#mercenary & reader

[justpoliteconversations]

Glory Bound [Chain + Mercenary!Reader]

They'd tried to hire you as a guide. That's not what you're paid to do.

Another round of nonsense for the trash heap.

Masterlist

TW: Choosing not to disclose. Be warned.

Disclaimer: Don't own The Legend of Zelda franchise. Linked Universe is the fan creation of jojo56830.

---

Perhaps the majority of your brethren would have been content to play guide for a few days. Travel around the (admittedly more dangerous) parts of the map, point out a few potential monster nests, sit back while your employers did their hunting (their duty, they'd said) and then go spend the rupees that had been all but handed to you.

Easy. The easiest job you've ever been offered. Except it was a goddess-damned joke because that was not what you had trained until your damned eyes bled to do. You were a warrior, a mercenary, a born and raised killer, not a guide to a bunch of ignorant castle knights seeking a good time in the countryside (because you weren't damned stupid, you recognized the symbol of arms on the posh one).

The scarred and tattooed ones seemed promising at least, though the pink haired one had a look in his eyes that made you reluctant to turn you back to him. It's the brows, perhaps. Suspicious looking motherfucker. Lobster kid was cute though, if a little young to be slugging it out with monsters. But who are you to judge. A babe could put an arrow between your eyes if it ever got the mind to (and if you were stupid, but that was besides the point).

When the eldest (big fucker, dressed down in armor heavy enough to make a man's bones creak) had approached you with a job you'd expected there'd be fighting and you'd been more then willing to take that challenge. You hadn't expected to be told to stay out of the way (man had more tack than that, but you called it for what it was) and just point them in the right direction.

You'd flat refused to his face, and took a certain measure of glee from his shocked expression. Because who the fuck did they think you were? This damned expensive armor you'd scraped and saved for was not for show. It was your badge of honor and how dare anyone take that from you.

The boss had talked you into it though, even cut a deal with the knights in your place since you weren't always good with words. You'd guide them on their merry way across the goddess forsaken places of this land you call home, and in exchange, they'd stay behind you.

"Your duty is to get rid of these unusual monsters, correct?" Boss man had said, so damned personable but you knew the old bastard could put a dozen men in the ground if he wanted. "Then so long as you witness their demise, it doesn't matter who swings the sword." Reluctantly, they had to agree the point. The fact that you were the only mercenary who knew the area outside of the trade routes well meant they didn't have much of a choice regardless. And so, you took the job, gave them the rundown on how they would stay behind you unless death came for your sorry hide and then off you went.

And thus you were here now, staring down a monster nest with mounting anticipation. Beside and behind you, you could feel their anticipation too, buzzing off their skin like an agitated bee's nest. The scarred one looked especially ready to bolt forward, stopped only by the pelted one's firm grip.

You cast a glance at the leader, and with an amused glance he called back his boys. Most gave unhappy frowns at the order, but a few looked interested in what you'd do. The smallest one (not a child) was the most open with his interest and a curly haired man in green was not far behind. The white caped one just looked concerned, but you paid him no mind.

The kid though? You couldn't decide if you trusted him not to run out into the battlefield (in your way) the moment things got exciting. He had that aura about him that spoke of bullheaded brashness. Though not as much as the scarred one, but as before pelt man seemed to have a good arm on him.

Whatever. It didn't really matter. You had a job to do, and so you got to it.

Walked right into the monster camp with your sword drawn. You could hear the disbelieving sounds behind you, but you paid them no mind. If they wanted a bowman they should have gotten a hunter. You intended to put this damned expensive armor to use.

The monsters were tougher than usual, you'll admit. Faster and stronger and a great deal smarter than you were used to around these parts. But, at the end of the day they were still just juiced up monsters. Same weaknesses, same strengths, same ugly mugs twisted in pain and death.

A few new faces, but not much different from anything else you've ever fought. And you'd fought a lot. So much you'd forgotten where you began and your sword ended. You'd forgotten what it felt like to feel the breeze of a chill night's wind on your skin. You'd forgotten what it meant to be human, what it meant to be mortal when it was just you and the thrill and an enemy in your face.

It was exhilarating to taste the sting of adrenaline on your tongue again, the strain of muscles against the force of such powerful blows.

No. Not just that. It was the first time in a damned long while you could say you were enjoying yourself. Not since the day you looked back and realized none of your peers had followed you up that damned mountain called Glory. The moment you realized you were alone in this pursuit. The moment you realized, standing above a vast, empty graveyard of black mist, that you had finally reached the top. And that you were alone.

You had reached the end of your journey, and yet you had hungered for more, more, more. Bigger. Stronger. Faster. Smarter. Better.

And now. After so long of nothing. After so damned long of soul draining stagnation.

Rapturous, wonderful glory.

It was a bloodbath. And you had bled. But they had bled more.

They'd been on you the moment you'd stepped foot into their camp. Three lizalfos-like creatures, a dozen or so bokoblines and a tall armored creature you hadn't encountered before. You welcomed them all.

The first to reach you were the lizalfos lookalikes, running full speed at you while the bokoblines played support as archers. The armored one stayed back at first, and you hoped it was as powerful as it thought itself to be.

The first lizard reached you, spear at the ready with a thrust. But you simply sidestepped, ramming your sword into it's throat as it glanced by. The spray of warm blood hit your face but you paid it no mind, swirling on your heel and ripping the spear from the now slack claws with the added momentum.

Another had come from your other side, but you rounded on it with the spear in hand, and using the momentum from the previous lizard's speed threw it with deadly force into the creature's chest. There was no time to stop and admire it's final pained snarls though, dodging down at the last moment just as another spear made for your head.

Still swirling, you lashed out your sword and got its legs, sending it down to its knees. Or it would have, if you hadn't grabbed it's tail last moment and used it as a counterweight to fling yourself out of range of an arrow. Unbalanced and reeling from the blow, it was helpless as you finally finished the twist to use it as a living shield against the other two arrows that had followed the first.

It died with a final jab to the jugular, disappearing into a fine mist of black. All in all, it had taken ten, maybe fifteen seconds. But that's just the nature of battles. They never lasted long.

And neither did the bokoblins. You had slashed them down before the big one had even made it to your location, one of them hadn't even the time to draw its sword before meeting yours.

And then, the armored one was on you. And you knew nothing then but the cold and hot and tingling pain of rapture.

It was big, it was strong, it was powerful in a way nothing you'd ever fought before had even come close. It was glorious.

Blows rained down on you with enough force to crush a man, swipes of its sword so quick and precise they were nearly impossible to counter. It beared down on you with the ferocity of a creature that knew no fear nor pain nor equal. A creature just like you.

You had one thing it didn't though. And that was a goddess-damned itch that needed scratching after too many damned years to recall with adrenaline flowing freely through your blood. Something to prove a monster like this could never understand.

You refused to yield a single, fucking inch.

You kept close, refusing it the leisure of range advantage. You stayed quick on your feet, faster than it even weighed down by armor. You let it bump and hit and attempt to bully you into proper fighting range, and you let it because you were going to get some use from this expensive damned armor even if it cost you an arm.

One direct strike, and you'd be dead. One glancing blow to an unguarded limb and you'd be maimed in an instant. But none of that mattered, because despite it all you still knew what this was.

This was an endurance battle, and knew the score. And you were going to drag this feast out for as long as you damn well could because you had a goddess-damned itch that needed scratching and this monster was doing it for you.

One minute. Two. Five. Ten. And then-

An arrow was suddenly in the slit of its helm, and it was disintigrating before your very eyes, and it was just fucking dead and you weren't the one who did it.

Slowly, you turned.

And there he was, the pink fucker with the fucking brows. Bow in hand and looking just as pissed as you felt.

"Oh, my fucking bad! You just looked like you were enjoying yourself so fucking much, I just thought I'd join the fun." He snarked, and you felt your anger manifest in a snarl.

You knew there was a reason you didn't like the look of him. Suspicious fucker.

But before you could open your mouth. "It's night, you overzealous fucker. Camp's already set up and we lost a whole day of travel because of you!" He snapped, and you held you tongue. You looked around.

Yup. Night. And a fire was glowing a little ways off, eight pairs of eyes watching from around the pit with open interest at the little drama unfolding before them. The youngest looked about salivating at the mouth as he pinned you with puppy eager eyes, and you knew sleep would not be granted easily this night. The scarfed, posh one too looked about ready to crack open your head and rummage around the insides for whatever secrets he thought you might be storing.

Ah. "Opps. My bad, man."

"Motherfucker! That's it?" Pinky harped with a truly thunderous frown, but you could hear outright laughter from the others not far off. The white caped one even seemed to be carving some sort of wooden figurine, so they mustn't be too upset, right?

"Yeah. Guess I got a little too excited about having a decent fight after so long." You admitted, because yeah, that was on you.

Pinky began cursing under his breath, stomping back to the camp with you not far behind. When you stepped into the firelight, the eldest one waved you over with an amused, but serious expression.

You went easily because this was your employer, you were in the wrong and because lobster boy look about ready to jump you the moment you got to his height. And, without an enemy to take your mind off the discomfort, you could tell you had definitely pushed yourself too far this time. You ached everywhere.

Worth it though.

You sat and the man put a companionable hand on your shoulder (you were about to be chastised, you could just feel it. fuck). "Next time we encounter enemies, you have ten minutes. If you're not finished by then, we join to clean up the rest." He smiled with his one eye, and you just bowed your head. Because yeah, your bad.

"Got it. Sorry Boss." You accepted easily, shame-faced.

He patted where his hand had been resting. "Good. Now, I'm sure the boys are eager to talk to you, Mr. Hero." He was being an asshole somehow, you could tell (there was an inside joke in there too, but you weren't privy to it). Sacrificing you to the wolves (you side-eyed lobster boy), and looking so damned harmless while doing it.

Damned ruthless, this one. You wanted to meet him on the battlefield, if things like that absolute unit of a beast are what these bastards fought for a living. They must be a whole new breed of monster and you were just rearing to meet them. Properly, with swords in hand and blood rushing wildly through your veins.

Suddenly, the top didn't look so lonely anymore. The clouds had finally parted and the world lay before you in all its splendor. So much bigger than it had ever been before.

And you were so ready to conquer it all.

For Glory. And the goddess-damned thrill.

---

Back to the shadows to rest.

[mirrorcatcreditcard]

Your honor, they were watering down my favorite character and not letting them be a jerk.

[yanderedrabbles]

Yandere Cyberpunk Mercenary

A ruthless mercenary and you, his spoilt little catch.

Mercenaries have a reputation for being mad dogs, so pumped up with biochem they can't even think straight. And Yandere! Mercenary is no exception.

Yandere! Mercenary doesn't care who's paying him, as long as he gets paid. He's put down rebels on Titan and toppled governments on Europa - the flags they fly don't mean a damn thing to him.

Yandere! Mercenary who's spent his whole life fighting. Who dreams of gunfire and chemical weapons and burning up in the atmosphere.

Yandere! Mercenary who rolls his eyes when he gets offered his latest job. Kidnap some rich kid and hold her hostage? Talk about easy money. Hell, he can get the job done and still have time for a drink.

Yandere! Mercenary with his prosthetic arm and cybernetic implants. With his lip piercings and neon mohawk. With his bloodstained teeth and sleepless nights.

Yandere! Mercenary who finds you easy enough. Out on a shopping spree in some fancy boutique. Like you don't own enough shit already.

Yandere! Mercenary who almost scoffs when he sees you. You're everything he isn't. Wearing some pretty pastel outfit straight off the runway, your hair dyed so subtly that he knows it must have cost a fortune.

Weak, spoiled little Earthling.

Yandere! Mercenary who follows you down to the parking garage and shoots your bodyguards full of tranq. Non-lethal, his contractor demanded.

Yandere! Mercenary who grabs the back of your neck when you try to run and slams you into your hovocraft. Your shopping scattered all over the floor and trampled under his combat boots.

Yandere! Mercenary who laughs at the way you claw and scratch at him. Normal nails and not titanium claws? What are you gonna do with those, sweetheart? Tickle him?

Yandere! Mercenary who throws you in the back of his hovocraft and hightails it out of there. Shit, this was easier than he expected.

Yandere! Mercenary who ignores all the threats you spit at him. He doesn't give a damn who your mother is or how rich your daddy is. He doesn't care how many people they send after you. He's getting this job done and getting paid and that's all that matters.

Yandere! Mercenary who realises he should have listened when the first team of guards show up. They almost blast him out of the sky and it's only his quick thinking that gets him out of there.

Yandere! Mercenary who swears as he hauls you out of his wrecked craft and through the neon soaked streets of the slum district.

Yandere! Mercenary who grabs your shoulders and shakes you like a rag doll until you confess that you have a tracker in your neck.

Yandere! Mercenary who pins you against the wall and grabs the knife strapped to his leg. Who wraps his hand around your thigh and pulls your leg around his waist so you have no choice but to press against the concrete.

Yandere! Mercenary who carefully cuts the tracker out of your neck.

Yandere! Mercenary who mockingly apologises when you flinch.

Yandere! Mercenary who licks the cut he left behind. Who sucks at the blood until you stop bleeding. Who trails his lips up your neck before pulling away.

Yandere! Mercenary who's titanium teeth glint red when he grins at you.

"Look at that blush. Did ya like that, pretty thing?"

Yandere! Mercenary who loves the dazed, bashful look on your face. Billionaire princess getting all hung up on herself cause of him? Ain't that a sweet piece of irony.

Yandere! Mercenary who stashes you away in a safehouse while he waits for his boss to contact him. Who realises he was wrong about you. Spoilt, yes. Arrogant, yes. But innocent too. Naive.

Yandere! Mercenary who spends hours telling you stories about the colonies he's visited. And you sit engrossed, eating it all up like you've never heard anything so fascinating, instant ramen bowls scattered across the shitty linoleum.

Yandere! Mercenary who watches your fear of him fade a little with each passing hour. Oh, he still frightens you. But your curiosity outweighs that fear.

Yandere! Mercenary who takes every opportunity to touch you, to reach over you. Who loves the nervous little glances you aim at him, the way you blush when he catches you staring.

Cute. And tempting too.

How long has it been since he's had a woman? Yandere! Mercenary who looks at you and wants to sink his teeth in.

Yandere! Mercenary who catches his breath when you grab his hand and ask to go with him.

"Please," you beg. "I want to see the galaxy."

Yandere! Mercenary who knows that he scares you. He ain't easy on the eyes and anyone with sense can see the notched dog tag he wears - one scratch for every kill.

