

Purah isn't safe anymore.  

More was at stake now. More than he could handle. He couldn't handle this, he wanted to run far away with Purah for safety...  

Swallowing nervously Robbie stood up, wiping the blood that dripped from the fresh cut on his cheek against the sleeve of his jacket. Smudging the mixture of crimson red and a dark glimmer of black color across his cheek, making a larger mess on his face... His eyebrows furrowed as he hissed in pain between his clenched jaw. Being cut by his own created sword, at least he knew it worked... how ironic was that? Robbie forced a chuckle under his breath at the thought alone. How dare this man make a fool out of his work like this?  

Ravii turns around – his back facing Robbie. His cape gracefully following behind him.

  The symbol of the Triforce was on it... Ravii wore it with pride.  

"Now tell me... these guardians." Ravii spoke, glancing at Robbie with a side glance over his own shoulder, "How can they follow only my orders alone? How do you make them listen to your orders? Is it those ugly things you wear?" Motions his hand to his forehead, speaking of the goggles.  

"They do not work for me when I took them. Why do these 'guardians' only listen to you? What makes such a simple person like you so special?" Ravii spat at Robbie, glaring at the Sheikah. He turns around again, about to grab his collar until ... what was that black on his cheek? Ravii clicks his tongue, quickly inspecting the blood and whatever the black stuff mixed with it was.  

"Are you... even a Sheikah?" Ravii spoke as he scoops a little of it on his finger and rubs it between his index finger and thumb, looking closer.

"What is this? And why does it...burn?" Ravii wipes it on Robbie's jacket, frowning. "Ugh...disgusting. Let us go, you strange individual.... Clean yourself up. I don't want to be seen with such a mess of a person."  

Robbie slowly raises his hand to his cheek, wiping the malice mixed blood onto his hand and his vision starts to blur. Taking a deep breath, he shook his head to gain his focus back.  

“Ah... y-yes. The guardians and I are uh, you see... we are linked by a telepathic force. It took a while to master it but with the help of the ma-... ancient texts, I figured it out. It is a technique only the Sheikah can master. Especially me, since I... I have ancient technology built into me.” Robbie smiled a little as he taps his left temple, showing his burnt-out eye as it flickers for a moment.  

“Without me, they will go haywire. Well, the ones under my control. There are still some that I haven't gotten to save yet... but that aside! If you have me, the guardians will also be on your side!”  

 Maybe with that fact he won't get hurt again, Robbie thought to himself.

“Meaning you lied to me just now, didn't you?" The corrupted king looked down at Robbie, his grip on the handle shaking, twitching... aching to cut the man testing his luck in front of him again.

"So, what is the truth? Can they only listen to you or perhaps... they will listen to me if they see who is stronger? Is that it?" A crooked grin slowly arched on Ravii's face, his expression becoming more twisted before the other's eyes.  

"They just need to see who is the true leader here! The true king! I will guide them... I will guide them all... rushing to get what I deserve. I don't think I even need you anymore..."

Robbie’s eyes widened at the King, “No-! No... I am not lying! If I make it from scratch, I can program it to listen to you. The other ones are harder to do that. I swear! If I were to get hurt or..." Robbie swallows nervously, “...worse, they will target whoever hurt me majorly. A simple cut will not trigger them... but anything more severe? They will all go haywire and out of control searching for whoever hurt or killed me. I would never lie about something like this.” Robbie glances at Ravii's hand clenching the handle as he spoke. He could tell this man was clearly unstable. Worse than Astor, even...  

“I will make you many guardians that listen to your orders! I just need more time! More time... I swear it! Please...  

 ... Please...” 

There was a sob slipping in his voice, Robbie was becoming scared and couldn't hold back anymore. Tears were pooling up as he felt he was begging for his life right now.

Ravii shook his head, laughing.  

"Look at you! The real colors come out when I drop you. You beg for a use again... how humbling... but also incredibly pathetic." Ravii leans down, face to face with Robbie and wipes the tears off the other man's cheeks.  

