#of half-wits & fools!

[stellar-jay]

i think i'm just gonna have thus always to tyrants on repeat until my copy of fools errand comes

[a-model-of-propriety]

i can't stop thinking about the "game" motif in the Death Note musical i need to write an essay about it i swear

[dog-girl-zezora]

.

[sun-snatcher]

( credits to the incredible @goodsirs for this beautiful gifset ! )

✵ — OF HALF-WITS & FOOLS !

summ.  You & Elrond have been at odds for as long as you both can remember. So when did it all start to change? or: Everyone’s sick & tired of Elrond’s lovesick denial. pairing.  elrond peredhel / f!reader w.count.  5.5k (oops) a/n.   pre-s1 (implied AU) , time-jumps galore , established elven name , loose neo-Quenya translations , childhood rivals-to-lovers , Elrond is less serious here & more of a little shit , ‘unstoppable-force-meets-immovable-object’ trope, but it's literally just stubborn!reader & bratty!Elrond update: I drew fanart for this fic!

PERHAPS, ELROND SUPPOSES, it had started when he’d accidentally bucked you off your horse on a race. 

That would come to be centuries ago by now, when you were both children; and he can even recall your face still— drenched in lake water, tangled in a bramble he couldn’t quite pull you out of because he’d allowed the most unbecoming laugh to ever grace himself first before bothering to help you.

You’d been humiliated, and you never allowed it again since.

Payback comes tenfold just a season after, however. (Spring had yet to be in full swing— Elrond should have known better than to trust your claim of rare Niphredil blooming early by Lindon’s border.)

“Was it worth it?” he snorts, letting the rain wash the muck from his hair and wincing at the crumple of his scrolls under the hooves of your horse. “Your petty endeavour for retribution?” 

“Indeed.”

“...You say this, after having fallen in the same bog you yourself have led me to. Incredible. Your pride rivals that of Man.”

A beat. You huff.

“...I admit, I had imagined this to go far more smoothly on my end—”

Elrond rolls his eyes.

“—But it is satisfying, nonetheless.”

“How childish.”

“You’re one to talk,” you snap, narrowly dodging a dirty pebble thrown your way.

“You ought to apologise!” Elrond hisses.

“Apologise to the likes of you? Never.”

“Fool!”

“Half-wit!”

And so was sown early the seed of a rivalry between you both.

The High Elves watch it bloom through centuries of the Age.

The Valiant-hearted Maiden against the Vault of Stars; Locking horns by every way of competition and prowess— be it academic brain or athletic brawn, or in inanities of conversation, where every answer is met with a petty counter or a provoked jab. 

A constant dance of bickering, bantering, barbing. 

“Of us two, I’m the better scholar,” Elrond states once upon a time, during a practised-combat, amid one of your shared tiffs. 

You side-step and knock him to his feet; catch the stroke of his blade with a hard swipe of your own. It sings— metal against metal— and pierces into the earth a pace away where Elrond crumbled defeated.

The smile you wear is triumphant as the tip of your steel hovers at his throat. “And I, the better swordsman.”

A curl of his hair falls between his eyes, and he blows it with a scoff. “Even if the High King blesses you one day as Marshal of your own Cavalry,” Elrond narrows his gaze up towards you. “I hazard I could fell more damage than you ever could, with a quill and my tongue alone.”

“Bold. Why ever need an army, then?”

“Betimes, a sword must still be drawn.”

“Or not drawn,” you counter. 

As if in emphasis, you sheathe your sword and bent to offer him a teasing, albeit, helpful hand. “Hard to tell with ‘just a quill and your tongue’, I imagine. No?”

Quick-witted shrew you are, he thinks to bite. But you are right, after all, and Elrond is clever enough to know when to yield.

“The maiden thinks herself o’ so wise,” Elrond bristles, after you’d steadied him to his feet. 

You laugh. 

It’s bright and resonant— startles something deep in his heart far, far more than the kind hand you’d offered him. Elrond struggles to shake it off.

“Fool,” he gripes.

“Half-wit,” you volley.

And the familiar exchange follows again, wherever forth you go throughout the Age. Between field and fallow, lake and stream, and Kingdom to Kingdom.

Oaf to dullard. Troll-headed to lame-brained. Runt to mooncalf. Dimwit to—

“Aulë’s beard!” Durin cries aloud, following a stormy aftermath of you and Elrond’s brief visit to Khazad-dûm. “I’ve never seen his patience crumble as swift as soapstone! They despise each other, Disa!”

“On the contrary,” she dissents, amused. “Why would Elrond allow it, that his so-called ‘bane of his existence’ meet you, Durin— one of his greatest friends— if he didn’t trust her at least one bit?”

“But that doesn’t necessarily mean he cares for the girl.”

“Aye, ‘til you remember trust is the naked stone of love.” There’s a twinkle in Disa’s eyes like that of pure quartz. “And I wager that Elf hasn’t the slightest idea of that yet.”

She’s right, of course. Elrond hasn’t.

Not even a decade later.

Or the one after that.

And to the next.

Until, slowly, something begins to gives way.

“Elmendëa,” Elrond hears you swear, exasperated. “Ává tuluvanyë! I know you are a fool, but even an idea as rash as this is beyond you.” *

“That has to be the kindest words I have ever heard you utter in regards to me,” he muses, unable to stop from grinning.

Elrond is intelligent. Cunningly so. He’s gleaned exactly how to push your buttons because he’s the only one well-versed to your short temper, buried somewhere under the sunshine of your adoring face, and the bell-like sound of your laughter he’s grown to—

“Remind me what it is your name stands for, again?”

The grip on your horse’s reins tighten. “Beríniel. Maiden of Valiant heart.”

A terrible move, in hindsight. You should have never entertained his question. 

“Hm. I always admired it. A mighty name,” he agrees, shrugging lazily. “For a coward, that is.”

You scowl, fight a scathing remark. Elrond always gets childishly riled up whenever he tests your nerve; you’ve known him long enough to know it would not do to satisfy him with a reaction.

“Five stone-trolls against one lone elf in the blackest of night is not cowardice, it’s folly.”

“These creatures have eluded us too many seasons long, laying waste to these lands. The General said this himself,” he says, spurring his horse with excitement. “Now’s our only chance! Besides, I am far from alone, no? Come now; I have you, and you have me!”

