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yallthemwitches · 2 months ago

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After Dark

“James—I can’t get caught. I was on patrol—I’m a bloody prefect.”

She feels him smile against her throat before floating his way back up to her face, a hand cradling her cheek with a thumb drawing soft circles on her skin.

“What? You think I’m going to let your good name be tarnished? C’mon Evans, you know me better.”

I accidentally wrote the @jilytoberfest day 16 prompt 🎶“My words are my faith, to hell with our good name”🎶 - Hum Hallelujah by Fall Out Boy early so I’m just posting it today instead….I’ll post 15 tomorrow ;)

This one is more steamy than my other jilytobers but still T rated!

AO3 Here

“I thought you were escorting me back to the tower?”

Merlin help her, that's what she should be doing. If she had found anyone else out after curfew, that's exactly what she would have done: walked them back to their dorms, docked points, maybe even given them a stern talking to complete with finger wag. Instead, the only thing she’s given Potter is a push towards the wall, the rest clicking into place on its own.

“I will—I’m just taking my time.”

He crowds into her, her back flush against the wall, mouth trailing under her ear to her pulse point and stopping every so often to offer a faint is this ok? before delving back towards her. Hips press against hips, legs slotted to move bodies closer.

She wonders how they keep getting away with it, him finding her in the darkness of her patrols, using the cavernous feeling of night to make whatever is now happening between them acceptable. She can’t remember when it started exactly, but she remembers it felt good. So good in fact that by this point she looks forward to when he inevitably finds her night after night, now wandering the halls searching more for him than for the rule breakers who skirt the darkness.

“Is this ok?” He repeats again as he reaches behind her and wedges his hand between her arse and the wall, pushing his thigh into her pelvis. The hum she makes in response sounds too close to a moan and it emboldens him to keep kissing her, her mouth opening to him as his tongue edges inside.

She’s trying to keep her bearings because if not she knows she is going to get lost in him. Every night they meet, they push each other just a bit further, unfocused on how far exactly they plan to take it—but it is difficult. Difficult because he smells like cinnamon and earth which reminds her of some distant Autumn. Difficult because the way his hair twists in her hands makes her want to do nothing else for the rest of her life. Difficult because if she lets her mind focus on anything lower than her stomach, she will become keenly aware that something else is pressing into her hip that isn’t his leg.

He pushes his face into her shoulder as she lets her hands wander the length of his chest, sliding one up where his shirt has become untucked to touch bare skin. A soft oh wafts away from him and into the crook of her neck, so quiet that if it wasn’t for his proximity, she would have missed it entirely.

It’s one of the things that has surprised her the most in these moments: How quiet he is. The James she knows outside of these meetings is boisterous in every definition: making booming laughs in the middle of the library, crooning ballads at the top of his lungs on his way to classes, making clattering messes with his pranks. But here—- here he is soft, voice barely above a whisper, only panting out wisps of contentment as they meld together. Always with eyes hooded and dreamlike, it's as though in her arms his entire being is completely reduced to a whimper.

They are reaching the threshold of new territory, but she doesn’t care. Everything inside her is screaming a loud and deafening yes. Not caring that she is on patrols, not caring that they are in a very public corridor, not caring that—

She hears some footsteps echo from the bend in the hallway. A faint light gets closer.

Ok, so maybe she cares a little.

James is already at attention, years of rule-breaking now like a sixth sense to impending danger. He pulls away just enough for her to watch his eyes focus at a fixed point, frozen in place. The light is getting brighter, footsteps more audible but he continues to hold her sides, seemingly deliberating something.

“James—we need to go.”

Whatever his introspection, he snaps out of it, turning and pulling her into a run.

“This way–quick.”

They are running in a direction away from the Gryffindor Tower, but she follows him anyway, unwilling to drop his hand as they go. They don’t go very far. Finding the first broom closet, James rips open the door and ushers her inside, casting a silencing and locking spell as he closes them into a different darkness.

The room is cramped and she can smell the jugs of cleaning potions sticking into her back more than she can see them, but as he turns to easily slot himself back against her, she doesn’t have a reason to complain.

“That should buy us some time.”

He leans in and places a soft kiss on her lips, both of their hearts beating wildly from the running and the sheer reckless abandon of it all. She softens under him as his mouth continues on hers, tentative and warm.

“They will try to open the door soon,” he says into the crook of her neck where he had been fluttering kisses down from her jaw. She starts to freeze in panic, but he keeps on with his ministrations, committed to milking the moment until the very last second.

“James—I can’t get caught. I was on patrol—I’m a bloody prefect.”

She feels him smile against her throat before floating his way back up to her face, a hand cradling her cheek with a thumb drawing soft circles on her skin.

“What? You think I’m going to let your good name be tarnished? C’mon Evans, you know me better.”

She wishes she could see his expression in the darkness because otherwise she doesn’t know how to take his word. In every way she turns it, they are about to be caught, her reputation no doubt dashed all because James Potter was too irresistible for his own good.

He must sense her unease because he combs a hand through her hair and leans in close to her ear, lips tickling against her lobe.

“Don’t worry Evans. I got you.”

Like the hammer of fate, the door knob rattles and Lily jumps. Behind the door, the voice of a girl makes a questioning hum and the unmistakable voice of Remus offers to use an unlocking charm.

Even in the darkness Lily can see that James doesn’t share the same horror of hearing his mate’s voice that she has. Instead, his eyes light up, body twisting against her to reach for something billowing and long behind him. Before she can question it, the weight of a blanket of some type settles over her head, her vision curiously not shrouded at all from being covered.

James pulls the fabric up to step under it for a moment, taking advantage one last time of the opportunity to put their bodies together.

“Whatever happens you stay here against the wall until we are gone. Then keep this on until you are back in the dorms.”

She doesn’t have time to question because behind the door, Remus uses an unlocking incantation and the lock clicks open. In a second, James lets the fabric drop around her again and turns to the door, running a hand through his hair.

Light leaks into the closet and behind a lit wand she can see Remus’ and Maddie Cornell standing in the threshold. She can’t see his face, but she knows James’ body language enough to know that a cocky grin is plastered on his face.

“Evening!”James exclaims, sounding more like someone passing by on a leisure stroll rather than being caught in a dingy cupboard.

“James? What are you up to mate?” Despite being a prefect, Remus' voice sounds softer than the one Lily is used to hearing him use when catching rule breakers.

“You know, having a think.”

“Right, well– you know I’m going to have to dock points right?” There’s something in the undercurrent of Remus’ tone which is lost on Maddie and Lily, but is not lost on James. He steps out of the closet and towards his mate, shrugging in a way that says we all know I don’t care.

“Ah bugger—well, guess I’m walking back with you all then.”

As James steps to start walking alongside Maddie, Remus stalls in the doorway, flashing his wand into the cramped space. Lily feels fear pool in her stomach and flattens herself against the wall, replaying James’ words like a mantra in her ear. Whatever happens you stay here against the wall until we are gone.

He takes a last glance around, eyebrow cocked in curiosity. A little ways down she hears Maddie call for him to catch up and Remus calls back, now closing the door with one last quizzical gaze into the darkness.

Lily waits long after she can’t hear the sound of footsteps anymore, not daring even the smallest possibility that they are still out there. Once she finally steps back out into the corridor, the shadows and silence have taken over again, leaving her an easy path back to safety.

When she finally settles back into her dorms, unscathed besides maybe her sanity, she thinks about how tomorrow Maddie will tell the school about finding him, detailing no doubt how he was disheveled and breathless and all alone in a locked closet–no doubt feeding the rumor mill for some time. She twists the cloak in her hands, and finds herself feeling something that has been encroaching on her for a while now: Despite it all, she’s thankful for him. Maybe in more ways than one.

#jilytober fest 2024 #jily #lily evans #jily fanfiction #marauders era #james x lily #sixth year #prefect patrols #steaminess beware

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literary-motif · 4 months ago

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Public Eye

Zaros Atha'lin x Reader

You humiliate Zaros in front of a crowd.

Warnings: social anxiety, panic attacks

Zaros grew up with the knowledge that practically everybody and their dog hated him. His family was unpopular, he understood that, and despite every effort he made to make an ally of the rest of the Serulan population, somehow his unpopularity with the nobles always made him out to be the villain.

He liked to think he was quite good at hiding how much it affected him. His mother used to tell him that he should not care about other people’s opinions and that he needed only his sense of what was right to lead him on the way of his life — but that did not mean that their words did not sting.

You grew up in the spotlight. Your mother’s politics painted you in a favorable light to everyone — because criticism of her would be criticism of you, and truthfully she was rather well received. You could part a crowd effortlessly, getting people to avert their eyes and whisper words of awe. You never learned to care for the harsh whispers of strangers because you already had everything you wanted in life.

You were at the top, looking down on all the common folks whose only way of feeling a part of your grandeur was by talking about you — and you never passed up a chance to remind Zaros of that.

When you walked through the streets of Serula together, which was not an unusual occurrence now that you were preparing for the trials, he was keenly aware of the awe-struck glances you received from everyone — including the people who your mother seemingly forgot in her politics for the upper classes, including the people who he so desperately wanted to make heard — and the looks of contempt thrown his way.

“Is that Sarl Zaros?” he heard someone whisper. “He’d do better to crawl back into whichever slump he came from. Nobody wants him and Nira here!”

The venom with which the stranger spat his mother’s name made his fists clench, but he would not have survived as long in the public’s constant sneers and insults if he had been half as hot-headed as you. Zaros took a deep breath, keeping his gaze straight ahead, and continued walking. He was too caught up in the simmering rage this injustice invoked in him to notice your triumphant grin.

You had won the public’s favor long before his mother entertained the idea of contesting the throne.

What you did not know, and what he had tried to keep from his mother for years, was that Zaros performed utterly horrific before a crowd. The people gathered around him made his heart thunder, their disdainful glances made him want to shrink into himself and hide from the harsh judgment he knew they were casting upon him. Zaros hated crowds. He hated social interactions with people who saw him as an evil threat.

It was only his luck that you loved to get under his skin.

“Sarl Zaros, how convenient seeing you right now,” you greeted, fake cheer coloring your tone. The two nobles you were conversing with in the courtyard turned around to look at him, their eyes on him enough to make Zaros tense. “Why don’t you join us? We were talking about your political ideas.”

He cleared his throat, his mind racing for an excuse. “How kind of you, Earis,” he said, holding your gaze for only a moment before letting his eyes wander to the bush of roses next to you instead. “My mother is expecting me, however. Perhaps another time.”

One of the nobles snickered. “Like mother like son,” they said. Zaros vaguely recognized them as belonging to the Ponvillus family. He bit his tongue, the sneer causing anger to overshadow his anxieties.

“Pray tell, what is that supposed to mean?” he asked, holding the noble’s gaze.

“He talks,” you said, nudging the other noble’s shoulder. She only laughed, as if remembering a private joke between you. “Watch out. Once he starts, he won’t shut up.”

“I don’t think this conversation is fruitful at all,” Zaros said, giving you a bitter glare. “If you want to insult me, please go ahead. There is no need for me to join your circle of conversation, however. You’ve never had a problem talking ill of me behind my back, why would you need to say it to my face now?”

“How sensitive, Zaros,” you said, stepping closer to him until you were face to face. You clasped your hands behind your back, standing before him as if inspecting a very particular flower.

He did not like the triumphant smile on your face. He did not like the two nobles behind you, watching your every move, waiting for the right moment to chime in with laughter and insults directed at him.

You always commanded a crowd so effortlessly. He was envious of your talent. It seemed like a natural byproduct of your upbringing, and his terror a natural side effect of his.

“Sensitive?” he asked, keeping his gaze fixed on you.

He could debate with you. He could argue with you — only you. It was so much easier to get under your skin when you two were alone — when there was no biased audience to tear him down without listening to a word he said. At least you never disregarded him, no matter how much his words annoyed you or made your blood boil — you always listened.

“Sensitive like the— the time I found you crying over your brother’s grave?”

Your face fell.

Perhaps that had been too much.

The thick silence made Zaro’s breath hitch. His palms were sweaty. He felt his heartbeat picking up. This conversation had taken a horrible turn. The noble’s faces were frozen in an expression of shock and disgust. How was he supposed to rule over a kingdom if he could not even hold a discussion without crossing a line?

You clicked your tongue. “How eloquent, Zaros,” you said, a chilling coldness in your eyes that turned his mouth dry. “I find it interesting how you spit the most hurtful things in private, but you always trip over your words whenever we’re not alone. I wonder why that is?”

He swallowed thickly, giving you a warning look. When had you caught up on this? How closely had you observed him?

“I’ll tell you why that is,” you continued, making his heart seize painfully.

He did not dare raise his gaze to look at the nobles behind you, no doubt listening attentively to gather more fuel for the venomous image they had of him.

“I think you know exactly how much everybody hates you. It eats away at you, knowing they will never listen to you, no matter how brilliant you think your ideas may be. They won’t care, because they can’t stand you. They look at you and see nothing but a waste of space. They wait with bated breath to find fault in everything you do. They are observing you, not because they care, but to remind themselves of why it is that they hate you so much. You are nothing!” you spat, “and if you think you will ever keep yourself on the throne, take a walk around the city and remember how much the people you want to help actually despise you!”

Zaros was frozen, looking at you with wide eyes. His breath caught in his throat, and he felt the blood drain from his face.

You were right, that’s what hurt so much. He knew you were right.

Your words would have made him pause at any time. Now that you delivered them in front of an audience — and their taunting laughs registered only now that he thought of them, hearing their mocking chuckles as if from underwater — he could not help feeling utterly destroyed by them.

He was helpless, caught like a deer in headlights. Not a single thought came to his mind in retort, he would not even find the breath to reply if he tried.

The laughs were drowned out by the rushing of blood in his ears. He felt sick, nausea churning in his stomach at the public humiliation you had put him through — at the truth you had said aloud. He took a step back, his eyes darting across the courtyard numbly. He felt ready to collapse any minute.

He was unsteady, the feeling of frozen shock steadily bleeding into the panic he knew so well. His mind began screaming at him to run, run, run— get away, find a private spot before he fell apart in front of the pitiless eyes of the public.

Zaros turned away from you. He could not breathe, he could not think. There was a sinking feeling in his chest that made him hover on the line between numb shock and panic. He was holding himself together with every last shred of his iron will, but with every step that led him towards the library, he felt his throat burn more and more. His chest felt tight, and when the heavy door shut behind him — blocking out the laughs and taunts that rang in his mind regardless — he felt the scale finally tip, and he collapsed to the ground with a breathless wheeze.

He was dying, you had finally done it. He could not breathe, and no matter how tightly he gripped the books to ground him, he could not get your words out of his head. They tore him apart over and over again, the knowledge that you had said them for all the world to hear made him want to dissolve into dust.

He banged his head against the shelf behind him. The hurt did not even register in his panic. His cheeks were wet with tears, but Zaros did not feel them falling from his eyes. His blurry vision made him panic more. He could not see. The world around him did not feel real anymore. He was slipping through the cracks of this reality, slowly bleeding into the ground beneath him until there would be nothing left of him at all.

At least that way he did not need to face anyone ever again. At least that way he never had to endure their taunts and disgust and hatred ever again.

A loud bang echoed through the library, making him gasp. Gods, he did not want anyone to see him. What would it matter if he was going to die anyway?

“Zaros?”

The thought of feeling anyone’s eyes on him made his stomach drop, a sickness running to his very core and making him retch.

“Zaros!”

The voice sounded familiar. Through his blurry vision, he saw your approaching form. Zaros squeezed his eyes shut. He should have locked the door. Out of all the people, why did it need to be you?

“Come— come to— glo—gloate?” he stuttered breathlessly, biting out the words with as much venom he could muster.

Why could you not leave him alone? What more did you want? Had you not humiliated him sufficiently? Did you need to twist the knife in an already fatal wound? He had never thought you to be cruel, perhaps he did not know you at all.

You dropped to your knees before him, reaching out a hand to touch his shoulder. Zaros flinched back, the touch burning and making him want to crawl out of his skin.

“Breathe,” you said calmly, retreating your hand.

He wanted to laugh at the absurdity. If he were not currently drowning in his panic, he would have shot you a glare so dark it would have haunted your nightmares.

Breathe, you said. What did you think he was trying to do? Where were the other nobles? Were they lingering in the doorway, mocking him quietly? Did you follow him here to gather more ammunition to use against him later?

‘Sarl Zaros?’ you would say with a mocking smirk, giving him a dark glance, ‘He can’t rule a kingdom, he can’t even face a crowd! Zaros? Do you mean the pathetic mess I found hyperventilating in the library? He would break in a single council meeting!’

“We’re alone,” you said, shifting to sit next to him instead. You did not try to reach out again. “I took the different entrance, they don’t know I’m here. Can you try to take a deep breath?”

He shook his head, drawing his knees up to his chest. He buried his hands in his hair, tugging at the blonde strands. This was all too much. He was slipping, freefalling into nothingness. “Can’t— can’t—” he panted. He could not calm down enough to breathe the air he so desperately craved.

“You know,” you began, keeping your voice calm, “back when I was younger, I thought the palace was haunted. There was a time when I did not dare to walk the halls at night, because I was afraid that the spirit of my brother would appear before me, and somehow blame me for being dead. I know it had nothing to do with me, but it always felt wrong to be alive when he wasn’t. Even now, I feel I am trying to take what is rightfully his. I used to attribute every little thing to his presence, the rustling of the curtains at night when there was no wind, the weird scratching I heard on my door at night, and the steady footsteps on the stone floor of the halls.

“It was ridiculous, of course,” you said with a shrug, “but I always thought he was there. One day, when I could no longer take it, I went to his grave. I told him to leave me alone, that I was sorry he was dead but that I could do nothing to bring him back and that the injustice he felt was justified, but that I was innocent of fate’s doing.

“My mother heard me, and she sat me down and told me that it was not him being envious of my life, but rather watching over me, making his presence known despite no longer being amongst us. I found the sentiment hard to understand at first, but then I thought of it less as a haunting, it was him checking in on me from time to time. It was just an unusual way of doing so.”

You glanced at Zaros. His breathing was still elevated, but it had evened out considerably. Your distraction had worked.

“I’m sorry about what I said,” he told you, leaning his head against the bookshelf and closing his eyes, taking a deep breath. “I— I don’t know why I said it. I suppose I was panicking. I wanted to lash out before you did. I know how much he means to you.”

“I know,” you said, catching his gaze and giving him a comforting smile. “I’m sorry as well. I was not anticipating this. I knew you struggled with publicity, but I never thought it was this extreme.”

Zaros hummed, closing his eyes. He was exhausted. The sun had already set, and the library was only illuminated by the glowing torchlight streaming through the large windows.

“Can you make it to your chambers by yourself, or would you like my help?” you asked, giving his shoulder a gentle nudge to keep him awake. “You know I don’t mind.”

“Fine,” he replied, begrudgingly blinking his eyes open again, “and thank you.”

#sakuverse #zsakuva #zaros x reader #zaros atha’lin #zaros atha’lin x reader #zsakuva zaros

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1indigoisles · 6 months ago

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Chapter 6 - Excerpt 3

Author's note: *evil laughing*

Tyler James

It was chaos. Everywhere.

Celeste Grainge stood at the stage and surveyed the situation before her keenly as Hunters jumped up, and, roguish creatures that they were, crowded over the back exit to chase after the real rogues.

I turned in my seat to see what it was they were doing; there was a lot of pushing and struggling, I could make out that much, but nothing besides. They didn’t even need orders to make chase after the escapees, I noticed with some discomfort.

It was the red of the walls, I decided. Red was a very triggering colour, and could instill an end number of things in people. Bravery, passion, love. War, violence, hate. Two sides of the same coin. The impact things like these could have was often looked over, and some people would scoff at those who thought that way.

The same ones that were currently and rather unfortunately trying to break down the walls trying to get after their precious ‘Rogues’.

I hope they get away, I thought.

They won’t get away, I remembered.

I remembered Desiree as well, how frightened she’d been as she’d followed her company out. Understandable really, considering the friends she kept. But who was I to judge? She was my friend too, and I could somehow never seem to do more for her.

I got up then and resolved to assist in the infirmaries. Hunters would be needing their shots, I reminded myself, and I’d best be useful. Useful was the only thing that let you make a place for yourself in the Chambers. And that was the only thing that mattered, if you didn’t want to starve. Have a little patch of yourself on the red tapestry that was Knightville’s Chambers. You could be brilliant, you could be better than the rest, but if you weren’t useful, you were deadweight.

Now, that wasn’t to say I didn’t love my job here, as a Healer, in the Chambers. It was one of the better job oppurtunities anyone could get really, healing. You had to study extremely hard for it, sure, and very few actually made it to the Healing sector (there are only hundreds of us), but if you did, you were set for life. And so what if the Seconds were terrible, and you could never get many friends amongst the Thirds? It was a question of adaptation, really. Adaptation was a requirement for all species of life, and not even Diaforians were above that, much as they’d like to believe otherwise.

My step quickened as the shouts grew louder, even as I left the warfield and arrived at the sanatorium.

It was a lovely place; the receptionist area was wide and high like the auditorium, but mostly blue, quiet and always smelling clean. The windows were wide and tall and touched both floor and ceiling, so as to better recieve the little light we could never seem to get. It was a place where you could wait for something to happen to you.

At least, that’s what the dreamer part of me thought.

The practical Healer part of me, on the other hand, was wondering if my eyes were functioning correctly, or if Adam Forrest of all people was standing in front of the receptionist’s desk of the Healers’ sanatorium.

“Mr. Forrest? What are you doing here?” I blurted, forgetting my manners in my obvious surprise.

“Thorne,” Adam regarded, turning to see me.

I prefer Tyler James, I almost said. Almost. No one cared about what you preferred in the Chambers.

I nodded.

Adam evaded my question. “Come to make yourself useful?” He asked instead.

Have you? I thought. “Quite,” I said.

“Going to the same place then,” Adam said lightly.

So good at pretending, I thought, but didn’t say. There were so many things that I thought of but never said. External restraint was never a problem, however, and in my mind, I could do whatever I liked. There were no mind-readers in Knightville, anyway, and in Adam’s case, his power was oral manipulation, the ability to have anyone do what he said with his voice alone, so it was hardly a problem. And if there was ever any danger of getting any truth out of me if he was authoritarian enough—well, there wasn’t, because Adam was powerful, both in his position at the Chambers and his own magic, and when you were that powerful, you inevitably became at least somewhat arrogant.

And when you’re arrogant, you think you know everything.

I raised an eyebrow. “The same place?”

His eyes were full of meaning. “Yes,” he said.