"Fear not... your actions will not be in vain! I know people like you. You only live to be useful for others. Over and over... but there is always someone better, isn't there? A replacement. Just know... that you will always be in my heart. This senseless vicious cycle will end..."  

Ravii smiled, patting Robbie’s chest where his heart was, "And I'll make sure your dear Purah knows how proud you made the kingdom with your sacrifice..."  

Ravii drew his hand back and with a swift movement, he lunged the blade into the Sheikah's chest, leaning closer to Robbie's ear, smiling widely. "A worthy right-hand man you were."  

Robbie's eyes widen at the sharp pain in his chest, slowly glancing down at his own creation... no...  

   Robbie tries to push Ravii away as he drew closer again to him.  

“... ngh!” Robbie mutters out as his gaze started to blur. No... he can't do this. Everything was blurring.  

  The pain was unbearable.

Ravii pulls the blade out and kicks him onto the ground as he takes the locket out of his own chest pocket, tossing it beside Robbie.  

"As promised... Now then... I have a kingdom to take over and guardians to control. Goodbye, Robbie." Ravii turns on his heel, swinging his sword harshly to whip the blood off his blade as he walks away from the other laying on the ground. Ravii picks up his older sword he dropped from before, placing it back by his hip as he carried the new sword in his hand.  

“Pu...rah...!” Robbie whispers as he lays on the ground. Clenching his teeth, he tries to pull himself up - sharp pain would travel throughout his body with every movement.  

 He cannot let him get Purah. No.. No....

Ravii’s ear twitches as he heard Robbie muttering something under his breath.  

"Purah? Oh, that dear one? I'll take very good care of her. She is a pretty one... Maybe I'll make her MY wife!" The King cackles.  

“...Ra...vii!” Robbie speaks a little louder, making sure the other could hear him.

With his final breath he whistles for the guardians, glaring at Ravii, his eyesight clearing on the other man. Focused. Scanning. Making sure the guardians would destroy him from where he stood. Even with his last breath he would make sure Purah would be safe from this man.  

Ravii, still cackling at the Purah comment suddenly pauses as Robbie whistles. Tilting his head curiously.

Robbie slowly pointed at Ravii as guardians flew over him. Ravii, raising his head glances up at all the guardians flying towards him. 

Ah. This was his chance!  

"Hear me, mechanical beasts! I have defeated your... leader. You must listen to me now-" Robbie cuts him off with his last breath, simple two words that made Ravii freeze up.  

“... destroy.... him!" The Sheikah screamed in pure anger and hatred and dropped. He had no more strength to move anymore.

All the red pointers all focused on Ravii - as much as he adored the attention, he knew this would end badly.  

"... You bastard." Ravii clicks his tongue and takes a deep breath, glancing at the lifeless man across from him.  

"You were telling the truth, huh?" Ravii shakes his head. Sighing, Ravii rushes towards Robbie and skids to a stop, sitting beside him.  

"Shoot me. Your leader here is in shots way... want to hurt him more? Go ahead you idiotic beasts." He glares at the closest skywatcher to him dead center to the eye as he pats Robbie's head, cackling.

"Come on! Do it. Or listen to me..." A smirk arched Ravii’s lips.

The skywatcher scanned Ravii and Robbie beside him. Errors popping up on their side of the screen. Not knowing whether to shoot or not.  

“ . . . (bzzzt) . . . Smart.” That was... Robbie's voice from the guardian? No. It was more glitched than his voice.  

  What was that?

“You are pretty smart for a royal pain in the ass, I'll give you that.”

Robbie's hand suddenly slammed on Ravii's shoulder as he used him to sit up, shaking his head and took a deep inhale and exhaled. That same black ink from before was manifesting by the blade wound.  

Ravii flinches at the sudden hand on his shoulder as if all time stopped, he slowly turns his head, seeing the man he watched just die rise as if nothing happened. Like a phoenix from the ashes, he rises again... but this wasn't the same man.  

No. He could feel the overwhelming power from him. There was something dark within him and it chilled even Ravii - nothing ever made him flinch.  

