#dance academy near me

[danceacademy011]

Ladies Sangeet Choreography In Delhi  +918882340332

Welcome to The String Of Music And Dance Academy, Zumba Classes In Rohini where the vibrant traditions of Indian dance meet contemporary creativity. Led by the talented Smriti Sinha, we offer classes in Kathak, Bollywood, Bhangra, and more. Join us to discover your passion for dance, Kathak Dance Classes In Rohini build confidence, and be part of a supportive artistic community Beyond our regular classes, we serve as a hub for cultural exchange, offering immersive workshops and experiences for travelers and dance enthusiasts alike. Solo Dance Choreography In Delhi Join us at The String Of Music And Dance Academy and embark on a journey of artistic discovery and cultural celebration. Unleash your creativity, build confidence, and dance your heart out with us

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Website: https://thestringofmusicanddanceacademy.com/

Contact Us: +918882340332

[southcoastperformingarts]

South Coast Performing Arts

Website: https://www.southcoastperformingarts.com 

Address: 14711 Bentley Circle, Unit A, Tustin, California 92780, USA

South Coast Performing Arts, located in Tustin, CA, is a premier dance studio offering a diverse range of dance styles including Jazz, Hip Hop, Tap, Ballet, and Lyrical. Catering to dancers from ages 2 to 18, the studio is renowned for its high-quality instruction and competition opportunities. Celebrating over 20 years of strong community presence, South Coast Performing Arts is dedicated to fostering a love of dance in a family-friendly environment.

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/southcoastperformingarts 

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/scpadance 

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[ayoyoungg]

Because I got sucked into the drama on Twitter, I watched Popstar Academy (would not have otherwise):

First, I hate survival shows. I’m just like keep that stuff within the company and start showing us material once you’ve chosen the people for the group. I know every company goes through that process of selecting people for the debut group but I’m not a fan of seeing it.

Reason I say this is because I understand & get people having star power or certain people always being in the lineup because they fit what the company is looking for. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. In fact I think that’s the industry. But the way this show was formatted and presented to the girls, they went in thinking something else. Which I’m not sure what they were pitched vs if it was naïveté. (Also, it seems like only a small percentage of the girls were actually familiar with or fans of kpop, just an observation).

Having like 8 or so trainees join LATE, and picking trainees that didn’t even have singing or dancing background was certainly a choice. Like the show made the initial training group feel like a pre-training to get the girls where they need to be for the actual training/show. It’s a typical Netflix thing but I feel like some of the later trainees could’ve really benefitted from being there from the start. Especially since the show had some of the girls really starting from ground 1.

It turning into a survival show halfway through was VERY messed up, especially considering how many girls kept asking before they agreed to the program if it would be a survival show. That contract must have either been very vague with the wording or small font or something.

As the program was happening live, I think I only saw the Buttons performance. I wasn’t paying much attention to the program because I wasn’t interested. That said, the survival show didn’t even make sense if it was solely based on the performances & whatever content the girls chose to post on social media. I understand wanting to gauge fan interest in the girls but like idk have test groups? They should know any time there’s fan voting it’s biased as hell. There should always be a percentage taken into account with fan voting vs judge voting. But anyways, what makes this survival show weird is that part of what affects choosing favorites in other survival shows (like p101) is that you get to see the trainees interact with each other. Even though mnet evil edits, you see through the show who has leadership skills, who’s caring, who’s hardworking, who gets along, who’s improved, etc. All of that was missing when the program was live?! (unless I’m wrong) We’re only learning this stuff through the documentary. I’m only using this as an example but the girls were so shocked Manon scored high, but viewers didn’t know about the missed practices & stuff. Had viewers known, would Manon have scored so high? Who knows (she def has it girl + charisma, so very likely, but you see my point)

On Manon, as I alluded to before, I think it def would’ve been better if she were in that starting trainee group. While some things were missed due to covid which is excusable, it seems that other classes/training were missed just because. It has me curious if something serious irl was going on or what the cause was, but I suppose that’s her business. Classes/training are important. Personally, it would affect my choice of a bias if I knew that they skipped a lot and broke rules such as missing curfew a lot. That said, I do appreciate that she does show up & out when the time calls for it. I’m not sure if the girls really did isolate her or if anyone at least made an attempt to check on her. I understand the frustration of someone who consistently breaks the rules not getting penalized in some way. I’m glad Manon held herself accountable and really showed up at the end.

This program being in partnership with Hybe is so…🙃 to me. For example, Bang PD discussing the plateau in trainee growth and urging them to debut faster. Meanwhile Hybe groups are on blast about their short trainee times and the need to develop skills further. We start seeing more & more injuries in the girls and it’s like maybe if they took the time to further their training and learn how to properly do things, the amount of injuries could lessen. And then the emphasis on social media, developing a fandom, and discussing the parasocial relationship — felt very Hybe. Like yes social media skills are needed but the way they discussed creating the fandom was kinda 🙃 to me. Like the fandom is going to form. Those who were less comfortable/confident/familiar with posting on social media were at a disadvantage. And with them suddenly being thrown into a survival show, it’s not like they were prepared to appeal themselves to the public yet. I don’t think it should have been so important for them to necessarily be good at social media yet. That’s something I think could have been saved for the debut group (or maybe if they KNEW from the beginning it’d be a survival show with that type of format, more of the trainees would be those good at social media). But with how this survival show was formatted, social media was the only way to learn anything about their character.

[mega-hitech-hitesh-blog]

School/corporate - Interactive dance workshops

[motley-dance-company]

At Motley, we strive to share the joy of dance with everybody. We offer a wide variety of services including educational classes, workshops and live entertainment for all ages and skill levels. Our mission is to foster the idea that dancing has the power to bring joy to our lives, bring people together and even allow us to express ourselves in new ways. Come join us and explore the exciting world of dance.

To know more about visit our site,

[ricbanks]

Embarking on your journey to becoming a dancer is an exciting and fulfilling endeavor. If you're searching for a Latin Dance Academy near you, look no further than Ric Banks Dance Academy, the best dance school in Dubai. At Ric Banks Dance Academy, they offer a range of dance programs and classes that cater to all levels of expertise.

If you have a keen interest in Bachata, Latin Dance Academy Near Me provides exceptional Bachata dance classes in Dubai. These classes are designed to teach you the art of Bachata, from mastering the basic steps to intricate partnerwork. Whether you're a beginner or an experienced dancer, their expert instructors will guide you on your Bachata journey.

For those captivated by the rhythms of Salsa, Ric Banks Dance Academy offers exhilarating Salsa dance classes in Dubai. With a focus on technique, musicality, and styling, their Salsa classes will help you develop the necessary skills to become a confident Salsa dancer.

To find Bachata or Salsa classes near you, simply search for "Bachata dance classes near me" or "Salsa dance classes in Dubai." Ric Banks Dance Academy's commitment to providing top-quality instruction and creating a supportive dance community makes it the ideal Latin Dance Academy near you.

Enrolling at Ric Banks Dance Academy not only offers you access to skilled instructors but also exposes you to a vibrant dance community. You'll have the opportunity to connect with like-minded individuals, share your love for Latin dance, and grow together as dancers.

The success of Ric Banks Dance Academy lies in their passion for Latin dance and their dedication to helping students achieve their dance goals. Whether you aspire to perform on stage, compete in dance competitions, or simply enjoy dancing socially, Ric Banks Dance Academy is the perfect place to nurture your passion and talent.

In conclusion, if you're looking for a Latin Dance Academy near you, Ric Banks Dance Academy is your gateway to becoming a dancer. With their outstanding Bachata and Salsa dance classes, supportive instructors, and vibrant dance community, they are the best dance school in Dubai. Don't hesitate to join Ric Banks Dance Academy and embark on an exciting journey filled with rhythm, joy, and self-expression.

[keeplcving]

art deco.

(young president!coriolanus x young!f!plinth!reader)

summary: the president takes notice of Sejanus’ much younger sister, at one of his galas, and cannot let her go.

cw: plinth!reader, innocent!reader, virgin!reader, sejanus lives (and is still friends with coryo), age-gap (coryo is 28, reader is are 18), strabo is a shitty father, sweet!coryo (but only to you), heavy smut, creampie, soft sex, pet names (little one, little dove, darling, etc), cuddling, lmk if i missed anything!

Your eyes adjusted to the darkness inside the Presidential Mansion, a stark contrast to the still-setting sun outside. Your arm is tightly linked with your brother, Sejanus’ arm, as you make your way to the table. You don’t know anyone at this event, not really.

You’re far too young, the next youngest people at the gala are brother’s age, and even still, Sej is 10 years older than you. It makes you feel queasy, knowing most of these men in attendance are nearly old enough to be your father, and they are all staring at you.

Staring at you like you’re a fine piece of meat, and they’re starving for a taste.

You sit down next to your brother, and quickly survey the other guests seated at your table. Clemensia Dovecoat, Festus Creed, Livia Cardew, Persephone Price. All your brother’s age, no one younger. You want to shrink back into your seat, become invisible.

You have no idea why your brother invited you to attend this Gala with him, but you have a feeling it was not with the purest intentions. As you graduated from the Academy, both your parents and your brother were pushing for you to find a suitor, to further better the Plinth name. Frankly, you couldn’t find it in yourself to give a damn, you were far more worried about being successful at the University to find a husband.

“Hello.” A familiar, yet unfamiliar voice breaks you from your reverie. Coriolanus Snow, or should I say President Snow, you think. You couldn’t lie to yourself, he was a very attractive man. Having been very young when your brother began bringing him around to your family’s manor, you only had some vague memories of Coriolanus, however, he has been a close friend to Sejanus, so he’s been around your vicinity for years.

I wouldn’t mind marrying him, your thoughts betray every fiber of your being, who you are. You are an independent woman, you don’t need a man, you need to do well at the University, and score a job. Not fawn over the President of Panem. Oh well, you think, he wouldn’t want anything to do with someone as young as me.

“Hello, Coriolanus.” Your brother greets him warmly, then lightly touching your arm, “I don’t know if you remember my sister, Y/N, but I’ve invited her as my guest tonight.”

“Hello, Mister President.” You say, wanting to roll your eyes at the pomposity of the statement you just spoke. You quickly scanned Coriolanus, and you were not disappointed. Blonde hair slicked back, beautiful blue eyes, a tight crimson suit that perfectly accented the muscular frame you were sure was underneath it.

“No need for the formalities, Ms. Plinth, just call me Coryo.” He responds, giving you (and your body) a quick glance in return. You want to blush at his actions, but you restrain yourself.

“Then call me Y/N, Coryo, Ms. Plinth is much too formal for me.” You bite back, cracking him a smile. He returns it, before turning to your brother.

“Mind if I borrow your sister for a dance, Sej?” He asks your brother, missing the wicked glare that Livia sends you. You’re not sure why she’s upset with you. You knew the President was a single man, which was a rarity in the politicians in Panem. But, you’re no where near his age range. He wouldn’t want you like that, right? He would want someone like Livia, perfect and his age.

“Of course not, thank you for being so kind to her. She’s a little overwhelmed with the gala, as is to be expected. She’s never been to one this formal before.” Sejanus tells Coryo, and you smile weakly, standing up, wobbling slightly in the heels that were a little too high for you.

Coriolanus rounds the table, grasping your hand lightly in his much larger one, leading you to the dance floor in the center of the room. He circles his arms around your waist easily, and you reach up to circle yours around his neck. He begins swaying you gently in time with the music before opening his mouth to speak.

“I don’t remember Sejanus mentioning that he had such a beautiful sister.” He whispers to you, leaning his head down so you could hear his words. He was well over a half a foot taller than you, even with you in your heels. That thought was dizzying.

You blush in response to his words, ducking your head. But you don’t stay that way for any more than a moment, as he brings two of his fingers under your chin, before lifting your chin up, to meet his gaze. “I mean it, dove. You’re simply stunning.”

The flattery was almost too sickly sweet, but you relished in it. “Thank you, Coryo.” You couldn’t think of anything else to say, you had never been in a situation like this. Sure, the boys from the Academy thought you were pretty, but they were nothing compared to the President of Panem.

“You are very welcome, darling. Tell me, how old are you? I cannot remember your dear brother ever mentioning your age.” There it is, you thoughts begin ruining the moment, he will no longer be interested in you once he finds out you are so young.

“I just turned eighteen, I am set to become a student at the University in the fall.” You look into his eyes, expecting to see something, a wavering of interest, anything. But instead, you see nothing.

“I see.” Is all he says, continuing to sway to the music, holding you. His grip tightens lightly, as more people make their way to the dance floor, like he doesn’t want to lose you to someone else, some other man. Like anyone would dare attempt to snatch you away from the President of all people.

“I was expecting you to be a bit older,” He continues, giving you another look, throughly analyzing every part of your body, “Especially when Strabo mentioned to me a potential love match in his darling daughter.”

It’s like a bomb has gone off, shattering your world around you. Of course he wasn’t really interested in you, foolish girl, you think. It was set up, so you could finally find the suitable husband your father had been discussing since it had been deemed socially acceptable to do so.

“A potential… what?” You spat out, not harshly, just in surprise. You couldn’t believe this was happening.

“Love match, darling. But, you may be just a bit too young for me.” He tells you, shattering your heart just a bit. You knew he was too old for you, no matter the attraction you felt for him. Not to mention that your father was simply trying to better the position of the family name by attempting to marrying you off to him.

You weren’t sure what to feel. You wanted Coriolanus, in ways a woman of your social standing shouldn’t. Especially given the age difference that was present between the two of you, however, there was no denying his pure masculine beauty. There was still that thought in the back of your mind that by engaging yourself with Coriolanus, you would be pleasing your father and his wishes for you. In this moment, you knew everything you felt about Coryo would override the disdain you had for pleasing your father.

“I’m not too young.” You almost whine back at him, a light pout forming on your lips as you stare into his impossibly blue eyes. You didn’t want him to see you as too young, you wanted him to see you as just another woman. Who cares that he was nearly ten years older than you?

“Is that so, princess?” He chastises you jokingly, before continuing, “You said you were eighteen, right?” He waits for you to nod, then resumes, “Well, do the arithmetic, little one. If I am twenty eight, and you are eighteen, that leaves us with a ten year difference.”

“I don’t care about that Coryo.” You find yourself frustrated. You wanted him, especially after all of the praise he had given you. Right now, in this moment, the ten years between the two of you didn’t matter. “I find myself rather attracted to you.” You tell him, honestly.

“Is that so, little one?” He asks, smirking at your words. He knew he could mold you into the perfect little wife, so young, so innocent still, unlike the women his age, who already knew what they wanted and simply wanted him for the money and glory that came along with marrying the President.

“Yes, please. I want you. My father was right, about the potential love match. Please, don’t leave me to marry some other man that isn’t twice the man that you are. I know I am young, but that doesn’t matter. I’m old enough to know what I want. Please, Coryo.”

You beg him, not sure exactly why you wanted him so bad. You had just really met him after all. But he was so attractive, so powerful. Something about him enticed you, and you didn’t want to let it go before anything could even potentially happen, before you could see where it progressed between the two of you.

“If you’re so sure, little one. However, this is a conversation we should have somewhere more private, away from prying eyes.” He tells you, raising your hopes ever so slightly. He wasn’t outwardly telling you no, and that you were absolutely too young for him.

Silently, he seizes swaying instead turning you so that you are pressed tightly to his side, one arm firmly grasped around your back, the other arm falling to his side as he led you out the doors to the ballroom, further into the Mansion, and into what you could only assume was his bedroom, gently closing and locking the door behind him, not unnoticed by you.

He is silent for a moment, before speaking, “You mentioned other men. You are going to be mine, little dove. No other men matter to you. I’ve been aware of your age this whole night, and your father and I have been discussing this chance meeting between us for some time now.”

You want to feel disappointed, or disgusted. Your father and Coriolanus, going behind your back, planning your future without a say from you. Planning when you would meet, when would be the right time. You had so many thoughts swirling in your head, it was overwhelming.

“How. Long.” You spat out at him, visibly upset. You wanted him, sure. But if he had been going behind your back, and truly knew of you well before you knew of him, you weren’t as sure. It felt almost predatory, knowing you were barely legal.

“Just over a year, darling.” His words made you want to vomit. Before you were legal. Your father, planning a marriage to a man ten years your senior, when you weren’t even legally able to be married, or have intercourse. You started to sway on your feet, feeling faint. You couldn’t believe it.

Coriolanus reached out a strong arm, steadying you, before grasping your hand and pulling you to sit on the edge of the bed. With you sitting, and he standing, the height difference became even more pronounced. You had to crane your neck to meet his eyes, even when you did not want to.

“A year.” You started, thinking for a moment, choosing your next words carefully. “My father has been meeting with you for a year, to discuss marriage. When I wasn’t even legal!” You yelled at him from your seated position, not feeling stable enough to attempt standing.

“I know it’s wrong, little one. And I am sorry. I only learned of you not being eighteen last night. This entire time, up until last night, I thought you were already eighteen, or older. Your father never mentioned your exact birthday, only that you were of marriage age.”

Your rage for Coriolanus dissipated, the only anger that remained was for your father. You couldn’t take it out on Coryo, who didn’t know you were underage for most of the planning, not until it didn’t matter. He was just as innocent as you.

“It’s alright.” You kept your statement concise, not sure what else to say, without bursting out into tears. You could already feel them welling in your eyes, and you begged them not to fall.

The tears didn’t do unnoticed by Coriolanus, who looks taken aback at the thought of you crying. “Don’t cry, little one. It’s alright, I assure you. I am going to give you some space, and some time alone. You are to wait here, however. I am not forcing you, but I would prefer we continue this conversation when you are ready.”

He leans down, and presses a small kiss against the crown of your head gently before making his way toward the door, grabbing the knob.

“Wait,” You start, tears starting to fall at the thought of him leaving you alone. “Stay, please.” You beg.

“Sweetheart, I can’t. I need to give you space to think. I don’t want to force this upon you.” He tells you honestly, turning the knob.

“But why?” You state, petulant like a child. The child that you still practically are. “Just stay here, with me. I’ve already made up my mind.” You say, standing back up onto your feet, making the few steps to the door, grasping his upper arm gently.

“I can’t.” He says simply, not moving. He looks almost conflicted on right or wrong in this moment. Your lip begins to wobble, as you think about him leaving you.

“But why, Coryo? I already made up my mind. My father may have hid the truth about my age from you, but I want you. Please.” You plead with him, willing him to stay in this room with you.

“I’m way too old for you, my love.” Coriolanus stops turning the knob, though. Standing, waiting for you to speak again. He had to at least partially hear you out, and he wanted to know your rationale.

“And what if I don’t care if you are far too old for me?” It was your last feeble attempt at getting him to stay. If he wanted to stay, it was up to him now. You weren’t going to plead with him, he was a grown man.

“I can see how much you would prefer it if I stay.” He says with a sigh, pulling you into his arms, his warm embrace surrounding you with a feeling you had never acted upon before.

“Coryo,” You whisper, “I want you. I want you so bad.” His eyes widen in surprise at your words, confused on what exactly you meant by wanting him.