Oh, I realised. He wants to go there.

I stopped the smile before it could tug on my lips.

People walked around us. Some even stopped in their tracks for a moment to stare at our interaction. What was the famous, handsome, successful Adam Forrest doing here? they thought. Moreover, what was he doing talking to that what’s-his-name nobody from Third? Surely Adam was having him run an errand. He didn’t keep company like that, ever.

Oh, yes, I meant what I thought. Adam Forrest was tall and good-looking in the way that had all the women sighing in absolute mourning that they could never have him, because he was already married—to his job. He had gleaming black hair and eyes that struck ferociously with his pale skin, and his face structure only made it pop more. He was neat and sharp and always smelt clean. He And it wasn’t just his looks either. He was young success. He was hard, no, he was impossible to get. He was everything a lady could ever want and thirst for, and while I had a great deal of respect for the female species, I couldn’t help but think that some of them had absolutely nothing better to do with their time, judging from all the gossip I heard.

But at the end of the day, it didn’t matter how worthy a woman was, or how much she may have fitted Adam’s taste, or how much she may have loved him. It didn’t matter, and it probably never would.

The door was locked and we were alone. We’d checked and double-checked for good measure. My back was against the wall and Adam had pushed me there. Our hands were on each other and we were kissing.

Have you ever had a secret so well hidden, so in the dark, that when you walked back into the light you almost believed it had all been a dream?

“Someone’s impatient,” I commented idly when Adam finally let go of me, both of us out of breath.

“No one was here,” Adam explained. “I probably wouldn’t get to do this all week by the looks of things, so now seemed like a pretty good time to do it.”

“Practical as always,” I huffed into his ear, shaking my head a little.

He frowned at that a little, but then seemed to decide he’d gotten enough oxygen in his system to go right back to kissing me, and did precisely that.

Make no mistake, there were no feelings lost on us, romantic or otherwise. The only thing that brought us together was the secret that we shared, a necessity of sorts. One secret was all it took to keep coming back to this, to the dark room where we left our reality and responsibilities outside the door, only to reclaim them again when we came back out.

That said, I had no illusions that this—this lover affair of ours—would last in any way. It would probably only make the year, tops. Secrets could do a lot of things, but they couldn’t sustain. Secrets ruined, and this relationship of ours was built to be secret, and that secret would one day die, like everything ultimately did.

Still. Didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy it while it lasted, and Adam was, actually, not the worst kisser.

“Why now, though?” I asked, like I always did.

“Can’t I want to?” he answered, like he always did.

And we went back to kissing again, like we always did.

Adam left first, because he had more pressing issues to deal with, and because we needed to be inconspicuous. I didn’t mind staying in the dark room for a little while longer; that way I could hold onto the remembrance of what we had but would never get to keep.

It didn’t hurt—it just took the comfort away, and most people didn’t get to have that.

On the outside, I immediately heard someone bumping into Adam. There was a lot of loud panting, and Adam was waiting patiently for the other person to speak.

“Slow down, Third,” Adam was saying. “What is it? Any update on the Rogues?”

What the person replied was both dread and comfort.

“They got away.”

Taglist: @jeahreading, @damn-this-transgirl-hella-gay, @mayaheronthorn, @cherryblossempearl

#writing #indigo isles #land of crooked magic #writers on tumblr #tumblr novel #writing stuff #writerblr #tumblr authors

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luna-rainbow · 1 year ago

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I feel to a degree that Sam and Bucky's attitudes towards John Walker in TFATWS was kinda...needlessly cruel. Like, they had problems with him even before Walker had done anything wrong, simply because he was wearing a Captain America uniform and was no Steve Rogers. I think this really showed in their fight with him at the start of episode 5, which honestly feels to me more like "Sam and Bucky gang up on and brutalize Walker while he's still going through the process of grieving his best friend who was just brutally murdered in front of him."

I have very little sympathy for Walker, because he reminds me keenly of the particular type of person (often white and male) who has been smooth sailing for all their life and gets their way by trampling over other people but has absolutely no self-awareness of this, attributes their own success not to systemic privilege tipped in their favour but rather believes it’s all from ‘individual hard work’, who then struggles because for once in their life things don’t go their way and their tantrum behaviour escalates until it ends in violence.

I know there are more sympathetic readings of his character (he has PTSD, was unsupported, didn’t get much help) but this is the archetype I saw and…to be honest, if I met this kind of person, I would give him very little patience too.

Also, I remember Walker’s introduction very differently. Sam donated the shield to the museum to lay Captain America to rest, and his wish was disrespected. You can argue that’s not entirely Walker’s fault but he’s also not innocent either, so Sam has plenty of reason to distrust him at the get-go. Walker then went on TV and says “I never met him (Steve), he feels like a brother,” which, aside from being a mockery of the friendship between Steve and Bucky, was a weird ingratiating line while disrespecting Steve’s wishes of handing the shield over to Sam (and thereby letting Sam decide what should happen to the shield). So Bucky, too, had plenty of reason to distrust Walker before they met.

The truck fight I’m putting down to shitty writing. You’re telling me two veterans who had fought super soldiers and aliens and everything in between couldn’t handle a bunch of kids until Walker arrived on the scene? I call writer bias, and I’ve talked extensively in the past about how Walker was the only character in that series given the protagonist treatment of agency and a complete character arc at the expense of our two eponymous protagonists, who were passive and whose character beats happened off screen.

Taking away the writer issues, Sam and Bucky were both pulling their punches because they realised they were up against kids. Walker pulled out a gun and shot one of them (can’t remember if the kid died or not). That’s a much better metaphor for police brutality than the traffic stop scene later, and gives more concrete reason for Sam and Bucky to distrust him.

The only thing mean from Sam/Bucky’s side in that conversation was Walker asking to work together and Bucky saying “Just cos you carry that shield, it doesn’t mean you’re Captain America.” Which, after all we’ve seen of him so far, is a pretty fair assessment.

As compared to all the awkwardly cocky stuff Walker says in return. “Yeah, I have (jumped on a grenade), it’s a thing I do with my helmet” which undermines what it says about Steve’s moral character by covering a grenade with his body. Are we forgetting the “That serum doesn’t exactly have a great track record. No offense”? I love the no offense, which is standard repertoire for entitled people to put the burden of offence in the listener’s court instead of apologising for the offense they’re causing. Are we forgetting the “uh no we didn’t track them we tracked you through Redwing” with a smug grin? Are we forgetting his deaf dismissal of Sam trying to rationalise with why a bunch of impoverished kids are successfully leading a revolution (god the way he just ignored Sam’s point is so close to how entitled white men in real life talks it makes my blood boil)? Are we forgetting the “It’d be a whole lot easier if I had Cap’s wingmen on my side”?

I don’t think Sam and Bucky were “needlessly” cruel. I think they had an understandable emotional reaction - during a period of emotional vulnerability for both of them - to someone they see doing their memory of Steve dirty, and an understandable escalation in their distrust by what Walker then showed of his convictions, attitudes, and intentions. From a writing point of view — yeah I do think Bucky’s disgust was more exaggerated than I personally would have written him, but as far as all the OOC shit Bucky has done in this show, being aggravated by Walker was the least of it.

And by episode 5??? By then Walker has said and done a whole bunch of deranged shit. Sam and Bucky were not “ganging up” on him. Are we forgetting that Sam asked nicely for him to hand himself in? And then Walker going full gollum-mode (“my precioussss”) because Sam mentions the shield once?? (But also yes I agree the writing was once again shitty and focused weirdly on retrieving the shield instead of, you know, the priority of apprehending Walker) And sorry, going back once again to the entitled white men trope, because that’s what Walker is — did Walker show any respect to Sam and Bucky for grieving over Steve? Then why should we expect people to afford him leniency in return? Not to mention that they did approach him kindly and say that he would likely be judged leniently because of Lemar’s death. And even as they’re trying to be kind to him, Walker snipes at Bucky “I’m not like you” (actually you’re not, you dipshit, because Bucky never killed anyone in spite or rage) and assumes the worst of Sam for asking for the shield.

Look, I am all for a balanced view on Walker, because he is a layered character who tries his best but was never good enough, and the sense of inferiority escalates his immature emotional response beyond control. But that’s because of his glaring, major, inexcusable character flaws that he only has himself to blame for. He’s basically Tony Stark who has been trained for violence through the military and doesn’t have the wealth or brain power to channel his anger anywhere else.

Not to mention that Sam and Bucky never sought him out even once, and he’s the one barging in on them multiple times despite them making their boundaries clear.

#tfatws critical #i won’t tag him bcos the walker stan’s are pretty vitriolic too #asks

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chaotic-super · 2 years ago

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Back To Krypton - Chapter 33

Read Back To Krypton on AO3 here!

Lena only managed to get a couple of hours of sleep despite her exhaustion. It’s still sitting heavy in her bones and making her limbs feel like they’re made of lead but she just can’t sleep anymore. She woke up with a desperate need to pee so she ended up going into the bathroom to do so and then while she was there, she showered because honestly, she felt grotty.

She purposefully left the door open so she could hear if Kara woke up. She needs her now more than ever; she can barely even imagine the inner turmoil that must be burrowing into Kara’s brain right about now.

On top of everything that has happened with Astra and The Rebellion, she’s now got to think about the fact that Astra handed herself over to keep her safe. It’s a bittersweet action, one that hurts Kara because of the implications but shows her true love for her niece in the self-sacrificial action she took just because she wanted to protect her.

That’s just one side of things. She’s also dealing with seeing her mother for the first time since she was a child and rather than being the overly loving, perfect mother she remembers, she’s showing signs of the poor choices Kara only found out she made when Kara herself was an adult. She’s seeing a flawed woman instead of the kind, nurturing one she remembers and that can’t be easy.

As soon as she was done having a quick shower, one that made her skin red from how hard she scrubbed it to make sure she was properly clean, she climbed back into bed with Kara, just staring up at the ceiling and thinking about everything that they’re up against and questioning her own decisions.

It’s as she’s still staring that Kara stirs.

“What are you doing?” Kara mumbles into Lena’s collarbone, the woman is sprawled across Lena with a tight grip on her which means she’s thoroughly pinned down.

“Just thinking.”

Kara hums and Lena feels the vibration of it against her skin. “You think loudly.”

Lena tilts her head a presses a gentle kiss to Kara’s forehead, purposefully avoiding a little smudge of dirt still smeared across her skin. “Sorry, darling.”

Kara hums again, shifting her body slightly to make it more comfortable for her to tilt her head upwards so she can press a kiss to Lena’s lips. “It’s ok. What are you thinking about?”

“Everything going on. We have a lot to figure out.”

Lena feels a sigh against the skin of her throat and it makes her shiver slightly. Kara smiles at the reaction, just a tiny one in recognition of what just happened. “Yeah, we do. You smell nice though. Have you showered?”

“Yeah, not too long ago.”

Kara leans back from her like she’s been shocked. “Lena, you shouldn’t have let me get you all dirty again after you just showed. I’ll get you all mucky.”

“I don’t mind. I like cuddling with you.”

Kara rolls her eyes dramatically. “You can have more cuddles once I’ve showered and brushed my teeth. I won’t be long.”

Lena grabs her by her wrist gently as she tries to back away out of the bed, pulling her back and pressing another kiss to her lips. “Take as long as you need, ok? I’ll be right here when you get back and then we should probably go and see if the others are awake.”

Kara nods, smiling again at Lena, always blown away by the way Lena always knows how to make her feel better and how she’s always got room in her heart to be considerate. In a lot of ways it makes her feel less than because she knows that she could spend the rest of her life devoted to making the lives of others better but she’d still never be a fraction of how selfless and graceful Lena is. Mostly, she’s just glad she gets to be so close to her, her light keeping her warm on the coldest of days, a privilege she’s never going to knowingly take advantage of.

Unlike Lena, Kara closes the door softly behind her, Lena’s eyes tracking the movement as she goes, a fact Kara is keenly aware of, Lena’s gaze tender yet heavy on her spine. She is quick to strip down and jump in the shower, letting the warm water cascade over her shoulders and letting it warm her from the outside in.

There are so many thoughts running through her mind at once that she can scarcely focus on one because it’s pushed aside for another one just a moment later, each one demanding her attention and making it impossible for her to properly think anything over.

There is one thought she keeps coming back to though, one that is especially insistent to be seen, one that is simply just her mom.

Alura is a challenge in and of herself. She knows a lot of what’s going on now and while she’s likely going to be willing to help them, she’s not going to be helping Astra or even Krypton for that matter. Two things that are on the same level of importance to Kara as her team and their mission to save all of the aliens on Earth from Lex and his evil plan.

Lex. There’s someone she’s barely thought about the past few weeks. She’s thought of the mission and their goals and the repercussions of what will happen if they don’t succeed but she’s not really spent a lot of time thinking about the man putting everyone she loves on Earth in danger. Lena must be thinking about him though, how could she not? She’s on a mission to another planet, doing insanely dangerous things and pushing herself to her absolute limits because of someone she was once really close with, someone she once loved dearly, her own family, and Kara hasn’t acknowledged that at all. Lena must think she’s a terrible girlfriend.

Then, that’s all she can think about. She’s spent the entire time on this mission monopolizing Lena’s love and care, taking all of the comfort she has to offer whilst offering her none in return. The very thought takes her breath away, the steam of the shower making it all the more difficult to breathe.

She stumbles back out from under the steady flow of water, her feet slipping on her way out because of her disorientation and her panic. She catches herself, just barely, and stumbles over to the sink, her butt pressing against the edge and her hands coming either side of her hips to hold onto it tightly.

Her breathing is heavy, coming out in pants but still, her lungs feel empty and she can’t focus on anything other than her desperate need for air.

Her legs give way and she tumbles to the floor with a heavy thud, one that is loud enough for Lena to hear, even through the closed door.

“Kara? Are you ok? Did you drop something?”

When she gets no response, Lena gets up and knocks on the door, slightly frantically, each knock getting firmer and firmer when she doesn’t get an immediate response.

“Kara? I’m coming in, alright?”

She still gets no response so she does exactly what she threatened to do and what she finds breaks her heart.

On her knees, naked and shivering, Kara kneels in front of the sink, her chest heaving, tears streaming down her face and her hand pressing hard between her own breasts, as though trying to forcibly stabilize her own lungs, something she’s very clearly struggling with.

The room is full of steam from the shower, the water still running, so Lena makes a quick detour to shut it off, pushing the door fully open to let the steam drift out and clear the air as much as she can before she drops herself down in front of Kara, and pulls her into her chest. “I’ve got you, just breathe, Kara.”

“I- I can’t…” Kara trails off, her forehead pressing into Lena’s shoulder sharply, the pressure calming.

“Yes, you can. Just in and out, you can do it, in and out.” Lena grabs Kara’s hand and presses it to her chest, “Feel my breaths, Kara, try and match them.”

Lena purposely takes in deep gulps of air, making sure Kara can feel each one and prompting her to copy her. Over the course of a couple of minutes, her breathing gets better but not perfect but still, Lena is now willing to move Kara, grabbing her around her waist and hauling her up so she can direct her into the bedroom carefully, where she promptly sits her on the edge of the bed.

“You’re ok, you’re safe and I’m right here.” Lena coos into her ear in a whisper, barely audible but strong enough that Kara can latch onto the words. Tenderly, Lena pulls the blankets up around Kara’s damp shoulders, resting them there but not pulling them around her so she doesn’t feel suffocated. “I’ve got you, just keep breathing nice and deeply for me, darling, there you go.”

Lena’s forehead is pressed against the side of Kara’s head, her hair still sopping wet but she honestly hasn’t given it a second thought, she’s just kicking herself for letting Kara be alone when she knew this could happen, it happened with Astra and on the way to Krypton so she should have been expecting it.

“I’m so sorry I let this happen, Kara. I should have been paying more attention, I could’ve—”

“No.” Kara’s voice calls out. It’s shaky but her tone leaves no room for arguments. “S’not your fault. It’s mine.”

Lena finds her head shaking vehemently before Kara’s even finished her sentence. “Hey, no. You’re not to blame for having a panic attack, you’re really not. You can’t help it.”

“I’m sorry.” Kara’s lips tremble and Lena can see she’s just seconds away from crying.

Lena pulls her into her side as tightly as she can and tucks the blankets around her tighter now she’s through the worst of it. “You’re not allowed to apologize for having a panic attack either. It’s not your fault, baby. Not at all.”

“But—”

“No buts, it’s nobody’s fault, let’s just agree on that, ok?” Lena presses her nose into Kara’s skin. She takes note that Kara is pretty clean so she must have gotten pretty far into her shower before she had her panic attack.

Kara sniffs, wiping her nose on her wrist. “Ok.”

“Now, how far did you get with your shower? You’re not dirty anymore so you did your body, did you manage your hair?”

Kara shakes her head sadly, a little ashamed that she didn’t even manage to get through a single shower without having a breakdown.

Lena sees the embarrassed blush spread rapidly through Kara’s cheeks and the way she turns her head down towards the ground. “That’s ok, let me help you.”

“I can—”

“I know you can, but you don’t have to and I want to help so come on, let’s get you up and back into that shower and then after, you can have a nap, I know you get tired after you have a panic attack.”

Kara sucks her lips into her mouth, sniffs again, and nods, her cheeks glistening with a few errant tears. “Ok.”

Lena smiles, triumphant. She gently eases the blanket off of Kara’s shoulders and wraps her arm around her waist, helping her into the bathroom and beside the shower. She starts the water and while it’s going, she quickly strips off, amused by the way Kara’s eyes grow wide but never move away from her boobs.

“Come on.” She guides Kara into the water, stepping in behind her and trying to ignore the way the cold air feels on her butt where the water doesn’t reach.

Kara goes to turn towards her but Lena stops her, immediately pressing her fingers into Kara’s hair, gently detangling it and scrubbing at her scalp with her fingertips. It still feels strange that they can shower without a million different bottles of shampoos and conditioners and shower gels and moisturisers because it’s all in the water but Lena likes it, it’s a lot less clutter free and it makes her want to find a way to add it into her own home when they get back to Earth.

Kara relaxes beneath her touch, the tension rolling off her shoulders and being washed away with the water. It makes Lena smile once again at the sight of it and then she presses a kiss to the back of her shoulder. “Almost done.”

Lena scratches at her scalp for longer than she needs to before threading her fingers through Kara’s long, soft locks, making sure it’s all completely tangle free. “There we go, all done.”

She steps out and lets Kara turn the water off a minute later, giving her the chance to catch her breath and take things at her own pace. By the time Kara has emerged from the tube-shaped shower, Lena has already dried her front off and slipped her clothes back on and is waiting for her with a towel.

With it stretched open, Kara gets the message and steps into it, allowing Lena to wrap it around her snugly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Lena pecks her cheek.

Lena steps away from her again, this time to get her toothbrush ready with toothpaste squeezed across it in an obnoxiously neat line. “I know you’re only supposed to use a splodge but I can’t resist the aesthetics at times like these.”

“If you can’t have good mental health, then have good aesthetics, sounds healthy.” Kara nods, have face showing nothing but seriousness and agreeance.

Lena has to resist the urge to kiss her again. She loves it when Kara lets herself delve into her darker humour, something she rarely lets herself do because she likes to keep to her image of being the paragon of hope and light and optimism. It’s cute when she lets herself be herself, much more attractive than a woman with a never-ending smile and a half-baked personality, that’s for sure.

“Brush your teeth while I grab you some clothes, you never brought any in here with you.”

“I figured I’d let you see the goods, you’ve seen them now, that’s for sure.” Kara bites out a self-deprecating laugh that makes Lena frown.

“Ok, I’ll just be a minute.” Lena leaves, a little confused and a lot worried.

As she goes through Kara’s pack, she purposefully digs out the softest clothes she can find. They are all pretty similar but she tries anyway because she knows how overwhelming rough textures are for Kara. It can affect her at any time but she’s especially sensitive after a panic attack or when she’s overwhelmed, something she most definitely is at the minute.

Because she’s searching through all of her clothes, Kara ends up finishing up in the bathroom before she’s gathered all of her clothes and she perches back on the edge of the bed while she waits for Lena, half-heartedly drying herself off with the towel.

Lena drops the clothes next to her on the bed and takes the towel off her, gently drying her hair for her.

“You’re too good to me.” Kara sighs, her eyes slipping closed under her tender attention.

“Nobody is good enough for you, Kara.” Lena mumbles, her focus on the towel and Kara’s hair, purposely trying to make sure she isn’t being too rough.

Kara’s mouth twists to one side as her emotions bubble up once again. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a shitty girlfriend.”

Lena is taken aback. Her eyebrows raise and her eyes widen as her jaw drops. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’ve been making everything about me for weeks now, I haven’t even been asking how you’re doing. When I was in the shower the first time, I realized that I had stopped thinking about Lex while we have been here and that you’re probably always thinking about him and the pain you must be feeling. I haven’t been there for you in that way and I should have been. I’m sorry.”

The words are wet and stammered by the end and Lena once again scoops her up into her arms, holding her as tight as she dares to with a woman so fragile in her clutches.

“There’s only one person on my mind all the time and that person is right here in my arms. It does hurt to think about Lex and what he’s done, what he’s pushed us to do, but at the same time, I’m almost grateful, in a weird kind of way, because we came here, I’ve gotten to experience so many incredible things and I’ve had the chance to do it with the woman I love, there’s nothing more magical than that and I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

“Really?”

Lena hums the affirmative. “I just wish I could take away all of the pain and feelings being dragged up for you, I know it can’t be easy seeing all of your family again, especially your mother.”

“It isn’t.” The words are hesitant like she’s only just now admitting it to herself as well as to Lena. “I just remember her so differently. I learned about all of these things she’s done a lot later in life and by then they were just words, stories even, it wasn’t real. Now it is.”

Kara begins unfolding her shirt as she speaks, busying her hands. Lena watches her shrug her bra over her shoulders and clasps it while trying to find the right words to respond to Kara’s admission.

“That makes sense. A lot of sense actually. It’s a see-it-to-believe-it kind of situation. Now, you’ve actually got the proof rather than a silly story you didn’t really want to believe.” She helps Kara tug her shirt over her head, helping her arms through the armholes, doting on her as much as she can get away with despite knowing that she’s fully capable of doing it all herself.

Kara eases her panties up her legs and then tosses the pants on the floor, she’s not putting them on now, she’s getting back in bed as soon as she’s got her socks on. “You really get it?”

“I do.” Lena moves across the bed to her own side to give Kara the space to get in beside her.

