#i do not know if any of my thoughts are comprehensible but it seems like people like them

[mrbluesummers-moved]

I've been thinking about Knives and the title of "King of Loneliness", and I think it's something Stampede has taken pretty literally by having Knives be almost completely alone. He sits at the top of a tower looking down on everyone feeling completely disconnected from all of it. It's a lonely existence.

In the comics, though, Knives has the Gung Ho Guns. He has dozens if not hundreds of people begging at his feet to be closer to him. He has so many options, and yet he feels completely alone in a crowded room. Which is fair, most of the people who want to associate with him aren't exactly peak friend material, but then you have Elendira, Conrad, and Legato.

Before he was killed, Conrad, I think, genuinely wanted to help Knives. Elendira was fully devoted to him, and also pretty sane and probably one of the people Knives trusted most. And Legato… He's a little more complicated because he did genuinely care for Knives, but he was also then raised to be Knives' tool to the point where he was chastised for crying out of concern for Knives.

What I'm saying is, basically, Knives had all of this potential for a good support system if he just opened himself up to it, and stopped being so afraid of reaching out, because it wasn't just the Gung Ho Guns. It started before that with Rem and Vash and his refusal to just be honest with them about how much he was hurting. He was stuck in a horrible death spiral of jumping between being afraid and being afraid of what would happen if he admitted it.

It really was just a deep, seemingly inescapable loneliness, fit for a king.

[lapdogchase]

i really dont understand studying at all like genuinely i don't know what it is . i know about "taking notes" and "reading the textbook" and that's it . quizlet doesn't do shit for me because i don't know what to. do. with the cards. look at them ? am i supposed to just look at them . No one bothered teaching me actual skills bc i got good grades when i was 8 and now i am so hopelessly lost . why did no one think to teach me this for when stuff got harder than four plus three

[gutsby]

License to Kill

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Marital bliss becomes a bloody massacre within hours of your wedding. Bucky has run the gamut of organized crime from gunrunning to public extortion, but an attempt on your life is a whole different ballgame. A honeymoon-turned-manhunt has Bucky out for blood.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Semi-public sex. Beefy, mob boss Bucky really wants to give you a baby. Praise kink. Size kink. Facefucking. Sex on a private jet. Attempted murder. Arms trafficking. Guerrilla warfare.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Any postnuptial banquet was bound to be the talk of Santorini when a groom arrived beaten half to death.

At least that was what you’d told yourself, what had plagued your mind for hours before the start of brunch, and what Bucky presently refused to acknowledge with so much as a bat of his eye or a word spoken in between.

“You worry too much,” he said as he sheathed himself inside you for the third time that morning.

Bucky seized your throat in one hand and tilted your chin to make sure you were capable of eye contact while he fucked you in front of the mirror. It didn’t seem to bother him at all that the face in his own reflection was bruised, bloodied, and sewn up like a patchwork quilt behind you.

Hazards of the job, he’d said.

Three masked assailants breaking into your villa the first night of honeymooning? Customary. Being yanked out of bed and made to kneel as your husband took the beating of a lifetime just minutes after consummating your marriage? More common than you would think.

Bucky hadn’t even blinked when he got pistol whipped by a gold-plated Beretta. Didn’t flinch when he was held to a wall and pummeled like a freestanding punch bag.

Almost smiled when he took a hard right hook to the nose and felt a torrent of blood flood out of his nostrils.

If anyone were to be accused of behaving too calmly in a home invasion, it would be Bucky Barnes. It seemed as though he’d seen this all before and had no qualms about getting the shit kicked out of him every now and then. Why he hadn’t so much as lifted a finger to fight back was still beyond your comprehension, though.

At length, he tightened his grip on your neck and tried to smile, his upper lip slashed in two and bruised a grim, violet hue.

“Who’s my girl?” he murmured an inch from your ear.

You whined when he delivered a particularly hard thrust, both of your hands flying to the mirror to steady yourself as he pounded you from behind.

“I-I am,” you whimpered.

The stretch was still something you were getting used to, but now Bucky knew just how to spread you open without making it hurt. He’d glide a thick finger between your folds, slide it down to your clit, and leave it there as long as you’d let him, rubbing quick circles while you bucked and moaned under his touch. And, in spite of all his cuts and bruises, your husband made sure to kiss your shoulder every now and then to let you know he still loved you—even if he was fucking you like he didn’t.

Bucky trailed his lips behind your ear and watched you writhe in time with every stroke he gave. Pressed his face close to yours, watched a desperate, fucked-out expression take over your features, and smiled to himself knowing that no one but him got to see you like this.

“Who likes getting stuffed full of this cock?” he taunted.

“I do.”

“Who loves making daddy feel this good?”

“I do.”

He never thought the sound of your vows could be repeated out loud in such an obscene way—his sweet bride bent in half with a thick, throbbing cock wedged between her legs—but he loved it nonetheless.

Bucky was rutting his hips at a breakneck pace and holding your head to the mirror like he’d never let go. Your climax was quickly coming close into view, and you felt your toes curl in the hardwood floor beneath them.

Suddenly, the chirp of a ringtone diverted your attention.

Bucky brought his phone to his ear as he continued to pound you mercilessly.

“Yeah, Steve?”

The mob boss’s business never took a break, it seemed.

“So what?”

“Yeah, no, I heard you the first time.”

“Well, I’m plowing my wife right now, can it wait?”

Your cheeks warmed with embarrassment at Bucky’s blunt choice of words. You saw his brow pinch behind you, his thrusts getting faster and sloppier, and in spite of the distraction, you sensed he was getting close too.

You yourself were right on the brink. Your gaze met Bucky’s in the mirror with a soft, pleading look, and before you knew it, your husband was bidding an abrupt farewell to his friend and chucking his phone to the side.

“Ready to cum for me, honey?”

You whimpered and nodded.

“Alright then,” Bucky said with a near-expectant look, weaving the fingers of one hand into your hair and pulling it back, tight, “Cum all over daddy’s cock.”

With a shriek you feared might carry throughout the whole banquet hall, you finally reached your peak and released around Bucky’s length, tears springing to your eyes as you closed them tight and moaned his name.

And, ever the cheeky fuck, Bucky leaned right in and kissed the sides of your face to collect all the moisture he could—‘Shit, honey, you taste as good as you look’—while he smirked. Would’ve grinned even bigger if he wasn’t so overcome with pleasure; but, as it was, he couldn’t keep from blowing his load just seconds after the last spasms of your orgasm. Bucky leaned over your torso and squeezed your body tight to his, fucking his cum deep inside you as far as it could possibly go.

For a few, dizzying moments, the man’s mind wandered to more primal thoughts of making it stick, knocking you up, and Bucky had to clench his jaw hard to suppress the groans that were threatening to spill through his teeth. Every time he fucked you, it was like something just clicked; he couldn’t rid the thought of giving you a baby.

But no, for now, the two of you were still on wedding time; before you could jet off to your real honeymoon destination—someplace in the Caribbean, if Bucky remembered correctly—your mother had insisted that you host one post-wedding event that day: a brunch.

Naturally, that meant you were obliged to serve a four-course meal on the terrace of the Canaves Oia Hotel.

The mother of the bride had been one hell of a staunch advocate for keeping this wedding party going as long as possible, and who was Bucky to tell her no? He reasoned he would have plenty of time to get you pregnant after all the wedding festivities had ended, so he didn’t mind.

At present, you tugged your panties and your dress back into place with a wince.

“I think you displaced my cervix, James.”

Bucky couldn’t deny he felt the smallest twinge of pride seeing you walk a little funny to collect the rest of your belongings and attempt to freshen up. It also gave him the perfect excuse to scoop you back up in his arms and pretend to be apologetic about your present dilemma.

“Did I really?” he asked as you giggled and tried to swat him away, “I’m awfully sorry, Mrs. Barnes.”

“Like hell you are.”

With Bucky still draped over your body, proffering his apologies again and again as he assailed your face with tiny kisses, you’d barely made it two feet toward the door before you collapsed against a table and almost toppled a centerpiece. The pair of you would be expected outside any minute now, where the rest of your post-wedding party was likely trickling in and wondering where the hell the bride and groom had gone, but Bucky seemed adamant on keeping you to himself a little while longer.

That was until the back exit swung on its hinges and a familiar, frazzled groomsman stumbled in.

“Can you horndogs hurry the hell up?!”

So Sam had heard you after all.

You just might’ve blushed if you weren’t being pushed out the door a second later, the hurried, chiding tone of your husband’s friend ringing low in your ears.

“Your old man’s ready to hit the roof,” he mumbled to Bucky, “Won’t start drinking until you two show face.”

“Probably still thinks my bride escaped in the middle of the night,” Bucky mused, flitting a look to you.

The man behind rolled his eyes and continued to usher you both outside. Sam Wilson knew exactly what had happened last night; he’d been the one to bring in the cavalry to save you both from imminent death, after all.

As you had come to find out, Sam wasn’t just a friend of your husband’s but also a close associate of sorts—the kind that would wait in the wings and do whatever it took to keep Bucky safe. When the wait staff at the villa hadn’t been able to reach you for room service delivery last night, reporting some ‘strange sounds’ inside, Mr. Wilson had sprung into action. Called the rest of your husband’s entourage and was up to your room in minutes, where they’d dealt a swift, and final, blow to your attackers. You hadn’t asked many questions after—just thanked him. Profusely.

“You look like hell,” the man observed with a sidelong glance in his friend’s direction.

“Really? I feel great,” Bucky replied.

The three of you weaved through a crowd of partygoers—every single one of whom, without exception, stopped and stared at your husband’s mangled face as he passed—and you started to chew the inside of your cheek. People were gawking, talking amongst themselves as they wondered aloud what the hell could’ve happened to the groom overnight. You felt their stares turn to you in a mixture of pity and reproach, and you wanted to hide.

“Ja-ames!” a sing-song voice trilled across the way.

You, Bucky, and Sam all stopped in your tracks to regard the duo that was making their swift approach over.

Bucky’s mom and dad.

As the older couple drew near, you half-expected to see them take on the same wan, horror-stricken look worn by all those around you, but to your surprise, they didn’t.

In fact, they didn’t bat an eyelid. Seeing their son’s face all gnarled and bloody barely even registered.

“Good, you’re here! The photographers just arrived.” Bucky’s mother swept you into her arms for a brief embrace before shooting her son a frown. Your husband, in turn, offered her an apologetic peck on the cheek.

“Sorry, ma. We got caught up,” he said.

“Sure looks like it.”

That came from the elder Mr. Barnes, who had stopped to give his son a quick once-over. He looked amused.

“Get in a fight with a grizzly last night?” he quipped.

“Three, actually,” Sam answered for Bucky, who was already grinning from ear-to-ear—or as much as his facial lacerations would allow him.

You saw father and son exchange a brief, knowing look, before it was extinguished just as fast as it had come. Clearly, some sort of understanding had passed between them, and the old patriarch seemed pleased. Proud, even. You couldn’t begin to imagine why.

“The bruising shouldn’t be too hard to edit out of the wedding pictures,” Bucky’s mother turned to you as she started to lead the group away, speaking in a matter-of-fact tone, “It’s those damn lesions on his face that always give us trouble.”

She spoke so coolly about the trauma done to her son it damn near chilled you to the bone. You never thought the wife of a mobster would be oblivious to all the violence, but to talk as though this were just another day in the life as far as brutal beatings went was a little unnerving.

You strolled along and silently wondered what the fuck was wrong with this family. Then you realized, slowly, that this was your family now. Your stomach twisted.

When you got to the garden where the photographers were stationed, you saw your parents waiting, enrapt.

And, in a matter of seconds, you watched their expressions morph from exuberance to confusion to outright trepidation. Your father was quick to look away, but your mother clearly couldn’t be bothered to stop ogling Bucky’s gruesome appearance. She forced a tight-lipped smile at the very last second and stretched her arms out to you as the five of you approached.

“You’re glowing, my dear.”

She hugged you and, over your shoulder, tried to mask a discomfited look.

Your mother and father exchanged pleasantries with the rest of the group but seemed loath to linger on Bucky for more than a minute. Like they couldn’t quite tell whether the honeymoon beatdown was fair game for discussion.

“Places, people!”

The photographers were lined up like a flock of paparazzi. Each standing, crouching, squatting with their cameras in their hands, trying to get just the right angle.

The person in charge quickly busied herself with directing and adjusting every one of your positions before the pictures were taken. Telling Bucky’s father to straighten his tie, your mother to brighten her smile, the bride to tilt her shoulders just a little bit more, and Bucky, would you please stop groping your wife?

That last command had come from his mother, actually. Bucky had been palming your ass above your dress, and his mom couldn’t stand the thought of one camera capturing such crude behavior.

“My hand slipped,” Bucky retorted, much to the amusement of a few photographers.

You and his mother gave him identical admonitory looks, but it was you who was close enough to say something.

Just when you opened your mouth to speak, though, an odd sense stopped you on a dime.

There was a warmth. In your panties. Then a slow and silent oozing sensation. You squeezed your thighs tight together and, instinctively, lowered your hand to your stomach, as if that would have any chance of stopping it.

A smirk tugged at Bucky’s lips just as the lead photographer told you all to smile and hold it.

“My cum dripping out already?” he whispered, low as he’d ever spoken but still too loud for you to bear. His parents were literally standing right there.

“Shut. Up.” You replied through gritted, smiling teeth.

“Chin to me, Mrs. Barnes,” the lady in charge called out.

You did as you were told, and Bucky’s hand on your side pressed the flesh ever so slightly.

A series of shuttering sounds, then another directive.

“Think it’ll stay in your panties?” Bucky managed delicately under his breath.

You didn’t respond. At length, his seed was seeping out of your underwear. You bared an even brighter smile for the cameras and tried not to flinch when he squeezed you again.

“Feel it sliding down your thighs?”

“Eyes forward, Mr. Barnes. Head up, and—here, please.”

The man could barely peel his gaze, much less his hands, from your body. He stroked your hip with his thumb. Then, without warning, that same hand slid down to your rear and pushed into the fabric. You sucked in a breath.

“Bucky.”

“What?”

“Behave,” you hissed, and from the corner of your eye you could’ve sworn you saw your mother turn her head.

Unfortunately for you, your husband would do no such thing. He just moved his hand even lower down your back and brushed the space around that spot with the tips of his fingers. You felt a shiver pass over you, along with a whole legion of goosebumps spreading fast across the skin.

If you weren’t on camera and surrounded by family, you probably would’ve liked to smack him upside the head.

As the cameras continued to fire away, Bucky’s touch trailed down to the outline of your panties through your dress and started rubbing small circles over the area.

“Now just the bride and groom!”

The rest of your family members stepped to the side, and it was only you and Bucky before the cameras now. Still smiling like bright, shiny dolls and communicating like ventriloquists, your lips barely moved as you spoke.

“How ‘bout I push it back in?”

“Barnes, I will kill you.”

“Now kiss!”

At the direction of the lead photographer, you kissed your husband and felt a mixture of lust, hate, and love swell up inside of you. When you pulled apart, it was the latter of these three that was searing hot in your veins.

“I love you,” Bucky murmured with a grin.

“I love you, too.”

The rest of the morning passed away in much the same fashion—being pulled from place to place, person to person, while your filthy-minded husband kept whispering in your ear all the depraved things he was planning to do to you once he got you alone. It was romantic, in a way; just terrible for your poor panties.

You reluctantly mingled and laughed with some of the most boring people you thought you’d ever met in your life—though perhaps you were a touch too horny to make a fair appraisal—and gradually, family and friends pulled you and Bucky further and further apart until you were just being carted around like show dogs and forced to hold the same conversation over and over again.

“You look stunning.”

“Buck’s a lucky guy, I’ll tell you that.”

“Are you planning on having kids any time soon?”

You just smiled, nodded, and didn’t have the guts to tell them that Bucky’s baby batter was baking inside you right now. That would’ve been a fun one to watch the reactions from your uptight, intrusive relatives, though.

And speaking of Bucky, where the fuck had he gone?

Just twenty minutes ago he’d sworn he would have you bent over one of the hotel balconies overlooking the Aegean Sea, and now he was nowhere to be found.

Your parents were currently preoccupied with their second helpings of spanakopita, your in-laws draining mojitos like water, and Sam, like Bucky, completely MIA. No one else had seen hide nor hair of your husband in a little while, and frankly, your legs were growing tired of looking.

You let out a small sigh of relief when you saw Bucky sitting a ways away on the terrace with Sam and Steve huddled on either side of him. They looked to be deep in discussion.

Steve, Stevie, Rogers, or, simply, your husband’s second in command, seemed strangely out of sorts as he clenched a fist and said something close to Bucky’s face.

You decided to let the three of them hash it out and to take a rain check on that balcony rendezvous for now.

At any rate, a pack of Pall Malls was calling your name.

You would fully concede this was a filthy habit you never should have started—like most fun things in life—but the reprieve of a nicotine buzz was too tempting to refuse. You grabbed your clutch and took off toward the far end of the lawn, set for a small alcove apart from the party.

You slipped the lighter and cigarettes from your bag as you walked. The scent of pure salt and sea foam greeted your senses as soon as you drew close to the spot—less than a stone’s throw away from the ocean.

Your hands had jammed the cancer stick in your mouth before your mind could make a single word of protest. You brought the lighter to life in your right palm and raised the flame to your cigarette until the end was lit.

Then you inhaled. Exhaled. Hoped no one would see you. You fanned the smoke from your face every so often.

You’d taken up residence on a bench just shy of the beach, and finally, you could stretch your legs and rest.

Maybe indulge in some disgusting thoughts about your husband while you were at it.

If you’d told yourself just twenty-four hours ago that your mind and body would be on the fritz craving Bucky’s touch, you wouldn’t have believed it. If someone had said sex, and cumming around someone you loved, was a worthwhile experience, you probably would’ve told them they were full of shit. But here you were, splayed out on a bench by the shoreline thinking of nothing but the way your husband’s cock felt inside you. Feeling his seed dried on your thigh and aching for a fourth helping.

You felt pathetic. Maybe you were.

In any case, you didn’t really care.

You brought the near-spent cigarette up to your lips for the last couple puffs. When you’d plucked it back out, you heard someone clear their throat behind you.

Bucky! Your lust-addled brain all but squealed.

You turned much quicker than you meant and nearly jumped in your skin to see who was standing there.

A grinning, bright-eyed blond.

In a panic, you flicked your cigarette over your shoulder and forced a smile.

“Hi.”

“Howdy.”

Okay, John Wayne, what the fuck? The man sounded, and looked, like something straight out of a western film.

“No need to stop on my account,” he tipped his chin toward the cigarette on the ground, “I won’t snitch.”

His smile took on a shade of condescension, but the face seemed friendly enough. Then, to your surprise, he reached into his back pocket and retrieved something small and silver from it. He held it out to you.

“Courtesy of your husband,” he said.

You frowned. A flask?

“It’s not even noon,” you answered.

“Bucky wanted me to relay the message that your mom invited a boatload more folks, and it don’t seem they’re fixin’ to leave anytime soon. Said you might need this.”

Gingerly, you accepted the gift and unscrewed the cap. You almost gagged when you got a whiff of pure vodka.

“Fuckin’ A,” you coughed, “What’s this, nail polish remover?”

“Stolichnaya. Can’t talk shit until you’ve tried it.”

Your eyes were still watering from the pungent stench of 80 proof spirits when you saw the man’s outstretched arm again—this time, to shake your hand.

“Joey, by the way.”

You shook his hand and introduced yourself as well, blinking back a few tears.

“You’re a friend of my husband’s?” you asked.

“From the service, yeah. We go way back.”

You couldn’t help but raise both brows in question.

“The service,” you repeated.

“Russian Armed Forces,” Joey smiled.

And when the hell did Bucky plan on telling you he was a former foreign operative? You stared at the man before you in a medley of confusion and disbelief. Surely the thick Southern drawl had to mean he was joking.

“Sorry—I thought you knew,” he said sheepishly.

Your husband’s old comrade seemed genuinely contrite, blushing a shade of pink as he turned his gaze from you. You quickly regained your composure and flashed him a smile, insisting it was fine, just surprising to you is all.

“Perks of arranged marriage,” you said, “We’re wed for life and I don’t even know the guy’s job title.”

That earned a laugh from the tall, gaunt figure in front of you. His features visibly relaxed, and he wasn’t smiling so smugly anymore. He motioned toward the bench.

“You mind?”

“Not at all.”

You fished for a cigarette as Joey sat down beside you. When he’d taken a seat, you offered it to him, and he politely accepted.

With time, the two of you got to smoking and joking around with a little more ease. You didn’t normally get to see that happen—rarely seizing the opportunity to make friends of near-strangers—but this weekend had already presented a bevy of firsts. What harm could a quick smoke break with Bucky’s old friend possibly do?

You found the man to be quick-witted and charming, if not marred by the slightest stain of conceit under the surface. He was objectively handsome: all cool, clean features with an unblemished demeanor and a set of brown eyes so light they almost appeared the color of honey in the sun. The only imperfection to be detected was a skewed, razor-thin scar on his chin. You weren’t ashamed to admit he might’ve been your type maybe four or five years, and several degrees of naïveté, earlier. But you had Bucky now; not even the most sublime, finely-chiseled Adonis could set your sights off of him.

You continued to smoke and shoot the shit.

“So you’re a Puritan, then?” Joey said at length.

“Huh?” You leaned back to stretch.

“You haven’t touched that flask.”

You glanced down at the silver canteen between you. You picked it up.

“Haven’t been into straight liquor since college,” you shrugged.

“But it’s your wedding weekend,” Joey smirked, “Think it says somewhere in the rule book you’ve gotta be hammered the whole time.”

“Does it? I must’ve missed that one,” you hummed.

Rather than answer you verbally, Bucky’s old friend opted to snag the flask from your fingers and unscrew the top himself. Made an unusually bold move and took your chin in his other hand.

“Open.”

“No!”

You bared a tight smile to be polite, but inside, you were more than a little put off by his behavior. Maybe this was some stupid rite of passage into their ‘brotherhood.’ You had to assume he was just being friendly.

“C’mon. Quit bitchin’ and open up,” he chuckled, pinching your face even tighter.

That left an even more sour taste in your mouth. You jerked your head to the left and were just about to inform the man it’d cost him nothing to fuck off and stay off, when a voice broke out through the foliage behind you.

“Honey? Hon, you there?”

Immediate relief at hearing your husband’s voice.

You craned your neck to look around.

“I’m here, Bucky!” You waved an arm to try and get his attention, wherever he was.

It took him a second, but shortly, he appeared on the other side of some trees. He had a stern, if not slightly sallow, look on his face as he made his way over.

You turned back to Joey but found that he’d vanished. Your eyes scanned the beach, the lawn, even the bushes behind you and couldn’t find a trace of him anywhere. All that was left was the flask.

“Bucky, I just—”

“We need to go,” your husband cut in.

His narrowed, steely gaze sent a jolt of apprehension through you.

“Go wh—”

“Now, baby, please. I’ll tell you in the car.”

Your face dropped.

“We’re leaving?”

Shortly, Steve trotted over. Bleak as you’d ever seen him with his hands balled in fists at his sides. And a deep-set scowl.

“Whole fuckin’ swarm of ‘em now,” he pronounced.

Bucky didn’t wait to hear another word. He just grabbed your hand and joined his friend sprinting back up the lawn. You could barely keep apace with their steps and, still clinging to Bucky, almost tripped and stumbled.

“Get the fuck up,” Steve spat.

You tensed. For a second, your feet scarcely moved of their own accord as you trailed behind Bucky and felt a stabbing feeling in your gut. Bucky’s best man had surely been a little rough around the edges before, but never this needlessly cruel. What did you do?

Your husband delivered an uncharacteristically gruff shove to the man’s shoulder and made sure he felt it.

“Don’t you start this shit again,” he said, “Lay off.”

Steve ignored him entirely and took the lead around the hotel’s perimeter. You glanced to the throngs of partygoers still scattered along the veranda and saw similar looks of disquiet and alarm all around.

Just when a dozen different questions of what was going on, where were they taking you, and why the fuck did everyone look so afraid bubbled to the tip of your tongue, a thunderous sound brought you to a standstill.

At the opposite end of the plaza, a cluster of tents, tables, and catering stations all splintered apart in a single, headlong explosion. A bright red column of fire shot up toward the sky, and following its ascent rose a wave of shrill and horrified screams alongside it. A barrage of gunfire rained over the crowd, and before you could even spare a look toward its source, Bucky yanked you flat on the ground. Your hands and knees were shredded across pavement, had less than a second to register the pain, and were shortly made to snake along concrete and glass toward the garden down below.

You crawled, then crouched, then bounded down the lawn following Bucky and Steve like a bat out of hell. Another explosion sounded nearby—this time much closer, sending a shower of flames sailing through the air and all over—and whole droves of people just dropped. Facedown in the grass and covered in glass. Bucky clamped your hand in his own with a force that could’ve snapped it in two, but you didn’t blink. All of your senses were kicked into overdrive and focalized, unflinching, on the sight of more carnage than you could comprehend.

“Here!” Steve called presently.

He caught sight of a jet black sedan at the edge of the lawn and held a hand up to Bucky. A set of keys were promptly pelted into his grasp, and the three of you closed in on the car, quick, without another word.

Bucky tore the back door open and practically flung you inside. He primed himself to climb in right after, when a set of footsteps and a shout held him locked in place.

“Hangar’s clear.”

Sam, by the sound of it.

He jumped in shotgun while Steve seized the wheel. Bucky hadn’t gotten the back door so much as halfway shut before the engine roared to life and the car lurched ahead. Not thinking, you grabbed hold of a seatbelt, but Bucky was quick to pull you in and jerk you down.

You weren’t sure what you’d been expecting then, but it certainly wasn’t your husband’s weight crushing you from above as he pinned you to the floor of the car.

This wasn’t the seamless, smart exit that the heroes of the action-packed stories always had. Bucky didn’t hold you tight in his arms or cradle your head to his chest. He just draped the weight of his whole body over yours and begged you strenuously not to move or make a sound. By the looks of it, too, the car was tearing up the turf of the lawn and anything else that happened to cross its path; there was no rhyme or reason to Steve’s driving, it seemed, just frantic desperation and a will not to die.

