#its a pleasant firmness that gives way with a nice snap and then is very soft

[majorasnightmare]

WEIRDPOSTING ENCOURAGED LETS FUCKING GOOOOOOO

i caught it before i posted this time!! long ass dirge detail post WHOO

tangentially related but i just love how openly horny gale and the other companions are in game. like im so used to games with romance options being chaste and coy and talking about your winning personality but gale drunkenly admitted he enjoys your unwashed musk and laezel leaning in to get a fullbodied whiff is just soo. like these are people who know wtf they want and its another living body and its just a fun change of pace tbh. it did encourage my prose-loving ass to work out a LOT of physical details for dirge tho. and then make them Weird™️

so first of all keeping on theme. if youve ever buried your face in a big pile of animal fur and disliked the scent that hit your nose you will not enjoy being around dirge. dirge is very scent oriented and identifies people primarily by scent, so much like irl wolves hes just going to be in your personal bubble touching and interacting with you as a matter of course. and that means you will 100% be getting a whiff of this guy because bathing is not a concept that naturally occurs to him

dirge naturally has a very animal-musk like scent, with a permanent undertinge of blood. its gentler and more pleasant on the nose right after he bathes, and you CAN layer scents on top but they have to be strong to beat out Furred Animal. the blood smell predominates after a few days, just because he likes to coat himself in gore and is reluctant to get it off. at its gentlest, its a warm and slightly sweet fur smell, that has a slight metallic undertone, that then intensifies into a strong sharp animal musk scent that hits your nose at the same time blood does. it never really picks up the wet dog smell you might expect, hes just Creachur

body temperature wise hes weirdly neutral like. all the time. he'll come up behind you to tuck his head onto your shoulder and after you take in the scent he just feels like a whole lotta Nothin. if you warm him up itll just fade and you can never really use him to cool down either. its just Neutral. its a weird nothingburger temperature you dont initially notice until you cant stop noticing it

it becomes very quickly obvious that he is not dealing with people on the regular because he has zero sense of physical boundaries or social decency, and hes only rly mindful of his own body in terms of its capacity to harm. hes mindful of the claws and his touch is gentle but he does take wyll by the chin to get a closer look at his prosthetic eye. he has a tendency to stand close enough behind gale that leaning forward bumps his chest into gales shoulder and his height means he unintentionally looms very often. in general youll almost always be VERY aware of his physical presence because of how close it will be in proximity to you. he has zero regards for nudity and will strip anywhere that isnt a public street or building, because thats the only thing that stuck, and even the people he hasnt slept with have almost definitely seen his dick because he doesnt cover up when taking a dunk in the river, and also wont immediately put clothes on if your doing something interesting. so you WILL feel him looming behind you to look over your shoulder to spin around to come face to face with naked tiefling. if you care about that you ARE going to have to tell him and probably a few times cuz it just isnt intuitive to him.

he WILL find a way to get his face in the crook of your neck and inhale, because scent tends to be strongest there and if you do not want that to occur your gonna have to hand him a used blanket or something for him to sniff instead. karlach is the exception because of her engine so once its fixed enough to allow touch he'll just sit in her lap to bury his face in her neck, since her scent will get buried by the burning of her engine and he cant feel comfortable without being able to clearly identify someones smell. usually its a one and done but karlachs burning engine smell means he feels the need to do it multiple times. karlachs a cuddler so its works out.

hair is feathery and surprisingly soft with how little he treats it, and even cleaned itll naturally fall into straight locks instead of brushing together into one cohesive whole. it holds blood surprisingly well. liquid in general but most obviously blood. it has a bit sweeter smell than the rest of him but still keeps the same scent profile. facial hair is slightly scruffy, just enough to be pleasant to the touch, but isnt thick or wiry at all

surprisingly soft lips despite the scarring, with a very chewable lower lip. front teeth are normal humanoid until the canines, and then its three sets of them (one set being the two top and two bottom ones people normally have), replacing two sets of molars. tongue comes to a rounded but noticeable point. and if you have something of yours in his jaws (like a hand or. other things) you can feel the muscles shifting near the back of his jaw, and you will get the sense that theres enough bite force there to take whatevers in his mouth completely off. jaw can partially dislocate to open wider but not enough to really do anything with.

shoulder muscle area feels fine aside from the very noticeable partial wings tieflings tend to have in bg3. the real joint weirdness is in his hips, where if you have your hands on them as you stretch his legs up by his head (again for. whatever reason), you can feel the musculoskeletal system shift and move under the skin in a manner that definitely feels unnatural. oddly flexible in specific ways. cant do a side split for long but can easily hold his legs behind his head comfortably for hours.

body is utterly devoid of scars aside from his three prominent ones, a faint Y shaped autopsy scar on his torso (normal scarring without any raised edges), a hypertrophic puncture scar on the back of his head (slightly raised, sensitive), and the ritual scars on his face (slight indentations, one over his eyebrow, several over his mouth going down his throat). only the face scars are visibly prominent, the autopsy scar being faint and the head scar hidden by his hair. body doesnt scar as a rule, despite regularly feeding astarion for all of act 2.

horns are bone core with a smooth keratin sheath, pleasant to the touch and to follow up the curves of his horns with your hand. not a lot of nerves there so no worries about grip strength or yanking. tips ARE sharp and this HAS caused rips.

skin texture is firm with a noticeable bit of give, smooth and pliable, very light on body hair. ridges are sharp with distinct points that can and will catch on things, most notably on the shoulder area and less so around the hips

his magic smells like burning with a slight ozone twinge, an acrid scent without much smoke in it, almost alkaline? not enjoyable to be around for long. the eye claimed by caiphon has a noticeable glow, not enough to meaningfully blow cover but enough to be unnerving if your stuck in the dark with him.