 Not like this.

“That hurt, you know. I told him you would betray us and he fell right into that one, the idiot.” Laughing 'Robbie' pats Ravii's shoulder, leaning his face in front of Ravii's with a big grin on his face.  

“How dare you kill Robbie! We were just getting along too! But fret not, I'll save him eventually...  

 ... but!

   Until then! It's my turn to shine!” The corrupted Sheikah quickly grabs the hybrid sword he made and stands up fully.  

“Time to rock!” He smiles as he swings the sword by Ravii's face

"What?! How are you still alive?!" Ravii screams and goes to grab his old sword just as the other swipes it from him, swinging it by his face - cutting a few hairs hanging from his forehead.  

He was faster than Ravii in the state. What happened for him to change?

"What do you mean? You speak as if Robbie has died yet you - Robbie - are speaking to me right this moment! Have you gone mad?" Ravii swallows nervously as he jumps to his feet. He draws his old sword from his side, holding it up while watching the other closely.  

"...Just who are you?!" Ravii glares at him, standing his ground now.  

‘Robbie’ laughs and points the sword at Ravii while walking slowly around him, gazing.  

“Finally someone asks! But you of all people...” His grin grows wildly as his stare intensifies.  

“... I am Amadeus. I do not know what I am, but I have a body and mind, anger and passion. Am I alive? Who knows what I truly am. Perhaps I am merely apart of Robbie who was caged for so long... begging to be freed, or someone of my own. Malice with mind and soul of my own somehow? Despite it all...

  ... All I know is I am alive....and that we are one the same - two sides of the same coin. Unlucky for you, you ran out of luck with this flip. And now that I have full control again thanks to you, well...” Amadeus flips the sword in the air and catches it by the handle, snapping his stare at Ravii again.  

“I'm going to make sure you regret threatening Purah into this mess. Robbie begged for her safety and trust. I am not so nice like that.” His head twitches as he glares at Ravii. Thinking for a moment his expression changes, a mischievous grin on his face quickly flashes.  

“I'll be kind, I'll pretend to be Robbie for a moment though, just for fun! How would you like to go? A beam from one of my babies here or a sword into your empty void where your heart is supposed to be like you did with us?”  

Amadeus taps his arm in a ticking rhythm. Grinning still.  

“Tick. Tick. Tick... hurry before I choose for you!”

   ... For once.  

For once in Ravii's entire life, he was speechless and terrified. What WAS this man? No ordinary Sheikah... why didn't he sense that power around him? Did he somehow keep it locked away within him? No... there was no way he could have done that. Ravii shakes his head and glances at the guardians above and the ones quickly scurrying on the horizon. More were coming and he was going to be surrounded - no escape. He had to think quick... Maybe if he struck them like last time, he can kill this "Amadeus" as well...  

"You say you do not know what you are... perhaps I have... no, I truly did underestimate you. If you join me, imagine what we could do together - you and I! You could then discover who or what you are! Don't you realize what you can do? With this... with these..." He raises his hands up, looking at the guardians above them, "... we could take over this kingdom so easily. Just you and I alone!" Ravii was clearly shaking and avoiding the choices of his own execution.  

"We can take over together, Amadeus. You have so much potential... and you are wasting it on me. Why not of grandeur scale?!" He was pointing his sword at him now; his voice was panicked - he couldn't calm himself.  

"Please! I beg of you! Work alongside me!" Ravii’s voice was laced with desperation and fear. He stood, watching the other tilt his head in thought as he screamed and plead for Amadeus to join him.

“Oh, what was that? You beg of me? Wow... doesn't THAT sound familiar or WHAT?  

 Say it again, 

     say it again!” Amadeus cackles, clapping and walks towards him as two guardian stalkers follow him closely.  

“Yeeeow... muuuusic to my ears!” Amadeus grabs Ravii by the front of his cape and with his other hand he loops his sword around Ravii's sword, knocking out of his hand. Amadeus then slams him against the wall, glaring at him.

“Tick TICK...

  Actually, that is too bad... times up.”