“What do you mean, little one?” He doesn’t get the chance to do anything but whisper back that sentence before you were leaning up on your tiptoes, and your lips pressed against his, hard. He doesn’t fight you, quickly kissing back.

He adjusts you so that your back is up against the door, and your fronts are pressed together tightly, without breaking the kiss. He runs his hand along the curves of your waist, before bringing his hands to cup your ass lightly. You let out a gasp, and he uses that to his advantage and slips his tongue into your mouth, tongues tangling.

He then drops his hands to below your knees, sweeping you into his arms, and carrying you back to the bed. He disconnects the kiss, with a whine falling from your lips, lightly setting you down on the bed.

“Are you sure, little dove? I can stop if you aren’t sure.” You appreciated his concern in this moment, but all you wanted was him. You vocalized that to him, and he smiled. He pulled you, so that your feet were dangling off the edge of the bed, where he was still standing. Getting down on his knees at your feet, he gently unbuckled the heel, and removed it from your foot, one foot at a time. As he removed the shoe, he ran a hand over the soft skin, before pressing a kiss to the sole of your foot.

He kissed his way up your legs, up to your thighs, being met with the skirt of your dress. He flipped the skirt up, over your hips, and met your eyes again as his hands made their way to the edge of your underwear.

“Still alright, little one?” He asked, thumbs in the band of the underwear, waiting for permission to pull them down. You nodded at him, with a weak grin. Coriolanus smiled back at you, before pulling the panties down your legs, over your ankles.

He spread your legs, so that your wet heat was visible to him. He grinned, before leaning down and licking a teasing stripe up your pussy, You moaned lewdly, legs closing around his head, locking him in place. He continued his broad licks, eventually moving to circle your clit until you were twitching. He stuck his tongue inside of your hole a few times, and that was enough. You gushed around his tongue, quickly becoming overstimulated and pushing his head away.

As he brought his head out from between your thighs, you noticed his face was covered in your juices, and you laughed. He cracked a smile at you, allowing you to breathe for a few moments together. He gently helped you to your feet, to your confusion for a moment, until he spun you so that he could unzip your dress.

Once you were fully bared to him, dress gently placed on a chair in the corner, he began to undress for you. The suit jacket first, then the button up, revealing his pale yet well formed chest that had you licking your lips in anticipation. His shoes were toed off, and socks removed too. He leaned in and kissed you sweetly before removing his slacks and boxers, cock springing up, very obviously hard, the tip nearly purple as he looked at you.

You felt intimidated. You were a virgin, and his cock was so long, and so thick. You knew it was going to hurt, and you hoped he wouldn’t let it hurt you too bad.

“Coryo,” You whispered, “I’m a virgin.” He stopped, and looked you directly in the eyes.

“That’s alright, little one. I’ll be careful, so so gentle. I promise.” He tells you earnestly, and you smile at him, nodding. You trusted him, he had never lied to you before, not willingly.

He gently pushed you back onto the bed, before climbing on top of you, his strong forearms next to your head. He grabbed his cock, positioning it with your hole, before gently beginning to push in.

You flinched at the intrusion, body wincing at the pain from his cock splitting you open. Tears sprung back into your eyes, and he stopped pushing in, giving you a moment to adjust. He kissed you, making out lightly for a moment.

“You can keep going.” You said, breaking the kiss. You hissed as he kept pushing, but eventually, he was fully sheathed inside of you, and the sting had dulled down to a pressure inside of you. You looked down, and you could see a faint outline of his cock on your stomach and you smirked.

“Look, darling.” You directed him to where you were looking and he smirked back at you.

“Look at you, little one. Your body is taking me so beautifully.” He responded beginning slow, thrusts in and out, keeping tempo.

“Please, Coryo. More!” You begged him, and he began thrusting faster, pressing into a spot inside of you that made you see stars. You moaned loudly at that feeling, his cock slamming into it every time he thrust back in. You couldn’t stop letting out little noises of pleasure, it felt too good. He let out little grunts too, praising you for taking him so well, being such a good little girl.

“Rub your clit for me, darling.” He directed you, breathing becoming heavier, thrusts more erratic. You could tell he was close, but you wanted to orgasm with him. You rubbed your clit harshly, moaning, and tightening around his cock.

“I’m so close!” You cried out, circling faster as he continued to pound in and out of you.

“As am I, little one.” He grunted back. “Come for me, darling. I’ll come for you.”

You allowed yourself to come, soaking his cock with his juices, and he spurted deep inside of you. He groaned as he pulled out, immediately missing the tight warmth of your cunt.

“You did fantastic, love.” He tells you, falling nearly on top of you, worn from the excursion. You gently scratch his scalp with your fingers, soothing him.

“I should be telling you that,” You laugh, continuing to massage his head.

“You are mine now, darling.” He grunts, completely blissed out, resting his head on your chest. “Age does not matter to me, little one.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you.” You rolled your eyes, smiling at him. “I am to be yours, forever.”

“Mine.” He agrees. You don’t say anything back, basking in the afterglow. After tonight, you know that your future plans have shifted, and you couldn’t find it in you to care. You still had that independent woman in you, but now, with a powerful man by your side. You’d found yourself a wonderful man in the President of Panem, and you didn’t plan on letting him go.

©keeplcving 2024. please let me know what you think, and feel free to send me requests! :)

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Choke On The Sun

PAIRING: John Price x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You'd known John ever since the Academy, and even after losing touch, the love you had for one another was never gone. Like a snake, it had stayed hidden in unseen places. But it was always there.

WORDCOUNT: 13.8k

WARNINGS: Blood, intense gore, torture, detailed descriptions of torture i.e. electrocution, loss of a finger, gunshot wounds, knife wounds, discussion of torture, canon-typical violence, death, near-death experiences, guns, weapons, abductions, betrayals, intended for mature audiences, happy ending, etc.

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

You remember a story you’d been told when you were a rookie—fresh off the cut and eager-eyed with far fewer scars. A more of a glass-half-full type of outlook on life, unknowing of what you’d experience during your years with the SAS: what choices you would have to make.

It went something like this. 

There was a herd of deer that had jumped over the side of a bridge. On either end of that bridge, there were two trucks with their high beams on—not moving but sitting there; the deer got pressured. Spooked. One by one they just…hopped over and died on the rocks below—no noise above the breaking of bone and the clatter of antlers shattering to pieces. 

You have to wonder if it was the fault of the first one who had jumped over for leading the rest to a quick end, or the drivers of the cars just trying to get where they needed to go; ignorant of the way they’d been ogling to see the panic in wide, black eyes. Either way, a whole herd of ten met their fate and left their bodies to feed the larvae and the birds. 

The story had been told over drinks at a pub, at the time you’d taken an interest in it with no more than a slow comment of ‘poor things’ before you’d brought your glass to your lips. You don't know why you’re thinking about it now. 

The timing could have been more opportune.

You send a bullet into the man’s kneecap, hearing the bone disintegrate and the flesh open like a flower. His scream follows, loud and hoarse—sobbing trapped behind a bitten tongue that drips blood down his chin. 

Hand snapping up, you grasp the lower half of his face with a grunt, head shoving itself forward until you lock onto fluttering eyes and get consumed by a whining sob.

“I asked you a question,” you lick your lips, tasting sweat as it slithers down your skin. Your voice is slow and even, grip tight. With a shove, you push back the man’s face, wrist limp with the Basilisk as you wipe at your nose with it, unblinking, when you get to your full height. 

The room wasn’t anything different from a million other black sites you’d been to. A single chair where your mark sits tied up, a desk that had been pushed to the wall, and a single door placed into the cracking foundations of a concrete wall. No windows. No vents. 

Hotter than hell, too, and that place was something you were acutely in tune with. 

“Anthony,” you say, waving your free hand as the scent of blood gets stronger, pools of it already on the hard floor. “I’m gonna call you Tony, alright?” 

Tony yells, wrenching his arms against the zip-ties and screaming until his voice is hoarse. 

“Damn you! I told you I don’t know anything!” He sobs. “My leg—I can’t feel my leg, oh, God it hurts.”

You frown, glancing at the door. 

“Stop lying to me,” you look back, eyes unblinking in the low light. “You still have one left—tell me where your buyer is and I let you keep the ability to walk upright with a cane.” 

“I don’t know his name—!”

“I don’t need a name, Tony,” you growl, irritated. “I need a location.”

“Copenhagen!” He wails, body spasming and hair dancing atop his head. “The warehouse is in Copenhagen, please, that’s all I know!”

You blink. 

“Denmark?” You mutter, brows furrowing. 

“Fuck!” Tony screams long, his skull tilting forward as he releases his guts to the floor through quick gasps. Backing up a step to stay out of the spray, you watch him silently; thinking. The flood of the man’s crimson fluids ripples. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” 

“Denmark,” grumbling to yourself once more, you shake your head and sigh aggressively. “Of course.” 

Without another glance, you turn and exit the room, pushing your Basilisk into its holster as the gear on your chest clinks lightly like the sound of rain hitting a metal roof. The door closes behind you, voice calling to one of the guards as he looks up quickly. His face is pale. Tony’s wails still echo out; water filling a bucket. 

“Get a medic,” is what you settle with—slipping past on a fleet foot and new intel to pass on to Laswell. She’ll be intrigued, no doubt. 

One step closer, your mind hisses to you. Just a little bit longer.

It’s too late to gain a conscious now.

Emmett Kinsman had been dodging you for years—dodging the Task Force—but with one of his suppliers giving away a location you’d been unable to pin, there was hope for a swift resolution to this mess. 

The radio on your chest sizzles to life.

“Hart, sit-rep. How’s it lookin’ on the black site.” Kate’s American accent leaks into the earpiece attached to you, the cord looping the back of your neck and inserted into the shell; a device of black metal and plastic. 

“I have a location for Kinsman. Copenhagen,” you ease out, moving a finger to the earpiece and pressing. Glancing at the rows and rows of doors in this endless hallway of dark smoke and obsidian mirrors—you’re eager to get your boots to the ground. Your other hand snatches at the rag swinging from your belt, taking it out and rubbing at your face with it until the stain of oil and flecks of blood smear like frosting on a cake. “Where are the boys? I need to be wheels-up to meet them ASAP.”

“Coming to you.”  

“They’re here?” Your face twists as the words settle in, confused. “Why? Thought they were tracking another lead in Romania.” 

Kate’s voice is smooth in your ear, moving like water as you turn a corner, stuffing your rag back into your belt. 

“Are you surprised?” The woman jokes in a monotone; you’d only taken it as such because you knew her dry state of humor. “Really, Hart, you know he can’t stop until you’re back at his side. I was going to tell you sooner, but you were…occupied.” 

Your feet pause for a moment at the beginning of her sentence, instinctual heat moving the length of your neck until you clench your jaw and continue onward at a slightly slower pace—eyes narrowed on the floor ahead of you. 

“It isn’t like that, Kate,” you mutter. A low hum echoes the line and you fight a scowl as a group of soldiers walk past. Itching at your forearm, you shake your head. “John just likes having everyone together on missions like these. If it had been different, I’m sure he would have told me to fly back to them regardless of the intel. We’re tight on time.” 

“I’ve known you both for more years than I can remember,” Laswell sighs. “Don’t try that with me, Captain.” You frown, clicking your tongue. “They’ll be arriving on the tarmac—get ready for a quick exit. We need Kinsman by month’s end.” 

“Copy,” you utter, removing your hand from the earpiece and glaring ahead of you. A still-air silence envelopes the hallway, the only sound of your boots to the concrete and the reverberation that booms after. 

It was so quiet here. 

John Price—Captain Price—and yourself had a… complicated history. You’d joined up together; gotten through SAS selection neck-and-neck until time and its grubby fingers had forced your lives in different directions. Like two vines of reaching ivy, it had only been three years ago that you’d seen the other again, though you’d heard stories as you’re sure he had about you. 

Hart: not the kind that beats but the kind that bleats, you had to explain to most—you weren’t unknown to the darker side of the job and the people that specialized in it. Your file was stretched with so much black ink that when you’d gotten the call on your phone, an unknown number, you’d recognized the gruff voice behind it and the first question you’d asked was how the hell he’d gotten clearance to track you down. 

“No hello, then, Hart?”

“Not one for pleasantries, John. Explain. Quickly.”

“Business as always.” He’s wasted no time, voice going to a low grumble over the line that day. “Laswell took in a favor. You’ve been busy, Love…Room for one more joint-Op?”

It hadn’t panned out to only ‘one more joint-Op’. 

After the mission was over, it had been raining on base. The sky had shed tears from clouds deeper than the gray shades of your gear, splattering packed dirt and concrete. Above your head, the thin overhang off of the armory door had spared you some of it, but when the wind had shifted your clothes absorbed specks of water like spots on a fawn. Your eyes had been looking out—expression open. 

When the man exited the building and came up beside you, you both didn’t speak for a long time. You had been aware of his form, devoid of vest and gear, while yours was still layered with it to the utmost degree. You’d expected to leave that night—a good old-fashioned Irish Goodbye with a C-17 already waiting for you to board. To carry you off to another hellish deed done with ravaging cruelty for the sake of people who would never even know you existed.

The storm had stopped you…or, maybe something else had.

“Good to see you again, Hart,” John had stated, still not looking over at you as his arms had crossed, feet situating themselves. “Been too long.”

You had stayed silent—watching. The drain across the street was flooded. Sticks and leaves stuck at the drain as a whirlpool formed; only dangerous to bugs and the bits of garbage blown in by the wind. 

Only after the wind shifts again did you speak.

“And what has John Price been up to in that time?” Your eyes had slid to stare, piercing in the low illumination of the armory’s outside light. 

A huff of a chuckle, the one you’d remembered in the days of selection—coated in mud from crawling through man-made trenches and a sharp smirk of a snap when the barbed wire had grazed his back. 

There were too many stories here. Too many. So many it became impossible to wonder what could have been and what couldn’t—all that existed were the little moments of fondness.

The two of you were nothing else but souls long past redemption; stuck on that knife’s edge and waiting for the hand to shake and send you through it. 

You are made of memories. 

“That’s a story told over bourbon,” John’s lips had flickered, and you’d blinked slowly, head tilting. “Not anything worth reliving, yeah?” 

“Everything is relivable, Captain. You just need to find a reason as to why.” 

The man had nodded his head your way, conceding with his blank eyes ahead to the rain. A rumble of distant thunder had flown out, making your ears twitch. You couldn’t stop watching him now that you had the chance—the brunette strands; the fatigues, and that accent. The muscle you don’t remember him having in that specific place all those years ago. The wrinkles on his forehead from age and stress are shown in yours as a mirror. 

Tall; formidable. 

There was a tension in the air that you chose not to dwell on—the same that had been brewing for as long as you’d known him. 

“I want you to join up with me,” the sudden comment had made your body tense, eyes snapping away. In your pockets, your fingers twitch with surprise. 

“Join?”

“Thought I’d catch you before you disappeared again, yeah?” A sheen of slight embarrassment is over your skin. John chuckles again. “Extend a formal offer—Laswell was the one who suggested it.”

“Well,” you’d huffed, licking your lips. “Now I’m surely not accepting.” 

“Let me fuckin’ finish, Love,” John’s lips were pulled in a slight smirk—beard shifting. A pause as the wind whips again, shaking the trees before he grunts. “One-Four-One. My Task Force. Been thinking I’d need someone like you, but I knew you’d never agree to it.”

“Oh?” Your brow raises. 

“Not bloody stupid.” He sighs. “Thought I’d ask anyway. Give you a proper goodbye if you weren’t so keen on handing it out.”

“I don’t like goodbyes,” you mutter, hearing John’s feet shift—his boots scraping. 

“I know.” It’s low and even—not a prod or a dig. An observation. 

A hand is moved out to you, hovering. 

There isn’t any need for words when you glance down at it, and then up at him; staring into those blue eyes that so perfectly illustrate the hues of a roaring river, hidden away in the confines of a verdant forest.

A slow smile pulls at your lips, and you see the corner of the man’s eyes soften.

“Knew I’d get one out of you again,” he mutters as you slip your hand into his, a firm and all-encompassing heat of flesh and care. 

“Don’t get used to it, John.” Shaking his hand, you smirk, legs shifting. 

“Never,” he chuffs, squeezing your limb. 

You don’t know why you stayed under that overhang with him that night. You don’t think you’ll ever be able to explain it as you had looked up and seen the C-17 fly off without you in its cargo hold, hands resting on your vest collar and blue eyes watching you, slightly narrowed. 

You never even verbally told him you were sticking around…it had happened like a stray cat under the porch of your childhood home; taken in and cared for. Just the same, John never mentioned it beyond paperwork. 

Shaking your head, you blink back to the black site, turning that last corner and making it to one of the exits. Pushing the metal-reinforced door open, you shift outside and move a hand to cover the glare of the setting sun from your eyes, grunting. 

Laswell’s voice peaks back in as you jog toward the far-off body of a whirling plane, three figures just managing to walk down the ramp. 

“Hart? It’s Laswell.”

“Copy,” you say, knees taking the brunt of the heavy items you carry in pouches and have strapped to your form. “What is it?” 

“The Task Force is a go for Denmark—when you get there, I need everyone searching; we can’t lose him again.”

“Affirm. I’m on it, Kate.” You breathe. “John and I’ll get him. It’s personal for us, you know that.”

“That I do. Make sure to keep your heads on with this, Hart. Out.”

You lick your lips, nodding even if she can’t see you. 

Slowing as you near the plane, friendly smiles spark up from the two Sergeants. Gaz comes over, grasping at your shoulder and speaking above the engine behind him. 

“Ma’am! Good to have you back.” Soap chuckles, tilting his head your way as you grasp Kyle’s forearm—squeezing in greeting with a twinkle in your eye.

“Surprised to see us?” The Scot calls. 

You scoff. “Laswell gave you up.”

“Damn,” Kyle moves back, fixing the cap atop his head and glancing back at his fellow Sergeant. Simon nods from behind the two to which you respond in like. “She bloody betrayed us.” 

“Not as much as Kinsman,” the mood sours; lips thinning as you speak firmly. “Where’s John?” 

“Right here,” the man in question comes down the ramp, blue eyes meet yours. A second of inspection passes, eyes from both parties flickering up and down forms for any mistreatment—any ailments. “Kate already told me. We’re leaving now that we have you.”

Bumping Simon’s fist with yours as you pass him, you ascend the ramp, Soap muttering under his breath about the flight time from behind. 

Standing beside John, you pause like a bird, eyes half narrowed. “You didn’t have to pick me up, you know? I could have gotten another plane.”

The man the same rank as you hums, making sure the men are all inside and taking one last look out to the black site, eyes missing nothing down to the concrete structure to the lights that will soon illuminate the pure nothingness of the fields of this area.

“Wait time would have put us back.” Tiny eyes blink, a hand coming up to rest on his collar as his face shifts to you. “You good?”

“Always,” you mutter without hesitation. “Nothing from Romania, then?”

He grumbles, clenching his jaw and taking in your words. “Negative.”

A silence settles in which you quirk your brow—a small flicker of a smirk makes him turn away and stalk back into the hull, grunting in annoyance. You follow on silent feet. 

“That’s it? It must have been horrible, then. Care to explain?” 

“Get in your seat, Captain.” 