So why the hell are you asking him to run away with you?

Yandere! Mercenary who finally realises the gold you wear is nothing more than a collar and chains. You're a pretty bird in a gilded cage.

Yandere! Mercenary who, for the first time in his career, decides to run out on a job. Who chooses you over profit.

Yandere! Mercenary who grins down at you as he straps you into the copilot seat of a stolen space cruiser. Nervous and innocent and all his to corrupt.

Sure, he'll show you the galaxy. He'll show you the whole damn universe. All from the comfort of his bed.

[valentine-cafe]

Can I please get a macchiato? [amab reader]

thinking about buying alessio a cute pair of lace lingere and him getting all shy while getting fucked in it...mmm...

˖⁺. “ dolled-up, filled-up ! ” : 

﹙ top male reader x bttm mercenary antihero bf ﹚.𖹭 ݁

. . . alessio 781 x male reader !! 🍓 : ﹙ mercenary ˖ antihero ˖ bad boy esque ˖ enigma  character ﹚

he's always been so cocky and yet now that you have him all dolled up and pretty - he's getting shy. 

﹙ cws ﹚: explicit content ˖ lingerie ˖ edging ˖ penetrative sex ˖ nipple play ˖ rough sex ˖ hand job ˖ creampie ˖ multiple orgasms ˖ mirror sex | wc : 2k 

﹙ receipts ﹚: whoever requested this I am giving you my first born child !! top that top! DOM THAT DOM!

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Leather is his signature, and yet lace makes him a masterpiece.

Your hands trail over the canvas. Eager to touch. Grip. Feel him. Dig you nails in and create beautiful red lines over his fair, olive skin.

“Such a pretty boy. . .” your croon to his ear is met with a low grunt. Nothing of contempt. The pink on his helix told you all that you needed to know. The shivers that vibrated against your palms too. And those emerald eyes staring back at you from the mirror he faces? Oh, they spoke thousands.

The black lace feels perfect against his skin. Looks even better on him. Both in reality and reflection. You run your fingers over his hips and trace them to his thighs. Trailing them into the slip of the garter you simply had to buy with. You stretch it away from his skin - before allowing it to smack back into his muscular thigh.

You nurse the noise that he makes. Your hand quickly slips between his legs and palms at his leaking cock. Slow. Purposeful. Easing that perfect sound into a long-winded whimper.

“Querido. . .”

“I know baby. I know.”

Your free hand finds his jaw. Tightens and yanks so that he stares at the beautiful piece of art your eyes hungrily rove over. “Look at yourself. Watch as I do this to you, Alessio.”

His name on your lips always has him elated, but this made him dizzy. Makes him weakly buck up into your hand that devilishly strokes along his pulsing nerves. You make sure to shove the soft fabric off so that you an see the way his tip throbs. Pink and begging for your thumb to swirl around mercilessly.

You wet your lips at the curve that his back takes. Your hips keenly following by grinding your wet dick up against his ass. Wanting another go at fucking him raw.

“Need this baby?” Your hiss elicits a whine. With a rough shake of your hand on his jaw - you shove your thumb past his lips and roughly pad down on his tongue.

“Said fucking watch yourself.”

His eyes flutter at the rough treatment. If only to cross when you slip back in. Your groan mixes with his series of moans and you buck your hips up to sink further into his tight rim. It mattered not how much he took your cock. He always clamps like a needy little slut.

Instead of the harsh skin-slapping that filled the room prior, you bite on your tongue and force your thrusts to slow. Ease your dick into his gummy walls. Retreat. Fill again. Till your balls tap at his ass gently and he’s whining about you being deep.

Or going slow. You’re not sure yet.

“That feel good baby? Yeah?” Huffs meet his ear. You stutter your hips against the plush of his ass and grin at the moans that fall from him. His large hands grip at the edges of the mirror and he bends slightly. Steering his hips back into your cock and giving you the perfect angle to bury your hand into his messy black hair.

You so desperately want to fuck him until he’s drooling again. Have him bounce on your cock so you paint his insides and thighs white. But this time you want to adore the lace on him. Trail your fingers over the black fabric and feel the way it frames his body so perfectly. Enhancing some of the beauty spots along his sides. Riding up his waist with each thrust back into you. An invite to grip and yank him back against you, if you do say so yourself.

“So gorgeous. God. Do you have any idea?”

He whines at you. You just so manage to hear the low mutter. The soft shut up. So you curl your fingers into his tousled strands and jerk his face to the mirror properly again. Resuming your harsh treatment with hard. Yet slow thrusts. So that at the very least his plush flesh claps with each smack of your hips. Tempered. Punishing.

“Oh no. You’re not getting away from this.” You grunt through clenched teeth. Just like he’s clenching around your dick. Begging to be filled again most probably. As though your slick isn’t still staining his thighs from earlier. “You’re gonna watch. Gonna see what a pretty lil’ toy you are for me.”

The restraint bubbles away. You start fucking him a bit faster. The wet squelching fills the room quicker. So do his moans that catch in his throat or whine out when his mouth falls open and his face scrunches up.

“A-Am - Am - hhh - or fuck -!”

“Say it. Fucking say it.”

The growl comes from deep with you. Rough like the way you start humping his ass. The way you start slamming at an angle - against that one bundle. So that Alessio can’t even buck back into you properly. All he can do is take it. Like he’s good for; in that pretty lingerie of his.

Your mouth finds his ear. Clamping teeth as you speed your thrusts. Cramming your hips into his and using another hand to shove his legs together. So that he’s squished, pressured — all the more to add to the intensity. “Want you to say you’re a pretty little toy. Pretty little whore.”

“I-I - I-hhh - m- ah! Fuck - po-por f-ffff-fuck please-”

The whining caught in his throat is so endearing. You bark a breathless laugh into his ear and yank him back. Stumbling through your bedroom floor and shoving the mercenary onto the bed. Hands gripping at his forearms as you squish him onto his stomach. Rail him from behind until tears squeeze out of his emerald eyes and his moans turn into drooling words.

You know how stubborn he is. Know that you have to force compliments down his throat. The same way your forcing your dick into his thigh ass. Mercilessly slapping. Addicted to the lewd sounds of his ever-taking hole. The slop of your cum all over his thighs. His own on his abdomen. The sheets.

It’s such a mess. And still - he’s the most beautiful thing that you’ve seen. Something you are ready to drill into his head. Even if it takes all night of you pulling and twisting him. Fucking him full so that he’s crying. He’ll repeat your words. Even if he has to sob it while you are pounding him ball-deep.

“A-Am- Amoor-ciiitttooo -! No - N-No puedo -” ( “I can’t-” )

Liar. He always could. He proves it with the way that his little hole spasms around you when you shove him onto his back and bully your way back into him. Fucking every inch in until he’s stuffed full and arching because of it.

“Yes you - hah - yes you can baby. You can. Look at me.”

Your hand reaches down to caress his tear-stained face. You abruptly slam into him. Cram your hips against his and jostle him further up the sheets. Wrecking the bed like you’re wrecking his trembling body. This position allows you to see just how much he’s creamed himself all over. The sticky substance clings onto the material pooling around his waist.

The sight has you groaning. Your hips stutter to shallow. Fuck him full repeatedly while also grinding into that spot hat has his eyes threatening to roll back again.

Your hand takes a quick detour to roughly tug at the trap of the lingerie. Gentleness be damned. You’ll buy him a new one. Buy him five. Ten - as many as he wants. Anything if it meant getting him to squirm beneath you like this.

Skilled fingers brush the fabric away and you give one of your favourite parts of him some love. Tugging at his nipple piercings before hurling a small wad of spit. So that you can swirl your thumb around the sensitive bud and watch as he crumbles even more.

Your name on his lips is so broken. So pitiful. You simple have to dip your head down and suck on his nipples. All while your hips make bruises on his. Pounding his poor little ass into the sheets until he’s crying out all sorts of phrases in his mother-tongues you can’t eve decipher.

“N-No p-pueeedddoo! D-Dios - ah- Por dios - e-es t-aaan profundo -hngh!” ( “I can’t - oh god - it’s too deep.” )

As if you knew what he was saying, you try to bury yourself deeper. Grip at his thighs and fuck into him with your own desperation. A desperation to claim. To pleasure. To remind. You force yourself away from his nipples slathered in your saliva to instead crane your head over his. Shut your eyes, crease your brows and focus all your strength into fucking his poor hole raw.

“Goood baby I - hngh - fuuckk you’re too fuckin’ pretty -”

His moans sound odd suddenly. You let your gaze fall to investigate. If only to be met with the sight of his head flicked to the side. The back of his knuckles covering the lower half of his face. The mere gesture warms your hearts — to think. The cocky bastard. Your flirty charmer of a boyfriend. Shy over being called pretty and fucked in a lingerie.

It’s such a pitiful sight. Such an endearing one. Your hand returns to brush some of his messy strands back. Before clicking your tongue and drawing out your thrusts again. Slowing them so that you might piston him in that way that shakes his body and slams the headboard into the wall.

“Did I say you could do that?” You snatch his wrist and pin it firmly. Giving a harsh squeeze to remind it to stay there. Before you reach up to cup at Alessio’s reddened face. So that you might tilt it up and pour your loving gaze down into his teary ones.

“You still haven’t said it. Please. Baby please.”

Your pleading combined with your thrusts shallowing once more. Rolling and fucking him just right. There was no denying you this time. Not when you looked down at him as though he was every star in the fucking universe.

“I-I’m - I hah -”

“You can do it. Come on. Say you’re my pretty boy.”

To motivate, your slip a grip under his thigh so that you can toss his leg over your shoulder. Invade his space further. Bring your warm bodies together so that you can make him cum again. You’re not sure how long you might last either. But one thing’s for sure. You’re using his body through the night.

His teary eyes meet yours. His hand weakly reaches to cling onto your bicep - and at last, he rasps out in a trembling voice: “I’m . . . I-I’mmm - fuck -” he gasps at your little spank to his ass.

“I’m your pretty - your p-pretty boy youur prettyy boy - ah!”

You have to reward him by cramming your hips into his. Snatch at his cock and pump him until he’s creaming all over again. The sobs that leave his lips as he tosses his head back into the sheets makes all the strain in your muscles worth it.

No - the sight of him laying there. In that black lingerie that has nothing on his beauty - taking it like your good, pretty boy. That is what makes everything worth it.

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[turbulentscrawl]

Protection

Yet another little blurb series that absolutely no one asked me for. BUT YOU KNOW WHAT? WHATEVER GETS THE JUICES FLOWING AGAIN.

warnings for violence, angst, and comfort. Use of potentially triggering words like "psycho" and "whore."

The manor was a hard adjustment for any new face, but some handled it worse than others. This mystery man was particularly defensive, particularly paranoid of the manor’s nightmarish circumstances. He was stressed, and scared, and confused, and bleeding out in his first match was the last straw needed to tip the scales towards an outburst.

Norton

You were just trying to be friendly when you spoke to him at breakfast. Really. But looking back you could see how a terrified mind might misconstrue your small comforts and placations about death as mocking. He stormed off mid-meal, and you spent the rest of it stewing in quiet guilt. A walk in the gardens would do you some good, you decided, but Norton was still busy with his second helping of steak and eggs and told you to go on ahead.

So alone you exited the room, lost in regretful thoughts, but you didn’t make it halfway down the hall before the new guy appeared again. He stopped down ten feet from you, coiled tight like a cornered animal. He didn’t look like he had calmed down at all, but then he hadn’t seemed calm since he arrived. In any case, it seemed like the best chance you would get to give an apology.

“I’m sorry for upsetting you earlier,” you said, stepping aside to let the fearful man pass, so he could go finish his meal.

But he reacted to your words like a viper strike, flinching and then snapping forward to put his face in yours. His eyes were wild.

“Don’t play coy about it,” he hissed. His hands, at his sides, itched and twitched to grab and you were too fear frozen to move away from them. “You’re part of this hell too, I know it. All of it an act, AN ACT! But you won’t trick me. You won’t get to make it worse for me!” He raved and threatened in your face for what seemed like forever, so close he took up your entire vision and you forgot where you were. Maybe that’s what it was like for him, right now, you faintly mused, still trying to understand. You hadn’t been like this when you first arrived… you or anyone else that you could recall.

He stopped talking suddenly, eyes tracked on something behind you.

You looked over your shoulder to see what had caught his attention and spotted, back through the doorway to the dining room, Norton tipped back in his dining chair and watching. Watching you. Watching him. A steak knife was in his hand and a dare was in his eyes.

Your attention was drawn back by the sound of the new guy stomping off again, hurried, tail still between his legs. When you looked back at Norton again, he tipped his chin to beckon you. When you stepped back through the door, Norton took his foot off of the table (its placement earned a side-eye from Fiona) to lower his chair back to four legs, and kicked out the empty seat next to him for you to reclaim. You sat down meekly, shaken by guilt and fear.

“I was just trying to—”

“I know,” he interrupted, biting again into his food. “And he’ll figure it out himself too eventually. In the meantime, let him be someone else’s problem.”

In a rare show of public affection, Norton leaned over and kissed you on the temple. “And stick closer to me for a while. You’ll be fine.”

Naib

Shit had hit the fan as soon as everyone was back and healed from the match. You and the new guy had both died—you to the chair and him to bloodloss—but a tie was a tie and worth at least a small celebration. But when he joined you, Tracy, and Margey for the tea party, he completely lost it.

He leapt across the sun room table for you, tipping it and all its contents to the ground, and the girls screamed with a genuine shock and terror you hadn’t heard in a while. Your back and knees smarted, all whacked by the scattering wooden furniture. Hot tea seeped into your shirt and scalded your belly. Sharp, broken porcelain lay dangerously scattered around your head. You couldn’t tell what the girls were shouting because you were too focused on your assailant. On keeping his hands off of your throat, out of your eyes, and getting his pinning body off of you. His nails clawed at your face, you knew that much, but if the matches taught you anything it was to not give up on a struggle.

Just as you started in on some dirty fighting Naib had taught you (pulling, trying to rip his ears off), the man himself came charging in like a bull and tackled the new guy off of you. You got kicked a bit in the process—but that was a fair price to pay for being able to scramble to the other wall and watch, secured by Tracy an Margey, as Naib completely wailed on the guy.