“Wh-?!” Ravii winced as Amadeus slammed him against the wall, staring at the corrupted man in horror.

Amadeus tilts his head and pulls the trigger of the sword, making the smaller blades go on, rapidly spinning like the bladesaw.  

“You said you want to see who I am? Want to work with me? Well...  

  ... I made my decision. 

You hurt me twice with my own weapon, now you'll see it's ‘true potential’.”

Just as Ravii did to Robbie - with a quick motion he drives the sword into the corrupted king, not breaking eye contact as he does so. Watching Ravii as all the color on his face drains. Just like he did with them.  

Pulling the trigger again the blades stop and he let's go of the blade, leaving it there lodged in his chest.  

Ravii coughs violently as his eyes widened at the horror in front of him. Not the guardians or even the sword... that man in front of him. Ravii has never felt so much fear in his life. The sword he requested was now in his own chest by the creator himself.  

“I work for no one. If anything, I want to see this kingdom in ruin by my guardians. No kings nor queens, no monarchy... nothing. I don't care.  

  ... Oh, and you can keep the sword. It was made for you after all.”

Ravii’s vision was shaking, blurred... he felt panic, nausea... all at once and suddenly he felt ...

     ... Cold.  

Dropping to the ground he glanced up at the glowing eye of the monster in front of him. No, not the mechanical beasts... that monster he let out of the cage. Amadeus' eye glowing a dark, deep red looking down on him.

Amadeus watches Ravii fall to the ground and his grin only grows wider. It would be the last thing he sees along with the guardians lasers aiming at him. He waves his hand as he picks up Ravii's old sword and walks away.

The fallen king watches Amadeus pick up his sword and walk out of his sight. Now focusing on the red lasers of the guardians.  

Amadeus hum one last word that would be the last thing Ravii hears.  

As if all time stopped, everything was silent.

  “... Boom.”

The guardians fire their beams all at once and the king's scream were drowned out by the loud boom of the beams.  

King Ravii was no more.  

Nothing, nor even the sword was left.  

   Like the kingdoms he left behind.

[imaginetonyandbucky]

(Give Me A) Reason To Live

Chapter 3

by @dracusfyre

“Are you sure about this?” James asked. He was methodically checking his weapons as he distributed them around his body, putting knives in sheaths and guns in holsters. With his cleanly shaved face and newly cut hair – the better for Steve to recognize him – in that stolen SHIELD tactical gear, he was so goddamn sexy that Tony could barely look at him.

“I’ll be a lot safer than you will,” Tony pointed out. “All I have to do is fly around and blow up stuff until you give me the word.”

“Unless they scramble jets or attack helicopters on you,” James pointed out, but Tony waved off his words.

“They’re not going to fire on me in the middle of the city, and once I’m out of the city they won’t be able to keep up,” Tony said confidently, 99% sure of the first part and about 80% sure of the second part. For obvious reasons he’d never tested the suit in a one-to-one matchup with a fighter jet, but he knew their specs and felt good about his chances. “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” James said.

A funny note in his voice made Tony glance over, only to see that James was looking at him intently, with a look in his eyes that Tony couldn’t interpret. But it made his heart trip and his mouth dry and before his brain could intervene, he said, “Kiss for good luck?” The look in James’ eyes turned to surprise, and when he took a step forward and opened his mouth Tony panicked. “I’m kidding, obviously,” he babbled, backing away. “Probably should get started, don’t want Steve to wake up without us.”

James narrowed his eyes in a way that promised that he wasn’t going to forget about this, but only said, “We’ll do a comms check on my way to the SHIELD facility.”

“Yep,” Tony said brightly, starting to shove his hands in his pocket before realizing that his flight suit didn’t have pockets, then crossing his arms over his chest instead. “Meet you guys back at the cabin, right?”

“Yeah. We’ll be there as soon as we can.” As James turned to leave, Tony started to give him a stupid little wave goodbye; he turned it into just a gesture of running his hand through his hair before James could see it. It felt weird and wrong to split up, knowing that he wasn’t going to see James again for at least a week, maybe longer if they had to shake any pursuit. It would be the longest they’d been apart since he’d rescued him from Hydra, and Tony just now realized how much he was going to miss him.