Together, they lean back against the pillows. Kara presses herself into Lena’s side, her arm lying across her midriff and her fingers gripping at her shirt which causes little wrinkles to form in the fabric but Lena barely spares it a second thought, if it makes Kara feel better then it’s worth it, she can always throw a jacket over the top of it anyway.

“Do you think my mom knows too much?” Kara asks after a while. “We told her a lot.”

“No, I told her a lot. I let my mouth run before rather than thinking it all through properly. I guess coming out of a life and death situation and then being confronted about top secret information isn’t my strong suit.”

“To be fair, I don’t think that’s anybody’s strong suit, except for maybe Alex’s, she seems like the kind to be able to deal with that. We should have let her do the talking.”

Lena presses soft kisses into Kara’s hair. “I think she was too busy holding her wife and daughter, thanking every god that’s even been believed in that she managed to get back to them in one piece. She’s a lot softer than we give her credit for.”

“Probably.” Kara hums and when Lena looks down, she can see Kara’s eyes fluttering closed. Moments like this always drain Kara and so she’s in desperate need of a good nap.

Lena squeezes her tight. “Just go to sleep, darling.”

Kara nods, just barely against the skin of Lena’s collarbone, already halfway there.

Lena lies there for a long time, long past Kara’s point of no return where she’s well and truly asleep, mostly because she doesn’t really want to do what she’s going to do but she has to, for Kara, she has to.

With careful movements, Lena eases herself out from under Kara and smooths out her clothes, throwing a jacket over her wrinkled shirt, and heads out of the room, closing the door behind her as carefully as she can so it doesn’t bang and wake Kara up.

She wanders back out to the living room where Alura is sitting, her head in her hands and hunched over in a rather undignified position for someone of her standing.

“Alura?” Lena calls out quietly so as to not startle the woman.

Alura sits up but makes no pretence that she wasn’t just sitting in a pit of her mind’s making. “Lena, how are you? How is Kara?”

Lena sits down on the couch beside her, her body angled towards her. “I’m doing well and Kara is…well, she’s handling things as best she can.”

“You and my daughter are courting, I presume?”

“We are,” Lena says with a hint of joy dancing behind her eyes. Introducing Kara as her partner is something she’s going to have to get used to when they get back to Earth.

Alura looks her up and down a couple of times and it takes everything in Lena to not fidget under her gaze. After a moment of obvious judgement, Alura nods. “You treat her well, yes?”

“Always.”

“Good,” Alura says. “Now, I presume there is something you want to talk to me about? You probably wouldn’t have wandered out here to have awkward small talk with me so what do you need from me?”

Lena clears her throat. “I told you a lot of things before, things you shouldn’t know. Things that can affect the timeline and put the future in danger. Your actions that follow that knowledge being bestowed upon you can make or break an entire planet so I need you to be willing to work with us to prevent catastrophic destruction.”

“It could be that bad?” Alura’s eyebrows pull together in a rather Kara-like manner, or rather, Kara sometimes pulls her eyebrows together in a manner learned from her mother.

Lena swallows down the lump forming in her throat when she thinks about the damage that they have probably already caused. “It could, or we could salvage this mission and everything could be ok. I’m hoping for the best, Kara helps with the whole optimism thing but I can see that at the minute, even she’s struggling to find hope.”

“Kara has always been able to see the best in things. Everything she’s ever done has come from a view I wish I had of the world. I’m not sure where she got it from because it’s certainly not from me or Zor. He’s got a better outlook on life than I have but neither of us could ever match the wonder Kara has for the planet, even when she sees the miserable side of things. We could show her a hundred broken things and rather than dismay, she would simply spend as much time as we would allow trying to come up with solutions.”

Alura gets a look across her face that Lena can only describe as a look of pure, unadulterated love, one only a mother can get when talking about her daughter. Lena can’t help but wonder if her birth mother once got that look upon her face when talking about her, or maybe, even if Lillian ever has, just when she was sure Lena couldn’t see as to not expose her softer side to her. She’ll just have to wonder.

“Kara told me about an experiment she did where she created a project she was working on, an artificial environment to try and save species of bugs from extinction. She even built it for us so we could see it. It was truly remarkable. There are not many young people around that are smart enough and kind enough to come up with something like that.”

“My Kara has always been one of a kind.” Alura can’t keep the grin off her face. “She’s got such a big heart, I’ve always been afraid of the days when it gets broken because the world is much crueller than she can handle.”

Lena shakes her head, a movement so slight that Alura barely catches it. “She’s a lot stronger than you think, she has survived things you can’t even imagine and fought with dangers that neither of us can comprehend. She’s had a hard life, one that you can’t protect her from, no matter how hard you try, and she is one of the strongest people I’ve ever met, probably the strongest. Her heart though, it might splinter or crack or get bruised but I’ve never seen it broken, not even once, and with what she’s lost, it’s truly remarkable.”

“Did she lose us? Zor and I?”

“She lost everything,” Lena responds in barely more than a whisper. “She lost everything she ever loved and somehow, she managed to come through on the other side, a little broken, sure, but she’s made herself stronger for it. I can’t say anything more than that but I need you to know what an incredible, resilient, kind, loved woman Kara is. She may have lost everything but she is my everything and I will do what it takes to protect her, including telling you what I need you to do so you don’t mess up the timeline and make her lose her home in the future in the same way she lost her first home so please, listen to me and work with me.”

Alura looks down at the ground, another movement that is just a mirror of those that Kara is known for. She sighs loudly before looking up. “We can discuss it. I can’t make any promises but I also have my Kara to think of. Your Kara may also be my daughter but I haven’t seen her grow up yet, not the way I have with my Kara, my twelve-year-old daughter.”

“That’s all I ask.” Lena accepts, biting her tongue so she doesn’t say anything more because Alura doesn’t seem to grasp that there is no ‘yet’. She’s never going to see Kara grow up beyond the point she’s at and that very fact makes Lena want to curl up in a ball and cry for them.

Alura takes a deep breath. “Alright, tell me what you need me to do and we can discuss.”

“Ok then. Let’s start with Astra.”

Read the next 3 chapters on Patreon here!

#supercorp #supergirl #lena luthor #kara danvers #kara x lena #cw supergirl #fanfic #supercorp endgame #supercorp fanfic #fanfiction #kara leaned in #kara zor el #wlw #katie mcgrath #melissa benoist #back to krypton #chaoticsuper

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lewis-winters · 1 year ago

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Last Line(s) tag

thank you to @almost-a-class-act and @hellofanidea for the tag! sorry I only answered now it slipped my mind.

Um. Ok. So. I haven't been working on any stuff lately because ✨Depression✨ so I clicked on a random word document for this. So. Here's the last few paragraphs from a Winnix fic I left unfinished in 2021, based off the indie film Private Romeo:

It’s funny, Dick thinks. Funny how little they have in common, poor Romeo and he. The fancies of youth have never taken a hold of him before, not the way it has this boy, with his heart on his sleeve, daring the world to break it and make him into something poetry and songs could claim. Moving through the world with his head down and his hands as busy as he could get them, Dick always thought it wiser to keep his heart tucked in and away, protected and only feeling what his head would let it, fueling it with nothing but determination and character, building it all upon the moral compass so carefully handed down to him through the wisdom of the generations. He’d been a good son, staying carefully in his lane, living life according to the words of his parents, understanding their discipline to be an expression of their love and honoring them best he can. He never crashed parties he wasn’t invited too. He never made friends with those who drank their weight in alcohol. He never allowed himself to pine after those he could never have.

Or at least he didn’t, until now.

The moon is forgiving tonight, shining gently through the window of their tiny room to caress the sweet swell of Lewis’ cheek and the proud slope of his nose. His dark brows are drawn together in a frown, the corners of his lips downturned in distress. Dreaming again—of what, Dick isn’t sure. Lewis never tells. But it doesn’t stop the need in him to reach out and touch, soothe away the pain with the pad of his thumb, allowing the rest of his fingers to cradle Lew’s cheek, run themselves through the thick of his steel black hair.

Now that he thinks about it, they’d met very similarly to this, on that little patch of gentle sun that appeared every afternoon on that grassy hill behind their barracks in Fort Benning. Dick remembers it just like it were yesterday, perhaps because he holds on to the memory the way Lew holds on to his flask, taking it out for a sip every now and again, to feel the addictive rolling, crashing wave of warmth course through him until he feels it all in the crown of his head to his toes.

Lew had been dozing, left behind on a rare weekend when the bars and pubs of the nearby town could not hold his attention for long. Asleep, he looked his age, smoothed out and serene and boyish; long, black lashes fanning across his tan cheeks with a sweetness that made Dick want to kiss them until they fluttered open to reveal those large, brown eyes he’d been dutifully trying to keep out of his thoughts. He did nothing of the sort, of course. Instead, he’d shimmied down the slope to hover over this boy he’d only ever seen in passing, but whose image he’d always followed with his eyes, inexplicably drawn, and shaken his shoulder until he’d awoken, staring up at Dick with confusion.

“Hi?” he’d said, groggy. And that was the beginning.

Dick had never thought that his own love might be something poets would sing of. Never thought of it burning or hurting so keenly, drowning him in yearning and want. He always thought his love would be straight forward and simple.

Now, with his eyes slipping shut as he watches the steady rise and fall of Lew’s chest, he realizes that that, too, had been its own kind of foolishness.

And I'll tag whoever wants to do it!

#personal #tag game #winnix #estrella_marie

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punemy-spotted · 4 years ago

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The Price You Pay Chapter 3: Counteroffer

Pairing: Mob!Steve Rogers x Reader, Senator!Andy Barber x Reader

Warnings: Rape/Non-Con elements, Dub-Con, Dark!Fic, Abuse of Legal System, Murder, Character Death (minor, possibly major), Love Triangle, Political AU, Mafia AU, Workplace Sexual Harassment, Abuse Mentions, Possessive/Obsessive Characters, Other Chapter-Specific Warnings May Apply, Possible Dead Dove: Would Not Eat

Chapter Warnings: Rape/Non-Con Elements Continue; Dub-Con; Angst; Politics; Possessive/Manipulative Behavior; Spanking; Choking; Crying; The Dove is Probably Dead: Do Not Eat

Chapter Summary: The return of an old friend brings back the ghosts of old memories.

Chapter 1; Chapter 2

Notes: Shorter chapters my ass, these outlines are getting unreal. Andy Barber has arrived, Steve Rogers does not approve, the Reader bears the consequences. Things are going to be angstier from here on out and I can feel it in my bones. Please don’t yell at me — or do, your feedback is well-loved and appreciated even if it’s yelly.

Not beta-read, these sins belong to me and me alone.

You met Andy Barber fresh from the ashes of his divorce, escaping the gossip and scandal and pain of his past life only to dive into the gossip and scandal and pain of politics. Senatorial campaign, in need of an aide and a law student desperate to do more for the people than hours in clinics and mock trials. Hungry for something grassroots, angling for the impossible.

A match. Whether made in Heaven or Hell feels irrelevant now, long ago as it was.

It was then. This… is now.

Hey Sunshine, didn’t think you’d be able to make it.

He looks the same. Keeps the same beard. Same hair. It’s uncanny and familiar and safe all at once and you slide into the booth with your purse by your side and feel genuinely smiley for the first time in a long time.

It’s been a while since I heard that name.

Yeah? It’s been a while since I got to use it.

The silence is heavy, unwelcome, unwieldy, a reminder of the space between what was and what is.

How’re you doing? Last I heard you were making a name for yourself taking down the…

He trails off, eyes fixed on the slide of your gaze, the sudden interest in a drink menu you wouldn’t normally touch, the tremor of your lips. A man doesn’t serve as Assistant District Attorney for the many years he has without picking up tells.

Sunshine.

Andy…

It’s a warning, a plea, a… confession, all at once, and all the dogged determination in the world can’t hold against the break in your voice, in your control. You’ve cried more in the past few weeks than you can recall and now here he is, soulful eyes and a worried expression and he’s never hugged you really, but suddenly you might want it just that much more.

Don’t be an idiot.

It’s dangerous, your stress, and you know it.

Dangerous enough to send you into the arms of the next safe thing — this is why you don’t do this, isn’t it, this reaching out bit, but no advocacy group on the planet is going to save you from yourself today.

I saw… I saw you win that case. Pretty brutal, standing up to the Syndicate, and getting what you did. He steamrolls past the way you wince, his thumb on that metaphorical bruise and pressing, the Prosecutor’s dogged determination demanding answers, I have a friend in the office, he was convinced you’d be climbing the ranks.

Every word is a twist of the knife, couched in quiet concern, gentle admonition, a warm hug in a smoky tenor and you want to tell him everything, you want to break down in his arms and tell him every word, every buried piece of you he never learned, everything that’s led you to this.

You don’t.

You know better than to trust him too. No one’s going to take care of you but you so instead you shake your head and wave it off and Decided going into the private sector was the better option — one big win doesn’t really make up for the stress, you know.

Private sector. That’s what you’re calling the SHIELD Syndicate now? C’mon, Sunshine…

Look. It’s the Syndicate’s New York, when he made the offer it was… safer than saying no. It’s a cushy position anyway, and I didn’t want anyth—

He doesn’t believe you. He doesn’t believe you and you’re digging a hole trying to explain your way out of it so you just… shut up, shaking your head, It’s not important. I’m fine. I’m more curious about you — what year is it now, your fourth? What are you doing in New York?

The deflection works, but the look on his face is obvious — you’re not getting out of this so easily. He gives in for now, just for now, for you.

Almost fifth, gearing up for re-election. Had a meeting up here… about the organized crime situation for both states, and I remembered you were in the area.

Oh. You… it’s been a while since we talked, you remembered?

You expect me to forget you, Sunshine?

That stops you in your tracks, or whatever road your mind had been racing on, thoroughly not enjoying the defensive you’ve been on since you met with Steve, constantly under watch and waiting for yet one more shoe to fall on you.

That’s fear, sweetness.

Andy…?

You were the best campaign aide I had — I told you then too, I would have made you Chief of Staff if you’d let me.

It’s a good save. A clever save, and you want to believe it more than anything, want to believe it was all business and no pleasure because the alternative makes your nails bite into the table and want to turn tail before he can say another word and he… sees that panic flicker over your face so keenly it’s almost embarrassing.

You’re not used to this.

You’re not used to the warmth of his eyes when he searches your face for the answers you can’t give voice to. You’re not used to the way he reaches for your hand and rests it over your fingers, curling around your palm like he might actually keep you close and keep you safe and keep you free of the demons you made a part of yourself too.

Sunshine, why does his voice have to be so soft, why does it have to sound like molten honey on your senses, why does he have to say your name like it’s the very definition of the word hope, If you’re not safe…

No. No you’re not, tell him tell him the truth, tell him you’re atoning for the girl you could not protect tell him you aren’t worth it tell him this is your penance tell him you signed a death warrant tell him tell him tell him.

Andy, really. I’m fine. It’s a good job.

It’s a shit lie.

He drops it. Drops it just long enough for a waiter to finally come by, for his hand to leave yours while he talks through the wine menu. Drops it long enough for you to check your phone, realizing with horror that you must have silenced it absentmindedly sometime on your way here.

Ten missed calls.

All from Steve.

And one text, stamped from just five minutes ago.

[SMS] Either you pick up your phone or I pick you up, Counsel.

The next one comes right before your eyes, a picture of a map and a GPS pin. Your location.

You glance up at Andy, still talking to the waiter about the small plates options, feign a smile and Go ahead and choose, you have better taste than me, and return to staring at the picture and the three dots at the bottom of your screen, waiting to see his next message.

[SMS] Make your choice.

The haptic feedback of your keyboard feels like an electric shock with every letter, hurried fingers until you manage to tap out something that won’t immediately put the man in front of you in the crosshairs of the most dangerous organization in New York.

You can’t do that to him. You can’t.

[SMS] I’m at a dinner with a friend.

[SMS] And since I know there’s no emergencies pressing, I’d like my time, thank you.

You have the good sense to set it next to you this time, watching your screen light up with whatever furious response he sends next, glancing over only occasionally every time another one comes through. Don’t let him control you. Don’t let him think you’re at his beck and call.

You’re not.

You’re free, you’re free and you’re going to prove it.

Sunshine? What’s going on?

His voice cuts through the haze of panic like a knife and you swear you don’t mean to jump but you do and there’s no denying what he notices, eyes narrow and lips turned down in a sharp scowl, Sunshine…?

You are not that girl. You cannot be that girl, never again.

Steel. Steel yourself, flash him a smile, take a sip of the ice water left in front of you while you’d been checking your phone, reset yourself. Steady. Steady on.

Don’t let them know.

Nothing, nothing, just the boss — let him know I was busy.

Why is he texting you after hours? The Syndicate can’t be that busy.

He’s too watchful for your own good. Probably just making sure I’m staying out of trouble.

Are you?

Are you calling yourself trouble, Senator?

You like this. You can handle this, the trading of jokes, the crooked way he smiles. His eyes are a little more distant than you remember but you can still see them sparkle softly when he suppresses a laugh, lighting up properly when the joy reflects in them.

Briefly, you wonder when the last time he really laughed was.

By the time dinner is over, his hand, warm and steady, is back on yours as you talk — and for a moment you almost enjoy the way he runs his thumb over your knuckles absently, like he’s making careful appraisal of each one. Could use your skills for the re-election campaign, you know.

Really? You’ve got a gorgeous approval rating, what are you afraid of?

Not having my good luck charm on the staff.

Andy…

I’m dead serious, Sunshine, you ran that ship. You were what, a 2L? Rising 3? You had canvassing down to a science. We need that energy down on the Hill.

The curve of his fingers is a little tighter now, squeezing yours, like proof of his earnestness and oh, you want to keep believing him. You need to keep believing him.

There’s so much in New York I have to get done first. And besides, you know me. I want a life on the bench.

Justice Sunshine, and it sounds absurd when he uses your nickname and it sounds so real when he uses your nickname and in the warm smoke of his voice those contradictions can live together all at once.

That’s the one. Closest you’ll see me to Washington is when I’m appointed to the Supreme Court. It’s a dumb, arrogant, silly joke but it’s the same one you used to make with him over drinks, teasing him about his political goals and making him promise to “go easy on you” at your eventual Senate confirmation hearing.

It’s the one that makes him crack that too-beautiful crooked smile while he takes a sip of his drink — hiding the curve of his lips behind the rim of a heavy glass.

Well. If you ever decide to ditch—

Ever decide to ditch what?

The world moves in slow motion: hearing the low growl from behind you; Andy Barber looking up and rising to his feet, his hand slipping from yours with just the ghost of his comfortable touch to assure you; Steve Rogers coming into view as you turn, flanked by the not-entirely-unfamiliar faces of two of his enforcers — it looked like Wilson and Banner had been selected this evening — and the sudden pressure of knowing you’ve done something terribly, terribly wrong.

You stood me up, Counsel. Steve’s voice is a threat, a half-drawl as you stand up and face him, Andy right behind you, Something wrong with taking my phone calls?

She was busy, the sound of Andy’s voice is a balm to your soul and fuel to Steve’s fire, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he grits his teeth and resists the temptation to throw the first punch — you can see the fingers of his right hand curling into a fist, can’t you? The slow curve, the watching, wondering if you’ll make the right choice now that someone has chosen to try to lead you astray.

And who the fuck are you? If he can’t get you to respond, he’ll get something from the man talking for you, eyes trained on him like he’s debating whether his own frustration will make this interloper turn to nothingness and return you to his arms where you rightfullybelong.

Do you? Rightfully belong?

Senator Andy Barber. The title practically knocks the wind out of Steve’s sails and you can see it — he may be the Captain here, King of New York, ruler of his domain but he’s not stupid enough to openly attack a man with connections beyond the Syndicate’s web of influence. It’s a comfort and it’s not, all at once.

The room is still, vibrating with tension, the two men staring daggers at one another and you caught in the middle. I worked on Senator Barber’s campaign when he first ran for election, you manage out in some vain hope it might explain and mollify, only to be thoroughly disappointed — and judging by the way Banner winces, only to dig your grave further.

We’re talking about this later, Counsel. You’re coming home.

And what gives you the right to give her orders? You really are going to have to look back at Andy and beg him to not make this worse. You really are going to have to let him see your face, see that you’re afraid, sweetness. He’s not going to let you go easy and this should not terrify you as much as it does.

Senator Barber. It’s fine. Something must have come up,turning to face his burning eyes, until his face softens like he’s seeing you for the first time. And is he? Is he seeing how you just need him to let it go, let you go, drop the protectiveness and step back?

He has to, because he does, nodding before he grabs his coat and glances to the host station. If you say so, Sunshine. Take care of yourself. He doesn’t press, not knowing when he’s beat but knowing when you don’t want him to. When you’re not safe.

And Steve Rogers offers you his hand to walk you out.

And just what the hell did you think you were doing!?

Oh, and you control my time off the clock now too?

He dragged you back home.

No. Not to your apartment, that sanctuary away from all this you’d been allowed to keep as part of the “deal.” His home, the bedroom where you signed yourself away, the space he unraveled you and left you tangled in your new life.

He dragged you back home, in the grim silence of the backseat of his car and you waited. Waited for the inevitable explosion, the one prefaced by Wilson’s nervous looks and Banner’s cautious stare.

This explosion, where he rounds in on you, where livid is still too tame a term.

Meeting with a Senator? Ignoring my calls? I told you, you were mine tonight.

And I told you I had plans.

After I told you that you were mine, Counsel.

Okay. That’s true, even if you’re loathe to admit it.

Plans adjust. Andy wanted to—

Oh, Andy now? I thought it was Senator Barber? You’re really familiar with him, aren’t you, Counsel?

Just what the fuck are you implying?

Maybe you need a reminder of who you belong to.

He loves to do this. Wrap his big hand around your throat, remind you just how easily he can impose his power onto you, watch your protests die behind your eyes when you realize how useless words are in the face of his violence.

The furious look in your eyes is something to behold, the way you embed your nails into his wrist to try and drag him off you, all soft snarls and indignant huffs, You fucking asshole…

You’re mine, Counsel, and don’t you forget it. You gave yourself to me, remember?

Like I… like I had much of a choice, breathy, furious, and clawing at him.

Doesn’t matter. You’re mine, and clearly I need to make sure you know it…

Steve—!

Captain, sweetness, Captain, and don’t you forget it.

There’s a moment, when anger becomes transcendental, when it turns into something cold and calculating and prepared, when a plan forms behind his eyes and you watch as he looks down at you, so full of fury and fear all at once and you watch as he leans in so close and you feel his hand slide until he has you by the back of the neck, until his thumb is the thing pressing under your chin to keep your eyes on him, until the heel of his hand is the thing keeping you from shouting at him further. Such a stubborn little bitch…

You can almost see the words forming in his mind, the ones his mouth won’t say, I could be so good to you, but he doesn’t say them, sliding his lips over yours instead and it is… soft. A capturing of your mouth with his, not caring that you protest, only insistent on leaving you breathless and hazy-eyed from each tug of his lips on yours and there stokes the warmth of more than your rage, a different fire rising in your core, unbidden and unwelcome but yours to own and his to play with.