Your heart stutters.

You might’ve had the time to mull that last line of his comment over, including that unexpected bloom of something in your chest, even, had he not bolted off straight into his demise.

“Elrond! Valyë—!” You snarl out a curse. “Wait!” *

You’re drenched.

So is Elrond.

You may have laughed at the sight if you weren’t so busy with being humbly contrite at the wrath of your Cavalry General. 

And maybe if you weren’t drenched in literal troll-blood.

“Taking on five of those foul creatures,” comes the disapproving hiss. “At the height of the night!” 

“General—”

“You are lucky, thick-headed colt that you are, Belírien, that I have decided only to suspend you of your rank.”

You flinch. 

Elrond snaps his bowed head up in surprise.

“Forgive me for speaking out of turn, General,” he defies, much to your absolute horror, “But if you wish to exorcise your anger, I beg of you to do so against me—”

“No,” you override, furious. Call it competition if you must— but Elrond will not take a punishment from and for you. You had far more honour in you than to let anyone take your blame, even if it comes in the form of your childhood nemesis.

The glare you shoot that reads, Quit attempting to be a damn hero, goes unnoticed, however. (Or perhaps, more likely, now that you remember this is Elrond Peredhel, wilfully ignored.)

“—Belírien defied your order, but she did so only to protect me from my own folly. It was I who went after the trolls, and in doing so forced her hand—”

“I made my decision, you fool,” you protest. “Of all people you should know best that you could never force my hand to do anyth—

“If you would just let me speak, you half—”

“Dínen!” The General snarls. *

Both of you snap to attention. 

“Must you two always argue like whelps?” he thunders. “I will speak with Elrond myself. Meno!” *

You practically deflate in your armour. “General, please, lá asanyë a—” *

“Every second you tally standing before me thins my patience, Belírien,” he says, voice strained with finality. “Do not test it.”

You grit your teeth, your breath a sharp exhale.

“Dúro di,” Elrond whispers, before you can say anything rash. He can recognise all too well that tide of stubbornness in you— the same one that always rises ashore towards trouble. Then, gently: “Ilqua nauva mára.” *

You relent, only to surmise much, much later that evening, when the sun bled dusk over Lindon’s citadel, that it had not, in fact, gone ‘okay’.

“Manan nîn rehtanë tye, Elrond?” *

You can imagine the cheeky smile in his face for yourself, from where he’s peering up the gleaming stars, “Must there be rhyme or reason?”

“I’ve been informed that my rank as Marshal still stands,” you say, sidling to his side on the stone allure. “Was that your doing?”

“Yes.”

It’s said so easily. Sometimes you wish you could curse that slippery, literary tongue of Elrond’s.

“Then why is it I hear they’ve withheld yours as Herald?”

“Merely an abeyance,” he dismisses, but you can hear the disappointment in his voice nevertheless, even if his eyes are cast away from you.

It pains you more than you’d expected it would have— Elrond has spent centuries working towards the role, and just when it’s come within reach, he’d chosen to let it slip to defend you instead. 

“Save your despair. In time, h—”

“Ánin apsene.” *

Elrond blinks in surprise.

Unbidden, an old memory resurfaces: of mud, and crumpled scrolls, and a pebble thrown your way, after which you’d claimed: I would never apologise to the likes of you!

You’d both been children then. Has so much time passed already? What a gift, he finds he couldn’t stop himself, That you are still by my side.

“There is nothing to forgive. I defended you, because I—” he falters. Something passes in his eyes you cannot decipher. “—I believed it just. On this I am certain.”

“You need not have, regardless,” you retort. “Especially with the price you pay now.”

“I know,” he shrugs. Shrugs. As if you hadn’t just been the potential end-all to his hard work. “But, alas.”

Alas? How stubborn you are, you resist. You silver-tongued, nonchalant, handsome little—

“Don’t you dare feel sorry for me,” he adds, pointedly. “Marshal.”

“I don’t,” you say. “I would never.” There is no way to turn back time nor the decree, afterall, so you settle with, “Just don’t get used to it. Defending me, I mean.” 

Or, in plain: Thank you.

The corner of his lips tug closely akin to a smile. 

“I would never,” he parrots.

That is to say: You’re welcome.

--- C R A C K !

Deep in another pass of Summer, in the fields of Lindon west where the capital towers stand, an arrowshaft splits perfectly down its middle, from the shot of another.

A bullseye on a bullseye.

You ready; take aim to fire, again—

“I gathered you would be here,” comes Elrond’s voice. “You always found solace in target practice.”

—and miss your mark.

The arrow splinters wood off the edge.

With a scowl, you turn to where Elrond sits by the root of an old tree, fidgeting with something in his hand.

“Endë intyë,” he recites Rúmil. “You draw your bowstring with anger. It needs conviction, to fly true.” *

The familiar sound of a nocked arrow reaches his tipped ears. Elrond lifts his head, meets your steel gaze behind your loaded bow, set dead-straight towards him. 

“And would you like to test my conviction, Elrond?”

I would, is his instinctive jab of a response, for I’d wager you’ll miss. 

But he can spot the slightest of tremor in your hands; the unseen waver in your voice. You’ve been gravely unsteadied— he recognises the suffocating weight of grief, rolling from you in waves.

“No,” he says, sincerely. “Not today.”

“So you’ve come to patronise me for one erred shot, then. Charming.”

“You know why I’m here,” he says, watching you patiently as you pluck your arrows and tidy the target. “Don’t—”

“Be a fool?” You finish for him, annoyed. 

A breeze passes. It’s silent.

There’s no caustic remark, no spiteful words. It’s almost unsettling to not hear half-wit being said in reply. Even then, though, you find way to fault him even for that.

You curse him for his… his inherent patience. For bothering you here and now. For his damn face; that always makes it so hard to stay mad, and so easy to forgive.

“Don’t push me away,” he corrects. “Is what I intended to say.”

A piece of you cracks. For someone who’s claimed to be irked by the very sight of you, Elrond could be frustratingly gentle to you when need be.

“What does it matter to you?” 

You reach for your quiver. Focus, you tell yourself. Focus. If you looked in his eyes again you might just shatter.

“The village sent word,” he begins, striding towards you and standing by your side. “They plead for you to come and plant a seed in their land, in Îdhendiel’s name. A token of gratitude to her memory, and to you, the Marshal, who led the cavalry to save their lives.”