just a lot of small things about the ways his body works that adds up to a small general uncomfortableness because there are things under the skin distinctly Off but not visibly noticeable. body language thats very Physical and Present that always keeps you aware of him and his position to you, weird enough to be Notable but not enough to be a tipoff. the real prize is what his bodys like beneath the skin

his nails are firmer than you expect, and less flexible. you can follow the feeling of them beneath the skin of his fingers and get the sense theyre rooted into the bone, non retractable. theyre sharp enough to cut thoughtlessly and notably curl into claws. theyre slow growing, never seem to chip or break, and are an opaque black naturally

his ears are twitchy. its easier to see in the points but they just twitch, forward and back, like the muscles are expecting the cupped ears of an animal to adjust, but instead they just. twitch.

[wkemeup]

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 ✨

[anika-ann]

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!

[shreddedparchment]

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.

[rvmmm21]

. 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.

[samwrights]

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 ]

[summonerscenarios]

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~!

--------

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.

[vendeavendea]

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."

[puckinghell]

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.”

[unicyclehippo]

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.’

[johnismyreason]

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.

[ddaenqu]

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! 🧸❤️)

[phobiadeficient]

somehow i cant find any "apicy" demosolly content.. do you think you could provide some?

i like demosolly a lot because it has the potential to be absolutely heart-wrenchingly sweet and also completely batshit crackheaded which is VERY fun and good. but also i will never be able to live up to the raw genius it takes to write soldier at peak soldier so sweet is what you’re gonna get

-

Demo had never been mistaken on the fact that Soldier was uncomfortable with eye contact. It wasn’t hard to piece together, the fact that he wore his helmet so low even though he held his head so high. In the locker rooms, it was the last thing he took off and the first thing he put back on. And at first Demo thought it was just about the helmet itself, but then they’d been stationed in a colder climate that warranted warmer headwear and he’d traded the helmet for a big, fluffy hat, and pulled that down over his eyes as well.

For the first months of their dating, he’d done his best to respect that boundary. Every time he had to push Soldier’s helmet up to kiss him, he kept his eye firmly shut for every moment that any place above his cheekbone was exposed. When they’d first gotten intimate, instead of insisting Soldier take the helmet off so he could better read his expressions and body language, he made the other man swear up and down to tell him if anything was wrong, and constantly paused to check that he was comfortable before each and every step they took into the act, to the point that Soldier ended up getting frustrated with him and snapping at him to hurry it up before he took the reins himself.

Eventually they escalated to Soldier taking his helmet off but facing away from him. And then Demo got another idea, when they were having a conversation one night before bed.

“Is the problem more me seeing your face, or the eye contact?” Demo asked, in the midst of pulling on a pair of boxers. He wasn’t sure if they belonged to him or Soldier—they wore the same size and dressed similarly enough anyways, so it didn’t particularly matter.

Soldier considered the question, standing in the mirror and looking at the series of love bites that had been scattered over his shoulders. “Neither,” he seemed to decide. “Or… with most people, both. But not with you.”

That made Demo smile. “Yeah?”

“Affirmative.” Another pause. “The problem is feeling… vulnerable to attack. The eyes are among the most vulnerable part of the body. I prefer not to have them exposed.”

Demo nodded. He could absolutely understand that, maybe more than anyone else on the team. “So you’d be alright with me looking you in the eye, just not straight in the eye?” he asked.

Soldier frowned. “What do you mean?”

Demo stood, moving over to demonstrate. He hooked an arm around Soldier’s waist, gathering him close and nuzzling into his neck for a second, making him smile a little sheepishly. Then he moved his free hand up to tilt his helmet back out of the way, making eye contact with Soldier’s reflection.

“This alright?” he asked, watching Soldier’s body language in his periphery for any sign of tension. He got none, only a vague shifting like surprise that slowly faded back away the longer their gazes held.

He didn’t answer for a few moments. Demo took a moment during the pause to tilt his head to press a kiss just behind Soldier’s ear, and was delighted to see the way Soldier’s eyes crinkled up at the edges as he smiled.

“This is good,” Soldier seemed to decide, voice firm. “I am enjoying this.”

“Happy to hear it, lad,” Demo said simply, and kissed him under the jaw. “How’s about some other time we try something else with this?”

“Why not now?” Soldier asked, and Demo was intrigued by the curve of his eyebrows, the squint of his eyes.

“Because you rode me like a bloody show pony through three rounds and if I try for one more bloody time tonight I think my soul’s as ready to leave my body as anything else,” he deadpanned.

It was nice to see the place where Soldier’s flush started to develop on his face, to watch it spreading up to his ears rather than just down to his collarbones. “Understood,” was all Soldier managed to say, finally breaking and averting his eyes, and Demo laughed.

They tried the “something new” a few days later, when Demo was sure they’d have plenty of time for each other, when he knew they wouldn’t be rushing or tired from a long day of work and chores and tinkering and exercise.

He told Soldier right out the gate that the night would be gentle overall, and they would be taking it slow and steady. Soldier nodded, and mimicked one of the things Demo would do when he was in one of his more romantic moods, picking up his hand and pressing a kiss into the center of his palm. Then he surprised Demo with something new, looking at his hand for a moment and starting to press kisses along the gradient where his skin darkened from palm to wrist, gently kissing a line there, and it made Demo’s face feel hot, his heart fluttering, pleasant and warming like a glimpse of the sunrise between the canyons rather than sharp and aching like a rushed defusal following a mistaken button press.