You hold back a low chuckle, walking beside him until you both come to the back of the plane—easing back into the hard plastic, you huff as you clip in your seatbelt. 

It’s all relative silence until the large metal beast is in the air; everyone's bodies shifting as the floor evens out. John and you take long breaths and, feeling the occasional jostle of the plane, you occupy yourself by picking at the dried blood all over your hands as the flight begins—Tony’s blood. 

Blue eyes blink down at you, watching from the side.

“He know anything important?” You stifle a yawn on your lips, one hand coming up to cover the open-jawed expression of tiredness. 

Glancing, you shrug with a slow response of, “Only a location. Even then I don’t know if it’ll pan out like we want it to, John.”

Everyone had been hoping for more, but they also knew that you were the best at interrogations and information retrieval. If you had called it that the man only knew a city and nothing else, John wasn’t one to question you. He knew better. 

A large hand shifts to grasp your right bloody one, picking it up and bringing it to his lap. You let him do it without protest, shoulders loosening at the roughness of his calluses moving across yours until the familiar ritual begins to take part like a black mass. 

Fingers twitching, you hear a hum as John takes out a rag from his pocket, opening it with a flick of his wrist. Moments later, the water bottle on the seat next to him is taken and the droplets that are left are scattered like rain over the fabric until they absorb. 

“All dirty, Love,” he grumbles as your eyes soften, watching him trace the lines of your palm with the wet rag—dabbing away the beads of red. Watching, you listen as he continues. “We’ll figure it out, eh?”

Blue locks with you, holding your gaze until the permanent set of his brows slowly loosens. “We will,” he reaffirms firmly.

“...I should have shot him when I had the chance,” you whisper to John, words low and tone nothing more than a mouse’s murmur; a small pebble hitting the ground. “Don’t lie and say it wasn’t my fault.”

“You’re going to fucking ruin yourself with that, Hart.” He advises, his cleaning of blood coming to a slow halt. “You did what you thought was best,” John leans in closer, not blinking as you try to move your head away with a half-hidden scoff. A damp hand grabs lightly at your chin, shifting it back as you blink in mild shock into John’s face. He doesn’t falter. “It’s all any of us can do, yeah?” 

As if it were nothing, he lets you go and shifts his focus back to cleaning your hand. You watch for a long moment, oblivious to the elbows hitting sides from farther down the hull, quick glances tossed between Sergeants and a Lieutenant who quirks a brow under his mask, huffing a sound in his throat.

“If I had,” you force back the stutter in your voice. “More people would still be alive.”

“Maybe,” John tilts his head, the rag brushing the length of your fingers. “Maybe not. We don’t know that, do we? No use wasting our breath talking about it then. What matters, Hart, is how we fix this.”

You sigh, repressing a shiver as his thumb brushes scars and blemishes, moving like moss over stone. 

“And we don’t leave our bloody problems for the next poor bastard, do we?” You puff air from your nose, shaking your head at the smirked comment. You watch John’s beard move with it—taking in the crinkling of his eyes and the way his knee hits yours. 

“Wonderful pep-talk, Captain.” You lean your head back against the netted sides of the aircraft, letting your eyes flutter shut; oblivious to the way he watches you. “The service is lost on you—therapist is right up your alley.”

“Fuck’s sake,” John scoffs. “I’d sooner go back to the academy than that.” 

“The food was utter shite, wasn’t it?” You agree.

“No need to bring it up,” John comments lowly, amusement thick in his words. 

You don’t know when you fell asleep, but you do know that the pressure around your limb stayed there for a long while—the rag moving over every sliver of skin until only the base was left behind; like a painter creating an ocean scene, shrouded in mist, every bit of red was gone. 

Your dreams are plagued by Emmett Kinsman. His sharp face; his sly eyes and his knack for being undetected.

He’d been a part of your and John’s class in the Royal Military Academy—when all was done, he’d graduated and begun to serve in the 22nd SAS Regiment just as the both of you had. There was never much interaction there, beyond shared drinks and a few good words, a single operation, but the bonds of brotherhood run deep. If given the chance over any deployment or service, John or yourself would have given your lives for him—for the boy you’d bled and persevered with to a point of utter loyalty akin to beasts; unrestrained by any threat of violence, sharp attitude, or past faults.

And in the end, he’d thrown that all away to get into bed with terrorists. 

Location: London, England

Time: 1718

Operation: ‘Purple Cloth’

Your eyes rest behind the glass of the bookstore, gazing out over the street from the second floor with a level of new-found skill and a surety in yourself. Fresh off the cut, you aren’t overly eager for this, but you’re assured in your abilities. 

There can be no failure.

Emmett is down below, sitting at a café and sipping tea as John is stationed at a building farther down the street; waiting. Another man, directly relaying information to Emmett, is at the café as well, sitting in the corner reading a newspaper and facing the individual you’re supposed to follow. Only the four of you for this, and you’re not overly familiar with half of them. John was your only shining grace. 

“Target’s getting the bill,” you shift your head into the collar of your shirt, muttering. “He’ll move soon.”

“He carrying?” John’s voice slithers in, a soft murmur. 

You stare, expression lax at the large body that shifts and stands with a tight shirt on, waving off the barista when she tells him to have a good day. “If I had to guess? Negative. Nothing big—no bulge at his spine. At the very opposite end, I’d say an X13 could be concealed and accessed via a slit in the pant’s pocket and in a holster at his thigh. They’re baggy enough for it, but the draw time’ll be longer. Drug runners are sloppy.”

John grunts, and you address Emmett. “How are we doing, Mate?” 

A smooth, suave, tone moves into your ear. “Not too bad, Sweet Thing. Else, I'd be better if you were sharing a drink with me before I disappear.”

“Only in your imagination, Kinsman,” John interrupts, unimpressed drawl taking your attention. “Keep on it.” 

“I swear I rank the same as you, Price. Where do you get off ordering me around like your dog?” The comment is so easily dismissed as a joke between comrades that there’s no hostility there.

“Since I was given oversight,” the amusement is easily taken in John’s voice. “I’m the one keeping your arse alive, eh?” 

The other addition to your team speaks up, a voice that in the future you’ve already long forgotten. He says to cut the chatter, and you have to agree. 

Emmett and the target are nearing an alley. 

“I’m heading down,” you utter, already turning and heading to the stairs, swiftly moving down them and exiting the building. 

“Copy,” John’s voice fizzles the line. “I’ll head them off.”

“Emmett,” you move to link up with the fourth member of the team as he joins at your side, both of you sharking a glance and a jerk of your heads. “Keep him away from civilians. We can’t deal with casualties in this populated of an area.”

“He won’t have a chance to shoot them,” the comment makes your brows furrow, the tone not a cocky gloat but rather...quiet. A moment of silence wafts out. “What in the bloody hell is that supposed to mean, Kinsman?” You frown tightly, your gut swirling with something unidentifiable. The X12 in the back of your baggy sweatshirt is heavy—suddenly ten times more so. 

In the corner of your eye, you see John far across the way shift, leaning before on a trash can, now standing upright. You swear you lock eyes with him, both gifted in all sense when it comes to war. Perhaps it was ingrained into both of your DNA—a knowledge of all things deadly; of threats unseen. Some primal and horrible understanding spanning back to when man had first raised a fist to another. 

“Oi,” your voice pushes. “What does that mean?” Feet pivoting, you move closer to the alley where the light shade of hair disappears. 

The line is silent. 

Silent before a loud gunshot rings.

Birds scatter, and you instinctively duck down, hand snapping to your service weapon as your eyes go wide. Head snapping about, you dash to the alley opening above the screaming; pushing past fleeing people.

“Hart!” 

“He’s in the alley!” 

“Do not engage until I get there, do you hear me?!” You’re already at the entrance, X12 ahead of you, and the safety flicked off with a heavy finger. “Hart!”

The body of your mark is on the ground—a bullet in the back of his skull. 

“Fuck!” You shout, feet slapping the concrete as you zoom past. “Price—target’s down, Emmett shot him in the damn head, on his tail now.”

“Fucking hell.” The man is growling out at you, voice heated.

Your eyes snap this way and that, weapon at the ready as you take a sharp turn. At the very end of the opening, you see him. 

Kinsman slips his service weapon back into the base of his spine, pulling at his shirt to cover the grip as a mass of the crowd is just behind him. He rushes quickly on long legs. 

“Emmett!” Your voice makes him freeze. There’s a long pause before anything is spoken; you have your sights trained—a perfect line-up to the roundness of his skull. 

“I had hoped to be fast enough,” the man tells you, head tilting to the side, “but I should have known you’d move head-long into danger without backup.”

“Hart,” John’s voice nearly startles you from the line. “Sitrep, now!”

“Why would you do that, Emmett?”

“There’s more to this than being pawns, Hart,” Kinsman growls at you. “I play my game right, I always come on top. I needed to earn their trust; our target had a price on his head and no one else could get as close as me. Well,” he pauses, “us.”

“I’m taking you in,” you grit your teeth, hands tight on the gun. You don’t even want to think about what he means by ‘their’ or his ‘game’. It was always word puzzles with this man—one second you had the right piece, and the next the entire picture had changed like sand in the waves of a tide.

“Are you really that torn up about a drug runner?” A scoff makes you hold back a snarl, but your resolve is shaking. This was a man you had trusted—now fast can something that was forged with steel break?

“He was just some filthy nobody, Hart.” Emmett starts walking into the crowd ahead of him, and in your mind you know if you take that shot you run the risk of shooting an innocent civilian. “I’ll be more than a nobody. Or a grunt soldier. People are going to know me.” 

Bodies flee quickly—screams. Mothers, children, husbands.

Kinsman smirks, and as your finger tightens on the trigger, he’s already swallowed by the hoard. 

“I’ll be seeing you.”

John and you sit in the safehouse, for a moment, surrounded by quiet and the smell of hot tea. One week in Denmark, and you have no leads. The other three are away, sleeping in the rooms down the hallway. 

“You’re still thinking about him,” John speaks up, eyes on you. It’s blunt, but that was just how he was. 

You peek your eyes open slowly, your body slouching in the chair and feet outstretched under the table. Your boot lightly touches John’s own. A long sigh exits your nose, grumbling on your tired lips. 

“John,” you level, drawing the name out like the years of your life. A thin warning. 

The man clenches his jaw slightly, bringing up his cup and taking a slow slip. You see the flesh of his throat bob with the liquid as it goes down, the overhead light of the kitchen only a single bulb of warm glow. 

“Been chasing him for years, Hart,” he says when the item is back to the woodgrain. Voice a deep murmur—a scrape of vocal chords. “We both have.”

“He knows too much,” you reply. “I can’t let him get away again. Strategies, operators, everything.” Your eyes shift as your head raises, blinking away the sleep in your glinting orbs. “For years he’s been under our nose, getting away with who knows what—”

“Hart,” your rant is interrupted, and you stop with a snap of your teeth. Blue eyes lock a concerned sheen to them. “Breathe.” 

Your face moves away, arms loosely crossed over your chest tensing. 

John’s body shifts to you, leaning forward until his elbows are resting on his knees. He stares, brows a line on his flesh. You send a swift glance, lips pulling. 

“...Stop that,” your voice murmurs, echoing off the walls of the kitchen. John blinks, not speaking as you move in your seat. The man tilts his head, a slow something making his lips go back slightly. Gradually, your face goes hotter, blinking at him a few times; sucked in like a fox to a trap. “John, quit it.”

“M’not doing anything, Love.” 

“Bullshit,” you try and glare at the looseness of his expression, his smirk that makes your gut tighten. Goosebumps move up your arms. “You’re a horror.”

A low chuckle wafts out, John shrugging casually before he leans back. 

He takes up his cup again and takes down the last of the remnants. “Go to sleep,” hits your ears as your pounding heart takes a breather. It’s a grumble on the air—not as much an order as it is a suggestion. “It’s late.” 

You decide to sip at your own drink as well, eyes drooping at the steam that wafts around your face, nose twitching to the scents. 

“You?” John hums, looking you up and down; seeing the fatigue you carry. You’d been relentless for the week you’d all been here, holding the few strings of the lead you had to your chest—five-fingered grasping with a desperate prayer to all things unholy.  

“I’ll be here.” You tilt your head his way, eyes still half-closed in your seat. Your answer is easy, pushed out in a slow sentence. 

“Then so will I.”

John sighs under his breath. It’s a moment before an exasperated chuckle moves through your earbuds. You smile, eyes slipping closed fully. 

Yet, they startle back open as the cup is taken from your hands, your chair moved back firmly. 

“Up you get, then,” John grunts, and his arms snake around you. Blinking quickly, your jaw is slack as you get taken up into a tight carry; John’s chest firm and your nose brushing the side of his chin. 

Air getting sucked into your lungs, you stifle a hitch in your breath. 

It’s only after he starts walking forward, hiking you farther up into him, and his fingers gliding over your clothes, that you start to relax. His heat seeps like a warm fire.

Head sagging to the side, you grumble into his neck as you miss his eyes looking down at you, eyes soft in a way only you would have been able to see. “Can walk, y’know.”

He hums, head shifting back to the hallway as he carries you to the last door on the right, bumping into the wood with his shoulder and shifting to walk in sideways so you don’t let your legs on the frame. 

“Remember Preu? 05’?” John asks you, moving over to the bed and setting you down slowly, a tiny huff exiting his mouth. Your body sinks into the mattress, head to the pillow as your hand comes up to rub at your eyes. The man moves to grab the blanket at the end of the bed—knowing your trained habit of sleeping atop the comforter on operations; not tangled up in sheets just in case. He slips off your boots. “Carried you two miles.”

“I recall it,” you grunt, a tired flicker coming to your lips. “Bleeding out and all.”

“Well,” John hums, quirking a brow. “Wasn’t about to let my Hart die on me. Blood was the least of my worries.” 

Your pulse flutters at the title, even if it’s just your codename and not the beating muscular organ inside of your breast. 

My Heart.

But it’s never that simple. 

A hand moves up your cheek, a kiss pressed to your forehead. 

The both of you already know you love each other. It wasn’t a secret. You were smart; eyes sharper than a blade—you caught the way he watched you, saw the softness of his expression, and felt the drag of his hand. Just as he caught the way you stayed beside him, an ever-present pair of eyes watching his six. The content nature that only you showed him. 

With feet so eager to leave at any moment, it said much that you chose to exist near him simply because you wanted to. 

You loved each other. 

Boil it down, and you’d both known even back in the Academy that it would be the two of you at the end of all things. The rivers said your name. The valleys rustled with the breeze of your breath. You saw John in the bits of water that sloshed the rocks and in the earth beneath your palms. 

Over the years you’d been apart, the yearning hadn’t been any less sharp—any less potent. In every birdsong, the echoes of the other's voice flew and disappeared on wingbeats. In everything that existed, there was a fraction of what should be. 

What should be. 

“John,” your voice is a whisper, nothing more than a rustle of a cloth. He keeps his lips to your forehead, resting there for a moment against all sense and responsibility. John’s eyes droop down, lashes resting on the swell of his cheeks. “You know I love you.”

He takes a breath. Rain is in the air—the movement of a storm’s wind. A leaving C-17. 

It’s a low mutter into your flesh.

“I know.” 

You grasp at his wrist, pulling lightly. Without a noise, John slips in beside you, kicking off his boots with a single clop of the soles to the wood and the movement of your blanket. He grunts, pushing his nose into your scalp, arms going around your middle. Your head slots under his chin, lips to his Adam’s apple.

The house is silent beyond the murmur of the pipes—the buzz of awaiting electricity. 

So many memories. So many lost dreams. It was akin to two skeletons lying in a grave of their own making, forever holding the bones of the other. Duty and honor are etched into the fractures. 

But he still holds you, he still murmurs into your ear, “Sleep, Love.”

“And you?” You ask, mirroring the conversation in the kitchen.

John’s lips move along your flesh, moving into a soft smile as he glances down at you. His beard scrapes you delicately.

“I’ll be here.”

Then it is here you’ll stay, dreaming of deer and the way nothing could compare to how he held you in his arms.

—

“I have eyes on,” your head snaps up, blankly staring ahead as your fingers hover over the hanging beads of a wind chime. You stand outside of a restaurant in the heart of Copenhagen. 

Laswell had sent in more eyes for the Task Force to use—local soldiers that knew the layout of the city better and where would be a good place to look. For days you’d been moving through the streets; far-off storage units and hidden buildings providing fruitless harvests. Anthony had said a warehouse, but that was panning out as nothing as well.

False information? Possibly, but unlikely. The man had been genuine in his pain and pleading, and it only served to confuse you more.

You had Gaz with you and five others, taking over as the leader of this fireteam while John headed the other with Johnny and Ghost. They were on the opposite side of the city, and you can’t help but compare this to the moment Emmett had become an enemy. 

But divide and conquer was the only option in times like these.

Emmett had become someone, just as he said he would. The man was in charge of supplying arms to terrorist organizations all over the world, and with his knowledge of how the SAS operates as well as any number of special forces, he’d utterly disappeared off the radar.

A wraith of lies and murder.

He had locations all over the globe with his goods, shipped out for money and power. 

And now you have a positive ID.

“Where are you,” your voice is hard and stiff, the body already moving back from the chime and leaving its little bits and bobs swinging. 

“Café down the street,” feet nearly locking together, you continue down the street to where you know Gaz’s last position was. “He’s just…sitting there.” A pause. “You want to know what it’s called in English, Ma’am?”

“The café?” your brows furrow, jogging across the street. 

“‘The Warehouse.’” Growling under your breath, you shake your head and send a curse into the air after a pause.

“I think the man thought he was clever,” Kyle’s voice is smooth and teasing. 

“Should have shot his other leg,” you grunt. “You told Laswell? John?”

“Negative, I’ll get on it—”

“I’ll do it,” you interrupt. “Tell the others to group up at your position and spread out to create a choke point; we can’t let him get away.”

“Rog. Will do.” 

You patch into John’s frequency.

“We have him,” you instantly breathe out. “Down Holbergsgade—café called ‘The Warehouse’.”

It’s swiftly that an answer hits you. “Get him surrounded, we’re coming.” 

Your heart is moving rapidly, fast in your chest as you pass people and business quickly. You didn’t like this—didn’t like the similarities, the…nostalgic dread that builds. A café of all places? Sitting down? Waiting?

It was so ironic it made alarm bells go off.

“John,” you lick your lips, glancing at faces as they pass. “I think he knows we’re here.”

“Explain.”

“A café?” John’s low grunt lets you know he understands. “Just sitting there? He knows—he’s not dumb enough to throw away all of his secrecy just as we so happen to get here and begin looking for him.”

“How sure are you?” The man takes your words into account, and you hear his breath puffing as he runs to your location. 

“Ninety,” you breathe. 

“Then I’m callin’ it off.” Your eyes widen, feet skidding as you come to a stop. 

You have no clue as to how far John will go to keep you safe—even if it means potentially letting one of the SAS’s highest HVTs go. There wasn’t anything that could compare to the thought of you getting in harm's way. Not you. 

John had spent his whole life watching soldiers die in the worst ways possible; they haunted his dreams and he knew they’d follow him to his grave—men he’d led down paths that they never should have been on. 

Not you. 