Something potent roars in your veins. A flame; A fire— burning white-hot behind your eyes, kindling them with tears; stoking a bloodthirsty anger in your heart.

“What worth is their gratitude? The person they ought to thank is dead,” you say, vicious. “It’s because of their recklessness that they roused the wrath of the beasts sleeping in that forsaken cavern. Îdhendiel’s life was—”

Wasted, you couldn’t bring yourself to say, as you draw and take aim.

But your vision is swimming, blurred by memory and unshed tears, taking the heart of the target along with it. 

“They are innocent, you know this.”

Your shot will be poor. Likely, it would embed the stand. Maybe you should shoot Elrond, instead.

(You could never.)

“If you are here to argue with me, Elrond,” you whisper, a pained breath escaping you as you lower your bow. “Please, leave.”

“I am here to convince you.”

“And I will not be convinced,” you grit.

“Do not let your grief blind y—”

“Please!” 

Your voice cracks. The arrowshaft in your grip snaps.

Elrond seizes.

“Please, just… Just go.”

You wait for it. For one last reproach from him. But instead, he unravels something with his fingers.

“I will not tell you your anger is misplaced,” he says, gently, stepping forward to place the object in your palm. “For that, I have no right. But I am certain of one thing—”

It’s a seed. An acorn. Cradled in threadbare cloth, weathered and worn. 

“—Îdhendiel would have wished only for peace.”

It would grow to be an oak tree that can outlive mortal men by a thousand years. Elrond had been purposeful with where he’d placed the seed: right next to the broken arrowhead in your palm.

A proverbial choice. Grief, he seems to say, or peace? 

“I hate you,” you answer, uselessly. 

But a Herald's very art is to read between words, and better yet— Elrond has come to learn every lilt and cadence in your voice. It’s hollow. There is no malice meant in what you’ve said.

“This is but one seed, and yet it feels the heaviest thing in all of Middle-Earth.”

He softens at that. “Such is the weight of grief.”

Something knots in your throat. Stricken. You’re stricken. It’s the kind that reminds you of all your other, untreated hurts; of everything you’ve lost and can never forget, and would never be reunited with again until the Undying Lands.

“You—” Your hesitant voice calls out. 

(You are the only one I trust. Would you bear this weight with me?)

“Would you accompany me? To the village?”

Your words are small. Almost fearful. As if he could ever possibly be so cold as to forsake you at a time like this. 

He reaches out, settles his hand atop yours. It may very well be the kindest, most tender thing you’ve ever felt from him your entire life. 

“I would never abandon you,” comes Elrond’s answer. 

Then, to himself, candidly: I’d go anywhere with you by my side. He’d thought it. Realised. Swore. It had brought no surprise, no hesitation. My place is with you.

Elrond Peredhel had never been so sure of anything.

And he stays true to his word.

He journeys with you for a sennight North, with the acorn in his hold; had kept you steadfast all the way to the tilled grounds of the village.

And alas when the time had come: If your fingers didn’t shake neath the earth; if you didn’t falter your grip on seed and soil as you planted— 

It was because Elrond was there, standing with you.

“I was a fool to think I can escape without Herald Elrond himself having one last word in.”

“That you are,” he huffs, breathless from the full gallop ride he’d taken downwind to the kingdom gates. The Winter season means the Northern air blows colder from the snow-capped mountains of Ered Luin. 

It means more time between you two has passed, yet— 

“And a half-wit,” he finishes.

—nothing’s changed. Or so it seems.

Astride the saddle of your own steed, you cock your head at him. “Well, what did you come here to say? Let me guess, you’ll enjoy the silence while I’m gone?”

Elrond almost grimaces. If you’d noticed, though, you didn’t appear to show it.

“No.”

“Or perhaps—”

“Why did you not tell me you were leaving?”

(He says, instead of something unforgiveably sentimental, that is: Do I matter to you so little?)

And. Well. If his tone hadn’t startled you, the flash of betrayal in his eyes certainly did. 

“I…” You blink. “I assumed you knew.”

“I didn’t,” he says, uncharacteristically sharp.

Your brows furrow. “Well, I’ll be gone a mere blink. At best only six Sun-years, not an entire yén. Galadriel sent me to scout aways to the South before reporting my findings back to Lindon for our archives. I will not apologise for serv—” *

“I seek neither an explanation nor an apology,” he says, curt enough that your company sneaks a wary look from the gates; enough that his own very horse shifts uneasy.

“Then be plain. Why have you come here?”

The fight leaves his body. 

“I…” He trails off. Blinks as his gaze darts across your face. 

(I think— ) 

“…To bid you farewell.”

A lie. Blatant. Plain as daylight and as clear as the stars in their courses to your discerning eye, borne from the long years endured beside him. Dúath whinnies below you. He must have sensed the unseen discord, too.

Elrond purses his lips to smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“And to you too, Dúath. Keep h— Yourselves— safe.”

Then, with only a nod and a fleeting glance, as if the effort to watch you depart might cut too deep—

“Elrond—”

—he steers his horse away and spurs into a leaping gallop before your sentence could take shape.

And he doesn’t speak of that day, not a word; not until Galadriel had brought it up herself.

“I have noticed,” Galadriel begins, after the season had finally ended, and the last of the snowflakes had come to fall. “You have never been more distant since the company left. If my sending them away has offended you someh—” 

“No. Never,” Elrond says, cut to the quick. His gaze tears from the forests to his best friend. “I am merely… pensive.”   

It’s the truth, and yet somehow he’d delivered it embarrassingly unconvincingly. So much so that Galadriel raises her brows him. 

“Over?”

He flounders.

“...Lore.”

Galadriel deadpans. “Ah, of course. Lore. Then why have you been—” She’s careful to pick her words. “—Sulking?”

“I am not,” he insists, and manages to swallow back the instinctiveness of saying fool, or half-wit. (These are… words reserved solely for you.)

“It is unlike you to lie, Elrond,” she says, levelling her stare. “Was it not Rúmil who said absence makes the heart grow fonder?”

“Speak plain, Galadriel.”

“Your Marshal. You miss her,” she states. “You like her.”

“You are delusio—”

Galadriel pins him with a look.

“—Mistaken,” Elrond amends.

She tilts her head. “Your brooding says otherwise.”