He spent a few moments rearranging the room, answering every one of Soldier’s questions with “be patient, love, it’s a surprise”. Soldier only seemed to start catching on when he was naked and situated on Demo’s lap, facing outward directly towards the mirror Demo had borrowed from its place hanging on the back of the door and set at the foot of the bed.

He couldn’t manage to keep eye contact through the entirety of Demo teasing him open with steady fingers, eyes flicking away, then head turning down and to one side, and finally burying his face in his hand, hunched forward even as his legs started trembling.

“You alright?” Demo asked cautiously when he finally noticed Soldier hiding, ready to cease all goings-on at a moment’s notice.

“I’m embarrassed,” Soldier said, tone flat even where it trembled.

Demo purred comforting words into the stubble on his neck, continuing to flow fingers against Soldier, more to soothe than prepare him, although he was nearly ready anyways. “Janey, I promise I won’t laugh at you,” he murmured, eye closed for a moment to give Soldier reprieve. “Won’t think less of you, neither. I love you, every part of you. And going off of that, I’m right sure I’ll love everything I’ll see here tonight. And whatever I see stays right here between us.”

That seemed to bring Soldier comfort and ease, because within a few moments the shoulder Demo was resting his chin on was relaxed, and the only tension remaining was in Soldier’s thighs, starting to tremble.

“We can try again some other time if you’d like,” he finally offered, just in case.

“I want to do this,” Soldier replied, decisive again.

Demo smiled, opened his eye to look at Soldier again. “Alright,” he said simply. “Then let’s.”

He found himself breathless as he finally pushed into Soldier a few moments later, both thanks to the pleasure and thanks to the novelty of seeing Soldier’s face. The way his eyebrows drew together and crooked, his eyelids faltering before finally dropping closed, his full expression on display rather than simply the way his lips parted with panting when Demo’s thighs were finally pressed flush with his own, oh, it was more than he could’ve ever hoped for, wished for. His chest was full to the bursting.

Less sappy emotional nonsense followed after that initial moment, only occasionally hitting him with an aftershock.

He slowly rolled into a steady pace, and wound up nibbling and nipping at Soldier’s shoulders and back, having already been treated previously to all sorts of enthusiastic babble about how much Soldier enjoyed that particular activity. And soon enough Soldier was doing the majority of the work, a powerful core paired with thighs of steel combining to make him an absolute terror of a ride, driving Demo to some amount of desperation within the minute.

Suddenly resurfacing from the sea of pleasure Soldier had thrown him into and remembering the new thing they’d just added to their sex lives, Demo blinked his bleary eye open and shifted to try and catch a glimpse of Soldier’s expression in the mirror. And he found that Soldier had already been looking at him, and he’d always sort of imagined that when he was riding this hard Soldier would have the same look of determination on his face that he got somewhere around pull-up number eighty, but instead there was desperation there, clear and sharp, and a vulnerability that Demo hadn’t been aware of Soldier being ready for, and it hit like a punch to the jaw, his brain reeling.

Soldier reached a hand back, and it found the back of Demo’s neck, pulling him in, and he went along with the silent request and started back in on leaving marks across Soldier’s skin.

He’d thought that Jane would be the one who might get overwhelmed by this, but he was wrong. Just one glimpse of his face and Demo had nearly been undone.

He held himself together up until Soldier started making that little noise in the back of his throat on every exhale that meant he was close, and took over the pace for a moment to finish himself off, reaching around to fist at his cock even as he pounded in once, twice, three times, throbbing and spending himself, a second kind of relief washing through him when Soldier choked out a noise and came as well, spurting mostly onto his own stomach, the final jolt spilling mostly over Demo’s fist.

He had to pull out, and managed not to wince at the drip that followed, warm against his thigh. He nosed in at Soldier’s stubble again, peeking at his expression.

Gorgeous. He’d always suspected that it would be. And slightly goofy, he had to admit, but it read as endearing rather than ridiculous.

“Can we do that again?” Soldier asked, voice a little weak, and Demo chuckled, kissed him on the shoulder.

“In a few minutes maybe, doll,” he teased, and it got Soldier to exhale, pulling the hand now resting against his waist up within kissing range, and Demo didn’t stop him, even as he made a noise of protest at the way Soldier ended up carelessly ended up getting cum on his face.

He’d just need to clean it off later, he supposed.

[sunny-hopewell]

#2 - Helena Stinchcomb

posted by sunny hopewell on sept. 12th, 20XX

DISCLAIMER: Please note that, just by reading this, you may succumb to the very phenomenon described here. My hope is that the next people or intelligent life who read this are either themselves resilient to it, or that enough time has passed that the sheer weight of this knowledge no longer causes such a heavy impact on the reader.

This is an attempt to record the phenomenon, once referred to colloquially as “ghosting,” that has resulted in a mass decrease in the Earth’s human population. More specifically, the latest estimate (prior to the disappearance of professionals who had counted) was that only 0.002% of human life remains.

In this series of accounts, I document interviews with remaining survivors of this phenomenon. For more details on the nature of the phenomenon itself, please click here. Otherwise or afterwards, read on at your own risk.

I encountered a woman by the name of Helena Stinchcomb when I saw the fourth floor of a large office building entirely lit up. Thinking perhaps it may have been an outpost containing multiple survivors, both my mission and my curiosity led me to that floor.

I rang the fully-functional doorbell at the back entrance of the first floor. I would consider breaking in only if I received no response, but just shy of a minute later, the very articulate voice of a young woman spoke, asking how she may help me. I explained that I was hoping to ask some questions relating to her take on recent events, but expressed that I understood if she declined to speak— multiple people had already done so for me at this point. You would understand my pleasant surprise when I heard the door bolt unlock, and I was invited in. The woman told me to come on in, explaining she would need to allow me to the fourth floor with her own badge, so she would meet me just inside shortly.