Naib didn’t talk about his background much, but you knew he knew how to fight. This was barely a fight—a one-sided beatdown morelike—but in your bitter soreness you felt it was well deserved. Naib knew how to make every swing count, and it was only well after the new guy was limp on the ground that William showed up and hauled Naib off of him. Emily followed next, running to check on the new guy since you were already being doted on by the girls.

When William finally let Naib go, he huffed and puffed and flexed off some of his remaining aggression before spitting out a spiteful, “He ain’t dead. I ain’t that nice.”

Then he turned and shooed the girls off, scooped you up, and marched right out of the room. He held you too tight for your sore back’s liking, but you couldn’t begrudge him the positioning to keep his nose in your hair while walking to somewhere more secluded and safe. His chest was still heaving against your side, still high with adrenaline and worry. His knuckles were split and bloody. The day had only just started.

“Sorry,” you sighed into his neck. Naib scoffed, mouth still pressed to your scalp.

“What for? He’s the cunt.” He kicked open the door to your bedroom, fully pulling back enough to give you a smirk. “Don’t ever be sorry for me stepping in. I’ll take care of everything.”

Ithaqua

The manor sometimes held garden parties to welcome new inhabitants. Usually, though, it had better timing.

The poor new guy had had the awful misfortune of being a valuable player. He was good at getting in the hunter’s face, and the others did all they could to get him off his first chair safely. Because of the great team effort, he’d wound up bleeding out while the Hunter—Ithaqua, your boyfriend—dealt with the others. You knew that wasn’t Ithaqua’s modus operandi; it hadn’t been on purpose. …but he wasn’t exactly sorry about it, either.

As a result, the party was tense in some areas. Specifically, the areas where the new guy went. He walked around with a deep frown and a nervous jitter. He’d been anxious when he first arrived too, but it was understandably worse now, in witness of the two factions being chummy with one another right after one had just killed him. The hunters avoided him from the get go, and the survivors gave up on conversation with him not long after.

And you, well. You didn’t get to see Ithaqua in peaceful settings often.

That’s how you wound up here, you supposed.

“So you’re a fucking traitor whore!” the new guy snapped in your face. He wasn’t quiet, either. “What’s the matter with you! Those monsters beat and torture us and you turn around and hang all over one? You’re probably no fucking better, some kind of psycho killer! You’re the one who should die! You’re the one who should bleed!”

Not being quiet would be his downfall, though. Picking a secluded corner of the hedge maze to catch you in didn’t matter. The wind carried.

He didn’t get much farther into his rant and threats before Ithaqua came whirling around the corner with his “business” mask on. His axe was back in the manor, but the Hunter’s claws and sheer strength could do harm enough to a survivor. Ithaqua snatched the new guy up by the nape before he had a clue what was happening, and dangled him overhead. The new guy screeched in a way that made you feel sick, but you knew from experience there was no talking Ithaqua down. Shamefully, you turned your eyes away.

“You sure like to run your mouth,” Ithaqua sneered at him, tilting his head in that wicked, owlish way of his. “You know, all the other rats take death in stride around here. You clearly need some more practice with it.” Ithaqua ruffled your hair with his free hand before stalking off around the corner with the squirming offender.

When he came back a few minutes later, he was wiping his bloody claws off on his cape.

“He knows not to trouble you anymore,” he cooed. When he took off his mask, Ithaqua’s blackened eyed are far more serene than they should have been for what he’d just done. “Come, the Geisha brought out those little caked you like.”

[fishermanshook]

F!CK BOYS GONE SOFT

( mercenary , batter & prospector ) + gn!reader

# MINOR WRITING SMUT , #ihatewritingdialouge , grammar and spelling warning

INTRO

It was a mutual agreement between the both of you that you were fucking for the pure reason of letting off steam after being stuck in this hell hole. 

No feelings were supposed to be caught. No hearts were meant to be thawed. And yet, they find themselves yearning for your touch long after your last session.

꒰wc꒱ 1.7k ( longest fic so far !! )

✦— THE MERCENARY

If being between your legs was where he wished to be, then who were you to deny him access to the most private part of your body? Where Naib works his magic and milks you of your essence while paying you back in waves of pleasure.

The Mercenary looks so lost in his work that you think he doesn’t notice the change in pitch. That you’ve adjusted your grip on his hair to a softer, gentler hold. Your moans are light, airy, and not at all the ones that left your throat hoarse and raspy the night before. No, that can’t be right. And it doesn’t take him long before he finds the spot that pushes you over. The spot that has your back arching off the mattress. The spot that has you screaming his name like it’s going out of style.

And god does pleasure look good on you, as Naib refuses to remove his eyes from you as he watches the aftermath of you coming undone in front of him. Such a passionate and intimate thing for his eyes and his eyes only as your essence coats his hands and tongue. To think he’d pull his head away after you came is just stupid. Have you not learned from previous sessions? You coming only gives him more reason to drop down there and give you more, but Naib holds himself back.

The next few moments are a blur as you try to calm down after your orgasm, but it seems Naib won’t let you. The sound of something being unzipped and his pants hitting the floor pulls you from your recovery. He’s prepped you enough, hasn’t he?

“It’ll hurt a little, but only for a second.” The Mercenary whispers in your ear as a warning to brace for what’s about to come. It makes him wonder, and only for a split second, if you ever realized how much he loves you. The amount of thought and care that goes into every move he makes towards you. Maybe you’re just dense, or maybe it’s not like that. He won’t know until he tells you. Or, until you tell him.

Your hands rush to clamp themselves over your mouth in an attempt to stifle the moans flooding from it. This isn’t the first time you’ve done this (and certainly not the last…), but it’s always a tight fit. A tight fit that neither of you can get enough of. Your hands don’t last though, as the Mercenary is quick to rip your hands away from your mouth. He shakes his head and clicks his tongue. You don’t need him to say anything else.

It’s not long before you feel the familiar warmth strengthen between your legs. By now, Naib’s memorized your every tell that you’re going to come. By the way your legs tighten around his waist and the way your hands reach to clasp his biceps to try and hold on. It’s the way you attempt to not pass out when you feel everything just snap.

“God, I love you so much,” Naib admits before even realizing what he just said. You’ve never seen the man freeze so fast, or go so red. Before his hands cover his mouth you pin his wrists down to the bed.

“Wait—! H-hold on,” you say, still recovering from your orgasm that happened just seconds ago. “What did you say?”

The Mercenary stares at you before opening his mouth to say: “I didn’t say anything.” He’s trying to play it with a convincing tone in his voice, but it’s hard to believe when he practically shouts it.

“No, Naib,” you huff out “Are you playing me?” You question. Your face molds into worry and concern. Instead, he avoids your gaze. There’s nothing else for him to do in this situation is there.

“Fine. If you won’t say it, then I will.” You state before grabbing Naibs face and pressing it into yours. The Mercenary tries (and he really does) to do anything but melt into your touch. In the end, it proves to be no use. Pulling away, you say: “Naib, there is no one else I love more than you.”

“Thanks for confirming what I already know, babe.”

✦— THE BATTER

Not every affair starts with a heated make-out session, but every heated make-out session ends with the two of you having sex. With your lips entwined as your fingers roam through his hair, the two of you make a mad dash to whoever’s room is closer as playful giggles slip out along the way.

It started as just another way to let yourself go and cut loose a little after another night of terror from Ganji. How could you not tell that the Batter saw you as more than just some fuck buddy? That his eyes weren’t only filled with lust, but love for you and you entirely?

Maybe this can be his way of showing you, whether you get it or not. Whether you understand the soft kisses he lays on your chest. Whether you understand the praises that fall from his lips. Whether you understand it's taken him too long to finally muster up the courage to confess to you.

You’ve stripped each other of your clothes leaving both of you bare naked. The only thing covering you are the multiple hickeys decorating your chest as well as between your legs. The pleasure overrides any pain felt from when he initially pushed his way inside of you. Before you know it, you're babbling all over his cock while he presses gentle kisses all over your face. You look so cute like this—all flushed out and pink.

Ganji's smart, but overlooks your cock drunkenness and traces his finger along your jaw and other places. Eventually, his finger meets your back and traces along your spine. His finger does weird swoops along your backside. It's all just a simple way of telling you 'I love you.' without having to utter a word.

Maybe it's the way you moan out his name as your hips move up and down on his cock. Or maybe it's the look in your eyes when he meets them. The Batter's not sure where the courage comes from, but all he knows is that he can't stand another moment of you not being his.

"[name] I- fuck, I love you." He barely manages to grunt out, snapping you from your thoughts to look at him with wide eyes.

"What-?"

It's then he thinks he fucked up. That he has demolished all of the hard work he put into this relationship. This is it. This is the end of your bond.

"No, shit I'm sorry just forget what I said," Ganji mutters out, immediately flipping you over so that your lying down on your back. "I'll make you come real hard if you just forget everything I just said, 'k?" Ganji says with caution in his voice. Maybe you're not the only one oblivious in this relationship of yours.

"Really? You love me?"

Ganji tears his eyes away from wherever he is looking at looks right at you. "Yeah. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. If not for you I don't think I'd ever get the chance to say this," you chimed, pulling him in for a long and passionate kiss first. "Ganji, I love you more than the stars themselves."

✦— THE PROSPECTOR 

The bed will break long after the Prospector, Norton Campbell, has had his way with you. He won’t stop until his sheets are soaked in your combined essences until your scent has been embedded into his mattress, and until he can get the words out to tell you how he feels.

For too long has Norton been labeled as your “fuck buddy” and he wants out of it. Every round feels like another chance to prove he’s perfect for you. How many people know your favorite book? Your favorite place to relax? Your favorite position? The sensitive spots on your body? Who else knows exactly where to touch and what to say? All he needs you to answer is if you like him or not.

“Shit—always feel so good,” Norton manages to grunt out after thrusting into you. He knows he’s found your sweet spot (again…) when he pulls a loud moan from your sweet lips. So attentive to your wants and needs that he can’t help but hit the spot again and again, listening as your moans grow louder with each thrust.

The Prospector mutters something under your breath he thinks went by unnoticed. Pulling you from your aroused state to ask him what’s wrong. All he can do is sigh and shake his head as his arms wrap around you. A bit tighter than usual, but not uncomfortable.

“Norton—! What’s the matter?” You manage to huff out. It’s obvious something is plaguing his mind, but the Prospector is as stubborn as ever and refuses to tell you. “Fine then,” you tell him “I guess I just won’t let you come.”

Now that gets his attention, and he instantly slows his pace. You allow him to keep going, but only if he starts talking.

“I’m too scared to say it,” Norton states.

“Why?” You ask.

Norton looks down at where you're still connected. It’s only then you notice he’s stopped. “Because I don’t want it to ruin whatever we’ve got going on. I don’t want to lose everything.” He admits through gritted teeth.

“Do you think it’s that bad that you’d lose everything?” You ask, concern now seeping into your voice.

All he does is sigh before bringing his face closer to yours. “God, is it seriously not obvious enough? Shit, [name] I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time and I didn’t want to say anything in fear of ruining—“ he gestures using his hands to the both of you. “this. A-and I get it if you don’t want anything to do with me after this but you asked so—“

He doesn’t get to finish as you cover his lips with yours. “Silly prospector, I love you more than you could imagine.” You confess before feeling Norton melt into your kiss once more.

note: hiii fish nation…sorry about the random hiatus, it will probably happen again 😆😆😆. thank you all so much for 100+ followers! it means the absolute most to me knowing there are actually people who enjoy reading what I have to write. I wouldn’t be here without you, thank you for everything so far. 🩷🩷🩷. this is so ass oh my gosh

(2024) ©️fishermanshook — do not steal, translate, plagiarize, or repost my work on any other platform

[sunflower39]

[Left] Or [Right]

(Choose wisely 😔🤗)

[jealousofmydreams]

mean!price who was a mercenary but gained the title of a baron when he aided the king during the war. with the lack of man power, the group of bandits were seen as saviors from the common people. therefore the king had no choice but to reward them, much to his dismay.

but price, who knew the ploys of powerful rich men, wanted more than a title which had no guarantee of safety for him and his men. he wanted a noble wife fron a distinguished lineage who will give him heirs and a name that will remain untouchable.

the king, having no daughters, procured the daughter of a marquis. much to the chagrin of the marquis who had to send his one and only daughter, renowned as the flower of spring, to a mercenary.

however, upon the wedding night, the veiled bride turned out to be the marquis hidden illegitimate child who bore no reassemble or sophistication of a noble woman.

instead, a scrawny woman who couldn't even hold her head up high was his bride. nothing like the infamous woman he was promised.

furious, price could not even retaliate as he was given the daughter of a marquis as promised, even if it was an illegitimate child.

price returned to the battlefield instead of residing with his new bride. leaving her to fend for herself in a castle where she held no true name. the servants and the maids paid her no mind.

she was a baroness in name only and remained a ghost within the foreign walls of her new home.

the years passed by until her husband finally returned, only in a coffin. a battle taking his life after playing with death for so many years.

however, on the day of his burial the once dead man came back to life, with only her name on his lips.

the hateful man who detested her so intensely clung to her as if she was his lifeline.

as she took care of him, a man who lost his memories but only she remained, she slowly realized the man who came back to her wasn't her husband, but a being that did not belong in this realm.

even so, she could not bear to let him go. the lonely girl craved the warmth that only he gave to her.

however, it wasn't long before the unknown entity and the soul of the dead man clashed and both vied for her affection.