Minutes, seconds, sights, and sounds—or what little of the world you could grasp from your cowered position—all bled together in a haze. Your pulse leapt and throbbed between your ears, and little more could be heard above that sound apart from the thrum of Bucky’s own heart, the thunder of gunfire, and the wail of sirens, coming low and faint and far too late to make much difference now.

You pressed your nose to the floor and got a dizzying whiff of nylon and bleach. Would’ve like to retch but gritted your teeth instead, lying in silence and wondering without humor if the splinters, the soot, or the blood would be hardest to wash out of your white satin dress.

The price of admission to board Bucky’s Boeing 787 came surprisingly cheap: just sit back and be ‘pregnant.’

You’d been flanked by medics as soon as you arrived at the hangar—a place tucked away just a few short miles from the hotel, where Bucky kept his aircraft for speedy escapes, apparently—and had been carried onto a jet. You didn’t squirm or protest, just hung limply in their arms and let them tend to you however they needed.

After all, you looked like fucking Carrie White on prom night: coated in blood and stiff as a board. Sitting with a thousand-yard stare and a frozen, muted expression as you tried, and failed, to process what had just happened.

You watched Bucky kneel down in front of you and hardly saw him at all. You sensed him stroke your hair but felt it from a place somewhere far outside your body. Bizarre was an understatement. All you could do was blink.

“It’s not— not her blood, is it?” your husband stammered, gesturing toward your dress.

“Some of it,” one nurse answered quietly.

Aw, hell. Bucky squatted on the floor and slotted himself between your knees, trying to get as close as possible so he could make you say something, even just see him. One of the attendants raised a warning look and placed a hand on his shoulder, which he shrugged off in a second.

“She’s not looking at me,” Bucky’s lip visibly trembled as he drew you closer, “Honey, I’m here— I’m right h—”

“She’s in shock.” Another voice came flatly.

Sure, shock works. In truth, your mind was floating somewhere even higher than the 43,000 feet the plane had ascended, and your brain had gone as soft as a clump of cotton candy in the rain. You couldn’t speak, but you could think in bits and pieces. You blinked again.

“She looks like death warmed over.”

Thank you, Steve.

Off to the side in a plush, leather seat of his own, the man nursed a scotch on the rocks and frowned. Bucky didn’t have the strength to throw a punch or a pillow at his head and instead said only to shut the fuck up, man.

Your husband turned to the nurses again.

“She’s pregnant.”

I beg your finest pardon? You blinked a bit harder.

“No, she’s not, Buck,” Sam said from down the aisle.

“Well, she could be,” Bucky chided, “We’ve been going at it like rabbits since the—”

���Fuck’s sake,” Steve slapped a palm over his forehead. If you weren’t currently balls-deep in a state of mental disarray you probably would’ve done the same.

Bucky had made sure to tell all medical personnel aboard the plane that you were—or very well could be—carrying his child, so would you please take all precautionary measures possible? She’s my wife. You suspected if the doctors and nurses weren’t all on Bucky’s payroll they probably would’ve rolled their eyes and reminded him that all you needed were stitches, dressings, and extra fluids. And no, Mr. Barnes, your wife probably isn’t pregnant, even if you think your sperm is ‘built different’ than most.

“She’ll be fine either way,” the medic on your left said, stifling a chuckle. Wondering if the man had ever taken a sex ed class in his years of prudish, private education.

Bucky wasn’t convinced. Against all physicians’ wishes, he climbed up beside you in the seat and pulled you into his lap with both arms wrapped around your waist.

By turns, the world was coming back into focus for you. You met Bucky’s gaze for the first time, and the man looked overjoyed.

“See? See? She’s back.” Bucky squeezed your hip—and immediately released it when you winced.

“Mind the bandages, Mr. Barnes.”

Your caregivers pro tempore shot your husband a couple wry looks as they packed their supplies and started to leave, getting the sense that their boss wasn’t going to stop badgering them, or you, anytime soon. That worked just fine for Bucky, because then he would get to hold you any way that he liked, as long as you’d let him.

Steve, on the other hand, didn’t seem quite as thrilled.

Sam watched the medics’ departure with a wary look.

“She probably needs to rest, Bucky,” the latter said, careful with his words.

Bucky’s eyes never strayed from yours.

“She’s okay, Sam. She’s good.” Perhaps speaking more to himself than anyone else. Steve shifted in his seat.

In your periphery, Mr. Wilson was approaching with a glass in his hand. You turned your head, and Bucky accepted the cup of water for you.

“Feelin’ alright?” Sam asked.

You tried to nod, but your husband was already cradling your head like a baby, urging you to take your first sip.

A spate of water splashed down the front of your dress. You shot Bucky a look as he hastily tried to dry it.

“She’s not a child, Barnes,” Steve muttered.

“Should probably keep that elevated,” Sam cut in, nodding toward your swollen ankle, “We’ll get some ice.”

Sam tilted his head again, this time to motion to Steve. His friend pretended not to see him, and then Bucky was back on his feet, keen as ever,

“I’ll go.”

He kissed the top of your head and assured you he’d be right back. He’d just started off toward the door, when Sam hesitated. He flitted a quick look between you and Steve and looked like he wanted to say something, but Bucky was already ushering him out of the room.

When you turned to Steve, you understood why.

The man had you pinned with a stare that could’ve killed you ten times over, fisting his drink in a white-knuckled grip.

You watched him right back. Tried hard not to blink.

“Something wrong?”

You weren’t sure how you’d even mustered the strength to speak. Steve just brought it out of you, you figured.

“You tell me.” Tone dripping with disdain.

You raked your gaze over the man for a second, finding him dressed head-to-toe in his three piece suit—muddied with blood here and there, but still no worse for wear than you’d seen him an hour or two ago. It was that frown you couldn’t shake.

What had you done to piss him off so much? Shit in his cornflakes? Step on his toe? Had he seen you with Joey and jumped to the worst possible conclusion? You sincerely couldn’t make sense of the man’s indignation, so you wanted to ask him directly; before you could, though, Steve was interjecting, at length,

“We should’ve left you to die with the rest of your family.”

Your jaw slackened a bit.

“What?”

“You, your mother, your two-timing shitstain of a father. Every one of you should’ve stayed there to rot.”

Never mind the fact that he’d just wished you dead to your face—what did he mean about your parents?

“But they’re coming with us. Bucky said,” you managed.

“He did?” Steve grinned humorlessly, “He lied, doll. Your folks are probably bound and gagged at the bottom of the ocean right now.”

That sent the first real wave of fear pulsing through you. You slowly rose to your feet but, feeling yourself restrained by the makeshift IV line stuck in your skin, you stopped. You plucked the needle out of your arm.

“What are you talking about?”

You drew closer to Steve, who only sat back and sipped his scotch with amusement.

“What? That wasn’t part of the plan?” he quirked a brow, “Didn’t think anyone would dare lay a finger on your precious, self-righteous fucking family—”

You hardly even noticed you’d swatted Steve’s drink out of his hand until the glass went shattering on the floor. You blinked and raised a shaky, bruised finger about an inch from his face.

“The fuck did you just say to me?” Your jaw was clenched so tight you had to speak through your teeth.

Steve was beaming.

The door to the room flew open, and Bucky and Sam strolled in with their ice packs and pillows. They stopped when they saw the glass on the floor and your figure looming over Steve.

“You picked a real spitfire, Buck,” the blond called out, his hands raised in surrender as he smiled up at you.

Bucky seemed more surprised that you were able to stand, much less take that menacing stance over his friend, and he quickly tried to guide you back to your seat. You wouldn’t budge.

“What the fuck are you talking about?! Where are my parents?” You tried to shake your husband off as Steve’s grin grew even bigger.

“They’re fine, honey. Sit down, please,” Bucky mumbled.

“No! He said they were dead!” you shot back, eyes never leaving the smug, smirking face that seemed to be enthralled by the spectacle in front of him.

“Why don’t you tell her, Buck? Girl deserves to know.”

“Shut the fuck up, Rogers,” Sam uttered quietly.

“Tell me what?”

“It’s nothing, your parents are fine,” Bucky seemed pensive now, gaze scanning the ceiling for a second as he tried to collect his thoughts. You shoved his hands off.

“Don’t you fucking lie to me, James,” you said, diverting your attention to glare up at him, “What’s going on?”

“Either she’s a world-class actress or she really doesn’t have the first clue about this. Enlighten her.” Steve seemed a little more serene as he unscrewed a bottle of Talisker and reached for a second glass. You would’ve liked to knock back one or two—or ten—yourself.

You turned on your heels to face Bucky. At the moment, he seemed torn between imparting a death black stare on Steve and a placating, apologetic one to you. The tips of his ears were tinged pink.

“Baby—” He reached for you, but you pulled back.

“No.”

You wouldn’t ask him again. Your husband was wounded by the sight of your recoil—and perhaps by some painful truths he’d be compelled to share as well—and he wrung his hands. Started to chew the inside of his cheek.

Sam snagged the scotch and made a heavy pour.

“Why’d you marry him?” Steve said suddenly.

Bucky’s face dropped; you raised a brow in question. Before your husband could stop you, you answered,

“Because my dad was in debt.”

“For what?”

You paused.

“Real estate. Gambling. Fuck if I know.”

Steve nodded. Ignored Bucky’s sharp, reproachful gaze.

“And how much money did he owe?” he asked.

“Steve,” Sam warned.

“Four, five million—more than he could ever repay.”

This time, it was Steve to raise both brows as he mulled over your response. He almost looked surprised.

“You’re forced to marry a man just to settle a debt and you don’t even know the price that tight little body’s paying?” he scoffed.

His words hadn’t hung in the air for much longer than a second before Bucky decked him, shoving him square in the chest and sending him stumbling back a couple steps. A splash of whiskey was quick to join the bloodstains adorning Steve’s tux, and the pile of broken glass on the floor grew even bigger. The man hardly flinched when Bucky shoved his head to the end table.

“Say it again.” Your husband sounded dispassionate as ever. Like this was something he was used to doing.

“She should’ve known!” Steve snapped anyway.

You shared a brief look with Sam but found his expression inscrutable. He kicked a few shards of glass with the toe of his shoe.

“I wasn’t exactly in a place to negotiate,” you grumbled, “They were going to kill my father if we didn’t settle it, so I wasn’t all that interested in knowing how much money my A1 cunt was gonna cost Bucky. Personally.”

If he could go low, you would go lower. Fuck him.

You saw Steve grin through a freshly busted lip and straighten himself back into a seated position. He wiped the blood with the pad of his thumb while Bucky seemed to contemplate swinging again. The look in your eye cautioned him against it.

“Fair enough,” Steve conceded. He stopped to consider his words—ones that wouldn’t prompt Bucky to punch him directly in the throat—and looked to you, curious,

“Why would the mob kill him over a few million dollars?”

You shrugged.

“He’s a real estate broker. They probably knew he couldn’t fork over that kind of cash.”

Something akin to a stifled chuckle and a cough sounded from Sam, while Steve outright broke out laughing. Even Bucky’s expression softened a little as he rubbed his knuckles and paced closer to you.

“What?” you spat, “Did I say something funny?”

Sam shook his head slowly, starting, “I don’t think—”

“Your daddy’s a fucking gunrunner, sugar,” Steve wheezed, “Head of a multinational arms trafficking syndicate—motherfucker is not selling houses.”

Your insides churned with a mixture of disbelief and revulsion, but you couldn’t let them see that. When Bucky reached for your hand, you yanked it back again.

“And how the fuck would you know?” you said to Steve.

“We work with him. Used to work for him, at one point,” Sam answered.

“And the man is horseshit at business”—Steve paused to see if Bucky had shot him a warning look but found your husband far too concerned with capturing your attention—“He was $90 million in the hole when Bucky came to the rescue.”

“James?” You finally turned to him.

“And your daddy didn’t even owe the money to Bucky, he owed it to HYDRA,” Steve sneered.

“James,” you pressed again.

You couldn’t understand why your husband refused to speak—going as deadpan and radio silent as the night before. He stood there and watched you with a rigid, inflexible gaze.

“HYDRA as in— the Russian mob?” you asked him.

“No, the Girl Scouts,” Steve huffed, “Yes, the mob.”

“Schröder’s boys. Your dad’s been in business with them for years—owed them a lot of money,” Sam added.

“And your dad and Bucky’s dad have been friends even longer. So Bucky figured he’d do yours a favor and pay the debt himself.” Steve seemed eager to tell this story.

All the while, the hue of Bucky’s cheeks grew even deeper—like he didn’t want this coming to light. He sensed you wouldn’t stand down until you’d heard the whole ugly truth, though, so he held your gaze and watched you grow more repulsed by the second.

“Then why’d he need me? Just another bartering chip?” Your tongue felt heavy in your mouth, “A pawn?”

“A peace offering,” Bucky said quietly.

Steve and Sam finally clammed up long enough to let him speak, but your husband seemed taciturn as ever.

“Your father didn’t owe me anything. I would’ve paid his debt and left it at that, but he insisted I— that we marry. He wanted an alliance no subsequent financial incentive could disrupt. He would take the money I gave him, pay HYDRA, and bow out of any future dealings with them. Our marriage was supposed to guarantee that.”

Bucky spoke slow, like every word was a labored breath. Hardly the same could be said for his friends.

“That was until your dipshit weapons dealer daddy decided he’d have his cake and eat it too. Struck an even sweeter deal with HYDRA and played in our faces,” Steve said.

“At the direction of Mr. Schröder, your father tried to intercept a shipment bound for one of Bucky’s warehouses in Brooklyn,” Sam continued, “Only problem is he fucked up the execution and cost Schröder a dozen men and tens of millions of dollars in artillery and blow.”

“So Schröder paid him a visit today,” Bucky muttered.

Without realizing it, you found yourself sinking into the nearest seat and bringing a hand to lay flat on your stomach. You felt sick. More than woozy, truthfully. Your head was spinning and your stomach was twisting something terrible, as if you’d just ingested cyanide.

Fuck, did you need a drink.

You couldn’t look at Bucky or Steve or Sam any longer.

You reached for your clutch and pulled out Joey’s flask.

And, bloodlusting mobsters and outlaws be damned, the Russians knew how to make the hell out of some vodka. A single sniff of the stuff told you this was exactly what you would need to cope with your current situation.

“So you think I had something to do with the new HYDRA deal?” you asked, “You honestly th—FUCK!”

Bucky lunged for the flask in your hand before you could take a single pull. He snatched it away in the blink of an eye and shot you a look.

“Liquor? For our baby?” he barked.

You audibly groaned and were just about to tell him that his understanding of human reproduction was a crock of shit when you stopped. You saw his expression change.

“Where did you get this?” Bucky asked, suddenly pale.

“You, dumbass!”

“Me?”

Bucky was presently passing the flask around to his friends, who were eyeing a spot on the bottom of the container with shared looks of alarm.

“Your friend gave it to me earlier saying that you wanted me to have it,” you said.

All three men looked up at once.

“What friend?” Sam asked.

“Joey,” you answered, “Bucky’s friend from the army.”

If it were possible for your husband to get any paler his skin might’ve turned the color of cottage cheese. His eyes were wide with fear.

Then he was hurrying to your side. Taking your hand.

“What friend from the army? What’d he look like?”

You were still scanning Bucky’s face, trying to make sense of the apprehension etched into his features, when you managed,

“I-I dunno. Blond. Light brown eyes.”

“Tall fella?” Steve asked.

“Very.”

“Have a German accent?” Sam pressed.

“No, a real thick Southern accent,” you shook your head. It didn’t occur to you then that it could’ve been fake.

You were about to turn your attention back to Bucky, brow still knit in confusion, when a vague memory crossed your mind. You looked up at Sam and Steve.

“He had a—” You tapped your chin lightly, “—a little scar right here.”

You would’ve thought you’d just announced you had a bomb strapped to your ass the way the three men reacted. Each wore identical looks of disbelief and muted horror, exchanging looks between themselves as if they’d just discovered the Atlantic Ocean—and found the Loch Ness Monster lurking somewhere underneath.

Bucky looked the worst out of all of them. His face had drained of all expression and color as he stared at you.

“Joey?” he intoned feebly.

“Yes,” you answered—feeling ineffectual, even dense, for not catching on to what the rest of them had discovered.

Fortunately, Sam wouldn’t let you wallow in ignorance.

“Johann Schröder,” he supplied in a second, “The man you were talking to was Mr. Schröder, head of HYDRA.”

Steve held the flask in his grasp for you to see the bottom, where a skull with six tentacles was engraved. Then he tipped the canister into a glass he’d taken in his other hand and watched a frothy pink liquid spill out.

“Looks to be a serum of his,” Steve said, hollow as you’d ever heard him, “Kind of like…roofies.”

“You didn’t drink any of it, did you?” Sam asked.

“Nuh-uh. Bucky showed up right as he was trying to, uh— to pour it in my mouth.”

A beat of silence gripped the room.

Bucky looked like he might burst a blood vessel, or someone’s skull. Or both.

Still, he wouldn’t speak to you.

The inside of your head was throbbing.

You almost preferred the ruthless, irate glint in Steve’s eye when he’d suspected you of being a traitor the first time around; this cloyingly sympathetic gaze he was giving you now had to be the most maddening thing. He and Sam both looked on at you like you were a victim. Like you were something to be pitied, or coddled, or left to the capable hands of your husband—a motherfucker who couldn’t even speak so much as a syllable to you.

You felt a pressure build, then swell, then peak between your temples, and you wanted to wince but couldn’t stand the thought of looking weak in front of them.

Then your nose started to bleed.

That, at least, woke Bucky from his reverie as he fumbled around for a napkin and helped you to your feet. He looped an arm around your waist and led you off to the bathroom, his grip tightening on your frame with every step you took.

In two minutes flat, you were flooded with fifteen feet of toilet paper and tissues. Bucky cupped the back of your head in one of his broad, warm palms and kept it plastered there as he instructed you to hold it, honey, hang on, I can grab a few extra rolls right here and guided you toward a private area at the back of the plane.

You could scarcely see above the bunched up wads of Charmin Ultra Strong pressed close to your nose, but you trusted Bucky wouldn’t lead you astray. You felt the welcome touch of a bed underneath you, and then your husband was helping you settle in amongst the pillows and the blankets and the rose petals that had been scattered around before—not entirely appropriate now, but a nice touch nonetheless—and slipping your shoes off your feet. You felt his hand graze your ankle, and then he was saying he’d be right back with those ice packs.

You reached for his hand before he could leave.

“I don’t want it,” you said, your voice slightly muffled by the tissues, “Want you to talk to me, James.”

Bucky’s brow pinched inward. He kneeled down in front of you, where you were sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I am— I’m talking to you right now, honey, I—”

“You know what I mean.”

Bucky wiped his hand down his face and shook his head. Like he was trying to rid himself of a thought.

“I don’t want to talk about HYDRA. Or your father,” he said simply.

“Why not?”

“You’re not in the right place to hear it.”

You plucked the toilet paper away from your face long enough to give him a stern glare.

“We’re on a plane. Fleeing Greece. After you got curb-stomped in our honeymoon suite, our post-wedding brunch was bombed by the Russian mob, I was almost drugged by their leader, and my parents are probably as good as dead, if not being held for ransom, as we speak. Please tell me a better place to have this conversation.”

Bucky was left stumped for a second. Then he slowly rose back to his feet.

“Okay.”

Infuriating.

“Okay?” you snapped, “We could’ve died five times today and all you can say is okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

Fuck this guy. You wiped your nose and stood up too.

Bucky tried to nudge you back onto the bed, wary of the ever-growing number of bumps, bruises, and nosebleeds afflicting your body. He tensed when you nudged him right back.

“I need to see my family,” You stood firm, “As soon as we land wherever it is we’re going, I’m on the first flight back to New York—or wherever they are.”

You dabbed at your nose once more and looked up at him.

“No, you’re not,” Bucky returned.

“What? You’re gonna stop me?”

“Yes, I will.”

The worst part was he wasn’t even smug about it. Just calm and self-assured. You flung your tissues to the side and threw your hands up in exasperation, feeling the need to step away from him and start pacing the room. The man’s reticence was grating on your nerves.

“Why bother, Buck?” you snorted, “It’s not like I’m even your wife, really. I’m just a peace offering that you get to bend over and fuck every now and then, right?”

You turned to make your first circuit around the foot of the bed but were shortly met with the expanse of Bucky’s chest. You looked up to find him frowning.

“Don’t say that again,” he glowered down at you.

Unlike most times before, you didn’t flinch. When he reached for your wrists, you didn’t let him win.

“I’m not your wife,” you repeated, “We may be playing the most fucked up game of mob charades, but this is not a real marriage.”

You ignored Bucky’s evident desire to grab hold of something of yours and side-stepped easily, expanding the gap between you two as much as you could. It was almost amusing to see him not in control for once, and floundering to recover what semblance of it he could.

“You are my wife,” he insisted, frown growing deeper as you crept along the edge of the room, “Everything I do now is for you—it’s not a goddamn game to me.”

“You used me for some Machiavellian marriage ploy! That is the definition of a game, James!”

“I don’t even know what the fuck that means,” Bucky said, “But I love you.”

“You met me yesterday, motherfucker!”

You could feel another bloody nose rising in your bones. You turned around, swiped your lip with the back of your hand and were surprised to see nothing there. You waited for the bleeding to start back up again. When you turned, Bucky had closed the distance between you and was holding something in his hand.

Before you could protest, he was smoothing the thing over your face—apparently he’d grabbed a washcloth and dampened it—and laced his fingers through the hair at the back of your head. He held you firmly as he blotted the blood.

“Is it so hard to believe that I love you?” he asked quietly.

He was trying hard to placate you, but his actions were having just the opposite effect. You let him wipe the blood from your face but watched him begrudgingly.

“You want someone to control, Bucky,” you said, “Love is not a power play that you get to manipulate at will.”

Bucky blinked, trying to conjure up a response as he daubed the skin with a little more force. You weren’t finished.

“You look at me and see a victim. Someone you need to watch over— who can’t take care of themse—”

“That’s not true.”

“Really? That’s not what a ‘good little wife’ is to you?” you retorted.

At last, Bucky tossed the hand towel to the side and ran a hand through his hair. He stepped toward the dresser, shrugging off his suit jacket.

“That’s a— a bit I do when I’m horny. I don’t actually want you subservient to me,” he muttered as he looked around for a hanger. Finally, he just draped the coat over the back of a chair and sighed.

“So holding me hostage from my family is a bit, too?” you quizzed.

“To keep you safe from the people who tried to kill them. I’m sorry I don’t want to see you butchered because of me,” Bucky returned with just as much biting sarcasm.

“That’s rich coming from you.” You despised the indignation in your tone but couldn’t help it. These thoughts had been brewing inside your skull for hours. You watched Bucky struggle to undo his bow tie—just like the night before—and, again, your brain barely registered the action before you were reaching for the garment and tugging at the fabric to loosen it yourself.

“What are you talking about?” Bucky asked, brow furrowed.

“Last night,” you yanked harder than you meant to. The knot just got tighter, “And today. Tonight. You’re as still as the fucking grave and won’t say a word when something bad is happening. You just let it happen.”

You tried to pry your fingers through the tie but found it stiff as ever. You groaned inwardly.

“No, I don’t,” Bucky objected.

“You’re doing it right now! You wouldn’t tell me about HYDRA, or my father, or the guy who could’ve— hurt me. You didn’t say a word of that to me, and you expect me to believe we’re in this together? That you’re trying to keep me safe? You couldn’t even—” you paused to pull at that stupid tie your husband had tangled about four times over, finally feeling it give way a little—“couldn’t even pretend to give a fuck when those men broke in last night and almost killed us!”

Just as you freed the silk from its knot, Bucky seized your wrist. Shoved your hand off of his collar.

“I had to do that,” he snapped.

He threw his tie to the floor and started to unbutton the cuffs of his sleeves. The sight of his broad, veiny forearms were only visible to you for a second before he headed toward the closet, peeling off bits and pieces of his ensemble as he walked.

“You didn’t do anything, Bucky! You just sat there and got the shit beat out of you for no fucking reason! You didn’t even try to fight back.”

Bucky had just muscled his way out of the confines of his dress shirt, leaving him in a tight, plain white tee. He turned to you with what seemed like the most pointed look of disdain.

“You think I wanted to do that?!” he barked. Suddenly facing you head-on, skin flushed a shade just shy of crimson.

“You were too chickenshit. Didn’t wanna get your hands dirty, so you let Sam do it for you,” you seethed.

Your husband looked as though he wanted to put his fist through a wall and pummel it several times over. Seemed like he did, anyway. In truth, he didn’t move—just watched you with the most cruel, unflinching gaze as he clenched his jaw.

“I’m chickenshit?” he repeated.

“Yeah. Coward,” you spat.

“Too much of a coward to keep you safe?”

“Precisely.”

At long last, you saw Bucky smile. It was the tightest, most humorless grin that had ever crossed his lips, but it was a smile nonetheless. He raised a hand over your head and bracketed his arm against the wall so he was leaning over you. Not meant to intimidate per se, but the sight of that smirk was unnerving, to say the least.

“Did you hear what language they spoke?” he asked, voice unbearably low as he drew his face closer to yours.

“It sounded like—”

“Russian, that’s right,” Bucky cut in, “Do you know what they said to me when they pulled us to the floor?”

You swallowed and said nothing. Bucky’s breaths were fanning hot across your cheeks, sending waves of a strange sensation all throughout your body—you weren’t sure if you were meant to be aroused or scared shitless.

“They told me, ‘If you move, we’ll kill her,’” Bucky deadpanned as he began to trace the wallpaper beside your head with a single, bloodied finger, “‘If you fight, we’ll dismember her and set fire to every piece of her body in front of you.’ Or something to that effect.”

The repetition of their words seared your veins like a legion of flames. You could picture them saying it. Grabbing hold of Bucky’s head by the roots of his hair and beating him over and over and over, threatening your life if he made a single move to stop it.

“Bucky—” you started.

“I know they meant it, too. HYDRA operatives make good on their promises if they really set out to harm someone.”

Your husband’s grin had transformed into something more of a crooked, downcast grimace, just baring his teeth as he tried not to lose his composure. Guilt flooded his face.

“I know I should’ve told you then. And after. I should’ve told you about your father as soon as Steve’s informant told us. I just—” Bucky stopped to swallow; he couldn’t meet your gaze—“I didn’t want that hanging over your head. Not after everything that happened last night.”