The office lobby seemed unremarkable, aside from its emptiness. The lights seemed to come on as soon as I walked in— likely on a motion-sensor.

It wasn’t long before a young, dark-haired lady emerged from a door that seemed to conceal a concrete staircase. She smiled at me as though I was a visitor to her office, urging me in with an energy that was both friendly and professional. She wore a dark, pin-stripe pantsuit, and her thin, black wireframe glasses only added to her aesthetic.

She showed me upstairs, thanking me for my patience. She explained she was in a meeting until just a few minutes ago, and that the speaker system that allowed me to speak with her outside was across the office. Of course, I asked her how many people were stationed on that floor. To my own disbelief, she estimated nearly 30 folks were in-office that day. 

At this time, we entered the fourth floor’s reception area, which appeared entirely empty. She waved to the empty reception desk on her left briefly, not ceasing her conversation with me about the work they did there. She explained that she worked for a newer kind of advertising firm— when in the 2020’s, social media and technology users realized the extent to which their information was being used without their consent, such firms opened up, acting as a middleman between web users and advertisers who wanted their attention. In essence, she explained, users would come to these firms seeking to sell their web usage data to these advertisers, and the firms would act as representatives for these individuals to advertisers, who they often partnered with for competitive pricing. 

As she finished explaining this, we entered her office. She asked me to wait just a moment while she typed away— a quick message, she said, to one of her part-time work-study students, asking if she could bring the two of us some bottled water and cookies. As she finally closed her laptop, she thanked me once again for my patience and gave me her full attention. The transcript of our interview is as follows:

SH: So, tell me about yourself. What’s your name?

HS: My name is Helena Stinchcomb. I serve in senior leadership here at The People’s Information firm.

SH: It’s very nice to meet you. How has the Ghosting Phenomenon impacted you?

HS: Do you mean personally, or professionally?

SH: Oh, uh— both, provided you’re up to speaking to them.

HS: Sure, I’ll start with personally, since that’s less complex. A few people close to my circles apparently ghosted, but I’ve yet to have anyone in my innermost circles ghost, themselves.

SH: That’s fantastically fortunate, given the numbers.

HS: [laughs] Yeah, I guess you could say that. It’s hard to trust the numbers anymore, though.

SH: How do these people in your circles spend their time?

HS: [hesitating] I— you know, I’ve been so absorbed in my work lately, I really should reach out to them and ask instead of answering that at this time.

SH: Sure thing, thank you for that. Let’s talk about work, then. How has the Ghosting Phenomenon impacted workflow?

HS: Honestly, it’s mostly the same. Lots of people are hiding out in their homes, and are trying to work less at times like this. This, as you can imagine, drives their web usage way up. We’ve since fortified our model for online communications with clients so they never have to meet us in-person. This is the perfect recipe for helping them earn some money just by using the internet.

SH: Have you, personally, been able to reap any benefits as a result of your strong model’s success?

HS: Well, I’m in the process of giving everyone else in this office a sizable raise to recognize our efforts.

SH: That’s fantastic. You must be very proud of your team.

HS: Thank you, I am.

SH: How many folks did you say are in-office, today?

HS: Hmm, I’d say probably just under 30.

SH: All holed up in their office, I take it?

HS: Some of them are a little concerned with ghosting and are isolating there, yes, but not all of them.

SH: What of the others? I don’t think I’ve seen anyone else here yet, today.

HS: [briefly hesitating] I haven’t seen many, but our receptionist Patricia waved to us just in the door. You must have just missed her.

SH: Ah, I see— my mistake. Maybe I’ll catch her once we’ve finished up here and apologize for that.

HS: I think you’d love her— she’s always smiling. Very sweet woman.

SH: So, enough about business— what do you do when you’re not working?

HS: [laughs] Sleeping? We keep pretty busy here, so I work long days, six days a week.

SH: So you just hang loose on your one day off?

HS: Typically, yes. I have three little ones at home— Jack is six, Joseph is seven, and Elena is twelve. They keep me busy in other ways. I’m thankful to my partner for sticking around at home to watch them.

SH: A stay at home parent, then?

HS: Yes, and I’m grateful that she is so willing and capable.

SH: I’m sure she’s lucky to have you, too.

HS: Thank you. [smiles] I like to think so.

SH: If I may ask— [I was cut off by the sudden manifestation of bottled water and small bags of chips on the desk between me and Helena]

HS: [looking at an empty space adjacent to her desk] Ah, thank you, Patricia! Sunny, I’d like for you to meet our receptionist.

SH: [Greeting the empty space] Hello, it’s so nice to meet you. Sorry I missed your hello, earlier.

HS: [After a momentary silence in the room, smiles and chuckles] That’s excellent, Patricia. Thanks so much for bringing this by!

(As if some invisible entity had left the room, Helena’s attention returned to the interview.)

HS: Sorry, what were you saying?

SH: No worries. I was going to ask if you could speak on your perspective of the Ghosting Phenomenon more specifically.

HS: [letting out a deep sigh] I think local leadership has been excellent, given the circumstances of it all. I know it’s still a touchy topic for some people, but I’m still certain that there have been massive exaggerations about the impact of the Ghost Phenomenon on society. Am I saying it’s fake? No. I’m saying it was being used as a ham-fisted tool for social control.

SH: I see... Yes, I can see that causing a mass panic surrounding the phenomenon is usable as a strategic power-move.

