#ch: c. stark

[ofhumanvoice-a]

The only thing I will ever fault Ned in when it comes to his marriage is keeping up the pretense that Jon was his son instead of just trusting Cat with the truth. I mean, I get why he wouldn't have AT FIRST-they were basically strangers. But I would think at SOME POINT he should have trusted her enough to know that she wouldn't let it slip to Robert that he was actually Lyanna and Rhaegar's kid. I get and respect his intent to protect his nephew, having promised his sister on her deathbed that he would, but, lbr, it would've done Jon some good not to have Cat resent him for existing.

[ilyanarasputin]

iron man vol. 3 #1 (1998)

[littlemisslomax]

"C" isn't just for Constantine...

Ch. 1 - "Oh yeah, that's a good idea."

John Constantine x nurse!Reader : CW: medical talk, mention of cancer, mention of su¡cide.

The hospital's fluorescent lights flickered overhead as you made your way down the corridor, the rhythmic beeping of machines and the hushed murmurs of nurses filling the air. Your shift had just started, and you were already tired. All of last week, you prayed to be assigned to the ER or to Triage, but here you are in Oncology and Radio. It’s so… depressing. It's so dismal that it drains you just to walk down these hallways, hearing the things you hear from different rooms as you pass them. You glanced at the chart in your hand, the first patient of the shift: John Constantine, Room 314. Preparing for an MRI. You took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

The room was dimly lit, a stark contrast to the bright, sterile hallway. A pallid, lanky man in an expensive suit sat on the edge of the exam table, a cigarette dangling from his lips, the smoke curling upwards in lazy tendrils. His eyes, dark and haunted, flicked towards you as you entered, small wisps of his black hair drooping over his forehead.

"Mr. Constantine?" you called softly, stepping closer into the room and shutting the door.

"Yeah, that's me," he replied, his voice rough and weary. He took another drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing brightly for a moment before he exhaled a plume of smoke.

“Hello, I’m uh— I’m your nurse for today.” You offer him a weak smile before your eyes trail down to the cigarette hanging loosely between his lips. “If I could just ask you to please put out your cigarette…?” The request squeaked out a bit awkwardly. It was always so tough asking patients to do anything, especially considering how much these patients already probably have to worry about.

"I'm here to help you get ready for your MRI," you explained, setting the chart down and moving to gather the necessary supplies. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, mixed with the acrid scent of tobacco. "It won't take long."

He watched you with a mix of curiosity and wariness, his eyes tracking your every movement. You could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and probing, as if he were trying to see past the surface to uncover your secrets. It was disconcerting, but you pushed the feeling aside and focused on your task.

"Not many people would want this job," he remarked, a hint of sardonic humor in his tone. His voice was like gravel, roughened by years of hard living.

You looked up, meeting his eyes. They were a striking shade of brown, intense and void-like. "Well, someone has to do it," you replied, offering a small smile. Truth be told, you would much rather be in Pediatrics, handing out stickers and lollipops, but you obviously can’t just tell him that. That would be terrible bedside manner. "And besides, everyone deserves a bit of kindness."

He let out a bitter chuckle, the sound low and mirthless. "Yeah, nothing but sunshine and rainbows for me."

"Well anyways, Mr. Constantine, let’s get you ready." You said, your voice steady. "If you could just undress and get into this gown." The paper of the hospital gown rustled a bit as you lifted it out of the exam table drawer and handed it to him. You turned away, working on something on the counter to give him some privacy. “MRI magnets are some of the strongest in the world. Please be sure you remove any and all metal from your being and leave them with your clothes.” You added as a cautionary warning. John wasn’t loving this. What a waste of time—but the blood in his coughing sure was a sight. He had to get this done. So, with a roll of his eyes, he obliged and took off his watch, and removed all metal on his body. But… he was taking a pretty long time getting that gown on. He was more worried about removing all of his protection. For just a moment you turn around and catch a glimpse of him shirtless, seeing all of those tattoos of different sigils and symbols. Your cheeks get just a little bit hot, and you turn around. Suddenly, that jar of cotton balls on the counter is extremely interesting.

You adjust your scrubs and cough before sitting down at the monitor at the desk in the corner to begin the pre-examination questionnaire. “Well, I know you smoke… How many in a day...?” You ask, pulling up his file. “Oh, I swear, I don’t smoke,” John scoffed, a sarcastic smirk spreading across his somber face as his gaze remained glued on the sterile linoleum floors. “Some guy just came in and strongarmed me into trying a cigarette… Peer pressure is a real problem in our world, y’know?” Unamused, you just look at him with a silent expression that speaks volumes. After a few beats and a couple blinks you speak up. “Mr. Constantine.” “Jeez.” He muttered, “No sense of humor...? Fine. I'd say a pack a day.” John finally gave the answer. “Well… It says here on your file that you have previously struggled with suicidal tendencies. Would you say that this is something you continue to struggle with? Preferably on a scale from one to ten.” Typically, this was a heavy question for you to ask any patient, but it seemed John wasn’t your typical patient anyway. “I wouldn’t say I struggled. I was pretty successful in my endeavors.” John gave another dry joke of an answer and a mirthless chuckle.

And he was met with another blank stare. But this time, you were trying to hold back a laugh. That one was kinda funny, but you gotta keep a straight face, this is serious. With a clearing of his throat, he spoke up another response. “About a two…” The only noise that could be heard in the exam room was the sound of your fingers clicking against the chunky keyboard, the humming of the fluorescent lights, and the crinkling of the sterile parchment under where John was seated. You stood and washed your hands before gloving up and going over to him to administer a few run-of-the-mill tests before transferring him to Radiology. The wheels of the blood pressure monitor creak as you roll the small cart over to the table. Velcro rips apart as you open the cuff and wrap it around his arm.

"So... Why do you do this?" he asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

You paused, considering your answer. "Because I believe everyone has a chance at redemption. And sometimes, it starts here, I guess."

He studied you, his gaze intense and searching as if trying to gauge the sincerity of your words. "Redemption, huh? Not sure there's enough bedside manner on earth to redeem some people." John said, his tone low and almost derisive, knowing that by 'some people,' he was really talking about himself.

"Maybe not," you conceded, meeting his eyes once more. "But it's worth a try, isn't it?"

For a moment, he seemed at a loss for words. It was as if your words had struck a chord, resonating with something deep within him. You pulled the cuff off of his arm and smiled softly.

"Maybe," he said finally, his voice softer than before. "Maybe it is."

The weird tension was broken by the entrance of John’s doctor and a couple of Radiologists, ready to take him over to the MRI. “John? You ready?” John’s dark eyes bolted over to the doctors in the doorway. The dread and worry in the pit of his stomach grew heavier and heavier.

You looked up at him and offered a reassuring smile, your hand gently resting on top of his. "I'll be here when you're done," you said gently. "You're not alone in this. They’re going to take great care of you. I’ll be sure to keep your stuff nice and safe until you come back. Looks expensive."

His eyes flicked back to yours, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of something other than cynicism and bitterness. It was fleeting, but it was there—hope, maybe, or the faintest glimmer of trust.

"Thanks," he muttered, his voice barely audible.

As you stepped back, giving him space, you couldn't help but feel a strange connection to this man. Something about him drew you in; a sense of shared understanding and unspoken empathy. You knew this was just the beginning, a first step on a path that could lead to something more.

And as you left the room, you couldn't shake the feeling that your paths were meant to cross, that in the thralls of fate, you had found each other for a reason. A regular kismet.

a/n: eat up y'all, this is gonna be a slooooowww burn. in all seriousness, i really hope you guys like it, i've had writer's block from hell recently, and know i've been super inactive. hoping this makes up for it

[behindthesoul]

Shang Tsung request. This is an idea I did in a MK roleplay. Reader is Kitana and Mileenas younger sister. She accompanies Mileena everytime she gets a Serum from Tsung. Kinda a forbidden love story since he is only doing that to gain the empress favor c: You can make it either fluff or angst at the end

Forgotten Child - Ch. 1

Shang Tsung x Reader

Masterlist || Next Part

Characters - Shang Tsung, you, Sindel, Mileena

Summary - As Sindel’s forgotten child, no one noticed how the snake wrapped his way around your heart.

Word Count - 1150

Warnings - gender neutral, implied smut, no one cares about reader, everyone’s probably OOC, Shang doesn’t know if he loves you or not.

A/N - my friend you do not know what you have created

It was tough being Sindel’s youngest child. A majority of the spotlight was on the eldest, Mileena. After all, she’s heir to the throne. A smaller light was shone on your other sister, Kitana, by her supporters who felt she was more deserving of the throne than Mileena. But you? You were forced to find comfort in your sisters’ shadows. Each time you tried to claw your way out and carve your own path, your royal duties forced you back in.

To the realm of Outworld, you were Sindel’s other child. Not important to anyone.

To Shang Tsung, you were everything. He first laid eyes on you when he snuck his way into the palace grounds. Words could not describe just how ethereal you looked. He overheard you talking to a few servants; your voice was meek, a stark contrast to the confident voices your family possessed. Shang needed more of it, so he introduced himself.

It was a perfect idea - not only could he gain the empress’ trust by managing Mileena’s Tarkat, he could also gain the trust of her child by courting them. Shang lied as easily as he breathed. He knew it wouldn’t be difficult to make you fall in love.

And you did. You attended every one of Mileena’s serum sessions. Her Tarkat diagnosis was devastating to your entire family, you saw how it destroyed the bodies of its victims; you couldn’t bear to see her suffer under the same fate. Though, you couldn’t lie and say you attended these sessions only to support her. Each week you saw Shang, you grew more and more fond of him.

You and Mileena walk the hallway to Shang Tsung’s laboratory, hand in hand. Her hand is clammy and it makes you want to pull away. Your thumb rubs circles on the back of her hand, trying to soothe her. Mileena never tried to put a brave face on for you, you know how terrified she is at the idea of succumbing to this illness.

“Princess,” Shang says, as he hears the two of you approach. “Not a minute too soon. Please, lay down and we will start.”

You walk Mileena over to the table and help her lay down. You brush stray hair from her face in another attempt to comfort her. The focus on Mileena is interrupted by Shang.

“I would appreciate an extra hand…” he trails off, and you rush over to him before he gets another chance to speak, missing how Mileena’s eyebrow quirks in curiosity. As soon as he sees you’re out of her sight, Shang wraps his hand around your waist and pulls you in for a quick kiss.

“My, how I’ve missed you.”

You stifle a laugh, as to not alert Mileena. “We were together last night, do you not remember?” You take a quick glance around the laboratory, but you’re interrupted by your lover taking your chin in his hand, making you look at him.

“A moment’s break from your gaze is an eternity past,” he hums. Shang walks toward Mileena, serum in hand. You notice how you didn’t even help him at all.

It really was no surprise when the two of you became official. But you were caught off guard when your mother found out.

“You asked to see me, mother?’ You ask, immediately feeling the tension when you walk into her bedroom. Sindel’s eyes pierce into your body, but your body protects itself by averting her gaze.

“I have eyes, you know.”

“Excuse me? I don’t understand.” Your chest tightens, not knowing where she’s getting at.

“Your relationship with the sorcerer. I don’t know why you thought it wise to court him.” She sees that you are about to speak, so she continues before you get the chance. “You doom your sister to death by distracting Shang Tsung. You will end your relationship immediately.”

You shake your head, slightly angry. “I am a distraction to no one! My courtship does not put my sister in harm’s way. Should it, I’d strike Shang Tsung down where he stands.”

Sindel walks closer to you while crossing her arms. “This is not a conversation open to argument. You will listen to your Empress, and you will not risk your sister’s life.” You want to roll your eyes at her, but you restrain yourself. It would only make this conversation worse for you.

“Mother, can’t you see that I am happy? Just once I wish you’d think about my happiness and not Mileena’s! My life is important too.”

“But your life is not the one of Outworld’s future leader. You will put her needs first.”

You can feel your heart breaking with her response. Tears start to fall as you walk out of her room. Sindel calls after you, but you don’t stop moving. Your legs unconsciously carry you to the place that comforts you the most: the palace gardens.

To your surprise, Shang Tsung is there. It’s as if he was waiting for you. He looks over at you as he hears your footsteps, and he makes his way over to you. He sees the sad look on your face and offers you his hand. The two of you slowly walk around the garden. It’s dark; the night brings a chill, drying the tears that stain your face. Shang is silent, but his hand holding yours says everything you need to hear. You look into his soft eyes, he wants to speak, but he holds back and allows you to make the first move.

“Not once in my life have I truly felt my mother’s love for me,” you choke out. “Not once have I been her priority.”

Your hands shake and your heart feels like it’s about to beat out its chest. “Does my age mean I am irrelevant?” You sob harder as Shang pulls you in for a hug, squeezing you tight. He frowns in anger.

“You, more than anyone, deserve to have the realms bow at your feet,” he mutters. “Not many are wise enough to admire and worship your beauty. Trust that I am here, darling, and that I know your worth.”

You look at him, eyes puffy and shoulders slumped - still beautiful in his eyes. Your feelings for him almost hurt, and you pray he cares for you just as much. Unable to find the right words, you kiss him. It’s not enough, he needs to know how much you burn for him.

So you kiss him again, noting how he softly sighs as your hand travels up his thigh. He pulls away and unties your robes; he admires the shine of your skin.

“I love you, more than anything,” you announce, “more than anyone.” You giggle when he smirks at your words. That’s all he needed to hear.

You’re so drunk in love that you ignore how he’s never told you he loved you, too.

[theetherealbloom]

AS GOOD A REASON - CH. 2 | OBERYN MARTELL

Chapter Two: Let The Dance With The Devil Begin

Summary: You, who has made it her life's work to get retribution on those who mistreated and harassed you when you were a child. The scars on your body are a physical reminder of the suffering you endured at the hands of abusers, and they also provide the fuel for your years-long quest for retribution.

Paring: Oberyn Martell x Fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, MINORS GO AWAY, GoT is full of serious and harmful topics, mentions of SA, Rape (not the reader), Murder, Violence, Gore, War, Poison, Scars, Burns, Scratching, Su!c!de, AU, Age–Gap Romance, Angst, FLUFF, Eventual SMUT, Swearing, PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, Crying, Suggestive content, Flirting, Blood, War, Religion References, Nudity, Domestic Abuse, Incest, Prostitution, Weapons, Fire, Horror, Character Deaths, Rewrite Alternate Universe, Sex, Alcohol, Revenge

Word Count: 7k

A/N: Omfg. I took so long to write this I know T^T Thank you for being patient with me! I just decided to have a mini break bcs I was jet lagged from travelling and had to focus on my health for a little bit. 

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: The Albatross by Taylor Swift

Previous Chapter → Next Chapter | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

RED KEEP, WESTEROS - 300 AC

You spent two decades carefully avoiding forming deep bonds, all the while meticulously plotting your revenge. You studied their weaknesses, habits, and relationships, patiently biding your time until you could strike from close range.

You had noticed the lingering glances between Cersei Lannister and Jaime Lannister, their whispered conversations turning into passionate encounters. So when Cersei bore a child, rumored to be the result of her incestuous relationship, and as you witnessed Joffrey Baratheon growing into a likeness of his parents, you recorded every detail in your leather-bound notebook. It contained all the information about those responsible for the death of Elia Martell, ensuring no detail escaped your scrutiny.

Serena, a girl you befriended in the bustling stables, is a steadfast ally in your quest for vengeance. Together, you both meticulously gather intelligence, weaving through the whispers of the kitchen staff and the secrets shared in the shadowy corners of brothels. With her keen eyes and your shared determination, you stalk those who have wronged you, laying the groundwork for your calculated retribution.

In the heart of the Seven Kingdoms, the struggle for power rages on. Joffrey Baratheon, seated upon the Iron Throne, wields authority backed by the formidable House Lannister. However, his claim faces challenge from his uncle Renly, who, bolstered by the might of House Tyrell, presses his own bid for kingship. In this turmoil, Tyrion Lannister arrives in King's Landing, aiming to assert control, only to find himself at odds with his conniving sister, Cersei, now entrenched as Queen Regent.

As autumn blankets the realm and whispers of an impending winter linger, Westeros braces for the bitter cold ahead. Yet, instead of preparing for the harsh season, the land remains conflicted. Renly Baratheon's sudden demise alters the tides of allegiance, leaving the political landscape in flux. Meanwhile, Joffrey, with the backing of House Tyrell, emerges victorious in a decisive clash against his uncle Stannis, solidifying his hold on power.

The fates of many hang precariously in the balance. In the labyrinthine corridors of King's Landing, both Tyrion Lannister and Sansa Stark navigate treacherous waters, their survival dependent on their ability to navigate the perilous currents of court intrigue.