It was like a blade had just twisted in your stomach. Your throat ached. You wanted to touch him but were almost too scared to ask. He looked so fragile.

“I am a coward. And controlling. Probably the most chickenshit, overbearing son of a bitch you could’ve been unfortunate enough to marry.” For a moment, Bucky’s gaze flickered to yours, and you saw a blooming red hue around the blues of his irises, “But that’s not how I’m supposed to love you—or going to love you.”

You weren’t sure how to reply; you tried raising a hand to his cheek, just to touch the skin, but decided against it.

“I’ve been a shit husband, fake or not. I’m sorry.”

Fake husband maybe, but the look on his face was intractably authentic. Palpable. He blinked as though trying to clear the warm and heady feelings from his expression—suddenly not wanting you to see the shades of his emotions painted there—and focused instead on a few stray strands of hair that had blown over your face. He got very invested in those, all of a sudden.

While your husband stroked the corners of your face and fixed his gaze away from yours, you felt the smallest prick of warmth spark within you. Bucky looked soft and serene and sincere in his apology, defenseless now as he grazed his knuckles over your cheek and said it again,

“I’m sorry, honey. I’m so sorry.”

He paired his apology with a rapid succession of little kisses pressed to your forehead, moving his hand to the nape of your neck to pull you closer to him.

You wanted to touch him, too. You almost felt as though you didn’t know how.

So you stood there and accepted his affections and tried to nod your head when he asked if you were alright, were you hurting any, baby? You leaned into the gentle pressure of his fingertips taking stock of every cut and bruise you’d sustained over the course of that day, watched Bucky’s brow furrow with each new discovery, and tried not to let his touch stray far down your body.

You wanted to be the one with your hands on him—now more than ever.

When Bucky’s hand trailed over your chin, you tilted your head just slightly to kiss it. Your husband didn’t think much of it, just smiling down as tender as he always did, when your lips really grazed over the skin. You pressed a kiss to his finger and wordlessly urged him to move it further. Now it was Bucky’s turn to be at a loss for what to do as you took the tip of his thumb between your lips and suckled it, gently.

“Honey,” he let out a sigh, half-encouragement and half-warning—what were you trying to do?

You glided your mouth down his finger so half of his thumb was enveloped inside. You sucked it again.

“You can’t…” Bucky maintained feebly, eyes briefly scouring all the cuts and bruises across your skin. He didn’t want to see you strain yourself any further.

But whatever pain this might cause was ancillary to you; you curled your tongue around the digit and moaned lightly.

The taste of one finger alone was enough to send you into a frenzy. That and the fact that he had been so open and honest and attentive to your needs made every bone in your body want to jump his. Something about a man taking accountability for his actions and communicating them in a way that didn’t intimidate or belittle you was refreshing. Sexy, almost. Admittedly, the bar for mob boss husbands was hovering somewhere deep in hell, but you admired Bucky’s efforts all the same.

You popped his thumb out of your mouth and smiled.

“You worry too much, Mr. Barnes.”

The echo of his words from earlier—the ones he’d said as he was railing you against a mirror—made Bucky’s cock twitch. His gaze trailed down to the sheen of saliva on your lip, and he almost folded on the spot. He swallowed.

“Don’t wanna hurt you, bunny,” he murmured as you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth and peered up at him.

“Hurt me how?”

You really hadn’t meant to sound like such a tease when you’d said it, but it was hard not to come across that way when you were watching him like that.

And sinking to your knees, with your eyes glued on his.

Bucky sucked in a breath as you kneeled between his feet and nudged the seam of his pants with your nose. He felt so big against your face, you almost couldn’t fathom how he’d fit inside of you the night before. You were amazed how quickly he’d gotten hard—as if the two of you weren’t just having a heart-to-heart a second ago—and you felt your own arousal pool in your panties.

“You know I don’t mind if it hurts. Love the way you stretch me out anyhow,” you continued, and tried not to smirk as you imagined a dozen filthy images from last night flash before Bucky’s mind.

You heard him stifle a groan when you ghosted your lips over the bulge in his pants and felt him swell even more. Your mouth watered at the sound, the sensation, the raw anticipation of what was to come and knowing that you got to dictate what happened. You undid the button and the zip of his pants and damn near drooled at the sight.

Even confined to his boxers, Bucky looked fucking huge.

Suddenly, you began to understand how needy he had been the night before when he’d first wedged his face between your legs and gotten a taste of you. You hadn’t so much as sampled an inch of his cock, and you were already aching to swallow him whole.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” Bucky grunted as he planted a hand on the wall in front of him. You kissed the outline of his clothed erection and earned a full-throated groan.

Well, that makes two of us, you wanted to say but were too busy palming him through his boxers to utter a word. Soaking in the sight of him with every sweet, soft groan he made and wanting to be the reason for even more.

“Can I take you in my mouth, daddy?” you asked softly.

Bucky flattened his palm against the wall and nodded. Beyond words as you worked him out of his boxers.

For one, fleeting moment, you almost wanted to walk back your big talk when his cock sprung out of the fabric. You really hadn’t seen his length at all last night—too busy having it stuffed inside your cunt to get a good look—but holy shit was it an intimidating sight. You weren’t sure if it was just the nerves of this being your first time giving head or if Bucky truly was that massive, but you felt your courage start to crumble before your eyes.

My husband is hung like a fucking horse and I’ve never fit anything bigger than a couple fingers in my mouth. This should go well.

Bucky was evidently so turned on that he didn’t notice the apprehension in your expression. After all, you were moving your lips down his cock and seizing the base of him with what looked like excitement.

Should I…lick it first?

It seemed you would have to learn all of this on the job. You stuck your tongue out and ran it up the length of his shaft.

When Bucky groaned in response, you sensed that that was okay. You pressed a few kisses on the underside of his member and scrambled to think of what else to do.

“Fuck, baby,” your husband let out the most guttural sound as you squeezed his length in your hand. Then, to your surprise, he seized a fistful of your hair between his fingers and rutted his hips, pushing the head of himself against your lips, “Take me in your mouth.”

You heard the Kill Bill sirens blare between your ears but said nothing. You could do this—you’d be fine.

Your lips wrapped around the head of his cock, and Bucky gripped your hair even tighter. Let out a deep, satisfied moan like this was exactly what he needed. You liked that noise and wanted to take him even further.

What you didn’t expect was four more inches shoved inside your mouth before you could stop to take a breath.

The whole girth of his cock made a sharp intrusion, causing your cheeks to stretch and hollow out around him. The head of his member barely grazed the back of your throat, and still, you gagged. And not only gagged but choked, as though someone had just tried to scrub your tonsils with a fine-bristle toothbrush. Unfortunately for you, Bucky’s dick did not taste like spearmint.

He pulled his cock out as quickly as he’d pushed it in.

“Sorry. Shit, sorry.” Bucky blinked twice to get out of that blissed-out headspace and shot you a sheepish look.

The man had rarely been obliged to slow down or take five when his old, ever-changing flavors of the night sucked him off before—most blew him without trouble. But you, kneeling there batting your lashes through a few more tears than expected, seemed uncertain. Even half of his shaft made for a tight fit in your mouth, Bucky thought with some guilty feelings of arousal. He watched you wipe your chin with the back of your hand and frown.

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, baby,” Bucky said, stroking the top of your head.

Suddenly, the frown was turned in his direction.

You raised a brow.

“Why? That all you got, Barnes?”

Bucky couldn’t help but chuckle—and grunt, a little—when you grabbed the base of his cock and brought it down to your swollen pout. His hand instinctively moved back to the wall.

“Honey, are you s—”

He stopped the second you rubbed him up and down and pressed a kiss on the most sensitive skin.

“My mouth isn’t made of paper mâché. You can fuck it a little harder than that,” you said, running your touch down his length while holding his gaze. You looked eager.

Before Bucky could respond, you took the tip of his cock between your lips. Flattened your tongue and glided your mouth down as far as it could go before your cheeks started to hurt—then bobbed your head even further. One of your husband’s hands made a fist in your hair while the other scraped the wall, and you could tell it was taking some serious effort not to rut his hips out of habit.

Be gentle, be gentle, your dick barely fits in her mouth—

“—fucking hell you feel good,” he groaned.

Bucky took one look and could have cum on the spot.

It was one thing to feel you licking and sucking and stretching to accommodate his length, and another thing entirely to see you knelt in front of him with the world’s sweetest gaze, mouth stuffed full of his cock and eyes all but rolling back at the overwhelming sensation. You’d nearly made it all the way to the short tufts of hair on his lower abdomen—and looked so pretty doing it.

Bucky fucking loved it. And you. And fucking you, your face, any place he could fit himself, quite frankly. He stared down at you struggling to take his cock and felt a strange new wave of desire pulsing through his body.

“You like that, doll? Like when daddy fucks that slutty little mouth of yours?”

“Barely fits but you take it so well, bunny.”

“My good little wife and her pretty fucking mouth—likes sucking daddy’s cock however deep he needs it, huh?”

You liked it more than the air in your lungs, to be honest. Only problem was you couldn’t quite speak your mind with your mouth full of Bucky, so you had only to nod. Your husband groaned when you hummed along his length and bobbed your head to answer ‘yes.’ He saw you try not to gag and decided to thrust a little deeper.

He watched his cock drag back and forth along your tongue and took hold of your hair like a vice, fucking your face until your chin and cheeks were drenched with spit. Every now and then he’d pull his cock out just long enough to ask how bad you wanted him in your mouth, how desperate you were to taste him again, and every time you’d answer a little more sweetly and incoherently than before, eyes glazed with desire and mouth open for more.

You were amazed you’d lasted as long as you had—how quickly you’d devolved into this pliable, doe-eyed cocksleeve for Bucky and how keenly you desired to please him even more. It felt pornographic and lewd and somehow still loving as he plowed in and out of your mouth and sang your praises like no man had before.

Above you, Bucky was aching for release but adamant that he wouldn’t cum down your throat—not yet, at least.

His mind was alight with those pesky, primal thoughts again, and every time he watched you swallow him whole, he just wanted to fuck his cum someplace else.

Bucky wasn’t sure if he was smitten or simply dominated by carnal desire; all he knew was that he wanted to give you his babies.

Lots and lots of babies.

A hundred or more, if he had it his way.

Again, you barely had a chance to take a fresh breath before Bucky threw you onto the bed. You’d just tried to steady yourself in a semi-seated position when the man shoved you back in the pillows and slotted himself between your legs, pupils blown wide with hunger.

In a blink, you were flipped onto your stomach with your ass yanked high in the air. Back made to arch, toes about to curl, you closed your eyes and sank your teeth into the sheets, moments away from begging your husband to fuck you right then and there, but Bucky had other plans. He seized the hair at the crown of your head and jerked your head to face forward.

The first thing to greet you was your own reflection—in a floor-to-ceiling mirror at the foot of the bed—followed by Bucky’s broad form steadying behind you. You watched him wet his lips, furrow his brow, and use one careful hand to guide the head of his cock to your entrance. Completely piqued with arousal as you were, weeping beads of desire from that place between your legs, you almost wanted to buck your hips and fuck him yourself.

You refrained.

Bucky pressed the tip of himself to your clit and met your gaze in the mirror when you let out a whimper.

“You didn’t mean it, did you?” he asked, tone suddenly dropped to that of a stoic.

“Mean what?”

It took an unbelievable amount of willpower to fight the moan in your throat when Bucky dragged his cock down the seam of your cunt and rubbed every hot, throbbing inch of himself in the slickness between your folds. You were quick to take the sheets in your hands and squeeze as tight as you could—you wouldn’t let him win that easy.

“When you said you weren’t my wife. Did you mean it?” Bucky was coating himself now, rolling his hips back and forth while you seized the white linens for dear life.

“No. I didn’t,” you said through your teeth. Your eyelids fluttered with the feel of him circling your sensitive hole.

“Do you want to be my wife?” Bucky had to have known it was an asinine question, but he asked it all the same.

“Yes.”

“You do?”

“I do. I do. Now will you just fuck me already?”

In response, and as if to make a mockery of your request, Bucky just pressed the head of his cock inside you and watched you close in the mirror—daring your hips to move back another inch.

“What else do you want to be, doll?”

To say your mind was an empty slate bare of anything but the desire to be fucked was an understatement. You fumbled to find words.

“Your wife, your girl— that’s it, Bucky.”

Your husband nudged his cock a little deeper.

“A good girl?” he hummed.

“Yes, daddy,” you cried and clenched around him.

Bucky stayed where he was and stretched your wet, aching hole with just his tip, making the world’s most shallow thrusts as he flattened his hand on your back and made sure it stayed arched while he teased you.

At this point, you didn’t care what the man saw or heard. You fought with your hips and whined into the sheets.

“Bucky!”

“Wanna be my obedient little cockslut?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“My bunny?”

“Yes, James.” Your cheeks were enflamed, almost hot to the touch.

Bucky suddenly drove himself inside you all the way to the hilt. He squeezed your hip in one hand and with the other slipped a finger between your folds to rub vicious, tight circles against your clit as you bucked and moaned beneath his touch.

“How about a momma?” he pressed, almost too low to be heard, “Wanna be that, too?”

His hips fell into a quick and easy rhythm against your ass, stretching you wide and filling you up almost seamlessly. Your mind was too consumed with pleasure and him to think much else, but barely, you managed,

“W-what?”

Bucky delivered a thrust that knocked the breath from your chest, leaning down to rub your clit even harder.

“Do you want to be a mommy? Have me fill you up and put my baby inside you?”

Oh, fuck. Fucking—what the fuck? Your toes curled as a new jolt of pleasure shot through you, and your gaze locked with Bucky’s in the mirror. He knew exactly what he was doing.

“No— James, we’re not, shit—” you stopped to take a breath as he fucked you rough from behind, smirking the whole time, “We’re not ready for that.”

“Look pretty…ready to me,” Bucky stifled a groan when you squeezed around him and made obscene little noises sliding up and down his cock. He watched the way your pretty, wet pussy stretched and swallowed him down to the base and imagined it dripping with his cum. He snapped his hips against your ass even faster.

It wasn’t clear just who was more overcome with desire—both of you blissed out and fuckdrunk as you’d ever been—and then Bucky flipped you onto your back.

He wanted to see your face as he fucked you slow this time, lips hovering mere inches from your own as he dragged his cock gently in and out of you.

“James,” you breathed, digging your heels in his back with a wordless plea to speed up, baby, please.

In truth, you just knew what would happen if Bucky had the advantage of slow and soft sex with a mouth lowered close to your ear. How he’d shower you with kisses and bring you right to the edge, rolling his hips against your body with strings of sweet praises flowing fast off his tongue.

“Just one, honey,” he mumbled, lips grazing the edge of your jaw, “One baby and I promise we’ll be done.”

Yeah fucking right, you wanted to return with a roll of your eyes but felt your insides churn as he grazed that spot.

“Can you do that for me, doll?” he eased his dick back and forth and snaked a hand between your bodies until his palm was laying flat on your stomach, “Fit my baby in there?”

You couldn’t deny the feelings of pleasure were heightened to no end when he rubbed the heel of his palm into your tummy and continued to rut into you. That feeling of fullness, the delicate nudge against your most sensitive place, paired with the warmth of Bucky’s hand on your lower abdomen, was as close to euphoric as you’d ever felt before orgasm, and it wasn’t hard to tell from the way your body responded. Bucky worked his touch even deeper and watched you writhe beneath him.

“My sweet girl,” he cooed, rubbing that spot, “You’d look so pretty all swole up down here, don’t you think?”

Fucking hell, this guy was good. You squeezed your eyes shut and tried to shake your head.

“Someone…tried to kill us…twice in the last twenty four hours,” you managed between labored breaths. Trying not to whimper when the head of Bucky’s cock kissed your cervix and you felt him bottom out inside you.

Balls deep and enamored with the expression on your face, Bucky laid a kiss on your forehead and smiled.

“I’ll take Schröder’s life with my own two hands if it means keeping you—” he paused to press his palm even firmer on your stomach, “—and our child safe, honey.”

You wanted to believe him. You sincerely hoped your husband could make good on his promise—even if it meant delivering an agonizing, bloody death to a man you barely knew—but you sensed deep down that there were no guarantees in the world Bucky Barnes inhabited. From what little you’d seen in the last day and a half, it had become clear as ever that there were no certainties; no promise of tomorrow, much less a probability that things would pan out exactly as you planned. Add to that a living, breathing child between you two, and the prospects for a safe, secure, and peaceful future were small. Infinitesimally so, in the grand scheme of things.

“No, Bucky,” you finally opened your eyes to find his tender gaze watching over you. Still moving his hips gently, still blanketing your body with his own, “That’s entirely just— just irresponsible. You know it would be.”

“Making a child together?” Bucky seemed wounded saying the words.

And, in spite of the serious turn your conversation had taken, you could see and feel with the growing pace of your breaths that both of you were close. You wanted more than anything to repair that muted, injured look in his eyes, but then Bucky was blinking it away, to the best of his abilities, and lowering his head back down to yours to impart a soft barrage of kisses along your skin. He resumed before you could even think to speak again.

“Okay. No, you’re right. It’s your choice, my love,” he murmured against your cheek, getting back into the more deliberate rhythm of his thrusts before. He stayed there holding his body and his lips as close to yours as possible, and when you felt tempted to say something again, you found the sound drowned by a cresting wave of pleasure.

Your legs tightened around Bucky’s sides, and your head fell back on the bed. You felt Bucky’s drop right beside you, turned just slightly to graze his lips against your ear.

“Gonna cum for me, doll?”

You nodded.

“So close, Bucky,” you breathed, a tremor passing over your thighs as they squeezed him even tighter.

You felt your husband’s hand move from your belly to a place just below it—taking care to bring the pad of his thumb to that wet, aching bundle of nerves—and started drawing circles. Your back arched from the bed, into him, and the coil of pleasure in your lower half swelled.

“Good girl,” Bucky growled, “Good fuckin’ girl, taking me so well.”

The praises and gentle circuits of his thumb continued as he fucked you harder into the bed and panted against your skin. Increasing the speed of his thrusts before catching your mouth in a sloppy kiss, body sinking into yours.

“Gonna make a mess of this cock, huh? Show daddy just how much you love it?”

You whined in response, feeling your muscles start to ache from how hard your legs were wrapped around him. Bucky invaded your mouth with his tongue, kissing and licking and craving your taste as he fucked you stupid—and begged for your release.

“Cum for daddy, honey, I know you got it. Let daddy feel it, baby, please.”

A couple more snaps of his hips and you gave him just that: a hot, cascading ripple of bliss spreading all throughout your body, sending your mind in spirals and every muscle under your command a tense, throbbing mess. You swallowed a scream and took a bite of Bucky’s shoulder instead, causing the man above you to grin and fuck you harder.

“That’s my girl,” he mumbled with an audible hint of pride.

The smile only started to waver when his own release was coming close. Suddenly, his grip was moving to your hip and pinning you down to the bed, brows pinching in and breaths starting to hitch.

“Honey— honey,” he said, voice strained, “Baby, you— you gotta let go of your— ah, fuck.”

Still riding out the highs of your orgasm, you hardly even noticed how tight you were holding him with your legs, and shortly, this raised issues for Bucky, who was trying like hell to heed your wishes and not cum inside you.

“Baby, let go, I gotta—”

He probably could’ve fought to shake you off a little harder, been a bit more adamant about his efforts, but you looked so comfortable and lithe and sweet beneath his frame, so blissed out and happy to be taking his strokes, Bucky almost had to pinch himself to rouse his lust-addled brain to action and remind himself that this was how babies are made, man, get the fuck off of her.

Bucky let out a long, strangled groan as the ropes of cum left his body before he could think, or move, fast enough.

He hastily pushed your legs away and pulled out, but not before painting your walls with a good portion of his load. His hand fell to his cock and started jerking the rest of it out over your stomach, body washing with pleasure.

Vaguely, thoughts of babies and ballgames and neat white picket fences crossed his mind, but those views were fleeting; he remembered what you’d told him and forced himself back to earth, dropping a quick, apologetic kiss to the side of your face.

“I’m sorry. Should’ve pulled out quicker,” Bucky panted against your neck.

You stroked his bicep and shook your head.

“You’re fine. I kinda had you down like a boa constrictor for a second,” you breathed and shared a weary laugh.

Before you knew it, Bucky was sliding off the bed and shuffling toward the bathroom in search of a towel. You prodded the warm, gooey mess on your belly with your finger and raised an eyebrow. Curious, and only slightly worried.

Bucky had been hitting it raw for a day now—surely one more half-load of his wouldn’t get you pregnant, right?

Fortunately, you didn’t have much longer to ponder that thought because a trill of a ringtone sounded from the nightstand.

A phone call? At 45,000 feet?

“Just the intercom,” Bucky called out, “Probably Steve about to start complaining that we fuck too loud.”

Huh. You stared at the trimline-looking telephone on the table and let it ring. Then the sound stopped.

“You think they could hear us?” you asked.

Bucky had just wet a washcloth under the sink and was rifling through the cabinets for something else.

“Hope so,” he said with a shrug, “You know I’d never miss a chance to let ‘em know I took a trip to poundtown—”

“Please never say that again,” you groaned, closing your eyes in sudden fear of what Steve and Sam may or may not have just been made privy to outside of the room.

You were just about to speak up again—perhaps to tell your husband there would be an indefinite travel ban to poundtown if he didn’t hurry the fuck up with that towel—when the intercom’s jarring peal started up once more.

Fuck this. Ignoring the sticky-sweet puddle of love still painted on your stomach, you sat up and crawled over to the phone and ripped it off the hook.

“Barnes residence,” you announced without ceremony. Then, imagining how smug Steve was probably looking on the other end of that line, you decided to be crass and add, “Bucky Barnes is very busy laying pipe on his wife right now, but if you could leave your name and number, he’ll be sure to call you back as soon as possible!”

You heard the caller burst out laughing, and you smiled to yourself. Pleased to have made an otherwise moody and brooding Steve Rogers crack at one of your jokes, you were just about to hang up when the caller cut in.

Bucky was returning with your towel in hand, lips curled in the faintest of smirks at hearing your crude declaration, when he stopped at the foot of the bed.

He saw the smile fall from your face, and his did, too.

From the other end of the line, a soft and familiar Southern drawl crawled out of the phone’s receiver.

“Sure thing, doll. Tell him it’s Joey Schröder calling.”

Taglist: @vicmc624, @she-could-never, @mcira, @kentokaze, @identity2212, @unaxv, @buchi91, @ordelixx, @stinkerbelle007, @opibarnes, @wilsons-striped-ties, @desigirlxx, @pono-pura-vida, @geminiflanagansblog, @fandomsfeminismandme, @buggy14, @sky-full-0f-fl0wers, @buckysdoll1520, @armystay89, @minimarvelingmarvel, @kunakizen, @ghostiebby06, @blackhawkfanatic, @dameron-grant-spector, @sushiseoks, @deansapplepie, @mrsjoequinn, @lunaroserites, @first-edition, @kaybaby2494, @jaggedsi, @excusememrbarnes, @daisychainsoflove, @mostlymarvelgirl, @diannana, @shawnberry, @yujyujj, @urmomsalex, @mrs-bucky-barnes-73, @athenabarnes, @christinabae, @wintrsoldrluvr, @bethbunnyy, @i-heart-smut

(If I missed anyone or tagged improperly, please let me know! This is my first rodeo taglist)

[ozzgin]

Yandere! Werewolf Headcanons

I've been stalked by the guilty feeling that my Romanian Werewolf boy got a lot of backstory but not much romance or interaction. So there you have it: some headcanons featuring the ancient Beast, a post-kidnapping sequel.

Content: female reader, obsessive behavior, monster romance, mild NSFW at the end, ridiculously older yandere

You followed the gargantuan stranger back into the city, leaving the bloodbath behind as if it was just a distant dream. Admittedly, you’d expected to be dragged into some mountainous cave or an abandoned mansion, not the cozy - albeit a little dusty - apartment on a main, historical street. On second thought, he did function as a human outside of his monstrous escapades, so it made sense. “Is this your place?”, you sheepishly asked while he wiped the thick layers of blood off him. “One of them, yes”, he answered curtly. “It’s central”, you remarked, trying to make conversation. “Well, I didn’t know about it back then. It’s been a few decades.”

Your ears perked up at the words. Gazing at his features, he didn’t seem necessarily aged to you. The deep creases contouring his face felt more like a sign that he’s lived sorrows beyond most people’s comprehension. “How old are you?” You finally asked as curiosity replaced your initial fear. He abruptly stopped his movements and leaned back, brows furrowed in deep contemplation. “I’m not so sure anymore. I was born in the 80s”, he concluded. “That’s not too far back, is it?” You inquired, this time more relaxed. “80 BC, I meant. You do the math.”

He freshened himself up as you counted the millennia on your fingers, frowning in confusion. He chuckled at your intense focus, then quickly looked up into the mirror. When was the last time he smiled like this? The reflection was a foreign sight to him. “We’ll get you everything you need tomorrow”, he continued, still in a daze. What a strange idea, having someone to speak to after an eternity. And suddenly, it occurred to him just how rusted his communication had gotten: “I’m so sorry, I haven’t asked for your name once”, he said, embarrassed. “It’s (Y/N). And you are...?" Might as well introduce yourself to your benevolent captor.

The dreaded question. How did they call him back in the day? He hasn't had anyone spell it out for him, nor did he feel the need at any point to say it himself. Why would he? He hadn't anticipated meeting you. With pursed lips, he searched his mind. Eventually, from the depths or memories, from days of yore, it made its way back: "Daos."

Given your first gory encounter (where he quite literally murdered everyone else), you were surprised to find out he's otherwise a calm and polite individual. Well, he's had centuries to mature, you suppose. You've also noticed he has that rather old-fashioned chivalry to him. He's very attentive despite his stoic demeanor, and often follows with acts of service.

"You're insulting me. I can carry this myself with ease", you'll argue. "I never doubted you can. Nonetheless, it is my wish to do it for you."

As the days pass, your reluctance seems to vanish as well. In fact, you've become particularly cheeky, encouraged by his warm, unperturbed behavior. Maybe you haven't gotten the worst deal out there, after all.

"You know, you talk like an old man", you've teased him once. He was visibly taken aback by your statement, and you could discern a faint blush on his face. "Do I? My apologies, I haven't spoken to anyone in a long time. I'm not familiar with modern speech. Have I embarrassed you somehow?"