HS: I’m so glad you agree. I feel like people are going crazy over a phenomenon that has long since passed.

SH: When was the last time you heard news of a ghosting?

HS: [pausing to think] It’s been a pretty long time… Probably nearing two years, now?

SH: Two years…

HS: I could be a little bit off, but probably by no more than a couple of months. It came and went like that. [snaps her finger]

SH: Ah, I see. Well, before I wrap this interview up, is there anything else you’d like to say to my readers?

HS: Don’t believe everything you hear. Trusting people can be too easy. It takes discipline to distinguish delusion from reality.

SH: Thank you so much. Readers out there, be sure to check out The People’s Information Firm if you’d like to make a little extra cash by just browsing the web.

At the conclusion of this interview, Patricia and I exchanged a few formalities before she showed me back down to the door at my request.

Just to make things absolutely clear: There was not a soul in Helena’s office space apart from the two of us. She spoke to thin air when a Ghost had evidently brought us those snacks— likely in response to the message she had sent out earlier. As stated in my previous post, the general work completed by ghosted individuals in their pre-phenomenon lives remained mostly unchanged. I recall reading about bosses who would send emails to their ghosted employees with assignments, only for the assignments to be completed somewhat quickly. These bosses would scarcely receive reply, but if they ever did, it was in the form of an incoherent, word-vomit sort of email, much like many of the messages you might see online today.

Helena seems to have survived this phenomenon by deluding herself into believing all of these people never vanished. Although nothing could be farther from the truth, I couldn’t bring myself to try and question that reality of hers during our interview. Should I have succeeded in casting doubt on the coping mechanism she had developed, she would have likely ghosted shortly thereafter. My hope is that she continues to live happily as such, blissfully unaware of the empty society in which she lives.

‘Til next time,

- sunny hopewell 

----

tags: #ghosting #hope #humanity #nonfiction #bliss #lifegoeson

[frenchy-and-the-sea]

OC Kiss Week 20 - Wisdom Save

Welcome to kiss week, everyone!

Once upon a time, my drunken master monk Zephyr lost a wisdom save to a horny hot tub in a couple’s suite she accidentally paid for, and came to the stunning, magically induced realization that her traveling companions are both incredibly hot. She handled it with her usual amount of tact and grace; which is to say, none. This is about that time. 

Featuring @kombits‘s Fàilbhe, @colonelcupquake‘s Mira and, briefly, @psychopomp-pan’s Hambone, which is a name I had to write seriously. I fear no god or man now.

 About 1800 words.

-----

The water is too warm. 

Zephyr should hate it, by all accounts. She is a creature of air after all, built for the frigid thinness of open sky; the bath that she is currently sunk into sits in a low, steaming fog of its own making, heavy with a heat that she can feel clinging to her bare neck. By all accounts, she ought to crawl out, march down the stairs again, haggle the deaf old witch at the counter back out of her five gold for an inn room that isn’t boiling over. 

Except. 

Except that she is tired. Except that she's spent the last two days on her feet, collecting an entire forest's worth of grime on her skin, in her hair. Except that the weight of the news they’ve been delivered is nearly the physical sort, a stone lashed to her ankle, and she is aching from every inch of her throbbing feet already. Floating of any kind, even in this soupy bathwater heat, feels too nice to give up just yet.

Beside her, Fàilbhe crouches on the edge of the sunken stone basin, peering down at the water like it has set up a particularly difficult problem for him to solve. He catches her eye at the corner of his own and nods down at the bath.

Is it okay?

She doesn't know how she understands exactly, but the meaning of his little nod is clear enough. She shrugs. "S'fine." 

He nods again, but his eyes narrow, still skeptical. Sidelong, Zephyr can see a host of other emotions crowding in them too; confusion, interest, a strange, quiet something that turns his eyes the color of leaves in shade. They're very nice eyes, she thinks suddenly; strange and goat-like, yes, but beautifully, brilliantly green. Her chest flutters with a pleasant little warmth.

“It doesn’t bite, you know,” a voice from across the bath says. She and Fàilbhe turn at the same time towards the other figure sunk shoulders-deep in the water with her. Hambone drapes an arm over the edge of the tub and grins. “The water, I mean. Come on Fàilbhe, it’s a bath. It doesn’t deserve all of the attention you’re paying it.”

“Jealous, are you?” Zephyr says as Fàilbhe reaches for his notebook, feeling her mouth curve into a little smile. Hambone’s grin widens, and that same strange little flutter begins in her chest again. For all of his irritating habits and his terrible nickname, there’s no denying that her kinsman is the handsome sort; long and lithe, with a curtain of white hair that flutters gently around his shoulders despite the water weighing it down. He carries a particular kind of confidence with him too, the sort that the world-trodden carry when they’ve discovered their place in the grand scheme of things. She finds herself watching the way it settles around him like a cloak, the way his bright eyes crinkle at the corners with his watching of her, the charming little turn of his smile -

Fàilbhe’s hand on her shoulder nearly makes her jump out of her skin.

Are you okay? is written in the notebook that he offers towards her with his other hand. ‘You’ is underlined three times, and she watches him shoot a daggered sidelong look to where Hambone is still grinning at the both of them across the water. A defensive fire joins the pleasant one bubbling in her chest. 

“Of course I’m okay,” she says with a sniff, straightening in her seat. Gods, she had been leaning forward, hadn’t she? “It’s just water, Fàilbhe. It’s not like to kill me. Not this time, anyway.”

Fàilbhe’s mouth twitches into the beginnings of a smile at her joke, but his expression remains grimly unconvinced. He sets his notebook aside just as she opens her mouth to reassure him a second time, and the hand that has been lingering on her shoulder suddenly reaches up and drapes itself over her forehead instead. 