You had served Sansa since the day she was first betrothed to King Joffrey. Back then, she had been full of dreams—visions of knighthood, love, and a golden crown. But those dreams quickly soured, turning into nightmares as the Lannisters’ hold over her tightened. What was once a promising union became a gilded cage. They kept her in the Red Keep, a prisoner beneath layers of silk and politeness. 

Sansa clung to her “lady-like” pursuits to distract from the harshness of her reality—sewing, embroidery, poetry, and music. Her stitches were always delicate, her voice soft, yet behind her graceful demeanor, you saw the cracks. You were there when Septa Mordane led her through the Red Keep’s throne room for a lesson in history. It was meant to be a glimpse into the glory of the Targaryens and the rulers of old, but instead, Sansa’s gaze lingered on the dark stain where her grandfather and uncle had been butchered by the Mad King. Her face paled, and she pressed her lips into a thin line, haunted by the ghosts of her own blood.

One evening, as she sat embroidering by the window, she confided in you. “Do you think I’ll be able to give Joffrey sons?” Her voice wavered. “What if… What if I’m only able to give him daughters, like Jeyne Poole’s mother?”

You tried to find reassuring words, though even Septa Mordane's attempts had done little to ease her fears. “You’re young, my lady. You will bear many children in time.”

Her blue eyes, wide with fear, met yours, but she said nothing more.

The Hand’s tournament arrived, and Sansa, despite everything, seemed to sparkle for a brief moment amidst the finery of the lords and knights. You stood in the shadows, watching her as she watched them. Ser Gregor Clegane, The Mountain, was a towering presence, and you felt a chill run down your spine as he unseated Ser Hugh of the Vale, killing him in the dust of the joust. Littlefinger whispered dark stories to Sansa of the Hound’s past, tales of burned flesh and brutal lessons. You saw the way Sansa’s hands trembled as she absorbed the horrors hidden beneath the chivalry.

Yet, there were moments of fleeting happiness. Ser Loras Tyrell, the famed Knight of the Flowers, gave her a single rose before his tilt with Ser Gregor. She blushed under his attention, but you noticed how Loras’s gaze lingered not on her, but on Renly Baratheon, who stood just behind. That small act of kindness, hollow as it was, brought a rare smile to Sansa’s lips, even as the court applauded Sandor Clegane’s intervention to stop his brother’s rampage.

But that brief joy was drowned by the darkness that soon followed. When King Robert Baratheon died after a hunting “accident,” everything unraveled. Eddard Stark, honorable as always, tried to reveal the truth about Joffrey’s parentage, but it was too late. You weren’t surprised when Littlefinger betrayed him. You had seen the cunning in his eyes long before, the way he played everyone like pieces on a cyvasse board. 

Chaos erupted. Eddard’s men, loyal to the last, were slaughtered by Lannister guardsmen led by Sandor Clegane. You remembered Mordane’s voice trembling as she urged Sansa to lock herself in their chambers. But there was no hiding from the Lannisters. They took her.

You watched from a distance as Sansa was humiliated before the court, her innocence crushed beneath the weight of Cersei’s cold cruelty. She stood there, trembling, and you saw the beginning of a transformation. The girl who once dreamed of knights and love was slowly breaking, her innocence being stripped away by every sneer, every command, every cold laugh in the throne room.

You wished you could offer her comfort, but in King’s Landing, comfort was as fleeting as mercy.

The great Sept was filled with the hum of whispers, the heavy weight of tension hanging in the air as Eddard Stark stood before the court. His face, weathered by years of honor and battle, now looked hollow, beaten by betrayal. You stood in the shadows, where servants always stood, your eyes flicking between the high lords and the northern Warden. As the silence fell, Eddard knelt, acknowledging his so-called “crimes” and pledging loyalty to King Joffrey.

For a moment, it seemed the court might breathe again. Sansa stood nearby, her hands trembling. Hope flickered in her eyes—briefly. But Joffrey, perched on the Iron Throne like some twisted boy-king out of a nightmare, leaned forward with a smile sharp as a blade. His words fell like a thunderclap. “Bring me his head.”

Sansa's scream cut through the hall, raw and broken. She lunged forward, hysterical, her voice lost in a storm of pleading, but the gold cloaks restrained her, forcing her back. Her cries—“Please, mercy, mercy!”—rang in your ears, making your stomach turn. 

Ser Ilyn Payne stepped forward, cold and unfeeling as he drew Ice, the greatsword of House Stark. You could see the light catch the edge of the steel, and the last thing Sansa saw before she fainted was her father’s final, resigned glance.

You moved through the chaos as a shadow. Your duty to Sansa came first, so as the blood pooled on the Sept’s floor, you carried her from the carnage, her limp body heavy with grief. The days that followed were hollow. She barely spoke, her eyes vacant as you tended to her, making sure she ate, dressing her in the Lannisters' silks even as her soul remained buried in sorrow.

It was one of those somber evenings when she finally spoke, her voice so faint you almost missed it. “Do you… serve the Lannisters?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

You paused, setting down the tray of untouched food, meeting her tired gaze. “Yes, my lady,” you answered softly.

Sansa’s eyes flickered with something—confusion, maybe anger. “Have they always been this cruel?” she asked, her words trembling with an innocent horror.

You weighed your response carefully, then nodded. “From what I’ve heard, unfortunately, yes.”

Her lips parted as she considered your answer, but it was her next question that cut deeper. “Then why do you serve them?”

You lowered your eyes, your hands folding over the fabric of her gown, the lie of your position hanging heavy on your shoulders. “It’s something I wager on,” you murmured, your voice steady despite the unease in your chest.

Sansa, always perceptive, frowned. “Is that the only kind of wager you make?”

For a moment, you froze. Then you let a faint smile tug at the corner of your lips, the words “Unbowed, unbent, unbroken” echoing in your heart, though unspoken. “There was one time I bet my entire life on something,” you confessed quietly.

She looked at you then, truly looked, her tear-streaked face searching yours. “Did you win?”

Your smile faltered, but you met her gaze with a spark of determination. “I’m planning to,” you said, with a quiet promise hanging between the two of you.

KING’S LANDING, RED KEEP — 300 AC

The stone walls of the Red Keep felt colder that night, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows on the ancient stones. In a small, dimly lit chamber tucked away from the grand halls, you worked in silence, the weight of your plan pressing down like the calm before a storm. Every movement was deliberate, each thought sharper than the edge of a Valyrian blade. The game was already in motion, and you were setting the pieces in place.

You had long been underestimated—a mere servant, a shadow in the background of the powerful Lannisters, Tyrells, and Martells. Yet, you had seen the truth: the most dangerous players were often those who remained unseen. You were one of them, a silent force, blending into the background while carefully planting the seeds of destruction. The poison, subtle and undetectable, was your weapon.

A soft knock interrupted your focus. The door creaked open, and there stood Petyr Baelish—Littlefinger himself. His thin lips curved into a smile, but there was no warmth in it, only calculation.

“Ah, a quiet place for quiet minds,” he murmured, his voice smooth as silk, eyes darting around the chamber before settling on you.

You raised your head slowly, meeting his gaze with a calm that belied the storm brewing inside you. Littlefinger wasn’t a man easily intimidated, but neither were you. Two wolves circling, each looking for the other’s weakness.

“You seem to find yourself in many quiet places, Lord Baelish,” you replied, voice soft but pointed. “What brings you here?”

He moved closer, his steps light, like a predator stalking prey. “Just ensuring the right wheels keep turning, ensuring the chaos that follows serves the right cause.” His gaze lingered on your hands, noting the fine movements as you handled a small vial, the liquid within almost imperceptibly shifting.

You allowed a small, knowing smile. “Chaos... Chaos can be useful. But only if it’s controlled.”

His eyebrow raised, amusement flashing in his eyes. “Controlled chaos? Now, that’s an art.”

You carefully set the vial down, your voice lowering to a conspiratorial tone. “What if the chaos that’s already simmering were to boil over? What if, after Joffrey’s wedding, his reign came to an... unexpected end?”

Baelish didn’t blink, though you could see the subtle change in his posture, the slight narrowing of his eyes. You hadn’t suggested anything outright—it was the art of planting the idea, the delicate balance of nudging him without him realizing he’d been led.

He took a slow breath, his mind already racing. “And who, I wonder, would have the audacity to arrange such an unexpected end?”

You smiled, but didn’t answer directly, your silence speaking volumes. Instead, you moved the conversation forward, allowing the implication to sink in.

“The realm is already full of hungry wolves, my lord,” you said, your voice steady, your hands working deftly as you began to clear away your tools. “All it takes is a nudge in the right direction, and they’ll tear each other apart. No one will stop to notice who did the nudging.”

Littlefinger tilted his head, studying you for a moment longer. “Perhaps,” he mused, his tone as noncommittal as ever, “but wolves are tricky. You can never be sure which way they’ll turn.”

“That’s true,” you conceded, meeting his eyes directly. “But I’ve always been good at reading the pack.”

The silence that followed was heavy, each of you measuring the other, testing the boundaries. He wouldn’t act on your words immediately. Littlefinger was too careful, too meticulous for that. But you could see the spark in his eyes—the idea was there, planted, waiting to take root.

With a nod, he turned to leave, but paused at the doorway. “You have a dangerous mind,” he remarked, half admiration, half warning. “Be careful. The pack bites back.”

You gave him a knowing look. “Only if they see the one holding the leash.”

Days passed, and as you moved through the grand halls of the Red Keep, you watched everything begin to fall into place. Like a silent puppeteer, you pulled the strings without ever needing to step into the light.

Varys had been busy, moving pieces on the board that even you hadn’t expected. Ros had whispered in his ear, and soon after, Lady Olenna Tyrell had been brought into the fold. The whispers of a marriage between Sansa Stark and Loras Tyrell spread through the castle like wildfire. You had always known Varys to be a man of schemes, but even you marveled at how quickly he moved.

In the gardens, you overheard the conversations as they unfolded—subtle, quiet, but filled with power. Lady Olenna, with her sharp wit and keen mind, was already orchestrating her plans, likely envisioning a future without Joffrey’s cruel reign.

You stood in the shadows as Littlefinger passed by, his expression unreadable. He had heard your suggestion, and though you were not directly involved, you knew the idea had taken root. He would set things in motion, ensuring the chaos that followed would serve him—and you would remain unseen, untouched by the blood that would soon spill.

RED KEEP, WESTEROS – 301 AC

The War of the Five Kings dragged on, but within the Red Keep, the battles were far subtler, fought with whispers and veiled threats. Your life as a servant under King Joffrey's reign had grown increasingly unbearable. Between the relentless demands of court life and the constant fear of his cruelty, you found little time to care for yourself.

Your headache throbbed—a reminder that you hadn’t eaten since dawn, and the long days had begun to blur into endless nights. It wasn’t uncommon for you to push through these spells, but this time felt different. The world around you grew heavier, your limbs sluggish, and the gardens seemed far away.

Basket in hand, filled with fruit from the kitchens, you trudged through the Red Keep's gardens. The bright afternoon light stabbed at your eyes, worsening the pounding in your head. You tried to focus on your task, but each step felt more labored, and a cold sweat broke out on your skin.

As you rounded a corner near the overgrown hedges, your vision blurred. The world tilted. The cobbled path beneath your feet shifted into an unforgiving blur of stone and soil, and with a muffled thud, everything went black.

In that hazy in-between of consciousness, a voice pulls you back—familiar, though distant. “He would have liked you,” Princess Elia’s voice echoes in your mind.

“Whom do you speak of, my lady?” you had once asked her, back when the Red Keep still buzzed with life and not dread.

“My brother. Oberyn. He’s trouble, but even so, I love him dearly.”

For a brief moment, you can almost feel her presence, and the weight of the past rushes over you like a cold wave. You blink, pulling yourself out of the memory just as a different voice fills your ears. A deeper one, full of curiosity and something unreadable.

You woke slowly, your senses coming back in fragments: the scent of crushed grass, the cool air against your skin, and the distant murmur of voices. Your eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the filtered sunlight through the leaves overhead.

"Careful. Don’t rush."

The voice was deep, tinged with amusement. A hand—warm and strong—rested on your shoulder, gently holding you down. You blinked, focusing on the face above you, unfamiliar yet striking. Dark, sharp eyes, framed by lustrous and black with only a few silver streaks recede from his brow into a widow's peak. The emblem of a red sun pierced by a golden spear embroidered on his tunic caught your eye.

Oberyn Martell. The Red Viper of Dorne.

“Are you injured?” His voice held a soft curiosity as if you were some puzzle he intended to unravel.

You shook your head, still disoriented. "No, I... I must have fainted."

He raised an eyebrow, glancing at the basket of spilled fruit beside you. “It seems you’ve been overworking yourself. King Joffrey’s court, I assume? They’re not known for their kindness.”

A rush of embarrassment warmed your cheeks. You scrambled to sit up, but Oberyn’s hand remained firm.

“Take your time,” he said, his tone softening. “Even a servant deserves a moment to breathe.”

You weren’t used to kindness, especially not from someone of his stature. His reputation as a fierce and dangerous man preceded him, yet there was something else—an air of compassion, albeit hidden beneath his sharp edges.

“I’m... grateful,” you murmured, unsure of how to respond. “But I should get back to my duties. They won’t—”

Oberyn interrupted with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Let them wait. The Lannisters have their claws in many, but even a viper can strike when the time is right.”

There was a pause, a subtle shift in the air between you and Oberyn Martell. His gaze lingered a little longer than necessary, and though his words were casual, they held an undercurrent you couldn’t quite place. It was as though he saw something deeper in you, something more than just a servant tending to her duties. Fate, or perhaps something far more dangerous, had drawn his attention to you.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he stood upright, his dark eyes gleaming with a playful intensity. "You Dornish are known for our... passions," he said, his voice a low, deliberate purr. "But it seems fate has a way of placing beauty in my path, whether I ask for it or not."

You blink, unsure of how to respond, heat rising uncomfortably to your face. He stepped closer, his presence both magnetic and overwhelming. His fingers brushed lightly against your wrist, lingering there a moment longer than propriety would allow. "Tell me," Oberyn continued, his tone playful yet edged with something deeper, "does a woman like you often find herself fainting at the feet of princes? Or is this a rare occasion?"

Your breath hitched, panic flaring inside you, though you did your best to suppress it. Affection—let alone attention—was something you were unaccustomed to. His flirtation was like a wildfire, threatening to burn through the careful walls you'd built around yourself.

"I... I don’t..." you stammered, trying to pull your thoughts together, your mind racing. You weren’t used to being noticed, not like this, not by someone like him.

Oberyn tilted his head, his smirk widening as if he could sense the flurry of emotions raging within you. "Don't be shy," he murmured, voice lowering as his eyes roamed over you with quiet curiosity. "I can see there's much more to you than meets the eye." 

The words felt like a tease, a challenge wrapped in silk, and your heart pounded in your chest, caught between the instinct to flee or stand frozen in place. Oberyn Martell's gaze seemed to strip away every defense you had carefully built over the years, as though he could see straight through the mask of servitude you wore.

You forced yourself to take a deep breath, steadying your trembling nerves. This was not the time to panic, not in front of the Red Viper of Dorne. He was too sharp, too dangerous, and your heart fluttered at the way his presence seemed to unsettle the very air around you.

Without answering the prince’s flirtatious remark, you bent down to hurriedly gather the fallen fruit, your fingers clumsy as you fumbled with the basket. But even as you moved, you felt his eyes on you, watching every motion with an almost predatory amusement.

A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he crouched beside you, his hand brushing yours as he handed you one of the scattered apples. "You're in quite the hurry," he murmured, the smirk never leaving his face. His touch lingered, deliberately slow as he placed the fruit in your basket.

You rose quickly, trying to distance yourself, but Oberyn stood just as swiftly. Before you could retreat, he grasped your wrist, pulling it gently toward him. His movements were fluid, effortless, as if this were a dance he had long perfected. He raised your hand to his lips, his dark eyes locked on yours, and pressed a kiss to your knuckles—his lips soft, warm against your skin.

Your breath caught, panic fluttering in your chest like a trapped bird. Heat crept up your neck, your heart racing as you tried to pull yourself together, but his touch seemed to set your mind spinning.

Just then, Oberyn’s eyes shifted, narrowing as he caught sight of something—your scars, peeking out from beneath your long sleeves. His brow furrowed ever so slightly, curiosity flashing across his features. He tilted his head, about to speak.

But you jerked your hand away, the sudden movement sharp, almost frantic. "I should go," you blurted, the words tumbling out hastily. You gathered your things, your pulse still thrumming wildly as you turned on your heel, desperate to escape his piercing gaze.