“Bye,” he said softly as the door closed behind James. “Be safe.”

                                         ~~~~

James paused inside the garage, turning to stare at the door he had just closed as he wondered if he’d heard what he thought he’d heard. He wanted to go back inside and say goodbye properly, maybe take Tony up on that kiss he’d offered and then taken back, but Tony had been right – the timing on this mission was unforgiving, and if he went back inside he knew he wouldn’t be able to leave again for a while. So instead he just said, “You, too,” to the door and got in the car, anonymous black SUV bought at a police auction with stolen government tags. He took a deep breath as he cranked it up and opened the garage door, trying to set aside his worry for Tony. As good as his suit was – and it was fucking good, James was impressed and proud of how Tony always seemed to find a new way to make it even better – it didn’t make him invincible. James could think of at least three ways off the top of his head to take down the suit and prayed that the element of surprise would keep them from occurring to anyone else.

“Man in a Can, are you there?” James said when he was almost there. The SHIELD facility was near Times Square, for some reason; maybe they’d thought that since Steve had grown up in New York, it would be a good place to start his reintegration, as if the city hadn’t become unrecognizable in the last sixty years. It would be more unsettling than if Steve had woken up in the middle of nowhere, or even still in fucking Greenland.

“Hearing you loud and clear, Terminator.” James rolled his eyes but let himself smile at the call sign. He found a parking spot on the block behind the SHIELD facility, near an alley that would eventually dump into the building’s loading docks.

“I’m in position,” he said.

“Alright. It’s go time,” Tony said, voice barely betraying a hint of nerves. It suddenly occurred to James that he hadn’t really asked what Tony was planning for his distraction, and he had just enough time to feel like maybe that was a mistake before he heard the distinctive whistle and pop of fireworks. Craning his head to see the sky out of his window, he saw streamers of brightly colored smoke appear and heard Tony say something through the speakers in his suit, the echoes of the city making it hard to understand from where he was sitting. But people were starting to hurry away from the building, and the unmistakable sound of flash-bangs going off were his cue. He pulled on his helmet and got out of the car, rifle in hand.

“Building is under attack!” He shouted at the security guards as he approached. “We need to get this place evacuated!” Between the stolen uniform and the air of command – and probably also due to the sound of explosions – they believed him and ran inside to start getting people outside.

James strode through the chaos inside, directing people towards the exists as he made his way to where Steve was being held. He had to go through metal detectors and jump over turnstiles, but everyone was too busy to challenge him as he wove his way deeper into the labyrinthine building. SHIELD had gone with a ridiculous farce to try to ease Steve into the 21st century, setting up a stage inside a warehouse sized room like Steve hadn’t spent enough time on movie stages to recognize one when he saw it. Guards were posted outside, and word of Tony’s distraction must have reached them because when James approached they were talking to each other in low tones, probably deciding whether they needed to get Steve out of there or stay at their posts.

“Change in plans, guys,” James said as he approached, trying to sound breathless and worried. “The director wants us to move him, building is under attack from an unknown assailant and he’s worried for his safety.”

“Move him? But-” James punched him in the face with his metal arm and elbowed the other in the solar plexus before hitting him in the temple with the butt of his rifle, glad that these poor assholes hadn’t been issued helmets.

Then he opened the door to Steve’s room, and despite the fact he’d known what SHIELD had done, the sensation of stepping into the past made him stumble. The sound of the radio, tuned to a Yankees game, was disorienting, as were the images of an older New York being projected outside the windows.

