#its a pleasant firmness that gives way with a nice snap and then is very soft | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wkemeup · 4 years ago

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Crawl Home to Her

summary: Stranded without coms, alone, and bleeding out in the middle of a Russian snow storm, Bucky is content to let nature take its course. Only you won’t seem to let him go. pairing: bucky x reader word count: 8k warnings: passive suicidal thoughts, hallucinations, ghosts???, its all very confusing but humor me ok, a/n: based on Work Song by Hozier ✨

No grave can hold my body down I'll crawl home to her

Laid amongst old wooden floors rotted in decades of weathering and the whistling brush of wind sweeping in steady drift of snow from the open doorway, Bucky wondered whether he might have preferred the coffin of ice Hydra once shoved him in for storage.

The chill nestled deep into his bones and he tried not to focus on the small puff of breath as it touched over chapped, cracked lips. It was the only warmth he had left and that, too, was leaving him.

It was getting hard to breath under the sting of freezing temperatures barreling into the cabin; sharp, like crystals had formed in his lungs and punctured into his chest from the inside. The fireplace long extinguished, his rifle laid in a heap amongst his tactical vest and gear too far out of reach. He was unprepared when the mercenaries barreled in through the windows, leaving shattered glass along the floor, safe house exposed to the elements of a Russian winter.

He’d stopped shaking an hour ago, which he knew was a bad sign. His body had given up on fabricating false heat through the tremors in his arm and legs, the twitches of his breaths, the chattering of his teeth. The serum only did so much before he was left with the frayed remnants of his humanity to cover the slack.

Bucky’s fingers dipped down and glazed over a thick, warm pool at his stomach. He pulled his hand back to find an unsettling, deep red coating his skin. It was warm to the touch and it dripped down along his fingertips into his palms, soaking into the dried patches.

A violent cough suddenly broke through his chest and Bucky’s head fell back to the floorboards, a dull ache in his stomach from the effort. He could taste copper on his tongue as a fuzziness began to take over, like he was floating on the edge of a cloud, somewhere high up in the sky. It was a pleasant feeling, he decided, a break from the world that had not shown him kindness in nearly a century.

He stared up at the ceiling, at the blades of a fan lined in decades of dust, as it spun around and around and around and around and —

“What the hell are you doing?”

Bucky jolted awake, a sharp flinch through this nervous system like the current of electricity. Eyes wide open, he turned to find a figure sitting on the loveseat to his left. The fabric was torn in the trajectory of dozens of bullets, cotton lining oozing out the cushions and littered amongst the snow. It was too dark to see but the dim flicker of the swaying light in the kitchen illuminated the corner for only a second. It was enough to still his heart.

“Y/n?”

You raised an eyebrow at him, a scowl on your face as lips pursed together.

“Hey Buck.”

No.

No. That—that can’t be right...

You were wearing a SHEILD crewneck with a rip on the hem of the sleeve, faded in color from the wash, and a pair of sleep shorts he’d seen you in dozens of times. The slight imprint of a pillow case fold on your cheek, your hair a little out of place in sleep, and cast in the glow of sunshine through his bedroom window despite the stars littering the night sky outside the cabin’s door.

It was what you were wearing when he left on assignment two weeks prior. He knew because he memorized every moment he left you behind.

There was always that uncertainty, that knowledge that every mission could be his last, so he took the time to bring you with him; a memory, an image, of you laying under rustled sheets, curled up against his pillow with that pout on your lips as you told him ‘five more minutes, baby’ when he was already ten late.

He held that memory close because he could feel himself slipping. The blood pooling at his stomach was seeping into the floor beneath him and he felt dizzy, the spin of the fan above him throwing him off balance even as he laid completely still. It was the last good thing he had left -- this image of you -- because he knew it was time to let go, time to let the universe make things right again, to take him from the time he never belonged in.

There was a relief in that... almost.

"You’re not giving up, are you?”

Bucky gritted his teeth as your voice pulled him back sharply from the edge of dreamless sleep. He glanced over to you and found there wasn’t a trace of goosebumps on your skin amongst the snow sliding along the floorboards by your feet. You were unbothered by the rush of wind barreling in through the open door though it picked up in the small wisps of your hair, carrying them away from your face before it settled again.

“This isn’t happening. You’re not real,” Bucky chanted under his breath, but the way you were looking at him—Jesus—he'd seen that look too many times before. The pinch of your brows, the slight tug of your cheek between your teeth, your eyes narrowing down on him from a distance, never in anger, but determination.

Bucky closed his eyes, clenched his jaw real tight, but he could still hear as you push yourself up off the couch, the slight squeak of floorboards under your feet as you paced. Bucky dared to steal a glimpse and you were kneeling down over one of the mercenaries he was able to get a shot in before hell broke loose. You pursed your lips, tilted your head just so, and pulled off his helmet to get a better look. It rolled a good few feet before it hit a sudden stop against the edge of the couch.

It was the wind, he told himself. His mind was playing tricks on him again.

“Jesus, they make ‘em big around here,” you murmured to yourself before you pressed two fingers to the side of the man's neck. You started ruffling through his pockets for weapons and Bucky could hear the jingle of coins in his pockets, the swish of the fabric. He was certain he’d gone mad.

“You need to get warm, Buck,” you told him and a coat dropped down on his left. “You’ll die if you don’t.”

“You’re not real,” he argued, keeping his eyes closed, hoping that you’d just disappear and let him die in peace. “You’re... you’re in my head.”

It was hard enough knowing he was going to die in Russia of all places before you ever knew he was in trouble, hard enough to imagine you crying over his body as his skin paled to blue and grey, hard enough that he’d already said his last goodbye, already had the last kiss from your lips…

“It doesn’t matter if I’m in your head or not, Bucky,” you warned, though he was almost certain he could feel the warmth of your breath touch his skin as you leaned down next to him. “You’ll die if you stay here. Do you understand? You’ll die."

Your hand slid into his hair and he could feel the trace of your fingertips, your nails, on his scalp; combing through locks matted in blood and dirt and drawing shivers in his spine untouched by the cold.

He whimpered, tears burning at the corner of his eyes, because you were right there and somehow not at all. He didn’t want to say goodbye but his energy was draining. It slipped from him in every breath, the pain becoming a tired memory and he knew his body was giving in.

He’d spent so much time fighting in his life. He just wanted to rest. That’s all. Just some time to rest...

“Bucky!”

He snapped awake, heart beating frantically for a few minutes before it lulled again; his breaths too short, too far apart.

You were hovering over him, hair falling down into your face and there was real fear in your eyes. Your hands settled on his chest, trying to draw his attention back to you and he was certain he could feel the pressure of it, the grip of your fingers to the fabric of his shirt. The touch of a ghost.

“You need to get up. We’ve got to get you out of here,” you ordered, hands fumbling for the coat you dropped by his side and trying to drape it over him, but he pushed your hands away. You sat back on your heels, wide eyed, desperate.

“I’m already dying, sweetheart,” Bucky choked out, voice raspy and raw. “There's nothing left to do. Coms are out... nearest town is a dozen miles away... I’m-- fuck—I've got at least four bullets in me. This is it, honey. I’m-- I’m sorry...”

It hurt as he said it and he dared himself to meet your eye. Draped in sunlight and all that was ever good in his life, you were an ethereal wonder; a stunning image of the women he left behind, even if his mind was fading on the edge of insanity. It was nice, he thought, to see this memory of you one last time, to hold onto it tighter as the darkness gently carried him away from this world.

His hand lifted slowly, wanting to touch you one last time, and he was surprised when it didn’t slip straight through you like a ghost, but instead, landed tenderly against your cheek. So tangible, warm to icy chill of his hand, he could feel the clench in your jaw, the strain of the muscle, the divot of a scar by your ear.

A final blessing he didn’t deserve.

“Bullshit.”

He winced as you grabbed a firm hold of his wrist and pulled it from your face. Everything started to hurt again, in his chest, his stomach. He was falling apart.

“I’m so sorry, honey, I’m—I’m not making it out of—”

“Bull. Shit.”

You slammed your hands to the floor beside him and suddenly, you were up and rummaging through the kitchen, tossing old utensils around and making a mess of the withering cabinets. You tore them to shreds, emptied the drawers onto the floor, the shattering of glass and the crash of metal to tile in an unsettling scream.

“You don’t get to do this. Do you hear me? Not after all you went through! Just to die in fucking Russia!”

Bucky swallowed though it tasted like bile. You tossed out the mugs from a cabinet with the swipe of your hand and the sound they made as they crashed to the floor skipped several beats in Bucky’s dimly beating heart.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky tried again, voice falling on empty, a whisper, “no one’s comin’...”

“Then you fucking get up and get to a goddamn phone!”

You froze then, your hand curling around whatever you were looking for with a sigh of relief. As you stomped back over to him, Bucky looked down at your grasp to find two sets of hand towels and an ace bandage clutched in your grip.

You were grumbling under your breath as you sank down to your knees. Hands shaking, you pushed up at the thin fabric of Bucky’s shirt. He didn’t even hiss as the cold air touched his skin. That wasn’t good.

You pressed a towel to his open wounds, hard enough for Bucky to groan at the impact and he bit down hard on his tongue. There was no apology as you wiped away the pools of blood, tossing aside the soaked towel to the corner and pressing down a new one in its place. You were angry, furious even, and Bucky had only seen you like this once before.

The Hydra base in Siberia. He was surrounded, ordering you to get back to the jet without him though he had no clear path to an exit. It was a diversion, one you saw through instantly, because he had no intention of leaving that warehouse, not as long as you made it out alive. You almost killed him yourself by the time the last Hydra agent fell to the floor. Panting, covered in blood, you had slapped him hard across the face before you gripped at his shoulders and kissed him.

The first kiss between you.

The beginning of it all.

Fitting it should end like this, too.

“Sit up,” you demanded, pulling Bucky back from his memories.

He sighed as he stared up at you, your teeth gritted as you pressed down harder to his wounds. Everything hurt. He couldn’t move, could barely breathe.

“Sit. Up.”

“I can’t,” he whimpered, voice breaking in the effort. “I-- I can't, honey. I’m sorry. Just—Just let me go. It’s time, Y/n. It’s okay…”

There was a silence, one that carried over the scream of the wind outside and the scratch of tree branches against the shattered windowpanes. Bucky’s own breaths were shallow, raw and wheezing through his lungs, and they sat in pained contrast to your silent, elongated inhales, the seconds you held them before you released it. He could have heard a pin drop even over the whistling wind and the mess in his chest.

“No.”

Bucky swallowed back the dryness in his throat. “No?”

“No,” you gritted out, sinking back onto your heels. “No! You don’t get to just give up, Bucky. You don’t get to leave me behind!”

“You’re not even here...”

You clenched your teeth, biting on the inside of your cheek. “Maybe not. But you know exactly where I am back home, don’t you?”

Bucky’s jaw wired shut in an instant. It was what he’d been avoiding, why he clung so hard to the image of you as he left, the glow of the sunlight on your skin and the sleepy mess in your hair. The perfect memory to take when him as he died, but it was being ripped from him, torn away in an instant because as you knelt beside him, your ghost began to change.

Dark circles colored under your eyes, a sunken look hollowing in at your cheeks and temples. Your hair fell down from the bun at your crown and braided down the side, a nervous habit you’d taken up to keep your hands busy when you were anxious. Lines formed on your lips, cracking along the center; broken skin now exposed on your knuckles from a restless night in the gym.

Tear tracks burned down your cheeks; some old, some fresh, and your eyes were bloodshot red.

“Please, stop,” he begged, trying to will his mind to give him the memory he had before.

“You know what this is doing to me,” you told him. “You missed your checkpoint eight hours ago, Bucky. We both know what that means. We both know I’m scared out of my mind for you. I’m panicking. I’m desperate to find you and you’re going to give up before I can.”

Bucky closed his eyes, choking back tears as he pictured you frantically pacing back and forth in the intel room next to Steve, waiting by the satellite phone, waiting on a call that would never come. His coms had been destroyed in the shootout, torn and shattered under the boot of a Russian enforcer. There was no way to get word to you, no way for you to track his location. He was entirely on his own.

You would have figured that out by now, too.

He could practically hear your voice as you shouted for an update every few minutes, biting the head off of an Agent who dared to give you any answer outside of Bucky being found safe and on his way home to you. He could see you clenching at your fists, digging your nails into flesh, and shrugging off Steve as he tried to ease your distress. You’d be terrified, with a deep kind of unsettling dread burning like a hole in your stomach. He knew, because it was how he felt when you were on assignment. It was agonizing.

“Don’t do this, Bucky,” you said quietly, softer now, begging. “Don’t give up. Don’t—Don’t leave me.”

He could hardly keep his eyes open, every breath drawing him further away.

“You’ll be okay,” he said slowly, achingly, though a flash of shock widened your eyes. “You’ll be okay without me.”

Bucky’s fingers crawled along the floor to you, nails digging through a mess of blood and splinters before the curled sweetly around the palm of your hand. He squeezed it gently, the most he could manage, and he watched with a fading smile as you stared down to where he held you.

“How could you say that?” you whispered, gaze glued to blood stained hands. You swallowed, a tear slipping past your eye as you turned to find ocean blue. “How could you possibly think that would be true? You’re my life, Bucky. I need you. You can’t—Please, baby. You have to come home to me. You have to.”

“You’ll move on,” he exhaled, closing his eyes as the exhaustion started to pull him under. “It might take some time, but you’ll be fine, honey. You don’t need me. You never did.”

“That’s not true—”

“You were always too good for me,” he chuckled sadly to himself. “At least now you can find someone who really deserves you…”

“Dammit, Bucky!” you cried, hands gripping into the fabric of his shirt and shaking him until he opened his eyes again. “You don’t get to just throw your life away because you have some backwards, fucked up notion that you’re not good enough to love me because newsflash, you idiot, I don’t care! I love you! I love every goddamn part of you and there is not a person on this planet, or any other, that I want to love me the way that you do!”

There was a silence that followed. The whistling wind and the scratch of branches on exposed windows the only solace between you. Your features softened, your hands releasing from his shirt and you gently patted his shoulder, running your fingers along his neck to touch the side of his face. He leaned into the palm of your head, jaw quivering as he bit back tears.

“Why are you here?” he whimpered, voice cracking as a sob crawled its way through his spine. “Why-- Why won’t you just let me go?”

Tears spilled out the corners of Bucky’s sides, sliding down along his temples and soaking into his hair. He was exhausted and aching and – god—he just wanted to sleep.

You smiled sweetly at him, brushed the hair from his eyes. “It’s you, Bucky, don’t you get that? I’m in your head, remember? I’m apart of you. Stop fighting yourself and come with me. Let me help you survive this. It’s why you brought me here in the first place.”

“No... that’s…” Bucky shook his head, heart racing a little faster, “that’s crazy.”

“Crazier than talking to yourself?” you chuckled light-heartedly. “It’s been you this whole time, Buck. Look.”

You gestured to the floor leading into the kitchen, and sure enough, there was a trail of bloody footprints in the size of his combat boots leading into the mess of shattered mugs and scattered utensils. His palms had tiny pieces of broken glass in them, colored in the paint of the kitchenware on the floor.

Then, you showed him the wrapped bandage at his stomach, the one with his own bloody fingerprints at the clasp. He’d done it all himself.

“Your imagination can’t do all that for you, baby,” you said, a soft smile on your face, though it faded to something solemn as he stared at you in shock. “You’re dying, Buck, really dying and I know you’re scared. I know you want to come home. Stop fighting me. Stop fighting yourself.”

“I don’t--” he swallowed, though his throat was dry and it burned amongst the cold air, “I don’t understand…”

“The mind is a funny thing,” you shrugged. “It does what it has to, to keep you alive. This is what you needed, to be reminded of the love you have waiting for you back home when you survive this.”

You nodded to the edge of the cabin, and sure enough, there was Steve standing at the door. Hands tucked into his pockets, wearing the thin white shirt and suspenders from their youth, though it looked a little funny now on the man he was today. He was smiling, that hopeful kind of look in his eye that Bucky never quite learned how to replicate.

Sam stood next to him, hand on Steve’s shoulder, smirk plastered across his face as he nodded at Bucky; the strange and varying brotherhood between the two of them full of bickering fights and unbridled loyalty.

Natasha was on Sam’s left, arms folded, scowl present as her eyes flickered down to the mess of bodies littering the floor. She raised an eyebrow at the burly looking soldier you’d rummaged through the pocket of— or, or maybe it was Bucky, he was still trying to wrap his head around it – and nodded as if she were impressed.

Then, there was Shuri and T’Challa. Lang and Barton. Wanda and Vision. Peter Parker sneaking his way in behind Steve, looking just damn excited to be standing in the presence of Captain America. Even Tony Stark stood in the corner of the cabin; arms crossed, sunglasses on, observing from a careful distance, but still present.

“You’re not alone, Bucky,” you said quietly, drawing his attention back to you. “Not here. Not at home. Please don’t give up on your family. Don’t give up on all you’ve built. We’re waiting for you, honey. Come home.”

A blur in his vision, Bucky couldn’t quite focus on your silhouette, not until you tenderly brushed the tears from his eyes, droplets on the edges of long lashes. He clenched his jaw, searching for a stronger breath as you held his face. Your lips pressed down to his forehead and he found his strength again.

“Okay.”

Bucky grabbed onto the edge of the couch and pulled until his muscles were at their limit. A scream tore threw him, his body raw and broken and falling apart at the seams. It burned in his throat, in his chest, and it echoed deep into the empty cabin. It was no louder than the wind outside.

“Okay,” he repeated as he sat up with his back pressed against the couch. He clutched at his stomach, heavy breaths in his lungs. The bandages were holding up, with little leakage onto his palm in all the effort.

When he looked back over to you, he found you smiling, proud, though your appearance had changed again.

Your hair was pulled down to a bun at the nape of your neck, a few strands falling out the sides. Dressed in a large winter coat with a thick fur around the hood and mittens on your hands; the navy-blue jacket you’d worn in your mission in the Swiss Alps last year where you’d convinced Bucky to stick around a few extra days in the blizzarding cold. You’d told him then how much you loved the snow, the mountains, but mostly the hot chocolate, the fireplaces, the snuggling in close to him at night. It was a pleasant memory.

Bucky smiled back at you, though it took most of his strength. He turned to look at Steve and the rest of his family, but they were gone, disappeared to thin air and his stomach lurched as he quickly shot his eyes back to you.

“You ready, baby?” you asked him sweetly, nodding towards the door.

“Stay with me. Please.” He felt childish as the words left him, talking to what amounted to nothing more than particles of snowfall and thin air, but it carried his whole world.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you replied, as if it was never a choice at all, and you offered your hand.

Bucky nodded, stringing together all the strength he had left in his body and slipped his hand into yours. He tried not to think of the logistics of it all, how he was really getting up on his own because you weren’t here to tug him to his feet. It created a dull ache in the back of his head and he figured he better not mess with the remaining functioning pieces of himself. Let his mind get him through this, even if he felt absolutely insane.

“Put the jacket on, honey,” you told him, bending down to grab the coat of the mercenary you’d swiped earlier. “It’ll be a long walk in the cold.”

“Y-yeah, okay.”

The wind barreled in from the open door and it pushed at the little balance Bucky had left, leaving him to sway unsteadily, grunting at the pain that resulted in his stomach. He clutched at the wrapped bandages, relieved when fresh blood did not add to the stains on his fingers and palm.

“Time to go,” you urged him, nodding to the door. “Let’s get you home, yeah?”

Bucky stared out into the blanket of darkness beyond the door, the snow falling and dancing amongst the violent sweeps of wind, illuminated by starlight untouched by the pollution of a city. He didn’t know where to go, but you promised you’d guide him; a piece of his subconscious that must have picked up on a sign along the road at some point, he figured.

As he made his way to the brutal cold, shivers tremoring in his spine and his feet limping dragging along the floor, facing a journey across miles of exposed land, he was thankful he wasn’t alone.

***

Bucky had never been so cold in his goddamn life; not even when Hydra would put him on ice.

It had been a relief then, a dreamless sleep and safety away from his captures, but this – this was torture in itself. His boots dragged through two feet of snow, the winds picking up the further he trudged out into the darkness. He wrapped the scarf tighter around his face, trying to shield himself from the cold, though ice crystals had formed on his lashes.

Everything hurt and each step was more painful than the last, but he kept moving.

“You’re almost there!” you shouted over the scream of the wind in his ears. You were smiling, jogging out a few paces ahead. It was easier for his feet to carry him when it was you he was walking towards. “Come on, sweetheart. One more mile. That’s it.”

Bucky panted, his breaths far too labored, his head feeling quite fuzzy, but as he looked over your shoulder, he spotted a light in the distance. Blurred by the snowfall, but still clear as day. A gas station with half the letters missing in its name. His saving grace.

“I’m coming, baby,” he whispered and for the first time, he wasn’t talking to the mirage beside him, but the woman waiting thousands of miles away.

Picking up in pace, Bucky pushed himself harder than he’d ever tested the limits of his body before. He knew that without the serum, he would have been dead before he even left the cabin. There were few moments Bucky was ever thankful for the hell he’d been through. This – giving him a second chance to get home to the love of his life – was one of them.

“Careful,” you warned him, gesturing to the trail of red droplets in his wake; blood that had seeped out from the soaked bandages at his stomach and trailed down under his coat to the snow below, marking his path.

Bucky nodded, determined as he finally broke through to solid ground, to dirt roads plowed just enough from the snow, and sprinted the rest of the way. You were on his heels, cheering him on like you did when he first got back on a treadmill after he broke his leg in New Mexico last year. He was smiling so wide it hurt his cheeks, laughing as artificial light illuminated his path.

He shoved his shoulder to the door, winced at the sound of the bell above, and charged straight up to the counter.

A man in a thick overcoat and a fur hat stood behind the counter, reading a newspaper quietly to himself, and paid no mind to the man frantically rushing up to him. He glanced up in Bucky’s direction, eyes flickering to the blood trailing in his wake, before turning back to his paper.

“Phone,” Bucky panted. “I need a phone.”

The man didn’t respond.

“Russian, Buck,” you reminded him quietly to his right.

“фона,” Bucky tried again, slamming his hand down on the table.

The man rolled his eyes and set the paper down. Stone cold expression, he took his time as he muddled around behind the counter, leaving Bucky on edge. You nodded at him, running a hand along his arm to keep him calm.

Then, the man set a flip phone down on the counter. He didn’t say another word as he sat back onto his stool and picked up the paper again.

Bucky grabbed the phone and quickly stumbled his way back to the far end of the convenience stores. Brushing up against rows of chips and shouldered a few to the ground, he was starting to lose his balance again. The dizziness was kicking in and it became evident as he tried to dial the SHEILD emergency call number and kept hitting the wrong numbers.

“Breathe,” you said softly as Bucky started to panic. “Try again.”

Deep inhale in, Bucky typed the ten digits and held the phone to his ear. It rang three times.

“Good morning,” a voice replied, deep and clinical, “this is Sandbox Bakery. What can I get for you?”

Bucky leaned his forehead to the glass of the freezers, cold compress on his skin touching a blaze of heat.

When did he start sweating? When did it start to soak through his clothes?

There was a stickiness under his feet and Bucky glanced down to find blood dripping down from the edge of his coat and staining the dull-white of the plaster floors. Dark red seeping into the cracks between tiles, filtering through years of dirt and dust and muddied tracks. The outline of his boots in perfect pattern.

“Good morning,” the voice said again, “this is Sandbox Bakery. What can I get for you?”

Bucky swallowed, trying to find his voice, but he was sure he’d left it behind in the cabin. He could hardly hold himself up, his hand slipping on the handle of the freezer doors, nearly taking him down to the ground amongst the blood and dirt.

Under hooded, heavy eyes, Bucky glanced over at you as you nodded encouragingly at him, but there was two of you; swaying over one another, blurred, out of focus.

“Good morning, this is—”

“Baklava,” Bucky muttered the code word between labored breaths, the meaning of it sitting somewhere along the line of I shouldn’t be alive but I am – Fucking come get me. The dizziness was starting to take hold on his body and he leaned his shoulder against the freezer doors in search of the cold glass to offset the burning heat on his skin.

A darkness started to tunnel at his vision, thick black rings closing in around him and he tried to grip at the handles on the doors, but he missed each time; his fingers too weak to grip onto the edge, his vision swaying and doubling over.

The agent on the other end of the phone was asking him questions, but they barely registered, like white noise no louder than the burrowing winds past the door. Bucky clutched at the handle, phone slipping from his grasp as it fell to the ground. He stumbled backwards, hitting a tower of plastic cups as they collapsed around him.

“Bucky, lie down,” you warned gently as he struggled to hold himself up.

“I’m—I’m okay,” he gasped, voice barely a whisper, unintelligible, before the darkness caved in completely and he met the floor.

***

When Bucky came to again, it was to hands gripping harshly at his arms, at his legs, dragging his body onto a rock-hard surface that smelled of plastic and the sting of sterilizing alcohol. Pain ripped through his stomach at the sudden movement and he whimpered quietly, painful breaths in, lips quivering as he tried to bite down hard on the dried, cracked surface; the movement jarring enough to make him wish he was back in the cabin amongst the snow and broken glass.

But there was a hand encasing his. One that was soft, impossibly gentle, a slight squeeze, and Bucky realized there were voices around him. Muffled, barking orders, but they were distant, like an echo at the edge of a ravine. They were too far away for him to hear.

All except one.

“Stop it! Jesus, you’re hurting him,” one of the voices warned; soft and melodic, even within the tension, within the slight tremor of panic. It was a voice that called to him, as the grip on his forearm tightened, and Bucky forced his eyes open.

He was seeing double, couldn’t quite focus on what was right in front of him, but he could see the three agents dressed in black combat vests huddled over him, strapping him on the stretcher while a petite Englishwoman with mousey brown hair and slender fingers worked to stabilize the mess at his stomach.

Then, he focused on the voice to his left, the kind voice, the familiar voice – yours.

“We’ve got to get him out of here, Simmons,” you urged, glancing back at the doors to the shop and the chaos of broken aisles in between. “God knows how long he’s been here like this...”

“I just need to stabilize him before we make a break for the jet,” the woman with the quiet English accent replied. She pressed down hard on Bucky’s stomach and he was surprised to find he didn’t feel a thing.

Bucky swallowed back the dryness in his throat, trying to find his own voice, catch your attention in some way, but you didn’t seem to notice him watching you.

“It’s been ten hours since he missed the checkpoint. Ten hours,” you stressed, your free hand reaching up to brush back hairs from your face, tucking them behind your ear. It was then Bucky noticed the braid sitting over your shoulder, the dark tactical suit, and the discoloration under your eyes. There were marks in the shape of crescent moons on your hand from where you’d dug your nails to your skin. You looked tired, scared; it was different than how you appeared when Bucky collapsed.

You gritted your teeth, brushing away tears Bucky so desperately wanted to reach to wipe away if he could only move.

“We don’t know how much blood he’s lost or— or if he has internal bleeding or--”

You froze suddenly, words pulled right out of your mouth as Bucky’s hand twitched under your grip. Slowly, you turned to meet his eye with a kind of panicked shock and relief and an array of complex emotion.

“Bucky?”

He nodded, a weak smile on his face.

You nearly cried. “Oh, thank God you’re--”

“You stayed,” Bucky muttered, voice groggy and slurred. A tired smile etching up against broken lips.

You blinked, biting back your tongue as your eyes shot over at Simmons. She shrugged, working quietly to reseal the bandages at Bucky’s stomach. There was a smile on Bucky’s lips, broken and cracked in dried blood, almost hazy, like he was floating high above in the clouds.

“Honey, I’m here now,” you told him, voice a little cautious, but Bucky shook his head, though his vision was starting to leave him again, the comforting pull of darkness wrapping its arm around him.

“You... you really stayed with me...” His voice was barley a whisper.

Your eyes widened, a fear taking over and your quickly snapped your attention back to the agents surrounding him.

"We need to get him out of here, now,” you ordered as Bucky’s eyes started to flutter closed again and he did not return the grip to your hand when you squeezed. Sudden movements and he was lifted into the air, though your grip on his hand did not leave him.

He fell back to the darkness before the cold air of Russian winter could touch his skin.

***

The first thought Bucky registered was that he was warm. Not warm enough for sweat to form on his brow, but enough so that a chill didn’t press its way into his bones, enough that the thin layer of a freshly washed blanket draped over his legs chased away the goosebumps on his arms.

He blinked his eyes open gently to take in the stream of light from the window to his left and the reflection held against bare, white walls. The room was not one he knew and quiet murmuring of strangers passing by outside in a language he couldn’t place didn’t help the rush of panic etching up through his veins.

Bucky turned to his left to see a monitor carrying his heartrate and the increasingly frantic rhythm of his pulse. There was a bruised mark on his right forearm around an IV that stemmed to a bag hanging over his head.

Could be filled with anything, he reminded himself. Always on the defense. It was how he stayed alive.

A hand settled against his stomach to find it wrapped in bandages, no longer searing in pain, but still sore; a dull ache left behind to remind him it was real, that he’d been shot and left for dead in the frozen wastelands of Russia, that he’d walked miles alone in a blizzard and found comfort in the ghost of –

Bucky jolted upright, a hiss pulling swiftly from clenched teeth as a sharp pain reemerged at his stomach. He groaned, breaths coming in a little heavier now as he glanced around the empty room. Up at the open door ahead of him, he watched as stray physicians and nurses passed by in white lab coats talking quietly amongst themselves in... German, maybe? His brain was too foggy to register much of anything.

“Y/n?” he called in search of your ghost, but his voice was too weak, he could barely hear it himself.

Kicking the blankets away from his legs, Bucky felt a chill sweep up his spine. The pain was excruciating, but he’d been through worse. He ripped the IV from his arm. He kept his hands gripped tight to the mattress, setting his bare feet to the cold floor and wincing as the pain in his stomach worsened with every movement.

But he needed to get out of here. He needed to get home to you. He’d promised.

He set his stance to the ground, careful to hold himself up on the edge of the bedframe, but his legs were shaky under him, muscles unused and tired and so incredibly useless, his left hand started to warp the plastic of the railing in his frustration.

“Bucky?”

Wide eyes shot to the door to find you standing in its frame, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in your hand, lips parted in shock. Your hair was swept to the side in a long braid, dark circles hanging under your eyes, your clothes wrinkled with days of use.

He tried to speak, but suddenly, his hold on the bed frame gave out. The smell of dark roasted coffee beans filled the air before he even met the ground and his skin touched the ice of tile flooring. Sharp pain in his hip and a heat of embarrassment in his cheeks, Bucky tried to find an ounce of his dignity on the ground.

You slid up on your knees beside him; coffee cup noticeably missing from your hands as it laid in a puddle by the door to his room.

“Jesus, Buck, what were you thinking?” you gasped, hands roaming down over his arms, fingers warm to the touch from the coffee you’d held between your palms. A worry line creased in your forehead, lip tugged between your teeth as you grazed your touch over his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones and jawline in concentration as you inspected for damage.

Bucky closed his eyes, a little lost in the feeling of it as he leaned into your touch, missing you and wondering how he could possibly feel that heat from your skin.

“You’re lucky you didn’t reopen your stitches,” you murmured, hands touching gently at his wrapped bandaged around his waist. It was still white, at least, so that was something. The scowl on your face was a comfort, something familiar, and he was thankful to have it.

But there were small differences he noticed as you tried to help him back up into the bed. Like how when the light from the window touched your skin, it reflected a little differently, got caught in your eyes and you’d have to squint away from it. Or how there was a new scratch on your jawline he hadn’t seen before. You huffed a hair away from your face as you struggled to life him back to his feet and it fell back into your line of sight almost instantly.

“Give me a sec, I’ll be right back,” you told him before you pressed a quick kiss to his forehead, hands sinking into his hair. It felt so real, he almost convinced himself you were really there.

When you came back into the room, a nurse was at your side, hands planted firmly on her lips.

“I thought you were joking,” the nurse huffed in a thick German accent, exchanging a glance with you. You shrugged, scowl present but lips curved up in a smirk. The nurse groaned, sinking down to the floor to grab Bucky’s arm. “Why would I expect a man who’s been under for nearly a week to just up and walk out the room? Huh? I wouldn’t! No one is that foolish, Sergeant Barnes.”

You were laughing quietly beside her as you helped to guide Bucky back up into the bed. As he settled back into place, he found himself watching you intently as you conversed with the nurse. She told you keep your eyes on him, that he was a flight risk, and that she’d be back to check on him again soon. You nodded, thanking her for her time and quickly pulled up a chair beside his bed.

“You've got terrible timing. You know that, right?” you chuckled, shaking your head. “I haven’t left this room for days, Buck, and the second I go to get coffee, you decide to wake up.”

“How long?” he asked quietly and the smile faded from your cheeks.

“Five days,” you told him. “Almost six.”

“Longer since I missed the checkpoint, then,” he reasoned, pinching at his brows. “We should get moving again. I’ve got to get home.”

“What? No,” you said quickly, leaning forward in your chair in an attempt to set your hand on him, but he pushed it away. It seemed to surprise you because you paused for a moment before you said, “Bucky, you’re still healing. You need time before we can—”

“I didn’t almost bleed out in a goddamn cabin in middle of Russia just to end up trapped in some hospital in Germany and still not make it home!”

Bucky threw the blanket off of him again, pushing himself to the edge.

You rushed forward, grabbed a hold of his shins before he could swing his legs off the side of the bed. Your grip was forceful, but not enough to hurt. You planted your hip down on the bed to block his path.

“We’re staying here, Buck,” you pressed, a slight tremor in your voice. “You almost died.”

“Why are you arguing with me about this now?” Bucky groaned and the flash of confusion on your face went unnoticed. “You’re the one that convinced me I had get home, aren’t you? You’re the one who wouldn’t just let me die and made me walk into a fuckin’ blizzard while I was bleeding out! I have to get home to you, right? That’s what you said! I’m not giving up on her – or, or us – or... fuck it— on myself, ok? Whether you’re with me or not. I have to get home to her. Even if I have to fucking crawl.”

Through the frantic swelling in his chest, the heavy pants of his breath, and the dizziness forming back in his head, Bucky didn’t register how quiet you’d become until his eyes flickered over to you. Your body was rigid, lips parted just slightly, a semblance of shock in your eyes and Bucky’s stomach sank.

“Is that... Is that what you meant when you said ‘I stayed with you’? Back in the gas station in Russia? Do you... Do you think you’re just imagining me here?” you asked slowly and a burning heat ached into his cheeks. Something like shame or embarrassment or guilt, but none of it stronger than the relief that coursed through his veins as your hand reached out for him, fingers encasing his. Smaller than his own, warmer, and so real he could feel the divots of your lifeline and old scars and the soothing trace of your nails. Tangible. Real.

“I...” Bucky started, stealing a glance up at your eyes before they darted back down to your hands wrapped so tenderly around him. He exhaled a heavy breath. “I don’t know.”

“Oh, honey,” you sighed, bringing his hands up to your lips and kissing sweetly at his knuckles. You pressed the chill of his fist to your cheek and he could feel the warmth burning there. The way you watched him, with eyes so filled with the kind of love and adoration he’d longed for his entire life, it was enough to mend his heart whole.

“I’m here, Bucky,” you whispered, another kiss to the tips of his fingers and it took the breath straight from his lungs. “I’m really here, honey. Your mind isn’t playing tricks on you anymore. You’re not alone.”

Bucky nodded, watching as you peppered kissed along his hands, over flesh and metal like they were one in the same.

“It felt so real...” he murmured, sinking into the way your hand stretched up along his arm, rising over his neck like the crest of ocean waves, and rested to his cheek. He leaned further into the touch.

“I know,” you soothed, your thumb tracing over his cheekbone. “But I’m here now, love. You found your way home.”

Bucky nodded, shifting in the bed just enough for you to crawl in beside him. The dull ache in his stomach lingered, but he didn’t mind, not when you curled up into the crook of his neck, your hand gliding down over the marred scarring on his shoulder, your breath warm against his collar.

“Home,” he echoed, the word slipping from behind broken lips, a curve of a smile etching into his cheeks. He leaned his cheek to the crown of your head, eyes closing in a relief that spread through his chest and through the very ends of his body in a gentle kind of warmth he could only ever hope to find with you resting in his arms.

He found his way home.