“First and foremost, she is not my anything. Secondly, I do not brood,” he says, turning up his nose. “And lastly, I am confident I do not harbour anything but simple courtesy for her. She is insufferable.”

She hums, amused. “I see.” 

“Truly!” he insists. (Too hasty, almost, to hide the obvious lie.) “Unbearably prideful, too.”

“And terribly impulsive?” 

“As a colt in full gallop.”

“And distracting?” offers Galadriel.

“Endlessly.”

“Because she’s beautiful, yes?”

“Frustratingly so.”

A beat.

Elrond blinks, aghast.

“No, wait—”

Galadriel’s laugh is bright. 

Reunion aligns perfectly with Mereth-nuin-Giliath.

The celebratory feast has the verdant halls and forest of Lindon’s Kingdom alive with moonlight and lantern; laughter and song. Elves alike are clad in their best: silver wreaths braided into hair; golden trims embroidered into robe.

And— you.

There’s you. 

Donned in the finest cloths and the brightest garlands, seated at a small table spread with some of your closest companions, where Elrond quietly watches you laugh— Singing something of soldiers, poets and kings; how you’d been taught it from a migration of halflings you happened across during your time in the wilds. 

But then there is Glórieldir. 

Golden-one. Shouldered next to you, with his yellow hair and his glinting smile and his gilded garments. Everything that could possibly live up to his name, even in attitude. A perfect soldier. A perfect friend. A perfect Second-in-command. 

Specifically, your Second-in-command.

“Any longer and you might burn a hole through his head,” comes a voice. It’s Gil-Galad, ever the omnipresent gravitas that comes with him. “Do be more merciful. Glórieldir has quite the talent for bowmanship.”

Elrond straightens in an instant. “High King.”

“At ease,” he waves, behind a sip— no, a gulp— of wine. “I am trying to escape from Círdan and his frivolous attempts to pester me so. Do humour me, why the withering glare? Glórieldir is no threat to your rather peculiar bond with Beríniel. Despair not.” 

It’s said with such casual precision Elrond nearly buckles. He couldn’t have possibly been measured that swiftly?

“I do not— despair.”

A snort. 

“Do you know why Glórieldir is only Second-in-command?” Gil-Galad says. “Because he bends too easily to higher authority. Much unlike your Marshal, who would not hesitate to question anyone and anything even under duress. I hazard maybe even toward myself.” 

“She is not my— anything,” he blusters, recalling his conversation with Galadriel those winters ago.

“Ach. She is the only elf in Middle-earth who could shake the very foundation of your being free from conviction,” he says, nonchalant, “Do you think me blind to your longing gaze and clandestine trysts—”

Elrond chokes. “Trysts?!” 

(Had he not been burdened with the crown and its status, Gil-Galad may have allowed his Kingly demeanour to crack for a moment, just to laugh at Elrond’s scandalised look.) 

“There have never been trysts. We are furthest from lovers. She is my— friend, at best. You are mistaken.”

“Of course,” Gil-Galad hums, wholly unimpressed, after which he sets his goblet down a passing tray and grabs two fresh cups, and hands them both to him, much to his confusion. “I whole-heartedly believe you.”

Then, to Elrond’s horror: the High King beckons Glórieldir from the table, and Elrond pieces together the cunning scheme too late as Gil-Galad sweeps the Second-in-command away for an oh-so-interesting discussion over archery.

That sly fox of a—

“Thank you,” you say, once the both of you are alone, out of sight and earshot from the festivities, and Elrond had handed you one of the cups of red wine.

You should thank Gil-Galad, he thinks. And his horribly wicked sense of humour.

“Seems you enjoyed your adventures to the South,” he says instead.

“I did. It gave me plenty of time to… think.” Of you. Of us.

“Must have been peaceable without me around,” Elrond muses.

You set your cup to the stone wall of the parapet overlooking the rivers. “Quite the contrary,” you say, and Elrond has to try to convince himself he’s only imagining that tone of wistfulness in your voice out of self-indulgence. Surely.

“The seasons ran surprisingly long. Summers less kind, less sweet. Oftentimes, it was too quiet. And I’d seek for your voice in conversation.” You pick idly at the filigree of the goblet. “…But no one in my company tests my nerve like you do.”

A sense of pride curls around his heart. “Is this your long-winded way—” 

“Oh, here we go again.”

“—of saying you missed me?” he taunts, lips cut into a genuine smile. (Because I did. I missed you so; Never thought it possible that my heart could sing so longingly when I saw light upon your face again.)

You roll your eyes, but your laugh betrays you. It’s musical, dizzying. Has him stirring into another smile as he watches you muffle it into your palm, and the moonlight catches the jewels of your crescent eyes; the shining tresses of your hair he’s been fighting the urge to tuck behind your ear.

You’ve always been so beautiful. He couldn’t think of any other grand prose or way to describe it. You’re the only one who’s ever rendered the Herald speechless.

Elrond hadn’t known what to do with himself, really, when he first faced this revelation unravelling before him. He’d spent his days reflecting when exactly the tides had changed; at what hour he came to love, instead despise, the prick of every thorn and thistle that came with the flower that you are.

He’d thought perhaps something else was sown the day Îdhendiel’s seed was planted in the earth. Something between you two that was more gentler. Kinder. Fonder.

Or perhaps, Elrond supposes, it has always been there.

Yes, had come the realisation. Foolish of him, indeed. To have been remiss. To have been blind. To have tarried so long. 

“You’re right, I missed you,” you finally relent, sighing theatrically. “I owe you that much, after… after the way I left things before. I suppose it’s high time I ask for your forgiveness.” 

It’s said so sheepishly, he has to bend to chase your timid gaze. 

“Elmendëa. The journey truly has changed you… I hazard this is the second time I’ve ever heard you apologise in my life, Berílien, you should be quite proud—”

“The audacity!” you bat at him, bursting into a laugh. “Thick of you to keep tally. You and Glórieldir are irritatingly alike.”

Elrond’s mouth clicks shut. He tries to hide the hard press of his tongue against his cheek; the sudden bout of sour and ire. “Ah. Right. Your knight in golden, shining armour. Tell me, has he plucked the courage to court you yet?”

You’re almost winded. “What?”

He shrugs. “Word goes he’s head over heels for you.”

“Word is word. We— I— We’re not, no. He is more my charge, if anything,” you wrinkle your nose, disapproving. 