Losing you would break what little was left of him, the remnants held on by tape and sheer stubbornness. One of the last old faces he could still look at anymore; could draw comfort from in the thin hours. To hold and to love. 

You both knew you wouldn’t stand for it.

“No,” your voice cuts across, monotone. “I’m not allowing that.”

“Bloody hell, Hart, listen to me—do not,” John growls, making your spine tingle, “go after him. If he knows we’re fuckin’ here, we need to pull back and close off the area.”

You’re walking forward, that same pressure of a gun at the back of your spine. It was almost poetic. 

A thought sparks. Years of knowledge and understanding lighting up. 

Emmett was a snake. 

A snake that liked to play games and prove points; greed stuck into his brain for reasons you can’t quite say for certain. Even if you did catch him, he would never tell the locations of his goods or the buyers.

But there was one way to find out. One way this might turn.

“There’s a tracker in my arm,” you speak, growing more sure of your actions with every fast movement of your body. The café is just up the street, and a head of blonde hair is a knife to your vision. “I asked Laswell to insert and monitor it years back when I had to infiltrate a cell before I joined up with you again. Cautionary procedure since I had to forgo my rig and gear.”

A sharp bark. He knew what you were insinuating. “Hart!” You were going to get yourself taken hostage.

“Get Kate to watch it, John.” You move off his frequency before he can comment again, half of a roaring refusal cut off. Speaking to Gaz with a restricted throat, you say, “Kyle?”

“Right here, Ma’am.”

“Good. Don’t engage—I’m moving in.”

A stiff breath is taken in. “W…what was that?”

You don’t reply, only saying, “Whatever happens, I order you and the others to stay back, yeah?”

Your hand pulls the earpiece out and shoves it into your pocket right as you slip into the chair directly across from Emmett Kinsman. 

“Emmett,” you say in greeting, moving up a few fingers to a barista with a low call of your order. The individual nods and moves off before you lock on green eyes; they nearly make you flinch. 

You can only imagine what Gaz is telling John right now. 

Kinsman blinks at you, but he isn’t surprised. You were right.

“Hart,” the man smiles. His voice is still the same, though he looks older. “Pleasure seeing you again. Enjoying the sights of the city?”

“Not particularly,” you stare at him.

He chuckles, tilting his head before he brings his drink to his lips. He swallows and continues. 

“You always were serious. No fun.” You take the insult without any emotion, blinking at him slowly. What was his play?

“Why?”

“You already know why,” he shrugs, dressed in a nice suit. “I’ve made a name for myself—my name will be remembered for ages.” A twinkle in his eye. “SAS soldier turned weapon supplier; isn’t it exciting.”

“It’s a disgrace,” you lean forward, only stopping your voice from rising as a cup is placed down in front of you by the barista. 

Your face plasters a fake smile and you nod, moving it in front of you. Emmett watches with a smirk.

“I call it a change of heart.” He sighs, smirk simmering to a casual smile. “But I am glad to see you, you’ve been creating a big mess of things and I took it upon myself to have a meeting between us as old friends.”

“I’m not your friend,” you growl. “You’ve killed innocent people for no more than a fucking paycheck.”

“Well,” he snorts. “I don’t kill anyone. I’m the middle man—there’s a difference.”

Rage makes your eyes go to slits.

“And innocents, Sweet Thing?” Emmett leans in closer, face so smug and open you want to pull your weapon on him and worry about the consequences later. “What do I call what you do then?”

“A necessary evil,” you huff. “One I carry on my shoulders just like every other soldier does. One that was far better than supplying terrorists.”

Kinsman shrugs, moving back and picking up his drink, swirling it. “If you say so.” He hums. “You have to try the pastries here, you know. They’re very good.”

“I know you’re here because you expected us to find you, what I can’t figure out is why you broke your cover in the open instead of turning yourself in.” You look around at the faces in the outdoor seating, studying them trying to pinpoint if they’re civilians or in league with Kinsman. “Tell me before I decide to shoot you right here and now and end this regardless of hidden goods.”

“You already tried that, Hart,” Emmett laughs. “Pointing a gun at me didn’t work last time.”

“I’m not going to use a gun,” you ease out. “I’m going to take the butter knife on the table and slit your throat.”

“Uncivilized,” Emmet grumbles, frowning at the silver object near your hands. “It isn’t even sharp.”

“Good.” Green eyes narrow, unimpressed. He sighs, fingers moving in an outward gesture of exasperation. 

“If you must know before the main finale, I wanted to bring you here to say that I’m thoroughly impressed with your drive.” You try to stave off the shock in your stomach at the words coming out like a charmer’s flute. Raising a slow brow, you’re caught off guard. Emmett chuckles. “You nearly caught me at several instances throughout our game of cat and mouse. Many times I forget who the assigned roles were even given to; I’m telling you that I had fun.”

You stare, face tight. 

Emmett hums and his eyes go to slits. 

“But every game has to come to an end. I’m growing tired of it.”

The building across the street erupts into a great ball of fire.

—

John hears the explosion in the air, the shockwave that leaves his body halting to look into the sky in time to see black smoke.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath. “Fuck!” 

He rushes into the panicked crowd, memories stuck in his head and a bone-deep fear he’d been feeling since you cut the connection in your earpiece. Gaz had been relaying to him what was going on action for action—a football game, only the difference was that your life was on the line. 

“Kate,” John shouts. “Get the authorities down here now! We have an explosion on Holbergsgade.”

“Explosion?” The woman’s voice is sharp and disbelieving. “What’s going on—”

“Hart’s in the bloody crossfire, there’s no time!” John’s face is tight, wind whipping past his ears as screams fly on the wind; crying. “The fool is trying to get herself taken fucking hostage for intel!”

Whatever else was said was lost to the wind—Gaz comes over the line, calling to him in a panic as Johnny and Simon join in. 

“The entire building just went up in—”

“Fucking Christ—”

“Price, what is this?”

“All of you get down here!” John sprints past people on the ground, ripping his gun out of the back of his waistband. There’s no arguing. 

When the Captain turns the last corner, carnage greets him. 

The building across from the café was reduced to nothing but rubble and a still-burning flame. Eyes wide, John only looks at it for a few moments, too preoccupied with you.

Where were you? 

His jaw clenches, eyes burning with rage. Such a perfect soldier yet such a flawed sense of teamwork, he had a feeling you’d try something like this—had left Gaz with you for that very reason. Fuck he should have been at your side. He should have known. 

A low grumble moves through his lips, head snapping all around. There are bodies on the ground. Blood pooling under thick building material—fabric in the breeze. 

“Hart!” John yells, running to the café and seeing the remnants of a fast fight. 

The Captain’s heart drops to his feet, face burning with hellfire so much that a sheen comes to his cheek. His hand moves out to touch the handle of a butter knife that had been slammed into the table now half-fallen over, eyes stuck on only one thing on the ground under it.

Through the wails and the call of sirens, the man stares at the two long fingers sitting in the dust.

Never in his life had he felt a fear like this.

—

“I wanted to be kind about this,” Emmett fiddles with the wrappings of his bandaged left hand, only three fingers remaining. “I was going to make it quick.”

You’re locked in a cell-like room, head to the side and blood leaking out of a cut face. Burns travel up your arm, the sticky puss leaking out only serving to make you shiver. You don’t know where you are—don’t know what happened after you severed Kinsman’s fingers with that knife.

But you know the pain isn’t something that you haven’t already gone through before. 

Your voice is hoarse but firm as it leaks out of you, vision spotty. You’d been thrown in here after a ride in the trunk of a car. The ground is concrete. 

“...Don’t make me laugh.”

Emmett growls, eyes wide with hatred. 

“Pathetic!” He barks eyes looking you over with disgust. “Look at what you did to my hand!”

His other hand connects with the bars of the cage, producing a metal ringing sound as you push yourself up with one arm, eyelids flinching in pain. Sitting up, your body falls back to the wall behind it, and you grunt when the air in your lungs is expelled. You lick at your dust-coated lips, your head ringing and your focus failing. Concussion. 

“Least of your worries,” you roll your jaw, a wave of pain making your body seize up and your hands tense with quivering shakes. Your mouth opens with sharp pants. Bile pools in the base of your throat. 

It’s nothing. 

John will come soon. The tracker. If Laswell can get it working again, you’d be out of here and you would have whatever this location turns out to be and the intel that it can offer you—computer databases would be a one-and-done game. You would get names, coordinates, and buyers. It could all be over. 

Your clothes are melted into your skin, and when you move, they peel away with the remnant of your epidermis. The flesh of your left thigh and arm had taken the worst of it—and the cut from flying debris over your left cheek hasn’t stopped bleeding. 

Blood drips from it, and a loud ache makes your head pound all the worse. 

You’ve gone through worse.

“I don’t know why I bother,” Emmett snarls, the crimson bandages thick over his hand. “But it isn’t a problem,” he says, moving his other hand to slick back his hair. “It isn’t a problem,” the man utters again. “You’re going to help me. Yes…I’ve made up my mind. I need you to understand why I do the things I do.” 

Your brows furrow, but above this burning in your head, it’s hard to understand what’s being said to you. Shadows move and Emmett orders one of his men to open the cell door.

You fight the black dots at the sides of your vision, leaking until you’ve accepted the reality of yourself going unconscious. As your body slouches to the side, hands ruthlessly grasp under your arms and drag you to your feet. 

“Everyone has a breaking point.”

—

“What do you mean,” John glares at Laswell, his arms crossed over his chest; hands tightly grasping at his biceps. “You can’t find her?”

“The tracker was old, John,” the woman tries to explain, furiously typing at her computer that rests on the table in front of her—her spine bent over as the rest of the One-Four-One stay in a limbo of anxious looks. “To get it working again, it would need something to restart it. I don’t know if you can see,” Kate’s eyes are hard as they lock with his, “but I can’t do anything if she’s not here first.”

“Well of course she’d not bloody here Laswell, fucking Kinsman has her!” He shouts, hands moving out in a display of aggression. 

“Captain,” Kate rises to the challenge, hand moving flat to the table and glaring with the heat of a thousand missiles. “Do not take that tone with me.” 

John snarls and jerks his head away, feet on the ground trading weight. 

The man was borderline feral—all snapping teeth and sharp glances. Gaz had seen him like this only a handful of times, MacTavish even fewer. Ghost, of course, knew, but even his brown eyes wouldn’t leave his Captain, absorbed in the way he was unable to stay still for even a moment. He was in full gear, too. Had put it on directly after returning to a local base. 

John was ready to go to war, down to the rifle that swung from a strap at his side, the ammunition stuffed to his chest—sidearm at his thigh. A rabid dog with intelligence and the knowledge of where teeth needed to be applied to a neck for a clean kill. Simon doubted he wanted it to be clean.

John was ready to rip people to pieces. 

“Give me something,” the Captain says in a low growl, beard shifting. “Give me what I need.”

Kate splays her hands. “All we have is surveillance of a car leaving the area—the smoke covers all chances of the drone we had flying picking up a clear picture. John,” Laswell eases, standing up, “there’s only so much we can do. We need to wait—”

“We can’t bloody wait,” Gaz speaks up, “What’ll he do to her in the meantime?”

“Garrick’s right, we need to be on the ground with this.” Johnny nods, mohawk bobbing. “That’s one of our own—we’re not sitting around with our thumbs up our arses, Laswell. Not with Hart.”

Simon blinks, humming. Laswell’s eyes shift to him, near pleading for one to be on her side with this and see sense. Ghost shrugs. “I’m with them. Hart’s one of our own; we’ll do what needs to be done.”

John’s chest swells with pride while his eyes get stuck on your file on the table, your printed picture, and your black ink—he’d never loved an image more, but nothing could beat the real thing. He needed you back. He’d gone through hell with you for his entire life; you’d suffered with him and only locked your hands together and held on tighter. 

That was love—that was duty.

John Price wasn’t against skewing his morals for the sake of your safety. You would always be his most important mission. The man didn’t want to think about what might happen if he found you too late.

“Give me the video of the vehicle,” he grunts, jaw tight and his eyes beady. His body slightly leans forward to Kate, love going lower. “Or I’m going out there myself.” 

Laswell frowns tightly at him. 

“I just sent it into forensics—they’re trying to get a match. Go out if you want, but I won’t be able to stop the firestorm that comes out of it.”

She closes her laptop and moves past him, sending one last comment into the stone man as he towers ever taller.

“She’s strong, John. If you’re smart, you’ll keep yourself out of the crossfire until we have a definitive hit.” 

Her voice echoes from behind him as his hands slowly move to clench into knuckle-whitening fists.

“If Kinsman gets a tip we’re still onto him—you’ll never see Hart again.”

—

Day Three:

Your days start blending. One moment you hear the snapping of your bones, and then the next you’re wasting away in this cell—ears ringing and eyes buggy. So much blood. Blood on the walls—blood on the chair they strap you into in the other room; even stuck in the groves of your flesh. 

You don’t think you can stop closing your eyes and seeing a deer at the bottom of a bridge drop-off. It’s stuck in your head like a virus; those car lights in the back of your mind just waiting for you. 

There’s no sense as to what they do to you—all its purpose is, is to prove a point to Emmett. A sort of broken retribution for your interference and his fingers. 

Vain man, really. You’d told him as much when he was watching you get your own finger torn off my pliers; spit it at him as the blood from your bitten tongue stayed his suit. You remember the feeling of the knuckle popping first, and then the burning heat of the flesh being twisted to the side. Two firm yanks and the flesh had sprung like elastic, fissuring, the tendon snapping. 

You think you blacked out after that, but you can’t be sure. All you remember doing is screaming. 

You woke up with your left pinkie finger completely gone, resting outside in the hallway to mock you from past the bars. Your eyes could see the bone sticking out of it, and all that was left on you was a badly cauterized stump. 

When Emmett had come to gloat, you started slurring out laughter. 

“I’m going to rip you apart.” Your broken body had jerked back and forth like a marionette doll, only succeeding in spreading more red over the floors as green eyes widened and went dumbfounded. 

It sounded like a choking fish.

All he’d done was left, quickly passing the pinkie left limp on the ground.

Day five:

You can’t move your body as they dump you back into the chair—the drain below you flooded over with crimson and bits of hair; vomit and torn-off fingernails. You’re unable to open your eyelids fully. 

A hand grasps at your face, yanking it up into the overhead light until a bucket of water is dumped directly over your head. Your body jerks, coughing and darting forward until you’re shoved to the back of the chair and the rope is tied around the front of your shoulders, the second at your wrists.

Trying to suck down air, you shiver with the strength of an earthquake. Whoever said that they would never be afraid while being tortured was a liar; whoever thinks that they would be able to push through it—a fraud. Emmett was right, everyone had a breaking point.

But you admitted yours would only come after your death.

Your legs are seized, bent up as you hiss as well as you’re able, teeth snapping. 

They’re dumped back down into a bucket of ice-cold water as droplets drip from your nose—wet skin for the moment only holding streaks of gore. Even with your scattered mind, you know what this means. 

Heart tight and eyes widening, you try to push back in the chair; try to fight the rope and the way your body won’t respond. 

A battery is rolled up beside you on a metal cart. Jumper cables. 

There’s a low chuckle at the way your face goes fearful. 

—

John shoves open the door to Laswell’s temporary office, already talking before it hits the far wall. 

“Do we have her?” His hands move beside him, brushing the grip of his sidearm. He hadn’t been out of his full gear for more than five minutes in days. Waiting day and night for any word; sleeping in it, eating in it. The forensics team had been stumped, unable to get more than a model out of the picture. 

But this might finally give him something to act on. 

Kate is moving, grabbing documents and her laptop, speeding past him and out of the door. 

“Kate!” John shouts, following after. “Hey,” he calls, grabbing at her arm to stop her. 

The woman only halts to say, quickly, “We have a hit. Follow me.”

John’s heart is rampaging, pulse wild under his skin as his gloved hands twitch. Finally. He can only smoke so many cigars—only think of so many scenarios until he feels he needs to vomit. You’d been gone for too long. Every moment had been like trying to walk with a cloth over his head; lost. 

He’d grown stiff. Stiffer than normal. Everyone had seen it.

“Where is it, then?” John asks as Laswell pushes open the door to the meeting room, the other three already inside.

“A property outside of Copenhagen—bought through a proxy on a fund that was linked to blood money in South America; it all went directly back to Kinsman. It was found only ten minutes ago.” A pause. Electricity in the air. “But that’s not how we found it.”

“How,” Simon asks, moving closer. 

John gives the woman his full undivided attention, hands moving to rest at his collar in a soothing gesture. 

“Her tracker came back on.” Eyes go wide, all sharing rapid glances as Kate opens her laptop and opens a man, turning the device for them to see. “Same location.”

Johnny blinks, his eyes narrowing. “And what does that mean?”

“That can’t have just done that by itself,” Gaz mutters, brown eyes sliding over to John who’s stiller than a wolf. The Sergeant pauses. 

His eyes are dead set on that screen. His thighs were so tense it was nearly like the Captain was about to sprint out of the room. Kyle’s face goes blank at that, never quite seeing the extent that your disappearance had on the man. His superior had bags under his eyes; far more pale than usual. His apparel was ruffled, too. Even in the more serious of situations, the Sergeant had never seen John so…out of it. He was always the one with the even head, even if he had a short fuse with certain things. Nothing was ever done without thought, he should say. 

But this is something else. 

“Torture,” Simon gives his two cents and John’s cheek twitches at the word. “Electrocution. They jump-started it and didn’t even know.” 

“Bloody Jesus,” John breathes. Everyone had already had a hunch, but no one had wanted to name it. 

It’s a low rumble that makes the rest of them freeze, though. It was so dead in tone that it even made Kyle’s spine lock up; Johnny’s eyes went a smidgen upward. Simon, although his face was covered, felt his lips twitch.

John looks at nothing but that dot on the computer screen.

“Am I green, Laswell?”

Kate looks at John. It’s like setting a hellhound loose. 

“You’re green, Captain.”

—

You’re tossed into the cell and your body rolls along the floor, bouncing and flinching until your back slams into the wall. Air is forced from your lungs, coming out in a loud grunt before you land on your stomach in a heap. Staying there, your nerves are fried. 

Every moment you think the twitching of your fingers will stop—the dance of your muscles responding to the aftereffects of electrocution, it only starts back up again. Your eyes blink rapidly; your clothes have the scent of smoke to them. 

Gasping for breath, you feel like you’re drowning and being set on fire all at once. 

Yet the question in your head was a simple one, one you’d been asking for days.

Where was John?

Emmett enters the cell, clicking his tongue as the metal hinges squeak. 

“I’m not surprised it’s taking this long,” he explains. “But I am surprised you’re still alive, admittingly.” 

A boot comes out and places itself atop your shoulder, pressing down slowly until its full weight is on top of you. Your mouth opens in a shuddering sound of a dying animal, blood dripping from your ears and nose. 

“I know you’ve taken torture before—even taken a part of it,” Kinsman sighs. “But, shit Hart, you really do scare me when I know you’re strong enough to get through th—”

Your body jolts up, grappling Emmet’s leg and twisting it to the side. Regardless of pain—of agony—there’s such primal rage inside of you that what little adrenaline you can bring forth is all that more addictive. 