And then there was Steve, laid out on the bed like a man on a stretcher. James pulled off his helmet and approached slowly; seeing him was the most jarring of all, because he looked exactly the same. James felt suddenly felt old, seeing Steve’s face relaxed in sleep; he felt every single one of the sixty years he’d been with Hydra, even if he’d been frozen through most of them. Christ. Waking him up would eventually mean facing those years, in a way he’d been able to avoid with Tony; Tony had known everything already, so James hadn’t had to talk about it at all, just shove it away and forget about it. No awkward conversations about nightmares and insomnia, since Tony had those too. It wouldn’t be like that with Steve, though. Steve would want to know, wouldn’t take no for an answer, would want to know about the arm and the scars and the nightmares. The blood on his hands. He wouldn’t judge, not Steve, but he wouldn’t get it, either, not like Tony did.

Tony had been right. This was going to change everything.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, James sat down on the edge of the bed. The simple motion was already pulling Steve out of sleep; James saw his breathing change, heard his heart speed up and eyes start moving behind his eyelids.

“Steve,” James said softly. “Time to get up, you lazy fuck.”  He hadn’t known what he was going to say until it came out of his mouth, but when it did, James found a new memory; calling Steve a lazy fuck was an inside joke from the war, since Steve had always been up at dawn and bursting with energy.

That made Steve’s eyes fly open. “Bucky?”

James stood as Steve sat up suddenly, eyes glued to his face. “Yeah, it’s me, Steve.”

“What- you-“ he started, before settling on, “How?”

“Long story.” Hell of an understatement. “I’ll tell you when we’re safe.”

“Safe? What do you-” Steve’s eyes flew around the room, and he picked up on all the false elements, the wrong notes and mistakes in the room that James had noticed when he’d walked in. “Where are we?”

“Not a place where we want to stay,” James said. He pulled off the small backpack that had been strapped to his back and pulled out a janitor’s uniform for Steve. “Put this on.”

Even though Steve was still confused, he obeyed, clearly still trusting James. And why wouldn’t he, James thought. He didn’t know what James had been doing the past sixty years. “I’m ready,” Steve said as he zipped it up the front. Standing there, shoulders squared and jaw tight, he didn’t look like a janitor, he looked like goddamned Captain America wearing a janitor’s uniform, but this was they best they were going to get right now. James chucked his helmet and the body armor with the giant SHIELD patch on it and stripped down to a plain burgundy shirt with dark pants to blend in with a crowd.

“Let’s go.” As James led the way out, he turned the mic on to Tony and said, “I got him. We’re heading out now.”

Thankfully, Steve was stubborn but not stupid; as soon as they got out to where there were still streams of people trying to leave the building, he understood immediately what the plan was and his shoulders slumped, making him look shorter and smaller. Explosions outside the large glass windows meant that no one was paying attention to anything but evacuating, so they managed to mingle with an unsuspecting crowd of SHIELD employees to a safe point a few blocks away. They slowly made their way to the edge of the crowd, then just walked away, heading towards an empty NYC cab that James had acquired for their escape. James was just thinking that he was surprised that the mission had gone off without a hitch, when something flashed over his head with a load roar.

“What the hell is that?” Steve said. James looked up in time to see the bright red and gold of Tony’s latest suit disappear down the street, then another loud roar came up from behind them - a quinjet, hot on Tony’s heels. Fast as a jet and as maneuverable as a helicopter, the quinjet was SHIELD’s latest baby, and James cursed because he hadn’t known they were ready to be deployed yet.

“You okay?” James said to Tony on the comms as he herded Steve into the back of the taxi. Not that there was much James could do about it if he wasn’t, since he still had to get Steve out of the city. The thought of Hydra getting their hands on Steve, of getting him into the chair, had been the cause of more than one sleepless night.

“I’m good,” Tony said back. “Still got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

James nodded, though Tony obviously couldn’t see him, and got in the driver’s seat of the cab. “One of those guys is with you?” Steve asked from the back, having clearly overheard his conversation.

“Yeah, the one that looked like a robot,” James said as he pulled into traffic. “His name is Tony. You’ll be meeting him back at our safe house.” Thankfully, New York was used to cabs driving aggressively and honking, so he didn’t draw any undue attention as he made his way out of the city. Whenever he looked in the rearview mirror, he could see Steve staring out the window, looking dismayed and baffled by what he was seeing, but he knew better than to distract James by asking questions while they were trying to escape. Soon enough they were out of traffic and into the relative safety of Newark, where James drove the taxi to the airport then hustled Steve into yet another car, this one a beige sedan.