He can sense it, practically feel it, that mad serum racing through his veins and making his nostrils flare as he pulls back and watches you, lets the scent of your perfume fill his senses like a drug he can’t get enough of and, I should hate you too, for this, whispered low and hushed and you barely catch it, don’t you? Barely, but enough, enough to remember it was said just before he pulls you down with him into the depths of his own lust.

And into his lap, it seems, as he drags you down, sitting on the bed with you draped over his lap, an effortless shift in his skillful hands. You can protest, and you do, even daring to try to pull away with a kick of your legs and an indignant, What the hell do you think you’re doing?But you know it’s all futile, useless as he places one heavy hand on your back and lets the other slide over the smooth chiffon of your blouse, tracing a line along your spine with careful, practiced ease.

Would have preferred this with a little more… circumstance, sweetness, but you need to learn a lesson now and drastic times call for drastic measures.

You can turn your head slightly, to look at him, that wild-eyed fury so sweet on your face and you are still a wild creature he needs to tame but he is patient and he can do this for as long as it takes.

But you’re a sight like this, draped over his lap in a pencil skirt and blouse, so put together and proper and now so prone to him, helpless under the appraisal of his hands and the way he takes no time in hiking your skirt up around your waist. Captain! Your protest is met with a low chuckle, especially as he lets his palm curve around the round swell of your ass, before leaving a light swat on the soft flesh, to draw a yelp from your furious mouth.

If that’s all it takes to get you shouting, sweetness, you’re going to hate what comes next, smug and cruel, as you try to hold yourself up enough to look at him, met with his smirk and the simmering fury still bubbling in his eyes. To say you’re in danger still is an understatement, no doubt, and you know it.

I won’t make you count this time, but piss me off again, sweetness, and we’ll just see how much you can take, you hear me?

Oh you loathe him, really and truly loathe him, hissing with anger and embarrassment, so close to twisting in his arms and clawing at him but remembering his size and just how much worse it could get — but then there lies the undercurrent.

The one you loathe too, more than you hated him, that warmth. Seeping into your core, a low heat kindled by the sly softness of his lips on yours and the sure tenor of his voice, low and soothing even as he promised damnation. The one that — just like now — leaves you flushed and writhing while he purrs threats to you, massaging the soft skin and sliding the lace of your panties down to remove all barriers to the sex he owns so surely.

You open your mouth to argue with him but as you do, you feel his hand lift from your flesh and then the resounding SMACK of palm on skin, turning words into nothing but a sharp cry of pain, surprise, and lust. The heat rises just as your body tenses, reacting to the sudden attack on your delicate form, cheeks flushed. Even as your eyes well with tears your sex strives to betray you and — Oh do you like that, sweetness? — damn him for noticing.

Let me go, Captain, the threat is shaky, your voice wavering with something like want and panic all at once, and all it does is draw another laugh as he soothes the stinging mark left on your cheek, gentle as a lover and four times as cruel.

Do you know what I think, sweetness? And another raise of his palm, to strike you once more, listening to the way that cry of pain and surprise turns into a soft, involuntary moan the moment he begins to soothe the ache, I think you need this. Always so uptight, trying to be the head bitch in charge, aren’t you? Just looking for someone to take over, take control, remind you where your place is.

His fingers slip further, more interested in exploring the soft slickness of your sex, listening to your protests die in your throat with every press of his fingers into your plush folds. That’s why I’m here, to keep you in my lap, all fucked and soft, sweetness. Don’t you worry, I’m going to take care of you. Even if I have to teach you just like this.

You should hate the way he talks, hates how he finds your center with effortless ease, like he’s known your body for years. Holding you down in his lap still as he draws mewling moans from you with every curl of his fingers, finding the proof of his accusations in the slick need coating your thighs, soaking his fingers, You’re making such a mess of me, sweetness. Are you going to be good?

Hiss at him. Snarl at him, buck your hips and twist in his arms, push him away. Do something more than what you are now, with red-rimmed eyes and tears staining your face, do more than listen to him talk, feel his cock pressing against you as you lay in his lap, I’m going to ask it one more time, sweetness. Are. You. Going. To. Be. Good?

He punctuates each word of his question with a harsh smackagainst your ass, leaving little time for you to do more than cry out, until the last spank draws something like a moan from your perfect lips and therein lies your surrender for tonight, that soft mewl of pleasure born of pain and he soothes you again with soft shushes and gentle touches, back to inspecting the renewed slickness of your cunt, back to enjoying that plump tightness wrapped around his fingers and back to trying to control the shift of his own hips and you can feel him, hard against you, needing you as much as he is compelling your body to need him.

Captain… a low, desperate sort of mewl, the squirm of your body less to escape and more to enticeand he notices. Notices the way your fingers try to cling to him, notices how you look so very sweet when you’re so very desperate and in some way this is your own game of control, a push and pull and the curl of his fingers is suddenly so much angrier, driving you to the precipice of the fall and you are tumbling, tumbling down into a darkness of want you may never recover from.

Say it again. Tell me you need me, sweetness, tell me you need me and I’ll give you everything, and there’s an edge to the way he says everything, like he might meanit, like he might give you the world if you just gave in and you hate him, sweetness, you hate him but you need the things you hate once in a while and you can’t keep bearing his fury on your body and so you sob out your surrender and whine—

I need you, Captain, please…

And that is enough.

Let him believe you.

#steve rogers x reader #andy barber x reader #dark!steve x reader #dark!steve rogers #dark!steve rogers x reader #mob!steve rogers x reader #dark!fic #steve rogers smut #andy barber smut #this fic is murdering my ass

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avintagekiss24 · 4 years ago

Text

day with destiny | b. barnes

→ pairing: aristocrat!bucky barnes x aristocrat!black!reader

→ word count: 3000

→ warnings: 18+ ONLY, smut, sex, biting kink

→ challenge: @cockslut-padalecki not my ninth

trope: aristocratic society

song prompt: crush by jennifer paige

→ square filled: @star-spangled-bingo 2021

g5: clothed sex

→ author note: i was finally able to reign myself in with these word counts, lol. i saw this gif of baby faced sebastian and couldn’t help myself. he looks like a little shit, but look at those pink lips… anyway, these are modern!aristocrats. lyrics to crush aren’t obvious (except for one line at the very end), but worked into the dialogue. i have no idea who made the gif, i got it from google. i also have no idea who made this divider, as i also got it from the google.

Blue eyes peer over at you from across the table, the gaze searing into the side of your face. A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, but you don’t dare cut your eyes— this game is entirely too fun to give in now. Instead, you take a deep breath, pushing your chest out— your tits— shifting roughly in your seat just to make your flesh jiggle, before you release the air slowly.

Cabinet meetings are never fun. Rich, old white men going on and on about their views for the country— your family of course bringing the only sense of color into the society. Some old man yammers on at the front of the room behind the podium. Heads nod, claps ring out at random intervals, loud here here’s filling your ears as you roll your eyes. You don’t have the least bit of interest in any of it as it stands today, but your blue blood, and rank in the family— poised to take over for your dear old daddy in the coming years— requires your presence.

Bucky Barnes is quite the same. Young, bored, and too damn pretty for his own fucking good. You squeeze your legs together abruptly, the images of the last cabinet meeting playing back in your mind. Hot, sticky breath. Reddened, swollen lips— against your ear, sucking on your skin. The salt that exploded on your tongue as he shoved his thumb into your mouth.

You stand quick, clearing your throat— sending a silent message to the youngest Barnes at the long table. A hand grabs your wrist, stopping you as you start to move towards the back of the room, “Mother?”

“This is important, daughter,” she whispers harsh— a warning.

“And so is my bladder, mother.”

She sighs heavily, but releases the grip around your wrist, “Yours and the Barnes boy, apparently.”

Flicking your eyes quickly, you smirk as he pushes his chair underneath the table and starts towards the large doors at the back of the room, rubbing at his chin with his hand, the sunlight glinting off of the rings adorning his long fingers. You watch him as he moves— so easy, so confident— as he runs his hand through his dark, perfectly clipped hair, the Loubotins on his feet clicking softly.

You only drop your eyes when he slips through the door and out of view, “Ten minutes, mother.”

She knows. She knows that you know she knows, but she just sighs again and lets you saunter off without a second glance. Dress dragging behind you, bottom lip sucked between your teeth, heart and blood starting to race as each step draws you closer to your silver tongued foe, lying in wait for you in a random, deserted hallway.

He’s leaned against the wall, gazing out over the city beneath, hands drawn into his pockets. He’s a sight, but he always is, each little brown hair in place, chin and cheeks so clean shaven that a hair wouldn’t even dare sprout. Body lean in that black military jacket, gold medals and hand stitched ribbons hanging from the pockets.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” you smile soft, crossing your arms over your chest, leaning against the very same wall.

Bucky glances over his shoulder, that shit grin he’s such a proud owner of spreading on his face, “Then stop propositioning me.”

You laugh— it’s gentle and soft, the dissonance of your long relationship easily melting away. He finally turns and takes a few steps towards you, extending his hand, tenderly taking your fingers. Those deep, emotional eyes stay on yours as he lifts your hand, lips brushing— glancing ever so lightly over the backs of your delicate, manicured digits. Then he smiles, slow, sweet, teeth sinking into his blushed bottom lip as he blinks just as slow.

He’s a sight, this Bucky Barnes.

Keenly aware of his family’s teetering reputation, hanging on by a mere thread as of late due to his fathers extra curricular proclivities, you can’t help but take a swipe, “I’m surprised you’re family’s allowed back in the building. It got a little tense last time you all were here.”

“It did, didn’t it?” he answers quickly, placing your hand on his shoulder before he pulls you in close— a long arm wrapping your waist, pinning you to him, “I don’t remember much though, as my face was buried in your cunt for most of the meeting.”

Shivers race the length of your spine. He feels it— revels in it— savors it.

Lively brown eyes bounce back and forth between heavy, brewing blues, “You aren’t afraid that the rest of them will move to vote your family out, Lord Barnes?”

“Not in the slightest,” you’re met with a defiant shrug, “I hate this shit.”

“Oh, how original! An aristocrat that hates the god given privilege bestowed upon him.” You sigh, tilting your head towards the ceiling as he nuzzles into your neck, your hands sliding up and over his shoulders, “You’re predictable, Barnes.”

“You’re one to talk about privilege, My Lady.”

“Am I?” You retort quick, quirking an eyebrow.

A brilliant smile is cast upon you, blue irises like gems, sparkling under the light, “Your blood is the richest in the room— the bluest of blue— and you speak with such animosity of mine as if you haven’t prevailed your entire life because of it.”

“Bested by the color of our skin, which has precluded my lineage of its rightful place for years,” you scoff, leaning into him, “It was not privilege that got us here, Lord Barnes,” you whisper, “It was persistence.”

He chuckles against your skin, the vibrations rattling through your body, right to your bones. Hot velvet slips along the curve of the junction between your shoulder and neck before teeth scrape and then sink— tenderly— right into the meat, making you gasp. Hands grip, fingers dig into his opposite shoulder as he nips and nibbles.

“You’ll lose everything,” you breathe, heavy, languid as his mouth, his tongue, his lips move to your jaw, your chin, “Your family will be ruined.”

“I’ll be okay,” Bucky hums low, a smile on his face, dark eyelashes splashed over his pink tinged cheeks. His long fingers play with your lips, prodding gently as he rests his forehead to yours, “With a face like mine baby,” he whispers, that devilish smile painting his red tinted lips, “I was born to marry rich.”

He pushes his leg between yours, spreading them, pushing the meat of his thigh right against your sex— the thin silk of your panties sticking to the balmy, wet flesh. The tips of his fingers flirting with the inside of your calf before pushing up over your knee, skirting up your own ticklish thigh.

Bucky takes pleasure in the honeyed giggle that bubbles in your chest and slips out of your mouth, knowing not just anyone can coax such a genuine reaction from you. Metal fingers push higher— sweeping softly, back and forth, over the powder pink silk panties, discovering the warm wet spot, a white hot fire filling his eyes.

“Will you marry me?”

You grunt some, leaning in, putting full lips right against his ear, “Absolutely not,” the words whispered.

“You sure?” he squints, drawing your face back in front of his, thumbing at your bottom lip, pulling it open, “There’s something in those eyes.”

“Let’s not over analyze, Lord Barnes,” you tisk, slipping a hand between your bodies, cupping his cock— squeezing his heat— with care of course, “Don’t go too deep with it. It’s just—”

“What?” brisk, curt— the words cut off by a feverish, deep kiss. Tongue licking into your mouth, sweeping against the roof— heavy, hot, rushed, desperate for you as he groans, “What is it?”

You pull at his belt, at the button and zipper, hand and fingers sinking into his open pants, pushing through a rough, dark, tuft of wiry hair. He whirrs, strained and broken, body clenching up as your warm palm wraps around him. Long, slow strokes pull more tiny sounds from him— a skilled muscle memory, what he likes, what he doesn’t, what he needs— taking over.

A sweet kiss, soft and quick, is pressed against his cheek, your lips against his ear once more, “It’s just a little crush, Bucky. Just some little thing that raises my adrenaline when I need a shot.” His cock jumps in your hand, a quick hiss and stunted grunt filling your ears as you lick your lips, “Don’t make too much of it.”

Bucky grabs your face, squeezing your cheeks hard, puckering your lips before he kisses you feverishly again. The cool metal digits grab your neck, a soft pressure constricting the muscles as he pushes you back, back against the window— using his body to crush you to it.

The smack of his lips disconnecting from yours ricochets off the walls, filling the small hallway. He licks your lips, dragging his tongue from your chin right to the tip of your nose as he anchors your leg on his hip. Hot flesh fingers slip up your thigh, pulling your panties to the side, the cool air sending a shock to the wet, delicate flesh of you. He sucks that bottom lip back between his perfect teeth, tilting his head back slightly to peer at you through those long, dark eyelashes.

You mimic him. Tilt your head back on the glass, sink your teeth into your swollen lip, hand still stroking him slow, wetting the pads of your fingers with his silk. His hips rock soft into your palm as you sweep your fingers over his tip before dragging back down his length, gripping him firm. With a quick blink, you’re staring at him— angry, thick, throbbing in your hand. A bead bubbles out, spills right over, a long string hanging from his reddened tip before his cock twitches again— leaving you breathless. Knees almost buckling. Mouth going dry as your lungs struggle to fill.

“Come on, baby,” Bucky purrs, goading you as you push his cock through your folds, rolling your hips, teasing your waiting slit with his tip.

Surprise sweeps through you when frankly, it shouldn’t as you sink down on him. The muscle memory of your hands don’t translate to the muscles of your cunt— his size, how much you have to spread to accommodate him, like a revelation each and every time. Bucky almost never rushes it, and neither do you, like it’s something new every time.

But it isn’t, no no, it’s ancient for the two of you. Connecting like this in long, skinny hallways, cramped closets, old hotel rooms under the mask of darkness. The muffled sounds of your sex as you try and ultimately fail to keep quiet, filling the abandoned spaces— bringing life to them again.

Loneliness often fills your chest if you go too long without it.

Bucky is buried to the hilt in you now— rooted deep in the tightest, hottest space of your body. He takes a minute, pushing his hips, wiggling— adjusting— before he pulls out slow. All the way, cock bouncing as soon as it breaks the threshold. He doesn’t wait long though. Nope. He’s back inside of you within seconds with a slam of his hips, pushing you up the window. Pulling a squeak and a rush of air from you.

Those red lips of his part, his heavy tongue pushing out to slip along his bottom lip as his eyelids drop, covering the blue you’ve come to enjoy. You can’t help but reach out, place your warm palms and fingers on his blushed cheeks, tracing his nose before they prod at his bottom lip, the tips just sinking into that wet mouth. He draws long breaths, exhales them all over your face as he starts to move.

You let the rhythm carry you away. Up into the clouds as your head rolls to the side, hands fall to his chest and around his neck. Tits bounce with each shove, starting to spill over and fall out of the square shaped neckline of your intricate dress. Hair starts to fall out of place, heat rises in your cheeks, desperate little wet noises beseeching him.

Bucky’s a good fuck. Ever the playboy, never thinking twice of an encounter until— well, you, as he so softly put it one night in one of those dark, old hotel rooms while you both dressed. There’s a filth to it. The way he toys with you. Speeding up suddenly— skin slapping, echoing down the hall— and then, without warning or hesitation, slows down. Down to nothing almost. Soft pulses of his hips, just enough to drive you mad. To make you beg him for more.

To make you weak. To keep you coming back.

That’s how he is now. Barely moving, wanting you to squirm. Two big eyes, pupils blown stare up at you. Mouth agape, the smallest little curve on them. He wants you to beg. To tell him just how much— “Bucky,”

“Yes?” he shoves hard, pushing deep, “My Lady?”

“Please,” there it is, the beg— the want, “Please, Bucky.”

So, the filth is back. Yeah, it’s a little dirty how he grips your thigh, hard, nails digging and scratching into the meat of it. How he licks into your mouth and bites your lips before shoving that metal hand into your neckline, palming the delicate mound of flesh beneath. A brown nipple is soon exposed, tight and hard, after a quick tug of his hand yanks your dress down. It disappears again within a flash, right into his mouth, tongue circling.

An arch curves your spine when he sucks, a deep, low, stressed grunt sounding from somewhere deep in your chest. Your lips pucker, forming an o as you breathe heavy, then gasp quick before digging your teeth into your bottom lip and inhaling sharp. An already tight grip on his bicep and left shoulder constricts even more as he really picks up the pace, desperate and feverish his hips, tongue slipping into your cleavage.

There’s nothing but sounds and sensations— the squelch and squeak of his cock stuffing you, your stiletto slipping off the foot that’s hooked around his waist and thudding against the floor. The gold medals pinned to his military jacket bouncing soft against the thick material. His metal fingers tapping against the windows as he holds his weight.

Flashes of heat ripple through your body— muscles tensing and straining, cunt clenching, clamping. Fists balling. Stomach and head twirling as he gives you his best. And God, do you appreciate his effort.

The fuse proves to be short on this crisp winter day. A coil that had no chance of staying intact snaps earlier than you expect, body tightening hard, nearly freezing you in place the second before you start to come. Crying out— no shame, no sense of care if anyone hears— you just let it take over. Let him drive it home, hips snapping against yours, jutting, thrusting, pushing and pulling, sending you higher and higher.

Goosebumps on your skin. Heartbeat in your ears. A white hot flash, nearly blinding— it’s just that good. Metal fingers sink between your legs, playing with your clit, enticing it further as it spasms— wanting to feel every last bit of what your body has to offer.

Bucky hammers away, until he can’t. You’re just too sweet— too warm and wet and inviting. He’s painting your insides white within minutes, hot, quick shots of silk, filling you up, and then spilling back out. His head falls heavy to your chest as the last digs of his hips work themselves out, lips sticking to your damp, exposed skin.

You wrap him up, hands and fingers splaying out on his back, holding him tight and close as he empties and stills. Then, the two of you just breathe. Let the day, the room full of people, your families, your duties, just fade away. It’s just you and Bucky and that cool window against your overly warm skin.

It breaks— the moment. Just as it always does. Your body becomes empty as he tucks back into his pants. No longer pinned to the window, you bend to replace your shoe, pull at your dress. Bucky runs his thick fingers through his dark hair, you picking and smoothing at your own.

Stepping off after a few sobering moments without so much as a look or a smile, you're caught, a tight hand around your wrist, pulling you back. You crash into his chest, crash against his lips in one last, deep, sweeping kiss. One that once he pulls away, your eyes stay closed, lips stay puckered.

“You sure you won’t marry me?”

You know that if he asks one more time, your resolve will fizzle— and you will, “Very sure.”

A lopsided grin covers his mouth as he tilts his head, “Just a pesky little crush, huh?”

“There’s no vision of you and me quite yet, Lord Barnes,” you sigh, turning away and stepping down the hall, “You just pray that I don’t decide to join the rest of the party and vote you out.”

“Make sure you keep a copy of your vote for me. I’ll want to frame it.”

You throw him a quick glance, “And why would you do something like that?”

“So I can show our children just how mean mommy was to daddy before we got married,” he starts, buttoning up his jacket. He kisses the pads of his fingers and blows on them lightly, sending you a kiss, “I have white picket fences in my eyes.”

Without another word, he spins on his heel and takes off in the opposite direction. A hum vibrates in your throat. The sounds of your heels and his shoes slap against the walls as the two of you walk away from each other.

It doesn’t take a scientist to understand what’s going on, baby.

#notmyninth #ssb2021 #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x black!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fandom #bucky barnes x you #reader x bucky barnes #you x bucky barnes #bucky barnes x black reader #you x bucky #bucky x you #bucky reader #reader x bucky #avintagekiss24

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wlw-peachylsbn · 4 years ago

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i think i need some fresh air (feeling under pressure) (narcissa malfoy x reader)

A/N: okay, so my only notes for this fic was "narcissa reads you poems while you suck her tiddy? mommy kink yay". so that's what you're going to get! thanks to @daffodilmoons for inspiring me with their post here!

we have some mommy kink (yes, i am predictable go away), a bit of tit sucking, and fluff.

You sigh, tossing the covers off as you sit up, rubbing your eyes. The clock hanging on the wall reads 2:34 a.m. Great.

You turn to look at Narcissa, a smile instantly coming to your face. She’s sound asleep, of course, but she looks like some sort of angel, her blonde hair tumbling in waves, a peaceful expression on her face. You quietly take her hand, pressing a soft kiss to her fingertips, before stealing her robe and padding to the living room. You’ve never been more grateful that her manor is so large. You can just wander around with little chance of waking up.

Of course, you find your way to the library. Multiple bookshelves tower over you, and the soft carpet muffles your footsteps as you take your favourite seat. It’s a plushy, cherry red chair by the window that sticks out from the elegant, silver decor. Narcissa ordered it for you after a playful argument (darling, I love the comfort factor, but it doesn’t match!), and you fell in love at first sight. Or first seat.

A table rests at the side of your chair, adorned with your favourite books and trinkets, and a glass of cold water (on top of a coaster, of course). You take a book of poetry—love poems—and idly flip through the pages before tossing it back onto the table. Usually, you can lose yourself in poetry, but tonight, you just feel restless.