He tries to tamp down the relief secretly bleeding through him. “Oh? Why, you’ll break his golden heart.”

(This time, it’s you trying to convince yourself that you’re imagining that note of jealousy in his voice out of self-indulgence.)

“Besides," you wave, "I’ve been told he’ll be settling all the ways to Eregion, by the end of the season. I imagine we would hardly ever be feasible. ”

And then, in a slip of his tongue, or in new-found confidence (foolishness?), or perhaps because Elrond simply cannot help it anymore—

“Why not? I have loved you from further.”

A beat.

The world stills. 

Your heart stutters. 

Even the stars seem to hold their breath to bear witness.

Manwë help me, he freezes. This is not how I meant for this to go. 

Your eyes flicker to his lips. He catches it in a glimmer of hope. Was that confession? he wonders. Admission? Concession? 

“Your wine is… speaking, Elrond.”

“I have had but a quarter of a cup.” 

“It is First Age wine.”

“I digress. It would take more than that to master the tongue of an elf. Especially mine.” 

“You're half-elve—”

“Must we dance this age-old dance?” he blurts, half-desperate, half-terrified. Elrond isn’t like Galadriel, who could probably make flowers grow by sheer dint of belief. He doesn’t have it in him to pretend. Not anymore. “Just. Tell me I am wrong. That I’m mistaken. Tell me if— Tell me I have overstepped.”

Eärendil’s star is blinding in the momentary silence. 

The wind blows bated with white-winged birds. It breathes a strand to your cheek, compelling, almost. Reach for her.

He does. Slowly. Elrond gathers, finally, the conviction, to reach for that stray tress of hair, to tuck it behind the high-tip of your ear. 

Then he lingers. In one hand his wine, and the other ghosting across your cheek; As if he fears this an illusion, as if he’d touch you and you’d fade into a ripple.

“Tell me to walk away,” he says from where he stands a foot from you, voice so quiet it nearly fell into nothing. “And I will.”

I will do anything for you.

Your answer is barely a whisper, and drowned in affection. “Stay.”

(Kiss her. Kiss her. Kiss her.)

“And is your wine speaking?” he dares.

You shake your head honestly. 

Concession. “I’ve not had even a taste, yet, this whole night.”

A taste? “I see.”

And then, as swift and smooth as a breeze, Elrond moves to finish the last swallow of his wine, and let slip the goblet to clatter onto the floor, so he could hold you wholly in both hands— 

And ducks his head to kiss you.

It’s like the world sighs in song. 

You’re melting as he kisses you, urgent— a talisman of a kiss; fierce and unhesitating and like a wick lit aflame. It’s sweet, cloyingly so, laden either from the red wine or the weight of all the unsaids between you two, or maybe both.

“Melin tye,” he pants, when he pulls for a chaste breath. "I've always—" *

But then you’re leaning up to him again, running your hand up his nape and into the locks of his curly hair, and tugging him back down to meet him halfway. Words can come later. There’ll be time. You’ll weave it into existence, if you must. 

Right now you’re content with this. With seeing his eyes slide shut and feeling the press of his palms and thumbs on your cheeks; with letting him fold you tight into his arms, and kissing you so desperately it feels as if he’s cleaving his very soul apart so he could tuck you into it forever. 

You exhale his name. A thin, reedy sound, when he sidles you to a plinth. “I thought me the ‘bane of your existence’?”

He bumps nose and forehead to yours, eyes half-mast and pupils blown in naked admiration. “You misquote me, surely.”

“Oh?” you murmur, low and close.

He doesn’t bother with an answer. Just dips to kiss you, slower this time, relaxed— Like a tender apology for the wasted centuries, like he wanted to carve into memory the seam of your lips and the slope of it; trace every crack, crevice and curve of your face; memorise the warmth of your skin and the shuddering feel of you in his searing touch.

It’s slow and steady and careful and painfully endearing. You have half the mind to just stay like this with him forever, eclipsed by Elrond's lips, hands and shadow; and translate everything you’ve ever held back from saying into this one fervid kiss alone—

“High King?” comes an approaching call. 

Both of you fly back from each other in alarm, just as a figure turns the corner.

(The sound produced from the both of you pulling apart that ardent, sealing kiss is damning.)

“Círdan!” Elrond greets just in time, voice a strangled, breathless rasp. 

He clears his throat to try again. “Ah, I’m— afraid the High King is not here.”

You pray to the Valar Círdan doesn’t notice the harried way both of your chests rise and fall, or the way the circlet on your head has gone distinctly off-kilter, or the windswept tousle of Elrond’s curls.

He does, however, notice the empty goblet that’d been rolled to a stop, right at his foot. “…Are you two alright?”

“Very,” Elrond drags, and shoots you a there-and-away glance that leaves your cheeks hot. “We were just—”

Círdan toes the cup. “Having another petty row, I assume?”

“Yes,” you agree hastily. “Arguing.”

“As always,” the shipwright assents. “Right, well, don’t let me interrupt.”

Then, Círdan turns to face you and narrows his eyes curiously. Your lips are glaringly stained red. 

“Do go easy on the First Age wine, Marshal,” he suggests, before finally disappearing around the corner.

Elrond fights back from barking out a laugh.

“Yes, go easy,” Elrond croons your way, once you sink in relief. “Tell me, was I enough of a taste for you?”

“Snide little—” You swat with a laugh, but he catches you easily by the wrist, wearing that tight-lipped, boyish smile, and bends down to nudge you into another kiss once more.

You give in, ofcourse. 

“Fool,” you whisper somewhere inbetween.

You can practically feel him smiling against you.

“Half-wit.”

Fanart by yours truly!

Footnotes:

Under the suspended belief that the spoken English is translated from Sindarin, any Elvish dialogue in the story is Quenya unless stated otherwise.

*Rough translations as followed:

Elmendëa  =  Wonder/Amazement. Ává tuluvanyë!  =  I will not follow you! Valyë—!  =  Don’t—! Dínen!  =  Silence!  [a/n. Sindarin] Meno!  =  Go! Lá asanyë a—  =  I do not wish for— Dúro di  =  Obey him.  [a/n. I believe this is Sindarin] Ilqua nauva mára  =  It’ll be okay. (Lit: All will be well.) Manan nîn rehtanë tye  =  why did you defend me? Ánin apsene  =  I’m sorry/Forgive me. Endë intyë  =  Center your heart. (Lit: Center yourself.) Melin tye = I love you. Yén:  an Elven unit of time, amounting 144 solar years.