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes

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anika-ann · 4 years ago

Text

In the Strangest Place (We Just Might Find Love) - Pt.2

Type: two-shot, pretty much canon

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader Word count: 2750

Summary: You’re hiding from your boss in a supply closet, minding your own business, when a stranger joins you unexpectedly.

Steve is not entirely a stranger anymore; he knows about your troubles and you know about his. And he’s determined to sort out yours this very moment.

Warnings: mention of sexual harassment, a bit of angst, language, something that might be close to a panic attack if you squint

A/N: There we go... hopefully I’ll make mid-week a bit sweeter for some of you ;)

Part 1

“Alright, kids. Let’s have a trip.”

And you just stared.

…what?

“W-what?” you stuttered, suddenly consumed by the familiar feeling of losing the firm ground under your feet at the idea of trying to confront Gregory head-on. Not even Steve at your side was helping at all as the four of you started walking towards the IT department.

“I-I don’t have any prove! I can’t-- he told me he would--- that he would-”

“That he’d twist it around, convince the HR that you were crushing on him and he turned you down, which turned you into a soulless bitch craving revenge?” the billionaire finished for you and you just uselessly opened you mouth, unable to let out a word to deny it. It seemed to amuse him, because he scoffed; and there was something very bitter in that sound too. “Kid, he’s not the first asshole to take advantage of his superior position. I’ve seen the types. Relax. If Cap here believes you, then so do I. Plus, I know a liar when I see one. And you ain’t lying.”

You breathed in shakily, a flicker of hope igniting in your chest. Could it really be so easy? That couldn’t be right…

“T-thank you, Mr. Stark. I-”

“Yeah, yeah, just name your first kid after me,” Mr. Stark uttered, waving it off.

The Falcon next to you chuckled and you shot Steve a confused gaze. Was that how Mr. Stark usually was? You had never met him in person; you had only ever heard him giving a speech on TV and you knew he had a certain reputation, but this was… different.

You were surprised to find Steve watching you; perhaps he worried about your reaction to such bluntness, since he had seen your outburst in the closet. Upon meeting your gaze – probably shy and undeniably surprised – he charmed a tiny smile for you.

“It’s gonna be okay, see?”

“What are you even worried about? You have three Avengers coming with you!” Mr. Wilson questioned lightly and you bit your lower lip as you thought of the source of anxiety indeed.

Yeah, I have three Avengers and they are all men. Sue me for not being sure which side they would take – not until now.

“You’re not a full-time Avenger, Wilson.”

Falcon gasped, clutching at his chest theatrically at Stark’s remark. “Ouch, Tony. My heart.”

You let out a breathy laugh at their banter and felt yourself relax despite your better judgement. You almost let yourself believe it truly would go alright. Well, as much as dealing with such shitty thing could.

“You’re all my heroes,” you whispered timidly, which earned you a bright smile from Sam Wilson.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Cruel, Birdboy. You stole the old man’s line,” Mr. Stark hummed, amused.

“Heh! Sorry, Cap. But I’m sure you have a whole set of other lines to use on her.”

You choked on your own spit as Steve faltered in his steps, his grip on you growing stronger. What the hell did the Falcon just say?

“Oh my God, Wilson, shut up before we get stuck with another harassment report.”

“I don’t think this a subject for joking,” Steve interjected, slightly irritated, and you shot him a grateful look, because he definitely had a point.

Except… once you weren’t in such a sticky situation, you totally wouldn’t mind Steve Rogers using a line on you. Not at all. And his hand around yours felt nice for multiple reasons, the wordless comfort and support only being one of them. It was warm and slightly calloused, a reminder of his physical work, and it was bigger than yours, so sweetly and distractingly enveloping yours…

But now it was so not the time.

Your peculiar group approached the office and you didn’t even have the time to brace yourself as Tony Stark simply threw the door open, not bothering to knock.

“Thomas Ian Gregory, you are fired this very second,” the billionaire exclaimed dramatically.

You would think he was just being a drama queen, except he sounded deadly serious, using your boss’ full name which he must have read out on the door, and his eyes were throwing daggers at the man sitting behind the desk, looking as if he was the fucking king of the world.

Your boss blinked in surprise and eyed all four of you; Falcon with his arms crossed on his chest, Ironman minus his suit with a murderous glare and a hand raised towards him as if he wanted to point a finger and then Gregory’s gaze fell on your hand connected with Steve’s; you wanted to retrieve it quickly, but Steve wouldn’t let you, his grip growing firm. Anger flashed through your boss’ eyes for a second, before he composed himself and rose from his chair with an innocently confused expression.

You wanted to puke and you felt your legs turning into a shaking mess of jello. This was it. Now he would use his slimy words to turn this situation around and you were about to get fired and humiliated so much that jumping under a bus would be the most likeable option for you.

“Mr. Stark, it’s an honour. Captain Rogers, Mr. Wilson. What do I owe the pleasure?”

You couldn’t believe this--- this pig. Seriously. Who the fuck did he think he was?! How could he--- just lie so easily, pretending that everything was perfectly fine?!

But Tony Stark was not fooled by the charade and you mentally sighed in relief, sure they must have heard the weight falling off of your shoulders even in Jersey.

“I’m sure you heard me, Mr. Gregory. You quit and you’ll be hearing from the HR soon. And you’ll be damn lucky if this young lady right here won’t sue you.”

You honestly wished you were invisible when Gregory’s gaze flickered to you, subtle anger with a promise of consequences in his irises – consequences that would come should you not cut this bullshit right now.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Stark. If this is about the unfortunate feelings my assistant has for me-”

Tears of rage and baseless shame stung in your eyes at his words and you breathed in sharply to defend yourself; before you could, Gregory continued.

“Though I can see they weren’t very… honest. Obviously my inferior seems to be the ‘love them and leave them’ type, which I should warn you about, Capta-”

Breathless at his malicious made-out theories, you did not expect Steve to drop your hand in favour to tower over your boss, making him shut up with one single glare.

Alright, you could see why he had thought that simply appearing at your office would make Gregory tremble in fear. Your boss actually backed off and learnt onto a table, looking as if he was supporting himself under the weight of Steve’s judgement.

“I met this woman for the first time not half an hour ago, hiding from you, too scared of your dirty hands to return to her own workplace. Trust me, it left an impression, just like you are leaving one now,” Steve grunted menacingly, causing your heart to pound in your chest in fright even with his words not aimed on you. “If I can give an advice, you pack your things as fast as you can, apologize to her profusely, begging for her forgiveness and you don’t set a foot in this building or speak to her ever again. Do we have an understanding?”

You weren’t the only one affected. Your boss tried to reciprocate Captain America’s glare, but he failed miserably. He visibly gulped and circled his desk, still watching the soldier as if he was expecting to get hit; then his eyes just dropped to his desk and he frantically started picking random things from it.

You watched the scene in front of you, paralyzed. Your heart was beating its way out of your chest, pulsing in your temples, your breathing alternating between hitching and picking up. Your vision started to swim.

Holy. Shit.

“Cap, I think you broke her.”

Steve spun to you at instant, his eyes roaming your face; or you thought so. He looked worried now; or you thought so. Thinking and frankly evaluating the stimuli your senses were receiving was a bit difficult at the moment.

What the hell had just happened?

Gentle hands took yours, leading you out of the room. You blindly followed, unsure how to put one foot in front of the other, your body running on autopilot.

It was over. Thomas Gregory was no longer your boss and it had happened without you losing your job. And Steve Rogers had scolded him as if he was a five-year old kid – a very pervert one, but a kid nonetheless. Steve put a fucking fear of God into him. All of that happening within three minutes. And you just… couldn’t quite process all that.

You barely registered getting into and out of an elevator, being seated on a couch, having a blanket tossed over your shoulders and a cup of warm liquid pressed into your hands. You automatically brought it to your lips, only to be stopped by a tender fingers curling around your wrist.

“Careful. It might be too hot,” a pleasant voice warned you and you blinked, finally focusing your gaze, finding rather worried and very handsome face staring back.

You glanced at the cup, surprised to identify the drink as Steve’s hand let go of yours.

“Is that… is that hot chocolate?” you stuttered, bewildered. Well, more like… astonished.

“Yeah. You’re not allergic to milk or anything, are you?”

You looked up back to Steve’s face, only to find him with his brows furrowed in concern, lips thoughtfully pursed. It snapped you to action.

“No! No. It’s just… I didn’t have one in years. Thank— thank you.”

His expression cleared, as he was evidently pleased with himself. “Good. You’re welcome.”

The words fell off his lips so easily. As if he just hadn’t… hadn’t saved your career. Or your mental health, really.

You eyed the table by the couch, setting the cup down, only to fully turn to him. He seemed a bit confused at that; but God, you had something important to say and since you didn’t want to give up the blanket just yet, you decided to get rid of the mug at least to look less pathetic.

“No, Steve, I… thank you,” you whispered sincerely, feeling tears in your eyes for like a millionth time that day. His smile widened a little.

“You’re welcome. I’m sorry if I… if I scared you down there. It wasn’t meant for you.”

“You didn’t-” you blurted out in attempt to deny it and make him feel better, only to waver as his eyebrow rose, picture perfect of doubt. It made you chuckle at yourself self-deprecatingly. “It’s not your fault that I was… surprised by your little hulk-out. I guess I just didn’t see it coming.”

“Hulk-out, huh? How do you feel?”

You shrugged, exhaling slowly, thinking hard about your answer.

“Like I just watched my life take a way better turn that I would expect... and I’m still only watching,” you whispered honestly, which led to his face twisting in a grimace.

“Anything I can do?”

You couldn’t help it; you scanned your surroundings, realizing you were in something that looked fancy enough to belong to Tony Stark and was way too big to be part of an actual apartment. You ran your hand down the blanket covering your shoulders, reaching for the abandoned cup to blow on it softly and take a careful sip of chocolate. Steve’s questioning gaze observed you while you did so and you smiled blissfully into the cup as the delicious rich taste caressed your tongue.

“You mean besides comforting me despite being a complete stranger, getting my harassing boss fired and scaring the hell out of him, taking me to--- here, giving me a blanket and making the best cup of hot chocolate I had in years? Give me a second, I’m sure I’ll figure out something else,” you babbled and Steve’s smile grew, tense shoulders relaxing. “Seriously, Steve. This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. I owe you. I- I know you’re a hero and all that, but… yeah. I should be asking you what I could do for you in return.”

“That’s not-- I’m not--- ...you make a pleasant company,” he said in the end as if he realized he couldn't deny any of the things you had listed. You lowered your gaze to the chocolate as his eyes twinkled at the statement.

“Ditto.”

“Does that-” he blurted out and you tilted your head to side, watching him curiously when he stopped talking just as abruptly. “This is a terrible timing, but that’s apparently an infamous quality of mine, because usually I wait too long, and… uhm…”

Your heart skipped a beat at the suddenly embarrassed soldier scratching the back of his neck, peeking at your through his eyelashes. Was that--- was he trying to-? No, it couldn’t be.

“Yeah?” you softly encouraged him to continue.

He wetted his lips, causing your previously tight gut to warm up.

“I understand that it’s the last thing you’re thinking about right now, but… when you settle down again... and things are a bit calmer for you… would you- uhm, like to… maybe spend some more time with--- with me?”

If he had blurted the sentence in one go, you would have dropped your mug in surprise despite suspecting this incredible thing when he had turned bashful. But he didn’t so your brain had enough time to process the words slowly leaving his lips, one after another, little shy, little hopeful. Your heart was speeding up with each of them, ready to burst when he finished with a tiny nervous smile.

Well. How could you possibly say no to that irresistible creature in front of you? You smiled into your drink.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

His face lit up. “Really?”

You wanted to chuckle at the pure surprise on his face, but it was just too endearing and so you had to fight the urge to make an embarrassing sound like an aww instead.

“Yeah, Steve. I’d really like that,” you repeated, hiding the teasing note in your voice. “But you’ve got to teach me how to make a chocolate that good, because seriously, it tastes amazing.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” you demanded, a bit hurt, rather surprised. “I don’t want you to give up your secret recipe right away! Just… in time.”

He grinned at you boyishly, leaning a bit closer to you. You held your breath in anticipating, a the change. “I could. But then I wouldn’t get to enjoy the process of preparing it for you and your smile in return.”

You stared at him for few moments, taking the statement in, wondering if he was teasing you or was being serious. The corners of his lips were quirked up as if he was indeed joking, but there was a certain spark of honesty in his eyes.

You decided to play along, whether it was a game or not. Perhaps it was the relief of newly found freedom from a sleazy man in your life that plucked up your courage and woke up your jovial side.

“Aww, Steve, that’s so sweet. Is that your way of telling me you’re planning on spoiling me? Because then I would need significantly less time to… settle down.”

His grin widened at your words. “Is that so?”

“Mm.”

“Well then…” he brought up lowly, torturing you with anticipation when he didn’t continue, only to watch you with a mischievous smile.

“...then?”

“What are your plans for Friday evening?”

Oh, you were so glad you were sitting, because otherwise the force of the moment in which Steve Rogers asked you out on Friday night would knock you down.

You tried to think of an answer that wouldn’t sound like an over-enthusiastic YES, but his blue eyes staring into yours made it very difficult for you.

Dammit, it was harder to talk to him when you could actually see--- you smiled smugly at the idea that popped up in your head and raised an eyebrow in silent challenge.

“I’m hiding in a supply closet. Why, you wanna join me?”

Steve burst out laughing, throwing his head back with that sound and the picture armed your heart so thoroughly it was unfair.

“Sure thing. Would you like me to bring muffins and coffee or do you prefer an actual dinner?”

You found yourself laughing too and you suddenly believed that your life would indeed get better. It already had, after all.

S.R. masterlist

Beautiful divider by @whimsicalrogers

Thank you for the kind feedback on the first part and I hope you liked this one too :))

Thank you for reading!

#fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers imagine #captain america imagine #captain america x you #captain america x reader #steve rogers #captain america #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fanfic #mcu #marvel #in the strangest place we just might find love #anika ann

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shreddedparchment · 4 years ago

Text

A Wife for Thor Pt.09

11/12/2020

Stirrings

Pairing: King!Thor x Reader Word Count: 6,297

Warnings: language, very light smut, sexual situations, weddings, marriage, pregnancy

A/N: So this is it. This is the one. I hope y’all like it. This is where plot rears its head. Or begins to anyway. I’ll leave y’all to enjoy it. If you do happen to like it and reblog it, thanks so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo

Please DO NOT REPOST my stories on any other blogs or sites.

REBLOGS are always welcome and appreciated!

Dinner with the Warriors Three is eventful.

Several plates have already been knocked to the ground. Goblets and large mugs of mead and ale drop to slosh across the floor in the ruckus.

With a small yeep you duck just in time as a large sturdy turkey leg dripping with honey glaze and butter flies towards you and then hits the wall behind you.

“Hey!” Thor disapproves at Fandral and Hilde, reaching out towards you with his large hand.

He curls his fingers at you, calling you to him and you rise from your chair. You gather your skirts and scurry towards him in obedience. He wraps his arm around your waist and leads you to sit in his lap, turning slightly sideways so that he can shift to protect you with his body if he needs to.

“Watch where you’re throwing things!” He chastises but is ignored.

Volstagg had also cried out when Thor had, and their voices all mix together.

“Hey!” He rises from his seat so abruptly that it falls back and clatters noisily onto the floor. “Stop wasting the best parts!”

From the spot beside you where the turkey leg had clearly been aimed at but missed, Loki wipes at the juices that sprinkled his face as it flew by.

Heimdall chuckles lightly, his deep timber made to rival Thor’s you feel. Hilde also laughs, reaching out quickly to take Fandral’s plate from him before he can grab another piece of food.

“If you couldn’t take the comeback, why did you mouth off?” Loki asks Fandral, other than his wiping, he seems unphased.

“It was a simple question, Loki.” Fandral counters.

“No, it was a jab.” Sif is actually smiling, and you’ve taken to staring at her every few seconds.

She’s not paying attention to you in the moment, so you sitting on Thor’s lap is not her focus. It gives you lots of time to just admire her beauty. She’s so freaking pretty!

She’s also very much a part of this group. You can see where she fits now and she’s indispensable to these lovely Asgardians.

“All I did was ask him if he has a girl!”

“That’s assuming a woman is what he wants.” Hogun rationalizes, reaching to grab the large roll on his plate.

It’s not a normal roll. It’s made differently than what you know. It tastes amazing, but it has flavors that you’ve never had on Earth before.

“Ooh, that’s a good point.” Hilde snaps her fingers, pointing at Hogun before leaning against the table, arms folded and pushing her empty plate away. “So, what is it, Loki? Male? Female? Non-gendered?”

Loki looks highly aware of the fact that everyone seems to be watching him now. Even you find yourself looking at him, waiting to learn more about your brother-in-law to be.

He finishes wiping his face, dropping his napkin on the table before he leans back, placing his hands on his thighs. He meets Hilde’s gaze and gives her a narrowed eye grimace as he answers, “I don’t have a preference.”

The table seems to deflate, all of them disappointed for some reason.

“Well, that’s gonna make it harder to find you someone.” Volstagg acknowledges.

“It means we’ll have a wider pool to choose from.” Heimdall reasons.

“Loki would need to learn to put others before himself before he can even think about being with someone.” Sif contributes, bringing down the pleasant atmosphere a little.

You can feel Thor tense underneath you, your hands hurrying to give his wide shoulders a squeeze where you’ve got hold of them as he looks to his left at his lifelong friend.

“Sif…” He pleads.

Suddenly, this moment seems endless.

Everyone is silent. Across the table, you see Loki looking a little wounded. Like he’s been punched in the chest. Not hard, but enough to make him flinch.

You don’t like it. You really don’t like it.

You look at Sif with new eyes. And you speak before you can stop yourself. The anger that builds in your chest bubbles up and it’s bitter. It tastes like acid.

Until this moment, you hadn’t realized how much her unwelcoming behavior towards you has bothered you.

“You’re joking right?”

She looks at you.

Thor’s arm loosens around your waist, his hand finding a spot on your hip.

She doesn’t seem to have anything to say, but you have plenty.

“I guess your rudeness doesn’t stop at me, but apparently extends to even your lifelong friends.” You’re seething, chest burning, head getting fuzzier as the adrenaline from confronting her getting the better of your senses.

“Cherub…” Thor whispers, not to stop you, but with worry.

A realization overcomes his face as it softens, and he sees how much her refusal to be nice has hurt you.

“Just so you know, since the moment I met Loki he’s been nothing but kind to me. He’s been friendly and supportive and helpful and already the best brother-in-law I could ask for. I was seriously excited to meet you and get to know you because I’d heard a lot about your accomplishments but since I got here you’ve been nothing but abrasive, dismissive, and inappropriate with the way you act around Thor when you think I’m not watching.

“As far as I’m concerned, the only one that needs learn to put others before themselves at this table, is you. And if I could have it my way, I would ask you not to come to the wedding on Thursday but I know Thor wants you there so, as your Queen, I’m ordering you to come, whether you like it or not.”

The room is silent. Even Vostagg has frozen, mid-chew.

You get up, Thor’s hand stuck to your hip as if glued there, but he doesn’t stop you. Everyone else stands, even Hilde and Sif. Though she does it more slowly, chewing on the inside of her lip.

“I can’t eat anymore.” You huff. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

You make for the door but stop as you reach it, hand placed on the handle before you turn back towards the table and find Loki.

“For what it’s worth, anyone you choose would be lucky to have you.” With a final firm nod, you shove the doors open and stomp your way back to your room, taking the stairs as quickly as you can while hiking up your dress so that you don’t trip.

Even though your hands are shaking, your heart pounding, you feel much lighter now.

In your room, you strip the day away, dress left in a mess just inside the door. Your shoes just after. Stockings. Bra. Underwear at the bathroom doorway.

The water is already steaming hot when you walk into it, a sigh of relief hissing through your lips as you dip down into the water until your shoulders are submerged.

You’re not sure how long you steep there in the water—it could be seconds or hours—before you finally hear the bedroom door open.

“Y/N?” The voice pulls you from your empty space, that soundless pit in your mind where you go when you drift off into non-linear tangents of thought.

It’s the space where most of your stories come from. A space no one but you knows about.

“Leaving me breadcrumbs, cherub?” Thor asks, his voice lower, still out in the room. “This trail is intriguing.”

Half of your lip curls up in a smile, you keep your back to the bathroom door, intent on keep your mouth shut as long as you can so that you can hear what he really thinks about what you’ve just done in that dining hall.

“Dress. Stockings. Brassiere.” He clears his throat, and when he speaks again, his voice cracks. “Underwear.”

He’s in the bathroom doorway now, and you hear the hiss of all of your clothing fall back to the ground as he drops it at the sight of you.

“Hello. Might I join you?” He’s actually asking and will go away if you tell him he can’t.

Because you still don’t want to speak, you look over your shoulder at him and give him a gentle nod.

You keep watching him, staring at him as he reaches up and unhooks the straps on his armor. He moves to the long wooden slat bench along the wall and places it there. He follows it with his black shirt, then he sits and pulls off his shoes.

As he takes off each piece, he looks up at you, meeting your eyes and watches you for any give in your mood.

Whenever he’s not looking at you, you admire the bend and shift of his muscular torso. There’s a power in his body that you’re familiar with. Not strength. That’s not what you mean.

He’s got muscles, sure, and he can lift probably tons. You’ve seen the clips of him in fights around Earth.

What you’re thinking about is the power underneath all the appealing surface. He radiates it and it’s intoxicating. It makes you feel safe when he’s with you.

With his boots placed aside, he stands and unbuckles the leather belt around his waist. He opens the front of his pants and pushes them down.

No underwear.

You’re seriously tempted to smile at the fact that he’s been going commando all day long. You resist.

He throws them behind him then sits on the edge of the pool before lowering himself into the heated water.

He sighs in comfort but doesn’t give himself time to relish in the feeling before he’s moving towards you, the sloshy water splashing his golden body.

You wrap your arms around yourself just as Thor wraps his around you too. He pulls you close, smooshing your breasts against his chest.

He dips down to kiss your bare shoulder, then your neck, side of your chin, then finally a small and incredibly irresistible peck to your lips that almost cracks you. You almost throw yourself on him.

Instead you pucker right back, kissing him because you can’t resist him completely.

He really does have you wrapped around his finger.

“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I have worried how you would handle yourself in this position of authority that you’re marrying into.” Thor admits, tracing the curve of your shoulder with his large fingers.

He dips down again, kissing it then nips at it, teeth grazing lightly to pull on the skin.

It makes you shiver.

“You should give me some orders too.” Thor mumbles, his voice thick with arousal.

You really wanna laugh. Instead you keep silent and after a few moments, he pulls back to look at your face. Neutral. Eyes observant. No sign as to what you might be feeling.

The atmosphere grows more serious. Even though he’s got you squeezed to him, when he meets your eyes, you can see the worry there.

“Why didn’t you say anything before if you were that upset about Sif?”

“I did say something.” You remind him. “And I’m sure Loki did too. And Hilde.”

“No,” Thor shakes his head. “All of you said that she was jealous and unwelcoming. You are the only one that could have told me that it was really bothering you.”

And he’s right. You hadn’t exactly acted like it bothered you except a passing wish that you could get to know her.

With a shrug you shake your head.

“I didn’t realize how much it was bothering me until tonight. She wasn’t being awful or anything. She just hasn’t said much to me.”

He’s silent for a bit, your eyes on the water by his elbow.

His hands find the sides of your face and gently he coaxes your gaze up to meet his own.

“I hate the thought of you suffering in silence.” He says, deep voice soothing the knots in your chest. “Promise you will tell me if anything or anyone hurts you. I will try my best to make it better.”

“You can’t fight my battles for me, Thor. I can take care of myself.”

“Yes, I can see that. But you don’t have to. I’d like to be useful if it’s possible. This might sound a little pathetic, but I’d very much like you to make me feel needed.” He pouts, and even though he’s playing with you, his words are real.

He doesn’t like being caught off guard. Not when it comes to things he should know. And by the looks of his face, the way that his playful pout turns into a real downturn to the corners of his lips, you fall under that category of things he should be aware of.

You nod, head barely moving underneath his heated hold.

He leans down to kiss you, just a loving peck before he wraps his arms around you to squish you against his body again and he tilts his head, urging your lips open with the tip of his tongue. He breathes in, a small moan pulled out of him as you swirl your tongue around his, tasting him. The honey in his ale still fresh.

He pulls back, eye still shut as he groans again. “Mmph, I could kiss you all day long and do nothing else.”

You know what he means. There’s something about these kisses, so charged. They feel amazing, toe curling.

Whatever chemistry the two of you have is all consuming and you don’t mind.

“Also, in case you think it went without my notice, I want to thank you for standing up for Loki.” Thor pushes your hair away from your face, leaning down to press another quick peck to your lips. “It means a lot to me that he has someone else on his side. After everything that’s happened, it’s hard for some people to see that he’s changed.”

“He’s been very nice to me. I didn’t like Sif talking to him like that. I know that I probably stepped on her toes. She’s known him longer than me, but the look on his face after she said what she said…” It’s making your blood boil all over again.

“Loki has done many things to warrant her mistrust, but her words were cruel. I’m very grateful you spoke on his behalf. I’m certain it meant a lot to Loki too.”

You untangle your arms from between your bodies, wrap them around him under his arms and lay your head against his chest.

“He’s my family now.” You sigh. “Both of you.”

It’s your new truth. You’re not alone anymore!

“I will fight for both of you if anyone hurts you.”

You feel it so fiercely that you squeeze him, and he actually groans at the gesture. You know that you can’t hurt him though, and he’s just humoring you.

He chuckles against your hair, kissing your head as he holds you back.

“I’m so glad you chose to come meet me.” Thor whispers, running his hand along the curve of your back.

“I’m so glad they forced me to come meet you.”