You grab a nearby blanket and wrap it around your shoulders as you stand up, looking out the window. It’s a bit of a chilly evening, but it’s quiet. There are no more of those damned peacocks, just some birds calling and the rustle of the wind. The moon is shining brightly, too.

You sigh, tightening your hold on the blanket that smells like Narcissa. You’ve been having trouble sleeping for the past few days, with nightmares waking you up or simple insomnia. It seems like tonight is the latter.

You sigh again. Life just sucks sometimes! No way around it. School has been an absolute bitch lately. With finals coming up, and multiple projects and essays due, your stress levels are extremely high. Every day makes you come closer to your deadlines. You don’t want your grades to slip, but you’ve spent every waking moment hunched over your desk, your quill scribbling. You haven’t even had time for dates with Narcissa, even.

You slump against the window. The sword of Damocles hangs over your head, and you’re keenly aware of every slipping inch. You know you shouldn’t overthink, but still, your mind falls down a negative rabbit hole with no rope to hold onto.

Dark whispers infiltrate your mind, and the demons in the shadows tip-toe forward, ready to grab you in their claws. You can’t even muster up any courage to fight back; you just allow them to control.

Until you feel a hand on your shoulder. You know who it is. Your love, Narcissa, of course. You would know her blind or deaf, by the warmth of her hand and the softness of her footsteps.

When you turn to face her, the monsters fade away. Her hair is like her halo, and the way she’s smiling at you can only be described as angelic. She’ll protect you; she always does.

“Cissa,” you breathe.

“Darling. What on Earth are you doing up so late?”

“I thought it was early?”

“Early or late, there’s no reason for you to be up at this hour.” She tsks, and although it’s meant to reprimand you, you feel a sense of calm wash over you. She’s worried about you; she cares about you.

“I know. I just couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Why ever not?”

“You looked too beautiful to disturb.”

“Oh, hush.” Narcissa rolls her eyes, but you still spot the pleased smile she tries to hide. “I don’t want you to hide from me. Your troubles are my troubles. I can help you, do you understand?”

You glance away, squinting at the door over her shoulder. “I know, I know….”

“Good. You’re not alone, not anymore.” She takes a seat in your favourite chair and tugs your waist, making you tumble into her lap.

A laugh escapes you as you shift to get more comfortable. “Cissa! What was that for?”

“Because I wanted you close,” she replies simply. “Now, what’s been keeping you up at night, darling? I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages. You’ve been eating less and less and working more and more.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to ignore you.”

“I know you don’t. I never said you were. But I am rather worried.”

“There’s nothing to worry about, I’m fine. Please don’t worry anymore.” The lie slips out without your consent, and judging by her raised eyebrow, Narcissa doesn’t believe you one bit.

“Don’t you remember what I just said?”

“Yes, we’re a team, my troubles are yours, blah blah.” You wiggle closer, moving her silk robe to the side so you can nuzzle into the soft skin revealed.

“ ‘Blah blah?’ And is that my robe?” She tsks again. “It seems you’ve developed a bit of an attitude, little one.”

“Me? I don’t have an attitude!” You ignore how her nickname makes you shiver, instead pressing a kiss to her neck again. “I don’t, Cissa.”

“Well, if you’re a good girl, then you’ll tell me what’s wrong.”

You sigh loudly but rest against her chest, closing your eyes. You’re tired. You’re always so tired. But you push through your exhaustion and say, “I’m just really stressed because of school. I was having a good start to the semester, but now, I’m feeling pretty burnt out. I don’t want to disappoint …”

“Disappoint?” she prompts. “Finish your thought, sweetheart.”

“Disappoint my family. Disappoint me.” You swallow. “Disappoint you.”

“Oh, honey.” The kindness in her tone makes you grip her robe in your fists, trying to stop yourself from crying. “Sweetheart, it’s alright. Everything is going to be alright. Look at me. Look at me, please.”

You don’t want to, but she grabs your chin gently, tugging so you’re looking into each other’s eyes. You can’t imagine how you look, hair mussed up, dark eye bags, and a slowly escaping tear. But Narcissa looks at you tenderly as ever, reaching up to wipe your tear away. “You won’t disappoint me.”

“But—”

“Hush. You could never disappoint me. Never. Especially over a grade. I just want you to try your best. That’s all.”

“Everyone says that but—what if my best is not enough? I’ll be a failure, Mommy.” To your utter humiliation, the nickname you associate with comfort and safety slips out. You bury your head in the crook of her neck again, this time intending to never leave.

“Sometimes, the things we love and work hard for, don’t work out. That has nothing to do with our failures or triumphs, simply that the time wasn’t quite right.” Her hand comes up to rub your back in long, smooth strokes, thankfully not commenting on your Freudian slip. “Your grades have nothing to do with you as a person. They are a separate entity, completely. The only things that define us are the things we allow, understand?”

You nod shakily. “ ‘m still really worried.”

“I know, my love. I’m not expecting that fear to go away in five minutes. But if you allow me to stay by your side, I swear I will always be your support when you fall. Always.”

“Always,” you whisper. A seed of hope worms its way to your chest. With Narcissa by your side, how can you do anything but fight?

“But we can plan tomorrow, darling. Our goal for tonight is to get some sleep.”

You nod, already half-asleep on her chest. The exhaustion you’ve been pushing away slams into you like a ton of bricks, and you yawn. “M’kay.”

“Shall I read you some poems? I know you love them.”

“If you don’t mind, Mommy.”

“Of course I don’t, darling girl.” Her hair tickles your cheek as she leans forward to grab the book you were reading earlier. “Would you like to hear Sonnet 43 by Elizabeth Barrett Browning?”

“Mhm.”

“ ‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.’ ”

You know the next line by heart. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height. It’s quite close to how you feel about Narcissa, but not entirely. There are no words for how you feel for her. Sometimes the truest feelings are the hardest to put into words because there simply are no words. But it’s close. And you think she knows.

Narcissa’s voice is so lovely. Husky from sleep and soft and melodic. She has a perfect reading voice. She’s perfect.

You shift, a little whine leaving your mouth. You’re on the verge of falling asleep, but you’re missing one key thing.

“Oh, what’s wrong, sweetheart? Tired?”

You nod, snuggling closer to her.

“That’s alright, dear heart. Just rest now.”

“Mommy,” you whine again. You don’t want to say it, so you grasp her robe and tug, exposing her breast. “Please?”

“Oh, I see now, darling. You just want Mommy’s help to fall asleep, don’t you, lovely?” Narcissa coos, pulling her robe more to the side. “I know, baby, I know. Come here.”

Finally. This is what you’ve been waiting for. You eagerly latch your mouth on her nipple, closing your eyes and sucking.

She laughs quietly, running her hand through your hair, playing with the ends. “Slow down, darling. Just relax now. Mommy’s got you.”

You nod, eyes half-lidded. The bud in your mouth hardens with every suck or lick, and it is arousing, to an extent, but it’s mostly just … comforting. There’s something you can focus all your attention on, something that’s anchoring you. You keep sucking, listening to Narcissa read, and finally allow yourself to fall asleep.

#narcissa malfoy x reader #narcissa malfoy #narcissa black #narcissa black x reader #narcissa malfoy fic #harry potter fic #hogwarts #not sfw #narcissa malfoy x you #narcissa malfoy x y/n #narcissa black x you #narcissa black x y/n

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viperbarnes · 4 years ago

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The Tie That Binds – [Four of Eight]

[B. Barnes, Soulmate AU]

Summary: HYDRA took everything from you, your life, your future, they even burned off your soulmark to make sure nobody would go looking for you. Now the man they forced you to fix reappears in your life, to make amends and to be ‘of service’.

You know that they made him do all those things, that James ‘Bucky’ Barnes is not The Winter Soldier, that he’s innocent. You don’t blame him.

But that doesn’t make seeing him again any easier.

Warnings: Panic attacks, language, talk and depiction of home invasion and abduction, canon level violence, HYDRA levels of torture, angst, fluff, slow-ish burn, friends to lovers.

Note: THANK YOU FOR WAITING!!! I reaaallly hope you enjoy this chapter ;) This one is a little longer, to make up for the shortness of the last chapter. Let me know what you think!!!

<- Prev / Next ->

It’s late, your phone tells you that much.

Blinking quickly awake, you catch your breath and reach immediately for the device, checking the time with a deep frown. You feel as though you’d only just managed to fall asleep, which makes the loud knocking on your door even more annoying.

For several seconds you just sit on your bed and listen. Perhaps it was one of your neighbours, coming home drunk and not realising this wasn’t their place, but then the sound comes again and you have to cross that option off.

The banging was too precise, too sharp to be someone inebriated.

You’re pulling a thick sweater over your head as you make your way through your living room, cautiously. The knocking hadn’t come again, and you wonder if your visitor had left.

You pull open the door quickly, frowning deeper still at why on earth Bucky was on your doorstep at three in the morning. You don’t even manage to take him in properly before he’s stepping forward, his wide, wild eyes sweeping over you, searching.

“I came as soon as we landed, what happened?!” He asks, deep worry filling his voice, his features pinched in panic. You blink in confusion, taking a slight step away from him, but only so that you can properly take in his completely overwhelming appearance.

You’d seen him return from missions with minor scrapes and bruises before, but nothing about his current look was ‘minor’.

A large cut on his forehead that reaches up into his hairline is caked with both drying and still wet blood, the rest of his face filthy with the clear remnants of a brutal fight. You can’t tell if the blood on his lips was from his nose, or if he’d cut there too. Even his uniform is all but ruined, ripped and torn in various places, blood splattered all over his jacket, and even worse, a large gash along his thigh, deep and still weeping.

“Jesus Christ, Bucky!” You exclaim, unable to stop yourself. Bucky’s brows only knit further together and he steps closer.

“Are you alright? I couldn’t call, my phone got– it doesn’t matter, are you okay?” He looks you over again, as if you were the one currently bleeding, but you realise rather suddenly why he had come and why he was so worried.

Your face heats up approximately a million times hotter than the sun.

“I’m– I’m fine, I… That wasn’t– I didn’t mean for you to–!” Your voice cuts out as mortification fills you and you drop your face into your hands. Bucky’s face floods with relief, and then a small amount of displeasure as he seems to fully relax, shoulders sagging a bit under what you can only assume is a very sore body.

“You said to call you ASAP.” He mutters, and you wince.

“I know, I know… But I didn’t mean for it to sound like… I’m such an idiot, I didn’t even think about how it might sound…” You scold yourself, finally lifting your head from your hands to look at him apologetically. Bucky sighs, and you can see him forcefully reigning back his ire.

“As long as you're okay…” He sighs again. You want to apologise again, but a drop of blood seeps out from his hairline and you straighten.

“What the hell happened to you!?” You ask, stepping aside and allowing him to amble into your home.

“Got blown up.” He states shortly. He doesn’t make to elaborate, but you don’t think you need him to.

“It’ll mostly be healed by morning.” He informs you, turning his head to look back at you as he peels off his blue leather jacket. With his back to you now, you can see even more large gashes in his back, having torn right through his clothes and left his back looking as though he’d been lashed.

You can remember the Winter Soldier returning from missions looking just as terrible, the gore was sometimes too much for you to handle.

As if realising for the first time that he’d entered your home, Bucky looks around with a frown and then quickly grabs his ruined jacket back from the countertop he’d just placed it on.

“I should go. Let you get back to sleep.” He tells you, already moving for your door again. You don’t exactly know why, but panic lances through you, making you hurriedly step in his path, blocking him off.

“What? No, no, no, you need to clean up!” You blurt, swallowing thickly when his expression shifts slightly, into something unreadable.

“It’s late… and I’ll be fine.” It sounds less like he’s making his excuse to leave and more like he’s trying to reassure you, his voice softer and more soothing than you’d expected.

You blink at him, and try to figure out why exactly you didn’t want him to go.

Granted in the past few weeks you’d become increasingly close, it was actually something you’d started worrying about. It was as if time ceased to exist when he wasn’t around, only starting up again when you saw each other. More and more you’d started to feel lonely, had started to look at the little scar on the back of your hand and yearn.

And that was scary.

Scarier was the way that any and all reservations you’d had about Bucky had completely dissolved, replaced instead by a sense of warmth, and comfort and safety.

You swallow again, and shake your head.

“I’m not letting you go home like this.” You tell him.

“Seriously, you need to sit down and clean up as soon as possible. You look bad.” You gesture at his head and thigh.

“I’m fine, really–” Bucky begins, but his voice hitches when his knee seems to momentarily give. He catches himself quickly, one hand steadying himself on the wall, and you know he’s lying to you through his teeth because he doesn’t even try biting back the curse he lets out.

“Bucky…” You scold warningly, crossing your arms over your chest, even as he relents. You don’t think about the fact that he’d barely put up a fight, or that when he carefully begins moving again, that he knows his way through your home, even in the dim light.

He groans as he sits down on the toilet seat, looking even worse under the harsh lights of your bathroom.

“Dislocated my knee.” He grunts, eyes keenly trained on you as you move around him, procuring a clean towel and a couple of washcloths from the cupboard, and getting the water in the shower running for him.

“Do you… are you okay to get in yourself, or…?”A sudden sheepishness fills you, having not considered the realities of making him stay, but he shakes his head, and reaches to pull his black shirt off.

Dumbly, you stare for several seconds too long as the fabric is peeled from his body and tossed into your tiny bin, your eyes glued to the broad expanse of his chest and abs, a body you’d seen a hundred times before, but somehow, feels brand new now. Bucky notices, of course he does, but thankfully doesn’t say anything as you hurry to avert your gaze, jumping around to face the mirror, which doesn’t really help.

“I– I have some mens clothing. Some sweatpants and a jumper. I bought them for me, but they’re big enough… they should fit you okay…” You ramble, pretending to tidy up the multitude of things you have on and around your sink.

“Thanks.” He says quietly, grunting softly as he works on his boots.

You pause again, stuck staring, as for the first time since you’d met him two months ago, you were able to see his metal arm completely uncovered.

You’d picked up that it was new, the black and gold colouring of his hand a give away, but he hadn’t said much on the subject. You knew it was a gift from Wakanda, and had theorised from that information that it was made of vibranium.

Your eyes travel over the sleek, geometrically interlocking panels, of how it moved and folded almost organically. You turn back to face him to get a better look, your curiosity too much as you take it in. The fingers were deft and far more slender than the arm you’d worked on, much more like his flesh hand. The joints and knuckles were traced in gold and you realise that the black vibranium (?) was actually encasing a layer of more delicate golden panelling underneath, allowing for both acute fine-motor skill and reinforcement to lend added strength–

You’re shocked from your thoughts when you realise Bucky stares right at you, his movements frozen in place. When you further realise that you’ve moved away from the sink and now hold his forearm in both your hands, you let out a startled gasp, and jump back, releasing him.

You can’t even think of what to begin saying to him, and for several moments you both just stare at one another.

“I– I, um…” You stutter, face growing warm. Bucky slowly tears his eyes from you to look at his arm, but his gaze quickly returns.

“You can… You can have a look, if you want…” He offers, voice even and unreadable. You blink.

“I know you were working on this kind of stuff before… prosthetic limb enhancem–” He continues, but you’re snapped out of your daze, cutting him off quickly.

“No. No thank you.” You say, a little more harshly than you intend, but a cold prickle has begun creeping it’s way up your spine. Bucky closes his mouth and just watches you. You step even further away from him and shake your head.

“I don’t– I don’t ever want to think about any of that again.” Your voice feels stiff, and both embarrassment and discomfort force your decision to exit out of the bathroom, shutting the door closed behind you.

You feel bad about your behaviour, and as you lay in bed and replay the events again and again, it almost makes you want to step out of your bedroom and apologise. It wasn’t as if you’d have to go anywhere. After he’d finished cleaning up, looking a hell of a lot better already but still walking stiffly due to his knee, you’d quietly insisted he at least stay until his leg healed.

Bucky hadn’t argued, and you try not to linger on his seeming willingness to stay. It makes your blood pump a little faster, and your mouth feel both dried and over-salivating at the same time. You think again about your strange relationship, how things were evolving, and about how you could almost trick yourself into thinking you felt tingling on the back of your hand sometimes.

You’d been trying to ignore the feeling, not only because it was insane for you to feel as such about him of all people, but mostly because Bucky’s soulmark was black. Black, meaning he already had a soulmate.

Somewhere out there, Bucky Barnes’ perfect half was waiting for him to find them. Maybe they were even looking for him. The thought feels like a punch in the gut, but it wasn’t the first time recently that you’d had to remind yourself of the fact.

Whatever weird, strange feelings you’d developed, it was all pointless.

You roll over and brush the thoughts from your mind. You’d never fall asleep that way. Sleep didn’t always come so easy to you, and it had already been late when Bucky had arrived, and so you let the warmth of your blankets and the knowledge that your home was a hundred times safer with him inside it lull you into unconsciousness.

---

The Winter Soldier sits bloodied and battered in the chair before you, his chin turned down toward his chest, but his eyes flickering around the room, looking as dark and as menacing as always. His gaze lands on you for mere moments before it’s moving on, clearly not deeming you as a threat.

Around you, the room bustles with an unusual amount of people, talking rapidly and low in Russian. Your shoulder is jabbed harshly and you quickly continue to move forward, gingerly pulling up a nearby stool and moving to place your small bag of tools on the trolley provided.

A doctor of some kind stands on the Soldier’s other side, his gloved hands covered in bright crimson as he attends to a wound you refuse to look at. He seems distracted however, looking back and over his shoulder at another man every so often, gesturing and pointing at his patient’s body.

Perhaps the fact that the Soldier had been watching the room when you entered should have given it away, should have sent alarm bells ringing in your head, but you were so often surrounded by danger these days that the change in demeanour hadn’t made a mark.

You move to take your seat, just as the doctor leans back in and that's when the Soldier snaps.

His broken body lunges to his feet, moving faster than you have time to register, and you don’t even get to see what he does next. The air is knocked out of you, a pain pulsing in your abdomen and chest, and then your back as you suddenly hit the bare concrete wall, crumpling like fabric to the floor.

You’re aware the room has erupted into chaos, of shouting and the clicking off of safeties on guns, but for several minutes you’re only able to clutch at your stomach, gasping for breath. You aren’t hurt, not fatally anyway, there had been no knife in the fist that had swung out and batted you away like a ping pong ball, but the force would surely leave bruising.

You catch a brief glance of the Soldier with his hand around the doctor’s throat, until you realise that his hand is in fact around a scalpel that is lodged inside the doctor’s throat, and you look away again.

The guards and his handler all hurry to diffuse the situation, garbled shouts and threats in a language you don’t understand, as tears begin to prickle your eyes. You were lucky to be alive, all things considered, just unlucky enough to be standing so close when he’d snapped. But although you weren’t dead, or dying, the blow had hurt.

Too soon for your liking a hand is harshly grabbing your bicep and yanking you to your feet.

The room seemed to have returned to how it had been before, the only signs of change being the dead body lying on the ground beside the Soldier, and the cuffs that were strapped around his wrists, holding him to the chair.

The hand holding you pushes you to walk forward, and you dig your heels in.

“No, please, I don’t–” You start, feeling your whole body begin to shake in panic. You’re cut off by another man, Karpov, who steps into your line of sight with a curled lip.

“Fix it.” He demands, accent heavy around his words. Your fear of the man behind him outweighs your fear of him, and you find yourself shaking your head, struggling to try and break free of the tight hold on you.

“No, I can’t, I can’t! Please–” This time you’re cut off by a sharp slap that sends your head flying to the side, the sound ringing in your ears and seemingly bouncing off the walls. Your chin is grabbed roughly and yanked to attention.

“You will fix him. Now.” Karpov spits, releasing you just as the guard holding you jerks you forward once more.

You’re pushed down onto your seat, your trolley of tools shoved beside you, the noise making you jump. For several seconds you can only sob, your whole body shaking violently as you try not to cringe away from the Soldier, who sits impassive now, his eyes turned down, his body slumped.

A harsh prod to your shoulder makes you move, and slowly you begin the process of opening up the metal arm, diagnosing the problems, and fixing them.

Your hands tremble the whole time, and your crying gets softer, but doesn’t stop, the pain in your abdomen pulsing and aching.

You wake with a sharp inhale, but as the dream fades and the morning sets in, you release it with sigh.

The dreams hadn’t become less frequent since Bucky had come into your life, but the power they once held over you, the ability to put you on edge and send your anxiety spiralling for the next few days had all but disappeared.

It was as though the fear of him specifically had become detached from your memories, and regardless of your friendship, you were grateful to leave it behind.

The events of last night begin to trickle back to you as you stretch and groan, waking up properly and considering all that had happened. You don’t know if Bucky had stuck around through the night, or had taken off in the early hours, but you know you still needed to apologise for your reaction in the bathroom, so forcing yourself out from your sheets, you pull on a thick sweater and stuff your feet in your slippers before making your way out of your bedroom.

It was still early in the morning, the sun only just beginning to rise, and you find yourself pausing in your doorway, eyes transfixed on the sight that was Bucky Barnes lit up in the morning light.

He wasn’t asleep, nor did you expect him to be if he had stuck around, but the view is no less breathtaking, the sun illuminating his side profile as if to tease you, to put on full display what you knew you could never have.

Bucky looks up from his phone after a moment, spurring you to move again, absently making for your kitchen.

“Morning.” You greet, mouth dry still.

“Morning. I already got coffee.” Bucky’s words make you pause again, and you blink at the sight you’d obviously missed with ogling him; two large takeaway cups, still in the little cardboard holder.

The cups are marked with the labelling from the cafe you’d often meet at, the one Bucky had revealed was his favorite only after you’d gushed about how good their coffee was.

“Oh,” Is all you’re able to say for a moment, changing paths to move slowly, almost gingerly toward him and the cup and now holds out for you.

“Thanks…” You continue when you’ve carefully plucked the drink from his fingers, and made the decision to take the seat beside him on the sofa.

Bucky takes his own coffee then, and you realise he’d been waiting for you to wake up before he’d started on his own. The thought makes your tummy flutter, but you tell yourself it’s only the memory of your dreams.

“Thanks for letting me stay… I probably shouldn’t have been getting around on my knee as much as I was.” Bucky says after he’s taken a sip from his cup. You watch him scrunch up his nose and fiddle with the lid, pulling it off and placing it aside. He always hated how small the drinking holes were.

“Of course. You looked awful, but I would have felt worse sending you off… especially since you’d come all this way to check on me.” You shrug, shooting him a smile.

Bucky grimaces momentarily.

“Yeah… You had me worried.” He tells you, and your traitorous heart skips a beat.

“You were?”