As you hurried away, you could feel Oberyn's eyes lingering on your retreating form, his expression unreadable. Even in your rush, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the prince wasn’t done with you yet.

KING'S LANDING, WESTEROS – 301 AC

The sun hung high over King’s Landing, its golden light casting a deceptive warmth over the cool sea breeze that drifted in from Blackwater Bay. You stood with Marei at the edge of the courtyard, the bustle of the palace below and the hum of the city distant beneath the tranquil air. The garden was alive with color, a stark contrast to the heavy gloom that clung to those gathered at the banquet table.

Shae moved with a quiet urgency, filling a plate with food from the banquet spread. She placed it in front of Sansa, who sat still, pale and lifeless, her face void of any spark. Her slender hands rested on her lap, unmoving. It was as if she had already become a shadow, despite still breathing.

“You need to eat something,” Shae urged softly, her voice carrying both concern and exasperation.

Sansa did not stir. 

“Pigeon pie,” Shae offered, her tone gentler now, but Sansa’s pale lips barely moved as she whispered, “No, thank you.”

A sigh escaped Shae, but she quickly turned back to the table, scanning for something else. With a quick motion, she removed Sansa's untouched plate and placed a new offering in front of her. “Lemon cakes?” Shae asked, a glimmer of hope in her voice. Everyone knew Sansa's love for lemon cakes.

Sansa’s voice, barely a whisper, responded again. “No, thank you.”

Shae’s expression faltered. “You love lemon cakes.”

But Sansa remained unmoved, as if the world around her had lost all meaning. Shae’s shoulders slumped in frustration, her eyes flicking toward you and Marei before glancing at the entrance of the courtyard.

Tyrion Lannister entered the garden with deliberate steps, his short legs struggling to match the long strides of the men he was often compared to. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the scene with quick efficiency. Despite his stature, you had learned well enough that Lord Tyrion Lannister was not a man to be underestimated. His mind was his sharpest weapon.

“Tyrion,” Shae called out to him with a sigh of relief. “Tell her she needs to eat.”

Tyrion approached the table, offering a small, polite smile. “My lady, you do need to eat.”

Sansa’s gaze remained fixed somewhere in the distance, her hands limp in her lap. “I don’t need to eat,” she said softly, without even looking at him.

Tyrion hesitated for a moment, glancing between Shae, you, and Marei. His expression was measured, patient. “Could I have a moment alone with my wife?” he asked gently, though his tone held the firmness of a command.

You exchanged a quick look with Marei before bowing your head and stepping away. Shae, however, lingered, her eyes flashing with concern and defiance. She crossed her arms, unwilling to yield.

“She needs to eat,” Shae said stubbornly, her eyes narrowing as she looked between Tyrion and Sansa. 

Tyrion met her gaze, his expression imploring, but Shae’s frustration was palpable. With one last glance at Sansa, Shae reluctantly turned and left the garden.

Tyrion took a seat across from Sansa, his eyes softening as he reached out to take her hand. His grip was gentle, but firm enough to draw her from her daze. “I can’t let you starve, Sansa,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with quiet compassion.

Sansa didn’t react. She stared past him, her blue eyes hollow, as if the world had dulled to nothing but gray. Shae, now at the far end of the garden, cast a furious glance back toward Tyrion, her anger simmering just beneath the surface.

A FEW DAYS LATER

KITCHEN KEEP, KING'S LANDING — DAY

The kitchen was a chaotic blend of sounds and smells, with servants rushing around, preparing the feast for the garden party. You focused on your tasks, slicing fruits and arranging them neatly, hoping the repetitive motions would calm the unease bubbling in your chest. The Lannisters' garden parties always came with tension—too many eyes, too many secrets.

Serena, ever observant, moved beside you with a conspiratorial smile. Her presence had always been a quiet comfort, an unspoken pact between two women wronged by the same family. She nudged your side playfully, her voice just loud enough for you to hear over the clattering pans and murmurs of other servants.

“Guess what I overheard in the gardens earlier,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling with the excitement of fresh gossip.

You glanced up, your curiosity piqued. “What is it now?”

She leaned in closer, her voice dropping even lower. “Tyrion and Lord Varys were having one of their secret little chats. Something about Shae.” She gave a sly smile before recounting the conversation she’d overheard, her voice adopting a mocking impression of Tyrion's measured tone.

“Lord Varys. Breakfasting with the king?”

Your hands paused over the fruit, recognizing the weight of that simple greeting. Serena continued, now mimicking Varys’ smooth, ever-cautious reply.

“I’m afraid foreigners aren’t welcome at such exclusive affairs,” she quoted, barely concealing a smirk.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the slight smile that tugged at your lips. Tyrion and Varys—always circling each other, testing the limits of loyalty and power. Serena’s impression was spot on, and the dry chuckle she added to Varys’ line brought the exchange to life.

“Oh, to be foreign,” she muttered in Tyrion’s voice before glancing around the bustling kitchen with exaggerated suspicion, mimicking Varys’ quiet amusement.

“Ahem,” she finished with a soft laugh.

The kitchen clamor drowned out any chance of someone overhearing, but you kept your gaze fixed on your hands, focusing on the fruit before you. "What did they say after that?" you asked in a low voice, not wanting to appear too interested but knowing that information like this was often a lifeline in King's Landing.

Serena's smile dimmed slightly as she continued, her tone more serious now. “They were talking about Shae. Varys warned Tyrion that she’s been noticed. That Sansa’s maid saw them together, and it’s only a matter of time before Cersei—and worse, Tywin—find out.”

Your breath hitched slightly. That was dangerous—too dangerous for a place like this.

You glanced up at Serena, who nodded grimly. “Varys told Tyrion his father has promised to hang the next whore he’s found with.”

Your stomach twisted, though you managed to keep your expression neutral. Information like this could be a weapon if used correctly. But it also carried its own risks, especially for someone like you, who lived in the shadows of these powerful people. You simply nodded and whispered, "Thank you."

KING’S LANDING GARDEN, DAY — 301 AC

The gardens of the Red Keep, beautiful though they were, could not ease the tension that clung to the air. The lush greenery and sea breeze seemed wasted on the gathering before you, where cruelty simmered beneath the surface. You moved silently among the servants, pouring wine, offering trays of food, your head low as your sharp eyes observed everything. No one here was truly safe—not even those who smiled and pretended otherwise.

You had learned long ago to watch, to listen, to see things others missed. And here, among the so-called lords and ladies, your simmering hatred boiled just beneath the surface. Revenge had a way of lurking in quiet moments like these, waiting for the perfect opportunity.

At the head of the table sat King Joffrey, his golden crown glinting in the sun like a mockery of all that was just. Around him, the key players of the realm gathered: Queen Cersei, her eyes sharp and watchful; Lord Tywin, stoic and commanding as always; Prince Tommen, innocent and ignorant of the malice around him; and Grand Maester Pycelle, old and leering.

But your attention flickered to Sansa Stark. Pale, withdrawn, her once-vibrant spirit all but crushed under the weight of her suffering. She sat beside her husband, Tyrion Lannister, who, despite his small stature, radiated an awareness far sharper than anyone gave him credit for. The tension between them was palpable, an unspoken grief they both carried.

Your heart tightened as you watched, knowing Sansa's pain was not unlike your own. Like her, you had learned to survive in silence, though your silence was of a different kind. The Lannisters had taken too much from you. They were going to pay for it one day, one way or another.

Across the table, Lord Mace Tyrell puffed out his chest, carrying a gleaming goblet, his voice filled with a pride that bordered on foolishness.

“From House Tyrell and the people of the Reach, Your Grace, it is my honor to present you with this wedding cup.”

He placed the goblet before Joffrey, who barely looked at it, his lips curling into a mocking smile.

“A handsome goblet, my lord. Or shall I call you Father?”

You noted how Mace Tyrell’s face flushed with both pride and unease. He bowed deeply. “I would be honored, Your Grace.”

As Mace withdrew, Shae moved gracefully through the crowd, setting a tray before Sansa. You saw how her eyes flickered toward the young girl, but there was no response from Sansa, no recognition of the kindness that once might have been there.

Then, the sharp voice of Queen Cersei pierced the moment, her words venomous.

“She’s the whore I told you about. The dark-haired one.”

Your blood boiled as you saw Shae stiffen. The insult cut through the air like a blade, but Shae, ever composed, turned to leave without a word. You noticed how Tywin’s cold eyes followed her, narrowing as she walked away.

“Have her brought to the Tower of the Hand before the wedding,” Tywin ordered, his voice devoid of any emotion, yet as sharp as a death sentence.

Tyrion’s face darkened. You could see the concern etched into his features, his helplessness as he tried to control a situation slipping further out of his grasp. Your heart raced, knowing the precarious game being played here—and how dangerous it was for all involved.

Shae’s departure was barely noticed as Podrick stepped forward, carrying a large tome. He placed it carefully before Joffrey, and Tyrion followed, a strained smile on his face as he addressed the king.

“A book,” Joffrey said, his voice dripping with disdain.

Tyrion clasped his hands together, speaking with calm civility. “The Lives of Four Kings. Grand Maester Kaeth’s history of the reigns of Daeron the Young Dragon, Baelor the Blessed, Aegon the Unworthy, and Daeron the Good. A book every king should read.”

For a brief moment, Joffrey hesitated. His sharp tongue seemed to fail him as the weight of the gift hovered in the air. But Tywin’s piercing gaze prodded him, and the boy-king forced a mocking smile.

“Now that the war is won, we should all find time for wisdom,” Joffrey said, his voice laced with scorn. “Thank you, Uncle.”

Tyrion bowed, but the tension between them crackled like a hidden storm.

Before anyone could breathe, The Mountain lumbered forward, carrying a sword swathed in black cloth. He laid it before Joffrey with all the reverence of a knight presenting a sacred relic. Tywin rose, his voice steeped in gravitas as he spoke.

“One of only two Valyrian steel swords in the capital, Your Grace, freshly forged in your honor.”

Joffrey’s eyes gleamed with an almost childlike excitement as he tore the sword from its sheath, its blade gleaming ominously in the sunlight. You felt a ripple of unease roll through the gathered nobles as the blade sliced through the air.

“Careful, Your Grace,” Pycelle croaked from his seat. “Nothing cuts like Valyrian steel.”

But Joffrey’s wicked grin only widened. “So they say.”

In a sudden, violent movement, Joffrey swung the sword down, cleaving the book Tyrion had gifted him clean in half. The sound of tearing parchment and splintering leather echoed through the garden. A gasp rippled through the crowd, but Joffrey was delighted with himself.

“Such a great sword should have a name,” Joffrey declared, his eyes burning with cruel glee. “What shall I call her?”

The crowd murmured suggestions, none of which seemed to please the boy-king. But then, his lips curled into a malicious grin.

“Widow’s Wail. I like that. Every time I use it, it’ll be like cutting off Ned Stark’s head all over again.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine. You saw Sansa freeze beside him, her face drained of color, her entire body rigid with the memory of her father’s execution. Across the garden, Shae watched, her eyes narrowing with unspoken fury.

You kept your head down, but the seething rage inside you boiled hotter. One day, they would all pay for this. The Lannisters, their cruelty, their arrogance—it would all come crashing down. And you would make sure of it.

KING’S LANDING GARDEN, LATE AFTERNOON — 301 AC

The preparations for the royal wedding between Joffrey and Margaery were endless, consuming the days and nights of everyone within the Red Keep. But while others concerned themselves with the surface duties, your mind was preoccupied with a far more dangerous task.

The thought of the Strangler stones hidden within Sansa's necklace gnawed at you. The pieces were already in motion, each step methodically planned. Your hands moved through the flowers you were tasked with arranging, but your thoughts were elsewhere, carefully calculating the next move in your plot to bring down King Joffrey without implicating yourself. 

As you worked alone in the gardens, the late afternoon sun blazed overhead. The sweat clung to your skin, and the heat forced you to roll your sleeves up just enough to reveal the faint, jagged lines of scars that adorned your forearms. The burn scars, remnants of your brutal encounter with Ser Gregor Clegane, were still a reminder of what you endured—and survived. The pain was still fresh, but it fueled your resolve. Spite, after all, was a powerful motivator.

You barely noticed the approaching footsteps until a shadow fell across your path. Looking up, you were met with the sharp, knowing gaze of Oberyn Martell. His smirk was playful, as it often was, but there was something deeper there—an intensity that sent a ripple of unease through you. 

"You work too hard," he said smoothly, his voice like silk. "It’s a crime to see such beauty covered in dirt."

You straightened, brushing your hands on your apron, trying to keep the panic from showing. "I have my duties, my lord," you replied, keeping your tone even. The way Oberyn looked at you—intense, almost predatory—made your heart race, though you tried to remain composed.

He crouched beside you, plucking a flower from the arrangement and twirling it between his fingers. His eyes flicked briefly to the scars on your arm, scars you quickly moved to conceal by rolling down your sleeves. But it was too late—Oberyn’s gaze lingered on them for just a moment, something unreadable flickering in his expression. 

The way he studied you wasn’t merely out of curiosity, but recognition. His next words carried a weight that hung in the air between you both. 

"There are stories... of a servant who once attended to Princess Elia." Oberyn’s tone remained casual, but you could feel the shift, the tension creeping in as he spoke. "They say she escaped the Sack of King’s Landing with her life. Barely."

Your breath hitched, but you forced yourself to remain still. You had heard those stories too. After all, you had lived them.

Oberyn leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Some say she vanished, swallowed by the chaos. Others claim she survived through sheer will, fueled by spite." His dark eyes locked onto yours, searching. "I wonder… do you know of such tales?"

The question lingered in the air, heavy with suspicion. You met his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest, but your face remained a mask of composure. "Many stories are told in King’s Landing, my lord. Few of them hold any truth."

Oberyn’s lips curled into a faint smile, but his eyes remained sharp, watching you carefully. "Perhaps," he murmured. "But then again, some tales are more dangerous than others." He stood up, still twirling the flower between his fingers, casting one last glance at your concealed scars. "Sometimes, survival speaks louder than words."

Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps interrupted the moment. Ellaria Sand approached, her eyes already on you. There was a possessiveness in her gaze, though softened by intrigue.

“So this is the woman who has caught my prince’s eye,” Ellaria remarked, her voice a low purr as she moved closer, her hand brushing lightly against Oberyn’s shoulder.

You bowed your head, hiding the inner storm brewing within you. "My lady," you greeted, though the tension in the air was unmistakable.

Ellaria’s gaze flicked to Oberyn, then back to you. “She is different,” she said, her tone intrigued, but there was an edge of caution in her words. “I wonder what it is you see in her, my love?”

Oberyn chuckled softly, his attention still on you. “There’s something about her,” he said, his voice smooth, yet laced with deeper meaning. “Something familiar.”

Ellaria looped her arm through his, drawing him closer to her side. “Familiar or not, I trust you know where your loyalties lie.”

Oberyn’s smile deepened, but his gaze didn’t waver from you. "Always," he replied to Ellaria, but his words were aimed at you, and the unspoken suspicion between you both lingered in the air, unsaid but undeniable.

As the two of them moved off together, your heart pounded in your chest. Oberyn's words, the way he had looked at you—he was starting to piece it together. He suspected who you truly were, but for now, he remained silent, watching. You returned to your task, but the weight of his suspicion clung to you. 

Everything had only just begun, and you were already in far deeper than you had anticipated. But like the scars on your skin, the memories of your past had shaped you into what you were now. And just like that day long ago, you would survive.

TAGLIST:

@christinamadsen

[yourmidnightlover]

timeless - ch. 3

pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader

summary: in a flashback chapter, we see what it was like for reader and bucky before and during deployment, up until they were captured by what they didn’t know was hydra.

warnings: canon typical violence, talk of war, wounds, little knowledge of how deployment/war works on my end lol, affectionate/flirty bucky, if i missed anything PLEASE let me know!

w/c: 2.3k+

a/n: HIIII! another chapter that’s not two months out… who am i???? this chapter is definitely the last calm before the storm… expect either the next or the one after that to be very very angsty. i haven’t decided if i want to do the next chapter in current time/civil war time or a flashback as well, so if you have a preference please let me know!

<- chapter 2 ~ chapter 4 ->

two days before deployment

two weeks ago you found out you were being deployed as a nurse for the 107th with your best friend. your uniform came in a week ago. now, it was only two days until you would go to europe to try and ensure the safety of the men who were fighting for your freedom.

especially the man you called your best friend.

buky wasn’t nervous. well, not about himself, at least. he worked you twice as hard during your workouts, demanding longer runs and harder punches until he was satisfied with your progress. he pushed you to your limits and helped you cool off, running you hot baths and cooking you dinner when you were too sore to move.

although you loved having all of his attention and devotion, it had been a strenuous two weeks.