Sindarin names:

Beren — Valiant/Bold Ind — Will/Heart Wen — maiden (alternatively: -iel/-il/-el) Therefore, Beríniel > Valiant-hearted Maiden Îdh — Peace -(n)dil — Friend/Lover Therefore, Îdhendiel > Lover of Peace.  Glóriel — Golden -dir — name suffix Therefore, Glórieldir > Golden one D�� —  night Gwath —  shadow Therefore, Dûath > Night shadow Mereth Nuin Giliath > Feast Under Stars. (As lifted from the Mirkwood Elves in The Hobbit movies)

[mickandmusings]

you’re losing me

pairing: tyler owens x f! reader

word count: 5.2k

summary:

when tyler, yet again, forgets an important date while he's caught up in chasing, y/n is at her wits end. their relationship feels like it's dying, and he just might have dealt the final blow. after a series of rather unfortunate happenings, it's up to the rest of the wranglers to set them free from the disaster they created.

warnings: ANGST with a capital a; tyler is kind of an ass; halfway edited (sorry); forced proximity; not my most favorite thing i've ever written; sort of suggestive but not explicit

-

The ticking of the clock on the kitchen wall taunts her, reminding her that time was continuing to pass by. She taps her fingers against the table, her patience fleeting.

Y/N picks up her phone to check it for nearly the twentieth time in the past half hour. She had hoped to look down and see a missed call or an apologetic message from her boyfriend, who, at present, is an hour and a half late for their anniversary dinner. She had the table set for two some time ago: a home cooked meal in the oven, a bottle of white wine to split, and a candle lit in the center of the table. She sported a flowy sundress that tapered off mid-calf-Tyler's favorite dress on her-one that she just knew was going to end up on the floor of their bedroom by now.

Clearly, she'd been mistaken.

She presses the button on the side and the screen illuminates the dimly-lit room. The only thing that greets her is an empty lockscreen- a picture of Tyler smiling down at her as she looks up at him, taken over a year ago. She sighs in annoyance, putting the phone back down as the tear in her heart only grows bigger and bigger. She'd known this would happen, and despite all her efforts to avoid it, he had still forgotten.

She'd started two weeks beforehand, by telling him that she wanted to spend the night of their anniversary with him, alone. He'd agreed, claiming it was a great idea. That night, she put the reminder in his phone calendar and wrote it into the paper one that lived on his fridge. A week before, she'd mentioned it a thousand times: over dinner, during grocery shopping, and even during post-bliss pillow talk. He'd pull her into his arms and kiss her head, assuring her every time that he'd be there with bells on. Naively, she had believed him. Now, she was sitting alone at his dinner table in her prettiest sundress, feeling like a complete fool.

Her phone dings, and she feels the rip in her heart stitch itself back together for a slight moment. When she notices it's not Tyler, her shoulders slump.

The Tornado Wranglers are LIVE! Click here to watch now!

She's quick to click it, watching as it loads before she sees Boone's face in the frame, the top of Tyler's hat visible. Her heart shatters, watching as her boyfriend smiles and hollers for the camera, chasing a storm. She'd known there was a big storm forming for the past few days: when Tyler went out on a chase, she watched the weather as if it were a nail-biting thriller. Hearing him on the livestream had been the first time she'd seen or heard from him all day, despite his promises to be next to her this very moment.

She exits the live and stands from the dinner table, already knowing her boyfriend wouldn't be home any time soon. She blows out the candle and puts the unopened wine back in the kitchen, wrapping the dinner she'd made in tin foil and tossing it into the fridge. Despite her simmering anger, she knew Tyler would come home drenched, so she set out a dry change of clothes and a towel on the washing machine for him to see. Shaking her head, she bit her lip and swallowed thickly as she moved to the en suite bathroom and changed out of the dress, her perfectly curled hair wasted. She throws on her pajamas and her (intentionally not Tyler's) hoodie, climbing into her side of their shared bed. She plugs her phone into the charger and switches on the silent function, not wanting to be bothered as she wallows. Finally, she plops down onto her pillow and curls under the blankets, her annoyance slowly fading into disappointment. She tries to push the tears back, feeling stupid for crying over something so trivial, but it had hurt that he'd forgotten something that was supposed to be important to both of them. She feels asinine, like a dog with a bird at his door, only to be shut out. A choked sob slips past her lips, and she's done for. She curls in on herself, legs to her chest as she cries until her body could no longer take it, and lets her eyes shut for sleep.

-

Hours later, Tyler stumbles into his house, plopping off his soaking wet boots on the rug at the garage door. He's slightly dry from his ride home, but his clothes still cling to his skin, making him shiver when he walks into the house. He turns to lock the door behind him, shuffling into the laundry room that connected the garage and the house. He puts his wet hat on the hook, peeling out of his sopping shirt and jeans, finding a change of clothes and towel set out for him. He smiled, knowing he'd likely find his girlfriend passed out on the couch with the weather forecast still playing on the screen. He changed quickly, hands itching to pull her into his hold and fall into a deep sleep. As he leaves the laundry room and heads to the kitchen, he notes the dinner table set with placemats and silverware next to them. He gives the set up a confused look before shrugging, tossing back a glass of water before walking towards the living room.

The empty room stops him in his tracks completely. The TV had been shut off, only a black screen staring back at him. There had been no indication that Y/N had been here at all-the blankets were folded neatly into the basket, pillows still upright and straight. He looked for anything-a charger plugged into the wall, her current read on the coffee table, an empty mug-but found no signs of the girl he loved. 'Maybe she had an early night,' his mind tried to grasp an explanation of why she wasn't where she always was when he was out on a chase.

Tyler's hand wipes his face, rubbing his tired eyes as he stomps up the stairs to their shared bedroom. The hallway is cloaked in darkness, and he has to use his phone's flashlight just to make his way to the door. He turns it off when he turns the knob and pushes the door open, not wanting the blinding light to disturb her. He makes out her figure curled into her side of the bed, looking small. He frowns again, it was always guaranteed she'd be curled into his pillow if he was gone, often wrapped in some article of his clothing, if not completely dressed in only his clothes.