He spends his free time reading, though he will frequently take you on walks. It's an interesting affair to say the least. You can feel the curious eyes of the passersby and hear their not-so-discreet whispered gossip. You can't truly blame them: Daos is enormous even as a human. He towers above everyone else with his imposing appearance. To match, his voice is deep and coarse as a result of not using it much until recently.

The ancient werewolf is a living history book. If asked, he will narrate to you important events or details you might be curious about regarding his culture. Once, when he'd been in a good mood, he even shared fragments of his life before turning into a creature. He'd been a high-ranked Dacian warrior, spending his days training or fighting. He still remembers the flag he carried with bitter fondness, yet another irony to his fate: a wolf-headed serpent. It was meant to showcase their way of life; barbarians with no fear of death. They'd greeted the Roman Empire with nothing but a sword and a shield, no shred of doubt.

He might've been betrayed by his people, but the pride remains. The pride of a soldier who's never known defeat. You learned quickly that his beastly form doesn't count as a significant change by any means, save for appearances. The man has brute strength even as a human. You'd once strayed from his view, and a stranger approached with a daring whistle, gawking you up and down. Before you could react, Daos clawed him by the throat. You heard the twist of the skin and the creak of the bones giving in to the immense pressure of his large hand.

"It's the second time I have exposed you to such unpleasant sights", he said, discarding the body as if it was any other garbage. "Forgive me, but I will not have you disrespected like this."

He is very much aware he's taken you away from the world out of his own selfish desire. The fact that you accepted it is more than he could ever ask for. That's what he keeps telling himself, even as his eyes wander to your lips whenever you speak. Or as his hand lingers a moment too long against the curve of your back. Or as he hungrily takes in your scent whenever you're nearby.

He might be unhealthily possessive of you, but Daos will never do anything against your will. No matter how obvious his urges are. In fact, no amount of flirting or teasing will shake his resolve. You will have to be very direct with your approval.

Once the reality settles in, he'll become extremely affectionate, bordering on obsessive. To think he could have you in every way possible. Oh, he's waited thousands of years for you. All the suffering, the loneliness, the anger, they're stripped of any meaning now that he has you.

The city strolls at an awkward distance have since become a habitual excuse to hold your hand and show you off to the mortals. The quiet evenings of passing time with a book now include your merely noticeable weight cuddled into his lap. You didn't expect him to be this adoring. Being touch-starved for millennia counts as one reason, naturally, but there's more to it, so much more. And it all leads back to you.

He is a little taken aback when you ask him to do the deed in his werewolf form. "Don't be foolish. I can't overcome my instincts as well when I'm a creature. I could harm you", he'll lecture you. "Besides, you can barely take it as it currently is", he'll add, smirking at your baffled expression. It seems he's picked up on your cheekiness.

After a lot of pleading and waiting for the right moment - when he's ravaging you in a daze - he finally agrees. True to his word, his tune instantly changes. The tender hold turns into a desperate grasp sinking into your skin, and the thrusts become irregular, almost frantic. His drool cools your burning cheeks as you hold onto the coarse fur, feverish and overwhelmed.

His golden eyes rest on the small human squirming underneath him, and suddenly, he can't help but notice: you have the perfect birthing hips.

[starlessnightsblog]

7 minutes in heaven with ...Hyunjin?!

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18+ | smut | wc: 2.7k

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fuck, i shouldn’t of come.

you thought to yourself. you sat on the floor in a dimly lit room in a frat house getting ready to play a game of spin the bottle. your best friend had dragged you out of the dorms, for this? you’d rather be anywhere else right now, especially after making eye contact with him. Hwang Hyunjin.

you two didn’t like each other - that was putting it lightly. He was annoying, arrogant, and everyone worshipped him. you hated that, and he hated you because you didn’t, or at least that’s how it seemed.

after a few spins, the bottle landed on you and …him. your friend laughed, knowing the lore between the two of you, and this round the chosen were to play seven minutes in heaven. was this the demon lord’s doing? someone had to have had it out for you.

you rolled your eyes, but you didn’t wanna cause a scene, you wouldn’t, so you went willingly, Hyunjin leading the way.

after a few minutes, you were already sitting in a cramped closet, very cramped. you were sitting opposite of him, your knees almost touching, though you were trying your best to keep even that from happening. while he looked at you with a cold expression, “well?” he spoke.

you huffed, coming off bored. “i’m not doing anything with you.” disgust laced in your tone, “i’d rather swim with sharks.”

“please,” he scoffed, “it’s not like i want to be here with you either.”

“this is hell.” you sighed.

he smirked, “it’s just 7 minutes.”

“7 minutes too long.”

he leaned over to you, “stop whining. it's gonna pass very quickly.”

you shot him a glare.

“asshole.”

he chuckled at your insult, then proceeded to purposely click his knees to yours.

“calm down. It’s not my fault the bottle fell on you.”

you were clearly not amused with any of this. how he was so calm was beyond your comprehension. you looked up, a warm light hung above, doing little to nothing. he was fidgeting with his rings on his nimble fingers. the shadows casted shaping his perfectly sculpted features whilst loose strands of hair framed his face, his honey skin glistened and lush as ever. it was aggravating how perfect he was.

he must’ve felt you staring because he looked straight up at you. a sly grin appearing on his face.

“are you checking me out, princess?”

fuck. that’s exactly what you were doing.

“no.”

“seemed like it.” he slurred his words, he even sounded hot.

“just because everyone else finds you attractive, doesn’t mean i do.” a lie. “and don’t call me that.”

he tilt his head to the side, brows furrowed and holding his bottom lip between his teeth. he spoke again, his tone deep and low, inching closer on into your side of the closet. your back sank into the wall behind you, you had no where to go. like a mouse caught in the cat’s mouth.

“no need to lie to me. i can see right through you, princess.” he whispered.

your breath caught as he closed the distance between you even more, he was enticing, daunting, was this a test? he rendered you near speechless, your cheeks were burning up, and you hoped he couldn’t tell. you held your ground, wanting to be just as intimidating (failing). though his black eyes were pulling you in further, his expensive cologne clouding your thoughts. you liked all of it, and you couldn’t admit it, or more like, you were choosing not to.

“this is a game for you, im not stupid Hyunjin.” you whispered, your brain felt fuzzy, your eyes hung low, and were draped with lust induced curiosity. your tone not nearly as serious as you words. maybe you even batted your lashes, and stole a glance at his lips, not that.. that meant anything, or whatever.

he smirked once more when you whispered his name. he was enjoying the way you looked at him, your lashes casting shadows that met the blush on your cheeks. he’d gift you the world if you asked him to in this moment, that’s how awestruck he was in your presence. and the way you said his name, he usually only heard insults from you, he knew he was getting somewhere if that wasn’t the case now. he placed his hand on your knee, pushing them down and slowly dragged his hand along your inner thigh, seeing just how far you were gonna let him go.

his eyes were low, focused on his own movements, as you watched, your heart now pounding against your rib cage.

he spoke in a low, calming tone, “im not playing a game. you’re just obvious.”

you scoffed, “and you’re just delusional.”

you attempted to remove his hand with your own, but when your hand met his, something shifted. his hands were much larger than your own, your eyes lingered on them for a moment, they could swallow your own hands whole. you began to wonder how they would feel wrapped around your-

your smile slipped as you came to terms with your situation, locked in a closet with the campus it boy, mr.prince himself. anyone else would kill for this opportunity, not you though, right?

shit.

when he realized you weren’t gonna move his hand, his grip tightened and he edged even closer. he was now sitting between your legs.

he loved the way you couldn’t look away from his eyes now, the way your smile faded. he could see the wheels turning in your head and he held your gaze, but admiring all of you. “if i am, tell me to stop.”

you were able to come up for air for a moment.

“you just want me to fall into your trap.”

and if it was working? then what? but he knew the answer to that, jerk, you thought.

“you’re so use to just getting what you want… i’m not that easy.”

your words were hollow, yet they stung. he held the close proximity anyway, and you didn’t try to change that, rather, your body didn’t, no matter how much your brain fought against it. your eyes flickered between his eyes and his lips, they looked soft… were they?

he held back a smirk, he noticed your glances, swooned in silence. he knew deep down you wanted him just as much as he wanted you. his hand still rested on your thigh, moving it from time to time to make you feel more and more needy for him. he enjoyed that you weren’t as unaffected as you tried to act. “i know you aren’t. you’re the most difficult person i’ve ever met.”

a truth.

you weren’t begging for his attention like others did, he didn’t want you to. he liked the back and forth, he had to admit. though, he had long coveted for you, you despised him, yet here you two were, and at a mere coincidence. you had him in the palm of your hand and you were all but aware of it. he edged closer, risking it all until his lips were hovering dangerously close to yours.

“Hyunjin….” you whispered, a warning. he was winning, but you were too far gone to do anything about it.

Hyunjin’s breath caught as he heard you say his name in a soft voice. you were driving him insane. he wanted to lean in and kiss you, but he held himself back. he needed to tease you a bit more. “yeah, princess? can’t think of anything to say?” his lips hovered over yours as he spoke.

“you’re the one giving it up so easily.” you gave one last bite with your words, shaking your head while your tone and body gave in.

he could sense it all, how your body and tone completely changed. his body was nearly pressed against yours.

he chuckled against your neck and spoke, “just shut up.” he placed small kisses on your neck and collarbone. His hand went up higher on your thigh until it reached your waist, pulling you into him even more.

you held your breath as his lips hit your skin, your nails found their way into his hair, tugging softly. you whispered his name again, your tone needy and desperate. you mentally scolded yourself, what the fuck was that?

he could hear the desperation in your voice, you needed him and it was clear as a day, his name sounded heavenly out your mouth, he wanted to make you say it over and over again. it made him want to do more, to do so much more. he spoke against your skin in a soft, hungry voice. “princess…”

“kiss me already.” you spoke through gritted teeth.

Hyunjin pulled away from your neck slowly when you spoke out those words. he looked at you for a moment, observing how you looked with your eyes full of lust. he didn’t need to hear you beg twice. he crashed his lips against yours and captured them in a heated, hungry kiss. savoring the feeling, and the taste. you were so delicate and soft. he adored it. his tongue slipped in between your lips as his hands grabbed your waist and pulled you on his lap suddenly, his back hitting the wall.

you let out a soft whine into his mouth as he pulled you on top of him, his strength taking you by surprise.

he smirked at that, melting under your pretty little whimpers. as you straddled him, his hands were firmly on your hips, he began to grind you gently on his, in rhythm with the kiss.

and he held you close, like he would lose you at any second, he couldn’t get enough, both your chests pressed against each other, he could feel how hard it was slowly becoming to breathe.

he wore jeans and you could feel everything, the rough fabric easily getting you off already. this was so fucked, yet you were drowning in all of it. the way he held you, the way his hands were slipping under your shirt to squeeze your skin, how he kissed you like he was starving. you couldn’t help it. your hands cupped his face, deepening the already intense feeling between the two of you. you pressed yourself down against the fabric, growing needy for some type of release.

Hyunjin let out a moan quietly as he broke the kiss. he looked at you, breathing heavily, he spoke in a low, dark voice, “(y/n).” he started to run his hands down your waist and thighs, his touch getting more firm and dominant. his gaze was murderous.

he brought his lips to yours again, meeting for a moment but not connecting. you chased them, meeting his again. he kissed you with, if not more, hunger than the last. this one was more merciful, labored. melting every fiber of your being. neither of you could get enough. he pulled back to breath.

“we should stop…” you breathed.

he chuckled at your comment, he leaned in and placed gentle kisses on your shoulder as he responded. “oh really?” he continued giving you kisses up your neck, till he reached your jawline, he looked up at you and spoke, “still wanna stop?”

he was making this difficult, you couldn’t stay in here. someone was bound to catch you. but you really didn’t want it to end either.

“we’ll get caught pretty boy.” your nails traced up his neck.

he was well aware that someone could catch you, that you shouldn’t be doing this at all, but he couldn’t stop himself. he pulled away from your skin and spoke against your ear, “doors locked, we can be quiet?”

your hands snaked past his neck and down his back, underneath his shirt, he was so warm, you let your nails drag softly on his skin. “are you gonna make sure i stay quiet?” you whispered against his ear, leaving one gentle kiss just below it. you couldn’t believe what you were saying, but it was like word vomit, wether you meant it or not.

a shiver went down his spine as he felt your fingernails on his skin and your lips on his ear. he let out a small “fuck” and closed his eyes. he could feel the fire inside of him igniting more and more as your body was pressed against his, your lips on his skin. he didn’t let you speak once more and instead pushed his lips against yours in a voracious kiss. a moan escaped your lips.

Hyunjin grunted against your lips as you started to grind against him again, his hands that were resting on your hips were now fully grasping your ass, he took control. he was breathing heavily and he broke the kiss for a moment again, he spoke in a hot, low voice, sounding very desperate now, “… you’re driving me insane.”

“oh, so now you wanna stop?” you breathed out, you were almost out of breath from the heated kiss. your hands slid down his chest to his torso, and they landed on his belt. he watched you, studying your every move with an ardent gaze, he bit his lip, he couldn’t believe his eyes, all the times he thought of you, and now here you were sitting on his lap, teasing him. he took a deep breath, wanting this so badly, needing you so badly. he furrowed his brows, he took your hands in his, “are you sure you wanna do this?”

and suddenly, you stopped to think.

all of this was happening so fast, you didn’t even recognize this side of yourself. Hyunjin… the boy who was always such a jerk to you, was gripping your hips and moaning curses in your ear in a tiny closet at some frat house. maybe you shouldn’t do this, what were you thinking? he didn’t actually like you, this was probably another regular friday night for him. he probably wanted this to happen so he could brag about come monday. he’d tell everyone how easy it was, how you were the whore who gave it up to him. but when you looked into his eyes, sincerity was all you could sense. you felt like an idiot, you wouldn’t fall for it, fall for him. none of this was genuine. it’s not like you wanted anything more with him. let alone this.

you were telling yourself anything at this point. but every negative thought seemed like a false one. you were confused.

“i-“ you removed your hands, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ear. you removed yourself from his lap suddenly and sat back in your original position, missing his warmth already. “i should go-“

you attempted to stand up, and Hyunjin felt his heart sink as you moved away from him, he reached for you, finding your fingers. “hold up-”

you could only look at him, wanting to cry now.

he was quiet for a few moments as his thoughts were entangled together, not knowing what words to use and how to say it without seeming vulnerable. he wasn’t even sure what he was doing himself. he just knew that he wanted you. he looked up at you, his tone soft, “don’t go.”

typical, you thought.

“that’s it?” you scoffed, “i’m not doing this with you. you don’t even like me outside of here… i won’t be made to look like another whore that got added to your roster.”

you yanked your hand from his grasp and stood up, your hand resting on the door handle.

Hyunjin followed suit, towering over you. your words stung, your assumptions weren’t true, and he could say that, but you wouldn’t believe him. he wasn’t gonna defile you in a frat closet anyway, you deserved so much better.

“i don’t wanna do this here either. let me-“

you didn’t let him finish, “i don’t like you.”

your eyes were soft, your tone shattered. nothing he could say would change your mind now. you hated him, you hated him so much, and yet you were getting lost in his eyes again. they were soft, solicit, lust-filled, and crushed. your eyes trailed down to his lips, the ones just glued to yours mere seconds ago. why couldn’t you think straight? you felt pathetic.

Hyunjin inched closer, wanting nothing more than to touch you again, kiss you again. “i don’t want you like this. let’s get out of here.”

you were hesitant, “don’t-“

and then someone started banging on the door, you unlocked it and stormed out. leaving some very confused guys peering in, and Hyunjin behind.

- end: part 1 ????

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[limarkova]

Yandere Batfam x Neglected Reader x Yandere Al Ghuls

Pt 5.

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The library was quiet when you walked in. Since it was still early in the morning many people hadn't shown up yet. Your luck of finding a tutor were slim right now. It was best to start independent so you could tell a tutor what you needed to learn more about anyway.

You wonder the shelves contemplating where to begin. Maybe the computers to look up what fourth grade standards? Didn't those vary though? Okay maybe you should have goaded your 'family' into telling you were the 'boarding school' was supposedly base. Science sounded like a good option. It used a mix of math and reading comprehension.

You had to choose a science fourth grades typically learned, though. Honestly you wished you could just pick any science and say the school had specialized classes. However you didn't know what type of boarding school Bruce claimed you went to. The slightest misstep and your siblings would alert him that something was up.

Being realistic Bruce could send you back at anytime. By playing into his lies, you would appear compliant or like you don't suspect he was involved. That could buy you time. If it seemed like you were truly trying to integrate back into the family and not expose the experiments, he might let you stay for a little longer. Why get rid of someone if their potential as a threat was limited by their ignorance?

For now you need to match the cover story. Whatever books were labeled fourth grade level than. Maybe a few fifth grade books. You had implied that you were doing more advanced work. Maybe you could safely make the claim that you were placed in advance classes. They had been talking about those during your last year at Gotham prep.

The kids section was full of basic cartoon style books. You browsed a few before frowning. Most of the information was the bare bone minimum. Half the books mark 4th grade level only covered surface level knowledge.

You pulled out a book on human anatomy and almost bursted out laughing. The drawings were over simplifications of the organs, nothing compared to how they really looked. Slimy, covered in veins, shades of pink or gray you didn't expect once the blood was removed. That thought brought back a haunting memory. You shoved the book back on the shelf. Medical research would come later.

Grabbing any books that caught your attention, you headed over to a secluded area. Most of the information was basic understand. Yes, you learned some new things and were fairly certain your reading comprehension was ay the appropriate level. But there was nothing involving math. "Maybe a few tutors have shown up or a librarian can help me call one."

Standing back up you wondering over to the librarian desk. No one was there. You yet out a heavy sigh. Oh course they weren't there, that was just your luck.

"Hello, are you looking for something?" You jumped at the sudden voice behind you. Spinning around you saw a woman with long dark brown hair and green eyes. She carried herself confidently but some part of you screamed the she was capable of violence.

"I was looking into what's available in terms of math tutoring. Maybe social studies or history if that's an options." You angled you body away from her.

She laughed slightly more to herself than you. There was a gleam in her eye, like she was impressed by her assessment. "Well you're in luck. I happened to home schooled my own son in math and know a lot of teachers. What do you need to know?"

"Pretty much everything above adding and subtracting." You scowled down at the books in your arms. It they had and hadn't been useful. Maybe you should take advantage of this woman's help. You needed a tutor, it shouldn't matter who it was also long as your family didn't find out. "What’s your name?"

"I'm Talia." She crouched down to your level and held out a hand. You stopped thinking.

Talia.

The woman mentioned in your mother's diary. It couldn't be. Though she mentioned having a son. No Talia might have been an older flame and Damian's mother had a different name. Maybe you had been to quick to get in a fight with him. Now you couldn't ask him about his mother. What if he sent her to spy on you because you had pissed him off? Not good, really not good.

"I'm (Fake Name)." You gave her the wrong name and watched. If Damian had sent her, she would probably already know your name. So by giving her the wrong one you could figure what she already knew about you. It wouldn't be through her words or actions. No the hints would be subtle. Some kind of disappointment or a sign she felt slighted.

Yet her face remain pleasant. That slight hint of being impressed remaining, "It's nice to meet you. Let's do a few tests so I can see where you are first." Just like that you were swept away into a world of learning.

Talia was beyond impressed with the young Wayne girl. First she correctly identified Talia as a threat. It was obvious by the way she angled herself away from the older woman. How her eyes flicked for the nearest exit, probably a subconscious reaction. Without Talia's weapons or reputation, the girl had pick up on danger.

Next was the wrong name. Said so surely like it truly was her name. The girl shifted so fluidly into the new identity too. Talia would have believed it if she hadn't already done research. Never once did she catch the girl not responding to the name. All without proper training.

However, that all paled in comparison to her true shining trait. The girl's intelligence was well beyond average. She caught trick questions and picked up topics quickly. Talia was willing to bet her intellect could rival Bruce's. Obviously not at her current state, she need guidance to reach that level. Still all the material was there.

"Thank you for the help, today." Her voice was quiet. Movements quick to put away the notebook she had written all of her work in. They had moved from mathematics, to English, social studies, sciences, and the one that she seem the most interested in Criminal Investigation. Damian had taken his father's intelligence but was held back his ego. She didn't have that fault.

Talia smiled, "of course. Will you be returning tomorrow? I would love to continue our lessons. There's a chance I might be able to teach you Arabic."

"Arabic, the language?"

"Yes. I taught my son but well he lives with his father now and I don't get to speak it with him anymore." Talia said the information to get the girl to relax but the opposite occurred.

(Name) bit her lip, "I apologize if this is sensitive to you but what's your son's name?"

"Damian." Talia observed the girl's reaction. Her shoulders tense, body angling again, one deep breath. "Too bad his father turned him against me."

"How?" The girl blinked after saying the word. Her face was too blank to be natural. The information was throwing her for a loop as she tried to make it fit her reality. They would need to work on that.

Talia shook her head sadly, "I'm not a hundred percent certain what he told my boy but I think... I think he made Damian believe that he was in love with me and I broke his heart. Even though it was the other way around when he cheated on me."

Talia watched as the words hit home with the girl. Oh she had chosen the right story to turn her against Bruce. The girl gave her an easy smile that was a smidge too tense in the corners, "Yeah. I'll be here tomorrow. Can I ask one last question?"

"Go ahead." Talia gestured with her hand.

"Do you happened to know any self defense teachers?" Determination morphed her features. It made her come alive in a sense. That fire she saw yesterday back in her eyes and brighter. Confidence shifted her stance into one more sure.

"Oh I know several material arts teachers."

Bruce sat in his car, rubbing his brow. In a little over twenty-four hours since his youngest had shown up at manor things had arguably gotten worst. First the information coming out about (Name) never being at school followed by a full blown investigation by his kids. Than there was what the others had officially dub "The shit list". Damian had become so upset he secluded himself in the barn. Last but certainly not less were the changes the other reported in his youngest.

Dick's last phone call said she was at the library researching for 'school'. They had decided to watch her through the cameras believing space was what she actually need. Yet one thing was clear from the little time she had spent in the manor since coming back. Whatever had happened was traumatic and she was not going to tell them directly. Perhaps whoever had her was now stalking her to ensure she wouldn't cooperate.

Bruce would double the manor's security. He wouldn't fail one of his kids a second time. She hadn't arrived home from the library yet, so Bruce had time to prepare. Taking one last deep breath he exited the car. First stop the Batcave to get an update on investigation.

Bruce might as well have entered a war zone. At least there he would know where to start. Dick and Jason were in a screaming match about who should have been checking in on her. Tim was two steps away from drinking coffee straight from the pot, while pouring over financial records. Barbara looked like she was having an aneurysm. Cass was analysising video footage taking notes on presumably her body language. Duke was being interrogate being Steph on how (Name) acted while the two were out and what she could have been writing in "the shit list."

"Status report." His voice shattered the chaos in a matter of seconds. "Oracle you go first."

"I searched through city wide surveillance feeds and found some video footage from a few days ago. It seems like who ever had her did chase after but..." Oracle, Barbara trailed off. The screen flash to show (Name) being chased by an armed pursuer. In two seconds, she had turned thrown a knife of some kind than ran down an another alleyway. Her pursuer fell to the ground weapon lodged in his throat. "Police reports identified him as James Lenon, a low level criminal with a history of violence. He had a scalpel in his trachea and was pronounced dead on arrival of the scene."

Bruce now understood why Barbara looked ready to have an aneurysm. This footage showed (Name) committing murder. Just to get away from whoever was holding her captive. He could only imagine what might have pushed her to that point. That or she didn't know the guy was dead. It would technically count as self defense either way but not a good sign.

Barbara typed something on her laptop before another video appeared. "Than there's this one." It show (Name) running off screen injured. When she reappeared the injuries were gone, not even a speck of blood. The video ended with (Name) throwing a mangled bullet at the camera. An act of defiance, but towards who.

"Has this video been edited?"

"No. This is the orginial video. Do you think she might actually be a meta?" The room filled with anticipation at that.

Bruce nodded once, "we'll need to test her DNA but the odds are good. Red Robin what do you have?"

"She was telling the truth about her card being stolen. It would seem whoever stole it though knew better than to use it to pay for something directly. All of it's cash withdrawals, the ATMs used are in Gotham though so it's all local. Oracle any updates on ATM footage?"

"Na-da. They're smart, covered their faces with sunglasses and sick masks. Generic brand sunglasses and disposable mask so no identifying markers. They wear them on video until they disappear." Barbara brought several still shots onto the screen.

Bruce nodded to the two, taking in the information. It assumable from the ATM footage alone there were multiple people involved in this. They would need to identify which group had the most to gain.

"Nightwing, Red Hood. What did your investigation of the PO box reveal?"

"They scorched the damn place the night she escaped." Jason dropped a picture of a burnt and destroyed PO boxes on the table. One box in the third row was circled "Also destroyed any mail going to all the PO boxes on that wall. Feds are looking into it since the post office was involved, I couldn't get closer than that."

"The person who orginially opened the box, Marcus Antonio, was found dead last night." Dick placed crime scene photos on the table. A man with a singular bullet wound laid in a pool of blood. There were tipped over and rifled through drawers, books, coffee containers. The scene was mess. "Decided to take a look around. It was a clean hit but catch this. The guy had loads of cash stashed all over the place. GCPD thinks it was a robbery gone wrong since they didn't take all of it and left in a hurry. With what we know, I think it was a targeted attack. They mostly just took the cash they could find, figuring they were going to get cut off"

Tim interrupted, "I second that. All cash withdrawals stopped the day after she escaped. They pulled more than they usually did so the bank flagged the card. It's shut off pending investigation."

Bruce nodded. It was likely that most of the people involved were going to leave Gotham. Cash would be necessary for that. "Any sign of the mail?"

"No but he had a burn bucket in the bedroom." Dick shook his head. Leaning against the table he sighed. "They're getting rid of evidence quickly and have a three day head start."

"Orphan."

"She shows signs of hyper vigilance, avoids cameras, and I think she probing us for information." Cassandra looked up from the tablet she was using one.

"Wait, she's probing us for information?" Tim stopped typing on his laptop before throwing his head back and groaning. "She's become one mystery after another."