The man collapses in a heap, gasping, but you’re already on top of him, wrestling your hand to his neck, missing finger and all. Blood moves, staining his precious suit and dripping from your mouth into his hairline. You bare down your weight on him, teeth clenched and eyes wild—one orb holding nothing but red from burst veins and the other full of a vicious gleam of ferality. 

Hands snap up to your wrists, mouth opening in flapping panic. 

But Emmett has grown weak; he’s out of practice. All of those years out of the SAS, giving up on the training of the body to match the mind. The idiot wasn’t even carrying a gun when he walked into the cell of a charging stag, its antlers dripping gore, sharper than any knife. 

When the flaps of his eyes fall there’s no gloating speech—there’s no snort of a tall and proper victor. All you do is take the front of his face, grasp it, and start sending his skull back into the concrete floors. 

Crack.

…Crack.

….Crack.

Only when the sound of his head breaking open meets your ringing ears, do you force your wheezing lungs to take a large breath. 

Emmet Kinsman died as he lived. 

A fucking piece of shit.

“Fuck you,” you spit on his corpse, saliva bloody; his jaw is loose as you release the man’s face, eyes bulging. Falling to the side, you groan in pain, your body curling into itself until you resemble a sleeping fawn. You’re shaking more and more with every second, coughing with the force of an earthquake until your shredded vocal chores force you to stop. 

But the brain is a funny thing. 

In times of danger, survival is the only thing that takes priority. It was why, in a long shove of your hand to the floor, with your bones creaking and your vomit meeting the ground, you’re able to stand. It isn’t enough to help you heal the snapped bone of your right leg, however, and in a steadily failing stupor, you drag it behind you. In this state, nothing else matters to you besides a simple command: get out.

Your shoulder slaps the metal of the cell as you stumble out of it, careening into the far wall and letting out a loud shout. 

Eyes fluttering, you connect your temple to the cool concrete, trying to breathe. 

It hurts too much, your mind says. God, I can’t feel my limbs. 

A long trail of blood follows you down the hallway as you slide along the wall, using it as a brace. 

You want to see John, you whisper inside of your head. You want to be held by him—be taken into his chest; cared for away from all of this fighting. 

A trip back to Herefordshire with him, to go deep into the country together; rest in the green grass where no one can find you for just a few good hours. It didn’t have to be forever, you would say. Just a few hours. A few hours of sky and earth wrapped in a time loop of just your own. 

You want to kiss him there. In the open, out in the wild. You want to stay by his side, your mind thinks as you stumble over the three dead bodies in the left corridor, bullet wounds in their heads. You want to be by his side forever, no more gaps in years, not more longing. It’s so close you can nearly reach out and grasp it—

Your name is yelled on a heavy breath, and hands capture your shoulders as you fall straight into them with no more strength.

Blue eyes lock with yours as you’re hurriedly settled to the ground, body limp and eyes trying to stay open. 

Blue eyes on a grassy hill.

“Hart, fucking hell.” Hands move your body, pressing and sliding—finding every opening and spreading blood like water. “Fucking hell! Hey!”

You’re yelled at, and the ripping of pouches and the familiar sound of bandages being wrapped come to the back of your brain. A hand shakes your head, locked under your chin as you take slow, broken, breaths. 

“Please, fuck sake, please,” it’s a desperate growl, so familiar and yet a world away. Your body is moved and manipulated as every leaking wound is packed with so much gauze it hangs out of you like you’re a mummy. The burns along your flesh are crust and infected, open skin peeling back. 

But the pain is lesser now. Easier to manage. 

There’s such a ruckus that it’s hard to focus on John—the man on the hill. In the grass and the wind. Brown hair moves in the breeze as white clouds roll past. On the air, there’s the scent of rain, and in the far distance, you can see a group of ten deer grazing, ears twitching.

Maybe you’ll ask them if they blame their leader, or the two trucks on the end of a bridge.

“Keep your eyes on me!” You blink into John’s tiny blues, that mist rolling back. You stare for a moment as he frantically screams into his radio; night vision rig on his head and all-black gear covering him from you. His face is pale, his eyes glossy. “Look at me, hey,” he blinks as he notices you watching, surging forward. “Hey, keep 'em open, yeah? You keep them fucking open, Love.” 

Your chest is heavy. 

“John,” you push out a flicker coming to your lips as your vision slightly unblurs itself to the sight of a flood of blood on the man’s body—an unimaginable amount.

“I’m ‘ere,” his accent grows deeper with emotion, one hand holding your cheek and the other at your shoulder, keeping you still to stop any additional damage. “I’ve got you, you understand me? I’m not letting you go, so don’t you think that I will.” 

It’s a double-edged sword.

A smile peels back your chapped lips, red running from the corner of your mouth. You glance at his stained gear again. The abyss swirls at the corners of your eyes.

“Is that your blood, or mine, John Price?” 

You hear him scream for a medic, and then it all goes numb.

—

You dream of deer on a hill, but every time you search for John, he isn’t there. You go past rivers—

“She’s dropping!”

“Get me the defibrillator!”

—past copses. Your voice goes high and low, but all the while you look, there’s nothing but a nagging feeling in the back of your head that you shouldn’t be here.

“Again!”

It’s a strange nagging, truly. Like falling asleep in the middle of the day and waking up in the night without any remembrance of what had happened prior. A displacement of the mind. 

“We’ve got a pulse, Doctor, do we stop and—”

“No, I need to finish off the internal bleeding or else she won’t make it another day. Get me the cauterizer, now.”

You blink and grip your chest, a sudden pain sharp in your heart as the grass moves about your ankles. Coughing, you bend over, your eyes fluttering rapidly. In the deepest part of your eardrum, you hear a murmur of a voice you can’t place.

“The man came back, again. He’s been out there for days. He just…sits there, waiting until someone tells him something. He can’t come in, and I’m sorry about that. I’m sure hearing his voice would help more than mine, but you’re in too much of an unstable condition for that. If you get another infection, you won’t…hm, I shouldn’t talk about that. Everyone in school said only to talk positively to patients when they’re like this. I…I’m sure he’ll be able to come in soon. I think everyone calls him John if that rings a bell?”

“John?” Your eyes flutter open, sharp light above you making you snap them back closed. No one answers. 

It’s a long moment before you find the strength to breathe in the oxygen from the mask over your face, taking a long and deep inhale before a slight cough makes your abdomen tight. You flinch at the pull of stitches, all coming from so many places, that it’s unwise to move too much. 

Gradually, you open back up your eyes, pushing past the sting. Inside of your throat, the skin is so dried out you can feel it cracking at every articulation of your words. 

“Where's…John?” When you shift your head to the side, no one’s there. No one’s even in the room, either.

Blinking through the haze, your lips twitch on your face, skin tight. With a slap of your weak hand, you grasp the oxygen mask and pull it down to your neck, grunting in mild annoyance at the medicated numbness of your form. 

Your leg is in a cast—and your left side is tightly bound by wrappings to hide away the burns where skin grafts most likely live. With a glance, you see the missing pinky and the bandages that cover the strange remnants. 

The facial wound will scar, you know, but right now it’s patched over and healing. That’s all you can ask for. 

Sighing long, you blink slowly at the ceiling, licking your lips. You need water.

Outside, the murmurs are missed to you as your unmarred hand reaches for the nightstand table, where a half-drunk bottle of water sits next to a tray of food. Even if your stomach rumbles, water takes precedence. Your throat was like the Sahara desert.

“Forget something, John?”

“Bloody fork. The bastard gave me the slip. Dropped mine, needed to go back and grab another.”

“Oh, that’s alright—you could have asked one of us to get one for you. We’d hate for you to miss any time for visiting hours.”

“It’s fine; gets me moving, eh?”

“Just grab us if you need anything else!”

A low grunt is accented by the opening of the door; immediately you tense and pause, neck fighting itself to shift forward once more.

Wide blues lock with your own, and it’s like every pain fades away. 

John’s jaw is slack hidden under the layers of his beard bristles, brows going atop his head in an instant. The sound of a dropping metal utensil echoes through the room. 

You both stare at one another for a long time, and the murmur of nurses accumulates to some peaking through the crack; their expressions also going to shock. A few scurry off, probably to get a doctor. 

“What?” Your hoarse voice asks, unnerved by this. 

At the sound of your voice, John flinches forward on his boots. The nurses get shut out with beaming faces as the barrier closes with a small click of metal.

Walking to the side of your bed, John clears his throat, eyes looking you up and down in two glances. A million things are hidden in them. After an opening and closing of his mouth, which you watch closely while squinting, he speaks.

“How are we feeling, then?” You breathe slowly and in tiny puffs. John looks at the oxygen mask as if telling you to put it back on, but you refuse for a moment. 

“Like shit,” you utter, voice cracking.

With a huff, John pushes away your reaching hand and gets the water himself, unscrewing it. Bringing it to your lips, you take it down as he speaks.

“Easy, Love.” 

When you’d had your fill and the ache settled, you brought a hand to your head and rubbed at your injured cheek before John sighed and grabbed at it, intertwining his fingers with yours and lowering the limb back to your chest.

You stare at him, and he stares at you. 

“I don’t know what to ask,” you confess. 

“You don’t have to ask anything,” John mutters, and his face is tight with worry. “You’ve been in a coma for three weeks, all you need to do is ease back into it.”

Your eyes snap back.

“Tell me if it hurts,” He speaks slowly, moving on one word at a time so the realization doesn’t dwell in your brain. “I can get someone to come in, yeah?”

Your hand in his burns, and John pulls at the chair by the nightstand until he’s able to sit down in it fully with a tiny grunt.

“No,” you say, “no, it’s…I’m fine.”

Better now that you’re here, but your body is tense. Three weeks?

“Just need to take it easy,” the man states, thumb running up and down your knuckles. “You’ll be better soon.”

A dry look is sent his way, and he hides a soft quirk on his lips. “You’ll be better, Love.”

You hum, head moving back more heavily into the pillow. 

“When do I get to go back?”

“When you’re healed,” he grunts. “Not a fuckin’ moment sooner.”

“We get anything on the other locations of the—”

“Hart,” you’re interrupted. Blue eyes stare at you heavily, digging past every shield you’d put up and every fear. What happened was still heavy in your mind; it pained you to imagine it, even the way John had found you—even if it was all glimpses. “Slow down. That’s not an order coming from a soldier, it’s a caution from an old friend.” John says, squeezing your flesh. His other hand comes to your shoulder, sitting there heavily. 

“Breathe,” he orders, face gruff. “We always figure it out.” 

You close your eyes and sigh, frowning. 

A low chuckle moves along the air a second later. 

“Never sit down, do you?” A flicker dances over your lips like a butterfly. “Impossible, you are.”

“You’re one to talk,” you huff, eyes shifting back to him. 

He’s smiling at you, and you can’t help but mirror it right back at the sight. Your facial injury pulls and tightens, but you would welcome an ache like that for as long as it stayed. A scar born of the stretch of lips is one well-earned. Only John could ever make it a reality.

The man stares at your lips, his wide build eager to stay over you in this state. He can’t stop himself from caressing your skin; to feel you alive and breathing. Talking.

“Scared me,” John admits under his breath. 

You blink, your smile fading slowly until it was like it was never there. Your body builds with guilt; also something only he could bring. “I’m sorry, John.” 

A small thinning of his lips is what you get, accented by a hum. 

“Hart,” he grunts. “I…”

John’s eyes closed for a moment before opening back up—spearing you with their gaze. Your tired eyes crinkle in confusion.

“What is it?” Over the tingle of your flesh from where he touches you, it isn’t hard to forget the world is around you when he’s here like this. You’re nearly trapped by his eyes, yet you welcome it eagerly. His voice moves out, accent and natural gravel, all. 

“I love you.” 

Your nose lets a chuff exit. Was that all?

“I love you, too, John—”

“No, Hart,” he pushes slightly harder, moving closer and licking his lips as he glances away. “No,” John looks you dead in the eye as you lay here battered and broken within an inch of your life—a risk that you took willingly as if it had meant nothing. The both of you weren’t new to this; you both knew that on any day you or he would do it over and over again until it resulted in death. That was the way of this game; this trial. 

You had both always been content with that, but when had it changed? 

Why was the thought of losing you more fear-invoking than anything else he’d ever encountered?

You watch him as his lips utter the words, lips close to yours and your eyes locked. 

“I love you.” 

Your voice is caught in your throat, stuck in the throws of a quick gasp. Not blinking, the man waits for you—waits for an answer to the earth-shattering confession. But it all came far easier than you would ever admit to anybody besides him. It was already known, after all. 

All that remained was the pesky words.

“I love you, too.” You beam, words low with intimacy. “I think I always have.”

John chuckles, a large smile pushing at his reddening cheeks. “Good,” he nods, clearing his throat. “Good,” he says again. “Well, I—”

You softly connect your lips with his, and you feel him pause, breathing you down for a moment as hearts beat at the same tempo. He sighs, one hand coming up to capture your cheek, holding it there for you as you sag into it and live in this everlasting moment. 

It’s there you had a revelation.

It was never Hart to him. John had never been calling you that. 

He’d always just been saying Heart.

You breathe out a laugh, when you separate, beaming in a happiness you thought was long gone from you—stolen in the dark nights and sold through even darker deeds. Neither of you was worthy of this, of the love that breeds in broken things. Yet, here it is regardless. Here, among blood and the blue eyes of a man you’d known since knowing anything became important. You had always known it was John. And finally, finally, finally.

“I would marry you in an instant, John Price,” you breathe when you separate, not weak enough to stop the words from exiting from the deepest part of your soul.

His crinkled eyes watch, reverently gazing at every blemish and mark; everything he could learn new again. John’s eyes are as soft as you ever imagined them to be, and he gives them over freely to you.

He kisses you again and leaves the taste of his heavy, happy, chuckle tingling across your lips.

“Seems I’d better get on that, then.”

A/N: This fic is strangely nostalgic for me even if I just wrote it - I remember the first ever fic I posted on here was a rescue fic, as well as a John Price fic; it's amazing to see how far I've come in regards to overall content/story building and how my understanding of the character has evolved. This might not be the best work I've posted on my blog, but I'm glad to say I'm proud of myself and how far I've come. It's so wonderful that I can have this feeling for such a big moment and still feel so drawn back to the past at the same time. Totally not tearing up at the thought rn.

Thank you all very much for your support.

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting , @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

[phyrestartr]

Divine Favour | Sukuna x Kitsune!Reader (Pt.3)

W/C: 3.1k #SFW, mild yuuji/reader, yuuji and gang are v early 20s, heian sukuna, male reader, typical kitsune shapeshifting, canon typical violence, morally grey reader, unhealthy relationships, power imbalance, ABO elements, mentions of death, yuuji has entered the chat, gojo has entered the chat, idky this got sad tho lol

A/N: This bit made me very sad please suffer thank you!!! Also the main story will be wrapping soon (I think next part will be the last part?) and then after that, it'll probably be drabbles! There might be a 'sequel' that touches on the culling games tho because b r u h they've got some down time during that arc so hfhfhfhfhghghf imagine what I could do--

tags: @kamote-kuneho @better-imagination-9 @flowersatwork @nyanwko @kamote-kuneho @better-imagination-9 @3zae-zae3 @chibiduck @kiiyoooo @lukaijah

A strict no-contact order had been placed on Yuuji, and, subsequently, Sukuna. Neither were to come into contact with you while you recovered, and neither were to be alone with you considering the control-slip incident. 

Still, the curse had been rampant in the young man’s mind, constantly pacing back and forth just behind his consciousness, waiting patiently as a predator should for Yuuji's guard to go down. Granted, even if Yuuji was caught by surprise, it'd still be near impossible to overtake the peppy twenty year-old. Sukuna didn't have an explanation, but it was what it was. 

He would have gladly seized control now, when you'd somehow managed to slip away from your recovery prison and get comfortable in Itadori Yuuji's bed. Sukuna would have slaughtered everyone at the academy for a second to touch you again, to breathe you in.

But the brat finally realized something was off, and woke to find your head tucked under his chin, his arms slung across your waist. Your breath fanned across his collarbone, tickling the sorcerer's touch-starved skin and feeding the fire burning in his cheeks–Sukuna, though, didn’t seem pleased his host was the one touching you. Yuuji counted that as a victory. 

Suck it, dickhead.

Hm? A stranger’s voice rippled instead of the king's. 

Yuuji jolted, his blood growing cold for a second before recognizing that voice–it came from that tidal wave of memories. But it didn't tick him off the way Sukuna's did. It was…nice.

Uh…you can hear me? Yuuji wondered. He tried to envision his voice as loud and clear as possible to help it reach you. 

Your brows twitched in your daze. Yes, I can hear you. There's no need to shout. 

Oh. Sorry. Uh, how'd you get in here? 

The door. 

Oh. Cool. Yuuji shifted a little. I'm not really supposed to, y'know, make contact with you or–

But you're warm. Your nails lightly dragged across his back, leaving trails of tingly pinpricks dancing across his skin. Yuuji swallowed a moan. God, why did the littlest touches feel so nice? 

Y-Yeah? My grandpa used to say I ran hot. Like a furnace or somethin’. 

I agree. You burn like firewood. And you smell warm. Like cedar and honey. You stretched languidly, and the younger stayed put, not strong enough to pull away from your praise and touch. Your teasing fingers raked through his hair daintily, and this time Yuuji did moan. Just the slightest bit before he snapped his mouth shut and bit his lip. 

You leave me wondering how you taste. 

“What?” Yuuji squawked. Your eyes lazily opened a crack, seemingly put off by the sudden break in room silence. It gave the sorcerer an opportunity to admire the golden glints of divinity hidden in the hue of your iris. 

But he found fear in that moment, too. Yuuji knew what most didn't–the curse sealed inside of him thought you to be his equal. You were the only beast Sukuna would bow before, the only one whose attention he craved and sought in his reign. 

You were, in a way, a king yourself.

Do you think I'll eat you, Yuuji? 

“I–uh–you–well–” Yuuji fumbled exceptionally, choking on flustered words. “I just--Sukuna ate people, right? So, uh. Maybe you did too?” 

You looked him over for a moment. Your gaze traced the cute curve of the younger's nose, the petite fangs worrying at his bottom lip, the caramel swirl of his eyes. He looked so much like Sukuna. It made you wonder. 

I've eaten humans, yes, You agreed, nonchalant. Do you want me to eat you?

“Eat me?” Yuuji deadpanned, unsure if he should feel just bothered or hot and bothered. “I, well–”

No. Sukuna’s voice cut like ice through Yuuji’s mind. For a second, it scared him. It reminded Yuuji of what exactly Sukuna was. What he’d do. 

So what would you do?

“Hey,” Yuuji started, suddenly calm, serious. “Why’re you on Sukuna’s side? You don’t seem like a bad person.”

You took a deep second to think before sitting up and hugging your knees to your chest. Your tails curled weakly around your clothless frame, swallowing up any spot a young man’s curious gaze might wander in the secrecy of night. Maybe you’d been in this situation before. 

“‘Good.’ ‘Bad.’ We all have different definitions.” Your voice rattled and scraped out your tired throat, yet you didn’t look perturbed in the slightest. “I do what pleases me: garden, sew, eat. Sometimes, I may cause harm in the process. I care sometimes, and I don’t others. Does it make me evil to choose what I care about?” 