Bucky frowns dramatically and nods his head.

“Sam almost insisted on coming, just in case.” He informs you, and you have to tsk at yourself.

“Sorry…”

You both sit in amiable silence for a while and you try to hold together your mess of a mind, a scrambled concoction of thoughts and feelings.

“I’m sorry if I brought up any bad memories last night… about…” Bucky speaks first, breaking the quiet and you blink at him for several seconds as his meaning sets in. You duck your head and try to keep from sighing.

“No, I shouldn’t have reacted so sourly.” You shake your head, and begin to fiddle with your coffee cup, tracing the printed sides.

“All I ever wanted to do was help people, I’d studied for almost ten years, and I was going to accept my dream job at Stark Industries… and then HYDRA happened…” You don’t look at him, you can’t. You’d never spoken about this before, not with anyone, even during your ‘trial’ after you’d gotten free.

“I could have fixed my window,” You say, gaining the courage briefly to lift your head and make eye contact. Bucky’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t speak.

“I could fix my shitty shower head, and noise my garbage disposal makes,” You gesture wildly to your kitchen and shake your head.

“But I can’t even pick up a screwdriver without my hands starting to shake.” You sigh, feeling almost lighter for confessing, despite the distress in your words.

Bucky drops his head, looking to his lap as he swallows, before he lifts his eyes again. You suddenly regret bringing it up. You know he felt guilty, you know divulging your reasoning would only make it worse. He opens his mouth, but you speak before him.

“It’s not your fault. Please don’t…” Your words catch in your throat at the way he stares at you, and you have to break away for a second, take a sip of your rink before you can continue.

“Please don’t apologise.”

He doesn’t apologise, but he doesn’t speak either, sitting back further, slumping over slightly. You didn’t want him to feel guilty for it. For anything. He’d done so much for you, had helped you more than he’d ever hurt you, but you aren’t sure how to tell him that.

“I had a dream last night,” You blurt suddenly, catching his attention again. You can see that the hand he doesn’t hold his coffee in is balled up, his whole body rigid and stiff.

“It was… I don’t know if you remember, but you’d come back from some mission, and you looked like shit,” You half chortle at the way he lifts his brow tightly.

“You were on edge, I guess, something not quite right… You attacked a doctor…”

“I remember.” Bucky nods, brow furrowing again, likely at the memory of what he’d done to the man. But then he looks sideways at you, his frown turning curious more than anything else.

“I don’t remember you being there…” He murmurs. You swallow and force a tight smile.

“That’s because you batted me away when you stood up.” You joke, and he makes a face as he ‘ahs’.

You watch him stare at the coffee in his hands for several seconds, sorting through his thoughts and emotions silently.

“I’d stopped having those kinds of dreams so much before you came around, and then they started up again.”

He looks at you then, expression sad but unreadable, his eyes flickering across your features as he tries to figure out your tone.

“That first day, when you came and apologised, I couldn’t help but be terrified. I knew what had happened to you, what they’d done, and that you’d been getting better, but I couldn’t help it.” You almost regret telling him that, watching as his eyes turn even sadder, but you needed to, to make sure the next part made sense.

“I wasn’t able to sleep for days… I kept thinking it was all some trick and… and you were going to come back and take me away again.”

You purse your lips and turn your cup around in your hands, your pulse speeding up with nerves and anxiety.

“... And I think that’s so funny now,” You can’t help but laugh around your words, shaking your head as Bucky looks up at you sharply, confusion clearer on his features now.

“Funny?” He asks, voice flat, as if he suspected you might be making fun of him. You nod.

“It’s funny because these days I feel safest when you are around.” You confess, feeling very raw and open, feeling like perhaps he would see right through you.

Bucky just watches you for a while, his face returning to that unreadable expression he often wore, the confusion now gone. You start to wonder if he’d understood you properly.

“It feels like even if somebody did try to take me, you might not let them…”

“I would never let them.” Bucky says quickly, hurriedly, as if snapping out of a trance. You blink at him, a little surprised by the intensity behind his words, but he just shakes his head, frowning as he leans forward to put aside his coffee cup, and turns to face you on the couch.

“Listen to me; I will never let that happen again.” Bucky reiterates, firmer this time, making you jump slightly when his hand curls around yours. You inhale sharply, suddenly thrown off kilter and off course. You’d only wanted to make him see how much he’d done for you, but now you have no idea what was happening.

You look down at his hand in yours, and then back to his face with bewilderment, startled again when he squeezes your fingers in prompt.

“I… I believe you. I know.” You stutter and stumble over the words, feeling suddenly like there wasn’t enough air in the room. Bucky nods, and swallows, and then he’s kissing you.

You can’t help but gasp against his lips, and you’re almost certain that this whole morning has been a fake out, and you hadn’t really woken up yet. His hand not held in your own comes to gently hold your face, and even though you felt like you were drowning, responding feels bizarrely natural.

His kisses you sweet, contrary to the suddenness of it all, lips dancing slow and smooth across your own, tentative and hesitant behind the bold move. Your mind spins, elation and happy disbelief shooting through you, that you weren’t alone in having developed strange feelings. Your hand is released for a moment, only for your coffee to be tugged lightly from your other, and you don’t know where it goes, don’t really care, because now you were free to return his hold.

It feels a little awkward at first, it wasn’t as though you’d done anything like this in more than a decade, but you eventually let your arm wrap around his shoulder, slipping your hand a little shyly up to the hair at the nape of his neck. Bucky hums against your mouth in what you think is approval, and you scratch the spot a little more confidently.

And then, as if a brick had been tossed through your window, you’re shocked back to your senses.

You pull away from him quickly, jumping back and tearing yourself apart. Bucky looks surprised, and you can only stare back at him with wide eyes, breathing harder than you’d like to admit.

“What are you doing?” You manage to get out, your voice far too breathy and affected. Bucky’s brow furrows.

“You– You have a soulmate!” You tell him, trying not to sound like you were scolding him, gesturing to the hand that had previously been holding your face, the little black mark on his wrist clearly visible.

You wait for him to reply, and his expression seems to go through a journey before he focuses back on you.

“You said to me once that soulmate or not, there was still choice involved,” He speaks carefully, looking as anxious as you felt. He sucks in a breath, and looks at his wrist, before pulling his sleeve over it, and slowly holding his hand out toward you.

“I don’t– I don’t know who this is. But I know you.”

The words may as well sucker punch you in the gut, and you feel just as winded as you had in your dream. You can only stare at him, and his hand, in mild disbelief, but he doesn’t budge, doesn’t take it back.

“… Really…?” Your voice is meek, small, and belongs to the tiny part of you that didn’t feel damaged, or broken, the part of you that had still held out hope. Bucky’s lips quirk in the corners, and understanding that you won’t be able to reach for him yourself, he moves closer again, both hands cupping your face now, but instead of kissing you properly, he leans up to press a kiss to your forehead. Somehow it feels even more intimate, confirms the truth in his words even more than his lips on yours would have.

“Really.” He promises you.

If you like or enjoy, a comment or reblog is always highly appreciated! Thank you for reading!!!

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes/reader #bucky barnes/you #story: TTTB

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genshin-impacted · 4 years ago

Text

empress of the first water // Zhongli x Reader (4)

Word Count: ~2.8k

Palace/Harem Imperial Drama AU: You are a princess, soon-to-be-Empress, and Zhongli is the teacher invited by the royal court to show you the ropes before you ascend to the throne after a royal tragedy.

Notes: female!reader (she/her), Zhongli/Reader, Zhongli POV, mutual pining ofc, fake politics, can I call this slow burn yet

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Chapter 4 Synopsis: Of the secrets that people keep, how much can they say without saying anything about it at all?

You are falling for your tutor. That much, at least, is clear to you. Your quickened heart rate, the way your heart flutters when he smiles, and how your mood lifts when he praises you-- if wisdom is to know thyself, then you consider yourself wise enough to know that you see Zhongli xiansheng as more than just a teacher.

But what of him? You wonder, how does he think of you? Does he know what he means to you? Does he feel the same?

“My lady?" Amber asks you, when you dip your head underneath the rose-infused waters of your bath. "What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” you reply back quickly, hugging your knees to your chest. You take a glance at the mauve coat that Zhongli had left on your shoulders and think about how it will still smell like him.

Amber can only look at you in mild concern when you bury your heated face into your hands and try not to think of kind eyes, a warm embrace, and a gentle voice.

(But you do anyway.)

Zhongli finds himself talking more freely than ever in your presence, especially now that the two of you have made it a habit of walking around the compound or drinking tea to pass the time together. He talks about fantastical things or expands on random trivia he thinks you would enjoy, even though he finds himself more often than not overindulging.

Your eyes are bright and alert when he tells you about the folktales he had learned when he was younger, so he tells you as many as you can in the cold, wintry months. Under the cozy kotatsu imported over from Inazuma, Zhongli shares slices of mandarin with you as he retells the history of the Qilin to you-- a mythical creature whose stone statues stand at guard in front of the main compounds of the palace.

“In many stories, the Qilin is sacred pets of the gods and rank highly only below the dragon and the phoenix,” Zhongli says, accepting the last slice of fruit you slide into his hands. "It’s said to appear with the imminent arrival or passing of a sage or illustrious ruler."

“I see…” You listen to him attentively, hands absently clearing the table of the orange peels without saying a word. You let out a breath of laughter as you joke, “Hopefully, if I pray hard enough, the Qilin might gift their presence when I ascend to the throne.”

“Nonsense,” Zhongli replies immediately. “If the qilin does exist, you do not need prayer for the qilin to appear before you, as benevolent as you are, my Princess.” He takes the slice and brings it to his lips to taste the sweetness of the mandarin, catching a glimpse at the way you hide your smile behind your hand.

“You have a way with words as usual,” you tell him. “You spoil me with praises, xiansheng; how ever will I survive without them now?” You bemoan, laughing afterwards. Though he knows you’re joking--surely-- he still feels his heart tremble at your words. It is in these moments that he feels keenly how it is to be Amber, abashed by the praise that flows freely from your lips and by the fondness that rings true through the way you speak. To be at the center of your attention is something that Zhongli understands very well to be addicting.

It is only when Zhongli hears the light rapping of knuckles on wood does he realize how long he has spoken and how late it is.

"My apologies," Zhongli says, surprised from his thoughts to bow his head (you fussed at him about apologizing before, but even with your kind reprimands, it is hard for him to kick the habits ingrained in him). "I didn't mean to dominate the conversation this entire time. It's even time for supper--"

"Bamboo Shoot Soup," you pipe up instead, and he can only look up at you stunned as you thank the maid. She sets down the pair of utensils in front of the two of you and clears the table to make space for the large metal hotpot. "It's your favorite dish, isn't it?” You say cheekily, “I thought it was a perfect dish to eat during the cold weather."

What are the protocols to eating dinner with the royal family? Zhongli thinks to himself warily, feeling wildly as though he is constantly stepping out of line despite his learned nature. Still, you would scold him for his distancing, so Zhongli decides to do as the both of you please, as improper as it may be, and waits to be served.

The bamboo soup is beautifully slow-cooked, the broth milky white; just taking a waft of the aroma is enough for him to know that the meat is tender and the bamboo shoots are soaked to the center with flavor. The warmth that pervades is partly due to the fresh heat of the soup but also from the fact that you had remembered a detail he shared in passing. (He says ‘in passing’ but he had gone into detail about where to procure the best ingredients for each component of the meal while you listened to him with eager nods. The bamboo shoots, he recognizes, are from Qingce Village. Did you remember even the smallest details from your conversation when he speaks?) Like many other times before, he is speechless. It seems as though you are constantly surprising him-- for the better.

"What happens next?"

Zhongli blinks, the steam from his bowl rising up to his face. "Pardon?"

"Oh, never mind! We should eat first!" You say, smiling widely in a way that makes his heart leap. You pick up your chopsticks and click them together playfully. "But tell me what happens next in the story later on, Zhongli-xiansheng."

"One day you'll find yourself someone who listens to you and you'll talk their ear off."

Zhongli remembers Guizhong telling him this time and time again, though he never believed in it. He is old-fashioned, he always replies back. He is overly burdened by the expectations of his family and passionate in things that most others cannot care to relate to. How would he know that someday, as proof of the wisdom (or perhaps abundance of hope and love) that Guizhong held, he would find someone who cared enough to listen and look at him as though he knew the meaning of life itself?

The bright-eyed gaze you shoot at him lasts only a moment, and perhaps you don't even know the magnitude of your gesture, but Zhongli feels his chest burn nonetheless with gratitude and soften at the kindness you have shown him. He reaches out to place his hand gently on yours. "Thank you," he says, squeezing your hand. "I'll be sure to not lose my place in the story then so you can hear the rest of it."

He blinks when you look at him, frozen and wide-eyed, and that is when he retracts his hand, feeling as embarrassed as you look. "Ah, my apologies again--"

"No, it's-- it's alright," you stammer, looking down at your bowl. Zhongli feels his face redden and he drops his gaze as well. "But yes, you better remember! I'm counting on you!"

"Yes-- yes, of course," he says, clearing his throat. "It would be my pleasure to." Before Zhongli can wallow in mortification, he hears the beginnings of your laugh and looks up to see your smile as wide as ever. And just like that, he can feel himself be at ease again, just as you have always made him feel with your presence.

"Perhaps next time," he says, a small smile dancing on his lips, "my lady can tell me a story instead."

"Only if you fill in the details I missed," you quip back easily, and he laughs.

Even with an impeccable memory, Zhongli still cannot remember the last time he has ever laughed so easily and so readily as though he could never run out of laughter. He thinks of quiet hours in his study, pouring over pages of text without speaking till his voice grows hoarse from disuse. He remembers days of entertaining guests who never truly listened to what he was saying, and he finds that he is the happiest he has ever been for a long time.

He has you to thank for that.

This is why he responds back, with a soft reverence that is reserved only for you. "Of course." He returns your smile with his own. "I would be honored to, my Princess."

Reverence should be a tone well-practiced and used in the royal court, but when Zhongli stands aside during the proceedings, he hears very little of it directed toward you. You have half of the court talking over you despite your grace, and he can clearly see your patience wear thin when your presence goes unacknowledged by one of the court officials.

"My studies have been going steadily," you speak unto the crowd, clearly and powerfully, as though you have always known how to command attention. Projecting your voice, you maintain your gaze on all of them as you speak. Zhongli can see from the way your hands clench at your side that despite your display, fear has not left you, and for that, his pride for you seems to overflow.

"With the xiansheng, I can foresee being able to replace my great uncle for the time before the end of this year," you say. "I will have prepared myself dutifully until the time has come--"

"The end of this year?" One of the nobles exclaims in protest, making you pause. "How would you be ready at the end of the calendar when you have started lessons, not even yesteryear?"

"I can't imagine the magnitude of power placed upon the shoulders of the inexperienced,” another one drawls. “Perhaps, ah, the Princess will consider taking a husband to make up for it?"

Zhongli doesn't realize he's gripping imprints into the palm of his hands until he goes to raise his hand and realizes they have gone numb from his tension. The nerve of some of the nobles-- some of which he can recognize have never sought to be on your side. He wishes nothing more than to be able to provide them a verbal lashing, but he knows that neither you nor he can do anything at this point in time.

With knowledge comes power, and you do not know enough to utilize the title you have nor the inherent authority that comes with it. Though one day, you will, if he can help it, regardless of what has been expected of him.

It makes his skin crawl to know that many nobles look to him and believe he is on their side. How many times have they requested him to keep you away from the main chambers to check on your great uncle? How many times have they hoped he would provide falsities and ignorance in the guise of guidance so that you would never truly ascend to the throne? Even with the promise of power beyond his wildest dreams, Zhongli cannot bring it to himself to manipulate you in such a manner. Even though his hands are clean, he still cannot help but taste sin on his lips for knowing the harm that exists against you without your knowledge.

When is the right time to inform you, if at all? Is it kind or cruel of him to keep this ploy from you? (Is his judgment even sound, as muddled as it is with his rapidly growing feelings for you?)

You narrow your eyes, your lips pressed in a straight line, but you refrain, once again. And Zhongli feels a burst of pride at your show of restraint and composure fitting of a lady of your status. "Yes, this may be one of the things I will take into consideration, and I appreciate--" Zhongli feels himself tense at the way you spoke, "--the counsel of the court, though I still foresee my way coming to fruition regardless."

There is a stilted silence that follows your words, and you look toward the messenger who has come with the land's grievances in letters. "I believe this matter can be discussed at a later time," you say with finality. "Let us look at the first report from the harbor."

Using what you know from your lessons thus far, you guide the conversation towards solutions for the problems brought to the court by the people. You are too inexperienced to make decisions on your own, gathering opinions from your council; corrupt or not, they know more about managing land than you. But Zhongli sees how you watch carefully as the discussion continues, letting the information sink in so that you can utilize it in the future, and he is reminded again of how far you have come from a princess holding that urn to the prospective empress quietly learning how to lead a country.

(Is it any surprise at all that he is enamored with you?)

Court adjourns after hours, and Zhongli follows you as you leave first, your robes billowing behind you seamlessly as you hold your head up high. The guards bow their heads as you pass by them, your ladies-in-waiting slowly retreating from the room when you arrive, closing the door behind them. The moment everyone is gone, you sigh in relief, your shoulders dropping to a more comfortable height as you stretch your arms and legs.

“I applaud you on your conduct during court,” Zhongli says finally, amused by how nonchalant you act in comparison to how high-strung you are in front of others. “That was an impressive display of authority.” He sees your face flush from the compliment as you stammer out your thanks. He chuckles. "Perhaps I should start getting used to calling you 'Empress’ then, Princess.”

"Yes?" Zhongli replies, confused. "Is that not a title you would like to be referred to?"

"'Princess?'" He hears you echo, turning yourself to him, and Zhongli loses his train of thoughts when he sees your expression with brows pulled together, disconcerted. "Just... 'princess?'"

"No--well, yes..." you say, trailing off. Your hand, out of habit, nervously reaches up to fiddle with your brooch. "I was just thinking you would have normally referred to me a little differently is all."

Zhongli tilts his head slightly in thought as he watches you press your lips together in what he assumes to be in embarrassment. Has he been calling you differently without his knowledge? He doesn’t think so; you have always been the Princess for him, and he, your xiansheng.

But, ah, he thinks, he has not always called you ‘my Princess’ has he? (Astonishing what one word can change.)

For a brief moment, Zhongli’s mind wonders whether he has overstepped his boundary, but he quickly reminds himself with your words, that if you truly did not want him to call you by that, you would tell him. The fact you protested at his recent use of your title… It was the slip of the tongue; Amber has referred to you by the same title, and Zhongli has always, in some form, coveted the same level of intimacy that the two of you possessed. His fondness for you must have seeped into his words, and he would never have anticipated having you reciprocate.

That being said, could you blame him for feeling pleased that you wanted to be referred to as his Princess?

“But 'Princess' is fine,” he hears you say, gathering the composure to sweep your hands down your gown and appear nonplussed. You take out your fan and hold it to your face as you begin to walk toward the study. “I don’t mind it. You should call me as you so wish, I--”

Your laughter is enough as a sign of validation, but then he hears you say, shier than you have ever been, “My xiansheng,” and he thinks his heart balloons until it takes up the entire expanse of his chest with how much affection he feels for you.

"It is soon time for our next lessons," he says, following behind you without pause, "my Princess." And he watches, enamored, as you look back at him with a smile blooming on your face. "Is that... alright with you?"

“Yes,” he says to you, feeling as though that is the only thing he can say. You shoot him another captivating smile and turn, and all Zhongli can do is walk only a step behind you.

And he follows you for as long as you will allow him, hoping his choice to keep the darkness at bay is the right one.

#zhongli x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact #genshin zhongli #zhongli #female reader #genshin imagines #sry for repost tags did not work n made me sad #also smth about the possessive pronoun hits diff #imperial drama au

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pleasantanathema · 4 years ago

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Graves into Gardens | Reiner Braun x Reader | Chapter Six

Chapter Six: Revelations

Pairing: Reiner Braun x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ Only)

Warnings: Modern AU, spoilers up to season four, slight manga spoilers (only by including characters met later), captivity, mentions of death, violence enemies to lovers, angst, and eventual smut (ohohoho we’re so hot on it now, just wait until the end of this one)

Word Count: 5k

A/N: Thank you so, so much to everyone who has left comments, screamed in reblog tags, and just encouraged me to create this story. I have never felt so much love for a fic in the time I’ve been writing.

This chapter reveals a lot, and it’s a little longer than the rest, but it’s for good reason- the end of this is one of my favorite things I’ve written.

Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter

Reiner’s apartment truly wasn’t much. You thought he’d been joking, perhaps was even being humble, but the small studio apartment was quite dismal. The walls were stark white, a few faded posters peeling off the wall from neglect, a couple of medals and trophies lining a small bookshelf that was bursting with paperbacks and notebooks. A simple bed with a royal blue comforter and overstuffed pillows, the most compact L-shaped couch in front of a tv, and a corner dominated by a desk with two monitors and stacks of documents, manila envelopes, and crates of papers crammed below.

A kitchenet that looked hardly used was tucked away in another corner, the entryway to a small bathroom right near it.

There was truly nothing worth looking twice at, save a handful of framed photos scattered around.

You’d taken it all in rather hurriedly, still out of breath from practically running through snowy alleyways, the developing snowstorm covering the land like fresh linen. There was a window near his bed, which you gravitated toward after kicking off your damp boots by the door. Not much a view, either. Just more desolate, brick buildings and a sorry looking street below.

He told you once that he didn’t grow up with much, and it unfortunately seemed like despite joining the ranks of the military, he was still left with close to nothing.

“What are we here for?”

He was busy toiling with the thermostat, thick fingers mashing against the heat button to try to warm the small box of an apartment.

“You won’t like it,” he grumbled, golden eyes glancing over to you with a tinge of regret painting his brow.

“Then why bring me?”

“Because you need to see it.”

You tucked your hands under your arms, the chill of the winter’s day finally settling into your bones.

You watched keenly as he shrugged off his snow laden jacket, hanging it by the door before promptly locking it. He seemed as out of breath as you were, nose red from the cold, hands shaking as he fumbled with his phone. You bit the inside of your cheek with impatience, a small flame of ire licking its way into your chest.

Bringing you out here could get you killed. He knew that, right? Of course he did, but he did it anyways. Surely this matter of seemingly great importance could’ve been fetched by one of his comrades. You hadn’t quite considered the danger leaving the headquarters could bring upon you until you were dashing through the streets, the heavy paw of Reiner’s hand squeezing around your wrist. At one point in time, he’d shoved you back down another corridor, shielding you with the size of his body as particular caravan of cars turned down the roadway. He seemed to fear any pair of government eyes spying you.