An involuntary shudder passes over her spine. Fàilbhe's fingers have calluses worn into the tips, the sort that come from simple working labors; from spinning thread, braiding rope, caulking the seams of a home. They tickle pleasantly against the curve of her temple. Her ears suddenly feel like they’re burning.

“Fàilbhe,” she says, swallowing hard to keep her voice firm, “Fàilbhe, please, I’m fine…”

He ignores her, keeping his hand there for a few more long heartbeats as his eyes narrow with concentration. Then he frowns, pulls back, and Zephyr’s fraying wits get one single moment of reprieve before he leans forward again and presses a gentle kiss to her brow.

The sensible part of her recognizes the gesture, of course. Hands lain on foreheads often missed the burn of fever-heat that Fàilbhe is clearly checking for; lips pressed there usually did not. The sensible part of her knows that what he’s doing is a noble thing, a kind thing, too kind by half for all of the hell she gives him, in fact. But even the sensible part of her seems to be having trouble explaining that particular notion to the familiar warmth that is slowly beginning to creep through the curve of her belly. 

She stays perfectly still as Fàilbhe holds his lips flush against her forehead, her breath bound up somewhere in her throat. Thoughts begin creeping in, too powerful to stop: that he’s so close, that she can feel the gentle warmth of his breath against the crown of her head, that she could so easily tilt her head back, just a little, just enough to lean forward and -

He pulls back before the thought gets away from her. She wants to scream.

Feel a bit warm, the words in his book say after a moment of frantic scribbling. Zephyr just stares at him, and that heat in her stomach returns as she notices the edge of a smile on Fàilbhe’s lips. Gods, he’s teasing her.

“The bath is warm,” she sputters as soon as she can find the words, but Fàilbhe has already turned away to scrawl another note into his book. This one, he holds out over her shoulder, and Zephyr suddenly feels another presence lean down over her.

“You're feeling strange?" Mira's voice, keenly worried, cuts in from overhead. There is a faint shuffling of bare feet on stone, and then she is kneeling at Fàilbhe’s side, barely a hand’s span away. “Zephyr, is something wrong?”

She is already two steps towards settling in for the night, bereft of both her armor and her arming layers, and it's becoming increasingly difficult not to stare at the intricate maze of tattoos that weave over the rounds of muscle in her arms. Her hair, long and unbound, sticks to the dew of her steam-slick skin in wild, curling wisps, like she’s just stepped out of a fight. Zephyr feels the warmth in her stomach roar into a proper fire, twice as hot as before.

“Nothing,” she snaps. She doesn’t trust herself with anything more complicated than that. “I told you, I’m fine.”

In her periphery, Fàilbhe rolls his eyes, and her wits are not quick enough to stop him before he grabs Mira’s hand and places it firmly against her forehead. The fire cooking in her gut rockets up to meet it, scalding everything between her ears with a wild, thrumming heat, and Zephyr watches with resigned horror and delight as realization breaks over Mira’s face.

“Oh,” she says softly. “Oh, I see.”

Smiling that same near-smirk as Fàilbhe, Mira leans back and slips carefully over the edge of the tub, into the water at Zephyr’s side. Behind her, Fàilbhe’s hand slides down to her shoulder, his fingers catching painlessly in the hair at the nape of her neck. It takes every ounce of her willpower not to shudder. They’re both so close. She can feel Mira’s hand find hers under the water, feels her lace their fingers together, feels Fàilbhe lean down and press another kiss into the crown of her head, sending a trail like fire down her arm and up her back as Mira leans towards her cheek…

“Zephyr?”

The vision suddenly lurched away, vanishing like steam wiped away from glass as Zephyr shot awake. The cozy glow of candles had suddenly become a cascade of white-hot light pouring itself directly into her eyes. The plodding warmth that she had resigned herself to was suddenly smothering. Everything was at once too bright, too heavy, too real.

“Sorry!” Mira’s voice swam out of the confusing assault on her senses from somewhere on her right. “Sorry, sorry! I-I didn’t want to wake you, but…. But, well, I can’t, um…” She trailed off as if she were gesturing to something, and whatever words she had been searching for seemed to fail her altogether. Groaning, Zephyr summoned the little bit of her will she felt she could still command and forced her eyes the rest of the way open. All was a painful, stinging blur for a moment; then the stark morning light creeping over the bed receded, and she turned towards the direction of Mira's gesture.

Towards where her hand lay, clutched tightly onto the fabric of the other woman’s shirt.

A torrent of memories, hazy with the substance of a dream, pressed their way forward in Zephyr’s mind, along with a waking realization that broke across her like a cold sweat. She wrenched her hand back, horrified.

“It’s okay!” Mira said, holding out a hand as if to soothe her. Now that she was properly awake, Zephyr noticed that they were both huddled in choking plushness of the wide four poster that they had rented, with Mira propped up on an elbow a few inches away. Both of them were, mercifully, still clothed.

“What -”

“You were muttering in your sleep,” Mira said gently. “I think you might’ve been having a dream. I’m sorry, I know you don’t like to be up this early. I was just trying to get up to get tea for Fàilbhe and I...”

She made a little gesture towards the back of the room - far away, to Zephyr’s intense relief - towards where Fàilbhe was sitting up on a large pile of pillows, looking her over warily. Watching, with those same brilliant eyes...

Grunting, Zephyr yanked herself away from both of them, grabbing as many of the blankets as she could physically get her fingers around and tugging them over her shoulders.

“Go on, then,” she snapped, rolling so that her back was turned. “I honestly don’t care what you two do. Just don’t wake me up again.”