“the stark expo?” you questioned as he called out to you from the kitchen. you were in the shower, scrubbing away after another long workout as he was throwing together some sandwiches.

“yea!” you could hear his smile. “i’ll go in my uniform, you could even throw yours on. you know i would definitely love to see that,” you rolled your eyes at his comment, knowing he was merely joking around.

“maybe in your dreams.”

“you know it,” he knocked on the bathroom door to alert you of his presence. “i think it’ll be a nice last outing for steve and us. one last hoorah before… everything. one more good memory.”

“you say that as if it’ll be our last, jamie!” you turned the water off and wrapped a towel around your body before yanking the door open. “we’ll be back. between the two of us, we’re unstoppable, right?”

he turned to look at you, taking a deep breath before continuing, “i know, but it’ll be different, y’know?” he let his hand find your wet hair, laughing at your dripping wet state. “you should dry off, the food’s ready.”

“thank you, my chef,” you scampered into the guest room (your room, really) and quickly got dressed.

the truth is, bucky was scared shitless. sure, he was worried he wouldn’t be coming home once it’s all over. he was scared he would get whatever ptsd was. he was frightened about the possibility of him getting severely injured. but the thing that was debilitating him the most was the fact that he might not be able to protect you.

he’s always prided himself on being able to tell when you’re within a 3 mile radius of danger, guiding you out of harm's way as soon as he realises. with you literally going into a war zone, you will be surrounded by danger. gunshots, grenades, hand to hand combat, everything that could possibly harm you, you would encounter firsthand. that is what was the most frightening part of this whole deployment situation.

for you, you were simply scared to lose bucky. you couldn’t give two shits about what would happen to yourself. bucky had a family here, his best friend, he had so much. you just wanted to make sure that he would be able to make it back to all of it.

in a perfect world, the both of you would have made it back together.

-

“i knew you’d look amazing,” bucky cheered as you stood by your door, clad in your uniform and feeling tacky as ever.

“i dunno if i actually want to wear this out, jamie,” you pulled at the neckline, neglecting to look at him in return. “feels… weird.”

“c’mon, darlin’ you look great,” you felt his hands reach for yours, breaking your attention on yourself and diverting it to him.

boy, was he one to talk about you in your uniform when he looks so wonderful in his own. from his hat to the buttons adorning his cufflinks, he looked to die for. so much so, that your breath actually caught in your throat.

“woah there, y/n/n,” he smirked knowingly. “make sure to breathe for me. can't be leaving without you, darlin’.”

you rolled your eyes and shoved his shoulder, “so arrogant.”

but he’s not wrong… no matter how much you wish he was, he always seemed to truly know what made you tick, and he knew how to tease you from it, too.

he also knew how beautiful he was. there was no way he didn’t with how many girls constantly ogle him as he simply walks the sidewalks with you or steve. in school, you would always see how the girls gravitated towards bucky. you couldn’t blame them, either. he’s tall, dark, and handsome with pretty blue eyes that were like whirlpools, sucking you in and making you look stupid for trying to not get sucked in to the spiral.

truth be told, you were jealous when he would entertain these other girls. he would take them dancing or to fancy restaurants, sometimes telling you and steve all about it upon his return.

sure, you were often entertained by other guys back in school, but if you were honest with yourself, you knew they were just distractions. they never compared to bucky.

all bucky would ever do was complain about your poor choice of distractions. if you went on a date to the fair, your date never took you on enough rides. if you went dancing then your partner must’ve had two left feet in bucky’s eyes.

no matter what went on, bucky found a way to make it seem like you had terrible taste in men, so somewhere along the way, you’d kinda stopped trying. besides, it’s not like those dates ever truly meant anything to you anyway.

“you know you love it,” he traded your hands for your waist as he tugged you into his chest. “i still don’t like the idea of you goin’ in, even if you’ll be goin’ with me.”

“well,” you placed a hand on his shoulder, “we still can’t change anything about it. we’ll be alright, jamie. we’ll be alright.”

with that, you left to meet steve at the expo with another date bucky’s trying to set him up on. steve was pouting, as usual. apparently he had been denied entry into the army by yet another station. soon, all of this would catch up to him and by the time it does, the police would be right on his trail too.

“i can do it; they’re asking everyone to enlist, for everyone to help however they can, yet they won’t let me try!” steve went on about how frustrating his situation was.

bucky threw his arm over the smaller man, “they’re just lookin’ out for you, punk. you know that. now, you keep trying to enlist how you are, you’re gonna end up gettin’ in bigger trouble than usual.”

“doesn’t make it any less frustrating, jerk,” he elbowed bucky’s gut that he was positioned under.

“boys, boys,” you sighed as the two finally stopped shoivng at one another. “i would like to spend my last night here not talking about what we’re about to go into, please.”

it was extremely crowded, body’s shoulder to shoulder trying to see what howard’s newest mystical yet scientific creation would be.

as some douchebag that was nearly a foot taller than you manuevered to stand right in front of you, bucky bent down to your level, “wanna get on my shoulders?”

“jamie, you’re gonna drop me on my face!” you chuckled at his suggestion.

“ouch,” he threw his hand over his heart, clutching it intensely. “you wound me. have a little trust,” and with the smile he was sending your way, you couldn’t say no.

suddenly, his head was beneath your thighs, but not in the way you might’ve imagined a time or two when you were by yourself, lifting you to see above nearly everyone else in the vicinity. his hands were gripping your thighs tight, ensuring your security whilst also spreading a bit of warmth very close to where his head resided. your hands wandered to his shoulders, you didn’t want to mess up his uniform too much.

“better up there, doll?”

“much,” you laughed as him and steve continued their way through the crowd to see better.

howard stark began his speech and presentation, everyone ‘ooo’-ing and ‘awe’-ing each minute. with so much talk of the future, it mostly reminded you of the fear you had of your own. would you mom ever come back from this war, herself? would she be lost in her work? what would life look like if things didn’t go well in the field?

it was almost as if bucky could tell you were in your head because within a few more minutes, he ushered the two of you out of the crowd before easing you off his shoulders with his award-winning smile.

“seems like steve ran off again,” bucky chuckled as he adjusted his cap. “what a surprise right?” his voice was dripping with sarcasm. you remained silent, stuck in your own head before bucky continued. “what’s one thing you want to do before you die.”

“woah!” your eyes widened. “way to be cheerful, jamie,” you scoffed at his question as you continued walking around, seemingly nowhere.

“hey,” he placed his hand on your shoulder, turning you towards him. “i’m serious. i know it’s scary, what we’re going into. i’m scared shitless. i’m terrified. but what i’m scared of most is losing you, doll,” he paused, letting his fingers take through the ends of your hair before he continued. “so, tell me, what’s one thing you want to do before you die.”

“i wanna see the northern lights,” you admitted quietly, almost embarrassed. “i mean, i’ve seen pictures of ‘em in the paper, but the way people write about them makes it seem like they’re so much better in person.”

“i know the feeling,” you met his gaze before you continued.

“what about you?” you nudged his shoulder with your own. “what do you wanna do before you die?”

“i don’t think there’s anything else i want in my life right now,” he kept playing with your hair before you continued walking around the park, his arm thrown around your shoulder and yours around his waist.

-

3 weeks after deployment

“heya, doll,” bucky’s voice rang through the tent as he made his way towards you.

currently, you were stitching up someone with a 5 inch laceration to their thigh, one inch to the right and it would’ve struck their major artery and he would’ve been a goner.

“james, i’m busy right now,” wiping off the wound once more, applying antibacterial ointment before wrapping his thigh in gauze. “be sure to come back before lights out, i’ll clean and redress the wound, try to stay off of it if you can,” you gave the man a worried grin.

“thank you, y/n,” the man pressed a kiss to your hairline before making his way to his bunk, you assume.

“just came to say hi to my best girl,” he wrapped his arms around your waist. “and i have a small wound i need you to tend to, please?”

you turned to face him, rolling your eyes when you saw the puppy dog eyes adorned on his adorable face, even covered in layers of dirt and grease.

“let me see it.”

he lifted his shirt - god those abs - to show you the many bruises and scratches littering his torso. you looked up at him with sad eyes. “i hate seeing you like this…”

he paused before snaking his finger under your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. “i’m okay. it’s just the price of war.”

“i hate that you’re the one paying for it, though,” you shrugged as you motioned for him to lift his arms so you could remove his shirt easier. “gosh, jamie,” it was worse the more you uncovered. “it’s like you’re rolling around on a knife out there.”

“sorry, doll,” he chuckled as you reached for more supplies. you took a washcloth and dipped it in a bucket of water, wringing the washcloth and wiping down his chest and arms. “you’re so gentle.” you continued your job with close concentration. “always loved that about you, y’know?” you ignored his comments. “and your lip does this thing when you’re so concentrated - i don’t even know how to describe it, it’s so adorable.”

you sighed, biting back a smile as you leaned back, “i’m starting to think you purposely get hurt just to see me, now.”

“caught on already?” he chuckled before wincing slightly. you leaned forward once more and started back on cleaning up his skin.

“luckily nothings too deep,” you commented. “you won’t need stitches, but with as many cuts as there are here, i’m gonna go ahead and disinfect and wrap you with some antibacterial to avoid infection.”

“i love it when you talk all doctor to me,” you rolled your eyes at his comment. he lowered his voice before continuing, “can i still sneak in with you tonight?”

“you always do,” you smiled as you dabbed rubbing alcohol on his wounds, trying to distract him as the sting began. “same time?”

“always,” he nodded before you began putting on the antibacterial ointment and then wrapping his torso. “thanks, doll.”

“anytime, jamie,” you nodded as he wrapped you in a warm embrace.

he came into your tent that night. you reapplied his ointment and rewarded him before he insisted you lay your head on his chest to go to sleep, claiming it was more comforting that way. he held you as he slept, not even realizing how tight his grip was.

you didn’t mind it, though. it was comforting. you felt safe and secure in his arms.

that’s how you’ve slept the past two weeks. the same routine, every day. at least, when he was at base. it was harder when he was off fighting. sometimes you had dreams that instead of him coming back to you, it was a letter of condolences, saying their apologies for his missing body.

other times you didn’t sleep at all, too busy worrying about if he was alright or safe at all. you would worry that he was wounded, crying for your help.

i’m a few months, your life would be turned upside down. you weren’t prepared for what was in store, neither was bucky or steve.

TAGS:

@cjand10

@coldheartedmar

@ordelixx

[hexpea]

Ch. 8 - Seedling The symbolic meaning of seedlings is often associated with potential, trust, and hope. ⚠️NSFW BELOW⚠️ AN: TW: Elements of non-con

You sat up suddenly, the room clouded with darkness as you adjusted to your surroundings now sober. You pressed the button on your phone so it would light up and display the time: 4:00am. You shifted onto your back, groaning softly as the remnants of your restless sleep clung to your senses. The room felt too warm, too stifling, and the pounding headache that accompanied your awakening didn't help matters. As you slowly became more aware of your surroundings, the memories of the previous night flooded back. The pulsating music, the neon lights, the intimate dance with Naoya all replayed in your mind like some kind of hazy dream. But reality hit even harder when you turned your head and your eyes focused on the man sleeping beside you.

Naoya laid there, his features softened in his sleep, a stark contrast to the hardness that usually defined him. You could hear the soft sounds of his rhythmic breathing, his peaceful face quite a sight considering the man you were used to. However, the tranquility was short-lived as he began to shift and mumble in his sleep.

"N...no, Mmmom...don't leave. C-come back," Naoya stuttered, his voice a mixture of desperation and pain. His fists gripped at the sheets, his grip opening and closing as if chasing after something. The vulnerability in his sleep-induced ramblings had become a regular occurrence, one you hadn't brought up since that first night.

Your brow furrowed with concern as you watched his unconscious body clutch the sheets. His mommy issues were ever-apparent even in his dreams. A surge of empathy tugged at your heart, urging you to reach out, to offer comfort to the tormented soul lying beside you. Just as your hand hovered in the air, ready to bridge the gap between you and him, a haunting voice echoed in your mind. It wasn't Naoya's voice, but the cold, calculating tone of your father, reminding you of your duty, your purpose.

"Y/N, you can't afford to be swayed by emotions. Your duty is clear. The Zenin heirs must fall to strengthen our clan one way or another. You don't have the luxury of love; it's a weakness that you cannot afford."

The memory of your father's scolding replayed in your mind like a relentless loop. You winced at the idea, the pain of losing someone you genuinely cared for surfacing once again. The seven years of marriage to Naohiro, a man you had actually loved, had ended in tragedy. The cautionary tale lingered, reminding you that love was a dangerous territory, a luxury you couldn't afford. The conflict within you intensified as the need for duty clashed with the empathetic desire to comfort Naoya.

With a resigned sigh, you pulled your hand back, abandoning the idea of offering solace to the troubled man beside you. Instead, you slid out of the bed, careful not to disturb his restless sleep. Gathering your things, draped in his shirt that he'd given you, you silently padded towards the bathroom, the cool floor beneath your feet much different than the warmth of the bed you'd just left behind.

The hot water cascaded over you, a welcome relief from the throbbing headache and lingering regret. As the steam enveloped the bathroom, you tried to wash away not only the physical remnants of the night but also the emotional turmoil that accompanied it. Memories of your time with Naohiro plagued your mind as you recalled Naoya's troubled sleep and your father's voice echoing in your head.

Meanwhile, Naoya stirred in bed, his eyes squinting against the intrusion of daylight that had begun to seep into the room. The hangover lingered as a dull ache in his temples. He blinked, surveying the room, and a jolt of realization hit him as he noticed the disheveled state of the bed and the lingering scent of sex in the air. His gaze shifted to your empty futon, neatly made up, betraying no sign of the intimacy that had transpired between you. Confusion clouded his features as he tried to piece together the events of the night before.

Running a hand through his disheveled hair, Naoya sat up, the remnants of his groggy hangover very much present. As his memories gradually came into focus, the intensity of your shared moment surged within him. His heart fluttered, a flicker of vulnerability threatening to surface. "No," he muttered angrily to himself, as if trying to dispel the emotions that threatened to rise.

In an attempt to make sense of it all, he scanned the room for any clues. His eyes fell on the discarded clothes, the tousled sheets, and the faint marks of passion stained into them. A tinge of regret mingled with curiosity as he recalled the moments leading up to your shared intimacy. As he wrestled with the realization of the previous night's events, you walked back into the room fresh from your shower albeit with damp hair. The awkward tension was incredibly present as your eyes met and you both found yourselves at a loss for words.

"Good morning," you said, your voice carrying a hint of unease. You averted your gaze as you stepped further into the room to put your shower things away in one of the nearby cabinets.

Naoya chuckled darkly as he sat on the edge of the bed, watching you with a predatory gaze. "We had an interesting night, didn't we?" He remarked, his tone casual, almost indifferent.

Your eyes darted briefly to him as you came to stand straight, registering the subtle shift in the conversation. "It was...something," you replied cautiously, choosing your words carefully while crossing your arms tightly against your chest.

He leaned back on his hands, a smug grin playing on his lips. "Something, indeed. We didn't just dance, did we?"

You sighed inwardly, feeling a surge of irritation at his arrogance. "Naoya, it happened. Let's not dwell on it." Your words carried the confirmation he needed to refresh his memory.

His grin widened. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of dwelling on it," he relied smugly, "once is enough for me."

You rolled your eyes at his demeanor. "How gracious of you," you retorted, unable to suppress a hint of sarcasm as you relaxed your posture and peeled back the cover to your futon to slip inside, desperately needing more sleep after such a night of revelry.

Ignoring your response, Naoya got up from the bed and began gathering his things for his own shower. "I'll need to scrub the filthy remnants of you off of me," he remarked casually, a smirk playing on his lips.

You couldn't help but scoff at his comment as you snuggled further into your pillow on the floor, the audacity of his arrogance grating on your nerves. "Don't strain yourself," you muttered under your breath, shaking your head in disbelief.

Naoya chuckled darkly at your retort, his smug expression maintaining as he sauntered out of the room with an air of superiority. His laughter echoed in the now empty space as you attempted to find a more fulfilling sleep.

Meanwhile, as he walked down the hallway, he ground his teeth together, the memory of the way you'd made him feel just a few short hours ago gnawed at him like a relentless beast. As he stepped into the bathroom and turned on the shower, the hot water cascading over his tense muscles, he tried to push aside the thoughts of you. But the image of your tousled hair, the curve of your body, and the passion between you refused to fade. It was intoxicating, infuriating, and undeniably alluring.