“Are we clear?” Steve asked as James pulled out of the long-term parking lot, pulling the ballcap James had provided him farther down over his face for the parking lot security.

“Clear enough for now,” James said, shoulders finally starting to relax as they got onto the highway heading west. He hadn’t heard from Tony, but that had been part of the plan; the less communication, the better, because SHIELD and the military and Hydra would all be scanning the airwaves trying to get a lock on them. In fact, that reminded him; he pulled the comm device from his ear and crushed it before tossing it out the window. He knew in his head that Tony could take care of himself, but he also knew that he was going to get back to the cabin as fast as possible so he could make sure he was ok.

“Good,” Steve said. “Now are you going to tell me what the hell is going on?”

                                                      ~~~~

Tony barrel rolled through the canyons made by New York’s skyscrapers, feeling almost giddy as he fled from the quinjet. The fact that this SHIELD facility had a quinjet was a surprise that he should feel embarrassed about, but to be honest, he was actually having fun. He never really got the chance to push the suit to its limits since they’d mostly been doing stealth operations against Hydra; he’d even been too afraid of being seen to give it a good test run unless they were close to the open ocean.

“JARVIS, turn me on some tunes,” Tony said, and saw his playlist pop up on his HUD before he heard AC/DC blast out of his speakers. The quinjet was able to keep up with him, but obviously they couldn’t fire on him, so for now it was just a fun game of can’t catch me while people gawked from the streets and sidewalk. As big as the quinjet was, that pilot had amazing reflexes and nerves of steel to navigate through the city without damaging any of the buildings. “What’s the word with the Air National Guard?”

“ETA twenty minutes.”

Tony pulled up to hover, and the quinjet, unable to stop so quickly, shot past him. He got a glimpse of the pilots as they flew by and was surprised to see a flash of red hair. He watched as they pulled into a vertical loop to turn around and come back for another pass. “Do you know James’ position?”

“His communicator is going over the George Washington Bridge now.”

“Great. Do we have any more of that smoke?”

“Yes, sir.”

Tony made sure that the quinjet was facing him as he flew east, dodging and weaving through the city, the red smoke streaming behind him laying an unmistakable trail. He blasted over Brooklyn, no doubt tangling air traffic over the city as he went past LaGuardia then turned south. He did a loop around the Statue of Liberty, just for fun, before heading east again. When he saw the Atlantic through the maze of buildings, he put on more speed and released the last of the smoke so that for a solid thirty seconds the quinjet didn’t have visibility on him, then dove into the water. 

“Did it work, JARVIS?” Tony asked as he let himself sink into the murky water, making his way slowly out towards the open ocean.

“It appears so, sir. They are attempting to find you on radar now.”

Tony turned on the helmet lights for him to navigate the river, wrinkling his nose at the trash and watching the fish dart around him. The pilot of the quinjet must have suspected that he went into the water because they circled for a long time looking for him, making sweeping passes as they tried to pick him up on their sensors. But Tony had prepared for this; the rebreather in his suit was good for twelve hours before it needed to be replaced so he stayed under the water as he headed north until JARVIS couldn’t sense any signals for miles, radar, radio, or otherwise. GPS said he was somewhere off the coast of Maine, so he climbed to a good cruising altitude – high enough to not be seen by a casual observer, but low enough that he wouldn’t ping off of any air traffic control towers – and headed back west by way of the US-Canadian border.  

It was a long, tiring flight, especially as he went through an adrenaline crash somewhere over South Dakota, but a few hours later he was landing in front of the safe house. He’d know that he’d be back well before James and Steve, but it was still jarring and lonely to walk into the dark cabin all by himself.

He stepped out of the suit and packed it up as he unlocked the door, then he flipped on the lights and froze when saw Stane. “Hello, Tony,” Stane said. “Welcome home.”