(price making a deal with an unknown entity as he was on the verge of death, he wanted fame of his name. he gave his body so he could return and gain what was rightfully his, glory.

however, caged in his own body, his soul forced down to the deepest and darkness part of his being, price gained affection as he watched the play of romance between the entity wearing his face and the wife he neglected.

for once price desired something beyond greatness, but what was once rightfully his, was given away by his own hands, to the beast who refused to give it back)

[kqutie]

THE PRINCESS' SEVEN MERCENARIES —MINI SERIES [✿ ❄︎ ☁︎]

sum. : you're the missing princess living in a cottage with a group of undercover mercenaries

relationships : poly cevans characters/snow white reader ; mercenary steve rogers/snow white reader ; mercenary curtis everett/snow white reader ; mercenary jake jensen/snow white reader ; mercenary ransom drysdale/snow white reader ; mercenary ari levinson/snow white reader ; mercenary andy barber/snow white reader ; mercenary lloyd hansen/snow white reader

tags. : reader is a disney princess au ; mercenary cevans characters ; magic/fantasy au ; a/b/o dynamics (but not too significant) ; fluff ; disney au ; snow white and the seven dwarves inspired ; all of them go soft for reader ; a/b/o 'customs' (i made them my own hehe~) ; evil queen is evil ; eventual poly relationship

inspiration : there were several, the main being 'what was wrong with poisoning her seven men' by @imyourbratzdoll -- a beautiful, smutty snow white adaptation with a slew of delicious hunky men! i highly recommend giving it and the rest of her 'a whore's fairy tale' series a read ;) i'm not much of a smut writer but i am a hoe for cevans various characters x reader and fairy tale adaptations hehe~ so here's my little fluffy twist on the classic snow white fairy tale, i hope you darlings enjoy the read!

chapters :

i. a swift escape ii. a fateful meeting iii. a different morning iv. the liberal guard v. the smitten charmer vi. the foolish genius ⌊new⌉ vii. the lumbering repairman viii. the soft negotiator ix. the gentle executioner x. the lenient captain xi. a peaceful routine xii. the evil queen xiii. epilogue

taglist : @imyourbratzdoll @lovinglimerence @saturdayrj @baw1066 @whereismymindnow @urmomw4ntsme @oneandonlybbygrl

(i still can't believe i have a taglist for this passion project of a series with the first being my inspirational writer for the series (இ﹏இ`。) )

property of kqutie ; all written content is mine and no one else's unless stated otherwise ; do not steal, plagiarise, modify or translate to other sites

art/visual media does not belong to me

[meowordeath]

A/N: I love Identity V!! especially Eli Clark!! I attempt to make it as gender ambiguous as possible, besides one having the word boob just replace it with pec! i didn’t know a gender neutral term for boob, sorry! :3 btw I'm not sure if someone else has already done this!

Characters | Eli Clark , Ganji Gupta , Naib Subedar and the lovely lady Patricia Dorval

Content warning : fluff , reader with boobs but no specific pronoun, not too inappropriate, jack the ripper And Breaking wheel if those count?

Identity V characters reacting to their s/o clothes getting ripped! :3

Eli Clark

Before the match started Eli got to view your new costume. It looked very ninja like, the clothes were very skin tight. You two chatted while preparing for the match “Remember, just called out and I'll send brooke to your aid, okay?” He whispered to you laying his gloved hand atop yours. “I know, don't worry if I need you I’ll shout”

You smile before pecking him on the cheek. Brooke hoots happily, as Eli gives you one more loving look, before everyone's sight fades.

For first few minutes of the match you had been decoding. Feeling more relaxed as Luca shouted the hunter was on him, making him first kite. Your cipher was a little over half way done, as Luca started kiting toward you. At first you assumed he was just kiting in the area so you didn't bother to get off the cipher.

Your heartbeat started to get more prominent, but you were still very lax, thinking Luca and whoever the hunter was were just getting closer, when a shout rang out through the map. “Beware! Hunter has changed target!” You lifted your head abruptly from your cipher, accidentally messing up a calibration in the process making you shield your face from the explosion.

Soon after you messed it up you felt blades run from your back to your side. You cry out in pain bumping into the cipher as you sprint away, unfortunately the cipher snagged one of the slashes he had made in your shirt. A dark chuckle sounded behind you as you ran.

“This chase is already way more exciting than chasing that decoder,” Jack said licking the blood from his blades. You ran vaulting windows, throwing pallets for distance, you even led him back to Luca. Luca had a flustered look watching you pass him.

Eli knew you were currently kiting and trusted that you’d call out for help, so he didn't want to waste his spectate. “Help me!” Your shout rang out through the map. Eli was quick to send brooke to your aid. Looking through brooke's eyes he was shocked at the condition of your current costume. His face turned a little red.

Jack had only meant to slash your back, but since you messed up the calibration his slash went down your side, slicing open your shirt. It would've been fine with thin slashes, if your crash into the cipher hadn't caused your shirt to snag. It tore and your right boob was pretty much exposed.

You were trying to hold onto some dignity pulling the shreddings of your shirt over to cover it, but vaulting and pulling down pallets. You needed both your hands. Jack definitely had a great view of you each time you pulled down pallets. Eli was quick to find the teams other assist, William, and asking for his help to get The Ripper off you.

William was quick to assist. He stunned Jack allowing you to escape and hide, forcing him switch targets. Eli set brooke to find you, so he could help.

When he did find you, you were crouched behind a pallet, making a pathetic attempt to save your shirt. Eli crouched in front of you, not looking at your chest, instead checking over the wound. “It’s gonna be okay s/o, you can have my trench coat” His voice was slightly flustered, as he shed his coat.

He was left in his white long-sleeve button-up and black tie. You couldn't be more thankful for him wearing his recluse costume. “Thank you, Eli. God, this is pretty embarrassing!” Both your guy's faces have a faint blush, as you button up his trench coat finally covering your exposed flesh.

Eli's nervousness faded as he smiled. Lifting his hand to cup your cheek. “Don't worry, if they say anything, I'll have brooke rose peck out their eyes” he jokes, brooke hoots in agreement.

Ganji gupta

You and Tracy are both hanging out in the manors workshop. She was originally tinkering until you came in, wanting to show off your new costume to her. It had this futuristic theme, and Tracy was quick abandoned her invention to mess with the small gadgets they stuck to you as accessories.

On the front-side of your shorts, you had some sort of tablet with buttons and fun looking controls. It was attached to some belt that had other gadgets, they were all locked to the belt, which was attached to the shorts. Tracy was crouched down messing with them all.

“How mad do you think Miss Nightingale would be if I started taking this stuff apart?” Tracy said with a small grin. You look down and it seems she had already took her screwdriver to a few things. “Well, I guess we will find out” She laughed at your words.

Everything was going fine you were standing as you watch Tracy dismantle each piece of futuristic tech on the belt. Ganji knocked before entering the workshop. He sighed looking at Tracy crouched next to you. “How much longer are you gonna keep my s/o, Reznik?”

Ganji was told this was only gonna be a quick visit to show off the costume. Yet He’d been left waiting out there for at least 20 minutes. “Calm down ‘Gupta’ your s/o came here to show off their costume to me not you!” Tracy taunted, while saying his name is a mocking tone. Ganji scoffed, setting his cricket bat down at the door.

“Who do you think they showed it to first, Reznik.” Ganji sounded like he was subtly bragging, at being the first person to see you in the new costume. Tracy rolled her eyes. “Darn, the screen to this thing just doesn't want to come off!” She said trying to get the screen off, to get the wiring.

Ganji started to walk toward them reaching to pull Tracy off his s/o. “Okay Reznik, I’ve had my fair share of sharing my s/o.” Before He could reach Tracy she had fell back as her force caused your shorts to rip.

Tracy honestly didn't see anything with how fast Ganji was to cover you, He scowled down at Tracy. “I'm sorry...?” She said with a sheepish smile. “Find my s/o something to cover up with Reznik” He said firmly. She was quick to bolt out of the room. “Right! I'll be right back!”

She didn't look back in fear of seeing Ganji's harsh gaze. You could help but rest you forehead against his back laughing. “What are you laughing at? You’re currently in your underwear, if you hadn’t noticed.” He said turning toward you with a slight frown.

“I can’t help but laugh at the silliness of this situation my love. I never expected Tracy to rip my shorts, all so she could get the tablet!” You found this situation pretty funny. Ganjis frown turned into a small smile with your amusement.

“Glad you find this amusing. Though I’d rather be the only one to see my lover without pants on.” His words made your face slightly red. “Okay, perv.” His gaped slightly. “… I’ll remember that the next time your clothes rip. I won’t cover you.”

You smile squeezing his cheeks. “Yes you will, because you love me!” He sighed as you squeezed his face passive-aggressively. “… Yes I will.”

Naib Subedar

You know your lover hates Murro with an burning passion. Mostly because he hates boars, but you thought Murro’s boar was kinda cute.

Unfortunately Murro stayed very far away from you, making it so you barely saw his boar outside of matches.

It was a very nice day at the manor, survivor matches going smoothly, not that you had any matches to participate in today, Naib had about one or tw. With him on the team you didn’t doubt they would win.

In the manor there is an outdoor area, and due to you not having any matches today you want to go walk around in the sun for a bit.

On your way out you were wearing loose fitting loungewear. Not being in a match you didn’t want to put effort into putting on one of your usually costumes.

The sun felt good especially after being inside for most the day, you would take what you can get before Naib decides to ‘lowkey’ glue himself to your side. The outdoor part of the manor was pretty big enough to have a small forest, with a gate surrounding the whole area of course.

In the distance near trees you saw a tail and decided to investigate. Upon getting closer you realized its nust Murro's boar.

“Oh, I wonder why you’re out here by yourself. Is Murro around?” You said crouching down in front of the boar. It kind of just stared at you chewing on grass.

“Right, you’re an animal you can’t talk…” You felt a little awkward as the boar stared you down. “Well… I’m gonna go back that way…?” You stand dusting yourself off. As you stand the boar approaches you. You got back down wanting to pet it.

It did let you pet it for a moment, you got to even rub its stomach. It was fun, until you decided to go back inside and it grabbed ahold of the back of your shirt.

You and the boar had a short staring match. “Hmm, as much as I would love to spend more time with you Murro’s boar i’m sure my boyfriend is done with his match.” You said trying to tug the shirt from its mouth.

The boar refused turning it into a game of tug-a-war. “Let. go!” You huffed out fighting against the animal, you could hear the fabric starting to tear from you two pulling on it.

With one last tug you fell backwards, grunting in pain. It had a good chunk of fabric in its mouth as its trophy. You heard hurried footsteps. looking up you saw Murro. “I’m sorry! I didn't realize my boar had wandered away, forgive me!” He reached out to help you.

Unfortunately Naib had just arrived at the scene to see Murro’s boar with some of your shirt in its mouth, and Murro himself standing over you. In a moment a blade whizzed past, slicing Murro’s cheek causing him to fall on his butt in fear.

Looking behind you, he could see a very angry Naib hauling ass toward you all. In fear he quickly abandoned you. Hopping on his boar he left, running in the opposite direction.

Naib almost ran past you to chase Murro if you hadn’t gotten up quickly to grab the back of his shirt. “Wait, don’t chase after him!” You struggled to hold on to the man.

“I’ll gut him and that boar. How dare he sica damn animal on you.” His voice wasn't a shout but he was definitely furious. He was very strong actually draggjng you as he tried to pursue Murro.

You pull on his ponytail dragging his head back. “Hold your horses, who said anything about him siccing his boar on me?!” You let go of his hair as he stopped for a moment. “What do you mean, his boar was standing over you with some of your clothes in it mouth. How could that not be an attack on you?” He finally turned toward you head tilted slightly in confusion.

Sighing, you lightly pat Naib's cheek. “I wouldn't say it was an attack, I was originally playing with the boar. It only was trying to stop me from walking away, and Murro said he ran over after noticing it was gone.”

Naib’s eyebrows were still furrowed, eyes slightly closed, as of he was trying to see if you were lying for the sake of Murro. “Fine, I won't chase after him, for now.”

You grin pinching your lovers cheek. “Good! Now lets go inside you smell like shit” You say looping your elbow with his to lead him back to the manor. He rolled his eyes. “Whatever dear.”

Patricia Dorval

“Breaking wheel...! That son... sons? Of a bitch!” You say irritated, cursing his name to the sky quietly. He had been chasing you for most of the match before you lovely, kind, sweetheart patricia, took kite.

Inside your head you gushed about your girlfriend as you were trying to remove his spikes from not only your clothing but from your skin, as it had penetrated through the cloth into you.

Pulling them out was a huge pain, It hurt like hell. If only someone could help. You couldn't reach the ones in your back. Your mind drifted to Patricia as you pondered how her kite was going.

“You need help?” A raspy voice spoke out from behind you causing to yell and jump. Quickly turning around your faced wth the sneaky bastard who turned out to be Kreacher.

“Damn it Kreacher, you don't just sneak up on people like that!” You shout at the man hand over your heart. Other one raised as if you were going to hit him.

He back away from your shouts ready to coward out, and run away from your aggression. “Wait! Yes, I need help...” You say embarrassed about having to ask Kreacher of all people, to help you.

He was a little hesitant to come toward you, he had a sketical look toward you as you were just shouting but he did anyways. “Stay still and Ill get them removed” He said hand already painfully pulling one lodged in your back.

You try to hold in your pained shouts, refusing to show that this bothered you in front of Kreacher. They were pretty thin the spikes, but very sharp with tiny barbs that makes sense them hard to get from your skin.

Kreacher doesn't exactly have the gentlest hands while removing these from both your clothes and skin. You couldn't tell if he was trying to hurt you or help you.

“You could slow down damn it! Stop removing them fast you asshole, It hurts!” You hiss pulling away as he pulled another one carelessly out.

“Maybe if you could actually dodge breaking wheel..” You heard him mutter under his breath. “What did you just say!?” You say ticked off. “Nothing!!” He quickly says pulling one out to distract you.

He was pulling out the last one when both your hearts started to beat slightly, though it was barely anything to make you fret, polun didn't even know where you two were.

Coward freaking Pierson on the other hand grabbed ahold of the last spike dragging it down your back as he pulled away, bolting.

The specific spike he pulled was at the top so it tore all the way down, making the shirt go forward almost exposing if you hadn’t held it up with your hands. You grind your teeth slightly, turning to curse out to Kreacher.

As you turned your eyes met Patricia's, who had wacked Kreacher down with her ape skull, making his head bleed as he dizzily sat on the ground.

“Sorry I wasn't here sooner s/o, but at least I crushed this roach.” She said walking past him to you. She pecked you on the cheek getting her lipstick on your face, before looking at your back which was now exposed.

You had some blood drops rolling down from the sprike removals. She cut some more of your shirt so that she could tie a not in the back so it wouldn't fall off.

“I would take Kreachers jacket and give it to you, but I'd rather none of his filthy items touch you” She said as she gently caressed your back, careful of the small wounds.

You blushed at her caring gesture. “I should've warn a different costume one with a jacket, that's my bad.” She put her arms around your neck. “Well, I for one really like this costume, too bad it gonna be temporarily out of commission”

She makes it so hard for you not to swoon when shes this sweet. Kreacher groans reminding you two he was there.

Patricia unhooks her arms from around your neck. “Let's leave that thing and go decode the last cipher. Polun will find and kill it” She says loud enough for him to hear.

She grabs your hand pulling you away toward a cipher, while you follow her happily. Patricia was right about Kreacher as he was found & killed after Ganji led the hunter to him. At least the 3 of them escaped!