"At the breakfast table. She was trying to figure out if we read her diary, was gauging how we all reacted to her mentioning school, and was ensuring the debit card got closed out. The roommates she referred to as troublesome were probably the gaurds."

Everyone nodded. Bruce looked to Barbara, "I want a video of breakfast this morning. I need to know exactly what was said. Spoiler, Signal."

"If she doesn't have PTSD I don't know what she has." Steph leaned back in her chair rubbing her eyes. "Though this one wasn't pay any special anytime to her behavior."

"I didn't know I was supposed to. I genuinely thought she was upset because Damian attacked and having to leave 'school' early." Duke ran a hand over his face. "In the hours we spent at the mall, she implied she had to leave school quickly because something really bad happened. That and she's..."

Duke froze, pieces connecting in his head. When he looked at Bruce, horror started to mix with realization. "Was she a Meta two years ago?"

There was a pregnant pause as everyone in the room thought. Bruce shook his, "No. She never showed signs of being a Meta."

"Disappeared for two years, comes back with meta abilities, refers to the thing making her leave as really bad with potentially two triggers for her being needles and the smell of disinfectant." Duke looked at all of them more pieces falling into place. Bruce's eyebrows knitted together. Duke was on to something but for the life of him, Bruce could piece it together? "What was happening two years when she disappeared? Other than that Joker attack."

It finally hit Bruce what Duke was getting at. Two years ago Meta Human traffickers stop looking for ways to find 'product'. Instead they began looking for ways to create new it. There were reports of them doing horrifying things to create new meta humans. It didn’t work because most of them lacked the funding to get the necessary chemicals and equipment.

Yet, with a Wayne kid's debit card that gets weekly deposits. He even gave her a higher amount than the others because she was supposedly aboard. It was possible but there was one missing component for this. "There are no meta humans in my biological family. She wouldn't have the gene to activate."

"And her mother's half of the family?" It was a valid question for Duke to ask. Bruce thought for a second, had her mother had a meta in her family. She mentioned an aunt that was disowned but that was it.

"Spoiler I want you looking into her mother's side of the family." Bruce gave the command before looking across the room again. "Red Hood start looking into Meta Human Traffickers who went off the grid two years ago. Red Robin you're in charge of looking into whoever made those withdrawals. Find out where that cash went. Oracle, look into the two people we've identified as being involved, get contacts, favorite hunts, anything you can. Send that information to Oprhan and Signal. You two are with me in tracking them down."

"What about me B?" Dick gave Bruce a questioning look.

"You're going to talk with (Name) and get her to open up to you." Bruce nodded at Dick, "Go be her older brother."

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[tanadrin]

I would love to hear the rant about social media doomerism and conspiracy

I’m on my phone right now but the summary version is something like:

Humans are bad at integrating information into their worldview accurately bc of various cognitive biases

Social media incentivizes us seeking out content that excites fear or anger or irritation

Social media thus causes us to form negative impressions of the world bc it mediates so much information consumption and discourse these days

This general negative affective impression is subject to high confirmation bias and ppl in general are really bad at divorcing an affective impression of a thing from their dispassionate reasoning abt a thing

(Bc one of the functions of an affective impression is to “cache” our conclusions about a topic to save time and effort later)

(In general if you are a cynic and pessimist you can fall prey to these biases w/o social media but I think social media makes more ppl susceptible to them)

People don’t want to be dupes so they seek refuge in cynicism. We treat cynicism as wise or worldly when in fact cynicism makes you a dupe and an easy mark for grifters. Cynicism and low trust foster conspiracism, paranoia, and antisocial politics

(This is why so many congenitally contrarian folks seem to flit effortlessly between the far left and far right; it’s not horseshoe theory, they’ve just cooked their brains on this stuff)

This is a world where populist anti-social politicians like Trump and the AfD thrive, bc they will lie about how everything is terrible and people will nod along, bc it explains why their social media is full of awful stories of, like, immigrants eating pets and shit

But it doesn’t just have to be insane lies only a moron could believe. It can be any impression about a fact in the world that it is difficult to personally check and which is vulnerable to being swayed by anecdote

This is how we get a word where people think crime rates are higher than they’ve ever been when in fact crime is falling

Or child predators lurk around every corner when in fact children are safer than ever

Or the American economy is in a recession when in fact it’s doing historically well by just about every available metric (now with full employment AND low inflation!)

Because in a big world even where things are in general good and getting better you can always produce infinite individual examples of shitty things and pipe those in a steady stream into people’s eyeballs, and then point to that and leverage people’s low trust attitudes and their cynicism which tells them they are smarter than the experts and go “statistics is just a fancy way to lie! The world is secretly terrible! Every bad thing is even worse than you thought and every good thing is a lie!”

(Nevermind the whole phenomenon where anything that is complicated or that someone does not themselves understand gets treated like it’s actually secret and a conspiracy.)

And here I know I have to include some disclaimer about how this is not to discount individual cases of suffering or struggle, which are real, or that there are indeed some really awful things happening in the world right now, which there are, but you know what?

I’m tired of doing that. People with reading comprehension operating in good faith ought to be able to deduce that general statements do not obviate particular exceptions, and people who cling to their doomerism as a kind of emotional life raft do not generally argue with me in good faith.

Sometimes doomerism is a load-bearing pillar of their politics, which I think is dumb—I think you can be a leftist or a progressive without being a doomer! In fact I think doomerism is antithetical to useful politics!

Sometimes they are just depressed and treatment-resistant. Sometimes they are just angry misanthropes who want to feel justified in their misanthropy. Some doomers are themselves in bad circumstances and feeling hopeless about that—to them I am enormously sympathetic. Though a lot of doomers will admit they personally are doing OK—this does not seem to be most doomers.

But I think in general cynicism and doomerism and a worldview dominated by a general nebulous air of Everything Is Awful and by abstract nouns with threatening auras is not conducive to wisdom or understanding or useful politics or leading a happy and fulfilling life.

[cometwritesshit]

ੈ✩‧₊˚ Yunho x f!reader - miniskirt

A/N : Yunho fic because I'm sick and tired of pretending that this outfit doesn't do things to me.This was supposed to be a quick drabble, but I went a little bit overboard oops. Also, this is not proofread, so please bare with if the horny grammar leaks through.

Pairing: idol!Yunho x Girlfriend!reader

Warnings: minors dni! risky, semi-public(they don't get caught during the act dw ), implied mirror sex,breeding kink , implied size kink , manhandling(kind of) , big dick yunho, kind of rough, degradation (whore , slut), pet names (hun ,baby,darling,sweetheart etc.), implied dumbification.

If I forgot anything lmk.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

After performing at the KGMAs , yunho storms back stage, still brimming with the insatiable adrenaline that performing bestowed upon him , all of his thoughts being transferred directly to his growing bulge and not even moments after you attempt greet and praise him on his stage presence , he grips onto your arm with great force , his veiny and slender hands enveloping your wrist.

"Yun what are yo-", he pushed you up against his dressing room wall, knocking the air out of your lungs in the process.Your hands and face laid flat against the wall ,rendering you helpless as his hands lustfully explored your body.

"couldn't get the image of you in this slutty skirt out of my head" he growled in your ears as he tugged on the hem of your miniskirt that rested just above your thighs, leaving little to the imagination.

"W-wait yun what if we get caught" , You whisper , holding back multiple whines and moans that were threatening to leave you're throat at any moment as your boyfriend planted greedy kisses all over your neck and whimpered in your ears , grinding his bulge against your newly bought pink panties (because a certain someone ruined your other pair).

"I don't give a fuck, that just means everyone here will know who you belong to after I'm done with you sweetheart".

It doesn't take long before he's pulling your panties to the side and trying to align his cock to your entrance, calculating the perfect angle to make sure he hits all of your sweet spots.He pushes the tip in , as if he was trying to brace you for what was coming next but nothing in the world could prepare you for what was next , a sharp sting along with a loud smack! As his hips collided with yours.No matter how many times you guys fucked nothing could ever make you get used to how huge yunho is.

"Yun s'too big! it hurts!" , You desperately cried out , but your words seemed to fall on deaf ears as he began thrusting up into you. Sounds of wet slaps and panting pollute the air as moans, that are so pornographic they make you both re-evaluate your careers, spill out of your mouths.

"Look at yourself, you're such a whore for my dick aren't you hun?" he smirks as he grabs your chin and lifts your head up , forcing you to look into the mirror besides you.Your brain is unable to form a comprehensive response to his statement instead resorting to responding in incoherent mumbles and whines.

"Aww poor baby's been fucked so dumb she can't think hm? How cute".

Sweat trickled down your foreheads and the mirror steamed up as you both neared your high.

"Yunho!" , you chanted his name like a mantra as you clenched around him , hot ,creamy liquid spurting out of your holes as he continued to pound into you.

"Fuck, baby I'm coming , m'gonna plant my seed in you and breed you s'full, you'll carry my babies won't you darling?" ,he barely managed to choke out before spilling his warm seed inside of you with a groan you had never heard out of him before, leaving you feeling full and bloated as he cleaned up the mess you both made.

His hand engulfed your waist as you and the other boys made your way to the van, and you leaned your head against his shoulder ."Seems like you two had fun in there, hm?" Mingi smirked and nudged his friends as you buried your face in yunhos shoulder in embarrassment whilst the other boys poked fun at him, and prideful grind grew across his face.

[wombywoo]

Ok! I've finally decided to put together a (somewhat) comprehensive tutorial on my latest art~

Please enjoy this little step-by-step 💁‍♀️

First things first--references!

Now I'm not saying you have to go overboard, but I always find that this is a crucial starting point in any art piece I intend on making. Especially if you're a detail freak like me and want to make it as realistic as possible 🙃

As such, your web browser should look like this at any given point:

Since this is a historical piece, it means hours upon hours of meaningless research just to see what color the socks are, but...again. that isn't, strictly, necessary 😅

Once I've compiled all my lovely ref pics, I usually dump them into a big-ass collage ⬇️

(I will end up not using half of these, alas :'D)

Another reference search for background material, and getting to showcase our models of choice for this occasion~

When picking a reference for an actor or model, the main thing I keep in mind (besides prettiness 🤭) is lighting and orientation. Because I already kinda know what pose I'm gonna go with for this piece, I can look for specific angles that might fit the criteria. I should mention that I am a reference hound, and my current COD actor ref folder looks like this:

Also keep in mind, if you're using a ref that you need to flip, make sure you adjust accordingly. This especially applies to clothing, as certain things like pants zippers and belt buckles can be quite specific ☝️

Now that we've spent countless hours googling, it's time to start with a rough sketch:

It doesn't have to be pretty, folks, just a basic guideline of where you want the figures to be.

The next step is to define it more, and I know this looks like that 'how to draw an owl' meme, but I promise--getting from the loose sketch above to below is not that difficult.

Things to keep in mind are--don't go too in-depth with the details, because things are still subject to change at this point. In terms of making a suitable anatomically-correct sketch, I would suggest lots of studying. This doesn't even have to be things like figure drawing, I genuinely look at people around me for inspiration all the time. Familiarize yourself with the human form, and things like weight, proportions, posing will seem a little more feasible.

It's also important at this stage to consider your composition. Remember to flip the canvas frequently to make sure you're not leaning to one side too often. I'm sure something can be said for the spiral fibonacci stuff, which I don't really try to do on purpose, but I think keeping things like symmetry and balance in mind is a good start ✌️

Next step is just blocking in the figures. Standard. No fuss 👍

Now onto the background!

It's frankly hilarious how many people thought I was *hand-drawing* these maps and stuff 😂😂 I cannot even begin to comprehend how insanely difficult that would be. So yeah, we're just taking the lazy copy and paste way out 🤙

I almost always prepare my backgrounds first, and this is mostly to get a general color scheme off the bat. For collage work, it's really just a matter of trial and error, sticking this here, slapping this there, etc. I like to futz around with different overlay options until I've found a nice arrangement. Advice for this is just--go nuts 🤷‍♀️

Next, I add a few color adjustments. I tend to make at least 2 colors pop in an art piece, and low and behold, they usually tend to be red and blue ❤️💙There's something about warm/cool vibes, idk man..

Now we move on to coloring the figures. This is just a basic block and fill, not really defining any of the details yet.

Next, we add some cursory values. Sloppy airbrush works fine, it'll look better soon I promise 🙏

And now--rendering!

I know a lot of beginner artists are intimidated by rendering, and I can totally understand why. It's just one of those things you have to commit to 💪

I've decided to show a brief process of rendering our dear Johnny's face here:

Starting off, I usually rely on the trusty airbrush just to get some color values going. Note--I've kept my sketch layer on top, but feel free to turn it on and off as you work, so as to not be too bound to the sketch. For now, it's just a guideline.

This next stage may look like a huge jump, but it's really just adding more to the foundation. I try to think of it like putting on make-up in a way~ Adding contours, accentuating highlights. This is also where I start adding in more saturation, especially around areas such as ears, nose and lips. Still a bit fuzzy at this point, but that's why we keep adding to it 💪

A boy has appeared! See--now I've removed most of the line layer, and it holds up on its own. I'll admit that in order to achieve this realistic style, you'll need lots and lots of practice and skill, which shouldn't be discouraging! Just motivate yourself with the prospect of getting to look at pretty men for countless hours 🙆‍♀️

I'll probably do a more in-depth explanation about rendering at some point, but let's keep this rolling~

Moving forward is just a process of adding to the figures bit by bit. I do lean towards filling in each section from top to bottom, but you can feel free to pop around to certain parts that appeal to you more. I almost always do the faces first though, because if they end up sucking, I feel less guilty about scrapping it 😂 But no--I think he's pretty enough to proceed 😚

They're coming together now 🙆‍♀️ Another helpful tip--make sure you reuse color. By that, I mean--try to incorporate various colors throughout your piece, using the eyedropper tool to keep a consistent palette. I try to put in bits of red and blue where I can

Here they are fully rendered! Notice I've made a few subtle changes from the sketch, like adjusting the belt buckles because I made a mistake 😬 Hence why you shouldn't put too much stock in your initial sketch~

The next step is more of a stylistic choice, but I usually go over everything with an outline, typically in a bright color like green. Occasionally, I can just use my initial line layer, but for this, I've made a brand new, cleaner line 👍

And the final step is adjusting the color and adding some text:

Tada!! It's done!

All in all, this took me the better part of a week, but I have a lot of free time, so yeah ✌️

I hope you appreciated that little walkthrough~ I know people have been asking me how I do my art, but the truth is--I usually have no clue how to explain myself 😅 So have this half-assed tutorial~

As a bonus, here is a cute (cursed) image of Johnny without his mustache:

A baby, a literal infant child !!! who put this wee bairn on the front lines ??! 😭

Anyway! peace out ✌️

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Bad for Me — Cassian x Reader

Hi! I found this in my drafts and thought I’d share it while I’m finishing up the next part of Bluebird. I’m not sure why I never posted it 🤔maybe because I don’t think it’s very well written. Also, it seems I was using a prompt list for parts of dialogue in this, but I can’t for the life of me think which one it was 😅but anyway, enjoy an angsty piece with an angsty cliffhanger ending 💅🏻

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: None.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

“What the fuck is this?”

There wasn’t a part of you that didn’t shake with anger as you stormed your way into the sitting room. Anger that had built up and festered as the day had faded into night.

It was late. You’d waited up — waited for the telltale, arrogantly loud footsteps that had announced Cassian’s return. Where he’d been all day, you didn’t know nor care.

Sure enough, you found him in his usual chair by the fireplace, a glass of whiskey rested on the arm and his eyes closed. His fingers rubbed circles into his forehead — a positive sign that he was sporting a particularly gruelling headache.

Good. You would yell into his ear until he launched himself off one of the verandas and flew far, far away.

“What is this?” You repeated, chucking the item you held straight onto his lap.

His eyes slowly opened, and he glanced down impassively. “That’s a piece of paper. It’s useful for writing, or drawing, or—”

“Don’t be a smartass.”

It had surprised you, to say the least, to wake up to the folded note on your bedside table — in Cassian’s rough scrawl.

Find yourself a pretty little dress. Don’t make any plans for Friday next. We’re going dancing. Cassian.

“Explain.” You demanded, your tone clipped. Brash.

You didn’t want to go dancing with Cassian. Or walking, or running, or…anything.

It was bad enough living under the same roof as him. Working in the same circle as him. Bad enough having to be civil in the name of a unified front.

But you were professional. You could pretend to get along in front of people.

That didn’t mean you had to socialise with him, though.

With a sigh, he sat up straighter, brushing his hair back. “Rhys is having me play courtier again.”

Your head cocked to the side. “But you’re so terrible at it.”

The minuscule pause and tick of his jaw told you you’d landed a sure blow. A nervy spot, for Cassian, was certainly his abilities off the battlefield. Why Rhys insisted on sending the General on certain courtier expeditions was beyond your comprehension. And beyond Cassian’s, too, judging by how much he hated it.

You took no small amount of pleasure in that fact. A little payback for all the ways he’d torn you down over the years.

“Hilarious.” He rolled his eyes at you.

“I wasn’t joking.”

“Whatever. Rhys is having me represent him at a fucking ball in the Hewn City and I need a plus-one, so — you’re coming.”

Your shoulders tensed. “Absolutely not. Ask somebody else.”

“There’s no way I’m putting Mor through that. And she’s in Vallahan, anyway.”

“So take Amren with you.”

“Be real, Y/N.”

You stared at him, clenching your jaw. You hated him. Hated him so, so much — loathed him — that you swore your veins turned to ice around him. Ever since you’d met him, and you’d taken one look at him and thought he was the most beautiful male you’d ever seen. 

You’d sworn never to fall in love again, when you’d joined Rhysand’s Inner Circle — and seeing Cassian go through flings like you went through books only solidified that decision.

Hate was a good thing. Hate was something you could pour all your anger into and throw at the person that seeped into your thoughts a little too often.

And dish that hate out you may, but gods Cassian gave it back just as fiercely.

“Ask one of your many lovers.” You spat. “You have your cock in a different female every week. I can’t imagine you’re short on admirers.”

Cassian stretched his arms over his head. “And how many admirers do you have, Y/N?”

You tried your best not to flinch. To let him see the effect his words had on you was as bad as him thrusting a dagger into your gut. You willed yourself to give nothing away.

“Just find somebody else.” You said. “There’s not a fucking chance I’m going anywhere with you, of all people.”

You didn’t give him a chance to respond. You turned on your feet and stalked from the room, leaving the note on his lap and your barbed words hanging heavy in the air.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･

Three nights later, your bedroom door burst open so abruptly that you dropped your book on your face.

“Pause your masturbation for five minutes.” Cassian’s deep, arrogant voice filled the room. “I have your dress.”

You sat up, your entire body tensing the way it always did in his presence. “What.”

He kicked the door shut behind him, and even in your considerably-sized bedroom, his domineering figure seemed to take up most of the space. He strode to the foot of your bed — and paused, just for a moment, his eyes drinking in the sight of your nightgown, your unbound hair.

You didn’t have a chance to remark before he straightened himself out and launched a flash of pale pink fabric at you.

“For the ball.” He said. “I checked your size and asked the shopkeeper to pick it out, so…if you don’t like it, I don’t really give a fuck.”

Your eyes fell down to the dress in your lap. Undeniably pretty, with its rosy hue and flaring skirt, thin straps and tiny, beaded jewels. A dress you would probably choose for yourself, if the occasion called for it.

You’d always loved clothes; dresses in particular. The intricacies of certain garments fascinated you, and the thought of creating your own made your heart skip a beat.

You thought you’d feel pretty in this dress; prettier than you usually felt, in your leathers or shirts and breeches. It wasn’t all that often that you had an occasion to dress up for.

But even this gown wouldn’t convince you to accept Cassian’s invitation. Or, rather, his order.

You pushed the dress away from you, though your fingers lingered within the soft fabric. “You’re absolutely fucking insane if you think I’m going to that ball with you.”

Cassian’s eyes fell to where your hands stroked the skirts, before climbing back up to meet yours. The bastard knew what you were feeling. He fucking knew.

“Oh, you so want to.” He smirked. “I can see it in your eyes.”

You shrugged nonchalantly. “So it’s a nice dress. I’m sure one of your many sexual escapades would appreciate it.”

The General’s head tilted, a few strands ripping from the loose knot his hair was tied into. “What is it about my sex life that bothers you so much?”

That you’re free to even have such a sex life without judgement. That you will never know what it’s like to be ostracised just for exploring such things. That you can fuck who you like with no repercussions. That it isn’t me you’re—

“Don’t mistake me for someone who gives a shit about anything you do.” You bit. “I just wouldn’t want such a nice dress to be wasted.”

“It won’t be. Because you’ll be wearing it to the ball on Friday.”

“No.” You threw the dress back at him. Picked your book back up. “I will not.”

“I’m going to hang it on the door.”

“Don’t bother.”

He ignored you, of course. The dress was hung. “We’ll be leaving at seven.”

“No we won’t.”

“We will.”

He pulled your bedroom door open, slipping out.

“Cassian?” You called, and there was a strong pause.

He poked his head back in. “What?”

“I’m not going to that damned ball with you.”

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･

You were going to that damned ball with him.

High Lord’s orders, your ass. You’d kill Rhys for this.

The dress was a perfect fit, clinging to you like a second skin. And as you stared yourself down in the mirror, smoothing your hands over the fabric, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt this pretty.

A long, long time ago. A night of passion. A night that would ultimately ruin your life.

You shook the past from your thoughts, straightening yourself out. It was imperative that you wore an unbreakable mask to the Hewn City. One that was steeled and sharp and revealed nothing of the person that lay beneath.

A thump fell on your bedroom door. “We’re going to be late.” Cassian barked.

You rolled your eyes, turning away from the mirror. The beads of your dress swished as you moved, and you focused on that, rather than the oaf that was currently trying to break into your room.

Just a few hours, and this would all be over.

“Simmer down, General.” You pulled the door open, stepping out. “I’m ready.”

Cassian stepped back. And stopped.

His hazel eyes slowly traced the length of your body. And despite the fact that he’d griped about being late, he took his sweet time drinking you in.

You waited for the snide remarks. For whatever fault he would surely find with your appearance. But when his eyes landed on your face again, you couldn’t puzzle out his expression.

“Good.” Was all he commented. “Let’s go.”

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･

“Can you quit your fidgeting?”

Cassian scowled beside you, rolling his shoulders. “The collar on this thing is too tight.”

Your eyes travelled the sculpted length of his body — not for the first time — before you forced them away. He looked…undeniably breathtaking.

His comfort, you knew, was in leathers and body armour. Only on rare occasions like Starfall or Solstice did he swap his usual attire for more casual clothing like button-up shirts and trousers. You couldn’t recall a time you’d actually seen him decked in a tailored suit.

Until now.

The material was of deepest burgundy, outlining — accentuating — every last muscle it possibly could. There was something thrilling about the thought of so many deadly weapons hiding within that dashing attire. Something thrilling about knowing the Lord of Bloodshed walked beside you.

Right now, though, he was the fucking Lord of Complaining and Whining. You rolled your eyes, turning to him.

“What are you doing?” He watched as you pushed up onto the tips of your toes.

“Shutting you up.” You adjusted his collar, ignoring the feel of the backs of your fingers brushing his neck. “Better?”

“Suppose so.” He rolled those shoulders again. He wouldn’t be content until the suit was off him completely.

“Then let’s go.” You currently stood outside the towering gates of the Hewn City, the air always unpleasantly cold in these parts. You took a step forward, your dress swishing along the ground—

A warm, rough hand landed on your arm. Stopped you.

“What?” You glanced at Cassian over your shoulder.

“Rhys is expecting us to represent him.” He said, his hazel eyes strangely fierce. He always got that look when there was a task at hand. “I know we hate each other. And that’s more than fine. But just for tonight, can we pretend that we…don’t?”

You stared back at him pensively. A petty part of you wanted to shrug him off and scoff. To tell him that the unpleasantness with which he’d always approached you had long laid any potential alliance to waste.

But he was right — Rhys was counting on you both. And Rhys had done a lot for you since you’d turned up on his doorstep with barely a coin to your name. For him…for him, you would pretend to enjoy Cassian’s company.

“Whatever.” You shrugged the General’s touch off, turning back around. “Fine.”

It wasn’t going to be easy, though.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･

You made sure, in your life, that you never had to spend any extended amount of time with Cassian. You tolerated him when you had to, and avoided him the rest of the time.

But you’d been for nights out in the same group, of course. And you’d forgotten how many females tended to flock to his side and fawn over him.

This ball was a sure reminder of that.

You’d barely stepped into the room and grabbed yourselves a drink before groups of females were glancing over and chatting excitedly, shrill giggles floating over to you. It was a mere five minutes before one of them mustered the nerve to ask him to dance, leaving you standing on your own.

It was during that first dance that you decided — you weren’t just going to be civil with Cassian.

You were going to be so sickeningly over the top that he’d have no chance of skulking off with any of those females and leaving you by yourself while he got his cock sucked. Not a chance. If they thought he’d been claimed by another member of Rhys’s Inner Circle, they’d back off; if a little begrudgingly.

So you watched. Waited for that dance to end. Rhys hadn’t given you any specific orders, besides attending on his behalf and keeping an ear out for any gossip. You drank your wine and enjoyed the music, and the second Cassian had an empty space before him, you dipped in before anybody else could.

It seemed to surprise him. He blinked at you, before straightening himself out. “What are you doing?”

“Dancing with you.” You grabbed his hand, fastening it on your waist.

“Rhys never said we had to dance together.”

“You want us to get along, Cassian?” The music began, tugging you into movement. “Then let��s get along.”

With the other couples beginning to dance around you, it left no other option than to follow suit and avoid causing a scene. Cassian’s jaw ticked, but he grabbed for your other hand and began to pull you around the dance floor with him. He was no seasoned dancer, by any means, but he displayed more skill than you’d expected.

Another thing you loved — dancing. Feeling like your feet were floating. Once you started dancing, you wanted to keep going and going into you fell off the world and tumbled into a blissful beyond. Nothing else mattered besides the music, the moves.

“I didn’t know you could dance.” Cassian commented, echoing the thoughts you’d had about him.

You shrugged, not misstepping once. “I was forced to take lessons as a girl.”

“I didn’t know that, either.”

“Why would you know? It’s not as though we like each other.”

He spun you around. Dipped you in his arms. “And why is that?”

Laughable, that he was the one to ask that question. “You tell me. You never tried.”