Both of you laugh.

~~~~~~~~~~

The planet is nearly decimated.

It’s a shell of what it once was, but dark still. The cold bites harshly.

The rough terrain is snow-covered. Ice grows from the ground into tall towers that rise hundreds of feet into the frigid air.

In a crater, full of crumbling structures that once stood tall and menacing, is the entrance to a cave. The darkness dips down and winds through the ice, unstable and shifting, with cracks along ground walls and ceiling.

Despite the bitter cold, a small green light begins to glow down in the darkest pit.

The cave suddenly stretches, a ginormous cavern hundreds of feet in Jotunheim’s depths.

Through the darkness paces a figure, small in stature but glowing an almost ethereal jade. The light pulsates, wrapped around a female form. Her body is perfection. The Venus made flesh.

Her long blonde tresses cascade along her back, a golden river flowing past her waist. On her head a smooth emerald helm with twin peaks rising up like horns on either side of her brow.

Her tunic, well worn in the exact same shade of green as her helm as is the rest of her outfit. Over a pair of leather pants, an armored soft strap skirt laces up along her hips, and tall boot with a helix design in line stop just above her knees.

Her bodice is laced at her front, leather ties tied tight to keep out the cold. Her strong yet slender shoulders are wrapped in a long green cape, gray bear’s fur lining the neck for warmth. It sweeps around her as she carves a line in the ice with her restless movements.

From the darkest corner of the large cavern comes a deep but weakened voice.

“Cease your pacing, Asgardian. Before I stop it for you.”

His words are followed by a wheezing breath, a cough, and a deep slow sigh.

The woman stops, crossing her arms across her chest as she stares into the dark.

“How much longer must we wait? I can feel him slipping away from me. His eyes have wandered, yet again.” She drops one arm, slapping at her cloak in frustration.

“Your obsession with Odin’s whelp escapes my understanding.” The deep voice breathes in again, wheezes as he breathes out. “Remember my intent, witch. I will kill the God of Thunder.”

“Yes, I heard you the first million times you told me. I do not need the constant reminder. Thor will die.” She sighs, turning to look towards the entrance of the cavern, in search for the handsome golden face that rests in her heart. “You can kill him, as long as he dies loving me and only me. Thor is mine.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s your fifth time zoning out, your mouth slightly open as you stare at the reflection in your new vanity shoved into Thor’s spacious room.

“Your Highness?” Estrid nudges you, leaning forward to try and catch your attention.

“Hm?” You jump, turning to look at her with wide eyes.

She smiles at you kindly, knowing the source of your distraction. It isn’t hard to guess.

“What color rose shall we put in your hair?”

“Um…” You look down at your wedding dress, carefully spread out around you and held in place by your new set of intricate silver armor. It was cold when they’d put it on you, the metal touching your bare shoulders, but it’s padded so that it doesn’t hurt.

The design is very practical. It’s real armor that you’re expected to wear for official military events or if there is an actual attack on the palace. You’re going to be a warrior people’s Queen and a warrior husband’s wife. The armor is made for you to use.

That doesn’t mean it isn’t also beautiful.

Thor made very specific requests to its pieces. Along the sides around your stomach is a delicate floral design. The shoulder pieces, not to be worn today because it makes you look gentler and more refined, are also decorated along its edges with vines of smaller flowers and at one outer corner of each piece is a blooming rose with its petals spread wide.

Along your wrists and forearms you wear bracers, just as beautifully decorated and there to help hold your sleeves down.

“Thor’s armor will be black?” You check, trying to remember what he’s supposed to wear.

“Actually, Your Highness, his Majesty’s armor will be silver, to match your own. With gold highlights along his breast plate. His cape will still be red. That is his best color.” She smiles, her hand resting by the collection of roses in a wooden box that had been filled this morning from the gardens.

“Then we’ll go with the red rose. The one in full bloom, and this lighter one, in half bloom.” You touch each one gently, caressing the velvety petals in admiration of their pretty color.

“An excellent choice, Your Highness.” Estrid quickly goes to attaching them, adjusting your hair on the top of your head and pinning them into place.

“Are you almost ready?” Hilde’s voice filters in, the door now wide open as she stands there staring in at you.

Her eyes are bright, her mouth open in awe.

“Does it look bad?” You worry, reaching up to touch your hair then reaching down to fuss with the armor.

“You look…” Hilde stops, at a loss.

“Beautiful.” David provides, a calm smile stretched across his lips.

“You made it!” You gasp, getting to your feet just as Estrid finishes with the flowers and rush to him.

He hugs you, laughing as you squeeze him tight.

“Ouch,” he says, teasing you.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” You pull away and he laughs a bit more loudly. “I thought you weren’t going to make it back in time. Where did you go?”

“I had a favor to do for your husband to be.” David explains, then pushes you back so that he can take a better look at you. “You are really, absolutely beautiful.”

That makes you feel better. More confident.

“He’s so right.” Hilde agrees, nodding with what looks like joy in her eyes.

“Thanks, Hilde. David? You are going to walk me down the aisle, right?”

David’s face goes blank. He looks to Hilde and then to Estrid before he meets your eyes again.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you!” You laugh, giving his arms a squeeze. “David, you’re the closest thing I have to family in my life. You’ve been a real father to me through all of this and everything before. Of course, I want you to walk me down the aisle.”

David’s eyes slowly grow misty, his smile growing wide by the moment before he pulls you back into a gentle hug.

“It would be my honor.” David whispers just for you.

“Ooh, none of that.” Hilde interrupts, reaching out to pull the two of you apart. “No crying, you’ll ruin your makeup and Estrid will have to do it again.”

You all laugh. Sweet chuckles of impending excitement as the hour that will change your life grows closer.

You seriously cannot believe that in less than two hours, you’ll be married. More importantly, you’ll be the queen of an entire people.

Most of them have been so welcoming. They’ve eaten up any information they could get on you and you’ve been so grateful for their kindness.

“Hey guys? Anyone here?” A soft lilting voice flitters in from the doorway and you turn to see who posses such a sweet sounding tone.

What you find, you aren’t expecting.

Completely contrary to the small and gentle voice stands what looks like a large collection of massive rocks piled up in the shape of a burly man.

There is a definition at the end of its arms of hands, feet without shoes at the ends of its legs. And at the center of the large mass that makes up its head is a kind looking face. Pure eyes. And he’s got it all topped with a slick black suit and a light blue tie.

He lifts his massive hand and waves it. It’s a minute movement as he stands up straighter with all eyes in the room on him.

“You’re a Kronan.” You realize, pointing at him rudely.

“Yeah, my name is Korg. Thor’s best friend and best man. Even though I’m not really his best man, since there is no best man in Asgardian weddings which is a shame since I would probably most definitely have been his choice. After Loki of course. That’s his brother. And probably Heimdall. His other best friend. And the Warriors Three. But definitely before Miek.”

You chuckle once, a slightly surprised and nervous laugh before you reach out towards him to shake his hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, Korg. Thor was telling me about you yesterday. I’m Y/N. I’m so glad we can finally meet.” You wait patiently as his face goes slightly slack for a moment then he eagerly reaches out to take your tiny hand in his huge one.

He barely closes it around your own but shakes it with enthusiasm.

“Thor said you were a pretty lady. He failed to tell me about how nice you are. You’ll have to come over some time. To my house? We can play some Fortnite. I’ll even let you take the mythic.” He spouts, and you laugh again, just once.

“Oh. Okay. That’s so nice of you.”

He takes his hand back and Hilde finally moves to stand beside you.

“Did you just come to meet Her Highness? Or do you have a message from Thor?”

“Oh, yes. I nearly forgot. Thank you, Valkyrie. The car is here and ready to take you on the drive through the city?”

“Drive through the city?” You turn your confusion to Hilde and she waves to Estrid for your cloak who then rushes away to fetch it.

“It’s a quick procession through the main roads. Since the city temple hasn’t been built, this will be the only way for the people to see you. Normally they would come to the temple to be witness to the ceremony.” She explains.

“So, that’s why we’re having the wedding and the recep-the feast in the throne room.” You realize, nodding as Estrid lays your cloak over your shoulders then clips the thick red cape around you.

“That’s right.” Hilde smiles. “Is Thor already down there?”

“Yep. He said to ask you to be quick.” Korg nods.

“Why?” You wonder, turning that twist of confusion back to him.

“Uh, he said he’d like to have his wife already and be on his honeymoon. Then he said some other things that I don’t feel comfortable repeating about curves and skin, which I don’t have, by the way and I find it a little cruel of him to mention how good it tastes, especially that of his pretty lady. Felt a bit like bragging to me. Kind of rude, to be honest.”

“Thank you, Korg!” Hilde interrupts as you press your hands to your cheeks and feel them burn.

“I’m gonna kill him.” You wheeze.

“Why don’t you head down and let him know we’re on our way? Tell Armod to prep the heater. It’s cold today.”

You know she’s only assuming for your benefit. She doesn’t feel the bite of the cold here like you do.

Korg lumbers off without another word while you turn to David.

“You’ll be here when I get back?” You worry, for some reason desperate to make sure he’s here to walk you down the aisle.

Now that you have that image in your head, you don’t want to let it go.

You hadn’t thought about having a husband since you were a little girl but even then, you’d imagined a father walking you down the aisle. You’d never thought you would get the chance. And you have it now.

“Of course.” David puts his phone down and reaches out to take hold of your elbow. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

The next hour is a rush of movement. Gentle pushing and tugging and guiding from Hilde, Loki, and finally Heimdall and Thor as they settle you into a large levitating carriage. It’s not Earth tech, with the clear curves and colors of Asgardian design.

It’s open, so you understand the need for the cloak now. Armod is sitting at the front of this little ship, hands on a weird sort of lever that is supposed to make up the steering wheel?

The whole thing reminds you a little of the speeders in Star Wars.

“What is this?” You ask in wonder, looking underneath the vehicle as if you might see how it works.

“This is a Skiff. Modified to comply with Earth regulations. Normally the steering mechanism would be at the back of the ship.” Heimdall informs you, moving to touch a small panel on the side which pulls a small step out towards you. “Your Highness?”

You take his hand, and he helps you up, Thor following shortly behind him.

He sits beside you, still not having said a word.

As you turn to look at him, admiring him from his booted toes to his silver winged helm, you realize that he’s staring at you.

“What?” You gasp, reaching down to touch the fabric of your cloak and the bottom edge of your armor.

Does it look weird? You in armor is not a look you’d ever thought you’d be rocking.

The heat of Thor’s hand traces along the bottom seam of your armor on your back. Fingers tickling the curve of your bottom before he wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you close with gentle strength.

“You’re the most beautiful creature in all of the nine realms, and beyond.” He gushes, and you laugh nervously.

Looking away from him because your neck, ears, and face are burning up and you can’t believe such a sappy grouping of words just came out of his stupid handsome mouth.

You feel his lips pressed to your temple, then cheek. You turn to look at him, wondering about what expression he’s wearing but instead he’s kissing you, eye shut, completely lost in the affection.

When he pulls back, he keeps his forehead pressed to yours. Breathing a little hard as you yourself shiver.

“I love you.” He whispers, so soft and quiet only you can hear him.

“Thor…” You breathe, reaching up to hold his hand as he places it on your cheek.

“You don’t have to say it back. It’s alright if you don’t feel the same. I just want you to know that this is it for me. I didn’t expect to feel this way by today but now that I do, I’m so grateful for you and I promise to do everything in my power to make you happy.”

His confession leaves you weeping, eyes flooded with tears that streak down along your cheeks.

“Thor…” You gasp, pulling him down to kiss him again, just one quick kiss so that you can free your mouth up to speak. “I love you, too. I didn’t know that I could feel this way so quickly. But I do. I love you.”

Thor smiles, the brightness in his face is radiant and you’d swear he is literally glowing.

“Why are you crying?” He asks, a laugh in his voice as he reaches into his own cloak to pull out a sleek black handkerchief.

He pulls it up to your cheeks and gently wipes the tears from your cheeks.

“Because you’re saying all these stupid sweet things that I want to hear and I’m so fucking happy, alright?” You sob just once, reaching out to push against his chest but he catches your arm and pulls you into a hug as he chuckles.

The Skiff begins to move, and you and Thor pull apart when the cheers begin.

You’re still trying to catch up in your mind to the mass of people waving and cheering from the sides of the main street through the city. There are endless flashes from human reporters who came to take pictures. In no time at all, the Skiff is pulling up to the front of the palace.

David is waiting for you and he frowns at the tear stains on your cheeks but a quick look at Thor and his dip to kiss your lips wipes all worries from his mind.

“See you in there, cherub.” Thor calls to you, leaving you just outside the doors of the throne room.

Estrid meets you there and quickly goes to work on fixing your face.

“It’s okay.” You squirm, trying to keep Thor in view but the doors close and all you get to see is the long table on the right side of the room with two large chairs meant for you and Thor during the feast and an array of smaller tables on the opposite side of the room.

Along the left side wall, at the very back are a group of men and women, all wearing stiff black suits. The ambassadors?

“They were happy tears.” You continue to resist, eyes lingering on the scary government group.

“Hilde will tear my hide, Your Highness. Please.” She begs and you stay still for her even though you doubt that Hilde would ever hurt anyone like she suggests.

“Are you nervous?” David asks, reaching to straighten your hair.

“No.” You admit, shaking your head only when Estrid is done with your face.

Instead her hands are on the clasp of your cloak as she peels it off of you and throws it over her arm and then moves around you to straighten your dress.

“I’m so ready to be his wife, David.” You sigh, the feeling of madness on the edges of your mind. “Is that weird? It doesn’t feel weird.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Not weird, if it’s really how you feel. I only want you to be happy.”

“He makes me happy. Really. I was worried about Jane in the beginning and scared about loving him if he didn’t love me back. But he’s more invested in us than I thought he would ever be. He’s being real, I think. It feels real. When he tells me he loves me, it doesn’t sound like a lie.”

David watches you, then taps Estrid on the shoulder. “Thank you, I think she’s ready. Tell them we’ll be right in.”

Estrid gives you a curtsy and disappears through the doors.

You steal a look and spot Thor rolling back and forth on his feet in front of the throne as Loki talks in his ear beside him.

He looks towards you and he smiles, stopping his nervous movement as he locks eyes with you.

Your heart stutters. The doors close again.

“Y/N…I want you to be vigilant with your emotions. You say that his declarations don’t sound like lies and they might not be. But lies like that never sound like lies.”

Your heart sinks a little, your mind racing with every moment that Thor has been sweet with you.

“It’s real, David.” You protest.

“Yes.” He nods, taking your hands in his. “After watching the two of you together, I believe both your emotions are real. Just as you say. I only want you to guard your heart. I want you to protect yourself.

“Marriage is not easy. I have only my own experience to speak from, but there were many obstacles that I did not expect. Laura and I hurt each other many times.” David explains.

“But you and Laura were together until the end. You were both so in love.” You hadn’t known his wife long.

She’d passed only a year after you having known her but every time you’d seen them, they’d been the picture of romantic love and true friendship.

“We were.” He nods, “But it wasn’t always easy. She and I both made many mistakes. Small ones and mistakes that challenged the very core of our relationship. Mistakes that almost tore us apart.

“And this is your first relationship. The first time you’ve ever given yourself over to someone like this. I’m worried for you. That’s all.”

“And that’s why I love you. You’ve been here for me when I’ve needed you most. I will be careful but I want to embrace what I’m feeling.”

“And that’s all I want too. Just your caution. Protect your heart, Y/N. No one else will protect it better than you.”

Really, you understand his worries. This is such a risk not only for you but for Thor too. The two of you hardly know each other.

Your chemistry is through the roof, but there is so much about who you two are as people that you still have to learn. Your lives as King and Queen will also play a part in how your marriage will come together.

Will you have time for each other? Time to make an heir? Time to spend time with whatever family you’re able to make?

“I can’t promise you that I’ll guard my heart well.” You shake your head but squeeze his hands tighter. “I can only promise that I’ll be true to how I feel. If something starts to go wrong, I’ll be open about it. With Thor and with anyone there to support us.”

Because let’s face it, you’ve known for a while that you’re absolutely fucked when it comes to Thor.

You’re head over heels and grateful that he is too. At least your marriage will begin with love even if in time, that fades. You’ll always have the memories you’re making now.

“I suppose this is the apprehension every father feels when his daughter marries. I’ll have to suck it up. But just know, that if you ever need a place to go, if something should be terrible enough that you need to leave, my home will always be open to you as sanctuary.

“I will protect you, as best I can when the time comes.” He pulls you to him, hugging you tightly.

“If,” you correct him. “If the time comes.”

Because you’re certain in your bones that Thor loves you and you love him, and the only thing that could tear that love apart is each other and you can’t see either of you making such a stupid mistake.

The large wooden doors open. David pulls back and takes your hand, wrapping it around his elbow. He lets you take a breath before he takes that first step towards the throne where Thor stands waiting, beaming with joy as his future wife approaches.

#king!thor x reader #thor odinson x reader #thor x reader #arranged marriage au #royal au #marvel fanfiction #marvel au #a wife for thor #a wife for thor pt09 #thor x reader fic #thor x reader fanfic #thor x reader fanfiction #thor x you #king!thor x reader fic #king!thor x reader fanfic #king!thor x reader fanfiction #king!thor x you

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sanktnikolais · 4 years ago

Text

Feed The Wolves

A/N: your local zoyalai stan neighbor is here yet again for another content but this time it’s for @wafflesandkruge‘s birthday!!! I went way overboard with this ig but the Vincenzo fever we’ve been on for the past two weeks was still strong and the ending still tugs at my heart. So pls have this mess, Tiff, I’m sorry HAHDKLHJAFDS Happy birthday, dearest! 🥺🥺

Word count: 13 874

CW: graphic depictions of violence and gore. Read at your own risk.

The Lantsovs have finally taken their move to overthrow the Brums’ tyranny to the extremities. They thought they already have the upper hand and that the odds are finally on their side. But in a game that two players have nothing and everything to lose, there is always a catch in every move they make, and with it also comes a price.

How far are they willing to take it?

If Nikolai could be proud of one moment, he knew it would be today. One couldn’t just make an easy audience with the head of the Brum Family; usually it would take nearly a week to set up an appointment. Jarl Brum was one of the first men to establish their own Families, along with the Tabans, Lantsovs, and the Morozovas, and he was the most powerful among them.

For now.

When one of the biggest Families was in a war and planning to attack another with the same reputation, it was only necessary to play carefully. Especially going against a cunning opponent like Jarl Brum. Today’s predicament was tricky; one wrong move could cost them the chance. Or worse—their lives. Either way, it was dangerous. But if they didn’t at least try to keep the Brums at bay, it would only be a matter of time before they take over all the cities, including Os Alta. And considering how they handled things, lots of lives could be lost.

There was still another way out of this, but it involved extreme measures and there would be no returning after that. He could only hope he wouldn’t have to settle for that last resort no matter how slim his chances were.

Nikolai snapped the lid of his lighter closed, his loud mind finding solace in the metallic clink it made. His eyes caught on the engraving on the side of the lighter. Consigliere Idiot. He fought a smile. The lighter had been a gift to him by Zoya on his birthday a few years back, and it somehow became his talisman ever since. It was a weird kind of gift at first, with Zoya knowing too well that he didn’t smoke that much. But he still got attached to it.

You never know, it might come in handy when you suddenly have an urge to set some place on fire, was what she had told him.

He scoffed at the memory, and then took a deep breath as he focused on his current situation. The risks of having this meeting turn to the bloodbath Nikolai was expecting were high, and if he were to be honest, winning a fight against the Brums was almost impossible.

But he was never the one to believe in impossible. Only improbable. The one thing he could do now was to put faith on the odds being at their side at the end of the day.

He flicked his lighter open and closed again before checking his watch. The bright numbers glared back at him like a countdown of a time bomb nearing its detonation. 17:48. Twelve minutes.

If his estimate was right, Zoya and her men would have arrived by now and started their raid. But knowing the Lantsov Underboss to be careful and precise, they would need a bit more time. It only meant Nikolai had to continue making small talks with the man to try and see if he could settle a score with the Don without the use of violence. Talking proved to be a bit difficult, though, as the head of the Family was being attentive to focusing on his paperworks rather than Nikolai’s presence.

"The numbers are really unstable in the past two weeks and it's mostly plummeting," said Jarl as his eyes scanned the paper he was holding for the last time. Then with a dramatic sigh, he opened the drawer to his right and put the file inside, plastering a rather fake smile on his lips afterwards. "There's been a lot of visitors."

Nikolai could see right through the man's displeasure. He almost laughed. At least the feeling is mutual. "Tell me about it," he said with a light laugh. "Having your business overrun without any reason sure does something to you."

A shadow crossed the Don's face, but Nikolai only smiled innocently and held his gloved hand out for a handshake, a sort of formal gesture between a Don and a Consigliere before and after every meeting. Anyone lower than the Underboss aren't allowed to touch the head of a Family, and they could only do as much as bow in respect for the Don.

Jarl accepted it reluctantly, his grip firm as if he were contemplating breaking Nikolai’s hand. Nikolai was grateful when the man didn't. Maybe because it wasn't a good sight to have and talk business to a Consigliere with a broken hand.

"A pleasant afternoon, isn't it?" mused Nikolai as he took a sip of the coffee. It tasted good, but not nearly as good as Genya's brew. No poison. Or maybe there was and the effects just weren't kicking in yet. He suddenly wished for the woman's knack on any poison. "The perfect chance to kill time.”

The Brum Don laughed lightly, the sound mildly threatening as if he had just thought of something vile. “Indeed, Consigliere,” he said, leaning back more comfortably in his chair. “Is the coffee good? I apologize if it isn’t, but I do hope the atmosphere is comfortable.”

Nikolai fought a wince. He had been here a few times before. Jarl’s office was ice white—ranging from the walls, floorings, and the ceiling. Even the chair he was sitting on had been white. The only thing that gave another color to the pasty room were the furniture and a few appliances. At least his couches were blood red, and the view of the huge window behind his desk was different in shade. Nikolai was thankful for the change of scenery.

“No, no. Everything is good.” It sounded fake, considering how he despised the man's office. But he shook it off. He tipped the mug up in a toast. “I appreciate it, and thank you for accepting my appointment.” He found it funny and silly, when Jarl’s caporegimes used the term “appointment”. It was as if Nikolai wanted to get his teeth checked by a dentist, and considering how the man’s office looked, maybe it really was one. “I thought it would take me another week to wait for the confirmation.”

“You’re a Lantsov, from the first pioneers of the Families.” Jarl paused, a hint of a sneer appearing on his face. “You needn’t to be delayed.”

There was something the way Jarl spoke that didn’t sit well with Nikolai, like the man knew something he didn’t. A thought crossed his mind, but he shook it off. There was no way Jarl knew about that. Or was it? It was not impossible—the Brum Don had a wide network of informants. Rumor had it that there were a few in Os Alta, the city that the Lantsovs had control over.

Him knowing about Nikolai’s real father would only give him power against them. But then Nikolai still decided to brush it off, though its dangerous possibility still lingered at the back of his mind. It wasn’t the time to think of it. They had to take back the territories that were once theirs, even if they had to do it by brute force. It’s what Zoya would have preferred, anyway.

“That’s good to hear,” said Nikolai with a tight smile.

The man crossed his hands over the table, a glint evident in his eyes. Nikolai didn’t know what to make out of it. “So let’s hear it, Consigliere,” said Jarl. “What brings the Lantsovs here?”

Straight to the point. Nikolai put his mug back to the desk and removed his gloves, exposing his scarred hands. Jarl’s eyes flitted to Nikolai's hands for a moment before looking away, an uncomfortable expression on his face. Nikolai felt a sneer twitch on his lips. Scars weren’t new to people like them—they had new ones very often, depending on the work they were doing that time. It was their brand, and they wear it with pride.

But if people knew the history of the scars you bore, especially when you had gotten it from being the vicious Enforcer who once intimidated the streets of Halmhend, you would have an ace against your enemies. And for Nikolai, he exactly just had that.

“We’re eyeing the areas in Halmhend and Ulensk for expansion,” he said, and he noticed the Brum Don perk up a little from his chair. Now Nikolai had his attention. “I heard that the two properties in those locations require some...changes. Big changes, if I may add. So I would like to propose an offer to buy the property for double its actual value.” He stopped to consider, putting a finger to his chin. "No, wait. Make it triple."

Jarl didn't answer for a while, and his expression was in between being offended and amused. Nikolai wondered if the man thought that his offer was a bluff.

"I think you're quite mistaken, Consigliere," he said mildly, his tone having an underlying disbelief. "We do not place our properties up for purchase or any sort of deal."

The properties you had taken from Families by force, Nikolai wanted to say, but he bit back his tongue. The feel of the lighter in his other hand was enough to ease the sudden flare of anger in his chest. He put on his signature grin to cover it up. "Ah, but I thought your numbers were plummeting for the past two weeks? I think my offer would help the numbers to be friendly and rise up nicely again."

"Is that what your father told you to do?" Jarl asked as he leaned back further into his chair. The look on his face had gone from slightly friendly to threatening. "To try and sway me with money?"

"Don't we all want to be swayed and pampered by money?" countered Nikolai, the grin never leaving his lips. Jarl’s expression only became darker, and it made Nikolai want to goad him more. "Think of the numbers finally rising, Jarl. I know you want that."

"It’s foolish to think that I’d willingly sell properties that we have the ability to look after just quite well, Consigliere.” The Brum Don shook his head with a disappointed expression. “I never thought you would be this desperate.”

This ticked something inside Nikolai, and he found himself suddenly saying, “Is that why you worked with the Radimovs to overthrow our territories?”

There was a tense silence, and the expression on Jarl’s face turned from angry to mildly surprised, like he hadn't expected Nikolai to know about the Brums involvement with the assault. They weren't the only Family with spies stationed in different cities; the Lantsovs had just as much informants as the Brums have, if not a bit less.

Nikolai took the silence as his chance to continue. "Ah, let me make that clear. The Radimovs doing the dirty work and the Brums happening to ‘buy’ the two properties the following day from them. That's pretty much all of it, right? And it's not different from what you did with the Tabans and the Demidovs. And somehow the Morozovas too." He chuckled darkly. "Though it's probably pretty much the Morozovas' payment to your Family for protecting their ass, so I wouldn't really take that into account. Doesn't take a genius to figure that out."

Jarl’s jaw was set, as if determined not to admit to the accusation. His eyes were hard, but Nikolai could notice the man's hand suddenly fiddling the pen within his reach in tense movements. He has such an obvious tell. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I'm merely joking, sir. I mean, I am indeed a genius in certain aspects, but I didn’t learn about that information by connecting the dots. I knew about your tactics from an informant," said Nikolai with a kind smile. "We may have been spiraling a bit out of control since the attempted murder of my father, but we're not as stupid as you think."

The Brums had used the Lantsovs’ distraction in prioritizing the Don’s security to their advantage, going as far as making frequent appearances in their properties, and even in Os Alta. One of the instances he couldn’t forget were the three Brum soldiers who had caused disturbance in their bar in Kribirsk, and it stirred up the brewing dispute between their Families.

Nikolai wouldn't even be surprised if the Brums had something to do with the assassination. And if he were to really think of it now, it was most likely possible. The Demidovs weren't that powerful enough to do something as bold as trying to take down one of the most powerful Dons in the country, unless there was a much bigger hand controlling them.

The only Family who had the ability to pull off a stunt like that was the Brums. But knowing them, they always used someone else to do their dirty work for them as they wanted to maintain the 'clean slate' of their name.

They could always put out the fire, but they can never cover up the smoke.

Jarl considered Nikolai for another moment, and then he let out a loud laugh. “I get why Alexander appointed you as Consigliere and not your older brother. A clever boy, you are,” he said. "Can't be fooled easily."

"I'd take that as a compliment, sir," said Nikolai.

He reached over to the mug of coffee again, but his hand suddenly felt stiff and rigid as if something was keeping it from being able to move. Then his vision blurred slightly for a moment before it sharpened again, making him blink.

It took him a second, and a quiet laugh bubbled from his chest. His suspicions were right, then. He gripped the lighter tightly in his hand like it was the only source of his strength. Coffee was the last thing he had expected to have poison in it, and disbelief muddled his mind.

Cheeky bastard, should have put it in brandy or whiskey instead of slandering coffee this way.

Nikolai held the mug with a bit of effort in his outstretched hand, trying not to let his strain show. But when he looked up back to the Don again, there was no denying that he had already noticed Nikolai’s difficulty in moving, and the beginning of a smirk was evident on Jarl’s expression. The knife hidden under the lapel of Nikolai’s coat suddenly felt heavy.

This was going to be a pain to get through again.

"How's your father, Nikolai?" the man asked. Even his voice sounded faraway now. "Is he recovering well?"

"He is. Quite well, I'll say. He might get discharged next week," Nikolai replied before raising the mug to his lips again. It was only when he took another sip of the coffee did he finally recognize the slightest difference in the taste of a purely black coffee. Genya would have scolded him for not recognizing it right away. Cyanide. Cheap. "He sends his regards, by the way."

Jarl smiled. "I appreciate it." He paused, his eyebrows furrowing in mock concern. Nikolai wanted to laugh. "Are you alright? You seem to be looking quite unwell."

Nikolai shrugged, the movement requiring much more effort as he was still adjusting to the toxins in his body. "I'm fine, just a bit stiff. The coffee had a bit of a kick in it."

"Ah, but you did like your coffee without sugar, right?"

"Yeah, makes it more bracing." He gestured to the mug with a nod before placing it back to the desk. A dull tremor shot through him, and he fiddled with the lighter in his hand to keep it from going completely numb. "So, is your answer really a no?"

"You make me laugh, Consigliere. Here you are, alone, wanting to have an appointment to meet with me just to offer some nonsense."

“I wouldn’t actually call it nonsense I would say ultimatum, but that sounds too threatening so I think I’d tone it down for a bit,” said Nikolai, his tone light. He checked his watch. 17:58. Almost there. But then another tremor shot through him, and this time, he wasn’t able to stop a pained groan from tearing in his throat. He raised a finger. “Wait, give me a second.”

Nikolai closed his eyes and breathed deeply, flexing his fingers open and close. This was becoming rather embarrassing for him, to give threats to someone of a much higher rank than him while looking he was about to throw up, but he took his time. After a few more moments, he finally regained his composure. When he looked back up to the Don, Jarl had an amused expression on his face as if he were thinking of Nikolai as a big joke.

"Consider it a friendly warning," Nikolai said with a grin. “I wouldn’t want to spew threats yet when I still haven’t tried to convince you to change your mind.”

Jarl’s expression darkened. "This is a three-hectare property. No one would notice the Lantsov Consigliere not coming out of here."

"Oh, dear me. Are we doing threats now?" Nikolai laughed, or more like wheezed, and shook his head. "Three hectares, you say? So if I burned down this side of the compound, firefighters won't arrive in time, no? Or even just shooting you, I'm pretty sure no one else would hear."

"You're in my compound, Nikolai. My territory."

Nikolai shrugged. "Hasn't stopped me before."

"There are guards patrolling around right outside the hall. They will immediately barge in the moment I hit the alarm."

"Ah, let them. I like that kind of attention. Boosts my ego exponentially." The watch around Nikolai’s wrist beeped softly, and he glanced down at it to confirm that the numbers had already turned to 18:00. "I also did like my coffee without poison, actually. But I appreciate the improvised addition. Cyanide as an alternative to sugar? Genius. Gave a rush of thrill in my blood."

If Nikolai could frame the look of the evident shock on Jarl’s face, he would have made a whole exhibit just for it. People needed to see such a rare sighting of the Brum Don getting caught off guard. The man blinked repeatedly, as if he didn't believe what he was seeing in front of him.

Trust me, this will get useful at some point, Genya's voice echoed in his head. Nikolai silently thanked their caporegime's insistence for him to develop poison immunity. All those days of handling mild paralysis and unconsciousness was worth it.

"Oh, pardon me. Was I being too straightforward with that?" He chuckled lightly. "I can repeat it though. You got me good there, I can already feel it kicking in. But if you wanted to kill me, I think I would prefer a bullet to the brain just to be sure. That's a hundred percent chance I wouldn't walk out of here alive, or just mix in as much cyanide as you have. A sprinkle won’t be enough."

Jarl let out a laugh of his own, but the sound came out nervous instead of threatening. The man was evidently pale and he was now holding the pen so tightly in his fist he could have snapped it in half. "But that would be messy now, wouldn't it?" he said with a grin. Even his smile looked forced. "As you've told me, we don't do the dirty work.

"Hmm, fair. But there would be no thrill at all, would it? Having to hide behind your coffers and let others do the labor? That's icky." Nikolai shook his head. There was another tremor that shot throughout his body, but it was much weaker than the ones before it, and he almost smiled. At least that was over. Bless you, Genya. He leaned forward for a bit, his eyes narrowing curiously. "Do tell me, Jarl. How would it feel when someone else takes over your business by force, and brutally kills your men and innocent workers in the process? They’re not a threat, Jarl. Much less an enemy. Why involve them in the mess? We don’t do that. That is against our principles. But I guess that's never in your book, was it? You just do things that would satisfy your greed and thirst for blood."

“Getting bolder now, aren't we, Consigliere? I would watch that mouth of yours if I were you. Do you think the Lantsovs could handle another loss, especially their Consigliere?” The Brum Don shook his head, a look of disappointment on his face. “Who would try to handle things diplomatically?”

It was threat after threat. “That is a good question, sir,” said Nikolai. He flexed his fingers on both hands and put them on his knees. “I know Nazyalensky can be diplomatic if need be. But I also know she prefers to use rather drastic measures than talking. ‘It’s the easier way’, she always says. I would have to agree with her at certain times.”

“Are you implying something?”

Nikolai plastered a grin on his face. “Only the fact that you’d be facing lesser diplomatic meetings with the Lantsovs if I ever not make it out of here alive,” he said. A soft ping resounded, and he took out his phone from his coat pocket. He checked the alert, his grin turning smug and menacing, the kind that people rarely see the Lantsov Consigliere ever did. “And that you’d probably be dealing with it sooner than you thought.”

A look of confusion bloomed on the Don’s face, and then, as if on cue, the telephone on the side of his desk blared, the sound startling Jarl and making him jump slightly on his seat. He looked at it with suspicion. Nikolai wanted to laugh, but he figured that it would be rude. Besides, the whole ordeal wasn’t done yet—a lot could still happen, and he was still reeling from the effects of the poison. But he could already see the odds on their side.

“I would answer that if I were you,” Nikolai said calmly, his fingers finding the lid of his lighter again. He flicked it open and back close. He could still feel the strain in his hand, but at least it he could move it properly again. “It’s probably important.”

Jarl narrowed his eyes at him. “What’s your deal, Consigliere? Why are you really here?”

“Just answer the telephone, sir. Maybe it will give you the answer.”

There was another tense silence. The Brum Don suddenly didn’t look like he was having fun trying to get him cornered. This was the best part for Nikolai, the thrill he always got whenever the upper hand his enemies had against him was suddenly taken away from them and he would watch them crumble slowly and back away until they were the ones cornered instead of him. It was such a satisfying view to watch.

And Nikolai were to look at it now, it was exactly how he wanted it. One didn’t just easily get Jarl Brum on the edge of his seat.

“Well?” Nikolai mused.

The frown on Brum Don’s face only deepened, and then reluctantly, he reached for the telephone and slowly raised the receiver near his ear. A few beats, and then, “Yes?”

Nikolai watched the man’s face pale, his eyes shifting everywhere with the look of evident panic in them. His hand tightened around the receiver until his knuckles were almost white from gripping it too much. There was just so much anger radiating off of him that Nikolai was surprised the Don hadn’t even pointed a gun at him yet.

Then Jarl’s attention snapped to him after a moment, his eyes murderous with every intent to kill. Nikolai returned his look with an innocent grin, and the Don’s jaw was set in complete rage. If were some other person, he knew he would have cowered back in fear. But years trying to prove himself he was worthy to be an official member of the Lantsov family despite his bloodline contributed a lot to the name he had built for himself.

The Demon Prince of Halmhend—the people had whispered his name in both awe and fear. And with each dark and nasty scar and blood he got on his hands, the stronger his reputation grew. He would get the job done, and he would use whatever method he had to, even if it meant having to have a staredown with death himself.

It would take much more than some Don’s murderous look to derail Nikolai from his goal.

He watched patiently as the Don put back the receiver to the cradle, his dark gaze turning from enraged to cold fury, like he had finally accepted whatever was said to him in the call. Jarl stared down at him for another long moment, and Nikolai could practically see the gears in the man’s head working.

“Alright, Consigliere. You made your point.” The Don kept his face expressionless, but his eyes told Nikolai otherwise. “What do you really want?”

Finally. “Stop the unnecessary attacks and killings,” Nikolai said. “You can’t keep that act up and expect the others not to turn against you.”

“No one would dare go against us. We both know that.”

“It’s because we’re still holding back.”

A shadow passed over Jarl’s face, and his expression darkened even more. “Is that a challenge?”

“Maybe,” replied Nikolai. He reached up to fix his tie. “If I were to be honest, the Tabans could take you any day. They just don’t choose to. Waste of resources, they say. But really, I understand. It would be too easy for them.”

“The Tabans don’t choose to fight because they’re cowards,” Jarl said with a huff. “Not because they don’t choose to do so.”

Nikolai wrinkled his nose. “Tell that to Madam Makhi’s face, and you’ll see your throat by the end of her sword,” he said. He leaned forward as if to tell a secret. “She keeps a very sharp sword in her office, by the way. And she knows how to use it, so I don’t really suggest going against her.”

Jarl shook his head, the smirk still evident on his lips. “And if I don’t agree to your motion? What can you possibly do with—”

“You would find my family retaliating,” Nikolai cut him off, and the Don reared back in mild surprise. “The attacks would continue, and I will let it go on. Don’t try fighting in a war where you’re going to lose.”

The Don didn’t say anything after that. Nikolai gave him a smile, feeling a bit more confident than before that maybe they had driven Jarl Brum into a corner. Then, to his astonishment, Jarl did something entirely beyond his expectation.

He laughed.