Yuuji’s head started to ache. He wasn’t sure if he could keep up with your fancy, archaic way of speaking, but he was sure as hell gonna try. 

The younger sat up, too, and ruffled up his hair. “I mean. Don’t you wanna try to, y’know, not hurt people? Not cause harm, ‘n stuff?”

“Is fire wicked? Or does it simply exist?” You posed. “In the control of man, it is sacred. It cooks food, illuminates the dark, cloaks you with warmth. Yet it burns down trees. Swallows homes. Devours crops. Kills.” 

You looked at Yuuji, rose-wrapped eyes resentful of something the sorcerer could not know. “Man regards fire as a blessing when controlled, yet it is a curse when it runs free with nature–existence, the black and white of the world, is in the eye of the beholder.” 

Yuuji didn’t like how much that made sense to him. Objectively, Sukuna was bad. He killed. He murdered for fun. He ate people–

Yet your words, your pretty way of speaking and philosophies gave Yuuji pause. It didn’t click, despite igniting grim sparks in the cogs hidden far behind his eyes. He already made his mind up about good and evil, yes and no, white and black, and yet–

You poked him in the forehead, between his eyes, and Yuuji blinked. 

“It’s merely food for thought, Yuuji.” Why did you know his name again? “Don’t burden yourself with making decisions or anything of the sort. I suppose my answer was long-winded in regards to your question.” 

“Yeah, kinda,” he laughed, rubbing his cheek. “But, uh…it helped, I guess.” Yuuji pulled your hand down from poking him. “You don’t think Sukuna’s bad,” he concluded.

“I think he was a force of nature.” Your head tilted. Your eyes softened. “A monster to some, a god to others.” 

“‘N to you?”

Your eyes caught the morning light, iris reflecting with waking embers. 

“He was everything.”

Gojo thought you were pretty in the same way Getou was pretty; you were handsome with fine features, you radiated with odd power, and you spoke with unmatched poise and purpose it almost made the man’s ego swoon. 

But you looked tired as Getou had, too. Skin void of blushing warmth, eyes distant and hazy, dark circles pulling your gaze away from him. He didn't like it. It made him remember that cold hand ripping his heart to pieces. 

“Look who’s awake!” Gojo cheered as he sauntered toward you, hands in his pockets and a smile adorning his face. “Hungry? I could getcha some–”

“You were listening, were you not?” You wondered, running your bony fingers through matted fur systematically. Your split nails picked and clawed through tangles and knots thoroughly, as though it’d make a difference in your beat-up appearance. 

Gojo tilted his head before settling down in the seat beside your bed. “Hm? Me? Listening? To–”

“Yuuji and I.”

“Ah! You mean the night you snuck out to do some naughty, naughty things with my student?” 

You deadpanned fiercely, looking at him the way someone else used to. “Ha. Hm. Surely you jest.”

Gojo waggled his brows as much as he could, hoping they’d peek out over the top of his blindfold. “Hah, you think I don’t know what my sweet, precious Yuuji does behind closed doors? I know everything! I’m–”

“You misunderstand,” you cut him off, looking more and more concerned with each passing second. “You are a teacher? Why? How? This does not seem ethical.”

Gojo died. Rather, his pride did. Which was essentially his lifeforce. 

“What are you–okay, I’m just gonna chalk it up to you being cranky after getting woken up, alright? I’ll give you a pass. Just once!” Gojo nodded as a benevolent creature should. “You should thank me.”

“I’d rather not.” You sighed and returned to your grooming. “If you wish to interrogate me, I require food first. Tofu, specifically”

Gojo laughed. “Man, you are one high-maintenance god. Alright, you want normie tofu, or agedashi tofu?” 

You blinked and looked at him, curious. 

“Agedashi tofu?”

You really liked agedashi tofu. You liked the little sauce it came with, you liked the other random shit Gojo bought to try and win over your compliance–well, honestly, he also just wanted an excuse to shower someone with the food and snacks he liked. It’d been a long time since he’d had the privilege to. 

“So,” Gojo said as he popped the marble into the ramune bottle for you and handed it over, “About you and Sukuna.” 

“Mhm?” Your eyes glittered in fascination as you took the drink and examined it from all angles, carefully tilting it here and there to watch the blue bubbles rise to the top as the glass ball rolled and spun in its tiny prison. 

Gojo almost lost his train of thought watching you, but he reigned it in quickly.

“Seems like you were close.” Were was important. You'd referred to the menace in past tense when speaking with Yuuji–clearly, you didn't realize the curse resided within the young sorcerer. Best to keep it that way.

You pursed your lips in thought for a moment.

“I suppose. Why?” 

“I'm just nosy!” 

“I know that already. But there exists intelligence behind your annoying behaviour.” Your gaze slid to him, staring through the veil of fabric and straight into his eyes. “You're a monster like he was, aren't you?” 

“Hah?! Rude!” Gojo whined, but regained composure just as fast. “Seems your intuition is pretty good, huh?”

“It's simply an understanding of nature.” 

“Is that what pulled you to him? His nature?” 

“No. I was given to him. As a gift. By a clan of sorcerers.”

“Huh. A gift.”

“Yes. The harvest festival required as much. He was revered as a godly creature. Something to be feared.” 

“And so were you,” Gojo guessed, and you frowned and looked away, instead picking through the treats and snacks brought to you. 

“The people saw us very differently.”

Sukuna didn't walk through the city below often–not until you decided you liked it down there. 

Finding out that you walked through those streets alone sent a trill of something unpleasant up Sukuna's spine; knowing you were alone, vulnerable and under the eyes of so many that so often cursed Sukuna and wished him dead made him…uneasy, maybe. You could handle yourself. Sukuna simply couldn't handle the disrespect.

But things weren’t as he assumed.

You walked through town, and the people revered you as they would Amaterasu incarnate. Most didn't address you, but all saw and accepted your presence with grace and kindness, nodding or flickering small smiles as you passed by with the king trailing behind. 

Sukuna could understand; you'd become something astoundingly breathtaking. Lush, full tails dipped and swayed as you walked with the poised elegance of royalty, the feeling only enhanced by the careful, intricate way you presented yourself in your attire. Sukuna knew you felt beautiful. You were beautiful. 

“It's (Name!)” A child cried, and Sukuna fought the urge to punt the little shit into the restaurant across the road when the tiny human grabbed at your clothes. 

But you smiled. You actually smiled when you patted the girl on the head and said your sweet hellos before ushering her along after her mother. The corners of your eyes crinkled for once, showing that, yes, you'd aged and felt joy and become so perfect because of it. And when you cooed sweet farewells to passing little ones, your fangs flickered against the colour of your lips, just for a second. 

Your gilded gaze caught his carmine stare, and you tilted your head. 

“Sukuna.” You held your hand out to him, and he took it. He had no choice. He was only human, and you were God. Walking through a city of mortals.

He let you lead on, wandering to the shops where you bought thread and fabric for your stupid little projects with money he didn't even know you had. You could have just taken everything you wanted, especially with the king stood right by your side, but you eased the shopkeeper's nerves with kind words and ample pay. 

Sukuna all but picked you up and launched you both back home the second you were done meandering. He had a job to do; he had to fully commit to siring a runt.

Now, Gojo didn't need to know all that, but it didn't stop your mind from wandering to that night; it was the first time he looked at you like that. It was the first time he decided against lording his power over you, instead holding you close and taking things slow. You missed it. You yearned for the night he stopped seeing you as a toy and saw you as you. The night he finally learned your name.

“They viewed me as something divine,” you continued, digging out of the warmth of memories. “Perhaps because I walked alongside someone like him.” 

“Well, only gods can walk through a volcano and come out unscathed, no?” Gojo smiled a bit as you looked away, embarrassed. 

“That's a poor analogy.”

“Eh?”

“How would one walk through a volcano? None would even think to get close enough to do so.”

“W-Wait–”

“You would be underground, would you not? With limbs melted, oneself ablaze? And one would not walk but wade through lava.” 

“It's just a metaphor!” Gojo wailed. 

“A poor one.” And you continued to pick through snacks, unbothered that you'd just destroyed the strongest man alive as you munched on cheese-flavoured rice puffs.

Gojo laughed, though. “I can see why he liked you. Supports the theory he's not the one who put you in the coffin.” 

“It wasn't him,” you snapped. Your ears flattened against your skull as you shrunk in on yourself. “At least…not directly.” 

Oh? Gojo leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees as he laced his fingers together.

“Then who was it? What happened?” 

“I don't fully understand it myself,” you confessed. Your voice was a whisper, cold and lonely like a far North winter. 

“Maybe I can help.” 

You looked to him and back down again. 

“There was a man. A sorcerer. I don't know his name–I never cared to learn it. He was odd.” You tore up little bits of hi-chew wrappers as you spoke. “He asked me if I would sacrifice myself for Sukuna.” 

“And?” Gojo prodded. 

“I would not,” you said. “Sukuna would never need my sacrifice, he'd never need my aid. He was the strongest.” A light frown tugged at the corners of your mouth. “That creature thought otherwise. He mentioned something about additional wombs, but I don't know what that means.” 

Fuck. Gojo nodded politely. “Gotcha, gotcha. What'd this guy look like? You remember?” 

“Unremarkable, save for the odd sutures across his forehead.” 

“Oh? Interesting. Alright, last question, my cute little kitsune–”

“(Name),” you cut in. “Address me as (Name).”

Gojo sparkled. “Waaah, I think our relationship just leveled up to A-tier! One more level and I can romance–”

“Please do not make me hurt you.” 

The white witch whined and deflated against his chair. “Boooring.”

You huffed and flicked your ear. “Ask your question, goblin.” 

Gojo took a breath before he spoke. 

“Are you with child right now?” 

The world changed suddenly. Seal papers coating the walls drowned in bones and flowers as the pungent sweetness of orchids and decay curled around Gojo. Around you, a cage began to rise, jutting out from the earth and encircling you like thousands of rigid arms holding you in an embrace. And your eyes–they shone with abhorrent divinity, outshining even the nine, pristine tails breathing with blackened fire. 

But there was screaming. Two voices intertwined. Little and distant, warped and outraged at–at something. Maybe Gojo? Maybe his accusations, his questions? 

Just when the sorcerer was about to act, your clasped a hand over your stomach, and you whispered with the thrum of a thousand voices:

“Be still.” 

It all moved slowly, then. The phenomenon–the apparent domain expansion–reversed, sinking back into the floors and walls with the soft sound of chittering and cooing taking the place of wicked screeches. You, too, cooed back to the twin voices, placating them with maternal ease. 

Your divinity faded with the last shreds of the illusion. Now, your colours faded further, painting you in desaturated tones of exhaustion and worry. Gojo hated that palette. It'd been used too many times on too many he doted on. God was stupid like that, creating such sad, worrisome colours.

The sorcerer took a deep breath in the silence of the room. He didn't know what to say, or how to say it. He was never good at this kind of thing. His other half was much better at this. 

But he had to try. The look on your face told him he had to try. 

What would he have done?

Gojo’s hand reached out as he leaned forward, and he caught your scarred, bony hand in his own. You didn’t pull away, you didn't fight him, you instead curled your fingers around his and held your breath while your gaze became unseeing, your heart ceased beating just as your breathing had. For a moment, you died.

“I'm sorry,” Gojo whispered. And you nodded. Somehow, he knew it meant, ‘me too.’ 

It was then, touching you, that he could feel the negative energy thrumming beneath a shell of divinity. Two different un-lives coiled inside of you, filled with bitter hate for man and undying love for their mother. For you. It wasn't unlike the bond shared between Yuuta and Rika, but this was not as simple. 

“Your ilk did not approve of Sukuna siring children,” you murmured. Your grip on his hand turned poisonous. “If you try to take them from me–”

“What'll you do?” He asked, knowing they'd never be born. 

“--I will turn everything to ash. Set fire to the skies. Just as I have once already.”

“Good.” Gojo smiled. “You'd be a good mother.” 

“I hope I one day can be.”

The masked menaced nodded again as he idly soothed his thumb across your knuckles. “Never say never, yenno? We'll figure something out for you. If you can do something to help the school–”

“I can give gifts. Once I have the energy.” You didn't sound like you did. Gojo wasn't sure if you ever would.

“Yeah? Like what?” He asked anyway. 

You looked at him, weak and defeated, yet still clinging to life. 

“My divine favour.”

[danceacademy011]

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[jittersbitters]

The Long Game pt.1 [Doodles]

{Viktor from Arcane Smut Story}

Warnings: Smut, light dom!vik, Fingering, Exhibitionism, AFAB reader, Doodling kink?, Established acquaintanceship so there is some length to this first part, the words- note, pen, doodle, and others associated come up a lot due to the plot, sorry!

Word cound: ~4.5k (25-40 minute read)

Story plot: A holistic healer from NW Shurima works privately for Councilmen Hoskel as a sort of assistant. Viktor and her meet years before the events of Arcane and have an up-down relationship that takes shape over the course of many years. Starting all the way back in their academy years, first knowing each other as respective transcribers for their council mentor/patrons during meetings. Maybe they should have stayed in that room?

Chapter Summary: You work as an assistant for Hoskel and are attending one of the meetings as his note-taker. However, you have a horrible habit of getting distracted during said meetings and not completing notes, instead doodling. Viktor, a peer you have a growing bond with, only within the council chambers, over the last few months decides to try out positive and negative reinforcement. Perhaps taking it to far this time and taking your playful acquaintanceship to a different level.

| Part 1 | Part 2 | • Viktor Masterlist •

MDNI NSFW below cut (Far below)

Spending all day at a council meeting wasn’t the exact plan I had for my day, but it wasn’t the worst place I could be. I could be stuck outside in the winter storms that started to blow in a couple days ago. Instead, I sat in the warmth of the council chamber with lukewarm tea in a paper cup at my feet and a half-eaten cheese bangle on the bench to my right. The council heater was on above us, keeping the chill at bay as the snow outside transformed the red brick and golden frames into a picturesque white wonderland. I could appreciate it from the window rather than braving the elements to run errands for my patron in town. 

However, as the meeting dragged on, my ears began to feel numb—not from the weather leaking in, but from the endless topics blurting through the air. It was one of those informal meetings that seemed to stretch indefinitely, so much to do as the cold months approached with the dauntingnes of the holidays. Salo always complained about how the undercity's activities affected his business, while Medarada would steer the conversation toward broader trade relations. My pen had begun to wander absent-mindedly over the page, searching for blank spots to occupy. While I had come to enjoy my time in the council chamber, I found little interest in the discussions about transportation, ordinances, or tedious changes to department funding. This time spent here had become enjoyable for an entirely different reason.  

As we neared the two-hour mark, doodles began spilling flagrantly into the margins of my notes, my random scratches hidden amongst the sharp sounds of pages flipping and other assistants transcribing. Starting with simple loops and circles in the corners, they quickly grew into intricate flowers with winding vines and leaves that had crawled up the negative space. By now, I had, obvious to those around me, lost track of the meeting entirely, and my attempts at shading the petals were becoming increasingly elaborate. 

 “Don’t you think you’re playing with fire?” a hushed voice broke through my filibustered concentration, an amused lilt peppering the words. I turned to find Viktor leaning into the edge of my metaphorical bubble, his eyebrow raised as he scrutinized my embellishments. His expression blended playful scrutiny with genuine curiosity, much like a cat trying to determine whether a new toy was worth the effort. The way his brows furrowed slightly as he concentrated only made it harder for me to suppress a smile, especially as his gaze danced from my paper back to my face, a weird mix of anticipation and amusement bubbling within me. 

Having becoming Hoskel’s ward a few months ago, Viktor had made it his mission to sit next to me during these meetings. He seemed invested not only in keeping me engaged but also in observing the increasingly elaborate designs that filled Hoskel’s notes, much to the merchant's dismay whenever I handed them in. I still vividly remember my first day—nervous energy radiating from me as I tapped my foot incessantly while the other academy students settled into their seats across the room. I knew no one besides Hoskel, which made me retreat into my own small world, avoiding eye contact and trying to shrink into my bench as if it might protect me.  

By the time the meeting started, I had chewed my nails down to stubs and added the frantic clicking of my pen to my growing list of anxious habits, blissfully unaware of the glares directed my way. I scanned the room, desperate for something—anything—interesting to focus on, completely lost to the mundane political discussions swirling around me. That’s when our eyes locked. I was momentarily frozen by his intense, assessing gaze. Golden pools looking from my shoes to my hair. It wasn’t until he placed a hand on his chest, took a deep breath, and flashed me a reassuring smile that I realized I had forgotten to breathe.  

By the next meeting, he had claimed the seat beside me, casually convincing the girl on my other side to switch places with him. He became my new distraction, despite his best efforts.  

“Chairman Hoskel doesn’t, uh, exactly seem like a pagonia man,” he remarked, head tilting slightly to the notes I had filled with random foliage. 

 I pursed my lips, forcing back a smile as I lightly bumped my leg against his. “It’s begonia. Like the bergenias I drew last week."  

Viktor clicked his tongue before flipping the page of his own notes. “Your language is most confusing. I don’t understand how you manage all the, eh, nuances and rules.”  

I couldn’t help but watch him—the way his jaw tightened slightly before he licked his fingers to shuffle his papers. My thoughts wandered to less than respectable places while I jotted down something about lifting restrictions for a project somewhere. “My language? I learned it on the boat ride over-” I was interrupted by the curt shushing from those around us. I risked a glance across the benches and noticed several peers watching us. I sheepishly went back to my notes, feeling my cheeks flush. Viktor shook his head as he mirrored me, neatly correcting his misspelled words while returning my knee bump, keeping his leg pressed against mine. 

Since Viktor had settled into his spot next to me, we had developed this little game. Whenever I got distracted, he’d give me a little nudge. It started subtly—just a light bump of with his shoe when I stared into space for too long. Soon after, he began tapping my paper with a finger to bring my attention back; perhaps that's when I develop a bit of a staring problem when it came to his hands. Eventually, there came a day where he took my pen away when my doodling became too extravagant. I remember staring at him wide-eyed in embarrassment, but he simply handed back my pen with a clever grin. I was careful to keep my doodles subtle and less conspicuous until a month or two ago, when he leaned over and whispered that my sketch of his boss resembled an ‘overindulgent gerbil’. His word’s not mine.  

After that, the atmosphere in our meetings shifted significantly. The dean’s assistant, whose name I learned through conversations with Hoskel, became increasingly daring with his ‘tactics’, and as the hours dragged on, we began to seek our own ways to pass the time. Our exchanges grew bolder; Viktor’s playful teasing and my daydreaming became hinderances that were hard for either of us to ignore. Each time I got derailed—or tried to—Viktor would lean in to correct me or chuckle at my notes, seamlessly bringing me back into the moment.  

We both knew, in the back of our heads, there were very few ways this was going to end. 

I tried to refocus, again, on the current discussion about suggesting new tax policies— but with the words "withdrawal" and "ordinances" swirling around the room like a fog it wasn’t long before my pen began dancing across the page once more. I’d rather pay more attention to flowers instead of the dull, useless to me, topics of the day that seemed to never end. I tried to hide it for several minutes, drawing tiny butterflies flitting around, like the ones I saw in the courtyard when I arrived this last spring. 