Anger boiled within him as he forcibly scrubbed his skin, trying to rid himself of the lingering remnants of your touch. Yet, with each stroke of his hand, his mind betrayed him, conjuring vivid images of your bodies entwined, your breath mingling, and your moans filling the air. His cock stiffened against his will, a physical manifestation of his conflicting desires. It throbbed with a relentless ache, begging for attention as if to mock his attempts to resist. He cursed under his breath, the pulsing heat of his member demanding release.

Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to succumb to the overwhelming urge coursing through him. His hand trailed down his body, fingers wrapping around his hardened length with a firm grip. The sensation sent a shiver down his spine, igniting a fire in his veins that burned with a fierce intensity. As he stroked himself, the memory of your touch flooded his mind, each stroke of his hand echoing the passion of your night together. He suddenly remembered the softness of your skin beneath his fingertips, the warmth of your breath against his skin, and the way you'd whimpered his name with such fervor.

He stood beneath the hot spray of the shower, his hand wrapped firmly around his throbbing cock. "Fuck," he muttered, cursing under his breath, the memory of your enticing moans and the way you squirmed beneath him flashing through his mind. "Why can't I get you out of my head?"

He gritted his teeth, his movements becoming more urgent as he tried in vain to push thoughts of you from his mind. Attempting to think of other women he'd been with wasn't even doing the trick. The vivid images of the hours prior played like a tantalizing filmstrip, each frame capturing a moment of your shared passion.

"Damn it," he growled, his grip tightening around his shaft as he surrendered to the intoxicating fantasy of you. He could almost feel the softness of your skin beneath his fingertips, the warmth of your breath against his neck.

His hips bucked involuntarily, his rhythm matching the frantic beat of his heart as he lost himself in the vivid recollection. "God, you drive me insane," he hissed, the words escaping his lips in a desperate plea for release.

With each stroke, he could feel the tension building within him, the pleasure threatening to consume him whole. The memory of your moans echoed in his ears, fueling the fire that raged within him. "Fuck," he gasped, his breath growing shallow as he edged closer and closer to his climax.

And then it hit him, a wave of pleasure crashing over him with a force that left him breathless. He cried out, his voice mingling with the soft pattering of the shower as he surrendered to the overwhelming sensation around his cockhead. But even as he came down from his high, his body trembling with the aftershocks of release, he couldn't shake the vivid flashes of you within his mind.

He slammed his fist against the tile to the shower. "Damn it, Y/N," he muttered, his voice laced with frustration and desire. "What have you done to me?"

As the morning unfolded, Naoya didn't return to the bedroom after his shower, leaving you to wake up in the late morning to an empty room. You sighed, deciding to put the events of the night behind you and go about your day. After freshening up, you headed to the kitchen for a late breakfast.

The kitchen was a bustling hive of activity, attendants swarming around, preparing ingredients and discussing the upcoming lunch. You grabbed a piece of toast and watched the organized chaos unfold. Swallowing your thoughts about the evening shared with Naoya, you focused on the simple act of eating.

Through one of the open kitchen windows, you caught sight of Naoya out in the garden, engaged in what appeared to be a heated discussion with his father. Curiosity piqued and you set your plate down and moved closer to the window, careful not to draw attention to yourself. From your vantage point, you watched as Naoya argued vehemently, his gestures animated and his expression impassioned. Naobito, on the other hand, remained calm and composed, his responses measured and deliberate. With a mischievous grin, you decided to take your toast with you and head out into the garden. Casually munching on the last bites, you approached Naoya, who was clearly steaming as his father walked away.

"Naoya, darling," you greeted with a teasing lilt, "what's gotten up your ass this fine morning?"

He shot you a venomous glance, his frustration palpable. "Your damn family," he spat out, the words punctuated with his lingering anger. "My father just told me your old man insists on having our pathetic wedding at some damn shrine in Kyoto instead of Tokyo. What the hell is that about?!"

Your eyes narrowed at the disdain in his tone, but you maintained a composed facade. "Kyoto is a beautiful place, Naoya. Maybe your father agrees a shrine there would bring some semblance of sanctity to our union, seeing as I'm living here now thanks to our compromise," you remarked, not missing the opportunity to add a touch of sarcasm.

"Sanctity? In this farce of a marriage? Spare me, Y/N," he scoffed, the mention of the wedding clearly rubbing him the wrong way. "And don't think you can distract me with your sweet words. I know your game."

Your eyebrows arched in feigned innocence. "Game? Naoya, you're imagining things. If you have an issue with the location, take it up with my father. It's his grand idea, not mine."

He glared at you, suspicion lingering in his eyes. "Your father, huh? I wouldn't put it past your scheming family to have some ulterior motive. Maybe he's giving you your window to kill me."

You rolled your eyes at his conspiracy theories, however right he may be. "Naoya, you're being ridiculous. Our families agreed on this arrangement together. There's nothing sinister at play."

He ground his jaw and took a step closer to you, the intensity of his gaze unsettling. "I don't buy it. Your family's hands are tainted. Like I said before, you had a hand in my brother's death."

Your composure wavered for a moment, a flicker of panic masked by a defiant glare. "You know I had nothing to do with that. We've been over this. His death was a terrible tragedy."

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, threatening growl. "I'm watching you, Y/N. Don't think I've forgotten who you really are."

You squared your shoulders, meeting his intense gaze with both defiance and exasperation. "Naoya, you're letting your paranoia run wild. This is a simple arrangement, a marriage to strengthen the alliance between our clans. Your brother's death was tragic, but it had nothing to do with me or my family."

He smirked at your defiance, saying nothing as to not start up the never-ending argument of who-killed-who when he knew neither of you would relent. He instead leaned in, brushing some hair from your face, causing the heat to rise to your cheeks involuntarily but you quickly masked it with a defiant glare.

His demeanor had shifted temporarily, a facade of calm settling over him as he changed the subject. "You know, Y/N," he began, his tone low and almost sultry. "Kyoto or not, it doesn't change the fact that once we're married, you should expect nothing from me besides fulfilling the duties expected of a wife. Don't delude yourself into thinking there's anything more because of what transpired last night."

You rolled your eyes at his proclamation, dismissing it with a sarcastic smirk. "Oh, Naoya, how could I ever expect anything more from such a charming and considerate man like yourself?" You retorted, giving a small chuckle as you realized his sudden change of topic had come from him dwelling on your late night adventure.

He chuckled darkly, his fingers lightly tracing the outline of your jaw. "Sarcasm suits you, Y/N. But let's not forget our little bet. We made a deal that the one who lasts the longest in this arrangement would emerge victorious. I'll make sure you remember that," he said with a wicked glint in his eyes.

You pushed his hand away, maintaining your composure. "I remember, Naoya. But let's not pretend you didn't enjoy it as much as I did."

His lips curled into a smug smile. "Enjoyed it? Maybe. But make no mistake, Y/N, what happened last night won't happen again. It was a momentary lapse, nothing more."

You arched an eyebrow, challenging him. "Afraid of catching feelings, Naoya?"

He scoffed, his arrogance returning in full force. "Feelings are a weakness, Y/N. I'm not one to be swayed by sentiment. Our union is a business arrangement, nothing else. And once we're married, I expect you to perform your duties without unnecessary emotional attachments."

As he spoke, his fingers grazed your arm in a touch that lingered a moment too long, sending a chill down your skin. "I hope you're not harboring any illusions about what this marriage entails," he added with a cruel glint in his eyes. You maintained a steady glare at him, not wanting to feed into his taunts considering your face was flushed. With a dismissive laugh, he stepped back, his tone returning to its usual arrogance. "Don't get too comfortable, Y/N. Our little tryst changes nothing."

You stared at him with anger and disgust bubbling beneath the surface as he continued his taunting. You crossed your arms tightly to your chest as his words cut through you like a knife, each one reminding you of the mistake you'd made in allowing yourself to be vulnerable with him.

But before you could muster any retort, he leaned in closer once again, his breath hot against your neck as he gently grabbed your waist. "You remember last night, don't you, Y/N?" He purred. "How you squirmed beneath me, begging for more. Your sweet, sweet moans echoing out of our room as I made you mine in every way possible." Your fists clenched at your sides, the urge to slap him growing stronger with each word. His face contorted into a sneer as he continued. "You were insatiable, Y/N," he remarked, "writhing and craving my every touch, every kiss, every thrust."

He paused, relishing in the discomfort he knew his words caused you. He was doing this on purpose... "I'll never forget the way you begged for more, how you cried out my name in absolute ecstasy," he continued, his tone oozing with self-satisfaction. "You were like a wanton little whore, desperate for my cock, begging for release." He chuckled pridefully, standing straight and crossing his arms with a smug smirk.

Your jaw clenched at his crude language, the urge to silence him growing stronger still. But he showed no signs of stopping, his ego inflated by the memory of your shared passion. "And when I finally took you, Y/N," he went on, his voice dropping to a low, sultry tone, the corners of his smirk quivering, "you were mine completely. Every inch of you belonged to me. Every single moan. Every single gasp. Every single whimper fueled my desire."

His words painted a vivid picture of the night you both shared, a night you wished you could erase from your memory. But as much as you wanted to shut him up, a part of you couldn't deny the twisted fascination in hearing him describe your intimacy in such explicit detail. But as he delved deeper into the details, a tingling sensation began to build at the base of his pelvis, gradually spreading outward as his cock stirred to life beneath the fabric of his hakama. It was a familiar yet unwelcome sensation, one that threatened to shatter his carefully constructed facade of control.

A low groan escaped his lips as he felt his cock stiffen, straining against the confines of his clothing. He cursed inwardly, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment and frustration at his body's betrayal even as he continued tightly holding your waist. It was infuriating, humiliating, to be rendered helpless by his own desires in such a manner. He was supposed to be teasing you...but it was clearly backfiring on him. Glancing up, his eyes met yours, and he saw the triumphant glint in your gaze. It was as if you could sense his inner turmoil. Anger flared within him at the realization that you were reveling in his discomfort, in the undeniable evidence of his arousal. It was supposed to be the other way around!

"What are you smirking at?" He snapped, his voice laced with thinly veiled hostility as he sought to deflect attention away form his obvious predicament.

You couldn't help but chuckle as you stared at his erection fully visible under his loose hakama, your grin widening as you continued to relish in his discomfort. "Must be pretty cold out here, or maybe the alcohol played tricks on my vision last night," you remarked teasingly, your gaze lingering on his crotch. "You look smaller now than you did last night."

Naoya's jaw clenched at your taunting words, his frustration reaching a boiling point. Without a word, he grabbed your wrist firmly, his grip bordering on painful as he began to pull you back toward the estate. You couldn't help but continue to smirk at his reaction, finding perverse satisfaction in pushing his buttons -- you were alike in that aspect. You allowed yourself to be dragged along, noting a sense of resignation how you were growing accustomed to his forceful gestures.

As you reached your shared bedroom, he released your wrist with a sharp flick of his hand, his expression dark with anger. "You think you're clever, don't you?" He growled, his voice dripping with venom as he glared at her.

Naoya then moved quickly, forcibly bringing you to your knees by applying rough pressure to your shoulders. You stumbled for a moment, stunned by his sudden aggression. His grip on your wrist was firm, almost bruising, as he towered over you, his expression twisted with rage and desire. You swallowed hard, feeling a surge of both fear and excitement coursing through your veins. With a swift motion, Naoya undid the ties to his hakama, letting them fall to the ground with his boxers, revealing his throbbing, pulsating cock glistening with pre-cum. His chiseled abdomen was partially revealed by his open hakamashita. He sneered at you, his eyes burning with fury and dominance.

"Well, Y/N, do you still think the alcohol was playing tricks on your vision?" He spat, his voice dripping with contempt. "Or do you finally see just how much of a fucking man I am?"

You remained silent, unable to tear your gaze from his cock, trepidation washing over you. Before you could muster a response, he tapped the tip of his cock against your lips with a smirk, his fingers lacing into your hair and pulling tight.

"Come on, Y/N," he taunted, his voice laced with arrogance. "Open up. You know you want it." You felt a surge of defiance rise within you, but Naoya's grip on your head became unyielding as he forced his cock past your lips and deep into your throat.

You gagged and choked as he pushed himself further, the sensation overwhelming and suffocating. Tears welled up in your eyes as you struggled to breathe, the taste of his salty pre-cum filling your mouth. Your hands gripped his thighs, your nails digging into his flesh for dear life as you struggled with your gag reflex.

Naoya hissed in pleasure, his fingers digging into your scalp as he reveled in your discomfort. "That's it, you fucking whore," he growled, his voice thick with arousal. "Take it all, just like the pathetic little slut you are."

You tried to protest, to push him away, but his grip on your head was strong. He thrust his hips forward, driving his cock deeper into your throat, eliciting another gag from you. You didn't even want to think about what would happen should you vomit all over him in the middle of forced oral.

"Fuck...your mouth feels so good," he groaned, his voice tinged with pleasure as he pumped his hips rhythmically, using your mouth for his own gratification. "You like sucking my cock, don't you, you filthy little whore?"

As he continued to thrust his cock into your mouth, a symphony of lewd sounds filled the room, creating a perverse melody of pleasure. The wet, rhythmic slurping of your lips around his shaft mixed with his low, guttural moans. You felt yourself succumbing to his advances, your hands instinctively gripping his thighs again as you willingly moved your head on your own. The harmony of your desperate gasps and muffled moans intertwined with Naoya's primal noises, an explicit exchange of pleasure and submission.

"Mmm...yesss..." he groaned, the sound of satisfaction escaping him. "Suck it, Y/N... You're taking me so well..." He chuckled between moans, lightly patting your cheek with praise while his other hand stayed tangled in the strands of your hair he was pulling.

The wet sounds of your cock-sucking intensified, reaching a crescendo as Naoya's arousal peaked. His groans grew louder, his cock throbbing with an insistent ache as he approached the climax of his pleasure.

"Ugh, that's it!" He grunted, the sounds of his pleasure matching the rhythm of his thrusts. "Ah, hah, ah!" With a final, guttural growl, he reached the pinnacle. The explicit sounds of his orgasm filled the air. His hot seed erupted into your mouth with a sour taste. "Take it!" He commanded, the forceful sound of his voice trembling with the noises of his climax. "Swallow every last drop, you filthy little slut!"

As he released you, you complied obediently, your throat working to swallow down his milky cum. The sound of your swallowing was audible as the thick fluid slid down the back of your throat.

He watched with a smug expression as he adjusted himself back into his pants, tying them tight. He regarded you with satisfaction and contempt. "You're quite the eager little cocksucker, aren't you, Y/N?" He remarked casually. "I must say, I'm impressed. My brother was a lucky man."

Your cheeks burned with humiliation and anger at his taunting words, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break. Pushing yourself up from the ground, you straightened your posture, glaring at him intensely.

"Save your praise, Naoya," you retorted with venom in your tone. "You may think you've won some kind of victory here, but don't mistake my compliance for weakness."

Naoya's smirk faltered for just a moment, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features before he quickly masked it with his usual arrogance. "Is that so? We'll see about that, won't we?"

With that final taunt, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the bitter taste of his presence lingering on your lips. As you watched him leave, a steely determination settled over you, a silent promise to yourself that you would not let him break you, no matter what games he tried to play.

Dates: May 18, 2018 - The drunken night they shared seems to have planted something within Naoya.

[wiypt-writes]

Rawhide

Ch 14: Every New Beginning Comes From Some Other Beginning’s End.

Summary: The dust settles after the battle and finally, you get to return to Avengers Ranch at Stark Wood.

Warnings: Smut (NSFW) talk of injury…language…

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction. I do not own any characters contained within, bar the reader and any other OCs that may be mentioned. I do not give consent for my work to be reposted/translated to any other site. Please comment, like and reblog.

W/C 5.5k ish

A/N: So here it is, the final chapter. Thank you to everyone who’s read and supported this series, and to my beta @spectre-posts

There will be an epilogue at some point, but for now we leave out Alpha Steve and his Omega to their happy ever after. This has been fun to write, I hope you all enjoy

Rawhide Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Chapter 13

You know those scenes in movies? The ones that come at the end of a heroic showdown, or battle. There’s silence, and then the rain starts, or the clouds clear. And the heroes stand there, bloodied and bruised, wiping the filth off their faces whilst some cheesy, melancholy yet rousing overture plays in the background.

Well, the reality is somewhat different.

There was no music, no heroes in fact. Just those who remained from both Shield and Hydra, stood in a silent cease fire. All around you, the wounded were being tended to by Medics, Natasha included.