And it wasn’t the desperate type but rather a genuinely amused one, like he had just heard the funniest joke that Nikolai could have ever done. Instantly, his grin faded. Jarl Brum was actually laughing. Nikolai could only look back at the Brum Don with utter confusion as uneasiness settled in his gut. The man acted as if he was one step ahead of them, and whatever confidence Nikolai had in himself the moment he stepped inside the man’s office was gone.

“The White Island, huh?” Jarl said through his laughs. He shook his head, dramatically reaching up to wipe the nonexistent tears from his eyes. "That hotel is quite a sight, but its location in Ulensk is utter shit. You can burn it down all you want, I wouldn't mind. You didn't have to hide the fact you would raid it just to make a point."

Dread washed over Nikolai. It felt like this was the real poison taking effect in his system and halted his thoughts completely. How in the saints' name did Jarl know about the raid? Were Tolya and Tamar safe? Which part of the Don's terrified look had been real?

He watched the Brum Don stand from his seat and walked to the drawers behind his desk. He bent down to pull a bottle of wine out along with two glasses, humming happily as he went along. It was a baffling sight to see Jarl’s shift in his demeanor, especially from the perspective of a person who knew their way around manipulating their own emotions.

Was this how he looked like to other people? Awful and terrifying?

"You're a lot silent now, Consigliere," mused Jarl as he poured wine onto the two glasses. He didn't even need to turn around for Nikolai to know that the man was having fun having the upper hand once again. "Did I surprise you?"

Nikolai's hand clenched into a fist to keep it from trembling badly with suppressed fury. It wasn't the right time to act yet. He glared at the Brum Don's back, and with slow, silent movements, he carefully reached for the knife under his lapel and slipped it in the edge of his sleeve. The distress and fear clouding his mind may have been overwhelming enough to make him unable to answer, but he wasn't going to let any chances slide. The Brum Don took his silence as a cue to continue.

"Ah, don't worry. Your guys leading the raid in White Island Hotel is fine," said Jarl with a light laugh. "I didn't put extra security there tonight on purpose. So your guys are probably done turning the place upside down by now." Then he paused, lifting his head up to stare out the glass window in front of him. "It's actually your people who went to the arms factory I'm worried about."

Whatever composure Nikolai had in himself crumbled to nothing. No—

"You're probably wondering how I knew about it. Well, like you, I have my informants too. And that huge shipment of firepower last week? What other reasons did the Lantsovs have to have that kind of shipment aside from going to war? Doesn't need to take a genius to figure that out." Jarl walked back to his desk and placed the other glass of wine he was holding in front of Nikolai. "And what's the most convenient thing to hit during a war? The arms factory and its warehouse. It's only our luck that you sent Nazyalensky to her own demise. I did put more security in that place."

For once, Nikolai didn't have anything to say back. He usually prided himself of being able to make people bow down to his wishes, even if it meant threatening them to the extremes or just simply having a conversation with them.

And yet the mere thought of Zoya in danger was enough to spiral him out of his thoughts.

"I did surprise you now, didn't I?" Jarl chuckled, taking another sip from his glass. "You see, this is what I meant when I said no one dares to go against us. I'm always a step ahead."

Nikolai gritted his teeth, clenching his hands into fists to keep himself from lunging at the Don. "What did you do to her?"

"Do settle down, Consigliere. She's not in danger. Oh, at least not yet. I haven't given them any orders." He paused, frowning as if he had said something wrong. "But that may change in a moment. Unless you do something for me."

"What do you want?"

Jarl raised an eyebrow. "That was fast, I haven't even blinked," he said. "It's quite a sight to see the great Lantsov Consigliere quickly bow down just because his woman is in danger."

"Just say your conditions, Jarl."

"You will agree to sign a contract that would legally make the Lantsovs as the Brums' subsidiary."

Nikolai looked at the Don with utter disbelief like he had just grown another head on his shoulder. Jarl must have been joking. Maybe Zoya was alright and had already handled the situation at Halmhend. Nikolai's irritation suddenly flared. His thinking was becoming too unstable—which wasn't ideal for his current situation. And if he continued to let Jarl’s words get to him, he would certainly lose this fight.

"In fact, it's still quite a generous offer." Jarl tipped his head in respect. "It's for seeing through that coffee I gave you. And even surviving it."

"And what if I don't?" Nikolai asked, voice nearly a hiss.

Jarl smiled. “Then Nazyalensky dies. Very simple.”

“How do I know you’re not bluffing?”

Then as if on cue, Nikolai’s phone rang again, tearing his attention away from wanting to lunge at the Don. He looked at the screen, and it showed a restricted number was trying to make a call. And even though it didn't exactly show who was calling, Nikolai already knew who was on the other line.

"I would answer that if I were you," said Jarl, his tone smug as he repeated Nikolai’s line from earlier. With a confident smile that almost ticked off the last Nikolai’s patience, Jarl added, "It's probably important."

Nikolai looked down at his phone again, thinking that maybe if he stared hard enough at the bright numbers glaring back at him, the call would stop and prove that the Brum Don was just bluffing.

But when it continued to ring, it stabbed fear into his heart. Zoya never called him during an operation, only quick signals and messages.

"Well?" Jarl mused. He took a sip from his own glass and raised an eyebrow. "Nazyalensky won't wait all night."

The urge to act upon his anger was now stronger than his will to keep on a neutral face, and yet Nikolai still held back. He wouldn't do anything unless he was sure he had every reason to.

But the mention of Zoya's name from this despicable man's lips was making it hard to keep himself from killing the Don.

"If you lay even one finger on her," Nikolai said, voice low with threat, "I will burn every single place you have until the flames reach you and you will be burning down with them."

A shadow passed on Jarl’s face, but it was gone as soon as Nikolai could blink, and there was the sneer on his face again. "Just answer the call, Consigliere."

Nikolai did what he was told and he swiped the icon to the right. He slowly put the phone to his ear, his gaze never wavering from Jarl.

The other line was quiet, except for the occasional strained breathing in the background. He fought the urge to call out for her name—it wasn't the time to give the Brum Don more leverage against him. So he waited.

Zoya, he pleaded in his mind. Please be alright.

It was a desperate thought, one he hoped that would be true, because he would have to settle for the last resort and the Don wouldn't see another sunrise after tonight.

There was another silence, more ragged breathing. Nikolai's vision was starting to tunnel as he fought for composure, and Don's smirk was only adding fuel to the fire in him that was waiting to be ignited.

A beat, and there was a pained voice that said, "Nikolai—"

Something in Nikolai snapped, and he was suddenly flicking the knife out from his sleeve and then hauled it at Jarl Brum.

It hit the man on his shoulder hard enough for his chair to tip back, and he fell over with a shout. Nikolai shot up from his own chair and slid over the Don's desk, landing on the ground next to the man and kicking the man's arm even before he could reach for the alarm button under the edge of the table. He kept Jarl's arm pinned to the floor with his foot, and when the Don tried to reach for Nikolai's ankle with his other free arm, he pressed his foot harder against the man's arm he was sure he heard a soft crack.

Dizziness hit nim like a tidal wave that almost threw him off balance. His vision swayed. Waiting for his body to adapt to the toxins would still take a bit of time, but he was being driven by his rage that he almost forgot he wasn’t here to kill the Don.

"Did I catch you off guard?" Jarl asked with a strained laugh. "She really is your soft spot, eh? If I had known earlier I would have—"

Nikolai didn’t let him finish and brought his foot down with force, completely breaking the man's wrist. Jarl opened his mouth to let out a scream of pain, but Nikolai's other foot had already hit the Don across face before he could make a sound. Blood dripped from the side of the man's lips, and he spit it out to the side.

“I would watch that mouth of yours if I were you,” Nikolai said. With casual ease, he nudged the handle of the knife with his toe, and it earned another shout from the man. A smirk twitched on his lips at the sound of the Don's agony. There was always something satisfying in hearing your enemies scream in pain. "Not looking so tough now, aren't you, sir? But do scream all you want. Your office is soundproof, isn’t it?"

Despite himself, Jarl still hadn't cowered back in fear. If possible, he only became much angrier than when Nikolai was goading him before. "The Families would know about this assault," he said through gritted teeth. "You're making a big mistake by attacking the Brum Don."

"Am I now?" Nikolai leaned closer, resting his elbow on his bent knee. He reached out his other hand and patted Jarl on the cheek. The man flinched under his touch. "And 'Brum Don'? All I see is a dead man."

Jarl’s eyes widened in fear. "You won't kill me."

Nikolai huffed lightly. "That's what our enemies in Halmhend used to say." He shrugged, and then reached for the Don’s uninjured arm. "Look where it got them."

With a hard tug on the man’s wrist, Nikolai kicked the desk until it was farther away from Jarl’s reach. He wasn’t taking any chances of the Don trying to sneak and alarm his men to his office. At least not just yet. They had the time for games later. Nikolai dragged Jarl to the wine drawer, throwing him off to the small wooden doors with a resounding thump.

Jarl groaned in pain, and yet it still sounded restrained as if he were keeping himself from making another shout. He was cradling his broken wrist on his lap, shoulder hunched forward enough for him to not show his face.

Nikolai raised an eyebrow. "Don't be shy now, I know you want to shout," he said as he grabbed the Don's fallen chair, standing it upright again and pulling it in front of Jarl before sitting down. He pulled out the lighter from his pocket. "I don't like it when they don't scream in pain."

There was no answer for a long moment, with the Don still in his hunched position. Nikolai eyed him sideways. The man's shoulders were shaking with every breath he drew, and the spot where the knife was lodged continued to leak of blood.

It was new to him to see Jarl Brum in such a vulnerable state. But he was still trying to put up the tough persona a Don should have, and Nikolai was determined to break him slowly. Inflicting immense pain was one of the strengths Nikolai learned in the streets that gave birth to his name.

“Still good, sir?” he asked in mock wonder. “You’re not as strong as I thought.”

The man shot up from his place on the floor, his other arm stretched out as if to reach for Nikolai’s neck, but the Consigliere had already anticipated it. He simply leaned back and grabbed the man by both of his arms. His movements stopped.

Nikolai gave him a sneer. "Courageous," he said with genuine respect. "But still slow."

He kicked the man on the chest, sending him crashing back to the drawers in a heap. Then Nikolai brought his foot down to Jarl’s ankle this time. There was another resounding crack, followed by a howl of pain. He almost smiled.

"Now that's the shout," Nikolai said. He stared down at the Don with pity. Jarl looked incredibly smaller for the Brum Don that terrorized everyone else. It was amusing to see how pain made anyone kneel to its extremities. "I thought your pride would still forbid you to scream. Make it louder for me, yeah? It sounds better."

"What do you want, Lantsov?" Jarl spat as if the name were some poison that stung his mouth.��“Or should I say Opjer?”

Nikolai’s jaw ticked in annoyance. He knows too much. "Not 'Consigliere' anymore? I feel sad about that, sir." He bent down and reached for the man's arm, bringing his hand close to him. He opened the lid of his lighter and put one of the Don's fingers in between the edge of the lid and the case. "I'll be brief, which I rarely do as I prefer talking more." He paused. "Call off your men."

Jarl let out a laugh. "Too late for that, Nikolai. But I can almost assume that they're already leaving now that the threat was handled in the—"

Nikolai forced the lid of his lighter close, and the Don screamed in pain. The tip of his finger was set in an odd angle, with blood leaking from the damaged nail. It dripped onto Nikolai’s hand and his wrist, and then to the cuff of his sleeve. He inwardly winced in displeasure. It could be taken care of later.

He kept his expression impassive and moved to another finger. "Call off your men," he repeated.

Jarl’s face was twisted in cold rage, but there was no denying the agony he was under that he was still trying to put up with. When he didn’t answer, Nikolai closed the lighter onto the man’s next finger. Another howl of agony. He moved to another finger.

“Eight remaining fingers, eight remaining chances,” he said. “I will say it again. Call off your men, Jarl. I’m still being generous with giving you chances.”

The man only smirked, and just as Nikolai was about to break off another finger, a loud thump resounded somewhere behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. The doors to Jarl’s office were rattling, almost threatening to come off its hinges. The Don's men had a good way of knocking.

"As I've said," Jarl wheezed, making Nikolai turn back to him, "too late to do that."

Nikolai tsked. "Very well," he said, and then clamped the lid to the man's third finger. He let go of his arm, and Jarl crumpled down to the ground. "A reward for being able to sneak past me."

His men were still trying to barge the doors down, but they were almost succeeding in doing so when Nikolai caught a glimpse of the light outside the hall through the small space by the door that was beginning to grow wider. He turned back to the Don.

"Let's make you a bit more presentable, shall we?" said Nikolai.

He grabbed the man by the collar and forced him to stand before dragging him to the chair. Jarl wheezed in pain as he tried to fight back, but both of his hands were so badly damaged he couldn't make use of them. The Don could only give Nikolai as much as a glare.

He forced the man back down to the chair. "No need to look so angry, sir."

"You won't get out of here alive, Lantsov," growled Jarl. "You are totally outnumbered. My men would—"

"Ah" —Nikolai patted the man on the cheek— "let's not get ahead of our predictions. Let me borrow this for a second." He swiftly pulled out the knife from Jarl’s shoulder. "I'll be right back."

"You and Nazyalensky are goners, Consigliere. Both of you are not going to make it through the night."

"We'll see about that."

Nikolai eyed the still rattling doors, and glanced at the bloodied knife in his hand. He would be at a total disadvantage, he knew, but it was better than having nothing. Besides, he'd had far much worse situations that he got out of, some that involved using bare hands and teeth just to survive.

Tonight wasn't any different either.

He approached the doors just as there was finally the sound of a wood splintering, and he pressed himself against the wall beside the entryway. With a twist of his knife in his hand, he reached up to remove the tie around his neck with his other, letting the ends fall loose onto his shirt. It would only be a hindrance to his movements.

The doors barged open and men in gray overcoats came rushing in. Nikolai tightened his grip around the knife and counted heads. Seven. Jarl should have invited more.

The man nearest to him hadn't noticed him yet, and he took his chance.

Nikolai stepped forward and pushed his knife behind the man's throat.

One.

He immediately pulled the knife out, letting it fly towards the other Soldier to his right. Blood spurted from the man's neck. He crumpled to the ground with a gurgling sound.

A sneer twitched on his lips.

Two.

He started humming. The remaining men finally turned to him with their guns raised, but Nikolai was already on the move. He collided with the third one. His hand closed around the gun barrel and the other to the man's hand, pointing the gun to the other Soldiers.

Nikolai pulled the trigger. It hit the other Soldier on the head.

Three.

He turned a bit to the left and fired twice on the fourth Soldier's chest.

Four.

Nikolai twisted, using the third Soldier as a shield just as the shots erupted. The body convulsed as it took the barrage of bullets. Then the shots stopped, and he pressed the barrel under the man's chin before pulling the trigger.

Five.

He grabbed the gun, aimed over the dead man's shoulder, and fired at the other Soldier. He immediately crumpled on the ground after the bullet went straight through his skull.

Six.

With a push, Nikolai finally let the body fall to the ground. He turned to find the last Soldier, but he wasn't fast enough.

A shot rang out, and pain burst on his ear. He stopped humming and blinked. The remaining Soldier looked at him with a terrified expression, his hand trembling so badly as if he was out enduring the cold winter night. Then he dropped the gun completely and he fell to the ground.

Nikolai approached him slowly, like a predator cornering his prey. The Soldier started to back away. But the tremors quaking his body were too much that he couldn't even move fast enough.

A moment later, Nikolai was hovering above him, with the barrel of the gun pointed at his face, and he immediately raised a hand to protect himself.

"No—"

But Nikolai already pulled the trigger before the Soldier could even plead, and he crumpled to the ground on the pool of blood from the hole in his head.

Seven.

The room went silent again. Nikolai reached a hand up to his ear, feeling the sticky wetness around it along with the sting of pain. When he looked at his hand, his fingers were drenched in blood. He huffed. At least they were able to nick him.

He turned back to Jarl, who was still sitting idly on his office chair, the expression on his face was a mix of horror and bewilderment.

"There'd be more of them in a few moments, right?" Nikolai asked mildly as he went and got his knife from the Soldier's neck. He wiped it at the edge of the Soldier's gray coat, staining it red. Then he put it back behind the lapel of his coat. “How many are there left?”

At the Don’s silence, he scoffed. He walked back to Jarl by the desk, grabbing the man by his collar and forcing him up to his remaining good foot. It’d have to do. An audience was still an audience no matter how few they were, and he wanted Jarl to see every drop of blood shed by his men for everything they had done, and for every life they had ruined.

For hurting Zoya.

Because in the end, he would rather let himself be the one to end all this rather than branding himself as a traitor for selling his own Family out and risking any chances of putting Zoya's life on the line even more. He could only hope Tamar would be able to reach her on time.

There was no turning back from this.

This tyranny had to end tonight, as it would only continue until the point of time where no one could stop them.

It was time to be the monster that he had been once more.

Nikolai dragged Jarl outside the doors of the office. “Let the hunting party start, then.”

---

Zoya struggled against the restraints bounding her hands behind her. But then pain shot up to her side from where a bullet had grazed her during the shootout earlier. She grit her teeth, glaring at the man in front of her. She would definitely break his neck the moment she got free.

The storage room where they had been holding her was guarded with three other men in gray overcoats. They looked stiff and alert, their guns poised readily to aim at her the moment she tried to do something funny. Zoya wanted to laugh. She understood the hostility around her, especially when there's only several of them left in the warehouse.

It was supposed to be much lesser than Zoya had expected—the arms warehouse should have been empty except for a few guards on patrol and a Brum Soldier staying in the upstairs office.

But instead of that, Zoya had walked straight up into a trap instead, with the number of Jarl’s men tripling and they were being led by Ivor Kravchenko, the notorious Brum caporegime known for his brutal tendencies when it came to taking down his enemies.

She had come to think that there might have been a leak of their own plans to orchestrate the simultaneous attacks against the Brums. They had been able to reduce a great number from Jarl’s men, but it cost all the lives of Zoya's men that were with her during the attack. Their blood would forever be on her hands.

The other thing she could hope for now was that Nikolai and the twins were alright on their sides of this predicament.

“You shouldn’t have left your Don’s compound,” she said. It was taking a lot of her remaining strength to speak. "You all left your boss' to the wolf's mercy."

The man, whom Zoya remembered as Ivor and Jarl's notorious caporegime, gave a dark laugh. "A wolf, you say? It doesn't matter, a lone wolf is no match for a whole pack," said the caporegime. "Your Consigliere might even be dead by now. Just like the rest of your men here. Don't get too cheeky now."

Zoya's rage flared, the urge to make the man suffer stronger than before. "You seem to be forgetting that I killed half of your men alone," she said. "You better make sure I don't get out of these bounds because it will be your blood spilled on the ground next."

This seemed to annoy Ivor, making him step forward in haste with a murderous expression on his face. But then he stopped abruptly as if he had just remembered something, and he straightened back up. "I could kill you right now and be done with it, Nazyalensky," he said in a low voice. "But I still just choose not to. It's fun to see the great Lantsov Underboss tied down at the Brums mercy."

"Chose not to, or you're still waiting for your Don to give the order like a good puppy you are?" Zoya said back, savoring the look of new rage on the caporegime's face. She gave him a sharp smile. "It's been an hour since you called my Consigliere and tried to rattle him down. You haven't even heard from Jarl ever since then."

Ivor snarled, and then he was grabbing at Zoya's hair and pulling her head back, his knife suddenly pressed to her cheek. Zoya smirked triumphantly. It was so easy to derail him—the whole Brum Family if possible. They were all bombs that were ready to detonate at any time.

This would be fun when she finally had him under her mercy later. But having to reach that point seemed very difficult and almost next to impossible, especially when there were ropes bounding her hands.

An realization dawned in her head when her eyes trailed down the knife near her face. She just had to make the man drop it somehow.

"Do not test me, Nazyalensky," Ivor growled as he pressed the knife harder to her skin. Zoya felt a trickle of blood run down her face. He traced the blood with the knife point lightly before hovering it to her skin again. "I can be merciless at certain times."

As can I, Ivor. "Suits you, then," said Zoya simply. "I have the freedom to choose when to be merciless. Unlike you, who still has to wait for a go signal from his person before he can bite."

With a growl, Ivor tugged at her hair harder. "Did you know what Jarl told me before I left to go handle the mess you will try to stage here?" he hissed. "He said that the Lantsov Consigliere and Underboss are the ones keeping their Family upright. If they were the ones to go first, they would all crumble, and he planned to do just that." Ivor smiled wickedly, the kind that spoke of a triumph gotten from a dirty play. "Starting with your Consigliere. I wonder how things would be if the Don suddenly decides to get rid of him."

She clenched her fists behind her, her fury burning cold in her blood. Nikolai was a lot smarter than the others give him credit for. There was never a dire situation that he hadn't gone through before—he could always find a way out of anything.

But their current standpoint only struck fear and doubt to Zoya. He was in their enemy's nest, the place where they had the absolute authority on everything. She had been reluctant for him to go alone, and yet he had insisted, saying that he had a plan just in case something went wrong.

And now that there had been a hole in their planned attack, Zoya could only hope that his plan didn't involve him risking his life more than he already did.

She would come and drag him out of hell if needed to.

"I'm pretty sure your Consigliere would run out of ideas at some point," added Ivor thoughtfully. "Tonight might be the time."

You can all dream.

Zoya gave a short laugh, and then she tipped her head back and struck Ivor's nose with her forehead.

The man shouted as he pushed back from her, dropping his knife and putting a hand up to his face. She quickly took the advantage and tipped the chair down sideways. Pain shot up to her side when she hit the floor, and her vision blacked out for a few moments. The blow to her head earlier only added to the dizziness that made her vision spin. But she shook the ache away and her hands felt around for the knife from the floor as the three men were still occupied with coddling their boss.

When she finally grasped the knife handle, she immediately tucked it to the insides of her sleeve before looking back up to Ivor.

Blood seeped through his fingers that were tightly holding his now broken nose, and his face was scrunched up in pain. Zoya felt a laugh bubble from her chest.

"Can't even take a hit, eh?" she called to Ivor, who only glared at her with a murderous glint in his eyes. "Come and train with our men, you'll learn how to brush off a punch to your jaw like it's merely dust."

Ivor let out an angry growl and started to walk his way to her again, but one of his Soldiers stopped him.

"There aren't any orders for us to kill her yet, sir," the Soldier said with finality. He looked a bit younger than the other men, but he had a sway on them that even Ivor stopped to consider his actions. "We should be patient."

Zoya huffed silently. Another well-trained pup, then.

The door to the room suddenly opened, and another one of Jarl’s men appeared by the threshold. "Sir," he said, gesturing outside, "it's urgent."

Ivor sighed in frustration. He gave Zoya another pointed look before turning to one of his men again. "Get her up and keep a close eye on her," he said stiffly, still holding a hand to his nose. "I might finally be allowed to kill her after."

With one last low gaze to Zoya, he stomped off the storage room. She huffed in amusement as she watched the Caporegime's retreating form disappear by the doorway.

"Petty ass," she muttered. But when Ivor's footsteps finally receded, she slid out the knife from her sleeve and started to cut through the ropes.

It was the younger Soldier that moved to lift her chair upright, his movements brusque and rough it made the pain on Zoya's side shoot up again.

"Easy with the moving, will you?" she hissed at the Soldier.

He sneered at her, pushing the chair roughly back down to its feet instead. "Witch," he hissed back, and Zoya had to laugh. The Soldier pointed the gun under her chin. "The only thing keeping me from firing is that the Don didn't want you dead just yet, and we're just waiting for the go signal." He pressed the barrel to her chin harder for emphasis. "Don't get too smug."

Men and their egos. "Sure thing, hon," said Zoya mildly with a shrug.

It seemed to be enough for the Soldier as he put down the gun and started to back off. But then ropes finally cut loose, and a smirk twitched at her lips. She kept her arms behind her and flipped the knife in her hand so that it pointed forward.

"Lapdog," she muttered, making sure the Soldier heard her.

And he did, because he suddenly stopped walking and turned to her again, a look of rage evident on his face. His jaw was set when he reached her again in a few quick strides.

He bent down and grabbed at her face. "What did you say, you—"

His next words came out in a gurgling mess when Zoya's hand shot up and pushed the knife into the man's throat.

She reached for the man's gun with her other hand just as the two other men noticed what was happening. She aimed and fired at the two of them before they could even raise their guns to shoot, and they crumpled to the ground with a thud.

The Soldier clawed at his neck desperately, his movements panicked. Zoya looked at him pitifully before yanking the knife out. The man fell to the ground.

She wiped her bloodied hand and knife to the squirming man's coat for a moment, staining the fabric blood red. His other hand still tried to reach for her ankle, but Zoya merely stepped away.

Then she pointed the gun to the Soldier's face. "For gunning down my men," she said before shooting him in the head.

He slumped to the ground, lifeless. Zoya winced at the sudden sting that pierced her side, and she almost doubled over. She checked her wound. The long line of the bullet graze was still oozing with blood, but much lesser than before. She would have to put up with it for now; she needed to have a talk with Ivor first.

Rushed footsteps echoed outside just as she neared the door. She immediately pressed herself against the wall beside the doorway and waited. A few moments later, the door barged open, and Ivor and another man came rushing in.

They hadn't noticed her yet, and Zoya sprang.

She raised her gun and shot the Soldier in the head. Ivor turned just as she aimed the gun to his thigh and pulled the trigger. He reared back with a shout, and Zoya swiped the gun up and whacked him across the face with the stock. Ivor crashed to the floor.

But when she finally got a closer look at the man's face, she realized it wasn't Ivor at all. The Soldier was only wearing the Caporegime's coat.

Zoya gritted her teeth as she pointed her gun to the man. "Where's Ivor?" she hissed.

He didn’t answer, and it made her anger flare even more. She put her finger closer to the trigger.

"Where—"

A crack of gunshot, and then a flash of excruciating pain on her other side just below her ribs. Zoya backed a few steps, dropping her gun and putting a hand to her side. When she checked on it after a moment, her palm was already covered in red.

"Miss me?" Ivor called out from the door.

Zoya didn’t have the strength to turn completely, and she crashed to the floor. The surroundings blurred into a mess of colors, the sudden flash of lights adding to the swaying of her vision. She put a hand to her wound, and she stifled a groan when another wave pain shot up to her body.

Ivor's figure appeared in her line of vision, his steps slow and deliberate as if he had all the time in the world. Zoya could only do as much as glare at the Caporegime, at the broken nose that had the faint traces of dried blood around it, and hoped for the Saints to give her enough strength to kill the guy right then. But her wishes were ignored and the pain only became worse.

"You think you could get out of my watch that easily?" He shook his head in disappointment. "I thought you were better than this."

"Come closer and I'll show you," Zoya snarled.

"A real tough one, aren't you? Even as you lay dying, you can still make someone cower in fear." Ivor laughed loudly, and it was like the sound of a chair being scraped off a tiled floor. "I had to admit I was impressed on how you got that knife. That was neat."

Zoya blinked. He had known?

As if he had heard her thoughts, Ivor chuckled darkly. "Oh, I did notice. That's why I staged a little dress up with one of my Soldiers here after the phone call. Always did the trick."

"Staged?" Zoya laughed, but it came out as a wheeze instead. "Did you really just use your men as bait just to kill me dramatically?"

"Ten points for Nazyalensky!" Ivor announced before raising his gun and pointing it at the Soldier he had made to wear his coat. "We're busted, unfortunately. Thank you for your service." Then he pulled the trigger.

Zoya winced at the sound of the dead body falling to the ground. She shook her head. "You're mad, Kravchenko."

"That, I am. But you know who's worse?" He bent down a little as if to tell some secret. Then he pointed two fingers at her. "You two." He paused to laugh again, and then he started pacing back and forth.

She took the small distraction to pull the handgun closer to her and hide it under her back. And when he stopped and stared back down at her, she noticed something strange. There was a wild look in his eyes, the deranged kind of glint of a paranoid man.

Ivor waved his gun carelessly in the air. "Oh, don't worry I finally have the order to kill you."

Zoya turned to her bad side slightly, bearing the pain that washed over her again and reaching for the gun she had hidden behind her.

"Worry not, Nazyalensky. You're going to meet your Consigliere soon," said Ivor. "The Don never planned to let your Consigliere get out of there alive, you know. The chance was too good to let it pass. He was a dead man the moment the Don accepted the meeting."

She knew Ivor was trying to get to her head, and she knew better that she shouldn't let it, but it was proving to be difficult when it was Nikolai’s safety being used against her. It was then she remembered this was what Ivor was known for—tormenting his enemies rights before he killed them. But Zoya knew to herself that she would have preferred physical torment than this. She wouldn't even have the chance to know if Nikolai was safe from any danger.

A bittersweet laugh bubbled from her chest. Even in near death circumstances, Nikolai was still her headache. She could only hope he would be able to get through tonight.

Zoya gripped the gun tightly. She wouldn't this man torment her until her last breath. Not without bringing him down with me.

Ivor was seething when he was checking his gun chamber. Something was definitely wrong with him. Had something come up after that phone call?

"This is a payback to your Consigliere for acting stupidly. And for what he's done," he said and he shook his head, fury and annoyance evident on his face. "He's so going to pay for that. I can't wait to kill him myself—" He stopped abruptly and turned back to Zoya. "You'll meet him soon, Nazyalensky. Don't worry, I'll make it—"

With what's left of her strength, Zoya lifted her arm and fired at the Caporegime, emptying the whole gun's whole clip at him. Ivor convulsed with every bullet he took, his eyes wide in shock as if he couldn't believe what had just happened.

When the gun only gave a click, Zoya let her arm fall. A triumphant smirk twitched at her lips as she watched Ivor's bewildered expression. His hand fell limp at his side, and he looked down at the holes on his chest.

A scoff tore from his throat, and along with it came blood that leaked from his lips. His expression turned from shocked to angry in a blink. With a shaking hand, he pointed his gun back at her. "You witch—"

There was a crack of gunshot. Zoya closed her eyes and waited for the momentary pain before the end.

But it didn't come.

There was a loud thud, like the sound of a body falling to the floor, and she opened her eyes again.

Ivor lay on the floor, lifeless, his wide, empty eyes still open. Blood started to pool around his body all too quickly.

"Zoya," a familiar voice said.

Through her blurry vision, Zoya could make out a figure of a woman approaching her in rush. Tamar.

She immediately held out her hand, and felt Tamar take it right away. The woman's other hand came to put pressure on her wound. "You're okay," Zoya said. Her breaths were starting to come out in short bursts. "Is Tolya—"

"He's fine, General, you should think of yourself first. Save your breath. You'll be fine." Tamar let go of her hand to pull out her phone. She dialled a number and started speaking to someone, but the words faded into echoes of distorted sounds.

A moment later Zoya heard Tamar's voice again. "Stay with me, Nazyalensky." She clasped at her hand, gripping it tightly as if it would give Zoya enough life again if she held on tighter.

Nikolai, Zoya wanted to ask her. Is he safe?

But the pain and exhaustion were too overwhelming for her to stay awake, and she found her grip on Tamar's hand loosening with every ragged breath she drew.

Have I done enough?

She didn't know.

Be safe, idiot.

She took another breath.

Then everything went dark.

***

Zoya opened her eyes.

Immediately, a dull throb washed over her body that almost made her pass out again, but the gentle touches she felt on her hand kept her anchored down to consciousness. She drew in a shaky breath.

She was still alive. She has survived the ordeal. Tamar and Tolya were safe too and—

Nikolai.

Where was he? Was he alive?

Zoya turned to her right in haste, but she stopped when she spotted a mess of blond hair on her bedside. The grip on her hand tightened, and she felt her eyes sting.

He's okay.

"Hey," she said, voice still rough from sleep.

Nikolai instantly bolted upright. He looked like a mess, with his hair ruffled and the bruises and cuts on his face. There were traces of dried blood on the side of face down to his collar, his coat, and even on the edge of his sleeves. His hands were no different; the skin around his knuckles were torn open and red. But the worse one he got was his left ear—or what was left of it. He was tired and in pain, and yet he only had the look of utter relief and warmth in his eyes when he looked at her and smiled.

There was an unexpected prick in her heart. Zoya wanted to reach out and hold him to her, to tell him that she was glad he was alive, but she couldn’t do anything of those as her body still felt heavy like lead due to the exhaustion and medication.

A tear fell down from his eye, and Nikolai quickly wiped it away with a tired laugh. Then he shifted closer, his hand reaching out to smooth the hair away from her forehead. She closed her eyes and leaned against his touch almost immediately.

“You’re a mess, dear,” he said, his tone light with amusement.

Zoya huffed weakly. “You should see yourself.” She nodded at his state of dress. "It's not you to have your suit ruined like that."

“There’s always a first one, you know.” Nikolai gave her a wink. “Just not the thing I prefered. I can always throw it in the laundry, though.”

“You, doing the laundry? I know you’ll break the washing machine first before you can get anything done,” she said, and Nikolai laughed lightly. A small smile appeared on her lips, and she laced their fingers together. What she expected to be a gentle touch was a trembling grip instead. His hand was badly shaking. Concern washed over her as she looked at him in worry. “Nikolai?”

“I’m fine. I just—” Nikolai stopped. He laughed again, but it sounded more like a sob of relief instead. He shook his head. “You scared the hell out of me,” he whispered. He still looked like he was about to break any moment, but it was gone in a blink and he put on his signature grin that brightened up his features. “But I guess I didn’t have to worry that much now, yeah?”

Tears stung Zoya’s eyes again, and she smiled ruefully. I almost lost you too. But she covered it up with a smirk. “They can’t get rid of me that easily.”

"I know."

Silence fell around them. It was unusual for her to have a quiet as she was used to hearing all types of noises, whether it be the angry and rising tones during meetings or the gunfire that followed after when the negotiations went wrong. Even at nights, which was supposed to be when everything was in peace, were still haunted by the voices of the people who had died under her jurisdiction, and their blood was on her hands.

Having this moment struck dread to her, because good things, even the smallest ones, always came with a price. And she wasn't entirely sure if she was willing to give up anything.

"Do tell me your thoughts, dearest Zoya," Nikolai said, breaking the silence. He smiled as he continued his ministrations on her hair. "When you're quiet like that, I'm worried that you might be planning someone's death."

Zoya huffed. "How can you be sure that it wasn't your death I was planning?"

Nikolai chuckled. "Please, you can't plan something that's already done," he said in amusement, and then his face fell after a second as if he realized what he just said. He smiled but it was half-hearted than his usual ones. "I like being one step ahead, you know."

"What happened, Nikolai?" she asked softly, not wanting to risk him shying away. Her hand tightened its hold on his. "What did you do?"

"I did what I had to do," he said simply. There was a faraway look in his eyes as he stared down at their joined hands. He rubbed circles around her skin, his touch feather light. "There was no other way."

"Did you—" Zoya stopped. She didn't want to say it. She wanted to believe that if she didn't, it could change the truth. But the defeated look in his eyes only solidified the truth.

“Jarl Brum is dead," Nikolai said. A sad smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he looked back up at her. “He died when his compound had caught on fire due to faulty gas pipes. And the Lantsov Consigliere died with him in the fire. It’s what the people would hear by morning.” He paused, and breathed in deep. Then he smiled his usual grin again. “He put up quite a fight, though. It ruined my suit doing it. What a sad mess.”

Zoya could only stare at him in melancholy. She didn’t even have the heart to answer his joke back. That was their last resort. They both agreed that if things had turned out the worst, he would have to settle with killing the Don. But that was before, when they thought that their plans were foolproof.

I should have known and done better.

Nikolai must have seen the look on her face, because he shook his head gently and his grin turned into a rueful one. “I know what you’re thinking. Don’t do that to yourself. I don't regret doing anything,” he said. He took her hand in both of his. “He was going to force me to hand over the Lantsovs to them, saying he’ll have you killed if I don’t. It was a deadend. There was no guarantee they won’t hurt you even if I agree. And I was never going to sell us over, anyway.” He paused, drawing in a shaky breath. "I'd rather get hurt a thousand times more than lose you."

A tear finally fell from the side of her eye. If this was the price she had to pay for having this moment with him, she did not want it. She would give up anything else to pay the price. Just not this. Not him.

“So, I guess this is our last night together,” Zoya said, her voice breaking slightly.

His hand reached up to her face and wiped the tear with his thumb. There were also tears clouding his eyes. He nodded gently, the sad smile still on his lips. Zoya leaned in his hand. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I promise to annoy you to death so you would have enough spite for me to last in a long while.”

Zoya huffed in amusement. She had never hated him so much than she did now. How could he make it sound so easy when he was going to leave? “I already have enough spite to last for the rest of my life.”

Nikolai laughed back. “That’s good to hear.”

Another short silence filled the air, and Zoya looked him over. If it was the last time she would see him, she wanted to bask in the warmth radiating in his eyes and remember all the quirks he had, as if she hadn’t memorized everything about him before.

She lifted her hand slightly, and Nikolai went to hold it back in his. He turned his attention to her forearm, tracing the dark lines of the tattooed dragon on her skin. It felt like he was doing the same, memorizing a distinct feature of her that he would carry with him.

“I’ve always thought this one’s cooler than my wolf one,” he said softly, running his fingers on her skin. “You always get cooler ones than me.”

“Where would you go?” Zoya asked instead.

Nikolai stopped his ministrations, his fingers coming back to lace with hers. “It would be better if no one knew,” he replied solemnly. “Besides, I wouldn’t stay in one place for long.”

Zoya took a deep breath. This was their reality, and she should know better than lament over it. She wasn’t the type to let emotions take over her. But for Nikolai Lantsov, she would always be willing to make an exception.

“Maybe I can mail something from time to time,” he said. “Postcards and pictures, how do you feel about that?”

“Are you trying to make me feel better?”

Her Consigliere chuckled lightly. “No, I am entirely serious.” He shrugged. “Mail is the safest thing to get something across without the risk of being traced.”

Zoya shook her head with a light laugh. I’d take anything. “Whatever you say, corn salad,” she said, and Nikolai laughed. A wave of dizziness suddenly washed over through her. The medicine must be taking its effects now. No, not yet. A few more minutes. “When do you leave?”

A beat, and then Nikolai said, “Soon.” An amused smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “You don’t have to be so excited.”

“Idiot,” she mumbled. There was a twinge in her chest with the nickname she had of him, knowing that it would be the last time she could tell it to him in person.

Nikolai tightened his hold on her hand, and she felt it trembling again. His eyes were bright with tears when he said, “I’ll miss that nickname.” I’ll miss you, was what never said aloud, but Zoya heard it all the same.