It was like clockwork. As soon as I started to lose track of the meeting Viktor leeeaned in closer, his foot slowly sliding toward mine before lifting up to step on my toes lightly. “If I remember this was the theme for the last meeting, was it not?” he whispered, smirking as he eyed me trying to turn a butterfly into a weirdly shaped lizard.  

“Perhaps,” I replied, equally quiet, “but it distracts from the gloom, though, don’t you think?” I smiled proudly when he chuckled. His gaze lingered on my page; his own notes momentarily forgotten as he rubbed his chin in thought. It didn't take long for me to notice that he was still staring, his fingers tapping rhythmically against his small lecture table. When I glanced over, I caught Viktor, lips relaxed into a half-smile, his eyes flitting between me and…  

...Was he judging my lizard?  

The bench creaked as he scooted closer, his shoulder pressing against mine. The unexpected scent of caramelized sugar wafted as Viktor’s breath brushed down the side of my neck. He craned in, trying to get a good look of my entire drawing. His face was so close that, even as he mumbled to avoid drawing attention from anyone else, I could hear every drawl. I had to force myself not to shiver as goosebumps erupted along my neck, as if his words were grazing my skin. “Is that a... curved... pastry? Odd thing to be in a garden, wouldn’t you agree?”   

Even though Viktor was mummering, I could still catch that sly tone beneath it... He was judging my lizard.  

I shook his foot off mine, willing the slight chaff in my voice to no take over the volume. “No, it's obviously a lizard. Why would there be a pastry-” 

“Will you two please keep it down,” We turned to see our neighbor to my right on the other side of the pew divider, her irritation palpable even through her whispered shout; her expression sour enough to make me giggle nervously under my breath. The sound seemed to shock her even more, compounding my embarrassment. 

“Sorry...” I shifted in my seat, suddenly acutely aware of how much I had begun to slouch and returned to writing. Insecurity creeping into my shoulders and causing some muscle spasms I tried to shake off. He wasn’t usual so talkative or suggestive in his actions, something was different today. Perhaps there was a point to be made about needing to curb whatever this dynamic was... 

Tick... Tock... Tick.... Tock  

Just as my pen started to wander, Viktor seized the moment to step on my toes again. The ever-increasing pressure was a blatant warning this time, igniting a spark of irritation within me that was dangerous when in a pen drop quiet room. If he was hoping to regain my attention, he was failing spectacularly, a gem I made sure to whispered in his direction just to make sure he got the message. 

“You’re still not taking notes” He chided, making me lift my foot and step on his toes like I was a child, a fact that I tried to look past. “Your patron might start to think you’re a bad girl- hamph~” He tried to mask his obvious laugh at my humiliated retaliation - via backhand to the chest - in an ill-timed cough. The unnatural, suspicious sound only succeeded in silencing the room, the discussion between our superiors halting instantly. 

I hadn’t meant to smack him, especially not in a way that drew everyone's attention, but something about those words wrapped in his Czech accent did all the wrong things. It stirred feelings that absolutely had no place in a council meeting. And, oh, the way Viktor smirked, concealing it with his hand—he knew exactly what he was doing, the bastard. 

Always pushing boundaries, and he called me the unfocused one. 

All eyes from the council shifted towards our row, centering on Viktor and me. My patron’s face twisted into a scowl, far grimmer than the Yordle scientist beside him, who regarded his assistant with a mix of curiosity and concern rather than outright anger. I did my best to avoid his probing gaze, focusing instead on fidgeting with the edge of my papers.  

I had become accustomed to this sort of thing after spending nearly six months with Torman Hoskel. Unlike many of the more complex socialites in Piltover, Hoskel stood out as one of the most one-dimensional people I’d encountered, if not the very most. Stubborn and quick to temper, he occasionally displayed brief flashes of hope, only to have them shattered by his narrow-minded perspective. Hot and cold, blunt to snappy—he was like an emotionally detached father figure. One I couldn’t just run away from. 

“My sincerest apologies, sirs, ma’ams,” Viktor began, clearing his throat as he addressed the council on our behalf. I hadn’t even noticed he had stood up, seemingly unfazed by the hushed murmurings from our peers. “Just had a bit of a cough but we—I will remain perfectly silent,” he added, shooting a playful glance over his shoulder, “for the rest of the meeting.”  

“I trust that's the case,” Heimerdinger’s high-pitched voice echoed through the chamber, cutting off the whispers and signaling that the session would continue. He glanced at me, suspecting something, but let it go in favor of moving to the next topic on the docket.  

Viktor sank back into his seat, a horribly satisfied smile spreading across his face. He took my hand gently as he sat, pulling it away from fidgeting and pinning it between our thighs. His thumb pressed against the back of my wrist, his fingers wrapping around my pulse. As he adjusted the scattered pages on his fold-up table, dissatisfied murmurs floated among the council members, but they soon began to find their footing again. I let their words drift through one ear and out the other, jotting down whatever I could grasp, my handwriting becoming progressively less legible.  

I went to lay my arm on my table, getting comfortable again, but Viktor's grip only tightened around my wrist, pressing it firmly into the wood beneath us. “Don’t even think about starting to draw again,” he chided, sliding his fingers closer to the base of my wrist, feeling my pulse quicken beneath his touch. “Or, maybe, I should worry about potential cardiac arrest?”  

“That is yo—” I cut myself off, noticing the smug expectation in his gaze. I wasn’t ready to unpack the tangled feelings our banter stirred up. “I’m not having a heart attack, now let go.” I attempted to snap at him, keeping my voice steady and hushed.  

“No,” he said, testing the limits of my patience.  

"You’re just trying to distract me, now" I shot back, reaching the end of my rope with his antics today. This side of him was new.  

Viktor shrugged, “You need to learn how to focus. It’s an important skill.” 

 “I can focus,” I bluffed, unwilling to let him point it out. “I just… choose not to.” I felt his gaze linger on the side of my head for a long moment, watching my scribbles. His eyes eventually flitted to the chaotic lines that filled my pages, and I could see the way he tapped his pen against his notebook, his jaw tightening with a definitive look in his eyes. 

I was taken aback when his grip relaxed around my hand; I had anticipated a stronger reaction. But it didn’t take long for him to make his move, his hand gliding up to brush his knuckles lightly against my knee. My gaze shifted to his hand as it deliberately nudged the loose fabric of my long skirt aside, revealing more of my bare leg through the split. 

I tried to shift my thigh away, looking up at him, surprised by his boldness - his hand following after. A flush of warmth settled in my stomach, mixed emotions bubbling up my throat as I struggled to swallow them back down. I could feel the intensity of his gaze as I quickly looked back to my paper.  

Viktor turned his hand over, tapping a gentle rhythm on the top of my thigh like he was playing piano. “If you just needed a little motivation,” he started, leaning close as if studying my notes. His taps slowly moved to drag up and down, callouses start to scrap the goose flesh building up as he made sure to linger along the remaining hem of my skirt's slit. His intentions were unmistakable. “Then all you need to do is pay attention and write your notes.”  

I could only swallow hard, aware of the game we'd been playing over the past few months. The exchanged glances, light touches, the foot games, the playful teasing. It all began the day he took my pen, and since then, the tension had only grown, with neither of us trying to pull back, but rather escalate it.  

He kept tapping my thigh, expectantly waiting for my response or a sign.  

I glanced at Viktor again; his golden eyes sparkled with wanton glee, sending my heart racing as I thought of the possibilities and the ramifications of being caught. We rarely interacted outside this room, so I wondered what the harm could be... right? 

I tightened my grip on my pen, my ears red as I tried to focus on the concluding topics of the meeting. I held it over the page for a brief moment, granting myself a fleeting pause before I began jotting down notes. The letters started off a bit shaky as I wrestled with the distraction of his fingers nonchalantly roaming across the expanse of my exposed thigh. He watched me patiently, allowing me time to get used to the feeling - exactly the length it took me to use the rest of my page before I had to turn to the next. 

Viktor's little finger brushed against the fabric, the others following slowly as they curved around the inside of my thigh. He played delicate patterns into the supple flesh, his touch steadily gliding further and farther up. The anticipation swirled in my stomach, it increasingly difficult to breathe unless I told myself to. He closely watched the slight movement of my brows, jotting down short notes —my reactions holding his full attention. 

He was moving at a painfully slow pace, each moment stretching out longer than the last. His carefulness was more distracting than anything else, and being careful not to attract attention to his hand. The thought of being caught sent a bolt of unexpected heat through me right to my core, causing me to bite my thumbnail with my free hand in a desperate attempt to regain my waning concentration. My cheeks were burning as he halted right before where I expected... wanted. My thighs wanted to twitch, to jerk in response. I had to breath, letting out a long breath, as I gradually shift them further apart without making any sudden moves. He smiled, yet remained utterly still, offering me nothing more than his presence. 

I heard a faint chuckle from above, his eyes fixed on me as I began to squirm in place, waiting impatiently. I hadn’t realized I’d stopped writing until his fingers lifted away, leaving the spot cold and making me whimper without meaning to. I quickly stifled the sound, biting my lip enough to cause a mark as I shot a glare at Viktor from the corner of my eye. 

“Try again,” he whispered, tucking his ‘T’ as his fingers gently tracing the skin just above my knee attempting to encourage me. 

I inhaled through my nose, closing my eyes for a brief moment to regain myself - and stow irritation- before writing again. I anxiously waited for his hand to return, ignoring misspellings in favor of getting out as many words as possible in the hopes that it might hurry him along. Coincidence or cause, I still had to stop myself from rolling my hips into his hand when his fingers finally returned, going farther than before.  

At first, his fingers only gently pressed against my covered cunt, experimenting with small gliding motions before gradually increasing pressure. My eyes fluttering a bit, teeth biting down hard at the dead skin of my lip. The split focus between his hand and the meeting was excruciating already; our cat and mouse games from the past meetings winding me up.  

My thigh spasmed a bit as he pushed my underwear aside. I hiccupped out stagnate breath, sniffling a bit, to keep myself as silent when his rough fingers collected the wetness that had been dampening the cotton. Spread it around as I turned the page, feeling the edge of my thoughts become increasingly hazy — exposed by the ink of my words. 

“You’re doing so well,” Viktor cooed softly, almost mockingly. I caught a sparkle in his eye that made my hips roll forward again, becoming desperate.  

“Please,” I begged near silently into my hand, covering my mouth. Viktor seemed as though he wanted to request more, but ultimately settled for this meager display of mine given the circumstances we found ourselves in.  

Obliging finally, he slowly pushed one of his fingers into me with a second following soon after the first knuckle. The sensation, the sudden bit of stretch, making my hips roll and lift slightly from the bench to meet him. I was warned to sit back down with a foot returning to stepped on my toes. Another silent whimper escaped from my throat as I obeyed, tilting my hips slightly to make up for the pressure I lost. 

My mouth hung open, pen cutting into part of my page, as Viktor started to slowly push in and out. Curling his digits and dragging the pads against somewhere that made the muscles in my legs quiver. My struggling breath was hard to hide as all I wanted to pay attention to was the circles Viktor’s thumb drew around my swelling nub, joining the delibrate and leisurely strokes of his fingers. His motions were so methodical it made me wonder how long he had planning this. 

 The first day? Week later? Last month? I don’t fucking care. 

My heart raced, skipping a few beats, while my eyes threatened to close once more. The tightness in my stomach intensified, and I could feel the warmth pooling and spreading through me. My sight starting to blur as my lids became heavy, feeling the fringe right before the fall. It made my knuckles white around my pen as my other nails dug into the edge of the bench seat. I struggled not to clamp my legs around his hand when curled fingers swiped back and forth.  

I was so close; I only needed a little more. 

“That seems to conclude everything submitted for this meeting,” Professor Heimerdinger cheerfully called out as he closed up his file. Glancing around, he spotted what seemed to be his assistant charming Hoskel's new ward. He raised a fluffy long eyebrow, observing their peculiar interaction as Viktor stood. 

My eyes widened as my head shot forward, my palm pressing against my agape mouth. I let out a pitiable moan that came out more like a strangled cough at the sudden absence of Viktor's fingers. Offering me nothing but that infuriatingly smug smile of his while quickly standing to gather his belongings, leaving me feeling cold and vulnerable. I shot him a pointed glare, crossing my legs tightly as I began to pack up, actions expressing my dissatisfaction. I shuffled my papers into their leather binding and stuffed the remainder of my cheese bagel into my mouth to muffle my verbal lashing. 

“Need a hand?” Viktor extended his offer, his eyebrow arched playfully as I squinted back at him. Hesitating as I picked up my now cold tea and rolled my tongue over the inside of my lip, before I took his hand and stood up with a gentle pull from him. Though I found myself being drawn closer than I anticipated as he held onto my hand. The air between us crackling with tension; he leaned down, observing the blush that crept from my cheeks to my ears and raced down my neck. His thumb brushing over my wrist as he turned it over, sending my pulse racing again as his eyes darted across my face, gauging my reaction. “Sense we skipped proper formalities—” 

 Hoskel’s snap of my name cut Viktor short; his approach forcing me to jerk my hand away from Viktor’s. The atmosphere soured further as Viktor took a step back, his demeanor slightly withdrawn now. With a soft huff, I attempted an awkward smile, clinging to the flutter in my stomach as I turned away. Biting my lip, I trailed after Hoskel, who immediately began reprimanding me for interrupting the meeting. Oddly enough, I found myself too flustered to care. 

 I stole one last look over my shoulder, catching Viktor gathering his things again as he waited for Heimerdinger. Upon noticing me, he waved and, before I could return the gesture, he raised his fingers to his lips with a mischievous wink. My breath caught in my throat again as I watched him glide his fingertips across his lower lip, his tongue peeking out just to taste— “ 

I jolted at the sound of my patron screeching my name again, following him as he hurriedly exited the council building, clearly not a man of academics. 

~~<3~~

Viktor hummed, pleased, to himself as he packed the last of his things up. He hadn’t meant for things to develop today the way they did; he had jumped forward in their little game. Not that either of them minded, but it was going to make the next time they saw each other a little more interesting.  

“Viktor, come here.” The elder’s voice brought him back to the present making he straightened. After grabbing his cane from where it sat, he stepped forward — struggling to separate his thoughts still tangled in the recent encounter. As he approached the table, Heimerdinger looked up, his wizened eyes observing the slight differences in his assistant's demeanor. He was no fool, he saw the young infatuation between the two young humans. “I wanted to discuss your latest project before the day leaves us. I’ve heard the most promising feedback.”  

Viktor’s eyes widened, remember something mentioned this morning before the meeting, “Thank - thank you, Professor.” Viktor hurried toward the round council table, snapping open the buckles of his bag again to retrieve the information for this little presentation. “I’ve been refining the prototypes. I believe if I just upped the electrical imput I could, potentially, maybe—” Before he could continue his unpracticed rambling, Heimerdinger peered closer at him. The Yordl looked at Viktor with narrowed eyes, sensing a depth, something different, in him that hadn’t been there before today. Viktor just saw his boss waddle towards him with a (kind?) stare that could unsettle Noxian soldiers. “Professor?” 

 “You seem... distracted. Is everything alright?” The question hung in the air, the short creature watching the seven stages of grief flicker across Viktors face.  

 Viktor’s mind flickered back to their blush, the rush of their connection. He cleared his throat, shaking himself back to the task at hand. “Yes, quite alright, Professor. Just eager to make progress.” 

 With a nod, Heimerdinger gestured for him to elaborate, but Viktor felt the nerves in his stomach tighten. He needed to focus. Perhaps later, once the day’s work was done, he might see where this new... path took him with the ward. But for now, he pushed aside these unprofessional thoughts, diving into the technical matters at hand, trying to channel these intense feelings into the brilliance of his inventions. 

(idk how much I like the name but were going with it because that's what won the google coin toss! Plus if I can make it to the ending I have planned I got a nice piece of dialogue to go with it. Media literacy and symbolism and all that stuff.

MOSTLY I just wanted to right Vik smut!)

[daytaker]

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Luke

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[sleepisapriviligethatidonthave]

Fir the MegOp request: TFA Megatron reaction that TFA Optimus is a space bridge repair worker

Finally I found your ask! I spent a century combing through my notifications XD

Aaaaanyways, here it is! Hope you like it ^^

Megatron swung his swords at the Prime, missing by a wire’s breath when the Autobot ducked and returned the attack in kind. It was a familiar song and dance for the warlord by now, though usually their fights were not so… private.

As luck would have it, both of them had answered an energy anomaly in the forest near Detroit. It had been a rather pleasant surprise to find the young Prime all by his lonesome right after locating the Allspark fragment in the middle of a small clearing in said woods.

“Not too shabby, Autobot. A few more millennia and you might stand a chance at defeating me!” he mocked as he kicked his opponent to the ground. It was almost too easy sometimes, but the Prime always pulled through one way or another.

“I have a name!” snapped Optimus as he rolled just out of reach of Megatron’s pede which left a small crater right where he had been a moment ago, “I am Optimus Prime, and you ought to remember that!” he growled and slashed with his axe at the pede, only grazing the thick warframe armour. Megatron couldn’t help but laugh at the feeble attempt to injure him.

It was always fun to see his enemies infuriated at the fact that he didn’t know their names. He did, but one thing he had learned early on in his gladiatorial career was that an unconcentrated opponent was a weak one. That practice of his had helped him all throughout the war and even after that. It wasn’t often that he met an opponent that kept their cool so well in the face of such disrespect.

“Ah, yes, the rank of Prime. The standards for it have fall quite a bit, haven’t they?” he chuckled with a smirk and parried the angry swing aimed at his helm, throwing the Autobot into the air. Megatron watched with a hint of surprise as his foe flipped in the air and landed square on his pedes, ready to resume their fight. “Or maybe not.” he muttered to himself and went in for another attack.

Few survived an encounter with him and lived long enough to tell the tale. Even fewer willingly went against him again, which made fighting the young mech such a delight.

The little Prime never ceased to surprise. He was always so resourceful and selfless – two qualities he had long believed to be extinct when it came to Autobots. He fought rather rigidly, yes, but he knew when to change tactics in order to secure an advantage. That, he could respect, he could use. If only the Prime wasn’t so foolishly loyal to his rusted cause.

Optimus dodged blaster fire with ease as he shot a grappling hook at one of Megatron’s swords, attempting to seize it.

Megatron grabbed the chord and pulled, sending Prime once again flying through the open sky, but this time luck was not on his side. He smashed against a tree, with a loud crack before falling to the ground, heaving.

“You Autobots never learn, do you? You can not defeat me, even the best of you.” he knew that praising him was a contradictive move, but he had earned it.

It came as a surprise to hear the Prime snort and try to stifle a chuckle.

“What’s so funny, Autobot?” the reaction puzzled him. He was about to be offlined and yet here he was, laughing like Megatron had told him the funniest joke in the galaxy.

“Oh, it’s nothing, really. It’s just that, if you really think that an academy washout, space bridge technician is ‘one of the best’, then it’s not the Autobots’ standard that has fallen.” snickered Optimus as he looked up at Megatron with a slag eating grin.