He always was so careless.

He was busy texting someone, still standing idle, lip worried between his teeth.

Must be the girl you ran into that’s giving him a headache. He probably thought he could slip out and back again without a soul noticing, without anyone giving him grievance, but that bright eyed little cousin of his had ruined that. She’d been so excited to see him; he probably hadn’t been to see his family quite a while, seeing that he was on guard duty after his last mission.

How many days had it been since you’d been here? You’d honestly lost track of time, your world feeling like it had been caught in a slow turn of molasses. A few seconds could feel like hours, days felt like minutes, every heartbeat felt like it could be your last. You tried to add it all up in your head, eyes closing as you replayed all the events that led to you standing in Reiner Braun’s home in Marley.

A week and a half, you surmised. But it could be a little more, a little less. You think you would have kept your eyes on the sun a little more acutely, seeing that you’d missed it rise and fall for at least two days when you were bound in that cell.

“Are you alright?”

For a moment, you thought you had spoken the words. You were thinking them, but he asked you instead.

“That’s a loaded question,” you looked back down to the street, catching the sight of a line of what appeared to be school children marching in tandem down the sidewalk, snow in their hair and happiness on their faces, “but for the moment, I’m okay.”

Reiner pulled his lips to the side, considering your words. Maybe it hadn’t dawned on him that you couldn’t have been in any state of ease since you’d been promptly abducted and plopped down in this new world to navigate.

“Are you alright?” You encored, observing how his worried thumbs were still fast against the screen.

“Have I ever been?”

You made at face at that reply, corners of your mouth turning down while your shoulders shrugged. Fair enough.

Though, for the first time, a bit of pity crept into your mind. Reiner didn’t really ask for this life, did he? He was doing whatever he could to get by, fallen rather inelegantly into the position of being sent to Paradis, and was now being handed you to watch over, presumably without his full consent. You were both pawns in this world, kings and rooks dominating the board and playing you both for fools.

Being a Scout hadn’t been your intention, either. You’d once had other dreams: college, a career, a family, but you’d been grandfathered into the role by your government working parents, and cemented into it when they’d died. You had nothing else to do, so you served. You served your country, your friends, but you also served yourself, using the role to keep your life afloat, even if it sometimes meant spilling the lifeblood of others, even if it meant sacrificing aspirations and settling. Though, you would admit that some rather beautiful things managed to bloom from the barren soil. Regrettably, those had all been left behind, washed away by tides you couldn’t control.

“I’m sorry,” Reiner grunted, sinking into the cushions of the couch, “she—she already opened her mouth. I’ve gotten Annie to settle things at HQ, but I imagine Chief is still furious.”

“Is it such a bad thing to take me out here? I mean, you could easily stop me if I tried to run away.”

“Could I?”

You debated his question. While you were quite nimble, you’d be like a rat in a maze trying to find a way out of this god forsaken place.

“If I let you,” you reasoned, a tinge of humor behind your words.

He smiled, all warm and soft, full lips parting. The realization that you hadn’t seen him smile in years pummeled into your chest like a heavy hand stealing from your lungs. It made the sorrow that much more palpable.

“For the record, Zeke is more upset I didn’t ask permission. He’s hellbent on his authority.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

You also pinpointed something else of note, a picture glinting on his nightstand catching your attention.

It resembled the same one you’d seen on Zeke’s desk, only now you could make out the faces. Reiner didn’t pay you any mind as you reached for the framed memory, plucking it from its home, dust from the back of it staining your fingers.

A red booth housed five familiar faces, all grinning over half-drank pints of beer. Their arms were interlocked around each other’s shoulders, all the men young and handsome, Reiner and Bertholdt even more youthful than when they’d first walked through the doors of the Scout Office. Then there was Zeke seated next to Porco, the latter in that green jacket you’d seen him in earlier. But your eyes were set on a face you’d never thought you’d see again, a face that possessed the very recesses of your mind, only appearing late at night when you’d see it in corners, catch it lingering behind your eyelids. He was attractive, appeared personable, messy dark hair and distinct brow that matched the boy next to him.

“Reiner…” you whispered, still unmoving from your spot between the bed and the window pane, “who is this?”

He peered over his shoulder, any hint of a smile now vanished like etchings being erased from a page.

“You don’t recognize him?”

Him, a photo full of faces, and he knew who you were asking about. He’d probably stared too long at the ghost himself. You wondered if he ever placed the frame down at night to sleep better; you would have, if you’d killed someone you cared about.

“You know I do.”

Reiner held his hand out, long arm stretched across the back of the couch. You finally talked your feet into moving, shuffling across the hardwood as you placed the offending item into his upturned palm.

Then, you sat next to him, your knees bumping together as you tried to analyze the emotions stirring within. You couldn’t quite place any of them—Regret? Fear? Curiosity? Sadness? But they were quelled when Reiner placed his hand on your twitching thigh, pressing that anxiousness away for a moment.

“Marcel Galliard, Porco’s older brother.”

Your lips parted, both of your attentions centered on the souvenir held between you.

“It was his birthday, and we hadn’t had the chance to celebrate mine and Zeke’s yet either, so we all went out for drinks. I unfortunately don’t remember much from that night, but I remember being…happy, content.”

“Why’d you do it?” you asked it a little quickly, “why would you…save me, not him?”

“I told you, some things I don’t have a choice about.”

“But you—you could’ve said he killed me and got away, right? You did have a choice.”

You saw how his jaw clenched, muscles in his cheek flexing.

“I don’t know.” Agony lined his voice, the words soft, hushed.

That situation was something you both thought about far too often than you’d like to admit, a late-night mulling that never led to conversation.

“I’m sorry.” You took the photo away, placed it face down on the coffee table.

“Don’t be. We can’t change the past,” he said solemnly.

You could, however, lament it. Which is something you did perhaps too often.

━━━─── • ───━━━

Reiner wasn’t ready for what was to come. He knew he never would be, which is why he threw precaution to the wind and decided to lay his cards on the table now.

He had to pick a side. Even if these wars didn’t truly concern him, even if the fate of countries ultimately didn’t matter to his conscious, you did—you mattered, he mattered, and he had to start thinking about things on a smaller scale.

He wanted to go back to Paradis. He practically yearned to go back in time, to return to a place where being Eldian didn’t matter, where his status didn’t matter, where he could remake himself into something new. If it hadn’t been for his binds connecting him to Marley, he could’ve actually seen hope instead of sorrow on the horizon. He could never seem to cut the vines, could never actually get away from the people controlling his life.

But now, now he saw an out, and it was with you. When this cataclysm first happened, all he wanted was for you to be dead, for you to go away and leave him and his miseries alone to rot and wither. Being with you, however, reminded him of a life he could have. He just had to make it happen, he had to start molding his own clay, had to keep bearing the weight of the world like the weary Atlas until he could find a way to make it turn in his favor.

He was tired of wishing for death.

Which is why he had to bring you here and why he would handle the consequences that were waiting in the distance.

You might not be very helpful to Marley, but he could be of use to Paradis.

“I believe you,” he hadn’t noticed he was still touching you, fingers gripping onto your leg like a lifeline, “about Zeke. I believe you because I—we, Pieck, Annie, Bertie—we know he’s up to something beyond what he tells us and the generals. He is working with someone in Paradis. We don’t know who, but we do think we know what for.”

“Oh my god…oh my god. Why didn’t you—”

“You think I can just fucking say that when anyone could be outside my door listening?”

“I thought you said I wouldn’t like what you have to show me.”

He noticed how your shoulders relaxed, like you’d been holding in tension for far too long.

“That’s not…I have something else for you.”

He didn’t move just yet, not quite ready to actually set this all in motion.

This all hinged on you. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew you quite well; of course, that was the you of four years ago. The you he had next to him now was older, scarred, burdened, but he still felt that same magnetic pull to you that he could never explain. He was just a moon consigned to orbit you, to be connected to you even when neither of you desired the attachment.

He knew you were going to be upset, livid; his skin was already prickled at the thought of how you would possibly punch him if when you read what he had to give.

At least you always looked pretty when you were angry.

He could still remember how Jean had cowered undeath his desk when you’d stomped into the office after discovering he’d used the branch’s own money to play in a high-stakes poker game while undercover. He’d been fishing for information on the elites, found himself tipsy, and then found himself on the receiving end of your fury. The only thing that stopped your yelling was Erwin, who, for personal reasons, didn’t want any fuss made over government money being gambled away.

Erwin. He’d never cared for how close you were to him.

Reiner finally stood, expecting you to sit and wait, but you were following him like a shadow, small hand wrapped around his forearm as he moved to his computer. When he sat down, that hand moved up to his shoulder, your fingers squeezing into his muscle with encouragement. It didn’t really put him at ease.

He turned the desktop on, the monitor flashing to life. He typed in his password quickly, then went searching for that folder he’d kept hidden away so he’d never bother to look at it again.

“Hand me one of those,” he nodded his head in the direction of a small container of flash drives on the other side of his desk. You plucked one out of its resting spot and went ahead and placed it into the port on the computer. He knew you wouldn’t question why had so many on hand—you both knew how it all worked, you both kept important documents that had to be shuffled around digitally.

Familiar names lined the inside of the folder, ones he’d once tried to forget. He heard you suck in a quick breath and took a moment to look up at you. Your brow was set, tongue obviously caught between your teeth to keep yourself from saying anything.

This was his job. He was in charge of keeping tabs on The Scouts, he was the one who fed Marley all the information they could. Well, almost all of it.

“These are files I never gave over. They’re yours now. I never gave Marley everything they wanted I…I thought I was protecting you. There’s also a few files on Zeke that Pieck created in here, too.”

You both watched as he copied the folder over to the flash drive, one by one the names and dates slowly dropping into a new safe place for them.

He touched your waist, signaling you to step back. He rolled his chair out, ducking under the desk for a split moment to gather a box of the printed documents he had actually handed over; the action was a mistake.

You were leaned over him in an instant, hand clutching and moving the mouse so quickly it scraped against the desk. He attempted to reach up and stop you, but he paused—there were still bruises on your wrist, on your fingers, faded watercolors of surviving pain. He’d gripped your hand, your wrists, all day, why hadn’t you stopped him?

He already knew which file you opened; he didn’t need to look. But he did anyways, moving the crate to the side and sitting back in his chair, arms crossed across his chest. His poor heart felt like it was going to burst.

Marco Bott’s face filled part of the screen, all sweet and freckled like he remembered. Those kind eyes were looking straight at him, judging him. Reiner was just waiting, he knew what was said in there, he wrote it all, still recalled how puffy his eyes were when he did it, how much he regretted it.

There was a pregnant pause, one so heavy he felt like he was being crushed.

This all hinged on you. He needed you to help him, needed you to help you.

“I fucking knew it.”

He was already flinching, shrinking. He watched the screen scroll, the black letters and white spaces all a blur.

“Threat eliminated by gunfire, killed by organized crime members after…” you hesitated, eyes dancing as you reread the words, “after his gear was removed to ensure death.”

He was on his feet before you could hit him, backing away from your clenched fists, chair rolling to be forgotten in the corner.

“What. Did. You. Do?”

Each word came with a step toward him. He was running out of space, nearly tripping over the edge of the couch as you encroached upon him.

“What did you do?” Your voice was getting louder, pain written across your face like he’d just stabbed you. “You told me there was no fucking truth about Marco!”

“There isn’t! Marco’s dead, there’s no changing—”

“There’s no changing the past,” you mocked his words, venom dripping from your tongue.

━━━─── • ───━━━

Your blood was boiling, wrath itching between your fingers.

You were going to kill him. You were going to wind your fists around his neck and watch the life drain slowly from his eyes like he fucking deserved.

You couldn’t believe you’d let you guard down, that you’d started to trust him. You always knew something had gone awry the night Marco died. He’d been slaughtered, ransacked with bullet holes across his body. It was like he had been dropped into the line of fire, dangled out like a piece of meat to be eaten alive.

And he didn’t have his gear, that’s what stumped everyone looking into the mess of it all. It was like he had walked in unprepared, like a boy on a suicide mission walking straight to his death. Thirty-six bullets and even more empty, splattered holes littered had riddled his corpse. Jean had fallen to his knees. Connie didn’t speak for a week. Sasha didn’t eat for days.

Because of Reiner’s decision, that man suffered, you all mourned, and you felt like you most of all had let him down. Marco had been your protégé, you’d taught him everything he knew, and that was the first mission he was allowed to go on after his training. You’d been tailing a rather violent gang, found their hideout, and were infiltrating for arrests and to see what was inside. Marco had been paired with Reiner and Bertholdt to lead the first wave of infiltration, while you and the rest waited for the signal to rush the back doors to the run-down ranch not far out of the city of Trost. They’d been up ahead by the barn that was sandwiched between stables.

But your signal turned to sounds of gunfire. You could still hear it echoing in your ears as you approached Reiner. The sounds of metal clicking, of repeated blasts from automatic weapons ringing across the hillsides like single note windchimes in a raging storm.

“Tell me why.”

Your fingers were digging into his shirt before you could stop yourself, the threads of the worn Henley threatening to rip from your nails sinking into it. You could actually feel his heart beat against his chest, a frightened bird trying to flee his ribcage.

When he didn’t speak right away, your anger flared, made you shove him back against the wall with all your might. It made your arms hurt, like you’d just slammed your hands against brick, a sharp pain that made you hiss.

“He overheard us—”

“Overheard what?”

You could tell he was getting a little infuriated as well, nostrils flaring as he looked down his nose at you. It must look funny, you pressing him against the wall of his own apartment. Reiner was nearly twice your size—he was bigger than most people, and he towered over you like a looming threat.

“Let me fucking finish,” he took a deep breath, eyes nearly glazing over, “He overheard Bertie and I talking about how we should relay the details of that gang, of organized crime in general, to Marley. We—we hadn’t had time to talk alone since we’d been prepping that shit for days. We didn’t know Marco followed us around to that side of the rooftop.”

“That’s it? He heard you whispering little secrets and you killed him for it?”

One of the buttons near the neckline of his shirt popped as your knuckles dug deeper into the fabric.

“He literally heard us say that we needed to find a time to call General Magath of Marley. If he lived and told someone that—,” his breath caught for a moment when one of your nails started to pierce his skin, “it would have compromised our entire mission. We’d been there for three years, and he could’ve ruined it all.”

You were at your breaking point. You could feel that terrible heat that comes with sadness creeping up your neck, snaking around to your cheeks. If you weren’t careful, you were going to cry. All this time, all this time spent wondering why, and this was why he had to die?

Killing wasn’t unusual in your life. It was part of the job, something you’d unfortunately had to do on a few occasions. You knew those strangers who ate your bullets or your knife had families, that they were people too, but most of them were monsters, thieves, rapists, threats to the corrupted balance of the governmental structure. But Marco…he was like family, and finding his limp, almost unrecognizable body had sent even the most hardened veterans into despair. Levi took off from work the next day; the only time he had ever missed a day on the job.

“Tell me how!” You truly didn’t mean to scream it, but the emotions raging in your stomach, your chest, it all ached too much.

“Be quiet, I have neighbors—”

“I don’t give a fuck about your god damn neighbors, Reiner!”

He finally moved then, his once idle hand now jerking up to your face to fiercely hold your cheeks beneath his fingers. You tried to smack his hand away, your own fingers digging and tugging at his wrist.

“Letme-go!” Your words were jumbled, your open mouth allowing his fingers to press your cheeks in between your teeth.

“You have to be fucking quiet,” he hissed, a whole new light shining in his eyes, a familiar rage you had seen when you’d fought against him the day Paradis was invaded. The reality of how large he was sunk in again; he looked like a vengeful god peering down at you, all hot-blooded and incensed.

You thought for a moment he wouldn’t hurt you, but then you remembered he already had. He had the inclination to be just as cruel as you could be.

His fingers stayed firm against your cheeks, holding you like he was daring you to speak again.

“Tellmehow,” you managed to spit out, wincing when he took the leverage he had on your face and used it to shove you back. You stumbled, banging into the side of the couch as you rubbed at the sore flesh of your mouth.

But he was unmoving, back straight against the wall, a statue built on the foundation of wrath and agony, waiting to crack and fall onto you if you made the wrong move.

“We knew their guards were patrolling. Bertholdt covered his mouth while I stripped him of his equipment, of his guns, and I pushed him off the roof and into their sight.”

He said it so calmly that it made you sick. But that was a reality he had to live with every day, wasn’t it? He had to replay in his mind over and over again that he had done such a vile thing, he had to justify it else it would eat him alive.

Your tears were hot, but contained, your lashes blinking them aside as you just stared at him. You opened your mouth to scream at him, you were so ready to spew hatred and let it burn him, but he was quicker than you.

With one step, he was on you, your hair wrapped in his fast as he wrenched your head to the side, smarting your scalp to silence you.

“Marco’s dead, and I’m sorry for it. You fucking screaming will do nothing but have the assholes who live below me calling the authorities and you’ll find yourself in a much worse prison than before.”

You didn’t like how he was right. Still, you glared up at him, brows pinched together in pain.

It felt like you’d merged into him, those rapid hearts within your chests suddenly beating as one with the same suffering, the same torment. You both had to live with the poor reality of your lives; you were killers, you were monsters too.

You were too close to him, could smell the heat of his skin, could feel his breath against your sore cheeks. Your hands were flat against his chest, trapped between you, his arm an anchor as it tugged at the roots of your hair, keeping your face turned towards his.

You couldn’t help but look at him, there was nowhere else to focus, only on him. It was like you could see the pages of a book open across his face, wretchedness and anguish painted in broad strokes in the fair wrinkles around his eyes, in the curve of his brow. It was beauty and pain bleeding together, the amber color of his eyes swirling as he searched your own face like he was looking for something. What would he find hidden behind your own grief?

“I hate you,” you whispered, breath long gone.

“I know.”

“And I’ll never forgive you.”

It was like he was moving closer, the time you were losing now completely stopped, frozen between your bodies.

“Don’t want forgiveness,” he caught your whisper and gave it back, “just judgement.”

His lips met yours with a bruising fervor.

The hand in your hair flexed, pulled you closer, made you gasp as your hands slid up his chest. Your fingers found his rumbling throat, and in the back of your mind, you recalled how just moments ago you were waiting to snatch the life from his neck. You felt his pulse beating beneath your thumb, a war drum beating hot and fast in his veins. Your mouth was moving against his, eyes closed, suddenly greedy and hungry; for what, you didn’t know. All you did know was that this felt so wrong, like you’d taken a misstep and landed right into the lion’s lap, but that it also felt like absolution, like he was devouring your sins and taking them for his own.

Your mouth slanted for him, a hum resounding from both your throats as you fell into this new, strange rhythm. You’d thought about it before, kissing him like this, feeling those plush lips against yours, angry and hot and needy. You cherished the taste of him, like a dark, rich wine filling up your mouth, spilling over and enveloping your senses. Your tongue tempted him to open his lips, to let you in. There was no hesitation.

His other hand found your hip, fingers mean and pulling you impossibly closer. Your palms drifted up from his neck, found his face, thumbs smoothing over cheekbones. You could feel the soft hairs of his cheeks, his chin, sweeping against your skin. It all felt too good, like you were getting lost, delirium taking over. Nothing else mattered anymore, just the gratification of tasting his emotions, of taking his groans into your mouth and echoing them back. You pressed harder into him, kept your tongue tangled with his, noses brushing as you found new beats to your rhythm.

It was wicked, sinful, something your heart was pleading for and your mind screaming out against. But you couldn’t stop. You didn’t stop. It was as if you kissed for as long as you’d known each other. Every year passed by, every regret, every sharp turn of your tongues against one another, all the hurt and longing, placed into one moment of your bodies finding one another.

When the heat began to die, you were both still stroking the flames, deep, languid kisses turned into smaller presses of your lips against one another. It was intoxicating and you felt so drunk, so, so drunk off of him.

There was a stillness between you, like the gentle sigh and breaths of the world as it awoke to the morning sun when you finally stopped. A lulling peacefulness lingered in the wake of what you’d done.

His hands were still on your body, in your hair, looser now. Yours were still on his face when your eyes fluttered open.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, lips plump, wet.

“I know.”

Next Chapter

#reiner braun #reiner braun x reader #reiner x reader #snk reiner #snk reiner braun #AoT #aot reiner #aot reiner braun #aot fanfiction #aot x reader #snk fanfiction #snk x reader #reiner x you #reiner braun x you

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swan-of-sunrise · 3 years ago

Text

Civil War (Chapter Six)

Summary: Bucky’s suspicious escape from the Joint Counter Terrorist Centre and the fallout surrounding it makes (Y/N) reevaluate her opinion of the Accords.

Pairing: Steve Rogers X Reader

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings/Disclaimers: None

A/N: Last week’s chapter was really angsty and it kinda took a toll on me so here’s a sort of short filler chapter with slightly less angst! Thank you for reading, I hope you all enjoy!

Chapter Six (Previous Chapter)

While she couldn’t claim to be a spy or secret agent, (Y/N) had picked up a thing or two from hanging around so many of them over the past couple of years; she knew that Bucky would eventually need an exit once he was finished tearing through everyone in the building, and it was a safe bet to assume that the skilled assassin would choose to fly himself out of there instead of travel on foot at the risk of being apprehended. She was quick to locate the building’s stairwell, hurrying up the steps as the emergency lights and alarms continued to blare; when she reached the top floor, she flung open the door and stepped out into the dark and deserted hallway.

“God, I hope this thing works…” Mumbling under her breath, (Y/N) fiddled with the dials of the walkie talkie until she could hear the indistinct chatter of voices, only letting out a sigh of relief when she finally heard the one she needed to speak to. “Agent Ross, this is (Y/N) (Y/L/N). I need backup on the-”

“(Y/L/N), what the hell are you doing?!”

“Your job, it would seem! I’m on the top floor and have reason to believe that-!”

Just then, a metallic hand came out of nowhere and ripped the walkie talkie from her hands, crushing it to pieces before tossing it aside. (Y/N) acted on instinct, rolling underneath Bucky’s outstretched arm and pulling a stun disc out of her pocket; landing upright, she chucked the stun disc at his metallic arm and took advantage of the assassin’s distraction to sweep his legs out from underneath him with one of her own.

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes, and you were a Sergeant in the U.S. Army during World War II!” She shouted, keenly aware that the distraction would only last a few more seconds. “You were Steve Rogers’ best friend and a Howling Commando!” Hastily backing out of the way, she watched with widened eyes as he ripped the electrified stun disc off his arm and leapt to his feet. “Bucky, I don’t believe that you bombed the U.N. but you need to stop and remember who you are!”