“Is that how it went?”

“It is.”

He stared at you, expression unreadable. No other words were exchanged as one dance came to its end, and the music flowed into the next piece. But you didn’t need words to carry out your plan.

The second you caught a glimpse of hopeful, waiting females in your periphery, you pulled Cassian closer to you once more, your bodies flush against each other.

You may have felt a teensy bit ridiculous as you slipped your fingers into the strands of his hair and brushed it out of his face.

“I like your hair like this.” The words were heavy on your tongue. Not untrue, but…painful to say out loud.

Cass stared at you. “…thank you.”

But his thanks was lost in your satisfaction as the awaiting female disappeared from the corner of your eye, skulking off to sulk, no doubt. It was an effort not to smirk. Still, you righted yourself and continued with your plan.

You made certain that yours and Cassian’s bodies met in all the right places. Very close. Very dangerous.

Perfect — because there were still hopeful, simpering females watching. Waiting for you to walk away.

“Dance with me again.” Your breathy tone wasn’t entirely for show — nor was the hand you trailed down his arm for emphasis.

But Cassian frowned at you. “What are you up to?”

“Me?” Your eyes glittered. “Nothing at all.”

He kept his gaze on you, following you into your second dance. You could have sworn you saw the slumping of many shoulders as you spun around the floor, Cassian’s hands like a burning brand on your skin.

You weren’t even really paying attention to him, simply following the steps mindlessly, until he spoke again.

“That isn’t how it went.” He said.

Your brow furrowed as you spun around. “What?”

In one swift move, he was pulling you against him, pressing your fronts together. “You said I never tried to know you. I refute that.”

You shrugged. “You treated me with the same contempt as the bastards I ran away from.”

“You treated me like I was dirt beneath your shoe and I didn’t deserve the time of day.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. That simply was not true. He had always been cocky, and arrogant, and difficult. He acted as though mud wouldn’t stick to him, as though he could do what he liked, when he liked.

Suddenly, you didn’t want to be dancing with him anymore. Didn’t want his hands on you, simpering females or no.

He could go to hell.

“I never thought you didn’t deserve the time of day.” You contested tersely. “I—”

“I know.” He interrupted. Spun you around again. “I worked it out eventually.”

“Excuse me?”

“What your problem is.” Another dip.

You didn’t like this conversation — it’s direction. It would be easier to run away, to avoid it.

Easier, but cowardly.

“Pray, tell, General, what do you believe my problem is?” You stared at him.

He leaned down, just as the music faded. Poised his lips at your ear. “Jealousy.” He murmured, the word seeming deafeningly loud. “Sometimes the way you look at me makes me think that perhaps you don’t hate me that much.”

You knew your body stiffened between you. And as he pulled back and smirked, you also knew that he knew he’d won.

Whatever it was that glittered in his eyes was…knowledge. Knowing. An understanding. And that couldn’t mean anything good for you.

“Cassian?”

The two of you looked up upon the intrusion, only realising then that the music had stopped, and the dancing with it. A doe-eyed girl stared at the General with bright, sparkling hope in her eyes.

“I was hoping I might have the next dance.” She said.

You didn’t care anymore. You barely spared either of them a glance as you let go of Cassian and pushed out of his arms.

“He’s all yours.” You said.

And then you went to find some fresh air.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･

“I’ll be sure to tell Rhys that you spent the evening skulking around on your own whilst I did all the posturing.”

You glanced at Cassian out of the corner of your eye. You weren’t interested in a verbal sparring match right now. The night air was pleasant on your skin, and you allowed it to cool your face, your neck. Allowed it to wash away the tension permanently coiled within your veins, if only for a few stolen moments.

“Go ahead”, was the only reply you offered.

Eyes pierced into you as you bathed yourself in the moonlight. Even with your own shut, you could sense Cassian watching, waiting. But you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of anything beyond vague acknowledgement. Not now.

That seemed to fucking torture him.

“What—no smartass response?” He quipped.

“No, Cassian,” you sighed quietly. “No smartass response.”

He paused — seemed genuinely knocked silent for a moment — before he scoffed. “I don’t believe that for a second. Even in silence, I know you’re up to something. That scheming brain of yours—”

“This scheming brain of mine is exhausted.”

As your eyes flew open, you caught the way he faltered, a slight misstep, the barest ruffling of his wings. For all he was the General of War, the Lord of Bloodshed, you’d also observed him to be a profoundly emotional person. And that emotion sometimes won as he fought to hide it.

This emotion…it was ire. Gone was the sharp-edged teasing. He found issue with your words, and his jaw gave a telltale tick.

“What could you possibly be exhausted by?” he scoffed. “You need only turn up looking like a fucking goddess and people respect you. You’re not some lowly, bastard-born brute. You don’t get sneered at simply for breathing—”

“You believe people respect me?”

“Of course they do!”

“You don’t.”

He stumbled — actually stumbled — and it was only that which alerted you to the way he’d been inching towards you. But his steps faltered, and he gaped at you like your revelation was entirely out of pocket. Like you had no reason to feel that.

“You have never respected me.” You held firm on your point, even if your voice was a tad quieter. “I fled a fucking viper’s den and ran to Rhysand’s court, hoping to find a sense of…of belonging. But you…” A soft, rueful chuckle shuddered out of you. “You have made it your mission to ensure that would not be the case.”

Slowly, Cassian’s brow pinched. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, seeming to search for the right words. “That…isn’t how it went…”

“It is,” you shrugged. “You said I treated you like dirt — perhaps, unintentionally, I did. Perhaps it was a defence mechanism, because I never expected to flee absolute hell and come face-to-face with a male that I immediately wanted.”

There they were — the words out in the open. The truth wedged itself between you like a glaring, unmissable sign. You had never hated Cassian. Quite the opposite.

“I thought that I would never want another male in that way again.” You revealed hoarsely. “I thought I would live a life content with just…being me. With friends and nothing more. But that first day I met you, I walked in and I…I knew. I felt it.”

Cassian blinked, slowly shaking his head. “What…”

“And then you were so hostile, and I thought that maybe that was a good thing. That it would discourage me from feeling things. But I must be a fucking glutton for punishment, because no matter how cold you were towards me, my feelings only grew. And I tried…I tried so hard to shift them into hate, but I couldn’t. I’ve never been able to. I simply…can’t.”

The way he stared at you…so hardened, so severe…you couldn’t get a read on the reaction. But then…had you ever really been able to get a read on him?

“You were right…what you said about me being jealous,” you swallowed. “I was. I am—”

“That was…just a joke…I was just being a dick—”

“No,” you shook your head. “You were right. I was jealous in there, and I’m always jealous when people flirt with you. When I see you smile at them and joke with them and I shouldn’t wish it was me but I do. These feelings are constant. And that, Cassian…that is why I am exhausted. It’s exhausting for me to know you.”

Silence.

It should have been a relief, to have finally shifted such heavy feelings from your shoulders. But they were like tangible beings, fogging the air around you, wrapping you and Cassian up in a situation that was complicated and ugly and not at all ideal.

You knew he would do nothing with your feelings…except maybe sneer at them, laugh at them, throw them back in your face. You expected nothing from him. And the longer the silence went on, the more you began to wish that you could steal your confessions back. Shove them deep back into that narrow part of your heart that was still capable, somehow, of feeling such things.

You cleared your throat, tweaking the pretty, delicate gloves that covered your hands and forearms. “We should…head back inside.”

You breezed past him, suddenly desperate for the mindless chaos of the throne room. But you’d only managed a few steps forward before Cassian was gripping onto your arm and yanking you back.

Your dress fanned out as he spun you around, and a breath pushed out of you as he slammed you against the nearest wall, the cold brick biting into the fabric of your dress.

Before you could say anything, he was dipping down, his mouth sliding over yours.

Cassian kissed you deeply, punishingly, his lips moulding to yours perfectly. You gasped against him, and his tongue slid into your mouth to dance with yours, his rough, rugged taste invading you.

You’d thought about this moment a ludicrous amount. You’d imagined what the weight of his lips might be like, how perfectly his tongue might duel with yours. Nothing — no amount of imagining — could prepare you for the reality. The sense of rightness as his hand coasted up to clasp the back of your head, his fingers sinking into your hair. He gave a gentle tug, and you moaned in immediate response.

Air, it seemed, was not important. Not as you kissed him back feverishly, gripping at his shirt in an attempt to pull him as close against you as he could possibly get. The press of his hard body against yours was pleasure in itself. You nipped his lip, desperate for more, more, more, and he groaned in response.

This — this could very well spiral out of control, and you would welcome it. You wanted him to tear your clothes off and take you against this wall. You wanted him to make you feel like he wanted you, like it wasn’t exhausting to know him—

But there was suddenly emptiness and coldness. And it took your mind a moment to catch up and realise that he had pulled away.

Not far. Just enough to stare down at you, his deep hazel eyes flaring and furious. His panting breaths sawed out of him, landing directly on your lips and making you desperate for another taste. You tilted your head up—

He shook his head. Stepped back.

“No,” he murmured, voice gruff. “No. You…you are very bad for me.”

Your entire body turned cold at the words. Words that sliced at you, reminiscent of ones you’d heard before. “What?”

“You’re bad for me,” he repeated. “And I am very bad for you.”

“Cassian—”

“Don’t—don’t even say my name.”

With a swiftness that sent a gust of wind rustling the skirts of your dress, he turned, wings flaring and launching him into the star-speckled sky above you. You gaped at his retreating figure, flying off into the night, leaving you alone not only in that courtyard, but in the fucking Court of Nightmares.

Your mouth had turned dry, your skin cold. You lingered out there long after Cassian had flown off, waiting to see if he would come back. Pathetically hoping he would.

He did not.

And as you conceded, slipping your courtier mask back into place and turning to retreat back inside, his words rang like a deafening klaxon in your head.

You are very bad for me.

[witchthewriter]

𝐁𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐱𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

From this poll, this series is born!

a/n: the dragons are able to shift into human-like beings. Taking 'bonded' to a whole other meaning.

This whole post is 18+. No minors. 🧿

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

𝑳𝑶𝑹𝑬:

graphic picture ahead -

In the days of Old Valyria Blood Magic was used to create the dragons species by a dragon hybrid choosing a mate. The hybrid had to be in a morphing form into his dragon form. Therefore, creating the dragon spirit that would fill the womb of his human mate.

・Hot-headed, overprotective and showing his animalistic side...always... like a dog with a bone, he will not let anyone touch you, nay; he will not let anyone even look at you too long.

・You often think that the human part of his shift could come out more prominantly, but it just doesn't.

・You do have to remind him that he isn't allowed to kill anyone in his path, that there are rules in human society that are vastly different to the ones in dragon culture.

"Bloody ridiculous, all of it."

・In human form, it's too obvious he isn't human. (Well, yes that is the same with the rest of those who can dragon-shift, but Caraxes cannot let go of his dragon side while human like the others can). It doesn't help that his eyes seem to glow all the time, on his face are tattooed runes from Old Valyria, long thick red hair, darkened lips, pointed ears and extremely large and obvious horns protruding from his head.

・Oh and he was the tallest man you had ever seen

・Standing at 7 feet tall, you thought Westeros had in fact been overrun by some sort of alien creature.

・But no. All dragonshifters are over 6'5 feet. Any less and they are considered still in childhood.

・The first time you saw his human form, you thought he was the most handsome being you had ever laid eyes on.

・A flurry of words that constantly contradicted one another: graceful yet aggressive, mysterious yet direct, there was a pull to him. A pull so ancient that you thought you might die if you didn't follow it.

・And Caraxes was used to ancient authority (he actually hates authority) but still...he knew he needed to listen this time.

・Still an outsider as a human - but he doesn't care, not when he has you.

・He knows how to do Valyrian braids, and loves when you sit on a pillow in front of him while he sits behind you. Humming, which turns to singing - an Old Valyrian one that only mates sing to one another.

・Loves giving you gifts; absolutely showers you in them.

・Caraxes is a shifty, silver-tongued character who is also a big dumbass once he's not playing into the intimidation role

・CONSTANTLY LOYAL AND WILL SQUARE UP TO ANYONE AND EVERYONE.

𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔

"Caraxes, No." (You) x "...Caraxes Yes..." (Him)

Commits crimes (Caraxes) x Accessory to crimes (You)

Tough on the Outside, Soft on the Inside Kinda (Caraxes) x The Top (You)

𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝑷𝒍𝒐𝒕 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆

Challenging Social Conventions

Soulmates

Saw You, Instantly Decided You Were His.

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒈

The Devil & the Daughter by Daniel Pemberton

To Bring You My Love by PJ Harvey

The Sails of Charon by the Scorpions

𝑁𝑆𝐹𝑊 🔞 No one under the age of 18 past this point, makes me feel weird if you read it.

・Caraxes loves to hear your moans, especially when it's his name. He wants it loud, louder, louder. Pouding into you, drunk on your body.

・Then he ends up being just as loud - and then he gets so absorbed by you that he cannot make a comprehensive sentence

・His favourite positions are the ones where you're closest.

・"Just like that, keep going. Keep going beautiful."

・Caraxes loves praise, both giving it and receiving it. He does feel lonely; he would never admit it verbally. But ends up showing it in different ways. Such as this.

𝑺𝒆𝒙𝒖𝒂𝒍 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔

"you're so tiny and i dont want to lose control." (Caraxes) and "idc and im gonna taunt you until you break and ruin all my holes" (You)

Breeding Kink

Cockwarming - whines when he can't be inside you. Only you've heard his whines. I swear he would kill anyone else if they heard it.

art credit: https://www.instagram.com/p/C9w5Gd2PiFM/

A/N: This is all my own headcanons and ideas, it's not canon - George hasn't released a lot about how blood magic works, or how the dragons came to be. So I'm ... taking creative liberties. If you have a different opinion then that's cool too!

[skull-fvcker]

Morality

❥ Yandere! Arcane Viktor x Gender Neutral! Reader

A/N: cross-posted from my ao3. Old fanfiction from 2021, written way before season two. Thought I might as well post it here—the final episode broke me, by the way.

Summary: Years worth of obsession and fantasy obfuscated his once comprehensible brain. But it felt as if this was a crucial transition. Viktor is convinced he is a good man, but his actions are speaking otherwise against his morality.

Warnings: 7204 words, MDNI, obsessive behaviour, kidnapping, viktor is delusional, yandere viktor by the way, dubious consent(he coerces you), unhealthy and one-sided relationship, gender-neutral pronouns used for reader, no usage of y/n, gentle sex, set in season 1

In all honesty, Viktor did not know how it started or when it got out of hand. It started as a simple fascination and he had treated it as such. Nothing was wrong with that, he was a man of science after all. It was in his nature to feel drawn to things that he did not quite understand. Many years have passed since that day. Before his strange obsession came into his life. Honestly, now that he was alone to think about it, had it ever come into his life at all? Or, by some force of nature, he had forced it into his own life? The ever-changing flow of time halted the very moment Viktor had initially realised that he had more than a problem on his hands.

Viktor thought of himself as a man with morals. He was not the best person, yes, there are plenty of others that shone brighter than he did, but he found his value in his work and ethics. That being said, nothing about him was right. His work had been clogged for year's now; the chaotic office space merely setting as a permanent indication that he had slipped too far this time. Above all else, he had guaranteed himself that his work came foremost, give or take a few instances in which it did not. This case was different, however. A disturbing accomplishment that, when asked initially, he wrote off his findings as evidence, or even lack thereof. Whether or not he was believed, was foreign to even him.

Directly adjacent to his cluttered working place—being neat had long passed his troubled brain, hadn't it?— lie his crutch, sat in such a way that it may fall at any minute. Viktor paid it no mind, at least not at first, but looking over his notes and the observations that he had written down, an idea popped up within what was left of a comprehensive state of mind. Of course, how could he have been so oblivious to forget such a thing, it was written clear as day in these scattered notes. His nimble, cold fingers grasped at the end of his crutch and he tugged it over and dug it into the floor while it enabled him to stand.

Viktor's book laid sloppily in his hand, page open in clear view. "Yes," he breathed, "I suppose this will do." He closed the withered book and shoved it between his left arm and clothed side. Periodically, an opportunity was difficult to come by. He had to do the best with what he had been given, though an itch in his brain told him that: why settle for fine, when you can go beyond?

The aforementioned person that he mentioned, the obsession - the two had never even met before, Hell, Viktor was certain it never even knew of his existence. It was ostensibly a normal upper city citizen with no strange qualities, nothing special about its behaviours nor its personality. It was normal. But it made him feel bizarre inside. He could effortlessly correlate it to that of an over-easy egg slowly cooking within a skillet until the yoke bursts for seemingly no reason and tarnishes the taste of the egg entirely. Just like that, it was ruining him. Granted, neither of them seemed to be eggs, but he believed the metaphor to fit rather well. Humanity always seemed to be so fickle, so easily swayed and broken. Just like an egg.

No matter the weakened disposition he had, nor the lingering scent of death he had become accustomed to, nothing prepared Viktor for the way his certain obsession made him feel. He was intelligent enough to not let these be known, oh, how he would hate the way that Jayce would assume the worst of his sentiments. Would he? Jayce had changed rather strikingly since the first day the two had met. Nevertheless, Viktor never seemed to be the man for love, much less protection of those around him.

Moreover, he was sure that with such dehumanising language and behaviour, nobody would hear his side of the matter. After all, calling the object of your affection an "it," and "thing," definitely does not look good for your compassion. Still, it gave him a reason to humanise his behaviour—if his obsession is not seen as equal, then what's the issue, exactly? To be blunt, it served no purpose other than to make him feel better since not a soul knew of this but him.

Sure, it did not occur to him that he would have strayed this far, but sometimes you have to do what you can to keep someone safe. He was in no state to protect someone on his own, he knew this far too well, he could never protect anyone with this sickly, frail body of his. That is why kidnapping was an absolute must. Reminiscing of the past did no good but to open up older wounds that set themselves up for failure, but the first day they had formally met was an exhilarating experience.

When they had seen him, there was a quizzical expression plastered on their face, and they even confused him for a council member of all things—never attentive, he presumed—but upon realising who he was, Viktor found himself met with immediate scepticism. Viktor could not fault them, it was something he knew all too well, though, maybe he should have saved his anguish for another day. The way their warmer hand held onto his own when he reached out to shake it. Their hand was soft, softer than his at least, and much less calloused. Smaller. Yet, their fingers did not hold the appearance of his own; on the contrary, they looked healthy. Healthier than him.

Of course, with someone who seemed to not have any imperfection, how was Viktor not supposed to fall for them, much less become intrigued with their very existence at that point? Humans were so fickle, he knew very well with how his body had grown to become sicker, but they seemed so robust, so self-sufficient. It was just like any other person, nothing too special but it stood out to him and that was what mattered.

It hurt him, really it did, to see them gawk at him with betrayal, to seem so frightened of someone who wasn't even strong, to begin with, but love came with sacrifice and even if he couldn't help everyone, then he would try to help them the best that he could.

Viktor revolted and fought against his rationality, he really did, he tried his absolute best to make sense of both his actions and what he had done. Within the months, he had thoroughly convinced himself that it was for the greater good, for the safety of his obsession; to keep them isolated from others. It was not the healthiest choice, he would acknowledge at the time, but now he may argue that it was the only thing he could have done upon meeting them formally. He just could not let them go.

Months had passed since that day, but it was fun to reminisce sometimes. Besides, it was even better that, when he had the time, they were someone in which he could spoil with every day. Yes, Viktor took things slow and always was sure to leave them be, yet give them company, but watching them stare at him with a look that he could hardly even decipher anymore, left him breathless. And he didn't even know why.

That very thing forced him into the very dilemma that he is in now. Standing in front of a locked door with a flawlessly crafted key lying in his tremoring hand. It was from excitement, he knew it was. It was like this was his own secret sanctuary where he hid his most precious desire and treasure, his perfect obsession that wept behind locked doors. It was the same every day, no matter how long he would stare.

The door opened with a slight rasp, the only other noise being a stifled sob and the sound of scuffing against the floor, then the buoyancy of bedsprings. His stiff body staggered against the sturdy cane, his hunched over body barely allowing the light to pool in around the walls of the door frame. Every day seemed no closer to his objective. He didn't even know how he had done this. Years worth of obsession and fantasy obfuscated his once comprehensible brain. But it felt as if this was a crucial transition.

Viktor is convinced he is a good man, but his actions are speaking otherwise against his morality.

"Good morning, dear. Have you slept well?" The sounds of chains screamed in his ears when he spoke. All these years and his lover still has not gotten used to their living state. "Ehh... I have already assured you. Good behaviour is rewarded, please understand that this is an absolute must to keep you safe." They were terrified. Of him. Isolation was a punishment and he could never help but feel dreadful about them being punished for things out of their control.

"When can I go home?" was the concern they always pleaded with whenever they saw him. Viktor tried to not let it get under his skin, really he did, but the knowledge that they did not want to be with him weighed heavy on his mind. He loved them, they had to recognize. Their eyes were so passive; it reminded him of when he had first seen the mutation, Rio, when he was a young boy. Curiosity, distress; panic. They just did not understand this yet.

Perhaps all the days that he merely sat there and stared at them with a desolate expression thoroughly destroyed the way they would perceive him, or how he would blatantly ignore their tantrums and screaming, tapping his fingers along the edge of his crutch like a patient father waiting for their child to calm down. Of course, Viktor never mistreated them. The most he did was further isolate them, which explained the absolutely pitiful state that they were in right now.

Reluctance to accept the changing future will result in the fear of what's to come. He understands it's different from what they were used to. But one must adapt to their surroundings and become accustomed. Viktor has already sacrificed so much for them; when was it their turn to return the favour? The ever-changing future is something he will never know for certain.

Viktor sighed, watching them press their body against the nook of the room where their bed had been so delicately placed. The bedsheets had been sent into a state of disrepair, and certain pillows seemed more shapely than the rest. From clutching them too tightly, he inferred. It was adorable.

"This is your home," It was no wonder that they attempted to squeeze themselves farther against the wall when he staggered closer. "I don't have any food this time, I'm afraid," he stood right at the side of their mattress, directly in front of trembling form, his eyes fixated on the plate that sat adjacent to the bed, at least a few days old now. "Though, I'm glad that you, ehm, were able to finish your last meal. Good job." A sigh escaped him after the carefully placed praise fell from his lips and, upon staring hastily at them, he recalled the fear blending within their wide eyes. "However," he found himself fumbling over his words, "I know that you've been a little, eh... downcast, as of late so I have decided that I am going to offer you something that I'm sure you would love," he paused, almost reluctant to reach forward and stroke the hair behind their ear. Hesitant to touch them lovingly.

This situation was a troublesome one, of course, it would be, but he was not a fool in the matter. He read up on numerous articles simply so he can keep things safe for them — falling for one's captor, he had thought about it, yet the turmoil often sets in when he realises that they hadn't developed such a thing just yet. Had he not been too kind? Perhaps, it was the chains around their body? Particular disorders of the mind were so hard to force into existence; was that such a terrible thing to wish for? They looked as if they served more as a pet than anything else, honestly. But that's love, this is just his love. Viktor was well aware that a plethora of things regarding both he and his health weren't precisely right, particularly in concerns to other people. Honestly, staring at them in such a miserable state made him feel almost remorseful.

They must feel so trapped, not to mention secluded, after all, he was never able to spend as much time with them as he would have preferred. He wondered, did they feel imprisoned in their own body, too? Probably not in the way that he did, but it was a suspicion that lingered in his mind. He set his hand on the side of their face unexpectedly, and they jolted back. Granted, he was certain that his hand was freezing. But, Hell, it appeared as if they had almost whimpered at his touch. Still, he had never done anything to harm them, he's only keeping them safe. The images of the mutation Rio sitting in a tank of fluids that he knew all too well now, the thought of it being kept alive despite its pleas not to. Such lengths are just an experiment to preserve life. He understood, now. Not in the way that he should have, but he did.

Maybe that was how they felt. Like a trapped animal, frightened and alone. But they have him, they may not want him, but he is there.

Viktor's knees buckled as they pressed against the edge of the mattress, gently hoisting one after the other to get closer to the horrified individual hiding from his affection, which was already something which he never exhibited frequently.

"I want you to understand," he ran his thumb along their cheek with feathery soft touches, "I know you still don't understand why I'm doing this, or why you're here but rest assured that it's all out of genuine love." When you're going to change the world, don't ask for permission. "Alone. You're lonely and you're scared. I know how you feel. But you're special," their eyes met Viktor's for but an instant and it sent shock waves down his spine. Don't ask permission. "You're special to me, and that is what truly matters at this moment." They were about to cry. Correction, they were sobbing. And it was all his fault. Emotional turmoil mixed with the trauma enforced within them made this happen - because of Viktor.

And despite it all, Viktor could not help but feel proud of his accomplishments.

"Please," their name rolled off of his tongue like a loose screw in his brain, though more akin to a prayer. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, please." Their disobedience irritated him and sent his nostrils flaring, but he didn't allow that to show outwardly. They were already so skittish, why would he threaten them further? "Mm, I will reiterate it as many times as you desire: good behaviour is rewarded. If... If you're good—for me—then, and only then, will I allow you to go outside." His words set off a fire in their brain, he could tell how their breathing unexpectedly halted and they went completely tight-lipped. Was that all it took for them to settle down? An effortlessly broken promise?

Right, they were at their wit's end, weren't they? Their emotions override their rationality. The sunlight would be good for their health, after all. Quite frankly, the thought was unsettling, Viktor didn't want them out of his sight, but if it would make them satisfied then he could make configurations for such a thing. Though, he would have to be cautious to not allow anyone to see them. What if they tried to... escape, in a sense? It was dangerous, he would have to think about it thoroughly.

"Do you mean it?" They said, suddenly. Their head was raised aloft and their wide eyes stared directly at him. "If I'm good... I'll be able to go outside? It's—" A sharp inhale. "It's been months," they were optimistic. Why was it so unbearable to see them so miserable?

For all but a juncture, Viktor felt himself at a loss for words. There was no telling whether or not he would be able to keep that promise, but he could try. They just need to learn to embrace change and adapt, maybe they will forget about it in due time. "I mean it," he said without thought, "you have my word." Did they, truly? You should not make promises that you are incapable of keeping, but just this once, the way their expression lit up and how the tears fell from their eyes, made Viktor feel as if he had done something right this entire time. Without a single word, his hand slowly lowered from their warm cheek, his gangly fingers running alongside the edges of the collar that adorned their flawless neck.