The warlord froze in place, his CPU attempting and failing to process the new information.

“What?”

Optimus laughed even harder, wincing when his vents, damaged by the hit he took, expelled a wheezing sound.

Megatron pressed the tip of one of his swords right against the Autobot’s main fuel line, effectively silencing him. “Explain yourself, now.” he growled menacingly.

“What exactly is there to explain? I already told you the truth. I’m not a fully fledged Prime. Officially I’m not even considered a warrior, no one on my team is. We’re space bridge technicians. Our job was to travel around the corners of the galaxy and repair the Autobot space bridge network.”

Megatron looked at the Prime in disbelief, every interaction they had ever had, replaying itself in the warlord’s mind as small, incongruous details about the team of Autobots slotted themselves into place to finally reveal the horrific truth.

They were no warriors, they were civilians who had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. That was why the Elite Guard had done next to nothing to help them. To the great Autobot machine they were fodder, disposable.

Disgust and hatred flashed through Megatron’s field, making Optimus flinch minutely when his own tense one came into contact with his.

This changed everything and nothing at the same time which only infuriated Megatron even more. It was dishonourable to fight against someone who could not face you properly in battle, who was not a warrior. It was Descepticon code, something he himself had put into place to prevent unnecessary carnage in the name of keeping Cybertron populated. Overtime, even the worst of the Descepticons had accepted it as law, even he himself had begun to view it as something on which his honour depended.

And here he was tarnishing it in the worst way imaginable.

“You know, if you ask me, I would much rather fight Cons for the rest of my life than go back to the most boring job in the universe.”

Immediately, Megatron’s helm snapped to the location of the voice only to see the bright yellow Autobot speedster sitting on a tree stump, looking at the bots before him while twirling the forgotten Allspark fragment in his servos.

“Personally, I’d rather be a space bridge technician. Bossbot is right, we aren’t warriors, and I’ll be more than happy to go back to doing what I signed up for.” came the voice of the big green Autobot from the other side of the clearing.

“Quit yer whining, will ya? We still need to save Optimus from Buckethead!” barked the team’s medic as he primed his magnets.

“I do not believe Optimus needs our saving.” chimed in the ninja bot who appeared from behind a tree.

Megatron took in all of the newly gathered Autobots, ignoring the last comment. Before, all he saw was a bunch of low-class warriors with lacking training, but now, he saw them for what they really were. It was so obvious in hindsight, he wanted to kick himself for missing it.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Prowl, I really appreciate it.” Megatron snapped his attention back to his original foe, having thought him incapacitated. Clearly, he had miscalculated again, as a spray of foam hit his faceplates, completely blinding him. He tried moving back, only for his pedes to be restrained in Prime’s grappling hook.

Megatron fell backwards with a grunt. As he tried to regain his sight, he could hear the commotion around him.

“Let’s go before he gets back up and hunts us down!” yelled Optimus. His command was met with no complaints and soon enough Megatron found himself alone on the clearing.

He growled and muttered curses as he cut the chord around his pedes. The mission had been a disaster. Of course, he could give chase to the Autobots and try to retrieve the Allspark fragment, but ultimately decided against it.

Once he finally deemed himself presentable, he gave one last glance to the direction in which the Autobot team retreated, sighed, and began the journey back to the Descepticon hideout. He was in no mood to rush back just to deal with his subordinates, so he opted to walk. That way he had some time to mull over the new information he had obtained and formulate a plan…

And think of a way to break the news to his Descepticons without causing a riot.

[havendance]

Anyway, my proposal for a run on Detective Comics where I write a series of one-shot stories showcasing all of the various supporting cast Batman has accumulated with stories, including, but not limited to:

Batman invites Nightwing to Gotham to help him solve a murder. The murder is very straightforward and they dance around the real reason Bruce invited him, until at the end, he finally admits in a constipated Bruce way that it's the anniversary of him adopting Dick and he wanted to spend time with him.

Huntress and Robin (Tim Drake) team up to investigate Killer Croc. It turns out he's turning over a new leaf in the sewers near the Marina. Huntress is dubious, but Robin convinces her to give him a chance, though she says she'll be watching him. We re-canonize Joker: Last Laugh.

Damian and Duke team up to take on a street-racing operation--a mission that naturally requires them to do some high adrenaline racing together.

The Riddler gets on social media with a plot that involves lots of puzzles and clues all over Gotham. Oracle taps into old members of "We are Robin" to take it down.

Batgirl (Stephanie Brown) and Batman end up on the same missing persons case. With the pressure on to find the missing child, they snipe at each other as tensions rise. In the end, after saving the kid, Bruce sort of kind of apologizes in a Bruce way and expresses some measure of respect for her.

Jason teams up with Ghostmaker to take on, idk, one of the Clayfaces. Does Gotham still have one of those? I haven't read any comics ghostmaker's in yet, but from I've heard it sounds like they'd have an interesting dynamic. Jason gets flashbacks to digging his way out of his grave.

Luke Fox recruites Harper Row (She does engineering stuff right? I also need to read comics she has a significant role in.) They take some new tech for a joyride and go bother the Penguin.

Batgirl (Cassandra Cain) and Azrael team up to take down Mad Hatter. He probably has some elaborate Alice in Wonderland theming going on that neither of them get. (I think neither of them should have read it.)

Batwoman and Catwoman team up to steal back some Kane family heirlooms, possibly from Jacob Kane (What's his and Kate's relationship looking like anyway?), possibly from someone else.

Gotham Girl and somebody. Me advancing my Cass & Claire agenda Possibly Oracle trying to rehabilitate her in that controlling yet well-intentioned way she has sometimes? Someday, I will get to being more up to date on what Claire's status quo in current comics is.

A handful of representatives from Gotham's various crime families get together in the backroom of a bar somewhere. They play poker and exchange stories of being busted by the various bat-affiliated vigilantes in which they are very scary and almost inhuman. It ends with Batgirl (Cass) busting in and beating them up.

Helena Bertinelli takes a gig as a substitute teacher at Gotham Academy. She teams up with Maps & other supporting cast when Mr Freeze takes the school hostage while trying to escape the police.

[2amriize]

can u do riize crying because they think you dont like them anymore after you see them with another girl and start to act distant.(like a situationship )

˚⟡˖ ࣪ riize crying when you act distant after seeing them with another girl

ᡣ𐭩 masterlist

genre angst

pairing riize x idol!reader

ᯓ★ SHOTARO

After seeing a girl touch Shotaro’s arm between classes, you couldn’t help but feel that the relationship you had with him wasn’t what you thought. These past few months, both of you had been very affectionate with each other, but you never officially formalized anything. Seeing how close he seemed with this other girl, you decided to distance yourself from him and started avoiding him in class.

One day after class, Shotaro approached you and asked if you could talk, to which you agreed. You both went to the end of one of the hallways, and as soon as you were alone, Shotaro started crying, which surprised you.

“Did I do something wrong, y/n…? I don’t understand why you’re acting like this.”

You explained why you had been behaving that way, and he looked at you, confused, shaking his head.

“She… she’s nobody, y/n. I only like you; I only want to be with you.”

ᯓ★ EUNSEOK

You had been flirting with Eunseok for a few weeks now, but your relationship still wasn’t official. One day, when you were hanging out with some friends, you saw Eunseok at the bus stop. You were immediately happy to see him and approached him to say hello. But as you got closer, you noticed he wasn’t alone—there was a girl beside him, gently stroking his arm. Your smile instantly faded, and you turned around. From that moment on, you didn’t respond to Eunseok’s messages for a few days, or you just gave him very short and curt replies.

You didn’t expect that, a few days later, on a night when it was pouring rain, Eunseok would show up at your door.

“Eunseok, what are you doing…?”

“Why?” Eunseok asked you seriously, before you noticed tears falling down his cheeks.

“What? Eunseok, why are you crying?”

“Because… it makes me angry, y/n, it makes me angry that you’ve found someone else.”

“Me? I haven’t found anyone else; you’re the one who’s with another girl…”

You both looked at each other in confusion. Seeing how he was shivering from the cold, you invited him in and then explained what had happened.

ᯓ★ SUNGCHAN

“I’m sorry, y/n, I don’t know if I did something wrong, but I’m sorry.”

Sungchan was standing in front of you, crying, while you looked at him in surprise. You had been talking to him for a few months. You knew how popular he was among girls, but he had sworn to you that he only had eyes for you. Even though you weren’t officially together yet, you couldn’t help but feel bad when you saw him walking with a girl near the university, so you decided to distance yourself from him little by little.

When Sungchan realized this, he showed up at your door, crying, not knowing why you were acting that way.

“You don’t know if you did something wrong? And what about that girl you were with the other day?” You replied in a cold tone, even though you couldn’t bear to see Sungchan crying so desperately.

“Huh…? I…” Realizing who you were talking about, Sungchan looked at you, shaking his head several times as he continued crying. “She’s the daughter of a friend of my mom’s, but I swear she’s no one, I swear, y/n…” You couldn’t stand seeing Sungchan cry like that, so you approached him to wipe his tears before hugging him tightly.

ᯓ★ WONBIN

You couldn’t believe what you were seeing. As you were walking down the academy’s halls, you saw inside a room Wonbin with another girl, who seemed to be very close to him. Even though you and Wonbin hadn’t confirmed your relationship, you couldn’t help but feel disappointed at seeing that, so you started being colder toward him.

A few days later, while you were practicing alone in a dance room, you heard the door open, and when you looked up, you found Wonbin standing silently at the door, watching you. You stopped the music and looked back at him, waiting for him to say something.

“Have you found someone better than me…?” He finally spoke in a trembling voice, lowering his head.

“What are you talking about, Wonbin?” You walked over to him, noticing that he had started crying, so you put your hands on his face, wiping away his tears. “Why are you saying that?”

“These past few days… you’ve been avoiding me… and I thought you had found another guy…”

You shook your head several times, explaining that you had distanced yourself because you saw him getting close to another girl. He began crying more, saying that she was just a girl who was obsessed with him, but that he only wanted to be with you.

ᯓ★ SEUNGHAN

You were so sure that Seunghan was going to ask you out soon. You were basically already a couple, just waiting for him to officially ask you out since he had told you he wanted to do it in a special way. Your heart basically shattered when you were on the bus passing by his house and saw him walking into his apartment with a girl. You simply couldn’t believe what you were seeing, so you decided to stop answering his messages.

You couldn’t avoid seeing him since you both worked in the same place, but you tried not to work at the same hours or just avoided him altogether until one day, you walked into the staff area and found him sitting on a bench, crying. Even though you were upset about seeing him with another girl, you still had feelings for him, so you didn’t hesitate for a second to approach him and ask what was wrong.

“I don’t know… I don’t know what I did wrong, y/n, I thought things were going well between us…”

“I did too, Seunghan, but… I saw you the other day. And I get that we’re not officially together, but I thought we were exclusive with each other, so…”

“What?” Seunghan interrupted you, looking confused. “What are you talking about?”

“I saw you walk into your house with a girl, Seunghan…” you whispered, looking down as you heard Seunghan sigh.

“y/n, look at me. That girl came to see the house because I’m selling it. I’m moving to an apartment closer to you, but it was supposed to be a surprise…”

ᯓ★ SOHEE

Sohee and you had been part of the same group of friends for many years, but it wasn’t until a few months ago that you both started showing interest in each other, beginning to hang out more alone. You were surprised to see him one day close to another girl at a café. You can’t deny that it hurt you a lot to see him meeting up with another girl alone, but at the same time, you knew that what you had wasn’t anything official yet, so you simply decided to start distancing yourself from him slowly—canceling plans, not being with him when you were with your friends, and not responding to his messages. Little by little, your relationship started becoming more uncomfortable because of this.

One day, when you all had gone to the beach with your friends, Sohee and you were left alone on the towels while everyone else went for a swim. You didn’t talk for minutes until you heard Sohee sobbing, making you look at him, worried.

“Sohee… is something wrong?”

“Did you ever like me?” he whispered in a trembling voice without looking at you.

“Why are you saying that? Of course I did…”

“Then why don’t you act the same way with me anymore?”

You explained that you had seen him with another girl and that even though you still cared about him, you didn’t want to interfere if he wanted to start a relationship with someone else since you weren’t officially together. Sohee, astonished, explained to you that the girl was a relative of his, which made you feel embarrassed for your reaction.

ᯓ★ ANTON

Since you saw how Anton was behaving with a girl from his class, who was very touchy with him, you decided to distance yourself from him. At least as much as you could, since it was difficult with both of you being in the same class. Plus, you were partners on a project that you had to submit at the end of the course, so you had to see him almost every week.

Before, you used to stay at his house after working on your project, watching movies together or just chatting, but after seeing him with the other girl, you decided to leave as soon as you finished the project. At first, you made excuses, like you were tired or had other plans, but Anton was starting to notice that you weren’t acting the same with him anymore.

One day, when you were at his house working on the project, Anton was very quiet, barely speaking. When you got up to leave, you felt Anton grab your wrist, and you turned around to find his tearful eyes looking at you. He couldn’t even speak, unable to find the words to apologize for whatever he thought he had done wrong. Seeing him like that, you couldn’t help but hug him as he buried his face in your chest.

“I don’t want you to stop loving me…” he whispered with a shaky breath.

Once he calmed down, you were able to talk about what had happened and why you had been acting that way, and he told you that you were the only one for him.

ᡣ𐭩 masterlist

taglist: @cherryishxo @gacktsa

[tiredfox64]

I was thinking how would Bihan react if he was caught staring at the reader a little to long and gets teased by it from the other guys? Imagine how flustered he would be 😁

I Spy

Prior notes: I just thought about Bi-Han looking at me and idk it’s giving alternative looking at me in the corner of my room.

Pairing: Bi-Han x Gn reader

Warnings ‼️: There’s a spider in my bathroom pls kill it.

You certainly capture the eyes of men. Many different men actually. All kinds of men. The kind, the mean, the strong, the cocky, the calm, and many more. But one man out of the bunch was looking at you for a long time.

Bi-Han thought this visit to the Wu Shi academy would be quick. A quick conversation with Liu Kang that will allow him to be in and out. Of course Liu Kang was nowhere to be seen at first. The only notable person he could see was you. You were in the cooling shade as the wind blew the leaves of the trees which casted pretty shadows all over you.

In that instance he was enchanted by your presence. Your beauty captivated him. It was as if he was looking at a majestic deer calmly move through a mystical forest.

All you were doing was occasionally raking the sand in the zen garden. You were very focused on making the circles clean and precise so you never even knew Bi-Han was looking at you.

There was a perplexed look in his eyes. He was almost observing you. He can’t figure out why he is so drawn in by you. You are doing a menial task. Yet the nature around you was presenting your natural beauty to him with the way the shadows and sunlight danced on your body and the wind glided over your hair.

Bi-Han was so lost in this moment that he forgot that there were others around. He was stuck in a world where it was only you and him. That was until he heard someone speak near his ear.

“What are we looking at?” Asked Johnny

Bi-Han was caught off guard and threw a punch at Johnny’s direction while he luckily avoided this time. He’s not making that mistake twice.

Bi-Han saw that the whole group was near him. Kenshi, Johnny, Kung Lao, and Raiden were staring at him like he was crazy for throwing a punch.

“Nothing. What do you want? Where is Liu Kang?” Bi-Han tried to switch the top immediately but these boys won’t allow him that freedom.

“So you’re not going to acknowledge the fact that you were standing there for a good five minutes.” Kenshi spoke with his usual attitude.

Was Bi-Han really standing there and staring for that long? No, Kenshi has to be messing with him.

“We came over about three minutes in because you would not move. We were even whispering among ourselves yet you didn’t react.” Raiden added on.

Okay so he was just standing there like an idiot. He thought he was there for only a minute how did you manage to make him stay in once place and forget his purpose of being there.

“Well boys, I think I know what’s up with Mr. Grumpypants. He’s crushing hard on our special gardener over there.” Johnny wrapped his arm around Bi-Han which he promptly slapped away.

Like the immature men that Johnny and Kung Lao could be they started letting out a ‘ooo’ like middle school boys would do when they find out their friend has a crush. Bi-Han was shushing them with this somewhat panicky expression. Raiden was trying to hold himself back from chuckling at the fact that this cold-blooded warrior was getting flustered while Kenshi seemed confused by that fact. Kuai Liang and Tomas soon heard the commotion and came over.

“What is the matter, Bi-Han? Did you find Liu Kang yet?” Kuai Liang asked.

“He didn’t find Liu Kang but he found himself a new crush.” Kung Lao made a joke which threw Kuai Liang off. What did he mean by that?

“Are you okay? You seem flushed. Are you sick?” Tomas went to place his hand on Bi-Han’s forehead to check his temperature but he moved away.

Incredible! There is some color on his face. The color of embarrassment. Yes, Bi-Han was blushing at the fact that everyone was teasing him and exposing him. This has never happened before to him so he is unsure of how to solve this.

The only thing that came to mind was use his powers to make everyone back off. In an instance, jagged pieces of ice came out from the ground. They aimed at everyone which made them back up from Bi-Han. They were poking the bear they shouldn’t be shocked that he would pull something like this. Cold vapor was coming off his body due to using his powers and from his frustration.

“You incompetent fools have no respect. Keep your mouths shut!” He barked at them.

The group wasn’t looking at him anymore but past him. He was confused at first before he turned around and saw that you were staring at him with a concerned expression on your face. You were unsure what all the hullabaloo was about and you were now wondering if it was about you since they were all staring at you. You looked at Bi-Han and trying to keep the peace you gave him a wave with this somewhat awkward smile on your face.

Bi-Han had no idea what to do now. A low rumble came from his throat as he thought of what to do. He gave you a halfassed wave before quickly walking off. His head was lowered as he walked off. His brothers quickly left as well to catch up to him. You were left looking at who was still there before asking something.

“Do I need to clean up that ice?”

══💤══╡°˖✧🦊✧˖°╞══💤══

Liu Kang was looking at Bi-Han strangely. He was wearing his mask for no reason while his brothers didn’t.

He can tell by Bi-Han’s body language that he was upset by something. Not an angry upset but an embarrassed upset. His arms are folded and his head is lowered. Liu Kang looked to Kuai Liang and Tomas for an answer but they didn’t want to say. All they knew was that their eldest brother put his mask on to prevent anyone from seeing that he was blushing.

“I’m guessing something happened before you came to me. You do realize how red the tips of your ears are, right, Bi-Han?” Liu Kang pointed out.

Bi-Han let out a frustrated growl before covering his ears with his hands. The look of shame in his eyes was clear as day to Liu Kang. Still doesn’t answer what happened out there.

Kuai Liang tried his hardest not to laugh while Tomas was gesturing to Liu Kang is he could step out. Liu Kang nodded and Tomas booked it out the room so he could laugh.

“You must cool down, brother. Wouldn’t want your crush to walk in at any moment and see how red you are.” Kuai Liang teased.

“Silence, Kuai Liang!”

After notes: He don’t even have a resting bitch face he got a ‘I’m going to end your bloodline’ face. WHO ARE HIS OPPS BRUH! WHO’S MAKING BLUD THAT MAD! It’s me. I’m his opp. Imma flick his ear now. Adiós!