Hydra factions were approaching Shield ones, their hands were up in surrender in most cases. But some held out a single hand, extended in front of them in displays of amicable concession, ready to shake.

It was surreal, you really couldn’t grasp how two factions that had been so bloody and violently opposed to one another could now be working together the way they were, but then, you guessed such was the nature of war.

It made all the bloodshed even more pointless in your eyes, but it was exactly as Steve had said; whilst Shield and Hydra existed, so would the divide.

Simply telling someone their opinions were wrong would never work, a person has to be given the opportunity to explain, to understand, to debate. A chance to see reason and logic, and not just stubbornly believe that they were the only ones with a valid point to make.

And that was what had been lacking from the whole Shield/Hydra set up from the start. The Civil War hadn’t solved anything, it had simply pushed Hydra and Shield even further apart, which had come at a heavy cost to people like you.

Now, you hoped, that would change.

“Y/N…” Steve’s voice cut through your thoughts loud and clear. You turned your face to look at your Alpha, and his eyes locked on to yours. “It’s okay…it’s over.” Then you realised his lips weren’t moving. His hand was pressed to the mark on his neck. “Are you hurt?”

As you watched, you raised your own, shaking fingers pressing to the intricate gold infinity loops. “I’m fine Alpha…”

With a nod, he dropped his hand and held it out for you to take. As Steve pulled you to him, you felt something cold and wet drip onto your head.

It was starting to rain.

You turned your face to the sky and closed your eyes.

*****

In the hours following the battle, Steve was bustled off to an emergency WSC meeting with Tony and Fury. As you waited for them to return, you’d taken up seat with the rest of the team in Natasha’s hospital room as she led there having been patched up. The doctors hadn’t been too pleased about the blatant flaunting of the 2 visitors at a time rule, not to mention the fact that you’d refused to leave Commando outside…but one look at Bruce’s angry face had made them back off.

“Are you ever not eating?” Sam looked at Peter, who was sprawled in one of the chairs, his arm in a cast whilst the other was stuffing his face with potato chips from a bag which sat on his lap.

“He’s a growing boy.” Bucky teased, his bruised face breaking into a teasing grin, “aint that right?”

“Hey, I saved your ass out there.” Peter pointed at him, “if I hadn’t tangled that dude up in my ropes and slingers, he’d have shot you straight in the back of your head. You got sloppy, stopped watching your 6.”

The room fell silent, before Cling roared with laughter. “He has you there, Buckaroo!”

“Piss off.”

“Now now, no need to resort to that kind of language…” Natasha snorted.

“You know, if you weren’t already in a hospital bed…” Bucky glared at her.

“You’d do what?” She scoffed.

You smiled to yourself, simply listening and watching as your friends exchanged well natured insults and teasing. You felt a large hand softly rest on your shoulder and you turned with a smile to look up at Thor.

“Are you okay, little bird?”

“I...yeah. As okay as I can be, I mean, I shot my brother…”

“Oh, I’ve lost count of the amount of times my brother has shot or stabbed me.” Thor waved his hand. “Your brother only has himself to blame. He was offered a way out, but he couldn’t let go of his pride or beliefs.”

“He’s always been a stubborn asshole.” You gave a wry little smile, “just like my father.”

“Yes, and just as my father predicted, it was that same stubborn line of thinking which brought Hydra to their knees. You were ready to sacrifice yourself for your mate, and still Hydra didn’t see that as an act of bravery on your part, but a sign of weakness on the part of your Alpha.” Thor took a deep breath, his hand running through his dirty hair. “Maybe now they can start to understand that tenderness and kindness are not signs of weakness and despair, but manifestations of strength and resolution.”

“You sound like Al Capone…” You shook your head.

“Who?

“’Don’t mistake my kindness for weakness’, seriously? You don’t…” you snorted and then shook your head. “it doesn’t…not important.”

“Well, indeed.” Thor merely raised his eyebrow as he nodded. “That was your brother and Rumlow’s biggest mistake. The underestimated you, when I’m fact, you are stronger than many Alpha’s I know. Stronger than me, stronger than Steve…and their inability to understand this, is what led us here.”

You looked at Thor, blinking as you swallowed. “I don’t…I doubt that…”

“You doubt it? Do you think that Steve would have the strength to kill Bucky, should he have needed to?”

“I…”

“And I can tell you know, for all the times me and Loki have fought, I’ve never tried to kill him.”

You swallowed. “I…I didn’t set off wanting to kill him, I just…it would never have ended. And I was so angry…I hated him…I still do. I don’t care he’s dead.”

Thor smiled, and shrugged, “and no one will or can blame you for having those feelings, but I leave you with this thought. If you were so weak, Omega, do you think you’d be able to sit here as you are now, admitting to those feelings? Admitting that you don’t harbour any guilt at all over your own brother’s death? Omega’s can be as strong as Alpha’s, if not stronger when it comes to the protection of their so called pack.”

You blinked, but before you could reply the door opened and Steve’s huge frame filled the doorway. Behind him, you could hear Tony arguing with a nurse.

“Yeah, and my money is paying for all this, so if I want to hold a disco in this room I will…” He pushed past Steve into the room, and looked round. “Well, this looks like fun. Can anyone join?”

Natasha rolled her eyes, “if I pretend to be dead will you go home, Shell Head?”

As Tony bit back with some smart ass quip, your eyes flicked to Steve. His face was bruised, nose a little misshapen. His lip was split, as was his left eyebrow, all evidence from the battle and the blows he’d taken from Rumlow.

He was also favouring his right side, his left leg having been stabbed by the knife Rumlow had been fighting with.

Your feet moved slowly toward him without thought. Your head tilted just a bit as your eyes looked over the battered features of his face. Ever so gently, your hand lifted to his bearded cheek. He sighed, his eyes closed as he leaned into your palm, with the air of a dog seeking out touch and comfort. “I will, Mega, once we get home.”

“Home? As in…”

“The ranch, yeah.”

The ranch, it sounded so pleasant coming off his lips. You’d missed it. The feel of it, the way it enveloped you like a den, your little nest by the window. You were desperate to feel that warmth, the feeling of 'home'.

“So, Steve….” Bucky spoke and Steve looked over, “what’s happening now? What did the WSC say?”

“Just what we all agreed on. Shield and Hydra, both go. Well, go in the sense that they can’t be segregated in the way they are.” Steve took a deep breath, “so the WSC agreed to a joint Congress. Reps from both factions to be elected, democratically. And there will be a number of Constitutional laws past, which make Omega rights basic human rights across every state in the country. That means that even states which end up with a ‘red’ representative will have to abide by them.”

The details made a breath in your chest hitch quietly, but Steve sensed it. His eyes flicked to yours and he noted that little quiver in your lip.

“It’s…it’s what should have happened last time,” Sam shook his head, “instead of carving up our country and leaving red and blue to police their own states, the WSC should have been braver and we should have listened to each other. Maybe if we’d done that instead of feeling a desperate need to contain the threat as opposed to listen and reason, Rumlow would never have gained the support he did.”

There was silence as everyone took the news in, before chatter turned to what was going to need to happen next. But, after fifteen or so minutes, you saw Steve shift uncomfortably, and that was when you gently touched your mark.

“Home…”

He turned to you and nodded.

****

“Man, I need a shower.” Steve groaned as you headed inside, the smell of home overwhelming you.

“Plastic wrap.” You smiled softly.

“Huh?”

“To stop the sutures in your leg getting wet. Trust me, it works…”

By the time you’d located it, he was upstairs; a trail of gear and tactical uniform pieces showed you the way.

The shower was running and you watched as Steve stood, his upper body bruised and battered, just like his face. Your eyes scanned down, following that strip of hair which trailed all the way from his chest right down over his Adonis belt, to the thick, wirey patch between his legs.

You kept going, over his toned upper thighs, your eyes stopping at the left one, a clean white bandage wrapped securely around it.

"You gonna let me wrap that up?"

“Do I have a choice?” His voice carried an air of amusement

"Nope." You tore off a piece of plastic wrap and squatted down to secure it over the bandage and around this thigh. Steve simply watched you as you wrapped his leg and then stood. "Time to get the grime off."

“Would now also be the time to suddenly give into the pain I’m in and ask you to come help?” Steve whispered. He swallowed, and as you looked into his eyes you could see he wasn’t joking. His mask was slipping. “I’m too old for this shit."

“Oh, Alpha.” You reached up, your hand cupping his cheek, fingers sliding into his beard. The steam from the shower filled the farmhouse bathroom. The mirrors were fogged up and the air grew thick. “lemme take care of you.”

He nodded, and then merely watched as you stripped from your own filthy clothes and held out your hand.

It was a complete role reversal, you moving Steve into position with a wordless command. And he simply happy to acquiesce as you guided him under the warm spray.

But was it really? Was it a true role reversal? Or was it just that being with Steve allowed you to be a full Omega. Your caring nature, the desire to nurture and love were not only needed here, but wanted and appreciated. They weren’t just traits that were taken for granted, to be used and abused.

You started with the soap and sponge, building a lather that was thick and sudsy. Your delicate touch held his hand in your free one while you held him still to wash his arm. The lather began to turn from white to gray as you scrubbed away the dirt and grime from his wrist and up toward his shoulder. You gently turned and twisted his arm, by way of your locked hands, to clean his skin. Then you moved up and across his shoulders to the other arm, paying careful mind of the cuts and stitchless wounds that littered his skin.

The colors of war washed down your body with the pooling water at your feet. Down the drain went blood and mud, sweat and tears. Your hands roamed softly over Steve's back before you brought the sponge and your own body around to his front.

Gently, the sponge in your hand cleaned away his face, those striking blue eyes of his entranced by your movements. You slid it down the side of his neck, over the curl of his shoulder.

"I love you," you whispered.

Steve smiled, his eyes blinking slowly. “I love you too, Mega…”

"Kiss me, Alpha."

With a soft sigh, he leaned down, his lips pressing to yours gently.

Your hands gently cupped his bearded cheeks and held him there. As your tongue slipped over his lips, you heard him whimper a little. It was a sound you’d never heard from an Alpha before.

You tipped your self forward on your toes and deepened the kiss. Your fingers slid through his beard and into his hair as you steadied yourself.

His hands softly slid from your hips to your back, splaying across your skin.

You forearm pressed against his neck, just at your bonding mark without intending to. You felt him shiver, a spark flowing through the pair of you. You could hear his thoughts, a jumble of arousal, relief but also fear…and guilt.

You pulled back just a little, "tell me, Steve."

“You…I almost lost you. I let him get the better of me and you had to…had to step in.”

You bumped your nose with his, "I'm right here....safe. Because of you." You spoke softly, assuringly, your eyes closed.

He shook his head, “no…you saved me. You’re the reason we’re here. You…your courage and your brains. Not me. You came up with the plan. You…” he swallowed and dropped his chin , “I failed you.”

"Steve Rogers, you look at me right now," you pulled back. "I don't ever want to hear you say that again. Ever!" you weren't shouting or raising your voice. In fact, your voice was filled with emotion, sad emotions because he felt that way. Your eyes were misty as you bore into his.

“I’m your Alpha. I should be able to keep you safe…that’s twice now I didn’t…”

"I don't fault you for it, and I never will. I, we came out on the other side of it." You kissed his lips, "and we came out of it together."

Steve took a deep, shaky breath as you looked up at him. “I love you, Steve. My alpha…”

"Omega....my omega."

You purred a little and moved back, your nose nudging at the mark on his neck, inhaling the scent over his mating gland.

"I wanna love on you, Alpha," you speak against his neck.

Steve swallowed, the tendons and muscles in his neck tensing as he gave a slow nod, and then he bowed his head in submission.

“I’m yours, Omega…”

You were gentle with your hands, dragging your fingers down his neck and over his shoulders. You did this while you kissed him, your tongue slowly, softly exploring his mouth.

Your hands moved down over his chest and his abs. One rest agaisnt the lower indent of his Adonis while your other gently took his cock.

He gave a grunt, his arm moving from your back and he planted his palm against the cool tiles just to the side of your head.

You stroked him, giving him a twist as you slowly dragged your hand up and down his shaft. His jaw was slack, forehead pressed to yours, eyes still open.

You glanced up at him and bit your lip. You could see him releasing control but there was something in that stare that showed you his Alpha side was pacing.

"You're holding back," you smirked. But your wrist picked up the pace and your palm grew a little tighter.

“Yeah…because you…” he grunted a little, “wanted control.”

"And I've got it," you turned your neck presses your lips into his wrist before dropping to your knees.

“Yeah…” the hand that wasn’t resting against the wall slipped into your hair, “you do…”

Your lips wrapped around his tip and your throat opened around his length as you swallowed him. Slowly, you drew back and forth against him.

His head dropped forward, eyes flickering shut as his soft noises of satisfaction filled your ears.

Your hands settled on his thighs, careful to avoid the bandage as you slowly increased your speed and hollowed your cheeks.

Not only could you hear him, you could feel him. The tension and his raft of emotions were clearing, you could sense it.

You kept up, taking care of his needs, his desires.

You knew he’d given in completely, when his hips started to slowly move in time with your actions.

You hummed around him. It was instinct and lust that took over.

His hand tightened slightly in your hair, but his hips didn’t pick up any more pace. He was letting you control, as much as he could.

You pulled off and switched to your hand, the pressure and rhythm not ceasing from your mouth.

Steve’s breathing was fast and shallow, you could feel him twitching in your palm,

"It's okay, Alpha. Let go."

With a low growl, his hips began to rut forward as he fucked your hand.

"Thassit, Steve..."

“Fuck, Y/N…”

"Let go, Alpha, you want to. Nice and easy, baby..."

His ruts became a little quicker, and you tightened your grip. Your eyes flicked up as Steve’s looked down and you could see the wanton heat he was feelin inside reflected in his expression.

His hips stuttered, and with a choke and a little whimper you felt him pulse in your palm, his warm seed mixing with the water as it trickled down your arm.

The Alpha in him growled but the Steve in him dropped his forehead to the tile as his knees gave way. But he managed to keep himself upright as you slowly got to your feet.

Your lips tenderly kissed his, still providing the soft care you sensed he needed.

“Sweetheart…”

"Yeah?"

“As much as I’d love to, I don’t think my leg could take me railing you against the wall.”

Your clean hand ran through his wet hair, tucking a bit back behind his ear. "It's okay, I'm okay. This isn't about me, Steve."

You cleaned him up and cleaned yourself up, standing by to help him out of the shower incase that stabbed leg faltered.

“Do you need to eat?” You asked as you both made your way to the bedroom wrapped in towels

"I could. It's been...been a long few days," he sighed as he took a seat on the edge of the bed. "I'm fucking exhausted."

You grabbed a clean set of clothes for him and checked his bandage after the saran wrap and it was fairly dry. "Can you manage getting dressed?"

“I’ll be fine, I’ve had worse. Trust me.” He smiled, his hand reaching to scratch commando’s head as the large dog laid it on his knee.

You bent at your waist and pressed your lips to his damp forehead. Then, with a smile you left him and headed for the kitchen.

Whilst you and Steve hadn’t been back to the ranch for a fortnight or so now, the other guys had. More so to make sure the livestock were okay and that no one had been in the house. But right now, you were simply grateful that meant your kitchen and fridge were stocked with the basics you needed. Milk, eggs, butter, yoghurts and some cheese sat in the refrigerator and your pantry was still stocked.

It wasn’t long before Steve smelled the delicious aromas and slowly brought himself downstairs, his trusty pup at his heel in support. A warm feeling spread through his chest as he saw you at the stove, stirring something in a pan.

He didn’t think he’d ever tire of this, seeing you happy, safe, in your shared home.

You’d made tomato soup, grilled cheese, and a bag of frozen fries which you’d tossed in a little rosemary and sea salt to give them a little bite.

Neither of you talked much as you wolfed your food down, and when through, neither of you took much convincing to head up to bed.

The weight of the past few weeks hadn't settled within you. You knew it was over, the battle, the war.

Your brother.

But it felt as if you were still in it. As you pulled back the bedding, you scoffed a bit. This was too normal, too routine. It was just odd. Your heart and your instinct pulled you to care for Steve and his needs. You blocked the rest out.

With a groan, Steve sat on the side of the bed, rubbing his hands through his hair.

"Are you alright?" You asked with a soft worry.

“Yeah…” he assured you, as he gently shuffled between the covers.

"Okay," you whispered and did the same.

Steve rolled to his side and looked at you. “I love you.”

You turned your head and gazed back, "I love you, too."

His fingers trailed down your neck. You moved over to him, your own hand reaching out to thread your fingers through his beard.