In pursuit of great, we failed to do good.

How would Viktor feel if someone had done this to him? It was a rhetorical question; nobody cared for him enough to go to such drastic lengths to proclaim their love. Therefore, this couldn't have been an unfair thing for him to do. "We must adapt to change," he spoke softly as his fingers danced around their trembling jaw. "You must adapt to change." His voice dropped an octave, gaze falling back onto their face. He had adapted to this change flawlessly fine, it was them that had to figure out how to. They were ultimate perfection in his eyes—there was just one, little issue...

"What are you doing?" Their voice quivered. Viktor's hand slipped down to their collarbones, pinching against the soft fleshy prison.

"Ahm, eh, I am... feeling you, merely. Nothing more," their breath hitched at his actions. "Unless you want me to do more?" An unexpected whimper came from them, in which he did not know if it was good or not, but knowing them, it emanated from apprehension. "I love you, you know that. I would never force you to do something. Think of it as a friendly suggestion," Viktor's blunt fingernails found themselves becoming caught on the neckline of their shirt. "So, will you let me?" There was a pause between them. Most importantly, the air seemed to grow still. Tension so thick that you could slice it in half with a knife.

They shifted but didn't give Viktor a clear yes or no. In all honesty, they seemed to be dismissing him altogether. He could feel their body heat begin to amplify, a telltale indication of both their embarrassment and if he dares say desire. A relatively foolish notion, he was well aware, however, that did not mean anything in his mind, not in the current time. The future could come later, and his life may pass him by. But the future does not exist, does it? Not until you make it so. If he didn't take satisfaction in the opportunity that he had right now, then it may never come up again.

Nevertheless, he took the chance and leaned forward, inch by inch until his face had pressed into what was seen within the crook of their neck. Their skin was soft, warm; pulsating. "I am obsessed with you," both of his hands set themselves upon their shoulders, thumbs clutching against the blade of their clavicles. "I am, truly. My devotion, my love, my obsession for you—that will be the only thing that will never change no matter the year to come. You may push me away all that you desire, but I will come back to you. I love you." His chapped lips pressed in between their jawline and neck, a chaste kiss that he allowed to linger on their skin. They didn't even bother pushing him away. They had the strength to, yet abstained.

We failed to do good.

"Understand my efforts," his voice was barely above a whisper, "you must have seen them. Make sense of my love for you." His grip on their shoulders tightened, but he knew it would never be enough to harm them. It wasn't as if he wanted to injure them in the first place, either. However, it was short-lived, and Viktor's hands fell from their shoulders to their bound wrists, and straight down to their tremoring hands. "I have always wanted to do more with you—to be what most would consider a "couple" yet you keep pushing me away." During his rambling, Viktor heard them mumble something under their breath. "Could you repeat that?"

"I said I'm sorry," they whispered. For the first time, it seemed that they were apologising to him so sincerely, maybe with actual suspicions that something may transpire if they were to not apologise. It was startling, but a chance to hear their voice was satisfactory for Viktor. There was a lingering breath that he could feel tickle the back of his neck, coupled together with their heaving chest. They were scared.

We have to make it right.

Viktor felt his heart hammer against his rib cage, a knot forming in his throat bitterly. This clammy feeling in his chest was unneeded. "Well," he spoke with a sharp exhale, "do you know what would make me forgive you?" As if he hadn't already forgiven them, to begin with. Upon feeling them nod slowly, Viktor pulled away from them and hurried his hands from their own, to their neck. His touches were faint, but loving. Held a certain edge to them, hinted at with a distinct emotion. "I'm very sure you're aware of what I'm getting at," his breathing picked up, just as theirs did, and for a few instants, it seemed that theirs was in sync with his own. To his surprise, they shifted and nodded in agreement, but did not vocalise it.

Anxiously, Viktor proceeded to slowly creep his body forward, even closer to them than he was before. He felt his heart thumping against his rib cage, the wind being knocked from his lungs as he shakily exhaled. Viktor was not the type of man for sex, he never had the time to do it; but when it came to his little obsession, why not indulge? Their consent was dubious at best, but at this point, any hint of acceptance was promising enough for him. He struggled to rationalise his thinking but instead was only met with a cluttered mess within his brain. Viktor couldn't concentrate on anything other than them at this moment. It was just the two of them, and that was all that truly carried weight to him.

His kisses against their skin were light, virtually non-existent, but the genuine love that he harboured for them persisted despite their shuddering breathing; despite their apprehension. Viktor's lips pressed against their tender jawline until he finally met the edges of their lips. His hands were twitching, cupping the sides of their face with his thumbs caressing the skin underneath their eyes. This would be their first kiss together. Would they reciprocate it? He sure hopes that they would in some way, they don't seem to have any reasoning as to why they wouldn't. He pulled back momentarily to stare at them, only to notice that they weren't looking at him at all. That would be okay.

"You're mine," he breathed as he pressed his lips against their own once again. Viktor felt as if his chapped, thin lips were being engulfed by theirs—though, theirs were equally as chapped as he were. He made a mental note to up their water intake. The kiss did not quite feel the way that he visualized it to feel—he thought it would have felt more romantic in a sense. Moreover, he would have believed that they wouldn't be chained to the wall in such an intimate instant. But, good behaviour is rewarded. This was temporary, they knew that, as did he. Just as the kiss was about to end, he felt them lean into it and press their lips into his own. That, above everything else, made him feel like the blessedest man in all of Piltover. Of Zaun, anywhere.

"I love you more than anything," confessed Viktor as he pulled away from their lips. "I'm glad that you're mine." And he meant it.

Their breath hitched just as it constantly did when he touched them. Maybe it was the fact that his hands were gradually examining their body, tilting across every crevice, from where their midsection concave whenever they'd instinctively suck it in out of humiliation, to the quiver of the skin around their navel when his fingers ran along the sensitive region. Viktor's hands were underneath their shirt, his wiry fingers eagerly squeezing the skin. They squeaked at first, his hands were frigid after all but eventually unwound though not peeking at him. Viktor wished that they would look at him like a person rather than an oddity.

The hem of their trousers huddled against their hips, hiding away the most intimate part of their body that only Viktor was allowed to see. For a moment, he looked into their eyes for the right to go ahead, but upon being avoided, Viktor merely yanked them down with enthusiasm pulsing through his veins. His thumbs pressed between their navel and hipbones, in an almost comforting gesture. But it wasn't as if they cared in the long run, however, he could hear their hitching breath. Through dirty-minded thoughts, Viktor's right hand loomed above their sex while his other clasped against their hipbone for support. He was actually doing this—something that he had just as much as dreamed of for years.

"Please," their whiny voice startled his thoughts. "Just... be gentle with me," they didn't seem to be in the mood to fight him at all. That's good. Viktor was sure he had neither the strength nor the energy to deal with it.

His thumb pressed against the sensitive nub below, threatening a gasp from them. "I'll never hurt you," he rubbed their hip in synchronisation with his sensual touches against their sex. "I promise, I will do what I can to make you feel pleasured." His breathing picked up as arousal trickled down his spine like that of the emotions that he loathed. "I want... to see the inside of you. All of you," he spoke aloud, a hint of longing in his tone which he had shoved back this entire time. He wanted them to comprehend his love to its full potential.

Viktor's face pressed against the crook of their neck once again, shifting his hips as he closed his eyes. They were making noises, now, their chained wrists clicking against the harsh metals as they lifted their hands to dig into his back. Secretly, he had hoped that they would call his name. He knew that they knew it. They've spoken it countless times before. Granted, it was always in a fit of rage or hysteria which followed, "I hate you," and, "You ruined my life." But they knew his name at the very least.

Moreover, they were unravelling at the seams. They liked this just as much as Viktor did. They loved him, they had to. Lust and love were on a thin line, so closely drawn together yet had such distinct differences. Could the same be said about obsession? Maybe so, but that did not mean much by this point.

"I love you," he breathed into their neck, his warm breath no doubt sending shivers down his spine or so he hoped. "You feel so soft, so pretty..." His fingers toyed with their sex, jerking in sporadic movements which caused their hips to buck against him, further spurring him on. "Do you like it when I touch you like this? Like I—" his breath hitched when their hands clenched the fabric of his vest, "Like I own you?" For once, they actually agreed with him.

"Y-yes," they let out a pitiful, rueful whine more akin to someone who was used to this sort of thing. But that was inane. They belonged to him. "It feels—It feels really good, I..." Their hips were rolling now, eagerly trying to accept his love rather than pushing it away like they always had been. They were accepting change. They were adapting. "Jus—just like that, please, Viktor—"

And at that moment, time seemed to halt.

They said his name, not out of pure spite or anger, not from him doing something they did not like, but in pleasure. The pleasure that he was inflicting on them. "You're doing such a good job, So good for me," it came out as more of a wheeze than praise, though there was a hint of worship hidden within it. "Are you going to come soon? I want you to come undone because of me. I love you," his lips returned their place at their neck, his crooked teeth nibbling onto their soft skin, further forcing out a reaction from them. Just from their responses and noises alone, Viktor felt as if he was going to come any second now instead, and he hadn't even touched himself. All he could feel was his dick beginning to strain against his dress pants.

It was getting so hot and stuffy, surely he should take off his vest and dress shirt soon. The things that they did to him were things that he didn't even expect. The love he harboured, the desire he held—they were his weak spot. This precious creature. Viktor felt his breathing pick up as he pulled his teeth away from their neck, their delicate skin caught between his incisors.

Once more, slowly, his fingers gently danced around their sex, forcing himself to concentrate and try to block out the absolutely lovely noises that they were emitting. The noises, be as they may, were provided to him involuntarily, he attempting to reject the wail of pleasure that came from them. The squelchy sound of their fluid pooling around his fingers met his ears, giving a sick taste of satisfaction. His left hand clenched their skin a little too tightly for even his standards, the wiry fingers of his right hand working against him, deliberately circulating apart and snapping concurrently, a shudder running down his spine at the howl they made along with the response their body offered. Devoiding much of a thought, Viktor pulled his left hand away from their hipbone, dragging the appendage straight to the front of his dress pants, fumbling with both the zipper and hem in an attempt to pull it away from his groin.

"Oh," he heaved as he pulled away, ignoring the whimper that came from his lover in front of him. They wanted this. They needed this. Needed him. "Would you mind if I tried..." The words died in his mouth as soon as they came out, his left hand hovering above his concealed groin. Surely, they would say yes? They seemed a bit dazed, though perhaps it was his fault for not allowing them the relief that they were so close to acquiring. "I want to... feel you. I may not last very long," he fished his dick out of his boxers, feeling his face heat up to the point where he was sure it was red. "Do you want to?"

They made eye contact with him this time. The humanity, the want, the greed and the fear shone in their eyes brightly, but nothing could cover the telltale signs of love and lust. Viktor already knew the answer, they didn't even have to answer him, he already knew what it was going to be by their reaction alone. This was the key to their heart.

Now, at first, Viktor would not lie when he said that it made him feel a bit shy, or nervous—the thought of them seeing such an intimate part of his body, one of which he knows can be heavily judged based on size, was nervewracking to him. But the lack of disgust in their eyes—or maybe it was hidden between a thick cloud of lust—made him believe otherwise. They liked what they saw, and hopefully, nothing would change the way that they saw him. Their approval is what he strives for. However, that does not exactly matter with how far things have gotten. How many times has he repeated that phrase in his head?

The silence was deafening, but it was enough for Viktor to shuffle forward and shift his weight onto his somewhat good leg, swallowing the rising lump in his throat as he used his free hand to pull down their trousers. After this, he would be sure to give things a thorough wash. "Can you come closer?" He asked as he pulled his hand away. Please come closer.

He hadn't expected them to listen to him, nor to actually push themselves off the wall just to get closer to him, but, at the same time, he was not complaining. "Good job," he praised, his hands returning to place on their hips. Their skin felt so warm, but Viktor could still feel the reluctance radiating off of their perfect form. Now, this was just a question of whether or not he should go through with It. If he should finish claiming them.

The rattling chains served as a constant reminder for them to not fall out of line, and Viktor was sure that they did not want to do such a thing, especially not so close to salvation at this point. Steadily, Viktor felt their thighs wrap around his hips, and though the pressure and their weight being shifted onto him were agonising, he tried to force his way through it. The way that he could feel the tip of his dick press against them—that was like pure ecstasy. He never thought the day would come when they would grind into his lap so sensually, and act as if they had never tormented him for years to come.

"God," there was a slight plea laced within his velvet tone, "I need to be inside of you. Please," as much as Viktor loved them, he could never trust them to be the one providing. Not with how their behaviour had exhibited... less than desirable traits. "Will you allow me? We could finally become one in a sense. I just want to feel your insides around me, I want to feel your body heat against me." Whether or not they found pleasure in Viktor's begging, they offered him a response anyway:

"Shut up," was what they said. "Go ahead."

And with that, Viktor found himself slowly pushing their body down into the mattress, further ruining the bedspread and sheets that weren't even properly fixed in the first place. They still seemed reluctant, as their tone even harboured a certain edge to it, but hell, Viktor could not fault them. He feels nervous, too, of course, he does. Pulling down their trousers fully to their calves, he felt a knot grow within his throat. The thought of someone else doing this to them caused bile and jealousy to rise within his empty stomach, curling and screaming in the back of his mind, yet he pushed it aside in favour of much kinder thoughts.

A part of him wished to be able to twist and manipulate this circumstance, but he knew he didn't want to do such a thing - Viktor wanted nothing more than for them to just become wholly his and only his until death would take hold of them both. And even then, that would not split them apart nor dwindle his love for them. "I'm going to..." There was a brief pause, embarrassment etched across his face, "Er, make love to you," he spoke aloud, though it was more as if he was convincing himself that he was going to, rather than informing them.

There was little to no resistance when Viktor pressed himself inside, but it was such a foreign feeling that he could not help but whimper at the sensation. They were warm on the inside, and not the mention that their body would occasionally clench around his dick. His golden eyes gaped at their face, eyeing the expressions that they would make, all the way until the hilt of his dick finally pressed against their pelvic area. This was embarrassing.

Shamelessly, Viktor pulled back his hips, only to snap them forward with a moan. He tried his best to keep quiet, however, with the way that they started breathing heavily with their knees pressed up against the sides of his thighs, he couldn't help but feel overwhelmed. They were perfect, they felt perfect - on the inside, the outside, no matter. He hunched his body over their own, using the strength in his arms—what was left of it, anyway—to keep himself up. Viktor had no clue how long he would last, nor how his body would allow him to continue. But with how it felt, he hoped it would be long enough.

"You—you're... You're big," they suddenly confessed, a slight whimper escaping with the moan that left them. Fuck, they sounded so adorable like that. "Don't... Stop, please—"

A shiver ran down Viktor's spine at the blatant praise that fell from their lips shamelessly, it seemed so heinous, almost as if they were trying to get him going. "Ah..." Keep talking. "You, ah—you think so?" He panted as his hips snapped forward once, then twice. Was he drooling? Shit, he was drooling. "You feel so good on the in—the inside. So warm, so inviting. I would never... want to stop," a particularly loud moan escaped him, which seemed to be a hybrid of both a moan and wheeze. His lover didn't seem to notice nor care, however.

Why would they ever want to leave when they have such luxury in their life? Here they were, underneath Viktor with their eyes clenched tightly, hands balled up in fists as strings of moans escaped their bitten lips. They looked gorgeous like that. It even made Viktor feel powerful to know that he was able to make them feel such a way. Nearly impossible, he thought, if they weren't tied up and reluctant to accept him, they might have tried something devious and that would have ruined every single thing that Viktor had planned. Still, they're accepting his love.

His rhythm wasn't exactly straight nor following any set beat. Viktor felt as if his movements were sloppy and skewed, choppy thrusts and shuddering muscles that he was surprised had lasted this long. He could feel himself growing close, but he couldn't allow himself to unless they had, first. They mattered more than anything else.

"D... Darling," he nearly cried out, "I love you so much—" One of their hands threw itself behind Viktor's head, tangling their fingers within his messy locks of dark hair, gently tugging him forward. A shock ran down his spine at the gesture.

"I know," they breathed, "I know you do." Were they feeding into his delusion and leaving him to feel as if they felt the same, or did they genuinely love him at this moment? The way their eyes slowly peeked open was complete bliss for him, the irises that stared directly into his own with blown-out pupils—love.

He felt his sloppy movements speeding up, all while his body became sore from the extended movements, and all while this happened he felt the drool collect on the edge of his lips, dripping down his chin to their shirt, wetting the wrinkled fabrics. It didn't matter how ruined it would get, Viktor made a mental note to give them an even better shirt. Nevertheless, a knot coiled itself within his gut, curling around his navel and shooting a cramp up his spine in an almost pleasurable manner.

His bottom lip caught itself in between his incisors, muffling a forthcoming moan. "Are you—" a choked moan. "Are you clos—close? Please—" There was borderline whimpering in tone and he could not help but feel embarrassed for it, but the trembling person below made him feel a little better about his childish worries. They nodded without speaking, staring at him through thick eyelashes. They were gorgeous.

Viktor smiled, and it met his eyes. "So am I."

It was blissful, for him, at least—everything seemed perfect and in order as Viktor's right hand clasped around the side of their waist, squeezing the soft, malleable flesh: pliant. His breathing picked up, as did theirs, but he was determined to stretch this out for as long as he allowed himself to. As he closed his eyes tightly, Viktor felt his thumb dig into the dip between their stomach and hip bone, causing a red indentation on the soft skin. Through his pleasure, he could hear the loud sound of their moans below, as well as the sound of skin slapping against the skin; the squelch of genetic fluids mixed. Viktor's eyebrows furrowed together at the sound, his head falling against their chest, forehead pressed directly above their heart. Their clavicle, he presumed. They felt so good, he didn't want to stop, but he was so close.

"Viktor—" they cried out, suddenly, "I'm g—going—" there was a loud, rueful cry, followed by a high-pitched whimper. He could feel them clench around his dick, and then they had come. This sent him over the edge. Viktor lifted his head weakly and pressed his lips against their own, his saliva smearing all over their mouth and cheeks. He moaned into their mouth, pressing his hips forward one more time as his hand clenched their skin, surely hard enough to leave a bruise. He emptied inside of them, the muscles in his thighs twitching and convulsing, his dick soon going limp thereafter.

For a moment, Viktor caught his breath, chest heaving with laboured breaths. Tears pricked his vision when he opened his eyes, and the slobber dripped from his lips. His legs felt as if they were stuck in mud, but how did they feel? As he lifted himself, Viktor stared down at the person below him, completely covered in the afterglow. I came inside, that was an accident, he thought, but they looked so cute like that.

Much like before, Viktor felt a knot form in the middle of his throat, Adam's apple bobbing with each calculated swallow and breath.

Viktor felt breathless, but he felt as if that was to be expected. He stared down below at the barely visible person he had claimed just a few moments prior; his vision betraying him. He rests his forehead against theirs, a promise of devotion. "What can I do to make you love me?"

"Let me go," they whispered in a soft croon.

"You know I cannot afford to do that. You're mine."

[agatharkn3ss]

Agatha's info/rumours

I thought I'd pull together all the info we've been shown in ep.6 and add my interpretation to it. I still can't believe that Billy read these short bits and claimed he knew an "egregious" amount about Agatha.

As usual, biased towards Agathario, because I think they are heavily implying Agatha's connection to Death (I mean yes, the writers could just be trying to explain why the internet would be so invested in her identity, but still)

First of all - "333 partial results for Agatha Harkness Ancient Witch". I love yet another allusion to how Agatha is linked with number 3, making her the actual harbinger of doom (I explain this here).

It's interesting that the related questions are all about the immortality of the witches:

Are witches immortal?

Do real witches ever die?

How do you kill a witch?

How old is the oldest witch?

If we didn't have other super-old witches in the show, it would make me wonder if Agatha didn't make some sort of pact with Death (Rio), where she provides "bodies" to her in exchange for her long life. But as it is, we have Lilia as 450+ years old and Jen is also older than a century, but you don't see them trying to kill people (I think).

The very first search result is quite fun:

"The Macabre Wiki – a comprehensive encyclopaedia of all things that only come out after dark. Created by two blood witched from Salem"

No matter what, I will forever believe this is Agatha and Rio's page. (for reasons explained here)

The rest of the search results are not as exciting:

Witchy Resource – Ancient witches and ancient warlocks are not well documented traditionally and usually for good reason…

Witches and Aging – Apparently, witches are able to chose how they age and present themselves to humans. Some withes choose to stop again at a certain point staying roughly 30 years old visually for literally hundreds of years.

Dreadit – Salem Witch Trials – Recently I’ve been researching a ton on the SWT and not many people know this but there are reports of witches that actually survived burning and drowning

The Art of the Ancients – Learn about the secret art of witchcraft and the witches that have [...]

So this suggests Agatha specifically chose her look and age. Neat. Quite empowering really.

Also, another suggestion that some witches can be immortal and survive burning and drowning. I wonder if we will see this in the show - Agatha and Rio having absolute blast at mocking people who were trying to torture/kill Agatha, only to realise she wasn't feeling any pain, she would just raise and shout "Surprise witches!".

Then we go onto the Salem Witch Trials page. This pretty much confirms what we already know about them. I immediately clocked how all the handles only have green or purple colours... Coincidence? I've not tried to decipher the names, but if anyone has any suggestions, let me know!

witchygirlblack: Did any witches survive the Salem witch trials? Are they still alive? Where are they? Witches can live for hundreds of years, so the ones that survived the trials might still be out there [] witchkraft dreadit, you must know of some?

4thlevelwarlock: The Salemites, Evanora Harkness’s coven, were prominent in the area. I’ve heard rumours [...]the young children from the coven escaped

SamSamwitch: @4thlevelwarlock look familiar? [Agatha image link]

BoftheEast: be careful posting about her just saying

Then Billy takes the photo through reverse image search. I know these are tiny, inconsequential details but I still love them:

"Looky" sounds like a little nod to Lilia's "kooky"

The letters “o” have moons inside of them.

Each letter has different colour that seems to align with the witches – light blue (Jan - water trial?), purple (Agatha - spirit), yellow (Lilia - air), dark blue (Billy?), orange (Alice – fire)

This search then leads to a number of events that Agatha has been spotted at. Rather than pull out the quotes, I'm going to put the events in a chronological order and add relevant background info:

Salem Witch Trials (1692-1693) - this was a series of hearings and prosecutions of people accused of witchcraft in colonial Massachusetts. More than 200 people were accused. It was the deadliest witch hunt in the history of colonial North America. This is the time where Agatha's mother and her coven try to "punish" her for using "the darkest of magic". Her fingers weren't black, so she's unlikely to have had Darkhold back then. (btw the script for this suggests Agatha was 18 at the time, so she was born ~1675, making her ~351 years old in 2026)

The Eastern Seaboard - Although we don't know the exact dates, there are "unconfirmed reports of Agatha traveling the Eastern Seaboard". This could relate to various areas but this is likely just referring to the US East Coast. The Thirteen Colonies, which formed the United States in 1776 were located on this coast, playing an important role in the development of the United States.

The sinking of the Titanic (1912) - the British ocean liner sank as a result of striking an iceberg on her maiden voyage from Southampton, England, to New York City, US. Of the estimated 2,224 passengers and crew aboard, approximately 1,500 died. Agatha is listed as one of the survivors

The Hindenburg disaster (1937) - a German commercial passenger airship caught fire and was destroyed during its attempt to dock at Lakehurst, New Jersey, on its journey from Frankfurt, Germany. The accident caused 35 fatalities among the 97 people on board, and an additional fatality on the ground. The publicity shattered public confidence in the giant, passenger-carrying rigid airship and marked the abrupt end of the airship era. Again, Agatha is spotted as a woman who "survived the explosion then disappeared"

"Jolene" (1972-1973) - The headline states "Does this 1972 Surveillance photo of Dolly Parton show the real Jolene?" and Jac Schaeffer confirmed that yes, Agatha = Jolene. So I had some fun with this, because why not?! I wondered what Agatha's play would've been here. Is she truly after Dolly's "man" - if so, in what way? Or is she after Dolly herself? Note that although the article says 1972, later on we also see statement that Agatha was last seen in Nashville Tennessee, 1973. Now - that year in Nashville, Dolly not only recorded "Jolene" in May, but a month later she also recorded "I will always love you" - a song that is widely understood to be a goodbye song to her business partner because she decided to pursue solo career. In my head this is all a result of Agatha's influence, who showed Dolly her real power.

On that note, I don't think we would be far off assuming that as Agatha kept Dolly (or her man) her company, she would've actually come across Lorna Wu herself? We know it was similar time, because "The Ballad of the Witches Road" record was made in 1978. Alice mentions how she got her tattoo in Colorado as her mum was playing at the Red Rocks amphitheatre. Dolly Parton also performed at the Red Rocks in 1972 (the same year as the camera footage), so Agatha could've been there...

Finally, we get to the "brujapedia" - the encyclopaedia of witches. It's fun to speculate who could be running this page - the whole theme is black and white, with red highlights. There is also an image of a raven - as I discussed it before, it is a symbol of bridging the world of life and death. So it would be fun if it was Death herself maintaining it, as she would be the only one who would truly know who the real witches were. Also it would be a cool census of who is still remaining for her to "collect" their dues.

Another good spot from @chaotic-homoromantic is that "bruja" is a Spanish word for "witch", giving us another hint to Rio.

I couldn't really find any info on any other names other than the top one. Abigail Adams was a founder of the US, wife of John Adams, the second US president and mother of John Quincy Adams, the 6th US president. I'd like to think witches had some input back then.

Also interesting is how Agatha's surname is misspelled - it has two Ks. I wonder why that is - no way it's a mistake, seeing how much detail they've put into this. Maybe it's a subtle suggestion that this information came straight from Agatha herself or as a joke from someone who knows her, since she's known for using wrong words. (or it could just be a suggestion that all of the other names on this list are also misspelled, explaining why we can't find any info on them)

Then we get to some info about her - most of which I already collated into the timeline above. There is also a vague mention of Nicky: "Agatha Harkness. Son. Name unkown, rumours [...]"

But there are also some other bits - hilariously referred to as "FUN" facts:

Fun Facts:

Murdered her entire coven

Possesses succubus powers

Nick name is “witch killer!”