Bucky’s face was blank and devoid of any emotion, a far cry from the frightened man in the containment cell. He stalked towards her and while she had just enough time to duck the first punch he threw her way, she couldn’t dodge the second; the force of his fist’s impact on her jaw sent her flying back and crashing to the ground, her wrist screaming in protest as she tried and failed to break her fall. While he strode down the hallway to where she was sprawled on the floor, she hurriedly ripped all the stun discs out of her pocket and began throwing them as she crawled backwards. He avoided each and every stun disc she threw, but it bought her enough time to pick herself up off the ground and side-step his next attack; before she could land a kick or punch, though, his metal hand shot out and grabbed her by the throat, lifting her easily into the air and slamming her hard against the wall.

(Y/N)’s hands came up to uselessly clutch at the metal fingers that were digging into her skin and her legs kicked out in desperation as she struggled for air; just as her vision was beginning to darken her eyes focused on the small tear in the sleeve of his shirt and the corner of a red star it barely revealed, and in desperation she cried out, “Sol…Soldat!”

The assassin froze, and (Y/N) watched as his hardened expression shifted into confusion. His metallic hand quickly loosened and she instantly crumpled to the floor, coughing and gasping for air, unable to move or even defend herself. Bucky’s heavy footsteps faded away and with a wheezing breath, she lifted her head in time to see Steve burst through the same stairwell door she’d come through moments before.

“(Y/N)!?” He hurried to her side and dropped down, his grease-smudged face filled with pure panic as he tugged her into his arms. “Oh God, you’re bleeding…!”

Steve’s free hand came up to touch her scratched jaw but she grabbed his wrist to halt his movement, ignoring how his brow furrowed in confusion as she whispered, “G-go, Steve…Bucky’s heading for…for the helipad…”

He firmly shook his head, blue eyes already set in determination. “No, baby, I’m not leaving you.”

“Bucky needs you!” (Y/N) insisted, suppressing her wince of pain as she stared up at him with a fiery resolve; sensing the conflict within the super-soldier, she released his wrist and gently rested her hand against his cheek with a sad smile. “Go.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Steve nodded and carefully eased her back onto the ground, giving her one final look before running down the hallway after the assassin; right before he turned the corner, she closed her eyes, unwilling to watch as the love of her life chased after the deadly assassin by himself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For the second time in two days, (Y/N) quietly sat and allowed herself to be patched up by a kindly paramedic. Not only did she still have a ruptured eardrum, she also had a large laceration along her jaw that required five stitches, a sprained wrist that was secured in a sturdy brace and a smattering of darkening finger-shaped bruises around her neck. Others weren’t as lucky as you were, she reminded herself, sadness washing over her as she thought of all the critically injured and dead CIA agents who’d also encountered the dangerous Winter Soldier during his rampage.

Once the paramedics finished treating her wounds, she made her way back to the control room and was immediately met by a sympathetic Natasha. “Here, I got you some tea with honey; it’ll help your throat feel better.” The spy handed her a warm to-go cup before wrapping an arm around her shoulders and leading her into the glass-walled conference room, where Tony was already seated and resting his bruised head in his hand. “Secretary Ross’s gonna be here in a few minutes, hot-shot, so please try to be on your best behavior no matter what he says to rile you up.”

(Y/N) merely nodded and took a sip of her tea, wincing in pain as she swallowed. The injuries to her throat didn’t stop her from speaking but her own conscious did; she was beginning to realize that no matter what she could say or do to convince them that Bucky was innocent, they’d never listen and even if they did, there was nothing they could do about it under the Sokovia Accords. So, she made the decision to bide her time and wait until the right moment to bring up her theory.

The three of them sat together in weary silence, the turmoil of the past two days seeming to catch up to them, until Secretary Ross barged into the conference room with his trademark sneer on his face. “You two wanna fill me in on what happened and why a civilian’s still sitting in the middle of a covert CIA control room?”

As if sensing (Y/N)’s simmering irritation, Natasha stood and moved to lean against the back of her chair, placing a calming hand on her shoulder as she replied, “Barnes escaped custody with the aid of the U.N. psychiatrist sent to evaluate him; they knocked out the power grid to the city and used it as a distraction, and (Y/N) here was already in the building for questioning. She’s one of the many who tried and failed to stop Barnes from leaving the building.”

“After taking (Y/L/N) out of commission, Barnes tried leaving in a chopper but ended up crashing it on the helipad; he, Rogers and Wilson are all missing in action.” Tony glanced over at (Y/N) before returning his gaze to the Secretary of State. “That’s all we’ve got.”

“I don’t suppose you have any idea where they are?”

“We will, GSG-9’s got the borders covered, and Recon’s flying 24/7. They’ll get a hit; we’ll handle it.”

Secretary Ross scoffed at the billionaire. “You don’t get it, Stark, it’s not yours to handle. It’s clear you can’t be objective, so I’m putting Special Ops on this.”

The spy’s hand on her shoulder flexed. “What happens when the shooting starts? What, do you kill Steve Rogers?”

“If we’re provoked,” (Y/N)’s eyes widened in horror and in her shock, she almost missed what Ross said next. “Barnes would’ve been eliminated in Romania if it wasn’t for Rogers; there are dead people who would be alive now. Feel free to check my math.”

Tony’s eyes flicked over to meet theirs, an uncomfortable look filling his gaze as he turned back to Ross. “All due respect, you’re not going to solve this with boys and bullets, Ross. You gotta let us bring them in.”

“How would that end any differently from the last time?” The Secretary of State demanded.

The billionaire’s expression hardened at Ross’ silent implications. “Because this time, I won’t be wearing loafers and a silk shirt. Seventy-two hours, guaranteed.”

“Thirty-six hours,” Ross corrected, giving them all a pointed look before turning and walking out of the conference room, calling out over his shoulder, “Barnes…Rogers…Wilson…”

“Thank you, sir!” The glass door closed and Tony slumped in his seat with an exhausted sigh as he clutched his left arm. “My left arm is numb, is that normal?”

Moving around the table, Natasha patted the billionaire on his shoulder. “You all right?”

The two Avengers continued to talk in low tones but (Y/N) couldn’t focus on what they were saying; all she could think of were Secretary Ross’ cold-blooded words and the way he’d said them without so much as a hint of remorse. What horrified her more, though, was the fact that Tony and Natasha didn’t appear to be bothered by the threat against the lives of their former teammates. This is all wrong, she thought as her vision began to blur with unshed tears, her heart sinking into her stomach while she realized that Steve’s worst fears about the Accords were materializing right before her very eyes; blinking away her tears, she looked down at her now-bare ring finger and the longer she stared, the more her anger with the two Avengers grew.

“…head downstairs to talk to T’Challa. I’ll bring (Y/N) with me, since he seems to tolerate her more than the rest of us.”

“Before you do, though, she’s gonna need to sign the Accords; I don’t want Ross looking for any excuses to arrest her so we need to do this by the books.” She looked back up as Tony and Natasha turned to her, the billionaire’s brow raised in expectation while he continued. “That okay with you, Austen?”

(Y/N) was silent for a long moment and when she finally spoke, it was with a forced calmness and a clenched jaw. “Did I ever tell you two what my new novel Bring A Folding Chair is about? It chronicles the rise and fall of second-wave feminism in America as told through the eyes of a young investigative journalist.” Getting up from her seat, she crossed her arms over her chest and began pacing. “I focus on the successes of the movement while also highlighting its failures and shortcomings, because even the most well-intended things can inadvertently end up hurting others.” (Y/N) shook her head in agitation and glanced over at the two confused Avengers. “When it came to the Accords, I knew from the moment Secretary Ross told us about them that they were wrong, but I turned a willful blind eye to the truth because I was selfish and only cared about saving my relationship with Steve. But now…now my eyes are wide open.”

“(Y/N), take it easy-”

“Do not tell me to take it easy when you just sat there and listened to Ross practically order a hit on three people – two of which are your friends – who haven’t been legally convicted of any wrongdoing!” She yelled as her sore throat ached in protest but she ignored it, all the frustration and pain that had been building up inside of her finally boiling over. “Steve was right when he said I was too idealistic; I thought the world was made up of enough good people who would keep the Accords from becoming too authoritative but unfortunately, it’s made up of cowards like us who are only looking out for our own self-interests.” Her gaze shifted from Tony’s stunned expression to Natasha, whose face remained neutral but whose eyes conveyed the pain her words had caused; she swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded before continuing. “Well, I don’t know about you two but I can’t do it anymore.”

Without another word, (Y/N) stormed out into the control room and down one of the hallways to Agent Ross’ office, her uninjured hand curled into a fist at her side as she walked; the door of the agent’s office was open and he was in deep conversation with Sharon Carter, who was tapping away on a tablet while they talked. They both looked over at her as she entered the office, and Agent Ross’ brow furrowed in concern while he took in her injuries and stony expression. “Miss (Y/L/N). Agent 13 told me that you got roughed up pretty badly earlier; are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Agent Ross. Am I free to go?” The agent raised his brow, looking more amused that surprised by her demanding question, and she gritted her teeth before continuing. “In the past forty-eight hours I’ve attended a friend’s funeral, was nearly blown up in a suspected terrorist attack, was unjustly interrogated for several continuous hours, broke off my engagement to the love of my life and was nearly killed again by a brainwashed assassin. I’m filthy, I’m injured, I’m exhausted, and I’m just one more incident away from completely losing my shit so can I please leave now?”

Sharon cast her a fleeting glance and took a step forward. “Sir, she’s already given multiple statements to our agents and…well, to be frank, the Joint Terrorism Task Force is already facing scrutiny for not stopping Barnes’ escape. The criticism will only intensify when the news outlets catch wind that we’re holding an injured, world-famous author without probable cause.” Agent Ross considered her words, and Sharon shot her a warning glance before continuing. “I’ll drive her to a nearby hotel and keep an eye on her in case Rogers tries getting into contact; based on the events of the last few hours, though, I’m not so sure that he will.”

“All right,” He finally answered, his expression softening a little as he looked back at her. “But for the time being, Miss (Y/L/N), consider yourself on the no-fly list.”

Nodding in thanks, (Y/N) glanced back at Sharon and the agent gave her a brief smile. “I’ve got a few things to wrap up here so I’ll meet you down in the parking garage in ten.” She reached into her pockets and withdrew her car keys, pressing them into her open palm with another fleeting smile. “My car’s the grey Audi parked by the stairwell.”

(Y/N) walked out of the office and down the hallway but since the mechanics were still working on fixing the elevators after the power-outage, she was forced to take the stairs all the way down to the underground parking garage. She quickly located the agent’s car and unlocked it, climbing into the passenger seat and buckling her seat-belt; now that she was finally alone, she couldn’t stop herself as she lowered her head into her hands and cried, allowing all the pent-up emotions inside of her to finally be set free. In that moment, all she wanted to do was go back to when everything was normal, back before Lagos and her constant fighting with Steve and the goddamn Accords; it wasn’t perfect, of course, but it was a hundred times better than what they were all currently going through. “I’m so sorry, Steve…”

As her sobs finally began to subside, the stairwell door opened and Sharon walked through the doorway; she took a steadying breath and wiped the last of her tears away just as the agent opened the driver-side door and got it. Sharon reached over and opened the glove-box to reveal a package of tissues, flashing her a brief and sympathetic smile as she pulled one out and blew her nose. “I tend to start feeling better after I’ve had a good cry. How ‘bout you?”

“Not really, I still feel like shit except now my eyes itch and my nose is running,” (Y/N) half-heartedly quipped, dabbing at the corners of her eyes and sighing. “So, you know any good hotels around here?”

“The Kurhotel Strӧszek’s nice and it’s not too far from here, so that’ll make Agent Ross happy. On our way, we’ll stop at a pharmacy and pick you up some first aid sup-” The ringing of Sharon’s cell phone interrupted her words and she was quick to answer it. “Agent 13 here…Steve?” (Y/N) instantly perked up and with a brief gesture for her to stay quiet, the agent switched to speakerphone. “Okay, I’m alone. What’s up?”

“We’ve figured out what’s going on,” Steve’s voice answered through the phone’s speaker and (Y/N) bit her lip to keep from making a sound at the comforting timbre. “The doctor framed Bucky for the U.N. bombing in order to find out where Hydra kept him. They created five other Winter Soldiers back in the 90’s and had them cryogenically frozen; he’s planning on waking them, says he’s doing it to see an empire fall.”

“So, you three need your gear before you can go after him.”

The super-soldier sighed. “I know that it’s a lot to ask, Sharon-”

“You’re trying to stop a squad of murderous super-soldiers from taking over the world, Rogers; if this is how I can help stop that from happening, then I’m in. I’ll send you a message when I’ve got the gear and we’ll arrange a meeting.”

“Thank you, Sharon, I owe you one. How…how’s (Y/N) doing?”

“She’s okay; lacerated jaw, sprained wrist and a whole lot of bruising, but she’s fine.” Steve breathed a deep sigh of relief that made (Y/N)’s heart warm and the agent gave her a sideways glance before continuing. “You should know that she’s refused to sign the Accords. I’ve been assigned to escort her to a hotel, where she’ll stay until she’s taken off the CIA’s no-fly list and can go back home…”

There was silence over the line and just as she began wondering if they’d somehow been disconnected, Steve quietly spoke, “I’ve already asked you for one favor but can I bother you for another?”

“Sure, what is it?”

“If I write a letter, can you make sure that it gets to (Y/N)? There’s a lot that I need to tell her and since I don’t know what’ll happen where we’re going…well, she deserves answers one way or another.”

Sharon’s eyes flicked between (Y/N)’s saddened expression and the cell phone in her hand as she nodded. “Of course, I’ll pick it up when I hand over your gear. Talk to you later, Rogers.”

Hanging up, the agent tucked the phone into her pocket and quickly started the engine, buckling up and driving at a steady speed through the parking garage and out onto the street; (Y/N) fiddled with the hem of her wrinkled shirt for a thought-filled moment before stating, “You’ve already got a plan.”

“Let’s just say that I’ve been prepared to follow through on a favor like this one for a while now,” Sharon spared her a sideways glance and focused back on the road. “But I won’t say anything else about it on the off-chance the CIA decides to question you somewhere down the line; the last thing I want is for you to be charged with aiding and abetting in the theft of government property.”

(Y/N) glanced down at her bare ring finger and thought back on Steve’s words during his phone call; she was desperate to find out what was in the letter but at the same time, she knew in her heart that she needed to hear whatever it was directly from him. The thought reminded her of their conversation about the problems within their relationship in the London hotel’s bar, the last truly calm moment they’d shared before everything went sideways…

“Whatever it is, we can work through it together. We make a damn good team, after all.”

“Of course we do, sunshine.”

There’s something I have to do before Steve and the others go after those super-soldiers, (Y/N) thought to herself, her shoulders squared in determination as she turned to glance at Sharon beside her and pondered the best way to ask the spy for a third and final favor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Russian Translation: Soldat-Soldier

A/N: Next chapter will have even less angst so yay! Thank you all so much for reading and commenting! I’ve created a Spotify playlist inspired by this series, and I’ll be updating it every time I upload a new chapter. Enjoy!

Spotify Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4TsJ2TY1F2HDXhEYOfzCjY?si=b1abdaeccc4c4d21

Chapter Seven

Civil War Masterlist

Tagging: @mrs-obrien @lahoete @awkward117 @cminr @natdrunk @momc95 @savedbystyle @miraculouscloud @awkwardnesshabitat @marinettepotterandplagg @khuang3 @supersouthy @benakenalove @brooke0297 @hufflepeople @becausewelie @outoftheregular @supreme-tantrum @ladydmalfoy @mads-weasley @username23345 @crist1216 @aesthethickks

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gojology · 4 years ago

Text

Job Benefits (Part Three)

broken routines - chapter three.

you can find part two here :

part two : undesirable pairing : ceo! gojo x female reader warnings : cursing wordcount : 1442 a/n : im highly disappointed with this but im very hyped abt writing part 4 and uh i need to change my writing style sooner or later wtf is this mess LOL

If there’s one thing Gojo knows more then his own body, it’s routines. It’s what he grew up around, coming from such a bustling family. Since he learned how to walk, he had attended many interviews, gone to parties, all in one day. Of course, it was commonplace in his already hectic life. He saw routine in everything. Imagine his shock when you came into the office in an outfit that differed so greatly from your regular one that his jaw might unhinge and fall off. He can’t wrap his head around why, but he’s utterly confused as to why you changed this up. Was it permanent, and why the change? He had many questions going through his head. This is one of the many negative traits Gojo Satoru has; he thinks his input is important, even though the majority of time it is... Maybe it was somewhat justified. But he doesn’t realize how unnecessary it comes out to be when no one asked. No one had ever told him no, of course they hadn’t, he was ranked nationally as an important kid due to his wit and charismatic personality, essential for entering the business industry. When he opened his mouth to speak, even at 8 years old at his parent’s conferences, the old professionals would all look at him, keenly waiting for his orders, or perhaps his opinion. This was what he grew up having; so naturally he didn’t know any boundaries, nor did he know when to close his mouth. But that’s besides the point, he thoroughly enjoyed the look on you. He takes his normal trip down the hallway into your office, humming a tune, a messy stack of papers in one hand, a custom ceramic mug in the other; made personally just for him. He expects to see you in your regular outfit, a pencil skirt, white t-shirt, the short clicky heels, and the black blazer. It certainly made for an excellent example of casual, formal attire. Unexpectedly, you’re not. You’re calling someone, phone perched delicately on your shoulder almost as if it’s supposed to slip out, your hair framing your face. Lips parting as you start responding to whatever is on the opposite side, and he notices an evident gloss, your lips are a different color too. You glance up at him and gesture to your phone, and his hands are shoved deep into his pockets, taking this extra time to examine you up and down. White turtleneck, layered alongside a slightly unbuttoned dress shirt with a crisp warm toned brown trench coat. Not too long, not too short. Simple gold jewelry adorned your neck, and his eyes caught onto the gold bracelet that jingled on your arm as you swayed it around; he kinda found it cute how even when the person you were talking to wasn’t in front of you, you were still so animated. Gojo can’t see your pants nor your shoes, but he’s about to enter cardiac arrest because truthfully he didn’t expect that you knew how to dress. “What?” you say, words dripping with venom and menace, putting the phone back down. He’s taken aback, what’s with the tone? “What do you mean, what, (Y/N)?” giving you a shit eating grin, he takes a step closer to your table. “Answer my question, I asked first.” you shot back, now crossing your legs, you hope you look bored just to add more insult to injury. The guy deserved it for thinking the world revolved around him. He doesn’t answer, instead staring at you, setting his cup of coffee onto the already crowded tabletop, slightly hunched over. You feel your heart drop. Fuck, maybe seeking some sort of symbolic revenge against your boss wasn’t the best of ideas. Actually, none of your ideas were the best last night. Naturally you’d only think up disasters when you were under distress. “What’s with the new outfit? Buy a new fashion sense on Amazon?” he finally inquires, a tinge of sarcasm in his voice, brushing your... Rude words aside. You shrug, pulling out your planner from the drawer and mumbling, biting your pen before writing inside, they’re mindless words. You hope your acting is good, because you want to cry again even at the slight sound of those words. “I don’t know, I felt like I would try something different.” Fuck, were was the sass? Why did you answer nervously? Why did you feel so scared? There was obviously something that you wanted to do rather then chit chat with him, and Gojo’s now unoccupied hand rubs his neck, this was suddenly so awkward, even for someone as lively as him. “Hm. Right. Anyways, these were in the printer.” he slaps the freshly printed lukewarm pages onto your desk. “Figured these were yours, still had your name on them.” “Ah. Thanks.” you say before yawning, covering your mouth before sliding the papers back into the drawer behind you- as if you had no care for them. Actually, you didn’t. This was apart of your master plan that you had crafted at 1 AM last night, too exhilarated to rest. You would print papers out in Gojo’s printer, which you had used once in a while prior so it wouldn’t be too suspicious, and since Gojo never left the dang office he’d hear the sounds and return them to you. Both of you were silent again, and he’s debating between hitting you up with a topic of conversation, perhaps a joke, but you seem so uninterested he’s not sure if it’s the right moment. “Just to let you know- your lunch break is in 10 minutes.” he adds, whistling to try to appear careless, but he could feel his heart sinking. You were acting unusually cold, no dramatic tantrums from you that he usually loved. In fact, that was the whole reason why he liked coming to your office. That, and the cute stationary. “Ah! Really?” you make sure to act like you just got a ticket to heaven, just as a petty way of saying, “Hey. You’re boring. I want to get out.” and Gojo’s pretty sure that all the contents of his heart was shattered now. Hmph. Whatever, if you continued this behavior he’d swear he’d fire you, but even he knows that’s not true. He had grown fond about you over the small amount of time that you had worked as his secretary, besides, what was a good work life if you didn’t have a good relationship with your very own secretary? He’s sure his banter doesn’t affect you. “Yeah.” he says, now quiet. He turns his back on you, pausing for a quick moment before walking out, not before he bangs the top of his forehead against the door frame, which earned a slight groan out of him, and just like that he left. You still hear the faint clicking against the tile floor from his shoes. You exhaled a sigh you didn’t know you were holding, twirling your office chair to look at the large window pane behind your desk. This was something you admired about the architecture of the building you worked out. Every single office had a large window facing Tokyo, so late working hours would always involve beautiful city lights and the bustling of night life. The sun and sky was bright and cheery, and it comforted your frazzled body. Today wasn’t as bad as yesterday, but it still felt strange from not having your daily ridiculous conversation with Gojo- and strangely you missed it. Instilled with energy and motivation, you stand up, pulling your bento out of your bag, determined to go through with the rest of your plan. You knew Gojo had a good friend that worked here, Keto Sugareu or something like that. You’d have lunch with him, work your feminine charms, and that was that. It wasn’t like you wanted to, but a part of you so desperately wanted to prove to Gojo that you could be smart, witty, yet sexy at the same time. You weren’t a prude- just someone not as exposed to these lifestyles. But you didn’t really eat your lunch in the break room, rather, you were almost always in your very own office. If you weren’t found in there, it’d either be the bathroom or conspiring to steal Gojo’s luxury coffee machine at your house. Infact, you’re not even quite sure if you remember how it looks like. “Whatever.” you mumble to yourself, before scooping up your utensils and napkins and heading out for the break room. You shouldn’t have ever stepped foot into that cursed hellish room that day.

nice to see u down here, u want chapt 4? too bad. just kidding! here, have at it. chapter four : conspiring

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