His eyes fluttered closed and a sigh escaped his nose. "You're worried," he spoke softly. "I can feel it."

“About you.”

He sighed, "'Mega...."

“I know. I can’t help it.”

"It's over, sweetheart. It's all over."

The implications of what he said suddenly started to sink in. “I guess…yeah…”

And then the tears came.

You sobbed until there was nothing left in you. A shuddering to your chest.

Steve kissed your head and pulled back to look down at you. Your face was wet from your salty tears, your eyes swollen.

His hands moved to swipe the tears from under your eyes.

“I could've lost you. I...everything, I..."

“But you didn’t. And we’re here. Yes, there’s a bit of a way to go but, well, I have this feeling. This time it’s done.”

You could only nod as Steve took a deep breath. “we move on. No more fighting. And…” he moved and slowly rolled you into your back, “we…build our life, our home, our future.”

"I think I like that idea.”

"Well, I'm glad you do." Steve chuckled "because you feature quite heavily in all of it."

You smirked, "how so?"

"Well, "Steve kissed down your neck to your collarbone "I mean we are bonded. For life. It's a soul bond. You couldn't leave now even if you wanted to."

You stretched your neck, "a rarity at best. But I don't want to leave."

“Good.” He kissed across the dip of your throat. “Then you’ll have no objections to marrying me.”

You stilled, "Steve...."

“Yeah….”

"Did... Marry you?"

“Mmmhmmm. I mean…” he moved and propped himself up to look at you, “technically we don’t need to. We’re bonded. That’s the main thing, but…I’d like you to, if you want.”

"I...yes," you gasped as you read the look on his face.

“Yeah?” His mouth curled into a smile.

"Yes," you nodded with a smile of your own.

You whimpered as he kissed you, your hands carding through his beard and to the back of his neck, cradling his head.

“There’s…something else I wanna do.” You whispered against his mouth.

"What's that, baby?"

“I…I wanna go back to Texas. Once the dust has settled and, well, the WSC have done whatever they’re gonna…”

Steve blinked. “Okay, that’s…”

“Just to visit.” You swallowed, “my mamas grave is there and…” you looked down a little, avoiding his eyes, “Colin’s will be somewhere. I left so fast, I never got to say goodbye, and thank him for what he did. I know it’s stupid, they ain’t really gonna be there…but…”

"Hey," he sat up a little more, his weight on his good knee and elbows, "we can do whatever you want. Whatever it is."

“Thank you.”

"There's no need to thank me," he blinked. "I'll spend the last of our days giving you everything you deserve."

Your eyes filled and Steve softly kissed the tip of your nose. “Now…I said I didn’t think I could love on you in the shower…but I think I could manage it just fine here, doll…”

"Okay," you whispered with a small sniffle. "I'm yours."

“I know…” his nose nudged at your bonding mark, scenting your gland.

You inhaled and you preened, elongating your neck as the tip of his nose moved along your tendon. His tongue then traced the line of the golden infinity loops, making you whimper as it sent jolts through your body.

Your hands curled back around his neck as he did it again and a third time.

“Steve…”

"Sweetheart...."

“Need you…”

“I’ve got you, baby. Always.”

And he did.

It felt like no time at all before he had you both out of your sleep wear, when in fact Steve took his time, undressing you slowly and gently. It was like you’d been in a trance, simply allowing him to caress and love on you.

It felt good, damn good. A sensual relief that had been building in you for some time.

He made you cum twice with his mouth, and when he finally crawled back over you, slotting his hips between yours, you were more than ready to feel him.

You gasped and sighed as he stretched you. Steve made you feel full and satiated just from the simple action alone. His hands slid up to find yours, fingers laced together as he gently pressed them to the pillow at either side of your head.

It was breathy, your connecting bodies were punctured with sighs, whimpers and quiet moans. Your words were soft and whispered. His eyes never truly left yours. This was an Alpha loving on his Omega in every pure form.

His thrusts were slow, deep. Your hips rolling together, your body sliding up the bed as he moved in and over hou.

You were holding out, enjoying the feel of him consuming every part of you. His scent, it settled you, his warmth comforted you. His phsycial being weighed you down like a secure blanket. The taste of his tongue on yours was encompassing and delightful.

Both of you could sense the other was holding out, you could feel Steve’s self control almost thrumming around his chest and limbs.

You nuzzled his bonding mark, "together, Alpha."

He groaned and managed a breathy nod, his head moving so he could see your eyes again.

“Let go, Steve..."

He gave a low, rumbling growl and then you saw it, that flash of gold round his beautiful blue irises.

You reacted instantly, your body tightening arou d him, curling into him, your own eyes streaking that reflective gold. The connection, the bond, ignited between you and your souls connected in one universe. A galaxy surrounded your vision and it was just you, and just Steve. United.

His forehead pressed to yours as you trembled beneath him, your hands tightening in his.

You whimpered in his ear. The exhale through your nose fanning his skin. The aura grew bright and then it faded as the warmth of your release blended with his.

For a while you both lay there. Whilst he wasn’t knotted, neither of you wanted to move.

He never pulled out, never pulled away. Rather, when his senses came too and his vision returned, his arms released yours. Then those built and strong arms wrapped around you. With a nudge to his left, he rolled so you were on his chest as he lay in his back.

You sighed happily, and snuggled into him, your head tucked under his chin.

And as you lay there in his arms, the darkness of the room was comforting.

“We can go for a ride tomorrow.” Steve’s deep voice spoke, breaking the silence. “Take the horses up to the hill. Just you and me.”

“And Commando,” you moved and pressed a kiss to Steve’s chest, just above his tattoo.

“And Commando,” he chuckled, kissing your head.

You closed your eyes, a contented smile on your lips. And then, for the first time in weeks you heard the barn owl that lived in the rafters, high about the stacked haybales screeching outside.

His arms tightened just a little as you both lay there, sated, safe and satisfied..

Alpha and Omega.

Soul mates, lovers, partners, equals.

[tllgrrl]

7th Inning Stretch by @tllgrrl aka Nefertiri Jones

Sarah Wilson/James “Bucky” Barnes | 5K Words | Ch 1: SFW Fade to Black. Ch 2: NSFW Spicy.

Summary: Sarah and Bucky enjoy their day off, beating the heat at home on the sofa, watching the ballgame.

Summer + Baseball + Waltzing + Ice(?) = Shenanigans!

* * * * * * * * *

Chapter 1 - Take Me Out

Where: Southern Louisiana.

When: Summertime. Baseball Season.

Late afternoon at the Wilson-Barnes home. It’s not just hot and humid. It’s steamy, and rain is in the forecast. It hasn’t started yet, but it’s on its way.

Sam’s visiting for a few days, and to keep two bored tween boys from going stir crazy he offered to take his nephews to the movies, pizza, and then for a mini-shopping spree at Crescent City Comics in NOLA, so Sarah and Bucky, both in lightweight cotton shorts and tank tops, are lazing on the sofa, enjoying a quiet day off…and air conditioning.

Like in many older buildings and houses in Southern Louisiana, opening windows and/or doors and letting the air flow through was “air conditioning” in the generations-old Wilson house.

To make it more effective, some window units were installed in the living room and the bedrooms, including Bucky’s bedroom/office in the attic.

Having Stark Industries and WakandaTech available did have its perks. Low profile, high-efficiency and environmentally friendly A/C was one of them.

But sometimes, open windows and good screens were fine. Especially after sundown.

Bucky got the small ice chest out of the garage, filled it with ice, a couple of bottles of beer and 2 bottles of water. Sarah laid out some snacks, including a few of Bucky’s favorite granola bars, on the coffee table.

He’s watching the L.A. Dodgers (the “Brooklyn” Dodgers, as he sometimes calls them) play the New York Mets while he rubs her feet with his warm right hand.

She’s enjoying the hell out of the pampering, while reading the novelization of the Bridgerton spinoff, Queen Charlotte.

He knows about the popular TV series and enjoys the way she tries to keep a cool demeanor at what she and her friends call “the juicy parts” of the book.

He can hear her when she says under her breath, “Well, alright now…” or “Mmm-hmm…”

And he took particular note when she covered her mouth, whispered “Giiiiirl?! Yesss…” and her toes curled in his hand.

He planned to try and get her to read whatever that part was aloud to him later.

“It’s almost time,” he informs her, releasing her foot and rubbing his left hand, still cool from holding a cold beer, on her legs.

“Mmmm…that’s nice.” she sighs as she lightly kneads his thigh with her heels. “Time for what?”

“7th Inning Stretch…”

“…You know the song, right? Take me me out—“

“To the ball game? Everybody knows that song.”

“Yeah, the chorus part of it. Did you know there are verses?”

She laid the book down on the coffee table next to the bowl of roasted peanuts, snagged a little cube of ice and rubbed it on her wrists, her neck and her collarbone.

His eyes caught a drop of water from the ice making its way from the hollow at the base of her throat, down her chest, rolling into her cleavage.

For a second he considered going in after it. With his mouth and tongue. Instead, he gave her another piece of ice and popped one into his own mouth, crunched it, then taking her hand slowly kissed up her arm, from the pulse point of her wrist, watching her eyes slightly widen as she grins.

"Is that right..." she murmured, getting a little lost because it felt like every time his cold mouth landed on her warm skin, all of her attention, her focus, was drawn to that spot on her body.

And he saw her thighs press together just a little when he reached the inside of her elbow, kissed it and then rubbed his bearded cheek on it, making her hiss and pull away but just a little because the cold followed by the warmth made her want more.

“Verses? That song has verses? Lay it on me, Sinatra.”

“Okay, it goes something like,

Katie Casey was baseball mad,

had the fever and had it bad.

Just to root for the hometown crew,

Every sou—that’s a penny—Katie blew…”

“Really! That’s how it starts?”

“Yeah. Learned it from my Pa. There was another version later about a girl named Nellie Kelly.”

“Anyway," she ruffled his hair, and lightly raking her nails on his scalp, she watched his eyelids start to flutter. "I’ve never heard the intro before. My baseball knowledge isn’t very deep. Daddy’d sometimes watch depending on who was playing, and you know about Sam and his football. I’m into whatever the boys are into, but I don’t know a lot about baseball.”

“My Ma loved baseball. Prob’ly more’n Pa. She’d listen to games on the radio doin' housework, or makin’ dinner, and during the 7th Inning Stretch she’d grab me and Becca, turn the radio up, and we’d all three of us dance around in the living room. God, in the summertime it’d be so hot, but we didn’t care.

Sometimes if I had a little bit o’ money left from a job, when the ice wagon came around I’d run downstairs and get us snow cones.

Man, when that ice hit your mouth…it was like heaven. I’ll never forget…”

Sarah saw that soft smile and look of almost wonderment he sometimes gets when an old formerly-lost memory resurfaces.

‘Well, anyway,” he offered, rising from the couch, taking her hand and leading her to the middle of the room, “I’ll be more than happy to be your private baseball tutor.”

“Private tutor, huh?”

“Mmm-hmmm. May I?”

She nodded, he placed her right hand on his shoulder, took her left hand, and pulled her nearer.

“When you’re watching the boys’ team play, you want to be the parent who knows exactly what they’re yelling at the ump for.”

“Well, I thank you in advance, Professor Barnes.

So when do my lessons start?”

“Now. Do you waltz?”

“Waltz? A little. Not much occasion to, but I can waltz with a good partner.”

“You’re in good hands. Trust me. Okay…”

He raised the volume on the TV, tossed the remote onto the couch, and they began to dance as the announcer sings:

🎶Take me out to the ballgame,

Take me out to the crowd…🎶

“Say! Not bad, young whippersnapper!”

“Thank you!”

🎶Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack…🎶

“Who taught you?”

“Daddy. And mama taught Sam.”

“Sam? Your brother Sam? Sam Wilson can waltz?”

🎶Root, root, root for the home team,

If they don’t win it’s a shame…🎶

“Oh, yeah! Social Dancing was definitely part of our Home Training. But not Soul Train dancing. You learned popular dances from friends, and from the TV.

I mean Fox Trot, Swing, and Waltz. Like your Mama taught you, our Mama and Daddy taught us…just like you’re gonna teach Cass and AJ.”

“You want me to teach them.“

“Mmm-hmm. They're already learning baseball fundamentals from you. You can show them basic partner dancing steps, and they can practice leading with me.”

“I thought you wanted them to like me!”

“It’ll be fun! I promise.”

“Mind if I hold you to that?”

The song continues and the crowd on the TV sang as Sarah and Bucky find themselves slow dancing.

Whenever they dance past the AC unit, they linger, feeling the cool air as it hits the light veil of sweat that has settled on their skin.

It’s Southern Louisiana. In the Summer, it’s always there.

She grew up with it.

He’s gotten used to it and actually loves it because he’d had enough freezing in his life to never want to be cold again unless necessary.

She places her hand on the back of his neck and feels him inhale, rub his cheek on her temple, then he lightly kisses her there.

The back of his left hand slides down her shoulder, then his fingers slowly run from just behind her ear, down the side of her throat.

The sensors in that hand know her skin intimately now.

He remembers the first time she took his hand, the first time he touched her arm, her cheek, her bottom lip. Her...

He lightly kisses the side of her neck, her ear, while softly humming the song, pulling giggles from her.

Her hands roam up and down his back, gently kneading the muscles there, pulling another deep inhale and sigh from him.

🎶Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack…🎶

His mouth travels to her cheek, then to her mouth.

🎶I don’t care if I ever come back.🎶

They get lost in the kiss, and when they finally do come back…

“Well, now. Tell me, Professor Barnes, do they still call a kiss like that getting to First Base?”

“I believe they do, Ms. Wilson.”

“I wonder if you can make it to Home Plate.”

“Not if I can, sweetness, but how many times.”

“Oh, really now,” she huffs, pulling away before he can go in for another scorching kiss, and heading toward the stairs.

He watches her ascend and when she looks back at him over her shoulder, she sees that “got an idea” look he gets when he gets the kind of “ideas” that get her pulled into a hideaway someplace at least semi-private for some good old-fashioned grownup shenanigans.

“The truck windows are still down,” he grins. “I’ll be right up.“

As if on cue, the wind kicks up a bit, and then there’s the sound of rain beginning to fall.

{*ping*}

They both glance over at his phone on the end table, then at each other, and she starts to prepare herself for the words that’ll mean he has to get dressed, grab that ever-ready Backpack and board a QuinJet that’s miraculously showed up in the front yard.

(Dammit. Here it comes: “HQ called—blah blah blah. The boys and I are headed back home. Wheels up in 2 hours—blah blah blah. Sorry Buck.”)

Bucky picks the phone up, reads the message, and breathes a sigh of relief.

“It’s from Sam. He says, raining cats and dogs up here...storm’s headed your way...boys are knocked out and so am I...crashing at safe house...see you guys in the morning. Don’t get distracted and forget to roll up windows on that old truck, White Panther? Distracted?!” Bucky says to his phone. “I don’t get distracted, Samuel!”

For a few seconds, Sarah watches with amusement as he fusses at the phone, then she turns and continues up the stairs.

“Don’t take too long rolling up those windows, Lover,” she teases. “It’s the top of the 7th.

Batter up.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Chapter 2: Rounding The Bases on AO3 (Rated E)

Originally published for the 2023 SarahBucky Summer event.

Thanks for reading! (Or re-reading!)

[fyodcrs]

Salvation

Fyodor/Sigma (spoilers for ch.107) [Read on AO3]

For a while I’ve been wanting to write a fic of Sigma confronting Fyodor that parallels the scene in Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment where Raskolnikov confesses to Sonia that he committed murder. Naturally, I read chapter 107 and immediately went “This is it!” When I managed to pick myself off the floor, anyway.

Parts of the dialogue here (as well as, to some extent, the character reactions) are taken directly from that scene in C&P, but also Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. :3 

The gun shook in his hand. It was warm, a low, unpleasant heat; it burned his skin. Acrid smoke rose from the barrel. His ears still rang from the shot he had taken.

Fyodor looked at him, calm, serene even. He looked small, sitting there on the floor hunched in on himself, small and powerless. A dangerous illusion. The left shoulder of the stark white prison uniform was soaked through with blood, but Fyodor did not seem to feel the pain. Or perhaps he was simply so used to pain that it meant little to him, and he was aware of no more than a dull sting and that his left arm now hung useless at his side.

Suddenly the weight of the gun was too much. It dropped to the floor and clattered at Sigma’s feet. A tiny, agonized cry escaped him.

Fyodor had told him everything.

He might have been lying. Wasn’t everything a lie with him? Everything he had ever said to Sigma, every moment they had shared in each other’s presence, hadn’t all of it been lies? But this wasn’t. Sigma knew it, and he could not lie to himself. The truth had been laid bare to him, finally and inexorably, and every word felt like a knife to the heart.