Only known survivor of The Witches Road

Folklore references: It is said certain children’s book make reference to Agatha [...]

Funny how the nickname absolutely includes the exclamation mark. I feel like maybe Jen was the one who submitted this info.

As for the children's book - I feel like it wouldn't be just a single story but more like the Grimm's Fairy Tales. Following Lilia's comment, Agatha probably was the template they used for "evil witches" - poisoning apples and stealing kids and eating children. It's not something she would deny anyway.

Now, the Succubus comment is interesting. In lore they are generally depicted as a sexual being - "a female demon or supernatural entity in folklores who appears in dreams to seduce men, usually through sexual activity."

But I think in Agatha's case, things are different. Yes, she has the charisma and can probably seduce people quite easily (I mean, she probably seduced Death, didn't she?). But I don't think that's like a magical power. In fact, if it was, it think it would be really unfair to Agatha, erasing the fact that her character had to build and evolve around her experiences and the fact that she had to survive - "in a way that few do". So I think this "fun fact" could be partially coming from someone's snarky comment (Dolly Parton's?), who just wanted to take away Agatha's agency. Or fell for Agatha and then blamed it on her "powers" rather than admitting their own gullibility. Just like women over the centuries were accused of witchcraft and casting curses if things simply didn't go the way someone wanted.

Plus the way she goes about getting her magic from people is absolutely not seductive. She simply finds a way to annoy the heck out of the target!

But of course, that's not all there is to it, because on the other hand Agatha has her syphoning ability - now that could also be described as the "succubus powers" referred to above. In DnD succubus attacks using a "Deadly kiss", basically draining the essence of life and I feel like this is quite a good description:

"The kiss of a succubus is an echo of the emptiness that is the fiend’s longing for a corrupted soul. Likewise, the recipient of the fiend’s kiss gains no satisfaction from it, experiencing only pain and the profound emptiness that the fiend imparts. The kiss is nothing short of an attack, usually delivered as a final farewell before the fiend escapes."

In that magic/soul sucking way, she would have more parallels to Death, explaining their connection. More so, if Agatha can't control her powers - because Death does not really have much control either, she just has to do her job when the time comes.

[imfromthemiddlekingdom]

I don’t understand the fandoms love for Daemon, by all rights he should be as hated as Joffrey was. Not only did he do almost everything Joffrey did, he also did worse. Even Tywin wouldn’t hold a candle to his cruelty. I understand liking a villainous character, I do too with Cersei and Tywin, but I’ve never went out of my way to whitewash their characters. I love them because they are villainous and practically irredeemable, if team black stans liked Daemon for his villainous actions before and during the Dance of Dragons I wouldn’t have any problems with it. But the fact that they go out of their way to defend him killing Rhea Royce because “he was forced into a marriage he didn’t like!!!!” As if she wasn’t too. And the fact that they defend him sending Blood and Cheese to psychologically torture Haelena and kill Jaehaerys due to “a son for a son it’s only right” when they despise Alicents moment of madness when her son was denied justice, makes me want to hurl.

It’s alright to like villainous characters, it doesn’t make you a bad person if you like them. But you know what makes you a moronic person? Whitewashing everything that makes a character compelling because you want to like them without seeming like a ‘bad person’. Your opinion on a character does not determine your own morality, it doesn’t make you better or worse than someone who hates them. But what it does, when you erase their entire identity as a rouge to make them more palatable to you, is make you seem moronic, stupid, and lacking any critical thinking and reading comprehension skills.

Rhaenyra is a compelling character because she is entitled and spoiled and lacks any political experience, she shows how badly Viserys fucked up when he tried to compensate for his guilt of murdering Aemma. Alicent is a compelling character because she is a mother who is trying her best to protect her children from the reality that if Daemon took the throne for Rhaenyra, he would kill all of them because they are a threat. She is even more of a compelling character in the books because of her ambition and cunning and want for her family to rise far above the ‘station’ of being a noble house in the Reach (as if house Hightower aren’t the oldest house in Westeros who could trace their lineage back to both the Garth Greenhand the high king of the first men and the Andal Kings that came afterwards). Daemon, for all that I dislike him as a character, is compelling for his ruthlessness and shortsightedness in his pursuit of the throne. He didn’t raise an army for Viserys because he thought he was a competent leader, he did it because it raised his own standing within Westeros, he groomed Rhaenyra not because he loved her, but because having him in her good graces means that he stood a better chance of being king after she was named heir. His ruthlessness is compelling. Taking it away to make him into a ‘malewife’ or a ‘loving father’ or a man who is lacking any ambition beyond wanting a valyrian wife is taking away his agency. It makes him seem like a Gary Sue who only wants the throne because his brother said Rhaenyra was heir. It makes it so that he is so completely white bread like that not even I, someone who loved the more morally bankrupt characters in ASOIAF can find him agreeable in any way shape or form.

Daemon is a fundamentally morally bankrupt character and he should stay that way. If you like him you should acknowledge and accept that he is one of the ‘bad guys’. Just as Cersei fans acknowledge and accept that she is fundamentally a morally bankrupt person who is selfish to the extreme. We like morally black characters because they are morally black. To make excuses for their actions is to take away their agency which makes them unlikable and very hate-able.

Daemons actions aren’t justifiable, blood and cheese would never be justified. A son for a son is akin to the visceral disgust the fandom had to Alicent when she asked for Lucerys’ eye, yet I bet when season two comes out and Blood and Cheese happens we’d see Daemon fans applauding and trying to justify it as ‘not that bad’ and ‘team green deserved it because of Aemond’s actions’ when little Jaehaerys, a boy of 6, was as far removed from the incident as can be. It would be akin to Team Green saying that due to Jaehaerys’ death, Aegon III or Viserys II deserved to have their head cut off in front of Rhaenyra.

Let morally bankrupt characters be morally bankrupt. You aren’t morally bankrupt because you like said character, it’s a fictional story loosely based on Empress Matilda. It’s not that deep. Like the characters you like without trying to justify their actions. They might be monstrous but you aren’t because you like them. It’s not a measure of your own character because you like said character. But it is a measure of your intelligence when you try to change said character’s entire personality to make it so that they are more digestible to you and everyone else.

[shyamanuensis]

You Feel Like Home - Sebastian Sallow

My Love,

It has been almost a year since you requested this of me and up until tonight; I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to put quill to paper. When you asked me to tell you what it is exactly that you mean to me; I’ll be sincere, I struggled utterly with the concept of comprehending such a request.

My breadth of language and vernacular as much as you regularly try to deny it on my behalf doesn’t vary enough to even begin describing what you mean to me; but I can confidently say now that after a few tumblers of whiskey, that ridiculous love song you always like to play having been stuck on repeat and time, I suppose - to just think; I’ve concluded that you’re not just you to me, if that makes any sense. You. You feel like home to me.

But let me first start with a list of all the things I love about you. How I adore your insecurities as much as your complexities; and how each idiosyncrasy you define as peculiar, I find endearing. Maybe that will give some further context as to what exactly it is you mean to me;

I love the way you dance around the house without a care as if I’m not watching as you make breakfast first thing in the morning.

I love the way you chuckle when I tell a joke wrong and laugh hard enough to lose your breath when I try to repeat it to get it right.

I love the way you style your hair up once after reading how a character wears theirs in a book; and then become so intrigued in said book that it steals your attention long enough that you become completely immersed, barely aware that the tea you sip has long gone cold.

I love the way you’re so self-critical some days with what you see in the reflection of the bathroom mirror when regardless of what you think, you’ll be nothing but perfect to me.

I love the way you sigh when you’re struggling to fit into your jeans. That little wiggle and jump that you do before falling back onto the bed to shuffle around and get the fabric up over your hips.

I love that when I’m working away from home, you steal my shirts just to feel close to me when you lie in bed at night. They seem to hug you in all the right places, exquisitely enhancing your curves; making you appear even more beautiful than I already know you are.

I love the way you toy with my hair to put me to sleep; or better still, the way it makes the monster inside of me calm and go silent anytime I rest my head in your lap.

I love the way you call me safe when others call me dangerous.

I love the way you hold my hands ever so gently. How you rest your own against my chest as if to keep my heart safe knowing all too well it has been shattered more times before than I’ll ever happily let on.

I love the way you steal kisses from me in the most mediocre of places which make my heart pound against my ribs as though it wants to break free and be once with yours.

I love the way you’d let me set the whole world on fire just to sit back and watch it burn for fun if I wanted to, and how you’d trust me to never let a flame touch you.

I love your obsession with cinnamon after I asked you to try it once and how now that scent has me absolutely intoxicated with thoughts of you any time I pass it by.

I love the way that you, my love; my angel, can luckily for me, never have her eyes peeled away from the devil that sits beside her - not on her shoulder, for too long.

I love the way you smile up at me - arm wrapped firmly around my waist, always so eager to introduce me to anyone who asks as the man of your dreams. Although I'm not so sure I’m really qualified to be.

Just know this list isn’t anywhere near as comprehensive as the thoughts that run through my head, the feelings that flutter within my chest, and the warmth that consumes me whenever you are near. They say that a house without love is not a home, but I can assure you that wherever we are, whatever we do, with your hand in mine, any place we find ourselves, any adventure we take, any stroll beneath the stars at night makes me feel like I’m already home because you’re with me. Because you feel like and are - home to me.

Forever and a day my love,

Sebastian x

hope you enjoy my loves xoxo

[emmaofnormandy]

Imagine you and Aegon find comfort in each other.

Warnings: mediæval like; canon divergence with the series; Y/N’s plot is loosely inspired in (TV Show’s) Helaena’s; drama; smut.

***

• (I)

You have dreams. What do you know about them? They come true, that is what you understand. Whatever colours they are painted of, they come true. Mostly they show you the past, but every now and then… these dreams show something beyond your historical comprehension.

“Y/N, my dearest”, the queen calls you out, bringing you back to reality. You raise your eyes and spot this red-haired woman dressed in fanciful green robes eyeing you with a maternal, yet distant care. “There is something we must speak of.”

“What is it?”, you remember your filial duties. Leaving aside your books, you concentrate on what your often absent mother has to say.

“By any means I mean to bring to you a subject that makes me uncomfortable in speaking of”, the Queen forces a smile, but you can tell by the awkwardness in her eyes that she wishes to be elsewhere. “You are soon going to be married.”

“To Aegon”, you observe, resigned. “How could it be otherwise when he’s the heir?”

For someone so young, your tongue can be sharp whilst your eyes give tons of liveliness not afore perceived by your mother. An awkward silence hangs in between the two of you.

“Yes, to him. This will not happen soon, though.”

“But from now on my lessons will change. I am aware.” And you smile to break the sudden tension. “Fear not, mother. I think Aegon and I will be… in good terms.”

She doesn’t know how you can be certain, but the Queen is relieved for delivering at last what she formerly thought to be dreadful news.

***

• (II)

“Marriages are alliances that must not be focused in sentiments”, instructs the Queen. “These must be placed aside for the sake of duty.”

“Is it not commendable to have some degree of affection between the parties?”, asks Aegon, somewhat confused with where this is going.

His mother gives him a look, deprived of comprehension: how could she, when she married his father by force, never nurturing any affection for this man?

“Nay. The Church strongly discourages affection on both parts, for otherwise marriage, sacred in its end for the purpose of continuing the lineage, becomes profaned.”

Aegon sighs heavily. It is worthless to discuss with his mother, he knows it well. This is a matter that women are better familiar with, for, like his grandsire likes to say, it is linked with a feminine world of which men have little doing in it.

According to the old Valyrian tradition, the heir to the throne comes to understand that he’s to marry his younger sister, Y/N. The young man closes his eyes, at first not really excited about making you his wife.

“I shall do as my lady mother commands”, says he in a mechanic tone, eager to leave the meeting.

Must it be constantly uncomfortable every time they gather together?

A question the Queen sees unposed in her boy’s eyes. One of the kind she wishes she could answer, but trapped in her own ambitious web, all she does is eventually dismiss his presence of her.

And serve herself some wine, naturally.

***

• (III).

Aegon watches as you sit by the fountain. Years gone by since you and him grew up and were forced to marry. The union has been consumed, but you have been avoiding each other’s presence ever since.

However, for some inexplicable reason, here he stands, watching you absorbed in your usual reading. The book is black velvet with golden pages, but judging by the content that has you frowning your eyebrows, Aegon believes it not be of religious type.

He hesitates at first in how to come at you. There had seemed to be an unspoken agreement between both of you since that unfortunate day that once consumed, the marriage would remain as void as possible.

Duties were performed, of course. However, ever since Prince Jaehaerys came to pass, a victim of the Summer Fever, neither could console the other properly. As a result, Aegon produced bastards… but never a legitimate son to continue the line. Perhaps this was arranged, albeit unconsciously so, between him and you against Queen Alicent’s and your grandsire Lord Otto’s ambitions.

But now… Aegon cannot handle his demons alone. Out of his siblings, you are the one whose nature somehow… does not mirror others or his own.

Sensing the weight of his stare, you lift your gaze only to be caught off guard by your estranged husband’s presence. You quickly stand, somewhat fearful he might be here just to scowl at you for failing your duties—something that you’ve seen in others’ eyes.

And even though you’ve been having odd dreams where Aegon and you get along, overcoming these initial struggles that a forced match put you through, you are somehow faithless in this. In addition to this, there’s the fact neither speak to the other since your only son’s demise.

“I do not fault you for his… premature departure of this world”, says Aegon, not needing too much to disclosure the reason why there’s a distance between both parts, under covered by a mutual distrust. “His suffering was short.”

“‘Tis part of our position to accept that what the Lord gives, the Lord takes.” You muse thoughtfully.

Aegon glances away. Religiosity has never been his best, even if he’s forced to play the pious.

“Ours, however, has been unnecessarily prolonged.”

The silver haired prince, who wears court garments today, looks like an empty vessel when these words reach his ears. You hope to reach out for him, but…

“Pardon?”

So close, yet so far.

You are dressing a cream silk gown with details in green and pearls. Aegon notices the result of the embroidery you’ve been working, particularly focusing at the dragons that have been so perfectly woven in the cloth.

“I’ve only meant to say…” You sigh, shaking your head as you quit. “Never mind. This battle is lost.”

Aegon scoffs at your behavior, but in retrospective could you be the one to blame when he walked away so easily?

Biting down a bitter answer, he looks down at his feet before saying:

“May we… walk around the gardens? I think we must speak.”

You cast him a long look.

Could this be?

But when this pair of lilac irises encounters yours, mirroring each other’s soul deprived free will—for where hast it been put if not casted upon the creature done in the similitude of its Creator?—it as if the divine ire has been placated at last. As if little by little all is starting to settle.

Almost if there is hope.

“Aye, lord. I do not see why not”, and when you smile, Aegon realizes this is no time to winter, but to spring. “It has been too long since we last spoke.”

So too he smiles, charmed by this woman whom he neglected by force of pride, weakened in flesh and spirit as he knows.

“True.”

In his own way, Aegon and you begin to gravitate towards each other. Thus the dragons dance.

***

• (IV)

“There is a sadness behind your eyes I cannot decipher”, Aegon muses.

You are lying on his lap. The two of you are found at the gardens in this cloud day. You like how he strokes your hair, careful, tender. A positive change in his manners in these weeks which you gladly welcome despite the early distrust.

“I think I might when I come to think about it, but I fear to dig into it…”, he proceeds. “It makes me want to demove it out of you.”

“That is kind of you, but some people are born with it, I guess”, you close your eyes, unsure where these waters are leading you to.

Though your dreams, green they might be, show you facts that come to be true, you are still frightened by them. Some of them brought you to this very moment in spite of your reluctance to it.

Here you are, though.

“I think we are rather creatures of it”, says Aegon. “And I fear that I am one of the reasons why melancholy has found solace in your heart.”

You carefully rise and contemplate your husband. Your eyes scan his handsome features, part of which mirrors yours. Lilac eyes and silver locks, but a nose and a mouth that certainly take after your mother.

Pulled by strange strings that come from above, you are reasoned by the certainty of being pawns of the gods. Regardless of never answering to them, these never answer to your family either. The clash of mortality and immortality often results in misery.

“Pride is our fall”, you muse, able to see so many tragedies in the past that lead to this current one. “It is only equaled by selfishness. We are all doomed in the end. ‘Tis the nature of us all.”

“I often wish I was worthy of being loved, made different by the divine”, so much being brought out by words and yet you are drawn by them.

“No, my dear lover; my sweet brother, we are all capable of loving… and being loved”, you tell him, capturing his face with your hands.

You rest your forehead against his. Aegon closes his eyes, swallowing the tears he’s been ashamed to keep when darkness rises.

“I am not. And I lament with the depths of my soul for it.”

“Shush now. Quiet the riots of your heart, for we are neither too pure nor too profaned, despite being creatures of sin. We can be light when there is darkness.”

“You are too pure for this world.”

Oh, the anguish. The atonement behind words that hurt like knife, so vicious is the pain these cause.

And yet your lips seek for his in attempt to mend it. Aegon is surprised by your pursuit, but he doesn’t shy away. He welcomes gleefully the sweet taste of your lips.

For the first time in a very long time, pain is left aside by another sentiment, to both of you unknown. What is this? What is this if not the spark of joy? The start of something new, where no words are sufficed to translate.

“I want you”, he whispers like a pained lover, realizing a little too late how his prideful heart and doomed soul stole him away from you for too long.

Whilst his tongue mixes with yours, you succumb to the power of gravity. Like the planets attracted to the sun, so is your heart to his. And you want to steal his misery, you want to be desired as much as you want to love this man.

Half of your soul, your other half.

“I am yours, Aegon”, you bite down his lips, letting him have his way to you when lying down the grass and pulling him over you. “Reclaim me, I beg of you.”

“I shall do as my damsel commands me to”, he gasps, breathless.

Where there was cold, there is now fire. Two dragons, two sides of the same coin, about to get burnt.

He kisses you hard, famine for your affection, desperate to reach out for you and you lift your legs to tie him in between all the whilst returning his fierce kiss, hands gripping his hair, making a mess with his silver locks.

And then…. His lips comes to your neck, biting and leaving bruises, pleased to hear small sounds out of your mouth.

His eager hands start to work on your gown, unlacing it eagerly, digging his hands possessively against your back, very clear in his selfish gesture.

“Mine, mine lady”, Aegon whispers against your chest, pausing breathlessly to contemplate the mess you are now.

Your eyes are partially closed; your red-ish lips are open in a small “o”, wanting for more, releasing these desires for so long repressed, for years repented as wrongs that should be cleansed of your soul.

“Mine lord”, you sigh in content.

And looking down at his face, you see a smile crawling over his lips, which rises to his eyes. Your heart melts and you smile too.

“I exhort you to give me a precious gift”, and you lift him so you steal a kiss out of his lips. “Your heart, your soul… I cannot sleep well at night knowing my lover is not well. Let me be your healer as Venus healed Ares when he was in his worst. For I’d go to hell and cross through damnation to save you.”

“Lady, profess naught these words, I forbid you”, and he kisses you in turn. “Unworthy I am of this gesture, this affection! I shall guard, however, your heart as the great treasure to me sent by the divine. Sinful and doomed I may be…”

“I will redeem you if you let me.”

You shush his uneasiness with another kiss. Now you lay him down, taking control of the reins. You reclaim him like he did to you, except the dragon fire makes you bolder this time.

So your kisses do not concern his lips alone: your hungry mouth captures his neck and his chest… all the whilst you unlace his pants. Starving for affection, one needs the other; a need released after being repressed under the guise of good behavior and social rules.

Oh but where’s the etiquette when your hand grips his manhood, taking it the way he likes—oh you still remember your first night together, when even under the effect of alcohol he was excited to teach you the way it’s done.

Bearing this recollection in minds, Aegon throws his head back and lets out a loud groan.

“Heavens! Oh, my lady! Never before so fair, my leof!”

His chest growing heavy, Aegon’s body is instantly warmed with fire. Eyes rolling in the back of his mind, he’s about to come undone, but not wasting his seed, he turns tables and soon you are no longer the hunter, but the prey.

That in finding pleasure you are able to bury scars of cloud days formed through pain is to delight yourself in these marital activities you and Aegon prevented each of the other in the past years.

Now he’s sliding his manhood into your core after locking your hands above your head, you comprehend at long last what these dreams are about.

Your promise prince. The hope of a yet to come spring.

‘Tis the way upon which salvation is craved: when hearts are blended and bodies are intertwined, when parted souls are one united.

***

• (V)

Politics are not the world you were educated to be part of, which is something you are content about. Unlike your mother, the former queen. This is not a field where you intend to seed your ambitions.

To many, you are content with the role delegated to you, and this isn’t completely untrue. But there are times where nights are dark…

…and full of terrors.

“Aegon”, you whisper his name, but he doesn’t respond; his snore tells how asleep he is. You sigh, but you don’t call him again.

Untangling of his arm, you roll out of bed, anxious. Another dream comes to take your peace… something no one knows, no one’s understand.

You walk barefoot towards the window and there you stand, watching through the glass the darkness above. You can still hear the screams in the back of your head, accusations, the sound of blades…

War is coming.

What is there to stop it? The ambitions of the men are seed to the inevitable. Even so, the scenes are hard to unsee.

Lost in your world, you miss Aegon’s groaning when noticing the cold you left your side of bed and not much time after coming for you.

“Y/N”, your husband snakes his arms around you waist, resting his head on your shoulder. “You look pale. Are you unwell?”

You chew your bottom lip, a sign of distress that Aegon’s familiar with. He suddenly recalls the reason why you and him were never close throughout your childhood and subsequent early adulthood: the fact you were always stuck in your own world.

A reason there was to it, but he was afraid to figure it out then.

“What bothers you, my sweet?”

As you slowly turn at him, Aegon spots tears forming in your eyes.

“You’d not understand.”

“Try me.”

You hesitate, fearful of losing him. As if he could read your thoughts, Aegon cups your face and rests his forehead against yours.

“I shall not leave your side, regardless of what it is that daunts you so.”

“You may call me witch for what I am about to tell you…”

The king chuckles.

“Hardly.”

He waits, aware that this is where you open yourself to him. Aegon can tell, by the looks you cast him, how important this is, a test of trust that will rely on his reactions.

Eventually though, with little need to reassure you that whatever that comes out he will not leave your side, Aegon holds your hands firmly and says:

“We have been under neglect for so long. We were not taught affection nor approval, or any of the values our mother praises in public. And yet here we are with the crown over our heads.” He kisses your cheek, there staying for a while. “We cannot be faulted for the sins of our parents, my wife. We are of the same blood, but we are more than that.”

It is only then you finally grant him entrance to a world where none had dared to do so. Aegon is thus told that you have inherited an ability few possessed in the Targaryen dynasty: the one of having green dreams.

Even so… here it is where one estranged couple gets intimate in the most blessed of forms: by trusting each other and overcoming former difficulties.

Indeed, a victory to the Cupid… or the Virgin Mother who brought harmony to two troubled souls.

***

• Epilogue.

War eventually makes its way to the realm. But when it does, all is settled.

“I must lead my troops against this pretender to the throne”, says Aegon in reference to their sister, Rhaenyra, who never entirely accepted to be cast aside in favour of her younger brother.

“Be mindful. She has Lord Daemon by her side”, you advise him.

“But we have Aemond by ours”, Aegon smirks at you.

As you two embrace, Aegon places a kiss on top of your forehead and a hand over your growing belly.

“Beware, my love”, says he, and you detect concern behind his eyes.

But you sweep away his concerns when you smile the brightest.

“No need to worry. You shall come back to my arms and I will perform my duty accordingly. Dare I say that more children will come in due time!”

Aegon chuckles quietly. When he smiles, no beautiful sight could have warmed your heart like this.

“Aphrodite blessed me indeed!”

He takes your hand to his lips before leading you both to the court where he expects to part with his men soon. Aemond soon comes, joined by Lady Alys, his wife.

Even though this is an unusual union for the time where low born are hardly married into high born houses, you and her got along just fine… and she’s been a good help with the dreams you have.

“This shall not be a farewell!”, says Aegon before all, in a ceremony that you are the protagonist of it. Oh, courtly nonsenses, you know, but here are the perks of being queen. “For the divine calls me to take in arms with the one who, as the same blood of ours, has been conspiring with violence and never befriending with peace!”

“The Fortune has set the path to you, my king. Be merciful, I ask.”

Aegon nods his head regally, every inch a king.

“I will keep your request in mind, my damsel!”

And to prevent a civil war, he goes, mounted in his golden horse whom he calls Sunfyre.

***

However, women are not prevented to fight their own wars even if their victories in childbed are not sang nor praised by poets and bards.

Surrounded with the women of your trust, you are now closed to a feminine world where men take no part. Curious to notice that where Aegon fights for the survival of his dynasty, you too take a similar part in delivering its success.

Amidst pain and blood, though, you perform your duties accordingly. Most would applaud your bravery in facing the process with no tears and few screams.

I am as Targaryen as any of them.

A pair of twins comes to breathe the air after the process is done. You opt to name the male after your husband, Aegon, and the female after Rhaenys. It is only fair since you come after their line.

“How is my queen doing?”, Lady Alys asks you once the labour comes to an end and the babies are taken to be cleaned.

“Good”, you smile at her, taking the hand offered and giving a slight squeeze. “Thank you.”

“More will come”, she whispers.

Your smile spreads fully.

“Oh, indeed. A victory granted by the Divine.”

“Even if the Targaryens answer to no men nor Gods”, says Alys.

Both of you chuckle.

“It is what it is”, you give your motto to your sister in law.

Towards the end of the reign of Aegon the Wise, the chronicler writes how you, successfully known as the peacemaker, set the path to other queen consorts in your queenship. Popular throughout the Seven Kingdoms, your hand extended where your husband’s could not.

For example, you helped arranging the marriages of your third child, Rhaella, with Rhaenyra’s son, Jacaerys, as well as your fourth, Hughes, with Visenya. That way you brought Rhaenyra closer to your family instead of instigating another possibly revolt. Such matches pleased her.

It all ended well.

As for you and Aegon, no successful match has been seen since King Viserys wedded Lady Aemma.

You and him found solace in each other and would remain so until the end of your days. There’s a saying in King Aegon III’s reigns that you and your husband’s bond was so strong that both of you were found dead sleeping in each other’s arms in an advanced age.