PLEASE I REALLY TRIED HARD TO MAKE THEM ALL SIMILAR LENGTH!! Hope you like this :3

[teddypickrwritings]

A Rare Moment of Weakness - Identity V x Reader

A/N: Some character lore is just so sad and depressing that I start tearing up…I just want to hug them. I’ll most likely do this with more characters in the future!

cw: PTSD

Mercenary

It was obvious just by looking at him that Naib Subedar was hardened by war. That was just the norm for anyone who served in the military. Naib was not one to talk about his experiences, though. Nobody questioned him, they just let him do what he wanted.

One day, while you were in a match with him, you saw his stoic mask crumble. You had managed to escape from the hunter with minor injuries and were hoping that you would cross paths with someone that could heal you. You had stumbled onto Naib’s cipher just as he missed a calibration and it shocked him—literally. The look of terror that flashed on his face gutted you pretty badly. It didn’t take a genius to realize that the sudden loud noise reminded him of bombs and such.

He wasn’t embarrassed that you saw him mess up. He didn’t shrug you off when you instinctively gave him a hug. In fact…he really appreciated it. A lot. Naib held you for a little longer than necessary, only letting go when he realized you were injured and immediately started to heal you.

“I’ll decode with you…or I can do it for you, if you’d like,” you offered once he was done.

Naib nodded slowly, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Thank you, (Y/N),” he mumbled.

Wu Chang

A sudden rainstorm had interrupted your walk and completely soaked you to the bone. Had you stayed outside longer, and if Xie had not come to your rescue, you would have certainly gotten sick. He had immediately left to find you the second the rain had turned heavy. You had begun to protest when he scooped you up in his arms, but quickly silenced yourself when you noticed just how worried he looked.

“(Y/N), I am so sorry. We shouldn’t have left you alone out there,” Xie said once you had changed into dry clothes. He had managed to calm down for the most part, but his voice was still laced with anxiety. “We didn’t know it would rain. I’ll never forgive myself if you get sick…”

“I’m okay!” you reassured with a tired smile. You reached over and gently squeezed his hand. “Thank you for getting me out of there before it got too bad.”

Xie gave a weak smile of his own, but his eyes still looked pained. He paused, seemingly listening to something. Then he nodded and his form changed to represent Fan. The Black Guard checked your vitals, and after confirming that they were normal, held your hands tightly. “He wanted to be able to save a loved one this time,” he explained. And that was all you needed to hear for you to understand.

Hermit

“Alva, do you ever feel frustrated?” you asked tentatively, watching the inventor writing notes in one of his many journals. His quill came to a slow stop as he pondered your question.

“It is natural for one to feel frustration,” Alva said vaguely. He turned in his chair to look at you with an unreadable expression. “Why do you ask?”

“I was just curious…you always seem so composed. I admire it,” you admitted.

Alva allowed a small smile on his face. “Nobody is ever what they seem, (Y/N). Keep that in mind,” he said, beckoning you over with a little wave of his hand. You stood up and went to him, surprised when he enveloped you in a hug. “I am sorry that I do not show emotions very often. I am…still getting used to the feeling by having someone I can trust.”

You could’ve sworn you felt him tremble a bit when he said that. But the moment was over too soon and he released you. “You have a match, yes? You shouldn’t be late,” he said and gave you a little push towards the door. You left with a smile on your face; Alva trusted you. That was all you could think about.

[myherobkg]

THE ROLE OF A LIFETIME; dungeons & dragons au

Katsuki was born a half-giant and bred to roam the plains with his barbarian brethren. He was a foul-mouthed, ill-tempered, reckless brute adorned in fur and armor with his mighty mace hanging over his back. He was born to rule them all.

But fate had other plans, and his tribe was wiped off the face of the Earth after the King of the skies razed hellfire on them. Returning from a hunt, Katsuki arrived at his decimated home, ruined to ash and rubble.

His family—his people—were there one moment and gone the next, reduced to charred statues. After that, Katsuki wandered aimlessly until he became enthralled by the allure of alcohol.

A young half-giant, the last of his tribe, turned to mercenary work to fund his gluttony.

Katsuki's last payment came from a clean-up job, clearing out a small wooded area infested with monsters. The small village on the outskirts of the wood sent for him, requesting his help for a large sum.

It was an easy feat for a warrior of his stature, and his success wrought fruitful results—a free room at the pub and all the drinks he could ask for.

However, the offer had its contingencies, and Katsuki was forced to enjoy his pints amidst the celebration held for the village people. That's where he met the Businessman.

The Businessman kept two men at his side as he sat down with Katsuki. His companions remained standing behind him.

"Enjoying the festivities, Warrior?" The man started the conversation cryptically.

Katsuki doesn't look up from his pint. The party raged around him, but no one dared touch him in passing. "No."

Clearing his throat, the man decided to skip the niceties. "I have a job for you."

"Not interested," Katsuki gruffs out before touching his lips to the rim.

"I will pay you 100 gold," the Businessman bid.

"I want 300." Katsuki slammed his glass on the table and signaled for another. The man's jaw dropped.

"300 is outrageous. It's a simple delivery to the Earl." He laughed pathetically. "I'm sure the Earl will reward you handsomely for your efficiency."

"You pay me 300 now. I'll have the Earl pay me 500 when I get there."

"So, you'll take the job?" The Businessman clenched his hands into fists with a broad smile before remembering Katsuki's rate. "If you come with us, we can pay for the cargo. However, you must leave tonight."

Katsuki froze, lifting his topped-off drink. "Make it 400."

The man choked mid-breath. "Warrior, I implore you to reconsider your price. Think of the honor you'd receive for escorting such an important gift for nobility."

Katsuki lugged half of his drink down, spilling some down the sides of his face and neck. "It's 400, or you shut the hell up and quit bothering me." His ruby-red eyes glimmered dangerously in the lamp-light.

The Businessman shrank in his seat and waved his hand for his men. The guard on his right went off to get the payment.

"If you wouldn't mind following us as quickly as you can," the Businessman murmured nervously, avoiding direct eye contact. "We can settle you with the cargo, and you can be on your way."

Katsuki looked at the weak man standing behind his employer. It wouldn't take any effort to throw that man through the ceiling, but it somehow felt appealing for the Businessman to bring security.

With this in mind, Katsuki didn't expect any issues from a little side quest for money. Perhaps he was tired from his last battle, but the adrenaline and deep, crippling fear of loneliness kept pushing him to suppress it.

"Let's get this over with." He grumbled, disregarding his last sip of beer and pushing away from the table.

The Businessman and his guard led Katsuki outside to a barn on the edge of the village. The night was calm, and the skies were clear—a good omen for this task.

"The cargo is just inside here," the Businessman murmured, sharing an uneasy expression with his guard, which alerted a few alarms in Katsuki's head. As he led Katsuki in, the guard stayed outside the entrance.

The first thing Katsuki noticed was that there was no "cargo." Two more guards were standing inside, and you were chained to the floor. Your hair and face were dirty, and your clothes were covered in dirt and cow shit.

When you looked up at him, he took note of your cat-like eyes and pointed ears. The chains around your wrists had runes etched into them.

Magic?

"Is this a goddamn joke?" Katsuki asked loudly, making one of the guards flinch. "What do you goddamn hicks take me for?"

He turns on his heel and starts walking out when the Businessman shouts out for him.

Katsuki falters in his step, and something compels him to turn to turn around. He sees the Businessman sweating profusely—he must be desperate to get you off his hands, Katsuki thinks. He catches the two guards adjusting their grips on their weapons: a spear and a bow. The sight of them shaking in fear and regret almost makes Katsuki laugh.

He licks his lips and pulls out a dagger—decides it's expendable. When he winds his arm back, all three adversaries flinch, fearful of being the target. The knife flies through the air between their shoulders, aimed for the floor where your cuffs come together.

Katsuki's taken by surprise when you slam your wrist against the ground, breaking the cuff on your right in one attempt. You tear off the other cuff with ease. He stands back and watches you jump between each man, slaughtering them with your clumsy, desperate hands.

After the men are dead, you're left standing over their bodies with blood on your hands, panting heavily.

With his arms crossed, exuding confidence, Katsuki whistles for your attention. He knows he has it when your head turns, angling your ear to him.

"How did men like them get their hands on a magic-wielding elf?" He questions, sincerely curious.

You turn to face him fully, blood and hay falling from your tunic.

"Auction houses," you answer breathlessly, with sweat matting hair to your forehead. Wiping it out of your face, you trip on your shaky legs to the barn post and release a heavy sigh. "You would've delivered me to my sixth owner. You looked like a good one when you walked in, too."

You were still breathing heavily. Katsuki recognized it as panic.

"I'm not going back," you say quickly as he approaches you. Your eyes are wild, and your appearance makes you look hysterical.

"You aren't going back," he promises quietly, raising his hand for you. Your arm shakes when you reach for him.

When he brings his fur around your shoulders, you bat it away, spitefully refusing it.

"I want to leave," you whisper anxiously, pushing against Katsuki's arms.

"Then cover yourself," Katsuki orders firmly, wrapping his fur tightly around you. His fur, which drapes over his shoulder like a garment, wraps around you like a blanket. "There are still folk wandering everywhere."

"Where are we right now?" You ask as he ushers you out of the barn.

"A village. Heldenfaire," Katsuki answers.

"There's a town in this land. I wish for you to take me there."

"We can discuss the details of our arrangement later." Katsuki threw his cloak over his shoulders and pulled his hood over his head before steering you toward the nearby stables. "Let's first focus on getting a horse."

—please reblog & comment if you like it! do not copy or repost ©

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like a Phoenix (1)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 7.9k

Warnings: Bucky is a dick; mentions of murder, fire, death, knifes; loss of parents; sexism; violence; prejudices

Author’s note: First part. Hope you enjoy! I'd be happy if you let me know what you think ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

The evening went well. Or that’s what you tell yourself every single time.

You played your part impeccably - every nod, every word, every glance, and every smile was measured and graceful.

Even the rivals among the lords seemed charmed tonight.

You didn’t really catch a glimpse of your father, but that is nothing new to you.

Thankfully, you could spend a little time with your mother before the banquet began. She always insists on braiding your hair for formal events. Usually, that was meant to calm you down when you were little but she still insists on doing it, despite the fact that those formalities don’t matter to you anymore.

They always leave you feeling uncomfortable, like you are merely a sculpture to be appraised.

Tonight’s garment had been chosen with precision. Of course not from you. You don’t get to choose your own clothes. They are softly lilac colored silken folds, embroidered with delicate threads of gold to catch the light. It hugs your frame in a way meant to flatter but left you feeling exposed the whole evening.

You play your part, but you hate it.

The music, the scent of roasted meats, the spiced wine, the laughter of guests - it’s always the same. You scarcely even remember what kind of occasion today’s banquet even marked.

All you remember are the gazes lingering on your body.

Men who have long since passed their prime looked upon you with the hungry eyes of wolves, their smiles a thin veneer of civility. Their eyes did not see a girl barely stepping into adulthood, they saw a prize. A princess. A pawn in the great game of power.

Gazes can move away but the heat of every single one lingers. You still feel it on your collarbones, the curve of your neck, the way the gown cinches at your waist.

Your worth is measured not by your thoughts or your dreams, but by the alliances your hand could forge.

You despise it.

But your father doesn’t care. He doesn’t look out for you in situations like that. He just expects you to play the part you are meant to. And sadly, you do. Because you don’t have a choice. This is what your life was meant to be.

Only your mother would notice the way your shoulders always stiffen when a lord leans too close or the way you avoid the wine, lest you dull your senses in a room full of predators.

She would smile at you kindly, reassuringly, probably trying to give you some strength in knowing that she understands what it feels like. And you do appreciate her gesture.

But even her love and her sympathy can not unbind you from the duties imposed by your birth.

You wanted to scream the second you stepped into the great hall. You wanted to tear the silken gown from your body, strip away the gold and jewels, and stuff them into the faces of the many greedy men. You wanted to shout until your voice grew hoarse.

But you can not.

You are a princess.

A princess does not scream. She does not cry. She does not falter.

Your life is not your own. Your voice is not your own. Even your smile belongs to the court, to the crown, to the men who watch you with eyes that devour.

Sometimes, you long for freedom. But what does freedom even mean?

You have no frame of reference for a life beyond these walls, these duties, these suffocating expectations.

The world outside the palace is unknown to you - a mystery, a threat, a promise so far out of reach.

And yet, as you sat at the banquet table just hours before, smiling politely at a lord who complimented your gown while his eyes lingered far too long, you thought even the unknown would be better than this.

So now, back from hell, you are so ready to get into bed and sleep your misery away as you try every day. It hasn’t entirely worked out yet, but a princess can hope.

The tight corset, the layers of silken skirts, the necklace that hangs heavy - all symbols of your station, all unbearable tonight. Every night.

A maid is at your side, about to loosen the clasps at your wrists and shoulders to let the gown slip away.

You’re ready to let it pool around your feet and step into your robe, letting the candlelight brush and warm your collarbone and bask in the silence of the faded music from the hall below.

But before anything of that can happen, there is no silence anymore.

It’s distant at first, muffled. Unrecognizable.

But the sounds grow louder, sharper, and the hands of the maid freeze. You do too.

A roar pierces the stone walls, then another, and another. Steel clashes.

A scream, then another, and another.

Those aren’t screams of surprise, or anger, or perhaps the aftermath of too much alcohol. No, those are long, guttural wails that make your blood run dry.

Death spills over into sounds just outside your doors.

Your candle wavers as the ground beneath your feet seems to tremble. You clutch the edge of the dressing table to steady yourself.

It is as though the palace itself is exhaling its last breath.

The doors to your chambers burst open with a force that sends the wooden panels crashing against the walls.

Your lady screams at the sound.

You spin around, equally in fear, heart leaping to your throat and almost spilling over into a sound as well.

A relieved exhale flutters out of your body at the face you see.

It is Sir Barton.

He has always been there, from your earliest memories. You see him more often than your own father, though his face now is drawn, pale, and streaked with soot. His blond hair is usually meticulously combed, but now it’s disheveled, and his armor bears fresh scratches and bloodstains.

His chest rises and falls with ragged breaths and his eyes - fierce and determined, but aching with something more - lock onto yours.

“Your Highness,” he says, his voice breaking through the panic. “You must come. Now!”