Wordlessly, he comes to her side of the bed to kiss her head, checking in to make sure she was okay. Moonlight from the window illuminates her face, and he finds his chest tightening as he looks at her. Tears had dried to her skin, and a frown was etched onto her face, even in her slumber. He pushes hair from her face, finding the strand curled, and kisses her forehead lightly. He pulls the covers over her more, making sure she was entirely tucked in. With a worried frown now marking his own face, he shuffles to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He opens the door and flicks on the light, the sight in front of him bringing his confusion to new heights.

A white sundress stares back at him, sitting crumpled on the counter. The puffy sleeves are deflated, and the slit on the leg had flopped over, exposing the other side of the fabric. This dress only made an appearance for special occasions, mainly because he couldn't keep his hands off of her when she wore it. She'd talked about it for weeks, she was going to wear it on their anniver-he stills-no. Tyler's heart sinks to his feet, hammering against his chest so loudly it rattles his eardrums. There is no way he'd forgotten. The unusual things in his home began to add up, and, with shaking hands, he reaches for his phone and stares down at the photo of her smiling back at him. She's standing in a poncho, drenched, but smiling as she uses her hand to point towards a barreling storm in the distance. Sure enough, in the slew of notifications he'd ignored, sits a calendar reminder:

'Our anniversary date ;) <3'

He plops down on the side of the tub and scrolls through the messages and calls Y/N had left, clicking on the voicemail she'd left, her sweet voice filling his ears:

'Hey Ty, it's almost nine, I just...um, just checking on you. I-I don't know if you're just running late or you forgot, but...I love you, see you soon. Be careful, please. Call me when you get this.'

He pieces it together quickly-the table set up for two, his favorite dress she'd been wearing, her hair curled just to look nice for him-the realization guts him. He had been stupid, so caught up in the thrill of the chase he completely forgot about the one thing that always brought him home. His brain recalls her excitement over the dinner she would cook, and he had planned on bringing flowers and her favorite sweets from that bakery downtown, hoping to charm that dress right off of her. He pushes his damp hair back with his hands, he had fucked up, and royally. The reason she hadn't done the things she normally did when he was gone was because he wasn't supposed to be gone at all.

He breaths deeply before brushing his teeth, sliding into the bed next to her and pulling her close. He'd hold her while he could, because he'd spend the next few days groveling for her forgiveness. He'd wake up early-clean up the dishes from last night, cook her breakfast, do the laundry, pick up groceries for the week. Hell, he'd kiss her fucking feet if it meant she'd forgive him. His eyes shut closed with sleep, and night quickly fades into morning.

-

Y/N is the first to wake, her skin burning under Tyler's touch. She immediately rolls away from his grasp, and the content look on his sleeping face makes her flame with anger. She rolls her eyes and stomps out of the room, purposefully slamming the door to the bedroom enough to rattle the frames on the walls. The noise jostles Tyler from his sleep, and he sits up in his bed, allowing himself only a minute of solitude before he realizes he's under the dog house.

Quietly, he stomps down the stairs, finding Y/N already standing at the sink, sleeves pushed up as she scrubs at a pot hastily. Her face is drawn into an angry frown, and the air is thick with tension. There's none of her music filtering through the tiny speaker in the window, none of her humming as she works. She's angry, she's hurt, and all she really wants is an apology.

"Mornin'," his voice is raspy, and he awkwardly hovers behind her, watching from a distance as she ignores him. He comes over and lightly grabs her arm, attempting to take over the task. "I can do that, darlin', you go sit at the bar and I'll cook you breakfast, yeah?"

She snatches her arm from his grasp and gives him an unpleasant look, only returning to the dishes in front of her as she shakes her head. He gives a deep sigh, stepping away from her to give her space.

Her silent treatment was always the worst.

"Baby, please, I-I know I fucked up, I'm just trying to make it up to you, let me-"

She lets out an angry laugh, dropping the pot back into the soapy sink with a shake of her head. Her veins fill with a fury she can't control, and she's almost blinded by her rage.

"Fucked up is an understatement, Tyler."

Her angry words were piercing, but at least she was talking.

"Y/N/N, I know, I'm going to make this up to you. I'll-"

"I don't want to hear your lies that I hear every time you mess up, Tyler. You're not going to take time away from chasing, so you can stop feeding me that same lie."

Her honesty stops him in his tracks. He starts to feel defensive, his own anger rising to the surface.

"Just listen-"

The bowl she's cleaning clamors against the other dishes in a loud fashion, making him jump slightly as she turns to face him. Fury is written across her face completely.

"No! You listen! I planned this for weeks, Tyler, weeks! I did everything, the cooking, the cleaning, the waiting around for four fucking hours! All you had to do was show up, and you couldn't even do that."

She swallows thickly, the anger beginning to fester into the sadness she'd been shoving down. Her chest moves in short breaths, and she tries to control her breathing as she looks up at him. He notes her teary eyes-she's not really angry, she's hurting.

"It would've been fine if this was a one off thing, but it isn't. You and I both know that." Her voice is lacking the fire it once had, replaced with a wave of vulnerability she rarely lets show. She pauses and wipes her hands with the kitchen towel in her hands. Her eyes dart across the room in thought, never meeting his. "First it was my birthday, and then not just one, but two dates, and now this. Every other time I just let it go, not wanting to start anything, but I can't anymore, because it just keeps happening. Tyler, I love you, but you're breaking my heart."

Her bottom lip wobbles as she takes a deep breath and straightens her shoulders, trying to have a conversation with the man she was begging to love her the way she loved him.

"I'm not asking you to give it up, I'm just asking for one day, maybe every couple weeks? I feel like I sleep next to you but I never see you, and-," her eyebrows furrow before she takes a defensive step back, crossing her arms over her chest. "I just don't want to have to beg you to want to spend time with me."

Tyler's heart shatters. He fumbles to come up with the right words, knowing the wrong ones could ruin everything. He loved her immeasurably, and he'd been so goddamn blind. His mind raced with the dozens of things she does for him without being asked-making sure he had dry clothes after chasing, ensuring he had a decent meal every time he came home, tens upon hundreds of tiny actions that he had taken for granted. When was the last time he'd done something like that for her? The one time she had asked him, weeks in advance, to save a day for her, he had neglected it completely, unintentionally or not.