She could practically feel the fire of the looks that Fàilbhe and Mira exchanged in the silence that followed - exasperated, irritated, long-suffering at best - but once it passed, the bed beside her shifted, and she heard bare feet beginning to pad away. A few moments later, the clip-clop of hooves followed. 

They left Zephyr in bed for another two hours. She didn’t sleep at all.

[ramblinganthropologist]

Theme Cage

Summary: Garrus meets the Corporal and learns that Shepard knows... a lot... about hamsters. Turns out he’s passionate about something that isn’t Reaper related.

(Pre relationship, ME1.)

---

“Hey, Garrus. Could you hand me that bag?”

It was supposed to be a simple request. Garrus kept thinking that to himself as he looked around the room that was assigned to the Spectre, feeling his mandibles twitch in outright confusion. All he was supposed to be doing was handing off some datapads to the Normandy's commanding officer from the medbay. Now...

Well, he didn't know what the hell Shepard wanted him to do.

The man was currently seated in front of a large tank, a small container off to the side. A few bags surrounded him, full of shredded material in various colors. Others held wooden structures of various sizes, some of them bearing chew marks. All of the had a weird, woody smell that Garrus wouldn't necessarily have called bad, just odd.

Odd; that's what the situation was.

“Garrus?”

The turian snapped back to reality as he glanced around. “Yes, Shepard?”

One blue eye glanced over a shoulder to check on him. “You ok, Garrus? Turians don't get low blood sugar too, do they?”

No, they didn't. That was a human thing that the turian was still trying to forget, thank you very much. It wasn't every day you walked in on your commanding officer slumped over his desk, only to be saved moments later by a children's candy. Bizarre didn't even begin to cover it, but how the room looked got close.

“No just...” He cocked his head to the side. “What are you doing?”

The tips of Shepard's ears flushed to match the short shock of red hair that stuck up in the front. He rubbed the back of his neck, smiling nervously. Then he gestured to the smaller container that was sitting off to the side, tucked safely away.

“Oh, uh... Corporal Fluffytail needed a cage change.”

Corporal... Fluffytail.

Garrus realized now that there was something in the small cage, watching him with beady little eyes. It was a space hamster, he realized – like the ones he saw in the Citadel gift shop, only much rounder and much calmer. The ones exhausted parents bought for screaming children tended to practically be chewing on the bars of their cages as they got carted off. Instead, he was pretty sure the Corporal was sizing him up.

How did a hamster become a corporal anyway?

“A cage change.”

Shepard nodded as he gestured to the large glass tank in front of him. “I like to do a deep clean monthly, and he needed a change of scenery. It keeps him from getting bored and engaging in destructive behavior.”

He gestured to the bags by the door. “Can you grab me the red and pink bedding? I'm almost out over here.”

Garrus responded by stiffly making a grab for the bag and depositing it by the Spectre. This put him in closer contact with what Shepard was working on. He already had a good amount of white material at the bottom of the tank, all of it much cleaner than the stuff he saw other space hamsters living in. There was also... more space, he supposed.

Really, did space hamsters need that much space? Especially on a warship?

“Does the corporal need such a large tank? Looks like he takes up the whole table.”

Garrus regretted his words almost immediately as a switch flipped in the mild mannered Spectre. A real fire glowed behind those mismatched eyes as Shepard started to tap in something into his omni-tool. All the while, Corporal Fluffytail watched. The little bastard almost looked smug.

Shepard's voice was a quarter pitch higher than it usually was as he turned to face the turian. “Space hamsters and Syrian-space hybrids like Fluffytail need at least 600 square inches of unbroken horizontal floor space for adequate living area. Any smaller, and you start to see cage biting and other stress symbols.”

He tapped down with firm resolve. “So no. He can't have a smaller space. Not if I want to raise him right.”

The turian winced as he held up his talons. “I meant no disrespect... I can't say I know all that much about space hamsters. You never see them in cages that big on the -”

“The Citadel gift shop needs my damn foot up their ass! Those assholes keep trying to sell genetic cedar as bedding!” He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Really, did they do any research on hamsters before they decided to sell them... and don't get me started on how small the wheels are, do they-”

He stopped, and his cheeks turned blood red. Garrus was left blinking, processing the conversation. It was... well, those were certainly words. His translator was doing the best it could to keep up, but specialized knowledge was often beyond its reach sometimes. Usually he just had to download packs for that...

But for hamsters?

“Right. They've got it all wrong for proper care.”

Shepard's face was still red as he dug into the new bag to start laying material down. “Sorry. I keep trying them to adopt better husbandry practices but they practically laugh me out of the shop when I try.”

“Maybe being a Spectre will get them to listen next time.” At least it got the man's shoulders to lift as he continued to spread material. “So... why red? Did they run out of white or is it easier to find the corporal that way?”

It could have been possible, given the corporal was a little on the beige side with some darker brown spots on his face and the top of his head. Honestly, he was kind of cute – in a beady-eyed small rodent kind of way. He still would never understand why humans kept rodents as pets, but at least this was one of the less obnoxious ones.

Leave it to Shepard to pick a good one.

“Oh, I was going for a theme this time.” The Spectre's tone was much lighter now as he tucked a tube under some bedding, then placed more pink material around its entrance. It kind of reminded Garrus of flower petals on the Presidium. “Something nice for Valentine's Day, you know? It'll give him something to explore while we're in FTL.”

Garrus' translator supplied the information – human holiday, romance, lots of hearts. The Citadel had been participating in growing strength ever since humans had come into the galactic stage, but it really wasn't his thing. Not much time for romance and dates when you were chasing down bad guys or drowning in paperwork.