He doesn’t spare a glance at the hyperventilating lady hiding behind your dresser. And after you take a second too long to follow him, he steps forward and grabs your arm - not with the gentleness of a knight guiding royalty but with the desperation of a man trying to save a life.

He leads you out.

“What is happening?” you whisper, a shudder raking down your spine at the way the sounds are getting so much more real with each step you take.

“The palace is under attack,” Sir Barton says, eyes still focused forward. “They’ve breached the outer gates. We don’t have much time.”

He seems to feel you hesitate because his grip tightens on you. His steps don’t falter.

The hallways are dark and thick with the acrid stench of smoke. Shouts echo from all sides, some distant, some too close.

Barton shields you with his body as a deafening crash shakes the walls, sending dust raining from the ceiling.

“This way,” he commands and you have no choice but to follow him blindly, clutching at his cloak.

At one point, he stops abruptly, pressing you into the shadow of an archway, shielding you again and only turning to you after the commotion turned far away. His face is grim, his voice a whisper.

“Stay close to me, no matter what happens. Do you understand?”

You nod, though your throat is too tight to form words.

The air in the tunnels he leads you through is cold and damp, pressing in from every side. But you can barely feel it. Your legs burn from the fast pace Sir Barton holds, your lungs clawing for breath.

Sir Barton's tight grip on your wrist is the only thing you can latch on in this darkness. His armor clinks with every step.

You don’t ask him where you are going. But there is a question you need to ask.

“Where are my parents? Where is Mother? Are they both led here as well? Will they follow us?”

Alright, perhaps more than one question.

Seconds stretch without an answer. His armor still clinks. He squeezes your wrists - a warning not to ask further. A warning not to expect an answer.

Something creeps into your mind, something insidious and cold.

Sir Barton guides you into a small alcove carved into the rock, barely wide enough for the two of you. His shoulders heave heavily and you make out the glistening of sweat on his face even in the darkness.

You open your mouth again, taking a breath, but his expression stops you.

Sir Barton, the unshakable knight, the man who stood at your father’s side for decades, looks broken. His usually grey eyes are shadowed. His lips are parted, but no sound comes out, the weight of what he has to say even too much for him.

His jaw is tight. There is a tiny shake of his head as he releases a breath that cracks you open right in the middle, leaving a gaping hole where your heart once was.

And in that shatter, you linger. You don’t know if you’ll ever get out.

Because you know what his silence means.

“No.” the word is barely audible. You stumble in your steps. “No. They can’t be. Don’t tell me they’re gone. They… They’re not!”

More silence. More tension.

“No!” You shake your head, stepping back until your shoulders hit the cold, rough stone. Your legs feel as though they might give way beneath you.

“Your Highness.”

Sir Barton takes hold of your arm again. Almost roughly. His voice is clipped, his breath is broken. But there is vehemence in his words. Something deep weighed, but strong and determined as he meets your eye intensely, gripping you hard.

“I feel deep regret for their loss. But I swore an oath to protect you. And I will keep it.”

With that, he hauls you forward again, falling into his fast pace.

You can’t help but follow. You let yourself get dragged.

The tunnels seem unending. And although the screams and the tumult are no longer in earshot, every sound you hear feels like a betrayal. Every footstep, every breath a reminder that your parents would breathe no more.

Your thoughts are wild things, crashing against the confines of your skull - flashes of your mother's sweet smile, your father's stern but still warm eyes, the sudden attack with the screams, and the clashes, and the steel.

Grief is an excruciating pain. Your breaths are trapped, pounding on the walls of the cage that is your chest. Begging for release. Your heart still seems to be missing. Or it simply is divided into so tiny pieces it feels like it vanished entirely. It disappeared into the crack of the earth, giving way to roots, the tremor of something breaking open to grow.

Grief is the fullness of too much.

Too much feeling, too much meaning, too much of the world compressing itself into a single-held breath.

And that breath lingers.

Not because it cannot rise, but because rising would undo you.

The tunnels end.

You don’t even know how long you’ve been walking them, but you emerge into a hollow chamber, dimly lit by flickering torchlight. The air is colder here, less stagnant. It smells faintly of earth and steel. Your pulse quickens.

There is a man.

He stands there, leaning against the far wall, the flicker of firelight wildly illuminating the sharp planes of his face.

He didn’t move when you entered, not even a shift of his shoulders. He remains standing there, utterly unbothered, casually sharpening his blade against the whetstone in his hand, as though your arrival is an inconvenience rather than an event of consequence.

His leather armor looks worn, clinging to his tall frame as if he’s been wearing it for years.

His hair is dark, a smooth chestnut brown, and it is unruly, curling slightly at his temples as though it had been left to grow wild for too long.

He looks like a mercenary. He probably is one.

You try to find strength in Sir Barton's solid presence beside you. He doesn’t seem surprised at this man being here. More like, he is relieved.

The mercenary sighs, long and exaggerated, as if this entire meeting is a chore he’s been dragged into against his will.

He tugs the blade back into its holster at his side, throwing the stone casually aside and the clank of it against the ground sounds out loud enough for you to shrink into yourself ever so slightly.

Slowly, the man pushes himself off the wall with the effortless poise of a predator, standing to his full, imposing height.

He is still a little distance away from you, but you find your skin prickle when his gaze falls over you. He seems utterly unimpressed.

His eyes struck you. They are icy, strategic. It’s not the first thing that comes to mind when you think of the color blue. However, that’s the essence of the blue in his eyes.

He doesn’t regard you as a princess. He regards you as a problem.

“Your Highness,” he says, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that makes the title sound more like an insult than an honor.

He gives the faintest bow, a mockery of decorum, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk that barely hides his amusement.

This man regards you with the same detached air he might afford a stranger begging for coin.

His posture remains loose, almost insolent, and yet there is something in the way he carries himself that warns you not to mistake his casual attitude for weakness.

“Is this it, Barton?” he asks, turning his sharp gaze to the knight, who stands protectively at your side. “This is the prize you want me to bleed for?” He raises a single brow, arms crossed over his chest, his expression one of sardonic disbelief. His voice is rough, perhaps shaped by years of commanding others or cursing the world.

He throws you a single, apathetic glance. His smile turns into a sneer. “She seems awfully fragile to be worth the trouble.”

Your cheeks burn with anger and humiliation. Perhaps you are, in a sense, fragile. Your hands have never gripped a sword, your feet have never trudged through mud and blood, and the realization that your parents are no longer alive threatens to make you crumble right then and there.

But his dismissal feels like an assault on everything you still hold within yourself.

You open your mouth to respond, but the words are sticky and stay clinging to the back of your throat, the glue being grief and exhaustion.

Sir Barton, however, steps forward, his voice low and authoritative.

“She is not your concern to judge,” he firmly declares. “She is your charge, whether you like it or not.”

There is a pause. Sir Barton stands rigid and straight before he continues. His words seem to have trouble coming out but he still makes them sound strong. But you can see the strain in his jaw, the slight tremor in his hand as he adjusts his grip on the pommel of his sword. “Your Majesties - The King and Queen - are no longer with us.”

You flinch, breath catching sharply.

The mercenary stands still. Dark brows shoot up in genuine surprise, though his face remains otherwise unreadable. The contrast is startling, though. His indifference was disrupted by that sharp, flickering reaction.

His surprise unsettles you. His lips part slightly, but whatever words have formed behind them don’t emerge. For a fleeting second, his hard, smug veneer cracks, but just as quickly it reassembles itself.

He purses his lips, looking at the wall for a few moments. His face smooths into something almost deliberately blank. Then his eyes narrow slightly, and though his expression is hard to read, there is something dark and bitter there. But what scares you is the tiny glimpse of satisfaction.

“They’re dead,” he grounds out almost flatly and you find yourself flinching again.

The mercenary gives a sharp, mirthless laugh, the sound echoing painfully. He shakes his head, smile slipping from his face. “Well.” His tone is laced with bitterness. An air of irritation floats around him as he exhales sharply through his nose. “I do believe that changes things,” he then sneers.

Your heart is pounding so drastically, you hope it doesn’t echo around the room as well. You try to breathe as silently as possible. Barton's eyes gleam fiercely as he takes another step toward the man. The mercenary meets his gaze with raised eyebrows, not backing down, not bothered in the slightest.

“I am sure you have not forgotten, Barnes. Do not make me remind you.”

The mercenary - Barnes, you guessed - narrows his eyes, a flicker crossing his features. “I have not forgotten,” he says, voice quiet, almost a growl.

“You swore to protect what mattered to her. You swore to see her will be carried forward. You swore an oath to her. What mattered to her still lives. The princess lives. She is what the Queen cherished above all else, and it is her safety you are bound to protect.”

You watch Barnes’s jaw tighten, displeasure clear on his features.

“You will protect her daughter. Therewith, the oath will be discharged.”

Barnes’s gaze flickers to you, and for the first time, you see something other than indifference or scorn in his eyes. It isn’t kindness, not for a long shot, more like conflict. As though he is weighing you, judging you against the memory of the woman who had once earned his loyalty. The woman that is your mother. Or was your mother, you acknowledge with a lump in your throat.

“I swore to protect what mattered to her. But I did not know it would be her daughter. His daughter,” he spat out the last part, disdain following along his harsh tone.

Your skin is flushed, your chest is heaving, your hands curl into fists. You are confused beyond belief about what exactly is going on. It’s like you are watching yourself getting shoved off into the arms of a mercenary who couldn’t care less about your life.

You don’t know what your mother has done for this man, how deeply her actions have tied him to your family.

But you really don’t like this conversation.

Sir Barton is clearly losing his patience. “And yet, you will protect her still.” His words brook no argument. “The oath binds thee, not to the Crown, nor to me, but to the memory of the Queen. Do you mean to forsake it now?

Barnes exhales a frustrated sigh.

“Fine,” he says at last, the word dropping from his lips like a stone into a well. He straightens, his broad shoulders squaring and his hard eyes fixed on you. “I will keep you alive. But you better not expect me to bow, curtsy, or kiss your hand, your Highness. Do not expect me to coddle you. I am not your knight, and I am not your servant. I’m just the man who gets to clean up your mess.”

He then steps closer to Barton, standing almost nose to nose but none of the men back down. Barnes’s gaze is menacing. “I am a man of my word. But do not mistake my actions for loyalty to the Crown.”

“I would not dare, Bucky Barnes,” Sir Barton counters coldly.

Something twists inside you at this man’s words - anger, yes, but also something deeper, something more profound, something hard to press down.

You hate the way he dismisses you, the way he refuses to see you as more than your title.

You want to protest, to tell Sir Barton that this is a terrible idea. And that this is not his decision to make. You should have a say in who guards you, who holds your fate in their hands. Though, being realistic, you never had a say in anything. Your father always made sure of that.

And despite him not being here anymore, the safety of the palace is gone, just like your mother's love. There is no way you are getting out of here safely without some help and you hate it. You hate the fact that you have no idea how to wield a sword, throw a knife, or face the horrors of war.

You grew up in the sheltered halls of the palace, surrounded by courtiers and silks, not steel and blood.

So, Barton’s faith in this man - however misplaced it seems to you - is all that stands between you and whatever awaits beyond the damp darkness of the tunnels. It’s all that can get you out of here in one piece.

You want to hate this Bucky Barnes. To rail against the unfairness of it all - fleeing in the dead of night in a gown that is not at all suitable for an escape, weighed down by the pain of your parents’ demise, entrusted to a man who seems to care little whether you live or die.

He might have sworn to keep you alive, but that doesn’t mean he won’t happily watch you get hurt.

And yet - for all his roughness, for all his scorn - you can’t shake that there is something more to him.

He is dangerous, that much is clear, but there is also a sense of control about him, an air of competence that both reassures and unnerves you.

This man does not want to protect you.

He does not care about your title, your lineage, or your grief.

He is here because he has to be, because of a single promise he made.

You wonder if he really is a man of his word.

Bucky Barnes studies you again. His expression is hard, inscrutable. Then he says, his tone dry, almost mocking. “The road ahead will not be kind. Do not expect me to be sympathetic.”

****

You stumble forward through the tunnels.

Your limbs feel like lead, your breaths are shallow.

The air seems to have forgotten to hold you.

You don’t know how your legs keep moving, how your body is able to obey commands you no longer consciously give.

Perhaps it is the inertia of shock. The kind that shakes in your hands, makes them search for a reality that is no longer solid. The kind that makes you believe the universe is folding in on itself, a star imploding in the vastness of your chest. You are the void it leaves behind - immense, consuming, and desperately reaching for light.

But there is no light.

The tunnels are silent and dark, except for the torchlight the man in front of you carries and the footsteps that sound out. But the torchlight seems to illuminate more shadows than it chases away.

There is a distant drip of water echoing through the labyrinth but you are too tired to try and make out where it comes from.

Bucky - or Barnes - or whatever you even are supposed to call him now, moves through the darkness as though it is his domain, as if the passages yield to his command.

He scarcely takes a moment to reflect on his path, turning corners and selecting forks with an animalistic accuracy that disturbs you.

His pace is brisk, his steps calculated. There is a certain confidence, a strength, in the way he holds himself, an instinctual awareness that might have captivated you, were you not so consumed by sorrow and wariness.

Just earlier this day you had imagined leaving those constricting castle walls but it seems the freedom you had dreamed of meets you in a way you never would have thought possible.

You don’t feel like the perfect princess you played just hours earlier.

You are a disheveled figure trailing behind a stranger in the bowels of the earth.

The air is lacking the lavender and citrus of the gilded halls you walked through your whole life. Here, the air is damp, heavy with the scent of soil and decay. The stones of those walls are cold and rough, nothing like the smooth marble walls from the polished balustrades of the palace.

The man walking ahead of you hasn’t spoken a single word to you since you parted from Sir Barton.

You’re not sure if the silence is meant to intimidate or if he simply doesn’t care enough to speak.

His broad shoulders move steadily. His stride is long and swift, forcing you to half jog just to keep him in sight.

He doesn’t look back. Not once.

Maybe it's for the best, you reflect with resentment. Any word that could escape his lips would likely be brimming with animosity towards your family regardless. And distance between you and this man feels safer.

There is something coiled about him, something you can’t name but feel in the way he carries himself.

The torch he holds throws flickering light across the sharp planes of his face when he passes too near a wall.

His jaw is set, his expression grim.

His eyes - bright in color but oh so dark, when they had deigned to glance at you before - are unreadable pools of shadow, devoid of warmth.

He is not kind. He is not comforting. He is a stranger, forced into your service by circumstances neither of you have chosen.