I’ll miss you too. Zoya gave him a small smile. “Just look at the engraving in your lighter, it will remind you.” Another wave of dizziness hit her, and she found her eyes drooping slightly.

Zoya heard him laugh softly, making her blink to shake the drowsiness away. Nikolai reached up to brush at the hair on her forehead again.

“Go get some more rest,” he said. His hand came down to her cheek, and he gently caressed her skin with his thumb. “Don’t fight it, I know you’re still tired.”

"I'm not tired," she grumbled back.

"Whatever you say, dear."

Her eyes were starting to feel too heavy for her to stay awake, but she still fought the drowsiness from taking over so she could still see him for a little more time.

"Go rest," he said again.

Zoya squeezed his hand. She was never the first one to ask. To their world, everything was a trade—you give and take. A request meant a desperate wish, and you should always be willing to pay the price.

But she had already paid for it, and it was only fair if she wished for one final request. Be it a selfish, impossible kind.

"Stay?" she asked. Even just for a moment longer. "You've always made a good bodyguard."

Nikolai smiled softly. I can't, was what his eyes said, and yet, aloud, he still said, "Of course." He tucked the blankets higher to her shoulders, his movements gentle and careful. "Now go back to sleep. I'll be here."

They both knew it was a lie.

Zoya closed her eyes, knowing she couldn't bear seeing him leave, and she'd rather have him do it while she was asleep.

Then he started humming. His shitty, off-tune humming. Her shoulders shook as her body racked with silent sobs, her eyebrows drawn tight together to keep her tears from falling. But they still did, anyway.

She felt him press his lips to her knuckles, and small droplets fall against her skin. She didn't even have to open her eyes to know that it was his tears.

"Good night, Nikolai," Zoya whispered in a shaky tone. Farewell. Be safe.

A short, heavy silence, and she heard him draw a ragged breath. "Good night, Zoya." Goodbye, Zoya.

His voice and the feel of his hand tight in hers were the last things she knew before sleep took over her.

And when Zoya finally slept, she dreamed that she would never have to let him go.

***

News about the death of the Brum Don because of the fire that caught his compound was heard early on the next morning. Television news, radio, newspapers, and even the social media boomed with the word, and it spread like wildfire.

It went even bigger when the Lantsov Consigliere was also reported to have died along the fire, with all the current evidence proving that the fire had been intentional. But none of them pointed to Nikolai. The investigation was still open, and it will probably go on for quite a while. The only thing that lightened the burden on Zoya’s chest was knowing that he was alive. He had known how things would go beforehand, and made sure that none of them ended up implicating the Lantsovs.

Always the well-prepared one.

The chair where Nikolai had sat last night was empty, as if he wasn’t there at all. The only traces left of him was the lingering scent of his perfume and the dip on her bedside where he had laid his arms on as he watched her with all the warmth in his eyes, the same warmth he took with him when he left.

Zoya felt her eyes sting with unwanted tears again as she looked out the window, but this time she didn’t try to keep them from falling. She smiled ruefully, a bittersweet feeling left in her heart. It was probably bad fate that had them cross paths, and it was also what separated them. But either way, it was still what had brought them together. She was thankful for that somehow, even if they only had limited time.

But then it struck her, that it didn’t always have to be fate that should handle things. She was the Lantsov Underboss, the one who drove the saintsforsaken Family out of the mud with the Consigliere. If there was something they were good at, it was handling things their own way and bending the odds to their will.

A near death experience had her questioning herself if she had done enough. She didn’t know the answer by then, but she did now.

I am not done yet.

She wouldn’t give up on Nikolai that easily. Even if it took her years to do it. She would bring him back.

Because she knew he would do the same for her.

I’ll see you again, Nikolai, she vowed. And it wouldn’t be the last.

Zoya would make sure of it.

***

A/N: if you’ve reached this far, please know i appreciate you ;-;

57 notes · View notes

rvmmm21 · 4 years ago

Text

. you’re gonna spaghet it .

summary : a home-cooked meal and a baking show is too much to ask for. but only when the person asking is seungwan.

small note : i'm tentatively back. and here's the worse news. you get this pile of 'what-the-fic-is-this?!' before i start clonking you over the head with my leg of yandere ham.

think of it as your pre-christmas coal in your stocking.

(this sat in my drafts for so long its not even funny. if i had a cent for every second i spent thinking about whether i wanted this out here, i'd have accumulated enough for the plane ticket, the lawyers and the hospital fees to fly over to SM to clonk them myself.)

just for tumblr. if you want to read this but in pretty, it’s here.

tw : tickling, probably many grammar errors because i do not know how to write anymore, and my cretinous knowledge of how tv recordings work.

[irene x white-winged dove!wendy]

. . .

[6:15pm] A mischievous smile tugs at her lips when she sees how Seungwan struggles.

. . .

Bae Joohyun blithely watches her girlfriend titter around the kitchen preparing vegetables for the chopping board. When the sound of water beginning to boil reaches attentive ears, she secretly smiles at the melodious hum of a happy tune.

Everything is going as planned!

However.

Pangs of guilt are beginning to tweak at Joohyun’s conscience. Because what she really wants to do is not to be a good girlfriend and offer a hand at stirring the pot. She doesn’t even want to sit patiently and wait to hear Seungwan sing out for her when dinner’s ready.

No. Joohyun wants to play. And she knows who she wants to play with. Even though it’s going to be a complete setback to the lovely night she’s sure her Wannie has planned out for them.

It was Seungwan’s idea to cook tonight, then eat together while they watch their favourite TV program. Pfft, ‘their favourite’. What Joohyun really means is she’ll happily watch the season finale of the unorthodox cooking show her girlfriend is currently obsessed with.

. . .

“It gives me ideas, unnie,” Seungwan had explained when, about a week ago, Joohyun had walked in on a very experimental game of muffin-making.

The latest episode of “Baking for the Seoul” flashed through Joohyun’s memory.

“Don’t the ingredients have to be… in the bowl, though?” she asked incredulously, eyes searching for any part of their countertop that was actually visible.

“Hm?” Seungwan looked up, wiping the frosting off her nose… with the wrong hand.

Joohyun raised an eyebrow. “And which one are we putting in the oven, your sludge mix or you?” She inquired, now searching for any part of her girlfriend’s face – that was actually visible.

When the girl in question stayed concentrated, apprehension bubbled in her gut at the state of that exceptionally thick bowl of frosting. She surreptitiously strained to peer behind a thoroughly battered Seungwan, trying her hardest to not actually step foot into the kitchen.

Her girlfriend has this… ‘thing’ about work space. Especially the kitchen.

“Wan-ah,” Joohyun’s tone was equal parts warning and concern. “You didn’t get any on your wings, did you… that frosting looks too thick and last time you got yourself all mucky, remember we had to – ”

“It’s fine it’s fine, look! I’m being careful!” Seungwan quipped cheerfully, pirouetting round to give a worried Joohyun a glimpse of her wings which were nicely folded through each designated slit in the back of her sky-blue jumper.

The latter breathed a sigh of relief when she saw them; all white, fluffy and – most importantly – clean. She inwardly shuddered at how much of a nightmare that bath was. Thank god she’s behaving this time, she thought.

Although momentary relief didn’t stop her from contemplating an alternative method of keeping her mind at ease.

But the thought of having Seungwan wear her wing guards in their own home tugged at her unpleasantly. It was bad enough she had to have them on when they were out in potentially stressful situations. So she wouldn’t accidentally hurt herself or anyone around her… which had unfortunately happened once or twice before. It was clearly a burden to go about so obviously restricted, and despite Seungwan’s insistence on having grown used to them, Joohyun could always feel how upset she’d get whenever she was helping to do the clasps up behind her.

Definitely no wing guards then. And if that meant Joohyun would be bruising her knees for hours on end trying to keep dense baking mix and her messy baby bird two separate entities, then she’d happily do it.

Whatever kept Seungwan chirping.

Plus, her little chef looked damned determined, so she thought it appropriate to slip in one last passing remark before plucking a banana from the rack. “Yah, Wannie! Let me know if I’m gonna have to pick out birdie feathers from my cupcakes, okay?”

Seungwan grumbled something along the lines of a ‘hm, yeah whatever unnie’ in response.

Joohyun just laughed, heading back to their room and leaving the mastermind to her latest trial.

> > > > >

[7:00 p.m] Seungwan doesn't know which she finds more horrifying: what Joohyun intends to do to her or the fact that they're going to have to have take-away two nights in a row.

. . .

It should’ve been a simple mission.

Retrieve a fresh packet of spaghetti from the topmost shelf.

Her attempts are… laughable. She’s clearly doing her best.

Though she doesn't realise it yet, she’s still being watched. From the living room, Joohyun is watching. And she isn’t laughing. Hands ball into unconscious fists as a tight wave of numbness washes over her at how adorable Seungwan looks.

Just… like that: both wings tucked against her back, beautiful and neat as their owner. Strained muscles from reaching for something Joohyun already knows she’s going to have to help out with. And the tiny grunts when fingertips barely graze the edges of the packet.

Seungwan looks so soft, so frustrated. So vulnerable.

A small spike of inexplicable adrenaline leads Joohyun to head over to the huffing, moon-hopping girl.

She really needs to teach her little dove that being this cute comes with a price.

. . .

When a lithe body slides up behind her and presses against her back, Seungwan’s wings give a gentle flutter to mimic the stutter in her heart. She sighs affectionately at the pair of hands resting low on her hips.

The task is almost forgotten. Almost.

Unnie’s here to help, Seungwan thinks… ever so mistakenly.

“Hyun – ahh,” she’s interrupted by a slight shiver when the tip of her right wing is stroked between a finger and a thumb, delicately running across pure, downy feathers. A tried and tested (Bae Joohyun-certified) method of getting the girl absolutely weak.

Judging by the sound of strained breaths filling the space between them, it’s working.

Alas, dinner hasn’t been cooked, the sun’s setting and Seungwan’s time-management brain is screaming at her to get a move on. She points to the shelf, trying her hardest to block out the dangerously wonderful feeling. “Could you – could you please get that for me?”

Instead of complying, Joohyun chuckles, moving her hands from her back to glide them lightly up and down her sides. She isn’t surprised that Seungwan is already shivering, terribly overwhelmed from that alone.

Her smirk twitches when she feels the smaller girl squirm.

Seungwan has always been like this… so responsive, so susceptible to touch. Her touch. She’s jelly in her clutches, and even Joohyun has to admit that sometimes she really doesn’t deserve to be.

Sneaky hands grow bolder, finding their way under the hem of Seungwan’s fleecy jumper to continue tracing teasing lines against soft, sensitive skin.

“But it’s so cute to watch you struggle, baby,” Joohyun coos, beginning to rest more of her weight into Seungwan’s hips, keeping her trapped against the kitchen counter.

“U-unnie,” Seungwan tries, half-heartedly writhing against Joohyun’s hold, torn between wanting to cook dinner and wanting to be dinner. “Not – ah… not right now… it’s already late, we have to – ”

“And you smell so nice. Is this new shampoo?” Joohyun presses her nose into her nape, cutting her short, nuzzling into that pleasant fruity shampoo scent. She then pauses to nudge Seungwan’s legs suggestively ajar with her knee before leaning in to whisper into a ruby-tipped ear. “ Should I give you a reason to shower again later, hm?”

The younger’s eyes widen at the sinful implication.

Gosh, really? Right now? In the kitchen?

The kitchen. The place she cooks and handles food? (Sure, Joohyun will – once in a blue moon – dice the odd carrot or something, but that certainly does not give her the right to be making any unauthorised, hormonal messes for her to clean up). She must be off her rocker if she thinks Seungwan’s going to allow her precious workstation to be tainted by what she can already foresee to be copious amounts of bodily fluid just because someone can’t keep it in their pants.

It snaps something inside her. And – with all the strength neither of them knew she possessed – Seungwan wrenches out from under Joohyun’s weight with a firm “YAH! Stop fooling around!”, sending the older woman stumbling a few steps back.

For a second, they’re just as stunned and disbelieving as each other; Seungwan at her own apprently dormant Herculean strength –

– and Joohyun at the sheer audacity.

Then again, could this be any more timely?

God, Joohyun could kiss herself.

She straightens her blouse, putting on her best ‘I-can’t-believe-you’ve-done-this’ expression, and turning to lock the now slightly (and rightfully so) terrified-looking Seungwan with a stare. This is the best part. The part where she just glares, secretly gleeful as the other girl absolutely crumbles with apprehension.

The part where Seungwan thinks it’s her fault.

“Uh oh,” she tuts, sporting a grin to match that mischievous glint in her eyes, “someone’s in trouble, aren’t they?”

Seungwan is, of course, at a total loss for words, but she fumbles around anyway, desperate to justify whatever the hell she’s just done. It’s almost too much for Joohyun to handle, watching her dig her own grave like this.

Finally, Seungwan tries to back up, only to let out a sharp gasp when she trips over her own feet in her haste. She’s on the floor in seconds with Joohyun immediately following. There’s hardly a chance for her to get her bearings before she’s stuck on her back with a weight straddling her hips.

Seungwan goes wide-eyed. She might as well kiss the prospect of a candlelit dinner bye-bye… for tonight, at least.

“My clumsy, clumsy Wannie,” Joohyun mocks, holding herself above the smaller girl on her hands and purposely tangling their legs together. “Tonight was very thoughtful of you, baby, but I’m postponing our dinner plans to tomorrow night. I think we should order in, don’t you?”

“Ah unnie...” Seungwan groans, failing to ignore the way Joohyun’s predatory expression crayons her cheeks a soft pink, “we had take-away last night! I don’t wanna eat chicken aga – ”

“Then let’s get pizza,” Joohyun offers unhelpfully. She’s clearly got her own agenda that she’s determined to follow through with. “Okay? Hm, let’s see… you have to the count of five to agree with me or…”

She pauses to savour the panic in those deep brown eyes. “I’m going to have a very tired little birdie to take care of.”

That satisfied smirk leaves nothing to the imagination. Seungwan can practically read her fate on her girlfriend's rosy lips before they delve into hers, causing her eyes to roll back as they melt hotly into each other.

Seungwan hardly notices Joohyun lacing their fingers together until her eyes flutter open and she finds herself held down, arms stretched securely above her head. Joohyun adjusts her grip so she has both wrists pinned under one hand and the other free.

Ah, fuck, not again. Seungwan laughs emptily, fidgeting with high-strung premonition. When her one final struggle proves useless, she resorts to asserting herself with her voice. “Yah, unnie, I’m cooking tonight. Stop being annoying or you’re not getting fed.”

Ah, too easy.

Joohyun contemplates elaborating further. But she’s said enough. Besides, Seungwan doesn’t even deserve a response to that. That was a threat, wasn’t it? The prospect of starvation is a serious threat that should be promptly dealt with. And what do you do when you’re faced with a threat? Be that a burglar, a murderer or a very flustered Son Seungwan.

Tickle them. Obviously.

Joohyun leers over her, wiggling her fingers in anticipation. “Five…”

Seungwan’s eyes blow wide, and – with miserable luck – she renews her efforts at breaking free once again. “Hyun! Seriously?! You – I can’t believe you’re d – ”

“Four.”

“HYUN!”

“Three.”

“Okay! Okay! Let’s get pizza tonight! There, happy?! You can even choose the flav – ”

Seungwan hears a scoff above her. “Nope. Sorry Wannie. I made that decision. You’ve changed nothing.”

“YAH, YOU TRICKED ME YOU BIRDBRAIN! LET ME UP. YOU’RE SO DEAD!!”

One click of a tongue and Seungwan has never retracted any statement faster in her life.

“Okayokayokay! Sorry that was super mean! Please I – ”

“Two…”

Too late. She’s dead. She’s one hundred percent about to be on the list of the unfairly deceased.

Seungwan whines hopelessly. “Unnieeeee, you’re not being fair!”

It’s a ditch attempt, but one Seungwan doesn’t intend to miss. “OKAY SERIOUSLY I MEAN IT, GET OFF!”

Joohyun snickers. “One.”

With five fingers and wicked intent, she dives in.

. . .

A pair of pretty wings and an even prettier face make for an impossible choosing.

Even now, as she has Seungwan flat on her back with her eyes screwed shut and tears streaming down her face, she wants to flip her over so she can be blinded by white insulation. So those feathers can brush against her as she drives their owner to the brink of sanity.

She wants to feel her dove respond to what she does to her.

“Hyu – Hyun, p-please!”

Joohyun smirks down at her victim, who’s weakly pawing at the front of her blouse in what she can only assume is an attempt to get her to stop.

Pathetic.

Seungwan never fails to struggle. But then again, she never fails to forget that Joohyun, too, is much, much stronger than she looks.

All that tiresome squirming is easily dealt with. Only a fraction more pressure from Joohyun’s fingertips, and Seungwan’s arms fall to either side, limp and useless just like the rest of her. The only indication she’s even conscious is the violent trembling and – when she’s able to muster up the lung space – the occasional plea for mercy.

Even the laughter is silent.

Joohyun loves it this way. She loves having Seungwan all sweaty and flustered beyond belief; whenever and wherever she pleases, the younger girl is reduced to a quivering mess, trapped beneath her cruel dexterity.

So instead of getting the pasta boiling for a romantic dinner, Seungwan is graciously letting Joohyun have her one-sided fun while she’s forced to cough, splutter and laugh so hard her insides hurt. The reflex to try to buck Joohyun off or twist out of her clutches nips at her incessantly.

Although she really shouldn’t worm around like that, because it’s only making Joohyun’s job easier with how her jumper rides further and further up with every inch she wriggles away.

It almost makes Joohyun think her little songbird wants to be tickled.

“Aw,” she coos, playfully tweaking unintentionally exposed ribs. “So cute, Wannie. You want it here, too?”

Seungwan is breathless from the tickles before she’s even processed what Joohyun’s said. Those tantalising touches never linger on any part of her long enough for her to develop a resistance to them. Not that she could even if she tried. She’s as sensitive as Joohyun is skilled. And Joohyun strikes with dreadful precision, switching between light skittering and then deftly kneading her fingers into every spot that wrings Seungwan’s lungs for all they’re worth.

The smooth tile is cooling against her feathers, even if her wings are twitching beyond her control, trying their hardest to flip her over to give her some shot at escaping. She barely manages to crawl a few inches away before there’s a firm grip on her ankle, all but dragging her back because Joohyun sure as hell isn’t done with her that quickly.

Trying to get away? She cocks an eyebrow, scooting up to sit on Seungwan’s butt, pinning her hips to the floor.

“Oh no, my poor birdie’s flipped herself over,” she feigns concern, gently resting her palms on Seungwan’s wings, stilling their fluttering and holding them steady. The sight of them unfolded, outstretched from the struggle and completely exposed has Joohyun catching her bottom lip between her teeth. “Did you hurt yourself here, Wannie? You need unnie to kiss it better?”

Seungwan shrieks at a pitch that’d have every dog in the neighbourhood cowering when she feels a pair of pillowy lips settle on that excruciating spot right where the arch of her wings meet her back, where she absolutely cannot stand to be touched.

Even under normal circumstances, Seungwan had made her swear to never spring upon her like that. And of course, by virtue of that alone, it quickly became one of Joohyun’s favourite places to touch her.

Luckily she’s too distracted now to protest.

The ‘kisses’ aren’t any less torturous than ten fingers going all at once.

Poor, tired Seungwan hardly has the energy to writhe as Joohyun continues to press her hellish butterfly kisses all along the length of those oversensitive appendages, nosing into her feathers and ruffling them gently with her breath. The younger’s expression contorts into silent agony when she feels the fingers return, this time digging into her armpits.

Fresh tears well up in the corners of her eyes as she lays there, flailing like a fish out of water, face down with zero leverage to combat her girlfriend’s merciless onslaught.

She’s as defenceless as a turtle on its back (or rather, a dove on its tummy). Her squirms are getting weaker, the laughter more strained, but it’s all so rewarding to her loving tormentor.

Seungwan is kept laughing till the hollow ring of the doorbell sounds through their apartment.

. . .

[An hour post stuffed crust pepperoni pizza with extra cheese]

Joohyun enters their room just as her girlfriend is getting dressed for bed, freshly showered… again. She lets out a low chuckle when Seungwan catches sight of her in her peripheral vision and hastily pulls the loose necked pajama t-shirt over her head.

“How was dinner?” she asks, arms folded and leaning against the door.

Seungwan rolls her eyes and releases her hair from its bun. “Too much cheese. We need to drink lots of water tonight or we’ll be pufferfish in the morning.”

“Aw, is someone grumpy?” Joohyun gives an uncharacteristically exaggerated pout and the latter hides a shiver.

Good god, please someone save her.

“Unnie, of course I am. We’re going to eat reheated carbonara sauce tomorrow no thanks to you,” Seungwan bluntly retaliates. “You’ve had your fun, now can you stop talking to me like I’m five, please?”

Naturally, her request falls on selectively deafened ears.

“Yah, seriously,” she punctuates the severity by manually unfolding her trembling left wing and pointing at it. “Look. I’m still shaking because of you. Now you're done, I really – ”

That’s all the grumpy talk she’s allowed before Joohyun jump-tackles her onto their bed, pinning her to it and watching sheer panic etch into deep cinnamon irises.

“When did I say I was done?” she asks, suggestiveness tracing the edges of her tone. She hovers above her, bringing a hand up to cup her face.

Seungwan hisses a laugh. “Unnie, I have a limit too, you know. You can’t just keep finding excuses to tickle the crap out of – ”

She chokes on a gasp when she feels a hand – the one she’d been as good as tortured under not two hours ago – trailing down her stomach… slipping past the elastic of her panties and –

– it just reminds her why she’ll always let Joohyun have her fun.

Because no matter how much she laughs, screams, cries or begs, there’s always a reward. Much sweeter than anything Seungwan thinks she could ever bake. Their sex life is anything but stagnant, however this is, more often than not, Joohyun’s way of making it up to her afterwards (much to her approval).

Or maybe she just wants to drive Seungwan to the brink of losing her voice so she won't have to hear the nagging about the next episode of Baking For the Seoul.

Which, by the way, came out tonight. And Joohyun made them miss it. She had better be praying they’d be able to find a copy online somewhere.

Either way, it’s so much more gratifying after an eternity spent howling your lungs out on the floor. Seungwan’s full attention is lasered down to where Joohyun is now softly caressing her under the thin cotton barrier. The warm ache beginning to settle in between her thighs prompts her to try to squeeze them together, but Joohyun catches on and wedges her knees in between them, spreading her even further.

“Ah,” she raises a smug brow as she leans in to press her lips to the base of her ear. Her own eyes darken with lust in response to her little dove writhing helplessly below her. “Be a good girl for me, okay, baby?”

It’s late. Seungwan can barely keep her eyes open. Oh, but she aches so badly.

“Still grumpy, hm?” Joohyun murmurs questioningly, hot breath fanning over Seungwan’s neck and echoing goosebumps over her skin. She glances down at the bulge of her hand stretching the fabric, fingers already coated in slick. Her index finger rubs against Seungwan’s clit. “Feel good, Wannie?”

Hopelessly turned on, it’s all the other girl can do to whimper in agreement.

The pleasing sound of those soft whines escaping right into her ear turns Joohyun’s grin into something downright wolfish. She gives the swollen bud a few more leisurely strokes before retracting her hand completely, leaving Seungwan squirming in anticipation with whatever energy she has left.

Joohyun tastes the arousal on her fingertips. “Mm, I love how small you look right now, in my hands. So small and needy.”

Seungwan pants out a quiet “please, unnie”, clasping a shuddering hand over Joohyun’s and guiding it back down to the heat in her panties. She rolls her hips up into her palm, silently begging for her reward for being such a ‘willing’ participant in the one-sided games they played today.

After letting her gaze linger for a second, Joohyun shifts so she’s lying next to Seungwan. She slips her hand back in and squeezes firmly, revelling in the hoarseness of the girl’s voice. Velvety lips delicately map out her shoulder, and Seungwan has to fight to keep her eyes open to drink in the image of Joohyun pressed up against her, right hand cradled under her neck, propping her head up so they can both see the other one teasing her down her underwear.

It’s when Seungwan turns away to frustratedly pout at the suspense that Joohyun smiles and gives her a quick peck on the nose.

“I’ll continue if you promise not to pass out this time, okay baby bird?”

She bites back a snort watching Seungwan nod like she’s ever been able to stay awake after.

Then she has to bite back another because since when has she ever not continued even after being fed these empty promises, time and time again.

Anything to keep her precious Seungwan happy.

#red velvet #wenrene #wendy #irene #wing kinks are only valid if you exploit the crap out of them #so irene's got the right idea

39 notes · View notes

samwrights · 5 years ago

Note

I’m sorry but ukai with a breeding kink😳yes PLEASE

I swear I saw another ask that asked for Ukai with an impreg kink

*ahem* anyways—WOW this one was a doozy but holy shit did I have fun writing it. 11k words you guys. 11. K. It is a lot so grab some cocoa or coffee and a blanket because this is a read. It even has to be split into two parts because I hit the fucking text limit, BUT this also means there is no actual smut in this portion. You can find that here.

If you guys need some ear candy, I recommend the following:

Day N Nite (Crooker’s Remix) by Kid Cudi

Pursuit of Happiness (Extended version with Steve Aoki) by Kid Cudi

Breaking Me by Topic

C’Mon by Ke$ha

Flannel by The Cardboard Swords (it has to be sad somewhere)

Magic in the Hamptons by Social House

Fun fact: Ke$ha was actually the primary inspiration for this fic and for DJ!Ukai. God bless her.

Warnings: language, nicotine and alcohol consumption, implied drug use, implied emotionally abusive relationship, breeding/impreg kink, dirty talk, rough sex, risky sex, road head, slight dub-con, praise, multiple smut scenes, 3rd person POV reader-insert—because the word ‘you’ just didn’t seem to fit.

Without further ado, please enjoy the filthy depths of my brain followed by a relatively happy ending that I’ve titled, “Between the Lines’” :-)

“You’ve been more tired lately, and you’re showing up right when practice starts. Is everything okay?” Was the question that Takeda had asked Ukai Keishin that haunted him for years to come. Sure, he had wanted to gain more independence from his parents, wanted to start being more adult-like and take over the mortgage and the bills so his parents could finally rest. At the age of twenty-six, it seemed like a good idea at the time. With four years passing, however, Keishin was so damn tired, but it wasn’t like he could just stop working.

He was still tending to crops every morning, tending to the shop, coaching for Karasuno, but in the four years time, he had adopted one more job on the weekends—Ukai Keishin was a local nightclub DJ. He’d discovered the job opportunity one fateful night that he was out with his friends from the neighborhood association. To this day, he was still unsure of why he was approached with the job, especially considering he didn’t know the first thing about being a DJ, but the woman who had offered him the position had taught him everything he needed to know.

It turned out that he had a natural affinity for the position, seeing as he was still at it years later under the alias Spira. Ukai kept telling himself that he would quit the gig eventually because there was no way he could continue working four jobs—it was inhuman and the money didn’t even really matter to him. Okay, that last one is a lie; his DJ gig has been a substantial contributor to his savings funds to the point where he was even able to afford a newer, larger, (and slightly) used SUV in full compared to his tiny, old yellow beater. Even his mortgage bills were starting to look less daunting with the current cash flow.

Who needs sleep anyway? Ukai survived and thrived off of nicotine and caffeine anyway. Besides, sleep was the last thing on his mind whenever he set foot into the club. It was impossible to think of anything other than the writhing bodies of sweaty, young adults that were already drunk or high or were practically fucking each other with their clothes on. Perhaps that was part of the reason Keishin felt the need to quit this job—he was envious. Envious of the fact that he never got to indulge in his youth like these kids did; he started working and helping his family out right away after college. Sure, he went out here and there, but these twenty-something-year-olds were living their best life, while he was thirty and catering to their whims.

To say he was a bit bitter would be an understatement.

Bitterness aside, however, it did him good to see the youth enjoying exactly that—their youth. They got to do as they pleased between exams and becoming functioning members of society and, while he was jealous, Ukai was proud to be able to contribute to their pleasure.

He’d arrived to the club early, as he often did, to try to grab a drink before he was due for stage time. Ukai was thankful the bartenders knew him enough that he didn’t have to verbally order considering the music was too loud to hear him in the first place. A rum and coke manifests itself in a small, plastic cup that the blonde raises in thanks before weaving and bobbing around the various partygoers. For the most part, he’s successful in dodging the flailing bodies as he mutely notes the very upbeat remix of some female pop artist playing.

But only remotely successful as Keishin attempts to salvage his drink from spilling as he raises it over his head as one of the partygoers is pushed into him. “Hey, careful!” He snaps toward the younger, [hair color]ed woman. She only looks half-offended by the scolding, but otherwise unperturbed. If anything, the dominating expression on her face was confusion.

“Coach Ukai?” He’s surprised to hear both his given name and his title, let alone coming from a club patron, as they all knew him as Spira. Recognition slips his mind entirely—he’s never met this girl in any way that he can remember. Certainly, he would never forget crossing paths with this beauty, even if she was dressed in a similarly juvenile fashion to the other ravers. Tight crop top tee cinched together by a knot at the midriff, with army green high-waisted shorts attempting to cover the bare skin, face painted with makeup, glitter, and sweat; even underneath the garb, she brought forth no recollection. “Uh, d-do you remember me?” It’s a challenge to hear over the music, but she presses forward close enough that her lips are right in Keishin’s ear.

“Can’t say that I do,” he yells right back into hers.

“Karasuno class of twenty-twelve, I was Sugawara’s girlfriend.” Oh.

Oh.

Now he remembered, vaguely, but he doesn’t ever remember her looking like this. The last four years had been incredibly kind to her, in more ways than one. Back in her Karasuno days, [name] had always looked pleasant, for lack of better term. But there was always a lifeless, matted, dull glaze to her eyes that screamed she was searching for something more. While it was still somewhat present, there was a substantial joyous air around her. It looked good on her. However, as much as Ukai wanted to stay and admire, he had to go get set up for the evening. Or rather, that was the excuse he used when he said he would catch her after the show. “[name], did you know who that was?” The woman in question gives a nod, confused at the sudden star struck gawks that her friends held.

“Uh, yeah? My ex-boyfriend’s volleyball coach?”

“No dude, that was the DJ, Spira.”

“What?”

Being the closing act meant a lot of different things to Ukai Keishin. On the negative spectrum, it meant he was going to have to tend to crops as soon as he finished cleaning up his set. That also meant he wasn’t going to get to go to bed until nearly eight in the morning after his shift at the farm. Yet, for him, the positives greatly outweighed the negatives. For Keishin, watching the audience lose themselves in euphoria, albeit probably a drug-induced one, just hit different for him. It was a sense of satisfaction that only came from a select few activities, with coaching volleyball being the other major contributor. There was just something about the way the crowd was overwhelmed and screaming the second underground remixes of old Kid Cudi tracks with his own twists overtook the speakers that granted Keishin a sense of enlightenment.

For him, being a DJ allowed an audience to flow and vibe with the journey of his life and all its constant up and down motions while under the guise of anonymity. As Spira, Ukai opened up the complexity and conflicting feelings of his inner mind and brought it to fruition through his mixes. He felt that in his soul, he’d done his art of storytelling justice. The audience felt it. Hell, his mom at home probably felt it. Perhaps it was one of the main reasons this dingy, hole-in-the-wall club kept asking him to come back every weekend.

His mind wanders further as he clutches an electronic cigarette in his hand, mixing beats on the turntable while taking hits of nicotine in between. He wonders if the girl he had ran into just a few minutes prior had been frequenting here as often as he had. Then, thinking back to what little information she supplied earlier, Ukai’s mind drifts off to the former third-year setter from when he first started coaching. Sugawara was a nice boy with a firm, almost parental, hand that walked dangerously along the lines of being a partner and being a control freak. When it came to his relationship, things had to go his way. And while his girlfriend that came to every tournament was much more outspoken yet easy going, she was opinionated and didn’t shy from confrontation.

Now that the coach had given it more thought, it was a wonder that one tolerated the other at any point in time. If anything, Ukai imagines the two of them would typically be at each other’s throats. From the few times he had interacted with her, she was always more free spirited and couldn’t be weighed down by any one else’s opinion, but seeing her now was different—she was in her element in the dingy, dark club with the glitter on her cheekbones refracting light off of her face. There was laughter and true, unabashed joy on her face. She had a light of her own—like she was ray of sunshine in the center of a storm.

Three hours past midnight when the club closed was always Keishin’s sign to leave, regardless of the countless attempts to attend the after party he’d been invited to. He had to go to work, after all. Sure, a part of him had always been a little green with envy at all the DJs that got to hook up with club patrons after, but after being at this gig for a few years, he figured that the right girl for him would eventually come to him if he continued working on himself. After all, he didn’t want to just have a string of one night stands with a bunch of fresh adults that could barely function after the small drop of Malibu rum—he was too old for that.

“Uh, coach?” [name] felt strange calling him that, but she didn’t feel familiar enough with him to address him otherwise. He was halfway in his car, the blonde ready to leave for the weekend to go back to his regular day-to-day work. “You coming to the after party?” [name] asks when Keishin only looks at her in question, cigarette hanging betwixt his dry lips.

“No, I actually have to go to work right now.”

“Oh,” she doesn’t mean to express her disappointment, but it slips anyway, “guess I’ll catch you later then?”

“Uh, yeah.” A tight lipped hybrid of a pained grin and grimace crosses her wet, gloss covered lips. Without another word, Ukai closes his car door, a little more brusquely than he intended to, before backing out and leaving the young woman to her own devices. His mind wanders once again with him humming absentmindedly to the soft acoustic punk playing over the car radio. His eyes are focused on the passing greenery, the cars that are weaving and bobbing off the freeway—hell he even noticed the way the tendrils of the sun are just barely starting to peak over the horizon because it reminded him of her. A thought he banishes immediately because he feels creepy for even thinking that.

Yet no matter how much scenery flitted through his honey eyes, his mind keeps traveling back to one thing, or rather one person, only.

Goddammit.

On Monday’s practice, Ukai Keishin’s mind is flooding and drowning in memories of his first year as the volleyball club’s coach. It was as if his mind was coercing him to attempt to reach out to the girl that plagued his mind for the last forty-eight hours or so. Though, he had no way of contacting her. Instead, with every step along the wooden floors, he can remember the way she would walk Suga to practice, almost physically seeing her standing in the doorway to kiss the third-year setter goodbye. As if he could see her sitting underneath the third window from the left, quietly doing homework and exchanging small talk and airy laughter with Kiyoko and Daichi. As if he could see the same sunny smile she gave in the audience from Saturday night at the club between the lines of the woodwork in the floorboards.

It was a repeating pattern day in and day out that was beginning to make Ukai question his sanity.

“Hey, man,” his assistant coach and fellow Karasuno alumni, Tsukishima Akiteru, places a hand on his shoulder and looks at him in worry. “Are you okay? You’ve been out of it all week.” In what world did a week translate into three days, the older blonde coach didn’t know.

“I’m fine, just tired,” Keishin all but bites back. He didn’t want to admit his conscious had been running rampant with thoughts of a girl he’d briefly met at a club. It felt almost as disturbing and perverted as it sounded in his mind.

“The team’s worried about you. Why don’t you take an early weekend and get some rest? We’ll see you back on Monday, yeah?” Normally, Ukai would have vehemently refused. However, his circumstances were far from normal and he was gracious for an assistant coach he trusted wholeheartedly to do the work that needed to be done. And so, Ukai heeded Akiteru’s advice and went home before practice even began on Thursday afternoon.

It was slightly disorienting for him to go home and nap, but he was incredibly thankful for the gift. Waking up just before he was technically supposed to start his shift at the shop, Keishin jumps into a cold shower to bring him to life before heading downstairs. A bellowing yawn passes his lips through his teeth as he starts his evening. Maybe his team was right—he really did need a break. Thankfully, he knew that the second the doors to the Sakanoshita were locked, he was done for the evening and wouldn’t need to reawaken until three the following morning. Just a few more hours until then, he thought.

With it being a slower evening as well, Ukai was able to kick his feet up on the counter as he always did, pull open the newspaper from earlier in the morning and casually flip through. Briefly, he considers giving up one of his four jobs because this was something he missed doing. But consideration aside, he was far too in love with the cash flow and the thought of paying off his mortgage to entertain the thought for long. Maybe one day, he would finally sell the Sakanoshita store or quit helping on the farm—

“You still work here?” Huh. Her voice sounds different when it isn’t drowning under the speakers of a nightclub.

“I do own this place, you know.” Ukai snarks at the woman who’d been consuming his brain for the last week. She looks different without glitter reflecting off of her unreal cheekbones or the heavy layers of foundation and eyeshadow. Even more than before, Keishin definitely recognized [name] now. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“Shopping,” she snorts as if it were the most obvious thing, “why else would I be at a store?”

“Dunno, maybe you’re just here to see me.” Ukai responds without skipping a beat, turning the page of the paper to play into his guise that he wasn’t the slightest bit surprised at [name]’s presence.

“Uh...actually...” her voice is quiet, prompting the coach to quirk a brow and fold up the paper he was now pretending to read. It wasn’t like he could focus on anything right now outside of the woman standing before him, spearated only by a thin counter. Without talking again, his brown eyes lock with hers, silently goading for her to continue speaking. “I-I just...I don’t know. It was just really weird to see you at the club and then to find out that you’re Spira on top of that. I haven’t seen anyone from Karasuno since I graduated and—“

“Woah, kid, breathe.” Ukai interrupts her before she can continue spewing word vomit at a hundred miles an hour. “So what if I’m Spira? Though, you better not tell anyone that. My stage name is a secret between us, alright?” For a moment she’s quiet, gears turning in her head. The secrecy didn’t make sense to her because, if anything, he should be proud of the fact that he’s rather well known in the underground electronica scene. Or at least, she was in his stead, because [name] would have been proud of Ukai regardless of whatever occupation he held.

She supposed it came with the territory of having an unrequited crush on the coach years ago, that continued well beyond high school and even university, back when she was still dating Sugawara Koushi. It was the reason she had even bothered to come sit in on his practices and partially the reason she would come to his tournaments and matches. Not that she didn’t want to be supportive of her then-boyfriend—it would have been a fight had she not—but seeing the hot older coach was definitely a bonus in her book. “But why?” She offers, not wanting conversation to end despite her not having actually bought anything.

“If the school ever caught wind of me doing that, I could lose my position as the coach. Some shit about Karasuno’s image or whatever.” [name] gives a small nod, fidgeting subconsciously, as an attempt to shake her nerves and anxiety, by sifting through various candy bars that were in front of her before grabbing her favorite. Without a second thought, she peels the wrapper before placing the candy between her lips, the puffy pink skin greatly contrasting the chocolate coating. “Ya gonna pay for that, kid?” Ukai irks, his honey brown eyes steeling over in irritation. The nickname she’s given hits the final nail on the coffin and seals away [name]’s trepidation. Instead, her own sass comes out to join the fun.

“Nah,” she hums playfully, the chocolate-covered wafer cookie crunching between her teeth. “Quit calling me kid, coach. I’m a lady,” the irony isn’t lost on either of them as she speaks with her mouth full.

“Still a kid, kid. And quit calling me coach, I’m not your damn coach.” The familiar, grumpy attitude of his brings [name] back to the Ukai she knew back in high school. In a mix of nostalgia, warmth washes over her as the haughty tone in his voice sent shivers down her spine like it did a few years back.