Not much time for the Corporal either, given Garrus didn't see a friend in there with him.

“I'm pretty sure hamsters don't celebrate Valentine's Day.” He paused, before adding, “They don't, do they?”

Luckily, no lecture followed. Instead, Shepard chuckled softly as he finished spreading out the pink and red bedding. Now he was working on arranging the wooden toys he had picked out, sometimes holding them out to the cage for Fluffytail to inspect. Judging on the pile that was slowly growing with each rejection, he had discerning tastes.

Great – a spoiled hamster. At least it only affected his owner.

“No, they don't. That's mostly for me. Themed cages help me have a little fun, you know?”

Never before had Garrus been convinced humans translated that word completely differently than he did.

“Ah.” The turian knew when to let an issue die. “So... does the corporal enjoy it?”

Shepard nodded as he stood to grab a small pan of what looked like sand. “I think so, he loves exploring when I come up with something new for him. You should come by to watch in a few days when he's awake, he'll probably have moved it all around by then.”

And then the human laughed again as he placed the pan inside the cage. It was the second time Garrus had heard it, and he had to admit it wasn't a bad sound. Honestly, it was pleasant – in a human sort of way. With all the shit they were being put through, it was no surprise he didn't hear it often.

Something like that should be more frequent...

“Hey, do you want to meet him?”

The turian blinked. “Meet... him?”

“Yeah, Corporal Fluffytail. He's awake right now and I need someone to keep an eye on him while I put the wheel in and get his food.” Shepard sounded oh so casual as he reached down to the small cage. “I promise he won't bite.”

At that moment, Garrus very much doubted the corporal could bite through his carapace. Still, his heart skipped a beat as he watched the Spectre carefully cup his hands around the furry body. Slowly, man and hamster rose up, bright eyes focused straight on the turian. They were coming over.

A few seconds later, Garrus was having his talons manipulated in order to hold a hamster right. Turians, as it turned out, needed a different grip that he wasn't altogether used to as the Spectre moved his hand around in order to make sure the corporal would be safe in his care.

Was it hot in there, or was it just him?

“He's... warm.” Garrus kept his arms close to his carapace. Fluffytail was sniffing at his talons, but no nibbling was going on. He seemed curious, if those bright eyes were anything to go by. So... this was a space hamster.

“He's a soft little guy, comes from his Syrian side.” Shepard was smiling as he watched the two. “I'll be right back. Just stay calm and he will be too.”

And then the Spectre was gone, leaving Garrus alone with the corporal. The hamster kept sniffing at him, shuffling around in his talons. Once, he got close to the sharp edge. Garrus could feel his heat jump in his  throat. Then the instincts took over.

“You better not pee on me, Corporal.” Garrus gently deposited the hamster in his cowl. After all, if it was safe for baby turians it should be fine for anyone. Or in this case – anything. The hamster shuffled around a bit, but at least he didn't try to climb down his back. “Good... just hang out there until Shepard gets back.”

A furry body brushed against his mandible and settled in. Corporal Fluffytail, it seemed, was a rather calm fellow. That, or he was terrified of turians and this was a hamster terror display. If that was true, he was about to be in deep water with the Spectre.

“I guess I can see why he likes you. You're not loud, you don't smell... I guess the biting might be a problem, he doesn't have a carapace.” Garrus didn't really reflect on the fact he was talking to a hamster as he carefully reached up a talon to pet the small, furry head nestled close to his mandible. “Not a bad pet for a Spectre, though I think I would go for something a little more intimidating.”

If the corporal was bothered by this commentary, he didn't let it slip. Instead, he accepted the rub and didn't try to bite his talon. That, in Garrus' book, was a good sign. Add in the fact he really was damn soft, and it was all green for him, or at least until he found droppings in his carapace.

“So, do you alert for low blood sugar? I read up on that. “Garrus' mandible twitched. “Or... guess not. You're not a dog. Or at least I don't think you're a dog. Damn dogs come in so many sizes it's easier to guess what isn't one.”

Fluffytail never answered, just kept hanging out somewhere between his mandible and cowl. His furry little heart was quick, and something about it put the turian at ease as he waited for Shepard. A hamster might not have been his pick, but... they weren't bad. Not bad at all.

Maybe the Spectre was onto something.

“Well, looks like you two are getting along.”

Garrus picked up his head to see Shepard had returned and placed food in the corporal's enclosure. His cowl felt a little colder as he carefully scooped the hamster up and handed him over. Once his paws touched the bedding, off he went digging. He was fast.

“He makes a decent enough pet.” the turian nodded. “I'd say we were civil.”

Shepard chuckled again as he brushed some bedding from Garrus' cowl, fingers almost dangerously close to his mandible. “Looked like you were more than civil to me. I knew nobody could resist a cute hamster.”

He went to toss the bedding and empty bag away. “By the way, what did you come up for earlier?”

…

The datapads were still by the door, waiting for Shepard to read them over. They had both walked by them multiple times in the process of getting the hamster situated. Just the sight of them made Garrus want to make like Fluffytail and dig a hole. Instead, he cleared his throat and made a grab for them.

“Dr. Chakwas wanted me to give these to you.”

Thoughts of hamsters were abandoned as the pair slipped back into duty. Still, there was something about the faint scratching of a corporal exploring his new surroundings that put Garrus at ease as he watched Shepard pour over the contents. He could get used to that kind of sound, undying embarrassment notwithstanding.

Maybe if he was lucky, he could come see him again. Though... that would mean hanging out with Shepard more.

…

Well... there were worse things to do with his free time he supposed.