You don’t know what desperation Sir Barton must have felt to send you away with this wild man. Bucky Barnes seems as indifferent to your survival as he is to your existence, and yet, here he is, leading you through an underground labyrinth you can only hope leads somewhere safe.

You feel the urge to speak - to inquire about where he is taking you, to seek answers, to convey the growing frustration and fear that seem ready to shatter you. Greater than you already are.

But the words flee as soon as they are formed. Leaving only the roar of nothingness.

There hasn’t been time to mourn, no time to feel.

Sir Barton had hurried you through the secret corridors under the palace, with his hold tight on your arm, and his tone tense with urgency.

He didn’t ask if you wanted to flee. He didn’t ask what you thought was best. He simply acted, as though you were another piece in this tragic game of chess, to be moved and sacrificed as necessity demanded.

You are a princess, yes. But first, you are a person. And in this moment, you feel like neither. You are a shadow following a stranger in the dark, uncertain of the path ahead or the person leading you.

But there is nothing you can do about it.

The tunnels begin to shift.

The walls widen slightly, though the ceiling remains low.

The air grows colder, fresher, carrying with it the faintest scent of pine.

You realize with a start that you must be nearing the forest. Relief and fear wars within you. The palace is behind you, but how is this supposed to go on?

Barnes slows. Finally.

He comes to a stop at a rusted iron gate, the hinges creaking in complaint as he shoves it open with one hand.

Beyond it lay a rough-hewn staircase carved into the rock, leading upward into a faint glimmer of moonlight.

He turns to glance at you for the first time since you are alone with him.

“Keep up,” he says, his voice low, and rough, and utterly devoid of warmth.

You say nothing, biting your tongue. Perhaps to stifle the frustration that threatened to shove a snarky retort out of your mouth that might lead to your early grave, or the tears that threatened to sting behind your eyes ever since you heard of your parent's passing.

Instead, you nod curtly - he isn’t even looking at you anymore to see it - and step forward, legs trembling, feet already aching, with the effort, and follow him up those stairs.

The stone steps beneath your shoes are rough - like everything in your life now as it seems.

Each step you climb seems to strip something away - your strength, your breath, your will. Each step seems to demand more from your trembling legs, every motion a reminder of how deep you’ve fallen - from grace, from safety, from everything you have ever known.

Erratic shadows move over Barnes's ahead of you, his broad frame a dark silhouette against the faint moonlight spilling down from above.

You struggle to keep up. The air is cold, sharp with the sting of frost and pine, but it does nothing to clear your thoughts.

As you reach the top of the stairs, the night sky opens before you, vast and infinite, studded with stars.

But their light is dim against the inferno that rages behind you.

You turn around slowly.

Shock and utter terror flood every single one of your senses. The world seems to pull away beneath your feet, but it does not let you fall. It lets you hover, holds you suspended in a hollow-out silence as if it means to forget about you. As if you’re not worth the fall. Meant to suffer in silence. Meant to suffer the terror of drifting in a void where even gravity has abandoned you.

Far in the distance stands your palace.

Your home for every single day of your life.

And it is all up in flames.

Consumed by them. Greedily gulped up by them.

The towers that once touched the heavens now spit fire and ash.

The gilded walls, the halls where you had danced and dined and dreamed, collapse in on themselves, devoured by the flames’s hunger.

The sight steals your breath.

Your legs give out for a moment, and you stagger, clutching the bark of a nearby tree.

Barnes notices you falter, his gaze flickering back toward you.

You don’t make a move to look at him. You don’t do anything other than stare at your life breaking apart in the distance.

But for his indifference and gruff demeanor, he does not bark at you to move along. He just stands tensely.

The flames lick at the night sky, their glow painting the darkness in hues of violent orange and crimson. Smoke rises in thick, twisting plumes, swallowing the stars, blotting out the heavens.

The great spires that had once stood so proud against the skyline now crumble beneath the viciousness of the fire. The golden banners that had fluttered in the wind just hours ago are ash now, carried in the same breeze that chills your skin.

It has been only hours - hours since you stood in the great hall, dressed in the very same silks you are still wearing, the air filled with laughter and music. The banquet, the formalities, the endless charade of being a princess - all of it suddenly feels like a lifetime ago.

You had thought it then. How it might feel to leave it all behind. How it might feel to shed the heaviness of the crown, to break free from the stifling demands and expectations that constrained you, the scrutiny of the court.

You dreamed of freedom, of a life beyond these walls. You imagined it. You wanted to see the world, to be more than a title, more than a pretty body in a gown, more than a vessel for alliances and admirations.

And now here you are, watching it all burn.

It doesn’t feel like freedom.

It doesn’t feel like anything you had dreamed of.

Your body becomes foreign, a machine running on instinct alone. Your chest heaves. Because it knows it needs air. But it doesn’t seem to get enough, judging the harsh rise and fall of your chest.

Your heart thunders, but it seems to have lost its rhythm, shaking but not steadying. It’s in panic. Pumping and pumping and pumping so much blood but where is it supposed to go?

Every room that now is a pile of ash on the ground held a memory. Every part of the castle was your home. The gardens where your mother had taught you the names of every flower growing there. The study where your father's voice sternly had shaped your understanding of duty. The kitchens where the maids had smuggled you pastries as a child.

It is all gone.

You are gone.

Your parents are gone. The King and Queen - your mother and father - are dead. Their crowns, their rule, their lives reduced to ash.

Yes, you wanted to be free. You wanted to leave this life behind but you never wanted it to happen like this. You never wanted your home to burn, your family to die, your title to become meaningless in the most violent of ways.

You wanted to leave the crown and not have it ripped away from you.

You wanted to see the world but now you aren’t sure you even have a place in it.

Swallowing the tightness in your throat, you force back the sting in your eyes.

You want to scream, to rage, to fall on your knees and weep until there is nothing left of you.

But you can’t break down now. Not here. Not now. Not in front of him.

Barnes still stands a little away from you. He has turned as well, though his expression is unreadable. His eyes reflect the firelight, the flames flickering like tiny ghosts in his gaze.

He doesn’t say anything and you are sure you don’t want him to. He surely would not tell you he is sorry.

He doesn’t look sorry at all. If anything, he looks tired. Detached. As though this is just another job, another mission. Another life going up in flames.

He simply stands there, his figure slightly outlined by the torch and the moon, waiting.

You hate him in that moment. Hate the way he stands there so calmly, so unconcerned, while your world is crumbling down. Hate that he isn’t doing a single thing to acknowledge the gravity of what had happened.

But then his gaze shifts. Just slightly. For a fleeting moment, you thought you saw something crossing his expression. A shadow of something too fleeting to name. Pity? Regret? Compassion?

No, you tell yourself. He doesn’t care. Why would he?

And he shifts then.

After all, the world hasn’t stopped for your grief, and neither would he.

A clear of his throat. “C’mon. Told you to keep up.”

He doesn’t say it unkindly, but he says it bored. Monotone. Flat. And that might just be worse.

You draw in a shaky breath and turn away from the fire, though the image remains burned into your mind. It might be reduced to ash there too, but it won’t ever be swept away by the wind.

****

You have no idea how long you’ve been dragging your body through this forest.

It seems like an eternity.

Aching legs barely lift high enough to make the next step. The soles of your feet throb in time with the pounding of your head.

Your steps are so heavy, you might think the earth sought to pull you down, to bury you beneath its roots and brambles. You might just let it.

The thin slippers you wear - so ill-suited for a flight through the wilderness - offer little protection from the rocks and gnarled roots beneath.

The tightness in your chest is beating. Thud. Thud. Thud. It might be your heart, but it doesn’t feel like it.

Each inhale burns, the night air carrying shards of glass instead of cool relief. They scratch your throat and your face heats at the effort to keep from coughing.

Your arms hang limply by your sides. They are scraped and raw from pushing against barks and thorns. Even lifting your hands to brush a stray branch from your path feels like a monumental effort at the moment.

Your fingers are pale, losing their place in the map of your body.

The trees surrounding you loom high above. They stand so close together that only the faintest slivers of moonlight dare to filter through.

There are endless shadows, all connected with each other, twisting and merging, until there is no discernible path, no way to tell where you are or where you are going.

Not that you have a clue anyway.

The shadows seem to breathe. They surround you completely, absorbing every noise except for the crunch of leaves underfoot and the sporadic hoot of an owl, which causes you to jump each time it calls out.

Even Barnes seems like a shadow himself, moving with a surety still too many steps in front of you - silent, unknowable, untouchable.

And then he is gone.

You didn’t even notice at first. You were too focused on keeping your legs moving, too consumed by the fog of your thoughts. But when you lift your gaze, he is nowhere to be seen.

The tightness in your chest keeps thudding, so loud, so sharp, so fast. Thud. So many thuds. Thud. They try to escape. Thud. Try to leave your chest all of a sudden. Thud. Escaping. Thud. Fleeing. Thud. But there is no way out. Thud. Your ribs are closing in. Thud. Your chest is a locked room with no windows.

Panic.

Wild eyes are darting around, breaths sound in your ears, hands tremble at your side so helplessly.

You knew this was a bad idea. What in the world did Sir Barton think would come out of giving you into the care of a mercenary? Those men are not to be trusted. Those men don’t care about the things they promised.

Bucky Barnes waited for the perfect moment to leave you alone. He took you out, deep into the forest, and then vanished.

He left you alone. He left you to die. He left you to rot.

You should have seen it coming and yet your heart is thundering, your world is spinning faster than you can hold.

You won’t give this man the satisfaction of calling for him. Wherever far he might have gone already.

But you wouldn’t get a word out even if you tried.

Your body becomes its own betrayal, muscles taut and trembling, teeth clenching against the unbearable roar of your own pulse.

He betrayed your mother. He betrayed Sir Barton. He betrayed you-

There he is.

Leaning against a tree, arms casually crossed over his chest, making his muscles strain under the grey shirt beneath his brown leather armor.

He looks as though he’s been waiting there for hours, watching you stumble through the dark like some clumsy, lost creature. His head tilts slightly, his face twisted in an impassive expression that doesn’t make you relax as much as you had thought.

But then the corner of his mouth tugs up in a smirk. Amusement and mild exasperation mix in his gaze, as though your panic has been nothing but entertainment and a burden for him.

Your blood boils.

He doesn’t say a word. The slight raise of his brow, the subtle shift of his weight against the tree, say everything.

He simply turns and starts walking again, knowing you will follow.

You hate him.

Oh, how much you hate him.

But unfortunately not because of his smirk, tough that certainly stokes the fire. Not because of the way he moves through the forest so effortlessly, while you struggle for every step. Not because of his silence, his cold aloofness that feels like a slap to the face every time you dare hope for some shred of kindness.

You hate him because he is right.

You are fragile.

There is nothing you can do but follow. He knows it, and you know it.

You are helpless, a princess who grew up like one, trailing after a man who barely tolerates your presence. Because the alternative is unthinkable.

You don’t know these woods. You don’t really know any woods. Don’t know what or who might lurk within them.

You hate that he holds all the power, that your life is now tethered to his whim.

You hate that he seems so unaffected by it all while you are falling apart.

You hate the world for thrusting you into this nightmare.

You hate the gods that took your parents.

You hate the crown that marked you as a target.

You hate the life you lost in the span of a single, horrific night.

But most of all, you hate yourself.

For your weakness. For your dependence. For your title. For not fighting for freedom when you started hoping for it. For not learning what freedom even meant when you started dreaming of it.

Maybe you really aren’t even worth all this.

That would make him right again.

You would love to scream at him. To demand he acknowledge you, to force him to see you as more than a burden, more than a thing to be tolerated.

However, if you don’t believe in yourself as anything other than a hassle for him, then you definitely won’t persuade him to think differently.

Your hopelessness is rewriting you into silence.

And again, you hate yourself for it.

The forest stretches on and so does your pain. And somewhere ahead, Barnes moves through the darkness, being the guide you despise but can’t abandon.

The trees are swaying above you, almost whispering like they are mourners at a funeral. Your funeral.

Barnes stopped walking.

You almost noticed it too late, nearly colliding with him, his wide back suddenly a wall in front of you.

He cast a glance over his shoulder, his sharp eyes flickering down to your trembling form before moving past you to survey the shadows.

He says nothing - he never seems to say much - but you get the sense that this is where you will stay the rest of the night.

Or at least you hope so.

Your feet won’t carry you any longer.

He turns his back to you again and moves forward.

You follow his gaze. There is a small, haphazard clearing, tucked between the roots of a tall oak.

There is nothing welcoming about it.

A rough bedroll lay crumpled near the base of the tree. Its fabric looks weathered and stained. Beside it, there are charred remains of a tiny fire pit, though the ashes are long cold.

A battered pack leans half open against the roots, some of its contents spilling out. You glimpse rope, whetstone, and a dented flask.

You take in the thinness of the bedroll and how it might not even do anything for the hard ground, wondering how anyone could sleep like that.

Thoughts drift to your own bed that now may be reduced to ashes. It was high, draped in silk, the pillows stuffed with down. You used to sleep with the warmth of the hearth that burned low through the night.

It seems like a dream now, something too far removed from the reality that is your life now.

Barnes moves toward the tree, picking up the pack and tossing it down beside the bedroll.

He kneels, checking the contents quickly, before sitting back on his heels.

His eyes catch yours, and the twinkle of humor you had seen earlier is gone, replaced by his coldness, hardness.

You wrap your arms around yourself, partly to fend off the chill, partly to brace against the words that spill from your mouth before you can stop them.

This silence just got a little too unbearable.

“Is this where you slept?”

He looks at you, his expression flat. “What of it?”

The bluntness of his tongue stings, but you press on, emboldened by your desperation and the icy air that feels too silent.

“It does not look like much.”

His brow twitches. “S’ not meant to be.” Irritation roughens his words.

You hesitate. “Do you-”

“Let me make something clear,” he says, his voice low and dignified. He stands then, and even in the faint moonlight, his presence looms over you. He feels more imposing than the trees around you. You swallow hard. “I’m not here to answer your questions. I’m not here to keep you company or make you feel better about your little situation.”

Your cheeks burn, your arms around you tighten at the condescension in his tone. You say nothing, your breath caught in your throat. Your tongue is locked in your mouth.

His jaw is clenching and he exhales a sharp sound that is somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. It’s not a happy laugh though.

“I’m here because I have to be,” he continues. His eyes are fixed so intensely on you, you have to look away. “And you are here because you have nowhere else to go. That’s it. Don’t mistake this for anything else.”