“Sure thing, coach,” she teases again before tossing the wrapper of the stolen candy bar into the nearest bin. “You’re at the club tomorrow, right?” The question adds a bit of context and confirmation to Ukai—it seems she knew when Spira was performing, meaning she must have been a patron for a decent amount of time. Part of him wonders how she never realized who he was before, another part wonders how he’s never noticed her considering she could make all traffic stop if she stood in the middle of a freeway. At least, that’s what looking at her did to his heart.

“Yeah?”

“Maybe this time, you’ll join us at the after party.” Without another word, [name] pushes herself away from the counter she’d been leaning on while talking to the blonde man. With Akiteru giving him the weekend off, he actually entertained the thought of attending this time. Even if her invitation was rather blasé and indirect, he didn’t see the opportunity of him attending one presenting itself any time soon. He may be old, by his own standard, but there was a unknown allure to the thought of showing up to a wild party with a woman that was so adamant of his attendance.

Or rather, adamant in his mind. Whether she actually wanted his company remained to be seen, but the curiosity was gnawing at him, and was something he would have to unearth sooner rather than later.

Having an entire night, or a day’s worth, of rest was a rather disorienting, yet pleasant feeling for Ukai. After tending to crops and returning home in the early hours of the morning, the blonde coach was able to catch a solid nine hours of sleep before his shift at the Sakanoshita store with another chance to nap before he needed to head to the club. Despite knowing he had the ability to do so before another restless night, his mind felt the need to keep him awake and alert. Even after showering and styling his blonde tresses into their usual mane—mundane acts that usually came to him automatically—he was hyper aware of the slightest unruly flyaways.

Ukai Keishin was nervous.

He didn’t know what to wear or if there was a dress code or if anything he typically wore would be deemed worthy of an after party. A part of him wanted to leave it alone and let him sport his usual white track pants and tight, maroon muscle tank, but that part of him immediately drowns in the ocean of his anxiety. Another string in his brain prompted him to dress up just a little bit to help him look the part—it had nothing to do with impressing a certain club patron, no—he tried to convince himself. A miserable attempt, but still one nonetheless.

Eventually, he settled on crisp, dark-washed jeans that hugged his muscular legs without being suffocating, paired with a vibrant, crimson muscle tee that hugged his biceps all the same. Ukai still felt a little out of place in the attire, as he often had back when he first assumed the alias Spira, but headed out the door of his apartment before his conscious could dispute it.

He was early again, even more so than normal. Desperate for a drink to calm his nerves and replace his blood with liquid courage, Ukai worms his way around to the bar, signaling the attendant for his usual. Rum and coke in hand, the DJ stands off to the side, hiding like a wallflower, while he studied the sweaty, dancing bodies. Did he know why he was looking for her—no. Maybe partially to tell her she owed him for the candy bar, maybe to tell her he was joining in on the after party this time around.

Maybe to just see her.

Keishin banishes the last thought with a shake of his head before skulking off to the attached patio to smoke. Pulling a cigarette from his pack and a lighter from his pocket, the flame torches the end of the filter at the same time the blonde inhales. Forcefully pushing the smoke out past his lips, Ukai takes a hearty sip of his drink until it’s nearly gone. He was going to need something stronger tonight.

“Is it that time already?” The older man’s head snaps to the voice that had been haunting him subconsciously.

Part of him wishes he didn’t look.

As if to play into her question, [name] checks the large, rose gold watch on her right wrist—an incredibly stark contrast to her outfit for the evening. Maybe it was a hunch when Ukai felt that he had been underdressed, as if his intuition knew that she was going to be dressed to the nines in a black skater dress. Even with a modest neckline, the lace cut out detailing on the sides of the dress accentuated her curves impeccably, playing well with the volume of the skirt, while the open back she was sporting dipped dangerously low.

It took everything in Ukai to not throw every milliliter of restraint and inhibition out the window and fuck her right then and there.

Taking a lengthy drag of his cigarette to hold himself back, Keishin inhales deeply, the smoke billowing past his lips emerging densely and grey in color. “I’m a little early—needed an extra drink today.” The man manages to choke out, downing whatever is left in his little plastic cup for added emphasis.

“Need another?” [name] chirps politely; almost too politely as if to deliberately dispute the salacious thoughts flooding the coaches mind.

“I can get—“

“I owe you anyway,” she reminds him, alluding to the candy bar she had eaten without paying for from the previous night. “Pick your poison.”

“Double rum and coke.” He concedes. [name]’s lips twitch upward slightly at the corner before she plucks the empty cup from Ukai’s hand. He doesn’t miss the way the shellac on her nails grazes against his skin, leaving the whispers of contact to run warm. Immediately, the blonde man uses the nearly dead cigarette between his teeth to light a fresh one—heaven or hell knows he needed the nicotine right now.

Given the silence, Keishin takes the opportunity to absorb his surroundings. From the general direction that [name] initially came from, she wasn’t around any of her friends or really anyone that he knew. That was good at least; there wasn’t anybody else that knew of his presence. [name] returns, two clear plastic cups in her hands and surrenders the darker of the two to the man awaiting. “Hold mine for a sec?” Without thinking, Keishin holds his cigarette between his left index and middle fingers, his drink in the same hand, while taking hers. To his surprise, she pulls out her own pack of menthols and a torch lighter, setting the leaves ablaze before taking her obvious vodka cranberry back.

“You took up smoking?” The older of the two asks in surprise, noting the way her lipstick leaves the slightest bit of residue along the brown filter. [name] gives a shrug.

“Surprised you didn’t notice it sooner, coach. I’ve been smoking since second year.” Ukai gives a roll of his eyes at the use of this strange pet name he’s been dubbed by her. But he thinks about it, thinks about how Suga must have felt probably knowing that she did. Thinks how it just added to this strange, sassy yet happy, wild and free exterior she now had. And [name] notices instantly the very same look Ukai had in his face when he was trying to strategize, trying to figure out a way to navigate a conversation with his team about becoming better—she knows what’s coming next. “Yeah, yeah, I know I should quit or whatever. Suga lost that argument a long time ago.”

“Can’t really tell you what to do when I’m just as guilty.” Ukai gives a laugh—one that is embedded with bitterness and envy at the mention of the third-year setter—yet is just as vivacious as he is. A sound entirely different than she’d ever heard leave his lungs before. She likes it.

After finishing his smoke, Keishin gulps down a hefty swig of his drink before patting [name] on the shoulder before announcing his departure. “I’ll see you inside,” the girl, woman, calls out thoughtfully as she gives a small wave with her cigarette filter between her fingers. Ukai doesn’t verbalize the same sentiment. He doesn’t want to slip up and admit he’ll be looking for her.

But it’s painfully obvious that he is when he takes over the booth. Unable to hide the fact that with every chance that he looks into the audience, he’s searching for that black skater dress that hugs her all too perfectly, [hair color] locks swaying as she moves in the crowd. Ukai can’t hide it at all—not behind the turn table or new remixes meant to get the crowd moving.

He can’t hide the urgency he feels to find her outside in the crisp evening air, smoking on the back patio of the club after his set. [name] is talking and laughing with her friends while thin grey smoke billows from her open mouth before her eyes land on him. Some of her friends take notice to the tension and their shared gazes, some of them whispering his alias in excitement. But [name] just smiles knowingly, if not a little cocky, because she can see that urgency, that desperation, that Ukai was trying to hide. “Wait, [name], do you know Spira?” A bystander asked. Clearly, they weren’t present the last time this was brought up.

“Yeah, I may have met him once or twice,” the woman in question snickers as she strides over closer and closer to the aforementioned DJ.

“Cute,” Ukai sneers teasingly at her jab before instinctively reaching for the half-gone cigarette she pulls to her stained lips. At first, she thought he was going to put it out, considering their little conversation from a few hours ago. Instead, the volleyball coach puts the filter to his own lips, noting the damp fabric probably from her freshly applied lipgloss, and takes a drag. It tasted like watermelons and mint.

“Cheeky,” [name] returns, plucking her cancer stick back from the blonde man. While her friends are still behind her murmuring about the familiarity between the two of them, Keishin and [name] are lost in their own little world. “So since your set is over, and considering you’re still here, I’m assuming you’re joining me for the after party? Or do you have to go to work again?”

“I told them I’d be out of town this weekend,” Ukai tries to play it off as nonchalantly as he could, ties to swallow it down his nerves with rum and nicotine. It proves rather difficult considering the coy smile on [name]’s face is wearing and cracking through his resolve rather quickly. But at least, to him, he could confirm his mind was not playing tricks on him and [name] was just as adamant about his attendance as he initially thought. Even more so with her next statement.

“Cool. Your car or mine?” It took him a minute to process her words even—lust thickening and constricting the flow to his brain at the vague question. Ukai was getting far too ahead of himself, but goddammit how could he focus when the fabric of her skirt hit her mid-thigh and framed her like a Venetian goddess—“I don’t mind driving there.” She adds to coax him away from his silence.

“Nah, I got it. We’ll take mine.”

“Lead the way,” [name] chimes sweetly as she wraps an arm around the coach’s forearm. The physical touch is everything he’s been fantasizing about for the last few days—hellfire and brimstone and sunlight and goddammit why did he wear jeans that were only getting tighter and tighter?

Ukai opens the passenger door to his SUV, supporting the woman as she clambered in cautiously so as not to stumble from her heels. Getting settled in, the coach surrenders his unlocked phone to allow her the entirety of his music library. The irony of the DJ surrendering DJ rights to the passenger was not lost on either of them. Much to his surprise, [name] put on soft acoustic punk as he usually did on his way home from the club. The kind of softness one would turn on to accompany the fragile pitter-patter of rain against the windshield. “Cardboard Swords?” Ukai asks in surprise, more than familiar with the band.

“Flannel is a favorite of mine. I’m kind of surprised it’s in your library.” She adds after she begins directing him to this evening’s party location. From the corner of his eyes, he can see the way her full lips are moving along each word with expertise. He sees the way her [eye color] orbs soften slightly and he can tell this song hits home for her.

She’ll never say why—she’ll never tell him this was the song that helped her move on from Sugawara Koushi while restoring her inner peace.

But Keishin is no fool. He can tell that this is physically hurting her—crushing her soul into the leather seat of his car and, instinctually, he wraps a large hand around hers that’s resting in her lap. “I came out tonight to have fun with you, so don’t you go getting sad on me.” He means each word with innocent intent, yet he cannot ignore the almost hidden, salacious drip to each syllable and neither can she. How could she when his touch sent volts of electricity through her skin?

“Right, right,” she says in a conceding tone, switching the audio to something much more upbeat and a little flirty. “Why did you agree to go out tonight?” If Ukai had an answer, then it died on his lips as he let go of [name]’s hand to reach for another cigarette. The process of lighting the tube, inhaling, and exhaling bought him an extra minute to come up with an excuse; her doing the same giving him another thirty seconds.

“I don’t know.” It’s a blatant lie—a lie that [name] believes all too easily—but Ukai can’t bring himself to admit the truth. He can’t admit out loud that she’s the only thing that’s been on his mind all week or that he jumped at the opportunity, created one even, to be able to have a one-on-one moment with her. Keishin can’t admit that he can tell there are intricate webs spun in her mind and that all he wants to do is untangle them one by one.

And he certainly can’t tell her that even the mere sight of her sends his brain into overdrive and all he wants to do is repeatedly fill her over and over with his seed until she is entirely his, inside and out in mind, body, and soul. There was no way in the nine circles of hell that Ukai Keishin was going to admit to his sinful thoughts.

“It’s just up here.” [name] points with gaunt fingers, cigarette between them as her voice is half choked from inhaling her own smoke. Mirroring the man’s actions earlier, she indulged in her own nicotine habit to quell the budding disappointment from Ukai’s lackluster response. They drove up a slight winding hill and as the trees pass by, the itch for her truth and her history was gnawing at him. He wanted to know why this rambunctious party girl invited him all week to these elusive after parties. Why Flannel ate away at her insides like it did his. Why did her and Sugawara breakup?

But he decides against it for the moment.

“Where are we?” Ukai asks. There’s cars all lining the sides of the road of varying worth—he felt even more out of place than normal with his older SUV, even if it was an upgrade for him, considering the large number of luxury vehicles.

“Bevelle’s house.” [name] says simply, pointing to an empty space in the streets as she throws the butt of her cigarette into the road. The casual way she name drops the owner of the club makes him gawk, catching flies in his mouth had there been any at the hour. With a satisfied, cheesy grin, she hops out of her seat and walks in the grass to meet Ukai on the other side as he clambers out of the vehicle as well. In familiarity, she grips into his forearm once again as they walk towards the forest mansion.

Keishin wasn’t sure what to expect when the two of them walked in, but a home full of people screaming his pseudonym and her name was not on that list. Younger hordes had surrounded [name], greeting her warmly and telling her how glad they were to see her again for the evening. Others were approaching Ukai, telling them how rare and a momentous occasion that the infamous artist Spira was amongst their midst.

“Glad to see you could join us, Spira.” His boss and club owner, Bevelle, approaches the mismatched couple. Bevelle was an alias used by the middle aged woman, her real name unknown to those that didn’t know her know her, and was once upon a time her stage name. While she had chosen a quiet location in the Miyagi prefecture, Bevelle was quite known in the underground scene. Granted, Ukai didn’t know any of that when he’d taken the job. If anything, it was all thanks to her that he was able to learn for his own success as well as granting him the opportunity to learn in the first place. “Good to see you too, trouble.” Bevelle affectionately goes to muss at [name]’s hair, to which she only replies with a cheeky grin.

“How do you know Bevelle?” Ukai presses his lips towards the ear of the woman still hanging onto him as she expertly leads the way to the kitchen. The car ride left her feeling slightly uncomfortable, ashamed even though she would never admit to that, and she knew she definitely needed a drink after it. Part of her was heavily rebuking herself for trying to pry into his mind by asking why he came along, even more so when she put on the one song that shattered her heart every time she heard it. It just excited her that he had it in his library, that he even knew who The Cardboard Swords were, and that he enjoyed the same obscure taste in music as much as she did.

“She’s a close family friend!” The chirp that [name] gives isn’t entirely convincing, like she isn’t telling the truth. Regardless, Ukai washes down his doubt with the beer he was handed, figuring she probably had her reasons. And as soon as the plastic is in each of their hands, [name] downs the contents immediately, hoping to drown out the nerves ebbing from her stomach with vodka. She should have been ecstatic—her old high school crush, her unrequited crush, was here with her, drinking side by side but she can’t help but feel the tension between them—sexual or otherwise.

Just as the two of them down their second round, a piercing voice cuts through the thicket of the masses, calling out her name and capturing her attention. “It’s your song! Come on!” A shrug and a smile crosses [name]’s features as she’s all but dragged away to a different part of the mansion. Much to his surprise, she grabbed onto Keishin to drag him along as well.

The two of them are presented with a myriad of sweaty, rolling bodies—much more gone than Ukai had ever seen at the club itself. It was oddly...sensual, if it could be called that, to see the fluid movements between party goers. Sensual, intimate, strange—all of them could be used interchangeably at this moment.

[name] is dancing with another woman, mouthing all of the words to the current pop song while bobbing and jumping around excitedly before her eyes lock on his. She’s in her element now. All sunshine and smiles like Ukai had seen from on occasion from years ago or most recently at the club, but they’re directed at him for once as she pulls him closer onto the dance floor. The taunting beats and repetitive call of “come on” and the way [name] loosely wraps her arms around his neck as she dances brings Ukai to the realization that this was the end of the line.

The end of the line, because Keishin can’t hold himself back anymore.

Not with the way her hips are grinding against is and she’s laughing warmly and heartily at his slight discomfort and her teeth are glittering off the lights in the dark room like stars in the night sky. Not with the way her head is thrown back and her dress drops low enough to flaunt the expanse of bare skin of her neck and collar bones that are just begging him to sink his teeth in. Not with the way her [eye color]ed orbs are locked with his as she sings along with the music, oddly enough alluding to some form of confession of her feelings.

He can’t fucking take it anymore.

The large hands he has on her hips move just under her arms to hoist her up, [name] instinctively wrapping her legs around his waist to keep her balance. Their eyes are locked, honed in on each other with the rest of the party melting into the background. With her deepest, most wild high school fantasy driving her actions, she grins. “Hi,” is all she says before Ukai cranes his neck back to cover her lips with his.

His kiss is everything she imagined it would be after years of pining. The smell and taste of smoke and wood floods her senses as his tongue laps at the watermelon lip gloss on her bottom lip before seeking refuge within her mouth. His hands, now wrapped around her thighs give intermittent squeezes, either to keep them grounded in reality or just because he needs something to clutch at—she’s unsure of which. In response, her manicured fingernails tangle into his messy blonde locks. Their kiss pours out their desperation, laying it all out on the table for the both of them to see clear as day.

The only thing that prompts them to break apart is the ending of the song.

“You wanna get out of here?” Ukai asks as he tenderly puts [name] back on the ground. As if he weren’t just making out with her moments ago, the motion is delicate and gingerly and almost loving.

“Not yet,” there’s a knowing, smug lilt in her voice as she turns on her heel and throw herself back into the throng of party people. Or rather, attempts. While she’s attempting to flee, Keishin snatches her wrist, pulling her closer until their chests are flush against each other.

“Nuh uh,” the blonde man tuts, “you’ve been asking me to join you at a party all week, now here I am. The hell makes you think you’re leaving my side tonight?” [name]’s grin only grows wider.

“I’ve waited for years for this opportunity, coach, so if you think I’m not gonna have fun with it, you’re dead wrong.” The word ‘years’ constricts the man’s heart—forces his pupils to blow into dilation with her modest, yet blunt confession.

“Years?”

“Years,” she repeats, “ever since that first practice you stumbled into the Karasuno gym as the temporary coach. Why do you think I came to every single exhibition match and tournament? Or came to study and do homework while you guys had practice?” This girl was grinding at every steel line of self-control that was left in Ukai’s body because every word spilling past her lips added an additional ten volts to the sexual tension between them.

“We’re leaving.” He bites out despite the delicate tone. Wrapping his hand around hers once again, Keishin tugs her along time dodge the party goers that threw the two of them curious glances, wondering why they were quick to leave shortly after their arrival. Just to tease him further, [name] almost wants to offer a rebuttal and tell him that they should stay longer and enjoy the show. However, she knows she’s done enough waiting and if he was taking her home, she wasn’t going to argue.

While urgency and desperation was their game, Keishin didn’t cut corners when it came to presenting himself as a gentleman as he helped [name] back into the car. Hormones be damned—he was still going to help a lady into the passengers seat. “You never did tell me why you finally agreed to come out tonight.” She says quietly, as if the two of them hadn’t been making out and dry humping a few minutes prior. “And it’s clearly not because you knew I had a crush on you all throughout third year—“

“Don’t act like you’re the only one with feelings in this.” Ukai grits out, speeding much faster back home than he did on the way to Bevelle’s house. Paying that no mind, [name]’s ears perk up at his own wayward confession. When she asked for clarity, a rumbling groan shakes his chest as he patted down his pockets in search for his nicotine sticks. “I didn’t recognize you the first night at the club because you look different now. Happiness looks good on you.”

“Happiness?” She echos confusedly, turning to face Ukai fully after lighting her own cigarette.

“You used to always look content back then—just barely content and nothing more. And I can’t stop thinking back to those days because you’re this ball of sunshine, kid, and I can’t stop wondering what the hell Suga did to you to dim your shine that badly. I haven’t stopped thinking about you all week.”

[name] is quiet for a moment at his own rendition, his own version, of a confession and she’s stunned. And she can’t tell if she wants to cry or kiss him because this is not that way she ever fantasized this conversation going. It was going better than she dreamed. Better, because the words that Ukai is saying adds an entirely new layer to his amped up personality—he wasn’t just the sexy volleyball coach that she used to pine over. He was a person with deep rooted feelings for justice in the sense of wanting to understand how someone could inflict damage to the innocent and he wanted to rectify said injustices. He wanted to know how someone like Suga could try to dampen her sunlight instead of allowing her to thrive and bloom.

She wants to kiss him, she decides, but since he’s driving, she settles for placing a chaste one on the corner of his mouth. “Serves you right,” she jokes when she pulls away, “it’s been a long four years for me. It’s your turn to suffer.”

“Trust me, this car ride is torture enough.”

[ next ]

#haikyu!!#haikyuu!! imagine #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu imagine #haikyuu oneshot #ukai keishin #haikyuu ukai #hq ukai #ukai x reader #ukai scenario #keishin ukai x reader #dj!au #haikyuu sugawara #sugawara imagine #sugawara koushi #sugawara x reader #nsfhq

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angelicichor · 5 years ago

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Wait. Requests are open? Fuck yes. Then I request Thomas bending me over stuff and fucking me into next year! Art or words man it don't matter. Its gonna be fantastic either way .My U R G E S are out of this world right now.

U… I like you. I might actually do some more….. F I L T H Y art of Tommy-boy, but I ain’t home now so that’ll have to wait. For now however…

N//SF//W

Thomas being a bit too eager… but in a good way.Female reader for this one… sorry folks.

Enough

Summer has been a bad season in Texas, for obvious reasons - heat, dryness and dust, oh god the dust, it was everywhere, sticking to everybody’s sweat covered bodies, making it unbearable to go shirtless, but also impossible to go with anything more prude on.

In a way you had a hate-love relationship with this season, you’ve always lived in colder places, so the warmth of the sun was murdering you and seeing Charlie with his big ol’ belly pouch and old man tits out, covered in white, untamed chest hair was an ENORMOUS problem, but at the same time tis’ was the season for drinking refrigerated sodas and eating copious amounts of ice cream that Luda Mae made herself and gosh darn it was delicious.

But the most amazing stuff wasn’t any drink or a snack, no, it was the full-blown dinner date that was Thomas, abandoning his usual shirt and tie to don a simple black tank top, that clung to his chest almost perversely, showing off his robust bicep, beautifully shaped triceps, as well some of the powerful muscle of his back, his tan skin glistening with sweat as he bent over a car’s hood, opening it to check what in tarnation was wrong with Hoyt’s sheriff car, the old man being too damn lazy to do it himself, god bless him for that.

With the apron gone you also had a wonderful view of Tommy’s firm legs and thick ass, stretching the material every time he’d bend over to reach inside the machine. It looked so damn squeezable, but you knew better than to interrupt the man at work, knowing that Luda would be over you in a second, scolding you for not working yourself. You loved her, but how could she NOT understand that her son was a god damned gem and you NEEDED to take a closer look at him.

He seemed oblivious to your hungry gaze coming from the porch, unaware how his form made your heart flutter and your gut heat up thinking of all the wonderful things that behemoth could do to you and that fact made you FURIOUS. It’s not like you didn’t try to initiate things either, just every time you tried anything Charlie would bring in some new meat or Luda would need her son to go to the station with her to help unpack some deliveries or Monty needed to be carried off the sun, too tired from the heat to move on his own.

Little to say, you were frustrated, but a chance to take revenge on this beautiful, dark haired bastard was coming and oh so very soon.

The thought brought a devilish grin onto your face, an expression that made Charlie go “You alright, girlie?” above you and you snapped to attention. “Ya lookin’ at my nephew like he the next one in line for dinner.” He laughed and you puffed at him, standing up with a slight blush, dusting off your jeans.“Sorry, sir, just thought of something funny.” you lied and he cocked an eyebrow, not really believing you.“U-huh, sure, darlin’. Ya ready to go into town? Got the money?” he asked and you smiled warmly, lifting your purse up and shaking it slightly. “Good, let’s go.”

With that you almost jumped towards the old pick-up that waited right next to Hoyt’s sheriff car. Not able to resist the urge you took a swing and slapped Tommy’s perked butt, making him rise in shock and hit his head on the metal above him. You laughed, before getting into the truck and closing the door, so he wouldn’t pull you out. He most likely still could, but instead he rolled his eyes, massaging his head and shaking it shortly in disbelief before going back to work.

Once in the town you quickly parted with Hoyt, running to find a decent, still functioning clothes store, a woman on a mission.

Your plan wasn’t enacted until the next morning, however. For once you’ve been happy that Thomas always woke up way before you, leaving you to your own devices. That was his biggest mistake yet.

The day was pleasant, even with the sun shinning down on all of you mercilessly, there was a nice breeze going through, something you all hoped would be there to stay. You were very helpful right from the morning, shining with enthusiasm when told to hang the laundry, feed the chickens in the coop Charlie and Thomas installed some time ago, and then come back to help Luda Mae make some cookies.

And you probably though you were cute, wearing that baby blue summer dress that was just a bit too short to be innocent, with a bow in front, slightly to the side, as well as those stockings that hugged your tight just right, making it look so squeezable, with those flat sandals that made you look just so much shorter and more adorable.

And you’d also think you were being sly, brushing your hand across Tommy’s forearm while passing him on the way to the coop in a rush, as if the chickens were going to escape, or when you heard his boots stop in from of the kitchen entrance and ‘dropped a fork on accident’, bending down with only your back, giving him a peek at your white, frilly underwear, and acting like you totally didn’t mean to lick that batter of the spoon in such a seductive way.

But he knew what you were doing, realized it the moment he has seen your outfit and those hungry eyes you gave him unconsciously, but Thomas was a patient man. He let you play your game, refusing to give in to your advances, so you’d be forced to come to him and ask properly for him to take you, enduring the constant sting of arousal building in his body when he would notice you, going around, completing your tasks, acting like you don’t notice him. He was doing a fine job, too.

That is, until you up and tripped, falling to your knees right before him and looking up at his masked face with those huge, bashful eyes, a blush creeping it’s way onto your cheek.

And Thomas could swear he heard something in his head snap.

You tried to get up, but before you could rise one leg you’ve been swooped up by your neck to met his eyes. There was an anger to them, but it wasn’t what made you shiver, it was the true, unfiltered, primal lust that resonated from them, as well as the sweet smell of hormones and frustration making your head spin and leg pull up slightly, as your hands helped the rest of your body not suffer from the Butcher’s hold.

The next time you blinked, your whole body has been shoved onto the kitchen table, Thomas’ free hand throwing multiple objects onto the floor, creating a lot of noise that made your anxiety spike, but he couldn’t care less, leaning into you, one hand still keeping you in a choke-hold, the other gripping onto your tight, giving it a good, firm squeeze. His forehead pressed onto your lightly, his eyes focused on yours, a small smirk rising on his lips, followed by a hungry lick, delight hitting him hard when you shivered just at his hot breath hitting you.

With a rushed motion he pushed one of your legs away, the other giving way for his muscular tight, pressing onto your heat, you hips bucking against it in reflex, wanting to feel the man’s warmth.

His free hand shifted from your tight to your chest, rising with your heated breaths, stopping at your right tit and massaging it roughly, pinching your nipple the moment it started hardening, a quiet laugh moving his body when you squeaked at the sensation, your hands moving form his forearm to your mouth, pink painting your cheeks. With that the hand holding you down moved, trailing your body down, until it reached your heat, then pressing against it and rubbing it up and down slowly through your already soaked panties, his index finger pressing them in to reach deeper inside you.

Your hands stifled your whimpers and moans as he teased your chest and entrance, seemingly not phased by the fact that anyone could walk in on you two at any second, that Luda Mae was supposed to come back to resume making the baked treats, but you were slowly forgetting about all that too, too focused on how good his hand felt on your covered cunt, how his eyes pierced yours, so close, warning you not to move a muscle if you wanted him to be nice and you feared what would happen if you disobeyed.

Soon enough one of his fingers slid your panties to the side, making you feel vulgar, even more that you already did, exposed to the world on the table, but all the anxiety you felt melted into nothing, as one of his fingers slid inside you, unannounced. It moved slowly, parting your walls and teasing your nerves, making you tremble at the feeling, insides clenching with need, allowing him to please you, even more so when a second one joined, picking up the speed, already making you feel almost full with how thick and rough they were, hitting you exactly where you needed them.

Your trembling fingers kept collecting your sounds of pleasure, hiding your face from him once he lifted his head away from your face, to look down at your squirming form and he wouldn’t have that, leaving your breasts and pulling your hands above your head, your lips pressing in a line as a reaction and you saw the satisfied smile on his face.

A third finger squeezed it’s way inside you, making your head loll back in shock, a weak moan leaving your lips and that was enough for him.

Slowly he pulled his fingers out of you, making you whimper at the sudden emptiness, eyes closing just for a second, just to look back at him with a small pout, silently telling him how rude he was to do something like this to you, but his devilish smile let you know that he didn’t care, bringing his fingers, still covered in your slick to your face with a silent order, to which your lips pressed together in an act of rebellion.

An act that he quickly ruined, pushing his hips against you, spreading your legs further to accommodate his width and making you gasp with the pressure of his hardened erection, still covered with his jeans, on your needy cunt. The moment your lips parted his fingers slid in and his eyes warned you not to bite, so fearfully you obeyed, letting your tongue collect your wetness, with a deep flush on your cheeks.

Finally his fingers retreated, leaving you panting below the giant, eyes closed in shame.

You heard a clack and some shuffling and just seconds later something warm and slick pressed against your entrance, forcing your eyes open, wide in terror as you struggled to get your hands free, but to no avail with Thomas’ hand still holding them down like an iron shackle.

“No, no Tommy!! Somebody will see, please not he--!” ignoring your pleas he shoved himself into you, the power in his thrust making you scream out, moving the table slightly. Your legs pressed up to your chest, spasming slightly, as the thickness of his cock spread you wide, making your muscles tighten, a long whimper escaping your mouth, your body unable to relax around him, your only saving grace being your wetness and you scolded your brain for bringing the phrase “curiosity killed the cat” to your head.

The pull of his hips burned, sending spiking pleasure throughout your whole body, mixed with a hint of pain, and the second thrust was not kinder, again earning him a sweet whimper, as you desperately tried to stay at least a bit quiet, but as his speed slowly picked up, reaching a steady rhythm, making the leftover things on the table clatter, you couldn’t handle being silent anymore. Every time he hit your end, you moaned, screamed, cried for him to go faster, harder, and he happily obliged, making you see stars over and over again, your hands struggling in his grip, body lifting off the table in a fit of pure ecstasy, letting him ravage you, use you however he wanted, you brought this upon yourself, after all, and now you were going to pay dearly for your teasing.

Just as your mind was becoming a mess you heard a crack and panic returned to you, making your walls clench against his dick sharply, making him groan, his free hand pressing onto your hips, hard enough to leave bruises, but you noticed another crack and realized something horrible.

“To---Thomas!!” You screamed and his eyes shoot up to yours, making your skin errupt in goosebumps at just how feral he looked. “Th---The table!! The table’s gonna!!” You warned and he growled, both of his hands lifting you up to his chest, still kept full of him, until he pulled out just to slam you on your belly onto the kitchen counter, kicking the breath right out of your lungs, and plunging right back into you, his furious hands reaching to the walls as he kept himself steady, pounding into you aggresively. One of them pressed your head to the wooden surface, before grabbing your hair and forcing you up and into an arch, the other following to keep you steady by your waist, forced to look him in the eye.

You felt your climax building, quickly and he didn’t protest when your fingers found your swollen clit, circling it furiously, desperate to reach that peak and you saw him smile, his lips mouthing the word “COME” and with your eyes shooting wide open you did, your walls collapsing on his cock in an almost painful manner, but he forced them away, seeking his own release, ridding your orgasm out as you screamed his name repeatedly, only strengthening his desire to destroy you, finding the strength to pound you harder, fuzzing your mind, making you a babbling, begging mess, moaning as your head was slammed back onto the counter and adoring the dizziness that came with the sudden motion.

His fingers digged into your hips, keeping you still and the stutter in his last harsh thrust was the only thing that warned you of his collapse, warm strings of thick come filling you up, making you moan in a higher pitch, your insides twitching against him, reaching another, smaller orgasm alongside his and your body gave out, trembling, shaking, exhausted, whining when he pulled out, cum slowly dripping out of you and onto your oversensitive thighs. He didn’t move you, instead putting his dick back into his boxers and zipping his pants back up, buckling his belt and letting you get up onto your shaking arms before wrapping his strong arms around you, his leather mask pressing onto your neck, so he could kiss it’s nape and you could swear you heard something similar to the words “I win” escape him, but he wouldn’t... Yeah, no, he would and you elbowed his belly weakly in protest, to which he rumbled a laughter, nuzzling into your hair, both of you covered in sweat.

Then again you felt your body being lifted and eased onto his shoulder, your hands shooting back to your skirt to cover your slightly exposed pussy as he carried you out of the room, grabbing one of the already prepared cookies off the counter and biting into it with a cocky smile.

“Tommy!” you heard Hoyt’s voice from the living room and you hoped he couldn’t see you, one of your hands covered however much of your face it could. “Ya done fucking over there, ya bastard?” The old man laughed and the embarrassment of being caught made your shake in Tommy’s grasp, even more so when he just.... NODDED. “Good! Get me some meat when you’re all cleaned up, boy! We need to get dinner started.” Hoyt replied and you died slightly inside, knowing damn well that you would not survive this evening, mentally.

It didn’t help that after the shower your body refused to function, protesting to the treatment your monstrous man has given it, so Tommy had to carry you down to the table, his chest just swelling with pride and you HATED IT.

Still, even with Hoyt’s rude remarks... It was worth it.

#Thomas Hewitt x reader #slasher x reader #slashers x reader #texas chainsaw massacre #tcm #tcm: the beginning #thomas hewitt #virgo writes #slasher #slashers #slasher community #This one???#This one my man.#This one is #Something #HOPE YOUR THIRSTY ASS IS HAPPY #you H O E #NASTY #NASTY PEOPLE

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summonerscenarios · 4 years ago

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If you do angst, can you do hcs on Ophion, Oniwaka, and Zabiniyya in this scenario. They get kidnapped. The 3 guys are then shown loops of them and MC falling in love, but it shows that those loops end with them betraying and killing MC. Luckily, they get saved by MC and Co. How would they feel toward MC after being shown all of that?

ooooooh okay so this one has been a long time coming but I think it finally came out okay!!! Apologies it may have come off a bit more serious than intended but I do hope that it’s okay~!

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Ophion

The kidnappers have definitely got either extremely accurate Intel or got extremely lucky to have managed to find the great Ophion in a moment of supposed weakness. Inevitably his overconfidence in his own abilities that gets him captured — he underestimated his opponents by assuming that their strength was merely in their numbers. And it is because of this that he’s unable to see the incoming onslaught of attacks, forcing his guard down long enough for them to charge in and bring him to his knees.

Ophion’s kidnappers make no attempts to hide their location — their movements would seem sloppy to anyone else as they transport him back to their destination, however by the time they arrive at the location in question it’s clear that it’s on purpose. They want someone to come for him, meaning that they plan to make this quick and that’s a dangerous game to be involved in. His restraints may keep him bound for now but he’s already testing them for weaknesses, waiting for the right moment to snap them off as he’s tied down in one of the building's many rooms.

Though he’s enraged over his capture he’s smarter than to waste his breath angering his kidnappers; instead he tries to get as much information out of them as he could, and surprisingly they’re more open to his questions than he’d first thought. They let slip about an orb and memories and it is then that they seem to decide that they have waited long enough. The orb comes into view, cradled in the leader’s arms as it is presented to Ophion, however the dragon has little time to observe the weird sphere before something begins to force its way into his thoughts.

The memories that begin to seep out of the crevices within his mind are new, or so he thinks — he recognizes the places and faces of those he’s seen before, and knows somewhere deep within himself that these memories are his own, and yet they couldn’t feel more foreign to him even as they click into place. Many come and go through this bizarre slideshow, but the one who shines above them all is of course you, his beloved spouse. He watches these moments that have passed yet don’t exist; of taking you into his arms, hearing you laugh as you relax against his broad chest, a content look of pure adoration on your face. Your skin feels real beneath his hand and lips as he relieves these memories of intimate moments you’ve shared together, recalling the eager smiles, the long nights and the quiet times of mutual understanding between you - it’s more than what he could have ever desired...

Your first death comes without warning. The moments leading up to it are lost under a sheer wave of memories as they filter through the correct ones to show him, and suddenly Ophion is now acutely aware of their intentions as he looks down at you unmoving form from his own eyes. You’re curled up as though mid crawl at his feet, one hand wrapped around his ankles and nails digging into the scales unwilling to release even in death. If it wasn’t for the pain he would have cast it aside as a lie, a mere illusion to wear away his spirit, but as the memories begging to pour in, further and further burrowing into his mind he realizes this is not a one time occurrence.

More and more blood is spilt, it stains his golden scales a burning scarlet and his claws still hold remains of your flesh; every battle ends in a similarly brutal fashion seeing through to your demise at his own hands. You put up a fight till the very end, even mortally wounded you don’t give up, a testament to your devotion to a better future; in any other circumstance seeing you fight would light the fire of pride deep within his heart, but now? As he hears you cry and scream and beg and fight? It pierces deeper than any blade could hope to touch and it twists.

Ophion is appalled at his own actions - what could possibly have deluded this old self of his into believing that your death was just? What could it have possibly fixed? He isn’t privy to such answers, a move that he knows is intentional and suddenly the rage within him bubbles once again at the thought of his kidnappers. It is this that finally breaks him out of this death cycle, and he comes to alone in that same room, but not for long.