“Do you understand?” Fyodor asked him, terribly gentle.

Sigma looked at him, trembling all over, like a frightened child. He was silent for a time, struggling, with himself, with what he now knew, with what he now understood and still couldn’t understand. At last, in despair, he whispered, “What have you done to yourself?”

This was clearly not the response Fyodor had anticipated. His eyes darkened, but there was confusion in his expression, and even, perhaps, a hint of pain. “To myself?” He smiled, but it was a pale, strained smile. “How strange you are, Sigma. You ask me what I’ve done to myself? What about all I’ve done to you, to so many others?”

“But the worst suffering you’ve done to yourself,” Sigma said.

The smile faded from Fyodor’s face. All at once, the life seemed to drain out of him, and his eyes were empty, hollow. “To live is to suffer.”

“And to kill?”

“To kill is to suffer, as well. Men fear to suffer. But there is no salvation without suffering.”

“Salvation?” Sigma cried, in despair and in a flash of sudden, boiling anger. “Is that what you think this is?” His voice softened again. “Don’t you see? There is no one, no one in the world, unhappier than you are now. You have never been farther from God than you are now.”

The mask of calm fractured and Fyodor recoiled as if struck. “And what do you know of God, Sigma?”

“I know what you’ve told me. I read the book you gave me. I may not really understand, not all of it, but…I understand forgiveness.” He held out his hands, as if offering something. “That’s what you really want, isn’t it? That’s what you’ve really been after all this time. Isn’t it? But how could you have thought you had to do this for it?”

Fyodor looked at him with his dark, empty eyes. “There can be no forgiveness, not until I have finished the work I have been given to do.”

Sigma shook his head. “No,” he said, desperately, imploringly, “don’t you see? No one put this burden on you—you placed it on yourself, because you think you don’t have a right to exist, because no one ever told you that you deserve to live. You’re not a demon, Fyodor. It’s this, this idea you’ve let take possession of you. This isn’t you.”

The fractures in his mask deepened, widened, and it all began to crumble, little by little, as Fyodor listened to Sigma and stared into Sigma’s wide, pleading eyes. But he only smiled, that wan, mirthless smile. “This is all that I am,” he said, steady, implacable.

“You don’t understand!”

“You are the one who doesn’t understand, Sigma. I know that I have been given over to the devil. I have always known. But this is how it must be. I tried to kill you twice. If you let me go, I will try again. You know that. Why do you torment yourself like this over me?”

Sigma fell to his knees before Fyodor. His vision blurred; he had begun to cry. He realized he had been mistaken—Fyodor wasn’t the one crumbling, he was. He remembered the feeling of falling, falling, falling through endless sky. He felt they were falling now, the both of them, and the distance between them had never seemed so wide. Still, he tried to reach across that distance, so at least they could fall together.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said, his voice soft, choked with his tears. “Maybe just finding myself a place where I can shut myself off from the world and from everyone who would use me isn’t enough anymore. But maybe you’re wrong about the Armed Detective Agency.” His gaze fell to the floor, a sad, wistful smile briefly appearing on his lips. “It sounds like a beautiful place, the Agency. It sounds like a good life. But I know I wouldn’t belong there. You told me that you heard melodies of sadness around me. I have never heard those same melodies around anyone else—anyone else but you.”

He lifted his eyes to Fyodor again. “We’re the same, you and I. We are both alone. We both had nowhere to go. We have both done terrible things just to find something for ourselves. But it can be different now, for both of us. You found me. And now, maybe I’ve found you. This—” he swept his arms in a wide gesture to encompass both Fyodor and their surroundings, the prison walls that closed them in, “isn’t you.”

He raised one shaking hand, almost, but not quite, touching Fyodor’s chest. “Maybe…maybe that’s what I’ve been sent for. To show you that.”

Fyodor did not respond for a moment. He shifted so they were both kneeling on the floor, facing each other, like penitents, and Sigma’s hand pressed into his bloodstained shirt. Sigma’s Ability did not activate. Not yet.

“It’s too late, Sigma,” he said at last, exhausted and with a kind of sorrow, hopelessness, even helplessness.

“It’s not too late,” Sigma insisted, firmly, but even more desperately. “We can get out of here. We can save Dazai-san, and Nakahara-san, and beat this game of Nikolai’s. I know you had a plan. I know Dazai did, too. We can all leave this place alive. And you and me, we can go back to the Casino, or…or to anywhere.” His voice broke, shattered like glass. “Don’t you understand? I don’t want you to die.”

He threw his arms around Fyodor’s neck, suddenly, surprising himself. His fear was now gone. “I won’t leave you,” he promised. “I’ll follow you anywhere, anywhere at all.”

Fyodor did not move, did not speak. Sigma closed his eyes, held him tightly, and waited.

[ofhumanvoice-a]

Only. Cat.

[ilyanarasputin]

am i in control of my life at all?

[elysiangroundsforall]

Love & War

"Everything is fair in love and war."

Ch-19

As the dust settled from the intense battle, Seonghwa and Y/N found themselves amidst the aftermath, their hearts still pounding with the adrenaline of combat yet relieved that the immediate danger had passed. They stood together, surrounded by soldiers and the echoes of victory, a testament to their resilience and unity in the face of adversity.

"We made quite the team out there," Seonghwa remarked, a rare warmth in his eyes as he looked at Y/N. Despite their tumultuous past and the suspicions that once clouded his perception of her, the events of the day had forged a newfound respect and trust between them.

Y/N nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "We did. I couldn't have asked for a better ally."

The sounds of celebration echoed around them as soldiers cheered and embraced, celebrating their hard-won victory. Seonghwa glanced around, his gaze lingering on his comrades and the battlefield strewn with fallen enemies. The price of victory weighed heavily on his heart, knowing the sacrifices made by both sides.

"We should go," Seonghwa said quietly, breaking the momentary silence. "There's much to be done."

Y/N nodded again, her expression reflecting the gravity of the situation. Together, they began to coordinate the aftermath of the battle, ensuring the wounded were cared for and the fallen honored. It was a somber task, a reminder of the harsh realities of war.

As night fell, they returned to the palace, weary yet determined. The palace grounds were alive with activity as servants tended to the wounded and prepared for the homecoming of their victorious army. Seonghwa and Y/N walked side by side, their shoulders brushing occasionally, a silent understanding passing between them.

Inside the palace, they found a moment of respite in the quiet of Seonghwa's chambers. The flickering candlelight cast shadows on the walls, creating a sense of intimacy that felt both comforting and unfamiliar. Seonghwa poured two cups of tea, handing one to Y/N with a small smile.

"Thank you," Y/N said softly, accepting the tea. She looked at Seonghwa, her gaze searching his face. "For trusting me today."

Seonghwa met her eyes, his expression serious yet sincere. "You've proven yourself, Y/N. Today showed me who you really are."

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the weight of their shared experiences hanging between them. Outside, the palace continued to buzz with activity, a stark contrast to the quiet intimacy of the chamber.

"I owe you an apology," Seonghwa said suddenly, his voice low. "For doubting you."

Y/N shook her head gently. "It's understandable, given everything."

"No," Seonghwa insisted, his tone firm. "I let my suspicions cloud my judgment. You've shown me today that you're not just a princess, but a formidable ally."

Y/N smiled gratefully, feeling a warmth spread through her at his words. "Thank you, Seonghwa."

He nodded, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features before he masked it with his usual stoicism. "We should rest," he said, standing up. "Tomorrow, we continue to rebuild."

Y/N nodded in agreement, setting her cup aside. As Seonghwa moved to leave, she reached out, gently grasping his hand. He paused, turning back to look at her with a questioning gaze.

"Seonghwa," Y/N began softly, her voice hesitant yet determined. "There's something I need to say."

He waited, his eyes searching hers.

"In the midst of everything today, I realized…" Y/N faltered slightly, gathering her thoughts. "I realized that despite our differences and the challenges we've faced, I… I care about you."

Seonghwa's expression softened, a flicker of surprise and something more vulnerable crossing his features. He took a step closer to her, his hand tightening slightly around hers.

"I care about you too, Y/N," he admitted quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

With a surge of courage, Y/N closed the distance between them, rising to her feet. She placed her free hand on his cheek, feeling the roughness of his stubble beneath her fingertips. Leaning in, she pressed a gentle kiss against his lips, a silent promise of understanding, acceptance, and hope for the future.

Seonghwa responded with equal tenderness, his arms encircling her as they shared a moment of mutual comfort and reassurance. In that embrace, amidst the echoes of battle and the uncertainties of the future, they found a fragile yet powerful connection that transcended their past misunderstandings.

As they finally pulled apart, their breaths mingling in the quiet chamber, Seonghwa rested his forehead against Y/N's, a rare smile gracing his lips.

"Together," he murmured, his voice resonating with a newfound sense of possibility.

"Forever," Y/N whispered in response, her heart lighter than it had been in years.

In that moment, amid the turmoil of war and the challenges ahead, Seonghwa and Y/N found solace and strength in each other's arms, ready to face whatever the future held, together.

Ch 20>>

[dustedmagazine]

Uniform — American Standard (Sacred Bones)

Photo by Joshua Zucker

“American Standard,” the title track from the new LP by NYC noiseniks Uniform, will likely dominate the attention garnered by the record. That’s justified: the song is massive, at 21+ minutes, and it’s massively unpleasant — more on those qualities below. But listeners shouldn’t neglect the rest of the release. The shorter songs that compose the remainder of American Standard are just as uncompromising, and they also foreground the band’s gift for coupling a caustic, aggro sensibility with compelling melodic structures. Rarely has noise rock been so tuneful, and then also so awfully punishing.

Godflesh and early Swans (Greed is a useful point of comparison) are clear touchstones for Uniform’s blend of noise rock and industrial music; but this reviewer also flashes on the Cows, c. 1993. Check out the one-two punch of “Shitbeard” and “Ch” from Sexy Pee Story, songs that couple brain-bludgeoning dissonance with weirdly idiosyncratic hooks. Uniform’s sound is less organic and more mechanically insidious than that bovine band from Minneapolis. The squelchy slaughterhouse is swapped for the cold cement of the factory floor — and the dudes in Uniform are driving a steam roller across it, grinding through waves of spilled sulfuric acid.

A more metallic array of factory apparatus is appropriate to American Standard, named for the famous brand of mass-produced plumbing fixtures. As much of the record’s pre-release chatter has indicated, the title track thematizes vocalist Michael Berdan’s long struggle with an eating disorder — and the horrifically long sessions of purging he has done over numerous toilets. The song extends, stretching out inexhaustibly. Berdan does not spare us: “My forehead rests / On dried piss / And twists of hair / […] An acrid film / On the water / I’m consumed / By the stench.” The images are stark, immediate. They need no figural amplification.

The music takes on that task, churning and moving in waves, an inexorable force that dramatizes regurgitation. That rhythmic structure is the song’s dark heart (or gut), but past the ten-minute mark, there is a break into a more dramatic passage, punctuated by a big riff. You can imagine the song’s I-speaker, a barely veiled version of Berdan himself — shattered, driven by impulse’s perverse excitements. One could call the long passage cathartic, but that term’s access to the idea of purgation is both exactly right and exactly wrong. Because after six minutes, the song explodes into a bright, surging river of sound, and Berdan rides it, shouting, narrating there the I-speaker’s particular variety of physical purging.

The listener is presented with a sort of problem. Clearly that last section of the song is the climax, and the musical effect is indeed cathartic. It thrills and it exhausts. We know that the binge-and-purge dynamic of some eating disorders is damaging and destructive. But the skill with which Uniform (including Berdan’s longtime bandmate Ben Greenberg and an expanded rhythm section of Mike Sharp, Brad Truax and Michael Blume) has constructed and performed the song implicates us in its galvanic lifts and kicks. We can’t help but be roused, even pleasured by it. And that’s the thing: there’s an addictive force to some eating disorders, a distorted “I want” that is very, very hard to resist. Uniform’s smart and forceful engagement with those concepts and feelings makes “American Standard” a terrific and terrifying song. It’s hard to hear, but it’s also hard to forget, or to stop.

Jonathan Shaw

[gittetj]

writing patterns (tag game)

rules: list the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern!

tagged by @reitziluz - thank you kindly c:

Eheh, I have literally only written my one gigantic fic and a few thousand words of my little dead spin-off fic, because such is my nature, but I guess I can grab the intro lines from the last 10 End of the World chapters?

Ch. 23: One of the faucets in the boy’s bathroom kept dripping.

Ch. 22: Shou carefully nudged the frequency on Nagata’s car radio.

Ch. 21: For the second time in a few minutes, Shou and everyone else in the gym hall stopped to watch Himiko scrabble for her glasses.

Ch. 20: The stark smell of acrylics tickled Shou’s nose as he cracked open another one of the small paint cans on the floor.

Ch. 19: Mom drummed her fingers on her tea mug, watching Shou take a bite of the buttered toast she’d put in front of him.

Ch. 18: Shou leaned into the cushions on his mother’s couch, hugging one of her throw pillows to his belly.

Ch. 17: Something was up with Ootsuki.

Ch. 16: December had only just begun, yet Seasoning City was already draped in Christmas lights.

Ch. 15: Himiko flicked the butt of her cigarette into the waterlogged grass lining the pavement.

Ch. 14: Mom sank her spoon into her miso soup, slowly lifting it only to let the murky broth trickle back into the bowl.

Looks like I almost always kick off by zooming in on some small detail or action. I also very often point out the character who's the focus of the scene from the very first line. This is interesting, actually!

Uhh, I don't know who to tag, most of the people I talk to who actively write are not on Tumblr... @artificeblade my faithful word sprint buddy, I can at least tag you!

Anyone else who wants to do this feel free to grab it and say I sent you

[sandiavolo]

Hi, can you tell when the new chapter will be released? Can't wait!

I'm pleased to say that the next chapter of ATACPO will take no longer than a week to be released, possibly even in the next few days!

I've recently been working with pacing myself for quicker updates now. I like to think I have a good sysem down for writing/editing a new chapter, but its always so jumpy, especially now with college finals coming up. Also, even with my novice ability, my dream is to make this Ch. 11 my pièce de résistance, so to say.

*Slight Spoiler* Jake is gonna have his work cut out for him. The Sully siblings, Tsireya, and Ao'nung are going to be in for quite a wild ride. Neytiri is going to pay the consequences for her actions just a bit. AND MY ASH NA'VI ARE GOING TO BE REVEALED IN THEIR FULL BLAZING GLORY!!! I CAN'T WAIT!🔥🔥🔥

To help keep ya excited, here's a whole mess of what I have planned😉:

“So…we’re here,” the obscured Na’vi muttered from below, the orange glow of their companion bouncing off the shoreline and illuminating the head of the thin spear they gripped beside them. 

“Hah! It’s going to be fun!” a more jovial tone added from above, their tail swishing along the bark of the tree. They twisted the tip of their blazing, thin finger, as if using the trailing embers to form words in empty space. The blood-red fletchings of the arrows behind them came to light when the luminous digit was raised high into the air. “It is likely tsmukantsyìp (little brother) has gotten in trouble already in our absence. Do you agree, Txon?”

@anka-partizanka-from-pandora has plenty in store for you guys as well. They're artwork is going to make this 10x better 😈

.

Through the haze, he catches the sound of screaming from nearby, and a rushing of footsteps from all around. It's as if there are those running from the center of the beach, and those running towards it. Just as he’s able to see his eyes set amidst the sudden uproar of noise, Jake hears only one thing clearly enough. It’s enough to spur him into realizing the true gravity of the situation.

“Ash Na’vi!”

.

A seasoned hunter, raised under the skillful arms of the Omaticaya, who had faced the force the sky-people brought to her land. She was trained to defend her People with a ferocity akin to an ikran protecting its nest. She was the mate of Toruk Makto, mother to four beautiful children, and she had never fallen. Even in times of war, the uncertainties of her mind failed to overcome her. 

Yet, for however strong she believes herself to be, Neytiri cannot ignore how her instincts scream at her to run. 

The voice cut through the ruptured marui wall and into the air like a thin blade, with it a heavy weight of ruthlessness that sent a chill down Neytiri’s spine. “Lay your hands on my son again, Neytiri te Tskaha Mo’at’ite.” Her heart hammering in her chest, she came to the stark realization that this was no ordinary Na’vi warrior. “And I will show you the true meaning of fear.”

.

My BIGGEST, BADDEST, probably longest, AND MOST EPIC chapter is coming! I hope you guys are as psyched as I am, b/c this is going to be a wild ride!