He turns around stiffly and walks over to a patch of ground a few feet from his bedroll. He starts lazily removing sticks and stones to clear the space of dirt.

After he’s done, he moves away and gestures towards it with a careless hand, not even looking at you.

“You’ll sleep there.”

You are about to open your mouth, a protest on your tongue but his head snaps up, his eyes locking onto yours with a warning look.

“Go to sleep.” His voice is commanding. Unkind. He is done with tolerating you for today. “Now!”

You swallow the words that had risen, relieved they didn’t make it up all the way. Because there is no way you can win against this man and you don’t have the fight in you to argue at the moment.

Sinking to the ground he pointed at, you wrap your arms around yourself harder. The dirt is damp beneath you, cold seeping up through the ruined fabric of your gown. It is streaked with dirt, torn by brambles, and clings to you all wrong.

You shiver, your body curling in on itself, though that doesn’t make a difference.

You press your knees to your chest, burying your face in the crook of your arms.

But the chilly air still carves into your cheeks and whispers to your blood to slow.

You think of your mother then. Of the warmth in her smile and the way she used to stroke your hair as she tucked you into bed. You think of your father. He has always been a little harsh on you, a little distant. But you still relied on him in ways you always took for granted.

They are gone. And you are here. In the dirt. In the cold. In the woods. Alone but for a man who doesn’t care for you. He most certainly would leave you here without hesitation if it wasn’t for the oath he gave. To your mother.

You blink back tears, biting down hard on your lip to keep from crying. It is bad he already sees you like this. He can’t also see you cry.

The sound of Barnes’s blade scraping against the whetstone fills the silence.

You close your eyes and try to focus on the sound, trying to let it lull you into some semblance of sleep.

But it only makes your stomach queasy.

“The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.”

- F. Scott Fitzgerald

[prettyykarmaa]

Reckless

GN!Reader x Naib Subedar

Summary - Naib gets chaired during a match. You don't want to leave him behind.

WC - 1,053 (that's actually surprising to me)

Author's Note(s) - This was inspired by @turbulentscrawl's 'Steamy Rescues' post! Please give it a read :]

https://www.tumblr.com/turbulentscrawl/740237408536231936/steamy-rescues?source=share

There is really minor violence in this, but please keep that in mind if that’s something you’re sensitive to. Also, I hc that survivors can communicate via a two-way earpiece!

"The cipher machine is primed. It's up to you now!" Luca's voice exclaims through your earpiece as you make your way to where Naib was chaired. Countless times have you attempted and succeeded in going ahead with risky plans. Still, all that prior experience was not doing much to stop your palms from sweating nor slow down your quickened heartbeat. You had ideas on why that was the case.

For one, the survivors of Oletus Manor have been on an awful losing streak recently, and it's been affecting everyone's morale. Even the survivors with relatively positive outlooks aren't doing so great. If you failed to turn this guaranteed tie into a win, you could practically imagine disappointed sighs and glares of disapproval (directed your way).

There was another idea floating around your mind as you ran, though.

You were nervous about failing him. The ironic part was that you knew he wouldn't hold any true ill-will against you. You're sure he'll call you an idiot, but he's not the type to hold a grudge over something like that. Even the best rescuers fail sometimes. So why were you so worried this time around?

Unfortunately, there wasn't any more time to linger on that question. Not when the chair was in your sight, and Naib's gaze was locked onto yours. He realized what you were trying to do the second he saw you rushing towards him. "Forget about saving me," You heard him say through your earpiece. "Just go for the tie."

"It's too late to do that." You huffed back as you looked away. You hear him let out an amused sigh before he speaks again. "Don't fuck up, then." As you got closer, your eyes scanned around his chair. Nothing. Ominous red light from the hunter? Missing. That was weird, but you convinced yourself to shake it off. Wanting to reach him in time, you forced yourself to run faster, resulting in you almost crashing into him. Almost. Using your hands, you stop yourself by planting them on either side of his head, practically pinning him against the chair.

If you had the time, you would've taken it to admire the sight in front of you. Battle-scarred hands gripped the armrests, and your eyes only traveled upwards, noticing the flex of Naib's biceps through his black long sleeve. Naib's hood had fallen, presumably during the struggle to the chair, revealing his pretty brown hair tied in its usual ponytail. It was disheveled, yes, but you that only made you want to run your hands through it to fix it for him. Yet, that all paled compared to how he was looking at you.

His dull blue eyes were trained on your appearance before reuniting with your gaze. They were filled with something you couldn't put into words, but you'd be lying if you said your heart didn't flutter. Realizing you could've completely misread his expression and he was actually silently judging, you try to save face. "I know I look breathtaking right now; you can tell me about it later, yeah?" You mumbled as you placed both hands on the safety bar and pried it off his lap before carefully taking his hands and pulling him out of the chair.

You were about to finally relax when you felt a shiver down your spine, immediately followed by a butterfly coming from overhead and landing directly in front of Naib. Without a second thought, you go between them and braced yourself. The familiar sting of Michiko's fan blade slashing you made itself known. However, it disappeared as quickly as it came, thanks to Luca popping the last cipher.

With a newfound sense of determination and the pain from injuries you both sustained becoming tolerable, Naib grabbed you by the hand and started sprinting toward the exit gate. "We're almost out. Just hold on a bit longer." He panted as he continued to pull you along. You subconsciously squeeze his hand, and surprisingly, he does it back. Another butterfly whizzes past, this time behind you. He notices and uses the hand holding yours, swinging you in front of him. Michiko barely misses her attack, giving both of you enough time to follow Luca through the exit.

Once you were back at the manor, you beelined to your room. You would've loved to have celebrated the win with everyone, but you were more than ready to sleep. When you were getting ready to turn off your lamp, you heard a knock on the door. You wanted to ignore it, but when there was a second knock, you sighed and opened the it.

It was Naib.

He appeared much more relaxed than he looked during the game, his right hand gently resting on your doorway. It was a good look on him. "Your recklessness never fails to amaze me," he says, shaking his head, which earns him a lighthearted eye-roll from you. "But nonetheless, I'm glad you rescued me despite knowing the risks." Usually, you'd tease him relentlessly for not being upfront with a "thank you," but you decided to play nice. Oh, how you regret not taking that chance.

"You know my conscience wouldn't let me leave people behind. Especially you." You say with a small smile. That second part was an understatement, as you'd drop everything and come running if he asked you to. For the sake of your pride, you didn't tell him that. He lightly scoffs when he realizes you are choosing to be passive tonight.

"It looks like you're getting ready to sleep, so I'll leave you be." He retracts his hand from the doorway, ready to head back down the hallway. Then, remembrance flickers across his face, leading Naib to turn his head back to you. Before you can ask what he was thinking, he suddenly says, "I agree."

"What?"

"You said you looked breathtaking during the game. I think you are all the time, so I agree.

With that, Naib turns around and walks down the hallway, disappearing behind the corner. Quietly closing the door to your room and shutting off the lamp, you crawl under the blankets on your bed. His words continually replayed in your head. Sleeping was going to be a struggle tonight. You would've brushed off what Naib said as him being oblivious (somehow) to how his words could be taken…

If it wasn't for the fact you caught Naib leaving with what looked to be a knowing smile.

He definitely knows.

And much to your dismay, that makes you all the more smitten over him.

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So fun fact, this is the first time I've ever written a fanfic but I hope it was enjoyable anyways!! Because I'm a minor, I strayed away from making this suggestive and leaned more towards romantic tension. I also had Haunted by Beyoncé on loop for quite a bit of this fic, so I wonder if y'all you can tell LMAO

Tags: @thekeeperofdreams

[valentine-cafe]

heyo! may i please get a tiramisu?

(top!m!reader)

thinking about alessio cockwarming a very nerdy reader who's just reading and telling him about how interesting his book is meanwhile alessio is just thinking the whole time (oh my god please just fuck me already i literally cannot take it anymore—). reader already knows how desperate alessio is getting but he just wants to see how far he can push the other man until he inevitably loses it.

— 🫀 anon

˖⁺. ﹙ antihero mercenary bf x top male reader. ﹚ .𖹭 ݁

. . . can't do this to me !! 🍒 :  antihero ˖ mercenary ˖ enigma character character﹙ verse 781 alessio. ﹚

you adore tormenting your mercenary boyfriend with cockwarming and reading out your favourite books on science and biology cw: cockwarming, brat taming, riding

“Are you following, Alessio?” You hum out quietly. Before turning to the next page of the book. You know why he is struggling to answer your small questions and conversations with him. Too focused on the warmth of your tight hole.

The feel of your asscheeks spread apart for him to stay inside of and not move at all felt like absolute sin.

He was balls deep inside of you, and you told him not to move. Not even once. It was too distracting whenever you began to clench around him as you read through your book on biomedical science. Explaining the basics of it to him. Expressing just how fascinating it all was to you.

Yet each word failed to make their way to his ears. His mind too engulfed in the attempts he made to stay still as long as he could. It was an evil joke. You made him so needy and for what reason?

If it wasn’t because he knew you would immediately give him the brat taming experience should he start anything. Such as taking over as top. He would have done it.

All he can do is drool and whine on your shoulder, in response to your questions.

Eventually you had enough of it, smacking the book closed, to grind down against him a bit. Humming at the sounds that begin escaping him, deep from his throat. Head thrown back with black locks licking against the chairlean the both of you were sitting on.

“Fuck— Please— Please I need you it’s too much.” He manages. Triggering something in your brain to take action.

The book is put down, left carelessly on the table, while you begin riding him. Back against his front, and your head thrown over his shoulder with a hand gripping at the back of his head to bring it up to face yours.

“Is this good enough for you, huh?” You croon at him. Pressing your lips together in a feverishly frenzied kiss. The pace setting to a moderate one for now. Just to get him going a bit more.

You let out a shaky breath and shake his head, as his eyes begin to cross at the friction that he is finally granted. Your gummy walls squeezing the life out of his throbbing cock. That desperately fucks into your, with agitation rushing through his entire system.

“You’re so fuckin’ mean.” He sniffles, drawing a laugh from you. While you start going faster.

“And you’re too pretty when you cry.”

Oh, nevermind how much he tries to hide away from you at the words. Your grip on his head prevents him. Leaving him to stare into your eyes with a face that slowly heats up. A rare sight for many, and only you to behold in this very moment.

[turbulentscrawl]

Steamy Rescues

Sorry, I'm just thinking about hot men saving my life today. Let me drool in peace

Warnings: suggestive stuff, delicious men

Naib

Your time in the chair was nearly up when Naib suddenly slammed into it at full speed. One second you were struggling against your restraints, cursing and consumed with desperate thoughts of freedom, and the next his hands were next to your head. Initially you fell silent because you were startled, but that quickly melted into a perverted sort of awe as you looked over the mercenary.

He was looming over you, muscles tense, toiled taut like a spring. His tight shirt was torn open like he’d been caught by the collar and wrenched himself free, leaving a teasing view of his sweaty, scarred, heaving chest. Some of his hair had slipped free of his hair band and clung to his damp face and neck. He was out of breath too, each exhale fanning down on you, panting less like a rescuer and more like a predator who’s cornered his prey. There was a certain musk wafting off of him…it was a bit maddening.

“I know, I know,” Naib said quickly. “You can tell me I look like shit later. We’ve got to GO.” He grabbed the bar pinning your torso to the chair and, with a flex of his biceps and feral grunt, ripped it off you.

“I’ll tell you something alright,” you gasp quietly, briefly wondering if your nose was bleeding.

Naib seemed to pay no mind to your mutterings. The last cipher popped, and the siren blaring in the distance gave you both a rush of adrenaline that overrode any lingering pain. Taking that que, Naib grabbed your wrist and all but dragged you sprinting to the gate.

When you were home free, though, he held your gaze daringly and asked, “So what did you want to tell me?”

Andrew

You had heard the disturbance of dirt nearby, but were too preoccupied with struggling to notice the source. The next second, Andrew’s dirty blonde hair (literally) popped out of the ground between your legs. He was already cursing under his breath, and shaking, just a bit. You vaguely remember hearing about Andrew being claustrophobic…. But those thoughts are washed away when he roughly grabs your thighs for support and you realize the exact position you’re in.

He had emerged a little too close to the chair and was having trouble getting out without sliding his body up against yours. The chair wobbled forward a little, hanging you over him, as one of the feet dangled into the hole he’d left in the dirt. He grabbed your caged forearms next, managing to haul himself out enough to be level with your chest.

“Can’t you help me?” he hissed, face flush with embarrassment at his predicament.

“I’m a little preoccupied,” you snap back, thankfully still having sense enough for it. Andrew clicks his tongue, hangs his head in what’s probably supposed to be shame…but his mop of hair hides his face and most of your lap from view, bringing even mor lewd thoughts to mind. “Y-you know, I’m kind of on a time crunch here!”

“Shut up, I know!” Andrew shouts. As soon as it’s out he clenches his teeth and looks over his shoulder for the Hunter, and without bothering to climb out of his hole starts fumbling with your restraints. When you pop free, the angle and weight of him clinging to you throws you both to the ground, your chest right on his face.

He screeched like a schoolgirl, but his tomato-red face was endearing enough to override most of the fear you felt for the remainder of the match.

Luchino

Though no one called him such, Luchino was a healer in his own right.

His skilled hands had patched you up twice already this match, and though the pain from Michiko’s cuts lingered, you could hardly complain when you thought about how Luchino had loomed over you. He was a polite man, but no-nonsense. Whenever you appeared at his cipher, alone and bleeding, he shoved you to your knees beneath him and got right to work. You couldn’t say if it was the adrenalin, but you were acutely aware of the heat radiating off his body the whole time. Of the gentle ghosting of his claws on your back, making you shiver. When he tied the bandages tight—too tight, almost, but he said that’s how they’re supposed to be—he grunted and huffed in your ear.

“All done,” he said, smirking. “Take these, too.” Luchino straightened up, but instead of returning to his cipher he applied some of that mystery serum to his forearm—his sleeves rolled up deliciously—and peeled away a hard patch of scales. You were too entranced by the oil-slick glisten it left on his skin to question why he was handing them to you.

Before you could stand, a butterfly alighted on your shoulder. Luchino reacted incredibly quickly; you blinked and he was hunched over you again, arms caging you fully to his chest. A sound like cracking glass met your ears the same time as his displeased hiss. Before you could ask, he grabbed you by the waist and threw you into a forward sprint, ordering “Go!”