You’re the one to find him first, and at the sound of your voice calling out to him Ophion’s head snaps up to meet your own; it only takes a few tries at his restraints before he’s free and almost immediately he takes you into his arms, ignoring the squeak of surprise it pulls out of you in favor of holding you impossibly close. Of course you laugh it off as his usual eccentric tricks however this time it’s anything but - his hold is firm but now keenly aware of how fragile you can be and his main focus is hearing your heartbeat, feeling your pulse and watching the rise and fall of your chest to assure himself that the you before him is truly alive — alive and unharmed.

He does his best to take these new memories to heart — they are valuable lessons of the errors which he was foolish enough to make and they are not ones that he will allow to take place again so long as there is breath in his lungs. However he does not come out of the experience mentally unscathed. In moments of silence his mind brings back these memories, the voices and screams being the most prevalent to worm into his thoughts. Ophion also finds himself hesitating to touch you; it’s as though your very body is glass beneath his claws, cracks blossoming across your skin visible to none but himself in his mind’s eye. It angers him more than anything to realize this hesitation, but he’s unable to shake it long after this event, as though his body waits for those memories to repeat themselves once again...

Oniwaka

Oniwaka is pissed. He’d barely even let his guard down for a minute and look where it gets him! He’s been in his fair share of scraps and knows that anyone with the balls to try and corner him in an alleyway is looking for a fight. The trouble is he’s so sure that he can take them on no problem that he doesn’t even realize just how badly they’ve got him pinned until he’s surrounded with his back to the wall. Obviously he’s not going to take getting kidnapped lying down and quite literally fights tooth and nail, dealing out some pretty heavy damage against his attackers before they finally manage to knock him down and out cold.

By the time he comes to it’s clear he’s been moved somewhere else. He’s bound tightly enough that each attempt at deep breaths hurts and he doesn’t recognize the area; though it’s so suspiciously clean, sterile and well kept that it sets red flags off in his head almost immediately. It also doesn’t take him long to notice that he’s not alone in the room. The only other person in the room is looking at him without saying a word, which is even more unnerving than if they’d been openly mocking him about the situation. There’s a few minutes where there’s only silence. That damn, stretching silence that’s long enough that he’s on the defensive the moment that his kidnapper finally stands up.

He’s fully preparing himself for some kind of interrogation, waiting for the weapons to be drawn and blood to be spilt. He’s snarling at them trying to get them to back off when they reach back for something, pulling out some kind of black orb and before he can even snap at them asking what the fuck that is it just hits him.

Something’s tugging at the back of his mind, unlocking an empty space in his head and filling it up with information that feels like it should have been there all along. Oniwaka sees you. He remembers times spent together with you that he shouldn’t, times where you’re smiling and holding hands and pressed impossibly close where all he could touch and breathe was you - they’re times of love. And he remembers none of it. He knows that these are his memories but he can’t wrap his head around what he’s seeing - the two of you were together, in love even, and watching this all play out makes something in his chest swell that he can’t describe...it almost feels nice to know that you shared this kind of relationship, and could even share it again this time around.

The pleasant memories don’t last for long however, they’re all too soon ripped away from his mind and suddenly there’s betrayal and blood scarring his every thought when he realizes the outcome of this loop. You die, cut down by his very own blade and bleeding out right in front of him and he watches himself...do absolutely nothing. The ...other Oniwaka just watches you as your breathing slows and then your chest stops rising...your tears stop falling...the whimpers grow quiet...and just like that he’s alone...until it resets.

And that’s not the only time either. He sees it again and again, your death played out in so many different ways and places that he loses track, but all of them end with one glaring similarity - your death is his fault. It tears him apart from the inside out seeing the replays. He can feel your flesh breaking open beneath his weapon, feel you clawing at the hands wrapped around your throat, see the look of utter betrayal begging him for answers —Why? Why are you doing this?! Maybe it’s the kidnappers’ intentions all along or just pure misfortune but those answers don't come with these memories and this is probably worse than any other pain they could have inflicted on him- and the whole time this is happening that’s all he can ask himself.

Why? What led to this point? Why did he betray you? Ruin your trust? Kill you?!

There’s no telling how much time passes between the first wave of memories and his rescue. By the time that you and the Summoners find out where he is and come to save him the kidnappers are long gone and his head is still reeling from the relentless assault of new(old?) memories. Oniwaka is uncharacteristically quiet, tuning out most of what is being said as he’s cut free; he’s glad that he can breathe easier now but the room still feels stifling with the weight of what happened there. When Oniwaka sees you approach him he tenses up and immediately steps around you, stating bluntly that they need to get out of here and walking right on ahead, much to the concern of you and the other Summoners.

You try to talk to him but you’ll get nothing aside from one worded answers and the occasional grunt. All attempts at conversation end up at dead ends and even though it kills him to see the hurt look on your face he knows that he’ll probably end up snapping at you if he tries to answer.

He completely cuts contact with you all for a long while after that, but checks on you from time to time when you don’t notice him. Oniwaka’s going to try and work through the memories that he’s got to deal with on his own and is torn between his promise of protecting you and the worry over what he could do to you if he gets too close. He’s seen it first hand what getting attached to you can lead to and he doesn’t even know what triggers it. Every time that he looks at his hands he can see your blood staining them no matter how many times he’s tried to scrub it away. The only thing he really hopes is that those Summoners can protect you more than he can, because he’s struggling to even trust himself around you from this point onwards.

Zabaniyya

Out of the three of them Zabaniyya would very likely be the hardest to capture. The flames he commands and the strength of his rule is perfectly tailored to his days of being a torturer and it would take many enemies, time and sheer luck to wear him down enough to be able to take him. He had only stepped away from the Aoyama guilds territory for a short while, having just seen you off from your visit and was on his way to return back when they had accosted him, swarming in abruptly and keeping him cornered off in a space small enough where his flames would not be as effective.Clearly they were waiting for this moment and had timed it carefully to leave room for little error, however he could not afford to let these people do as they pleased.

Zabaniyya doesn’t feel the hit that takes him out — and finds himself waking up chained down and restrained in a place unfamiliar to him some time later. It’s crude work but strong enough that his limbs are stiff and beginning to numb. There’s little time to wonder over the kidnapper’s purpose for taking him when the door on the far end of the room opens up and someone walks in - though from his position anything from the waist up is hard to make out. Their footsteps are calm but cautious; they’re smart enough to realize that even restrained he’s still very much a danger to them, yet the fact that they still continue to approach as though confident in their safety causes an unusual feeling to settle within him...apprehension perhaps?

There’s a moment where the transient wonders if this is how those tortured by his flames had felt - waiting for an inevitable blow to come no matter how prepared they allow themselves to believe they are. Surely the reason for his capture has to do with his ties to you, as few would go through this length to use him as leverage against his own guild when there were many others easier to take. It is with this mindset that he resolves himself that he will not break no matter the pain that these captors intend to inflict on him. The only words he hears his captors speak is the hushed words of “Gotta make this one quick” before the orb comes into view.

The memories come suddenly. There is no warning, no command that starts the presentation of past loops but nonetheless they are there, worming their way through his mind and weaving into the missing gaps until the memories start to take shape. Feelings, touch, taste, noise - they all come along with the images of forgotten moments, and many things begin to click into place watching them play out before him. He’s surprised to find you so tightly woven into these sets of memories, and it jarrs him further upon realizing that it is clear the two of you have a relationship far deeper than a tool and a summoner. These newfound moments of intimacy stir up something within him; it’s greedy and fiery and it makes his fingertips ache to recreate what he sees before him. Seeing you smile and weave your fingers between his own, watching your mere presence that can light up an entire room focus directly upon his previous self as though he is the only one on your mind. It’s selfish but it’s something he finds himself wanting desperately.

However it is then that this train of thought is all but shattered once the endings begin to play. There is no happy ending, no pleasant outcome to allow him to fantasize about your perceived future together. The first time he held your dying body in his arms felt too horrific to be real; you were scorched, beaten and every breath is a struggle and yet you were still kind to him. You’d looked up into his eyes and told him you understood, even though you were hurting, scarred and scared. His previous self had enough decency to prevent you from suffering any further, but it was only the beginning of many.

Each betrayal followed a similar pattern - the periods of bliss between them fluctuate from days, to weeks to mere hours before an event triggers the fight that sparks between you.It appears as though you are the only one caught in the crossfire, the other Summoners fortunately spared yet seemingly absent when you would need them most. Your deaths were almost always swift which he finds a twisted blessing, but the cumulative pain that you must have experienced over and over again at his very own hands no less destroys Zabaniyya more than any form of torture these kidnappers could have subjected him to.

Zabaniyya only comes back to his senses once he hears voices, knocking him out of whatever stupor the orb had left him in. He recognizes it as Toji and Ryota, hearing them getting closer right as they open the door to find him, surprise washing over their faces before Ryota rushes forward to check on him and Toji calls out to the others that they’d found him. While still trying to gain his bearings he’s able to shuck off what’s left of his shackles and get to his feet by the time the other Summoners make it inside the room. He’s attempting to ease Ryota’s worries about being hurt as the boy swarms him in near tears when he feels a comforting hand pressing against his shoulder. There’s a single moment where he forgets what he’s witnessed as he looks up to meet your gaze, but as he watches your face melt from concern to relief it’s as though that warm hand scorches his very flesh and he tears away as though burned.

He’s failed you, that much is clear to him. Even if he were to argue that those versions of himself aren’t the person that he is now the fact that it happened in the first place is irredeemable enough in his eyes. He isn’t able to look you in the eyes the whole time; every time he looks at you he’s haunted by the stench of your charred flesh and those warm eyes looking at him in worry only aid in sickening him further remembering them hollow and void. The moment that you go your separate ways he’s steeled himself in the resolve that he refuses to allow these loops to ever repeat themselves. He still desires to be your spear, and devotes himself to the role of a tool for your use should you ever need it, but in every other sense he is completely closed off from anything beyond that. The reasoning of ‘if he doesn’t allow himself to fall prey to his own emotions then he will be able to keep you safe’ is the only way of thinking that he allows himself to entertain and in this he isn’t going to waver.

In the end he doesn’t tell you or the Summoners what he saw — he knows that he should, you deserve the right to know what exactly happened in those past loops, and yet every time he considers confessing to you his chest tightens at the thought of you looking at him as some kind of monster when you inevitably learn that he killed you. Surely you could never forgive him? Even if you did he’d never forgive himself; and so he keeps it from you as his own sin to bear, one that he will never stop punishing himself for.

#housamo #tokyo afterschool summoners #housamo imagine #housamo headcanon #headcanons #ophion #housamo ophion #oniwaka #housamo oniwaka #housamo zabaniyya #zabaniyya #request #anon #ask #angst

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vendeavendea · 4 years ago

Text

From Cuts to Scars

It’s fanfiction time!

I'm finally able to share something here that's not personal stuff or venting, so please enjoy a little bit of traumatised fictional characters instead of traumatised me :D I love both of them to death, and I'm so so sorry about torturing them! (Actually, I'm totally not sorry.)

It also exists on AO3 if anyone prefers to read it there.

Summary: Hordak and Entrapta realise that healing is not always easy. Set weeks/months after the season 5 finale, I'll leave it for you to decide when exactly. CW for mentions of blood, physical injury and mental trauma, but I tried to keep it light, so nothing very nasty.

From Cuts to Scars

"Ouch!" Entrapta exclaimed, suddenly dropping the pipe cutter she was working with. The metal clanked on the floor, its sharp sound echoing between the walls.

"What happened?" Hordak left everything at his own working area and quickly moved over to Entrapta's. She was standing by her desk, several piles of metal parts around her neatly organised into different categories by size and purpose, her left index finger in her mouth, frowning a little bit in pain. With a lock of her hair shaped into a hand, she pointed down at the cutter. He picked it up and looked at Entrapta, then, when he figured out what had happened, he clenched his fist around the handle.

"Unwary fool," he scolded, waving the tool in front of her face for a few seconds before he moved a bit closer to her to toss it back at the desk. His eyes ran over her bare hands, and he huffed quietly. "You're supposed to wear protective garment, where is it?"

"Well, I have my gloves here, but I had to take them off." She pulled her finger out of her mouth to reply, and cradled it in her other hand. "I'm working on the most delicate part right now, and I need to give a very meticulous attention to measurements or else it won't last. The gloves make it more difficult to..."

"You're impossible," he snarled. For some reason, it scared him to think about how the moment she removed her protective clothing, the instant she became vulnerable, she damaged herself with the first object she'd come in contact with. "Don't ever attempt to do this again. Now let me see it."

She reached out her arm, and he took her hand with a gentle gesture and pulled it up towards himself. Entrapta used her hair to push her body away from the floor and lift herself closer to his eye level so that he could see her finger better. Luckily, the cut didn't seem to be serious at all, but it was deep enough to cause a significant amount of pain. A thin line of blood was running down on her finger, gathering in the small dent where their skins touched. Hordak smudged it away very carefully, making sure that he didn't press her wound too hard or hurt her skin even more with his sharp claws, but just a second later, a new drop appeared and started to grow slowly until it was large enough to stream down again.

"You're bleeding," he remarked.

"Yes, but don't worry, it's such a minimal amount I'm quite confident it won't cause a hemorrhagic shock," Entrapta assured, grinning.

"I know that! Don't be a fool," Hordak snapped. "We need to treat this before it bespatters everything. Here, hold this." He grabbed a clean cloth from the tiny shelf under the desk and gently pressed it against her finger. "I'll get some bandage. And it's time to suspend this for now. No more tinkering until tomorrow," he added, pointing at her working desk.

"Aw, but I'm almost done," she protested. "I must finish this tonight, it's very important. I just need to make a few more cuts and welds before it's ready for the first test."

"You definitely don't need to make any more cuts," he grumbled, then he turned around to walk back to his workstation. He knew there was supposed to be a box of bandages somewhere, but it took him longer than expected to find it.

Meanwhile, Entrapta walked to the opposite corner of the room, to the huge cot covered by all those different sizes of colourful cushions that Glimmer had sent them as a present. They'd built this part of the lab for relaxing, but they barely ever used it. During the day, neither of them liked having breaks, they were constantly up and about building things, taking things apart, discussing plans, sharing data with each other; and at night they both had their own place to sleep. The only occasions the cot had come in handy had been those few times when Entrapta had done some maintenance work on Hordak's armor that had required him to take it off, and he'd needed a soft surface to keep his sensitive body comfortable while it had been uncovered. She dropped down and sprawled on the cot, face down, hugging as many cushions as she could with one arm, including the largest of them, a very fluffy pastel purple and sky blue one that Hordak had once described as a gaudy and tawdry piece of botchery. She'd never realised how nice and cozy this cot was, and it felt wonderful to just lie there with her eyes closed, breathing in the pleasant blend of perfumes from the cushions that reminded her of Bright Moon and the smell of petroleum that was probably coming from her own hair. She didn't even mind the stinging pain throbbing in her finger, but Hordak was probably right, she didn't want to get all her equipment dirty with blood, so it was better to just wait for him to dress that cut before she got back to working on her machine.

She didn't move an inch until she felt the cushions stirring, then the weight of Hordak's body elevating the mattress under her for a moment, and his right leg pressing against her left thigh as he settled himself next to her. She stretched her limbs and sat up when she heard him opening the first-aid box. Neither of them said a word while he was working, the only noise breaking the silence was a weak squeak coming from her throat the moment he first touched the cut with a cloth soaked in saline. Her arm twitched as she felt the wound absorbing the salty water and sharp pain flared up in her finger, but he was holding her wrist firm and strong so that she couldn't instinctively pull back. Usually it was her fixing up his body, not the other way around, and she knew too well that the mild discomfort she was feeling right now was nothing compared to the severe pain she'd caused him every time she'd been repairing his armor, even though he'd always done his best not to show any sign of it. She put a warm, admiring smile on her face as she watched him wrap bandage around her finger.

"Great, thanks," she grinned after he secured the ends with a small knot. "Now, back to work!" she added, ready to jump up and run back to her workstation, but he didn't get up, nor did he let go of her hand.

"Did you not hear what I've said?" he asked. "No more tinkering. You're going straight to bed."

"I will," she promised. "But I really, really need to finish this prototype first."

"No." With a very careful and soft motion, he stroked the edge of her bandage with the tip of his thumb. "It's almost midnight. You've been working for days with barely any break. You're exhausted, and it's affecting your performance. You need to take better care of yourself."

"But that's exactly what I've been doing," she chirped, her eyes shining in excitement. "I've been studying the alternating of different types of brain waves during several common daily activities, and I came to a fascinating conclusion that the rythm of the waves influences the relaxation level of the brain, more precisely, the slower the rhythm gets, the more relaxed the brain becomes. So, if I was able to reproduce this phenomenon by artificially generating slower brain waves such as delta waves, there's a significant chance it would lead to an increased quality of sleeping and help me overcome my insomnia and my nightmares, which is... self-care, right?"

"Entrapta, you..." Normally, listening to her sharing her ideas with him would be a pleasant experience, he was always mesmerised by the passion in her eyes and her voice when she was talking about things she was working on, things she deeply cared about. But this was different. There was something painful about the excitement on her face, something that resembled... despair, maybe. "You never told me you're having nightmares," he said, his ears pointing slightly downwards.

"It's not that important," she smiled weakly, still trying to keep her tone light, but looking up to his face, she started to suspect that it probably didn't suit the nature of the conversation anymore. She quickly turned away her head, her eyes on the gaudy cushion, the edge of the cot, the tip of her shoes – anything would do if it helped her escape his penetrating glance. She'd never been good at holding direct eye contact for too long. "They're usually about Horde Prime. But he's gone. He can't hurt us anymore. We're safe. So it doesn't matter."

He didn't know what to say. She was right, and yet she was so wrong. If those nightmares were bad enough to prevent her from having a peaceful sleep, to force her to stay awake and work so hard, so desperately, seeking for a remedy, then it did matter. A spark of an unknown emotion flared inside of him, something he'd never felt before, yet it was strangely familiar, and it took him a while to identify it as... anger? Or not exactly? He wasn't sure. Anger was something he was supposed to know very well, but this version of it seemed different from everything he'd ever experienced before. For some reason, it included a strong urge to gently pull Entrapta against his body, to hold her protectively, and he didn't quite comprehend the reason behind this, so he simply resisted the instinct, hoping it would fade away if he didn't act on it. But it stayed, and it made him uncomfortable and confused.

"Why have we never discussed it?" he asked.

"I've just explained why," she replied with a hint of uncertainty. "Did you not listen? With Horde Prime gone, it's not important anym—"

"Stop saying that!" he interjected with a loud grunt, making her twitch for a moment as he raised his voice. Realising that he might have scared her, he pulled back with an apologizing look on his face, but he didn't loosen his grip around her fingers. He took slow and deep breaths, closing his eyes for a moment, attempting to calm his mind. He'd been working hard to overcome his temper issues for a while, and he didn't understand where the sudden wave of rage was coming from. It may have been the thought that he was the one who'd failed to protect her from whatever she'd witnessed while being held hostage by Horde Prime, from whatever horrible things that had etched themselves into her mind so strongly that they'd been causing her nightmares ever since. She didn't deserve this. And he didn't deserve her forgiveness. He quickly shook his head, he didn't want to give in to these excruciating thoughts, not this time.

"Well... What is it exactly that you want to discuss?" Entrapta asked patiently.

He remembered the moment when she, after Horde Prime had finally left his body forever, had rushed into his arms laughing and crying in joy, squealing that they'd had so much to talk about. And since that day, they had indeed talked about many things. About space and magic, about scientific research, about plans, blueprints, robots, First Ones' tech, ideas, experiments, new discoveries. About staying together as lab partners for the foreseeable future. About helping to rebuild all the kingdoms the Horde had destroyed. But still... "Everything that happened... What he's done to us... We never talked about it," he whispered, bringing his right hand under her chin to gently lift up her head, searching for her magenta orbs. "You never told me how much he's hurt you."

She looked away again, this time turning her whole body away from him, pushing his hand back from her face, peeling his fingers off her hand with a firm but gentle movement. Had she been wearing her welding mask, she would have used it to cover her face, but it was resting at her workstation, too far out of reach, so she just pressed her legs together, slightly bending her back and leaning forward to hide herself behind the curtain of her hair.

"He's hurt you, too, way more than he's hurt me," she drawled slowly, thinking through every single word before saying them out loud. "It made me very uncomfortable to think about him, and I thought you'd felt the same. I thought if I never brought it up, we'd both be able to move on. I wanted to talk about pleasant things with you. I wanted to think about the future. I wanted to see you happy." That last word made his ears flinch for a moment, but before he could say or do anything, she continued. "I'm sorry I've assumed things instead of asking. I know this is something I need to be more careful with."

"No, I..." He hesitated for a moment. He didn't want to invade her personal space just after she'd pulled away, so he resisted the urge to lean closer and sweep her hair out of the way to reveal her face. "I deeply relate to what you've just described."

"Really?" She twitched her shoulders a little bit. People usually didn't understand her at all, and Hordak's words made her feel... seen. Her lips curved into a faint smile, though she knew her face was still hidden behind her hair so he wouldn't notice.

He nodded. "Yes. And I owe you an apology, because I, too, have kept things from you for the same reason."

The tip of her ponytails twitched in realisation, and she finally looked up to face him. "Are you... having nightmares as well?"

"They're more like... flashes," he replied hesitantly. "Visions. Of... things." He presumed that specifying "things" as images of himself pointing his arm cannon at a horrified, trembling Entrapta, ready to shoot her to death, would probably have been too harsh. He shivered, and a thin lock of her hair swarmed up his right shoulder, softly stroking him in consolation. He reached out for that lock and slowly ran his fingers through it, then he closed his eyes, gave a long sigh and flopped back on the cot, with his head and neck against the wall. He felt Entrapta following him, settling herself comfortably between the cushions and his body, but barely touching him – just a light contact of a lock of her hair against his shoulder, continuing the gentle, soothing motions.

"I don't understand why we're like this," she said blankly. "It doesn't make sense. He's gone, and he's never coming back, so everything's supposed to be okay, but it's not."

"Exceedingly illogical indeed," he agreed. "But this provides us new areas to explore, and I believe that's what we should do."

The stroking motions stopped, and the lock of hair was now resting still on his shoulder. "I'm not sure I want to explore this," she muttered. "It would... hurt."

"I've explored your cut. And it hurt you, but it was also very beneficial," he pointed out. "Just like when you do maintenance work on my armor. Maybe sometimes things are supposed to hurt first so that they can get better."

"You think so?"

"I do." He slightly turned his torso towards her, lifting up his hand to... slide it against her arm? Put it on her waist? Pull her closer? He hesitated for a moment, then simply placed his hand atop her lock of hair that was still resting on his shoulder, and rushed his fingers through it. He soon felt a ticklish sensation on his claws as her hair curled itself around them, forming into a soft, violet-coloured hand, and he found himself smiling, if only for a glimpse of a moment. "I know it's hard. It's painful. And I don't want to press you. But there's nothing wrong with talking it out. As you've said it yourself, he's gone. There's nothing to be afraid of. Talking about what we've been through won't bring him back, and it might even benefit us in some ways. So if there's anything, anytime, that you wish to tell me, I'll always be there to listen."

She felt her eyes get watery. "Do my nightmares really concern you this much?" she asked quietly.

"Of course they do," he replied. "My lab partner's safety and wellbeing are my most significant priorities."

Entrapta grabbed a cushion with a lock of hair, and pulled it closer to her face. "I care about you a lot, too," she responded. "And you can also tell me anything, anytime."

He let go of her hair and reached out to hold her left hand, carefully sandwiching it between his two palms. For a few seconds, he examined her wounded finger.

"How does it feel?" he asked, running his thumb across her knuckles just above the bandage.

"Slightly itchy." Entrapta gave a weak little laugh, then a deeply honest smile warmed up her face, though her gaze seemed a little uncertain. "There is actually something I want to tell you. I want you to know that I... When I was... When Horde Prime... When you were gone, Hordak, I really missed you."

He somehow expected, hoped to hear these words from her, but that didn't make it easier to respond. There was nothing he could think of to say. No matter how badly he wanted to answer "I missed you too", it just wouldn't have worked, he felt like it wouldn't have been honest enough. When he'd been deceived into believing that Entrapta had betrayed him, and after he'd found out she'd been sent to Beast Island and had probably been dead, he'd became completely empty. He hadn't been able to feel anything at all, let alone miss her. And while under Horde Prime's control, his memories of her had seemed to be so distant, they'd felt like they'd been from someone else's life. Sometimes he'd seen flashes of the two of them experimenting with the portal in his sanctum, but other times he hadn't even been able to recall her name. All he'd done was try as hard as possible to cling to that feeling while holding the crystal in his hand, clenching his fist around it so strongly that the sharp edges had almost felt like they'd pierce through the skin of his palm. Yes, sometimes, there had been that strong urge to be around her, to understand the strange warmth her presence had awaken in him, to figure out why everything about her had felt so familiar, but he clearly couldn't have missed her, because he hadn't known who she was. He hadn't even known who he'd used to be. Not until the very end.

"Oh, it's okay, you don't have to say you missed me, too. I know it's complicated," Entrapta said quickly after finally realising why Hordak went so quiet. "But I definitely missed you. I wished you'd been there with me when I went to space. I thought about how we could've explored all those galaxies together. We could've collected so much data, and I'd have let Darla analyse them for us, and... What I'm saying is... I was thinking about you. A lot," she murmured, and Hordak gave her a smile, probably the tenderest one he'd ever given to anyone in his life.

"I... was trying my best to think about you, too," he answered.

"I knew you would." She moved a bit closer and looked up in his face, then slowly, hesitantly, because this was something new to them, and a part of her was afraid of him pulling away, she laid down her head on his shoulder. He didn't move or protest at all, so Entrapta carefully placed all her weight on him, gently wrapping her hair around his upper arm. Then she felt him spreading that particular arm over her, his palm resting against her waist. She'd never done anything like this to anybody before. At first it was awkward and a little bit scary to be this close to someone and sense each and every little flinch of his body, and then she suddenly felt even more exposed when she realised it was mutual. But after a while, the sensation started to become more natural, and the tension slowly faded away, leaving only comfort and pleasure behind. She took a deep breath and curled up her legs, lifting another lock of hair to softly twine it around his body, pulling herself even closer against his chest. Then she just rested her head there, eyes closed, she had no idea how long for.

"Hordak?" she whispered wearily. He let out a low, sleepy, interrogative growl. "I think what we're doing right now is having a positive effect on my relaxation level. May I... Could we just stay here for a while, please?"

All he did in response was reach out for her right hand and lace their fingers together while tilting his head just enough to be able to bury his face into her hair, breathing against her scalp, and Entrapta happily sank into the feeling.

"Is that a yes?" she asked softly.

"A very definite one."

#she-ra #She-Ra Reboot #SPOP #entrapta #hordak #entrapdak #my fanfiction

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puckinghell · 5 years ago

Note

Could I request number 13 with Travis or Nolan but instead of it being a family dinner like its a team dinner with WAGs and it's a huge set up 😂

my family invites you to join our holiday meal as an obvious setup and i’m so sorry

–

You realize it as soon as you walk into Claude’s kitchen, Ryanne’s hand on the small of your back, and see everyone paired up at the table.

If looks could kill TK would’ve died right there at the spot, dropped dead head first in the carefully carved turkey, choked on the beer he’s sipping. Unfortunately, looks don’t kill, and your best friend just sends you an evil grin while you shoot daggers at him.

So, here’s the thing.

Having been TK’s best friend for a good while, it’s not strange for him to invite you to team events. At first he did it because he didn’t have anyone else to bring, but then he got a girlfriend and he still asks you to come, because he likes having you around.

Or so he says. You’re convinced he just likes seeing how red your face gets when you see Nolan; likes how you stutter through your words when Nolan asks you a simple question.

Whatever. TK is a great friend. He’s also a giant asshole.

Anyway, the point is, you weren’t surprised or confused when TK invited you to Claude’s Christmas dinner because he’s always inviting you along, and you assumed it was gonna be a casual-everyone-bring-your-friends kinda dinner, but now you realize your mistake and you also realize TK’s plan.

And so you start plotting his death.

“Hmm, I’m going to kill you,” you hum in his ear, the pleasant smile not slipping off your face, when you give him a quick hug.TK doesn’t get the time to answer but he sends you a sly grin as he pulls away, squeezing your waist.“Kept a spot open for you right here, Y/N,” he says, a little loudly. He pats the chair next to him, that’s conveniently between himself and Nolan.

“Hey,” Nolan smiles when you sit down. “You look nice.” You blush as you thank him: TK had said Claude keeps a firm dress code at his Christmas dinner, but you can see now that he had very different motives for telling you to wear that red dress.Mainly because it’s really tight, and, as your girl friends always say, shows off your ass in a superb way. “You too, Nol,” you answer him politely. He always cleans up nice but he’s not looking different from how he looks before and after games, the same suit and tie, so there’s no reason for his cheeks to color even more red than they usually do.You turn to TK.“Dead,” you whisper-yell, and TK grins as he fills your wine glass.So, your best friend might be a demon, but you’re sitting next to the guy you’ve been crushing on for like a year, and Claude has made sure both the wine and the food is excellent, so you decide to make the most of it.Nolan is easy to chat to, tonight: sometimes he gets a bit shy, although TK swears it’s only really around you, but the wine must’ve loosened him up as it did you, because he’s chatty and making jokes and you find yourself laughing and talking and enjoying the night more than you thought you would. Until, at one point, James’ wife asks: “How long have you two been together?” and Nolan nearly chokes on his wine.So, back to murdering TK.When he walks into the kitchen to get something, you mumble an “excuse me” to Nolan and rush after him. The wine has left you a little unsteady on your feet but you’ve got the element of surprise, so when you dramatically throw yourself against TK’s side he stumbles to the side with a yelp.“Jeez, give a guy some warning,” he huffs, and you try to send him the deadliest look you can muster. It must look pretty menacing, because TK’s demeanor shifts. “Okay, look, I know you’re annoyed…” “Annoyed?” you hum. “Hmm, no, not quite the word I’d used. I would say… Furious.” “But if I told you you and Nolan would be the only single people here you wouldn’t have come!” TK protests, and, well, that’s true, but…“So you just tricked me? I wasn’t mentally prepared for this at all, you jerk.” You go to punch him in the arm again, but this time TK is prepared and catches your wrist.“Calm down,” he chides, which he must know only makes you more angry, “Even you have to admit it’s going great? Nolan hasn’t said a word to anyone tonight, dude, he’s too busy staring at you.” “Is he, though?” you snap. “Or does he just feel bad because I don’t have anyone here and he’s taking me as some kinda pity-date.” TK rolls his eyes. “As if. For fuck’s sake, Y/N, if Nolan had a say in it you’d be his official date to all team events. You’re both just so fucking stubborn…” “I’m not stubborn!” you hiss. “I just know my league and Nolan is not in it! And I don’t need you to be trying to set me up and just have it lead to disappointment!” Something softens in TK’s eyes, then. “That’s ridiculous. It’s not gonna lead to disappointment, Nolan is all heart eyes for you. He has been for months.” You would yell at TK some more but there’s a strangled noise behind you, causing you to turn around. There stands Nolan, eyes wide and flushed all the way to the tips of his ears. “Fucking bastard,” he barely brings out, staring at TK. “Oh, seriously?” TK groans. Before you realize what’s going on he’s stepped behind Nolan, standing in the door to the kitchen, and takes something from the fruit bowl. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” he says, slowly but in that stubborn tone he always uses when he’s not planning to back down. “I’m gonna close this door, and you’re gonna tell each other that you’re into each other, and then you’re gonna use this…” he throws you the thing he took from the fruit bowl “and stop making me feel like I have to play matchmaker. It’s exhausting and I’ve got better things to do, like eat some of that wonderful dessert Ryanne made. Now figure it out.” He demonstratively slams the door behind him and you stare at the green branch in your hands.“Is that…” Nolan asks.“Mistletoe,” you finish for him. “You’ve got to give it to Teeks, when he puts his mind to something, there’s no detail he forgets to think about.” Nolan grins and it’s a little fond, almost as if he’s forgotten that this is maybe the most awkward situation you could even imagine ever being in. “That’s why he’s so good at hockey.” Then, he adds, a little more quiet: “And at being a, uhh, matchmaker, apparently.” You blurt out: “So are you…” at the same time Nolan says: “Is it okay…” So freaking awkward. “You first,” you mumble, and Nolan inhales a little shakily. “Is it okay, what TK told you? Do you mind?” You frown. “Do I mind what?” You weren’t sure it was possible but Nolan seems to flush even more red and he’s staring at his shoes as if he’s never seen shoes before. “Do you mind that I’m kinda… how did he say it… heart eyes, for you?” Your mouth nearly drops open. “Wait, he wasn’t messing with me?” Nolan doesn’t look up but he does shake his head, which is… Yeah. Slowly, you make your way towards him. When your toes nearly touch his, he finally looks up, and you’re taken aback by the vulnerability that’s clear in his eyes. “I don’t mind,” you say slowly, “if you don’t mind that I’ve been into you for a long time.” Nolan’s eyes widen, only slightly, but enough, and then a smile spreads across his face.“That’s okay,” he mumbles, and then he plucks the mistletoe from your hands. “Well, since Teeks went to all this trouble to get this for us…” “We better put it to good use,” you finish, and then you push up on your tiptoes and press your lips against Nolan’s.–When you return to the table, Nolan’s cheeks red and your lips a little swollen, TK gives you a grin that’s so smug you nearly dump the entire bottle of red wine over his stupid head, but then you spot the way Nolan fondly kicks his leg and you figure, maybe your best friend is an idiot, but he’s a good idiot. “Not gonna murder me, after all?” TK teases, and you kick his shin so hard a low curse escapes TK’s mouth, muttered under his breath.Nolan laughs beside you, as you growl:“Don’t push your luck, Konecny.”

#Anonymous #nolan patrick #travis konecny #winter prompts

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unicyclehippo · 5 years ago

Note

This isn't really a question or a prompt or anything but i was thinking about beau & leylas slow dancing 😌 i wanted you to Be Aware of it

There’s an event being held at the Lucid Bastion. A gathering of the dens to remind them of what is important in this time of unforeseen peace following the talks. What is important is mentioned in a brief welcoming speech—unity, cooperation, momentum leading into discovery, all that propaganda shit—but from the looks of things at the party, it’s very small foods and a truly colossal amount of some amber-coloured drink that goes down sweet but kicks like a horse with the afterburn.

Beau digs it.

She’s on her second when the Taskhand finds her. Them, actually. The entirety of the Mighty Nein had quickly decided that this? This whole...thing? So far from their bailiwick—even clever, groomed Caleb, even charming Fjord—that it is safest to remain pressed against the wall of the chamber with Cad keeping an eye out for any- and every-thing. The only outside excursions from their exclusion is when Veth and Beau are sent to steal the drinks and food.

She’s sipping from her glass when Caduceus clears his throat.

‘That man is making his way toward us,’ he says, low and pleasant as ever. There’s a line of tension that strings him up though and he hums when it’s plucked again, the man stepping gracefully through the crowd.

‘What’s he look like? Where is he?’

‘Tall gentleman, dark elven. Walking past another dark elf,’

‘Just tell me like twelve o’clock, three o’clock,’

‘I don’t think that’s the time at all, Beau,’ Caduceus tells her, pulling his eyes from the interloper to look down at her, bemused. ‘Mister Cale—‘

‘Just tell me where he is, Caduceus.’

‘Oh.’ He looks up. Hums again. ‘Right in front of us.’

As pleasant as his voice is, as easy-going as the dude is, he’s been with them through a lot of shit and the appearance of a stranger in front of their group is nothing less than a deliberate act given how they’ve removed themselves from the rest. Deliberate acts tend to end poorly for the Nein and Caduceus’s fingers twitch toward Caleb and the dot of amber hanging around his neck, staff and weapons stored protectively within it.

Beau steps in front of him, in front of all of them, as the Taskhand steps out from the line of the crowd and into the empty space between.

She looks him over as she has been trained: tall, as Caduceus had said; a dark elf with platinum hair bound into several braids, the style and ornaments not dissimilar from how Den Myteri decorate their warriors; armoured but no visible weapons, as the invitations had demanded. As she finishes her perusal, a final thought shoves to the fore of her mind. Familiar, it screams at her, and her eyes feel like they’re about to pop, her head aches with the squeeze of pressure as too many selves try to squash into her skull.

‘Rhurin,’ she greets him smoothly, and the Taskhand stops a few paces back, hands folded behind his back as he bows.

‘Lhuthurin, actually. Rhurin was my father,’ he says, and when he smiles, Beau sees it.

Rhurin never smiled.

‘Sorry. You looked—‘

‘Please, don’t apologise, I’m well aware—the similarity is striking. My own father calls me his shadow,’ Lhuthurin laughs. ‘He is here, if you would like to speak with him.’

‘Ah.’ Beau can feel the weight of the Nein’s eyes on her. ‘No, thank you. Maybe another time.’

Lhuthurin nods. ‘As you please,’ he says, pleasantly enough. If he feels the watchful eyes on him, he gives no sign of it. If anything, he seems to relax further, unfolding his arms loose at his sides, sweeping one hand up through long hair with that guileless smile. ‘My congratulations on your consecution, Lady Beauregard—‘

‘Beau. Just - it’s just Beau.’

The eyes on her grow sharper. Perhaps, after this, she should finally tell them about the whole Captaincy...and wife...and Consort thing. And her apparent title? Later.

Lhuthurin nods slowly. ‘Very well. You honour me. You may call me Rin.’ He extends a hand. Beau takes it. Feels the callouses and scars of a hand not so dissimilar to her own. A firm grip, dry palms. ‘As wonderfully and deeply uncomfortable as it is to be stared at by your companions,’ Rin continues, and he grins when Beau barks a laugh, ‘I didn’t come to make small talk. Even at parties, I am the Queen’s to command. She has asked for me to...’ Rin hesitates.

Beau pulls her hand out of his. Narrows her eyes—not at him but over his shoulder, toward the maelstrom of activity that follows the Queen wherever she treds. Courtiers and petitioners and pesky trouble-makers. Guards and advisors wanting to bend her ear even at a ball.

‘Collect me?’ Beau asks, finishes for Rin.

‘Those are not the words I would use, Hi— Beau.’

Her gaze slides back to him. The weight of a half-dozen lives narrows in on him. ‘Then what would you use?’

He swallows. ‘Request. Your presence.’

‘So she wants to summon me to her side like a dog.’

‘Beau,’ Jester says. Sets a hand on her shoulder.

It’s a peculiar sensation to feel everything in her settle into its right place again. To have her skin fit her frame, and everything within it.

Beau blinks. Shakes her head. ‘Uh. Yeah. Yes. Sure, I’ll go with you,’ she says to Lhuthurin, and when Jester squeezes her shoulder, eyes dark with worry, she gives her friend a nod. ‘I’m okay.’

‘Are you sure? You went all...’

‘One of my lives was apparently super prideful,’ Beau mutters and it makes Jester snort. ‘They don’t like being told what to do.’

‘You’ve never liked that. But you are clever and strong and you’re real. You’re the real one,’ Jester tells her very very quietly and quickly, leaning in to adjust the collar and lapel of Beau’s suit. She grips Beau’s wrist, hold firm, and meets her eyes directly. ‘You are the real one.’

‘I’m the real one.’

‘You’ve got this.’

‘I’ve got this.’

Jester smiles then and turns her around to Lhuthurin, still waiting. Though less comfortably now, with Fjord and Caleb and Yasha gathered around him making entirely pleasant conversation with entirely off-putting and direct eye contact that doesn’t shift, nor blink.

‘Rin. You wanna stay there, or?’

‘I’ll come with you.’ He leaps on the offer, jumping out of the circle to walk with Beau. ‘Thank you,’ he says when they’re a short way into the crowd. ‘Your companions are... Are they always so...’

‘That was us being nice. Polite, even.’

Lhuthurin shivers.

The crowd parts easily around them, most of the guests very interested indeed in the human and the Taskhand. Word had spread, Beau knew, about her and her consecution. But it was one thing to know that people knew and quite another to walk through walls of staring figures. Jester’s reassurances, the firm pressure of her hand that snapped Beau back to herself, begins to lose its weight as another self tries to assert itself; this Beau is calm and collected and always rightfully in control. This Beau matches the Taskhand’s military precision, this Beau folds her hands behind her back and wears her silver hair in the single braid of—no. That’s not right.

‘Steady,’ Rin murmurs.

Beau drags in a breath. Allows her eyes to dip to hands instead of faces—cups and little pastry purses and handkerchiefs and coins and flowers, empty gesturing hands and hands entangled. No one armed, apparently.

‘Almost there,’ he says.

‘Are you consecuted?’

There’s a beat before he answers in which Beau remembers it’s not exactly a polite question.

‘Yes.’

‘Happy about that?’

‘Most of the time. Are you?’

Beau can see her up ahead, where the crowd is gathered close. The sweep of her crown stands a small distance above the rest of the heads so she’s easy to pick.

‘I don’t know,’ Beau tells him, stopping where they are. Rin tilts his head invitingly. ‘No,’ she adds. ‘I don’t like it.’

Rin doesn’t seem scandalised by the comment. She thought he might not be. Myteri is many things but stuffy and proper isn’t typically how it is described. And even then, Rhurin—whole always solid—had never been buried in the formalities and traditions of his den. To find a like mind in his son is nice, but not surprising.

‘Do you want me to push a path right through to her?’ he offers.

‘Would you?’

‘It would be an honour and a pleasure. I’ve been eagerly waiting a chance to shove some of these scorpions.’

Beau laughs, and finds that the crowd parts when they turn to see her. ‘I don’t think you’ll need to. Sorry.’

Rin shrugs. ‘Probably for the best.’

#i didnt get to the dancjng yet im sorry #consecuted au

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johnismyreason · 5 years ago

Text

The doubt // Tom Holland x Reader

Okayyyy, so it’s my first request ever, so please be nice to me hahaha ! This is a bit long but I hope you’ll enjoy it. This was requested by the lovely @afirwin-94 :”Could you do a Tom Holland one were you’re thinking he’s cheating on you with Zendaya or someone but he’s not. Its okay if you don’t! X”

Feed backs are welcomed ! :)

1.9k words (oops)

Warnings: fluff, mentions of cheating, probably bad English since I’m French

First, it was the glances, when they thought no one was watching. You shook it off, thinking it was probably nothing or just a private joke. There just friends right ? And this is what friends do… glancing at each other like no one’s watching.

Then it was, the whispers. Small conversations in the kitchen, corridor or anywhere else, where no one was. And as soon you entered, in the middle a one of those small talks, they’d shushed and act like nothing happened. “You guys are alright ?” you would ask.

“Yeah why ?” they’d answer grinning and shrugging their shoulders.

“Nothing… what were you talking about ?” They looked at each other a bit panicked not knowing what to say

“umm...the… umm” Tom faltered before Zendaya came to the rescue “the milk before or after the cereals ! Classic debate…”

“Right !” pointed Tom to Zendaya “And also, how beautiful you look tonight” he added with a smirk, bypassing the central island of the kitchen to give you a light kiss on your cheek. You smiled shyly as if you didn’t care they were not telling you the truth. Tom took you by the hand and brang you back to the living room where everyone else was enjoying the chill and unexpected party that was hitting. You tried so hard not to think too much about your suspicions concerning a possible affair between your boyfriend and Zendaya.

You’ve been dating Tom for over two years and he was the most caring and loving boyfriend ever. Your previous relationships were pretty catastrophic: you’ve been lied to, betrayed, ghosted,... And after all of these deceptions, you promised yourself you’ll never give your heart to any men again. Until Tom. Never say never, they say. He made sure that you feel loved even when you were at your lowest, beautiful even on a sunday morning hungover, smart even if you asked a thousand times the same question over and over again. Everything was perfect. So to think that it can all snap in your fingers, was giving you bad anxiety.

After the glances and the whispers, there were the numerous texts and phone calls with Zendaya. When you were alone together, watching a movie, you curved in his arms, head on his chest, his hand gently stroking your hair, he would suddenly stop and get up from the sofa to answer a phone call. At first you didn’t see who was calling until you saw a few times Zendaya’s name. “Sorry love, it was work” he said smiling innocently when he came back to watch the movie. “What did I miss ?” placing you back in his arms. You were not the type of girlfriend who was jealous, especially with him, you were fully trusting him. So you hated yourself for feeling this heart pinch or the heat in your body every time you saw them together or you were thinking about Zendaya. Even more when she was one of your closest friend and you knew she would never betray you like that or any other kind of way. You never confronted Tom because you knew he would deny your allegations and you were scared you’d ruin everything between you two. So you passed over. And over. And over. Until that one night.

Tom made you the surprise to take you on a date on a Friday night after work. You were so excited to spend the night with him around a good meal in a fancy restaurant. Just you and him. You decided for the occasion to wear your new dress that you bought a few days before, thinking that he’d love the colour and the material. It was a simple pink floating dress, nothing too sexy or anything, but enough to drive him madly crazy. You made sure your makeup was light and luminous to match your outfit, and let your hair in its natural state. You were gorgeous. “Babe, you read-... wow” Tom froze and couldn’t finish his sentence when he saw you there, standing in your shared bedroom. “Y/N, you are… breathtaking” you tried to hide your stupid smile and your rosy cheeks, as he stepped closer. He took your hands in his trying to make you look at him. You lifted your head up and smiled at him.

“Thank you, Tom. Do you like this new dress ? I bought it for you.”

“You did ?” he responded eyes wider, flattered you’d buy new clothes to please him. You nodded. He took softly your face in his hands “I love it” he smiled “And I love you” He added before leaning forwards to kiss you tenderly. You melted at the contact of his lips on yours, and he took that as an opportunity to deepen the kiss, making it more and more heated. His hands travelled down to your shoulders, arms, waist and finally butt.

“Tom…” you tried to say to stop between two kisses. He just groaned in response, not willing to stop any time soon. “Tom, we’re gonna be late” you giggled. You didn’t even care if you were late, you could kiss him for an eternity, and you knew he was the same. But you really wanted to enjoy a full night together so you stepped back.

He sighed lightly, disappointed your lips were not on his anymore. “Fine…”

You put your high heels on and you took your purse before heading to the door waiting for Tom. When he finally joined, you both stepped outside, the pleasant summer breeze caressing your exposed skin. You walked to Tom’s who opened the door for you, like the gentleman he is. He in turn climbed in the car and started driving. You loved car rides with him. He was not a fast driver, he was safe especially when you were in the car. Oddly that was a big turn on for you. You always listen to music, not really speaking, his hand on your thigh and his thumb caressing lightly your bare skin or through your jeans, his other hand at the top of the wheel. Gosh he was so beautiful. The ride to the secret place was one these ones. You thought of all of this “is he cheating on me with one of my best friend” made up story was now ridiculous after all. Until Zendaya called. As soon as Tom saw her name, he took off his hand off your thigh and declined the call. His body language shifted from relaxed to tensed up. She called a second time but he declined once more. “Why don’t you pick up ?” you asked a bit annoyed.

“Oh… um… it’s probably nothing…” he muttered. She called a thrid time.

“Obviously it’s not nothing, take the call !”

“No, no it’s fine ! She’ll leave a message”. But then she started texting him. One, two, three, four texts. That’s when you took his phone to read the messages. “Y/N what are you doing ?” he tried to take his phone back from your hands but he didn’t want to take the risk to get out of the road. You unlocked his phone.

Hey

Where are you ?

I can’t take it anymore

I’m so excited !

Your heart shattered. All of the air of the car suddenly disappeared. So it was not crazy made up stories in your head, it was real. “I knew it…” you finally said in a whisper.

Tom’s face fell “You knew ? But how…” his voice was shaking. He didn’t deny it. It was all true.

“I can’t believe that you did that to me… I thought you were different, that you would never hurt me like that…” you said tears filling in your eyes.

“What ? Y/N what are you talking about ?” Tom questioned suddenly very confused.

“Are you kidding me ?! You and Zendaya !” Tom blinked a few times trying to process what you were saying. “That’s it. I’m done”. You haven’t noticed until now that Tom parked the car because you arrived at the restaurant he booked. You opened the door and get out of the car, ignoring Tom calling your name to hold you back. You started walking down the street fast to try to escape him but obviously he caught you up.

“Y/N, what is going on ?” he interrupted your walk by standing in front of you.

“What is going on ?!” you couldn’t believe his attitude. “You’re cheating on me with Zendaya ! That’ what’s going on !” you tried to walk passed him but he blocked you again

“What ?! Oh my god, no Y/N I would never do that to you…”

“That’s what I thought too, until tonight. Now let me go.” you tried to be firm but the pain in your heart made your voice to shake.

“No, no, absolutely not !” he sighed “Y/N, if you could just let me explain everything, you would realise that I didn’t cheat on you. Ever. Please, come with me to the restaurant, we’ll talk about it, please don’t go…” He seemed so sincere, so hurt that you would think he’s a cheater. For some reason, you followed him. You were so nervous to hear what he had to say, you thought your legs would run away for you. The waiter indicated that your table was in the back of the restaurant for some more privacy. Tom put delicately a hand on your back to lead towards the spot. You used a backdoor, and now you were not sure of what was happening.

“Tom, what are we doing here ?”

“Trust me” he replied calmly. “Careful, there’s a step”.

“Why is it so dark her-”

“SUPRISE !!!” the lights went on and all of your friends were cheering you up. Everybody applause and laughed a bit seeing your surprised face.

“Happy birthday baby” Tom said with a soft but bright smile. Indeed, your birthday was a week ago, but you were not able to celebrate it with your friends due to work, so you spent a nice and calm evening with your boyfriend. But Tom had other plans for later apparently.

You turned to him, and realised how dumb you were thinking he would cheat on you. “You did that ?” He nodded, his lips between his teeth.

“With Zendaya. She helped me organising everything. That’s why we were weird. We didn’t want you to find out.” You wanted to bury yourself alive because you felt so ridiculous. You looked at Zendaya, who was smiling so brightly, proud of the surprise she made.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe…” Words didn’t come out of your mouth, so instead you kissed him. Everybody applause and cheered you two up again.

After thanking everyone for coming and the surprise you went back to Tom, asking him to dance with you. The music was slow but still joyful. You wrapped your arms around his neck, while his were around your waist. “Tom… I’m so sorry for doubting of you. I don’t know what happened…”

“I know what happened. You’ve been hurt and betrayed before, so you think you’ll be again. I try my best to make you feel loved, I swear. You don’t have to apologise.”

“Yes I do ! You’re caring and loving, and I’m just-” you didn’t have time to finish your sentence when Tom cut with a kiss. Your cheeks flushed as if it was the first time he kissed you. “Happy birthday Y/N.” he whispered softly before kissing you again. Everything was perfect.

#tom holland #tom holland imagine #tom holland x reader #request #spider-man #zendaya #tom holland!boyfriend #ffh #hoco

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ddaenqu · 6 years ago

Text

Tea for Two

pairings: yandere prince!namjoon x fem!reader

themes: Kingdom AU, Angst, Mature, Yandere AU, Arranged Marriage AU

tags: possessive behavior, obsessive behavior, unhealthy behavior/relationship, toxic behavior/relationship, overprotective behavior, arranged marriages, threats, threatening, slight sexism, forced marriage, infidelity mention, mentions of violence, some grotesque scenes of death, explicit langauge, mentions of slaves

a/n: ahhh i finally finished it! i’m sorry if there’s so much mistakes, i tried to edit it as much as possible but sometimes i kind of just write and read, and don’t pick it up. i was sick while writing this and (maybe) still sick when i schedule-post it. the reader’s personality was by far my favorite to write in this one, and i hope you all love her as much as i do!! (and the gif i wanted didn’t work when i tried to save it, SO IM MAD MAD)

based on the prompt: “Say that one more time and I’ll make sure you can never walk again.”

summary: Life wasn’t fair to you, and it didn’t give you happiness, hope, love—neither lemons. It gave you tea. The finest quality there is, in the wrong situations.

The tea tasted horrible, bitter and frothy against the sides of your mouth, the number of sugar cubes you dropped in couldn’t help the bland taste. You’d say this was the worst thing you’ve ever drunk, and that was saying a lot as over the years your senses were built to enjoy even the most bitter and sour, watered-down, and scalding hot drinks.

You forced yourself to take another sip and decided that it truly was the worst. Setting it down onto the glass saucer gently, a small clink resonating through the still room, you looked around—as you have been for the past five minutes. The room didn’t change, you remind yourself, you’re still in the same stupid cushioned seat since you first arrived, and your firm corset is doing well to hide your panicked breathing and nearly accomplishing its goal to crush all of your ribs in record time.

“Another cup? Your grace?” you hear the baritone-like voice of the butler, dressed in a beautifully tailored uniform, gold gleaming from the seams. His hair was dark brown, his eyes glowed brown with speckles of gold, and his kind smile had always done well to keep your behavior at bay.

You waved it off and returned a smile of your own, genuine or fake, you couldn’t tell anymore. “No thank you, Seokjin, I’m fine.”

The room almost jolts to life to the informal address towards Seokjin, one of the many butlers, more commonly called Mr. Kim. But he pays no heed to the informality, he doesn’t mind at all, he’s known you for quite a long time and has figured out along the way, from your awkward teenager days, and to your dumb young adult antics—that you hated honorifics.

His smile never leaves his face, never falters, never twitches. “Are you sure? You’ve only had a cup since coming here. Would you enjoy something else? Your grace?”

“No, thank you though.”

“Of course, your grace.”

The room returns to its quiet state once again, all the maids and butlers are positioned with perfect forms, and the knights stand guardedly by the doors. Although it’s quiet, the one thing anyone loves in this line of work, the room burns in tension. You could feel the eyes of hundreds as they could feel every small movement you make against their cold flesh.

But you’re not one to have an outburst or a temper for that matter. You weren’t allowed to.

To be raised as the daughter of a duke, you’re raised with high expectations.

You had to fit in with any trends that were fashion-related and keep up on them, you didn’t need to know about anything else, not the war—as you couldn’t ever enlist, no woman could. You had to have perfect etiquette when eating or talking. You had to walk in sync with others, couldn’t walk ahead, you were taught to walk in heels and dresses. You had to smile, that was the most important job you were told, they drilled in the thought that even an untalented and useless girl could attract the best with a simple smile.

You were raised to be the embodiment of perfection.

To be the perfect woman—the perfect wife.

You were glad that where you sat, faced with a grand window and offering the kingdom’s garden, and the front of the mansion they lived in, you could see anyone who had arrived. It’s more like a warning for you, to prepare for it, whatever you were preparing for.

At one point you thought if you could really go through with this, to go against everyone’s wishes, most importantly your parents and the queen.

If you were unlucky and turned out unfavorable to the queen, you’d be beheaded or worse—forced to continue on.

The thought of having young children watch your head fall dead as the rest of your body, them finding odd entertainment in something so vile, made your stomach sick, that disgusting tea rising in your throat. The taste stuck to the back of your throat and a gag reflex was seconds away from appearing.

A heavy sigh comes from you as you try to smooth the creases in between your eyebrows, your headache from this morning has returned with a white noise keening in the back of your head and the silence is only making it worse.

“Seokjin, can you get me something cold to drink—water, quickly,” you say, but it’s in an authoritative tone, automatically.

“Of course, your grace,” he replies and turns to get the pitcher of water, setting down a new cup and pouring cold, iced water. All the while, he’s busy boring eyes into your head, noticing all the defined lines, dark bags, and blotchy makeup trying to hide your stress. You hope he has enough sense to not ask.

Seokjin returns the pitcher back to where it sat last time and adds space between you and him, in which you inwardly thank him.

Suddenly, the dark oak doors in the middle of the room open, revealing two men you believe are on the council, and the other being the prince of Esthersa known as Kim Namjoon—your fiancé.

The two shrub-like men standing beside him, small and incompetent compared to his domineering figure. You almost cringed to the fact the whole room had to stop and brighten in awe, and you would say you were almost embarrassed by his grand entry.

“What I’m saying, prince—,” one of the councilmen stop and quickly correct himself, “Your Royal Highness, forgive me, is that it would be better if we sent some of the knights to the south—”

The other quickly cut him off, “war is arising in our neighboring kingdoms, it’s better if we abide them by their rules and arrangements, they had asked—”

Something in Namjoon snaps in seconds and the councilman closes his mouth mid-sentence, a rare sight to see when he was usually a reserved and calm person over the years. His eyes burn in anticipating rage before his lips reach into a grin, you could tell animosity was burning at his patience from the way his body became stiff, for reasons unknown to you.

He turns to the two men who stood behind him like cowering dogs, saying something that you couldn’t hear, but guessing from the two council members reactions, it wasn’t very pleasant, to say the least.

It was odd to see him get worked up so easily over a simple conversation. Most of the time, it had to be his parents or an argument from one of his siblings to make him angry. You’ll have to refrain yourself from asking, nosying wasn’t an attractive trait.

“Mr. Kim,” Namjoon calls and Seokjin, who stood behind you, immediately rushed over to him.

“Show these two gentlemen to the front,” He orders in a calm voice, “and tell the rest of the council members that we will end it there for the day.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” The butler bows to the prince and takes the two pale men away from the room, the doors closing with a bang, the knights regaining their positions.

You hear a deep sigh vibrate the room, Namjoon settling down into the chair across from you where another cup of tea stood untouched and a plate with one scone on it.

Mildly unsettled now that your one person of comfort had left the room, it would be nice to have someone you know to be there if things went wrong.

“I’m sorry for the disruption, they tend to follow when they don’t get what they want,” he explains, although, you already knew that from being around him and his family enough, or anyone who had the title of a noble.

“Typical,” you reply and watch him take a sip from the teacup. “But I did ask to meet unexpectedly without any warning, that is purely my fault.”

He lets out a faint chuckle and his body feels more pliant, still very much aware, yet comfortable in his seat. His eyes softened and his hands were no longer curled into fists as they were before.

The Kim Namjoon you knew appearing before you. The one you’ve known since kids. Grown into all of his features, his baby fat no longer there, dark brown choppy bangs sprawled and swept against his forehead, the bruised he prided in from training became faint, and his awkward, lanky body grew into one of an actual prince.

“It’s fine. I’m sure it’s important, you rarely visit by yourself, so it must be serious,” he assures, “you have all of my attention, love”.

“Yes,” you speak before thinking, the eloquent words you had in your mind began to scramble. You didn’t know if he knew why you were here, his words insinuated that he did—but—he seemed oddly happy. From the way his lips turned into a gracious smile and the use of the pet name, he’s never done that regularly. Or maybe he did? Maybe you’ve never noticed.

Was he maybe expecting something else? You thought, or could he be happy already knowing what you’re about to ask? Perhaps something else had made his day?

From the corner of your eye, you see movement and remember, there are others in the room as you speak, who could hear everything. Even if they did an oath to keep quiet about any private matters containing the royals, you didn’t want a group of spectators watching and making silent judgments when they don’t know anything. It's worse enough to have to speak to Namjoon in person, sending a letter would’ve been more appropriate, but your family had insisted you visit him the moment their eyes landed on the letter meant for him.

“Is it possible for the maids and knights to leave the room?” you whispered, your clammy hands trembling in the fabric of your dress.

Namjoon’s eyes narrow, deep in thought, but his expression keeps still and restrained. His hand goes up and makes a gesture akin to a wave, you’re too afraid to look anywhere that wasn’t his eyes.

Leather shoes clack and shuffle, metal creating a clicking sound like the door of the room shut close, barricading you and him inside, the silence consuming every spot and cup. You were alone with him.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” you gulp and he takes another slow sip from his tea, your mouth went dry. “The reason I came to visit was that I wanted to talk about our engagement.”

The words left your mouth, clear, making sure you’re not talking too much or too fast for him.

He raised his eyebrow and shuffled in his seat. Putting his leg over the over, his fingers toying with the curved, gloss handle as the cup rested in its according saucer.

“What about our engagement?” he inquired, interested, “enlighten me.”

“I believe,” you begin and then quickly add, “Your Highness”, to appease your painful anxiety, and to be as formal as you can at this point. “We need to find better solutions to increase the morale of your kingdom.”

“What does this have to do with our engagement? Are you, perhaps, proposing more outings together?” He shuffles once more in his seat, leaning forward. “And, if you’ve forgotten, technically it’s our kingdom.”

You sigh regretfully, you had made it to ambiguous for him to specifically pinpoint what you’re trying to say, anyone would take it the wrong way with how you phrased it, but you feel bad. The words you want to say are too blunt—for someone like Namjoon. Sure, he’s a prince, he’s built on nothing but “bloodlust”, and his expressions only vary to calm and angry-calm, however, he’s been nothing yet kind and equal with you. It feels unfair that you’re the one to bring it up abruptly, to make matters worse, you’re bringing it up before the war has ended, but it must be said, he must’ve already thought of it before.

“No, Namjoon—Your Highness .” Bile rises to your throat, and every word sounds foreign to you as you spoke, “what I’m trying to say is—Your Highness, I want us to annul our engagement.”

The room drops in temperature, which is far-fetched to say, there’s no way for a room to instantly get cold, and yet it does, somehow. The look in Namjoon’s eyes are cold, they’ve always been in some form—but they are just there, they no longer share the emotion his face and body don’t show, the only way you’ve read his answers and him. It’s gone. He’s just the prince.

He becomes slack against the chair, his back pressed against the chair, and his fingers now tapping against the wooden table, lightly, you add.

“‘Us’?” Is the only thing he mentions in his deep and solemn tone.

“Yes,” you continue on with your explanation, the one you’ve perfected over the courses of weeks. “I knew ever since we were engaged you weren’t happy with the choice, it wasn’t ours to begin with.” You look out the window to focus on the maids and other staff flitting about the front yard, relieving of your stress by a mile. “I was only engaged because of my family’s name, known for the looks or talent, well-liked by the people. Ultimately, I was only a sacrifice for peace between the people and you. But you already knew this.”

“I was one of many pawns,” is what you wanted to say. To create this grotesque picture of you being unhappy with this to-satisfy life, to make the biggest moves as everyone sits back and waits until they are called, to be the one taking everything. And to be cast away when you’re not needed anymore and rot with the others who have already played all of their moves.

You did not want to be that.

“I see.” Namjoon reaches for the tea once more and takes a sip, you watch his eyes stare at the bottom of his cup longer than normal, his cheeks were hollowed in from him biting the insides of his cheeks. “Is that truly what you wish for? War is still going on, and my parents will be enraged if I tell them this.”

You breathe in. “This is what I want. I had planned to be kicked from my title from the very start, and I know there are other ways to ensure peace among the people and neighbo—”

“Silence.”

Your mouth screws shut to his order, the malevolence seeping through the cracks of his calm expression, his eyes boring into your skull as the minutes pass, the pressure and guilt beating down on your body. You’re shaking. Your legs are, wobbling and trying to find support by rooting yourself near the legs of your chair, your hands numb with chills running up your arms.

Of all your time with being next to Namjoon, you’ve never seen him snap at you. You thought he didn’t care to, you knew how to put yourself in your place and control your attitude. You’ve never once made him angry.

Well—of course, in this situation he was going to be angry, but you didn’t think he’d be to the point of disgust showing through his tone. He was going to take most of the verbal abuse from his parents and constant begging from your own; saying how he was a coward to let her go, that him choosing to annul the engagement was to bring rebellion in all (for canceling an engagement was a way to tell people you were unloyal and indecisive, and nobody wants that in the future ruler of a kingdom). However, you knew that there were other ways—are other ways, if only he agrees to it.

Marrying another country, one with amazing morale and beautiful benevolence seeping through its kingdom, was the easiest way to ensure happiness among all—but not the fastest. There was bound to be small riots to rise along the way, fighting with cultural differences and the natural “once an enemy, always an enemy” cliché coming to play.

But he was Kim Namjoon, and if you had anything to say about him to someone who has never seen or heard of him, you would say he matched the standards of anyone. No matter too high or too low.

“So, you’ve heard?” His grin pulled into a menacing line.

“Heard what? Namjoon, did I—I mean Your Highness, did I—”

“The council wants me to marry with another kingdom.” His eyes wander to the window and beyond the window, then back to you and your lifeless body. “Is that what made you like this? All of a sudden?”

Does he really think this is stemming from the rumors surrounding him? Not only is he proving the rumors, but not noticing your distaste for this relationship with him from the beginning—he even said so himself that he did not want it.

“No, It’s been my wish since the beginning of this mess, I didn’t know you were being asked to, I was only listing one of the ways I’ve thought of. I’m sorry if I offended you, Your Highness.”

Namjoon doesn’t reply, which most often means he’s thinking. Thinking about what, you don’t know and don’t really want to have an idea of, but you do know that letting you be free of the engagement will be as torturous and burdening for you as it will be to him. Stripped from your noble title and all the power you get from it, every piece of jewelry or dress you’ve owned is burned, and then you’re all too familiar with living with the lower class after a few months. In short, you will become nothing.

Being nothing is better than this life.

“Alright,” he says after a prolonged silence. “I’ll announce it to my parents, if that’s what you wish for. Truly.”

With elegance, expression flawed and corrupted with disbelief that he had actually agreed when he easily could have said no, you rise from your seat, the chair scraping against the floor. You bow to the lowest your body could allow, offering all of your sincerity in that one bow, offering everything to him. You promise gold and riches to him as he sits in silence, knowing your parents will try to compensate for your “wrongdoing”. Saying more than needed “thank you”’s as your head hanging low in submission.

“I guess—Your Royal Highness,” you say with a meek voice, “this will be the last we see each other.”

Namjoon hums, and the natural fire in his eyes return. Interest.

“Maybe—it will be the last.”

You storm pass guards and guards.

To hell with those damned bastards, you curse as you wrench and try to twist their armored hands away from your arms, the steam burning at the tips of your skin and threatening to fall upon every being in the room beyond these doors.

“Your Highness, what has possessed you?” one of the guards ask, pushing your body against the golden handles of the doors, trying to do so without causing injury.

It’s only natural that they are more worried than upset at your sudden behavior change. You were kind to them, to all, those years of etiquette training had automatically made you into this perfect doll. Anger wasn’t ever present within you, having a temper wasn’t allowed. Just as everything else that made you remotely human wasn’t allowed.

“Let me through those doors, I need to see your prince,” you threaten, wounding your hand tight around an open space where his armor did not cover, gripping with fervor as your nails dig crescents.

“His Highness is working at the moment. He wishes to not have any disturbances, even by you, Your Highness.”

Your Highness.

That title made your insides scorch with blistering pain and a lump to rise to your ears, drowning out the sounds of nearby guards and maids who were witnessing this unfortunate scene.

The two guards that were positioned in front of Nmajoon’s door look at each other with uncertainty.

“Please compose yourself first, Your Highness, and we will let you in,” one requests, his hold is powerful, and yet it's not bruising on your skin. “We do not mean to be rude, we shall let you in as soon as you are you.”

“Fine,” you spit and the guards, taught to maintain bleak faces, wince to your tone.

As if they had been scolded—and it’s only natural that they do.

They’re being scolded by the next-in-line queen.

You will yourself to lose all hatred at the skin of your face, your features blending into a calm and coordinated smile, one that offered forgiveness, happiness, the well-being of the people were in that smile, your eyes gleaming with unprecedented love.

“May I see your highness?” you ask once more, the softest and lightest tone you could conjure from your hysteria.

The guards nod, metal ringing in the room. They’ve been swept by your façade so easily, expecting that you truly were the kindest human there was to be, completely forgetting your behavior moments before. Their hands individually clasp their sides of the two doors, opening it and revealing an office mixed with a library, a low light pouring into your view.

“Thank you,” is all you say before you enter, the doors closing behind you.

Truly ignorant fools, you think with a gritted grimace, your hands gripping the sides of your dress with a vice-like grip, wanting to rip it from its seams, to destroy it—you want to end it. All of it. Whatever it is.

You take a step forward, like a robot, you remember the way to his corner, where his desk sat and where he sat in the dark like some villain. You remember the guards naturally, it’s not their fault, they aren’t the villains, they are also the pawns of this game, they are the ones beside you. They don’t notice the twitch of your eyebrow, the small details when you smile, your eyes don’t fully crinkle at the sides, your smile doesn’t quite reach your cheeks, they don’t notice it because they only play for the big picture, taking the big picture and making it smaller—and smaller, so the higher-ups can find it of worth or not.

It’s not the people’s fault either, you keep reminding yourself as you turn a corner, another bookshelf. Another corner you turn, this time a small table with a lit lantern and paper stacks arranged side to side. It’s not their faults.

You stand tall, fire burning at the tip of your tongue and your skull splitting into two, hellish images appearing in your thoughts.

That’s right—it was his.

The man—your ex-fiancé and now husband—sitting at his dark oak desk, two lanterns lit in the small, cramped dark, his eyes burning into the page he was looking at with books laid all around. His hair falling out of its perfected form and laying against his forehead.

“What were you thinking?” you snapped, glaring at him.

He’s crazy, he’s absolutely crazy, you believe, that dreadful, unknowing face looking up at you with disinterest, dreadful.

He puts his quill down, interlocking his hands together, and that smile of indifference shows up like magic, his eyes flare with an unknown fever while his elbows prop themselves on the desk.

“What ever do you mean?” he asks slowly, as if you were slow-witted. “Why the face? Did one of my servants happen to anger you?” His face, frowning in solemnity, makes you think he believes his words proudly.

What a dumb and fickle mind he has, you curse.

“No, you know what you did,” you snarled, a violent tone controlling your words before you could reword them. “I told you I wanted it annulled, to hell with it! Now tell me why I’m getting praised by all for being the next queen—Namjoon.”

Fuck your title—“Your Highness”.

“Well,” he begins, “for starters, come—sit, have tea with me. There’s no reason to be mad, I’ll explain myself.”

“Are you playing games with me? Do you understand that your title is on the line?” you shout, getting annoyed with his idiotic antics, as if playing dumb will grant you sympathy. Your feelings are anything but sympathetic.

“I don’t understand what you’re saying, love, and I don’t understand how my title is on the line?” he replies, smooth and eloquent words, although, you can see you’re getting to him. His white-gloved hands are tightening into each other, his shoulders stiff and on a defensive stance. “Enlighten me, sit.”

His hand gestures to one of the chairs, a table next to it with a teacup on a saucer. You can feel the fresh heat from whatever substance is inside that cup, he knew you were coming.

You scoff, standing your ground. “You know that I am not one of your candidates your parents had planned to marry, you know what I am to you—to this damned kingdom.”

“Yes, I understand, I knew,” he sighs. “But with a little convincing, I had made sure they knew I wanted—”

“Namjoon,” you interrupt. “It seems you’ve forgotten, or have chosen to forget.”

His head nods to one side, his patience cracking like that smile of his, eyes that dull with any passion he had before, and instead, replaced with utter hatred. “What did I choose to forget, love?”

You know that tone. The type he uses on others when he doesn’t feel like being disagreed with, one that doesn’t want trouble. It wants complete obedience.

“I wanted this for myself, myself. Namjoon, I don’t want this life,” you partially fumed and pleaded, your eyes weakening into a puppy-like face, edging upon tears. Yet, your tone was still cold. “You even agreed to it, you said you would tell your parents. Just annul it before its too late.”

Namjoon hums, his eyes soften immediately to your face, it always has as you rarely use it. He turns a bit in his chair, looking off to the side and tonguing his cheek, he seems to be in thought. And maybe you forgive him, a part of you wants to, however, the rest just wants it to be over with.

“I didn’t—exactly agree. I never said it. I only said I would announce it to my parents.”

Hatred builds.

“Now come, as I’ve said before multiple of times,” he adds the last part with a light voice, he's deemed that everything is solved. Teasing in a way. “You truly are one stubborn lady, all the more I love.”

Love? This is his love? This was prison, torture.

Stuck within this round-about of a conversation. You come up with the last bit of strength before you really wish death upon this man—and might even go through with it, even if it meant him killing you for trying such a thing.

Death didn’t sound that bad at the moment, compared to what is happening.

“I don’t love you,” you state harshly, “I never have, and never will.”

“Oh please, you can’t tell me you’ve never once thought about marrying me?” he says so lowly, his eyes going back to the papers, trying to conceal the anger and frown growing on his face, you know he is. He’s going to relent and you’ll be free. A sinister man he was, but also a man you’ve been with for years. He had to have somewhat of a heart.

“No. I love someone else—”

Namjoon laughs, a mocking chuckle leaving his mouth. “Don’t be silly—”

“I love someone else, Namjoon. I have no interest in a man like you.” Your eyebrows, by now, have furrowed enough that it was ingrained into your skull from the way it felt. “I never have. I’ve never once wished to be with you. I. Do. Not. Lo—”

You think you’ve finally got him when his face stresses forward enough it’s close to hitting the desk. Your dumb lie of having another lover was a last-minute choice if all fails and goes to hell, at least dig a deeper grave for your own pride.

Then, a hand reaches out and slams on the desk, you can hear something crack under the weight of his hand, the room moves with the noise, vibrating in between your layers and layers of padding for your dress. His head snaps up and you can see a vein appear on his neck, even if the cuff of his jacket covers most of it, you can see it.

The look in his eyes are not dull, are not quiet, are not interested. They’re inhuman. With a vehement glare burning through your flesh, twisting a contorted image within the dark orbs. And that frown twisting into a snarl.

“It seems you’ve forgotten!” he plays in a distant tone, and it’s one that sounds so oddly placed from his angered expression that it scares you, you don’t notice you’re shaking. “I know you—all of you, I know who is in your life, whom you see, whom you talk to. All of it.”

You instinctively take a step back.

“So let me just say, no more arguing, I don’t want to hear it,” he threatens. “If you say that one more time, those dreadful words—you don’t know what you’re saying, darling, really. And I’ll make sure you can never walk again. One way or another.”

“Namjoon. You are mad. You don’t know what you’re saying. Do you even hear yourself?”

“Although, I’ve got your attention now, haven’t I? You didn’t seem to hear me before,” he mocks. “But pain, you don’t care if it’s inflicted on you, and I’ll make sure it hurts. I’ll find whoever else, any being you’ve talked to; your father, your mother, your adorable siblings—they’d be a very nice addition as slaves—even those guards I heard you bickering with.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” you say, a gasp leaving your quivering lips, goosebumps rising over your skin. He knew how much you adored your younger siblings.

“Oh, but I would,” he replies instantly, the anger in his eyes dissipate and they are once a void, again.

He watches you closely, you can feel his eyes roam your form, a small chuckle rising from him.

Images of your siblings being used as slaves, seeing them tend to the egotistic royals at such a young age, unconditioned with no resistance to horrid beings. Your servants and family burning at the stake like witches, others throwing their own sharp and bloodied weapons at them. Those guards, with their head down, waiting for their heads to fall before their body.

He was insinuating that their blood would be on your hands. You can’t imagine the guilt that would settle upon you if you ever had the fleeting idea to run away or kill yourself, or argue more.

You’re trapped again. It’s not his parents this time, it’s him.

“So,” he quiets down, the room that was blundering with energy was now light, the power he had felt equal again. “Let us sit and have tea.” No room for discussion as a white noise fills the room.

And you do.

That disgusting tea you hate so much, you finished within seconds.

(feedback is greatly appreciated! thank you for reading! 🧸❤️)

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