She looks down at her feet, feeling so incredibly small, invisible, like the man in front of her can't see her at all. She was tired of trying to keep their relationship alive all on her own. She wasn't in denial that Tyler loved her, she knew he did, but the last few months had felt as if he hardly remembered she was there. Her anxiety spirals-did he really love her, or was she just convenient for him?

"I know that chasing is important to you, and I love seeing you do it, but it always comes before me. I just want to know, will I ever come first?" Her voice is so, so hurt, and the girl he knows has withered away. The only thing that remains is the shell of her in front of him, pleading for him to just notice her. "It's okay if not, I-I just need to know. Because I can't keep having this fight, just tell me the truth so if the answer is no, I can move on."

Tyler's heart hammers, his own insecurity flaring.

"W-What? No, no, chasin' doesn't come before you, ever. Y-You know that."

She gives him a doubtful look.

"You do know that right?"

"Tyler, name one time that you've dropped everything from chasing a storm to do something for me?"

She stands leaned against the counter, arms crossed in front of her. His mind cannot conjure one situation, and he knows she's right, he'd never put her first. Not once. He had missed her birthday party just last month for a big storm over in Kansas, on his own. The rest of the Wranglers had even cancelled to be there for her. Both Boone and Lilly both had called him from the party to reprimand him, and he'd stayed anyways. Then he'd done it again, twice, just two weeks later. Each time, she'd forgiven him with open arms, never fighting him on it, simply accepting his lie that he'd never do it again.

She simply nods, waiting to see how long it would take Tyler to realize just how miserable this had been for her. He grows defensive, trying to make excuses for his actions.

"That storm in Kansas, w-we haven't seen a storm that scale since-"

"Tyler, save it," she starts, her voice growing an edge. "You answered my question, that's all I needed to know."

He watches as she literally and metaphorically throws in the towel, a somber look written across her face.

“I-I need some air.”

She says nothing else, only sliding on her shoes and slipping out the garage door. He expects to hear the jangling of her keys and then the roar of her car’s engine, but neither come-she’d taken out on foot.

Tyler ignores the rush of tears that threatened to spill from behind his eyes, his chest so full of guilt it feels like he might combust from one single sob. He stews in his emotions as he resumes the task she'd started-at least when she got back, the dishes would be one less thing for her to worry about. As his hands scrubbed at various pots and pans, he thought about the thousands of things he wanted to do to show her that he was serious. He wanted to run after her, to pull her back into his house, but he knew she needed her space, time away from him to think. Tyler wrestles with his emotions, knowing this could very well be the end of them, and it'd be his fault entirely. He'd let the best thing in his life slip entirely out of his grasp, all because he'd had his head in the clouds. It had been obvious to everyone around him, except him. How had he been so blind to her anguish?

He moves around the kitchen in complete silence, only the rattle of the dishes he's putting away filling his ears. He ponders over the dark hue forming across the sky, wishing Y/N had taken a jacket or an umbrella with her. He wonders if he should call her, just to tell her that he could leave while she stayed here, he didn't want her in the rain. He doesn't overthink it and pulls up her contact, letting it ring before he hears vibrating. His eyes turn to the direction of the noise.

Shit.

She'd left her phone here.

He turns his attention to the slew of missed messages on his own phone. Just twenty minutes ago, Dexter had texted him about a storm forming just miles from his home. The messages after were from Dani, Boone, and Lilly, all asking if he and Y/N were okay. His eyebrows pinched and he frowned, about to respond with a question mark before he heard the shrill ring of the tornado siren outside his window. His eyes glance up to see a darkening sky, heavy clouds sitting low in the sky.

He tosses his phone into his pocket before he's pulling on his still-wet boots and bolting out his garage door. A tornado was minutes from hitting here, and his girlfriend was wandering around aimlessly. She couldn't have gone far, his house sat miles from town, the only neighbors being a relatively empty home the next street over-the family only visited during the winter months, they paid him handsomely to keep their grass cut when they weren't in town-so he knew that she wouldn't have anyone to look out for her. His boots clicked on asphalt, his voice hoarse as he yelled after her, her name falling desperately from his lips as the wind whipped around his face.

With no signs of her appearing, his heart began to hammer against his chest. Rain began to pelt his clothes and it only urged his aching legs to move faster. His mind conjures images he fears-her stuck under a collapsed tree or shed, left for dead because he'd been stupid. They urged him to the neighbor's house, chest searing with anxiety as he heaved, still not seeing anything-no flashes of the simple dress she'd been wearing, or the cardigan she'd wore over it tossed somewhere. Before his brain could stop him, he was pulling the spare key from under the mat, all but trespassing into his neighbor's home, shouting her name. Nothing.

He slams the door, running a hand through his hair as he begins to panic. His chest feels tight, his mind growing fuzzy with the thought of her being out in this storm alone. The air only grows more thick, and a crack of lightning startles him. It sends him into taking off on foot in their backyard, even slinging open the door of the storm shelter to see if she'd hid there. It was empty, making him let out a string of curses to the sky.

Then, he hears her voice. He almost thinks he's imagining it, her tone is sweet and gentle, and he thinks he's losing his mind.

"Hey, it's okay little guy."

It's the voice he knows well-the voice she uses for animals and babies. His jade eyes turn to see her hair blowing in the wind, her dress wet from the weather. She's crouched down and attempting to move a stack of firewood from the neighbors yard, her eyes on alert she hears Tyler's footsteps crunch the ground behind her. She whips around, looking at him.

"Tyler, help me, there's a rabbit, he's stuck."

Tyler looks at her with wide eyes. His voice is loud over the sirens blaring in the air and the wind whipping.

"Darlin', there's a big ass storm coming right for us! Leave it! We gotta get down, now!"

Her eyes are fiery when she turns back to look at him.

"Then leave, but I'm not leaving him here!"

Her hands hastily moved large pieces of firewood, getting more and more drenched. She lifts a particularly heavy one and throws it across the grass.

"If you're just going to stand there and not help, then go! I don't need you hovering because you care all of a sudden!"

Tyler's heart shatters, she thought he didn't care? Of course he cared, but he was more concerned with keeping her safe. He sighs at her stubbornness, moving to help lift the firewood at a faster pace. She lifts a particularly stubborn piece, drawing her hand back quickly with a soft 'fuck!' He tosses her a concerned look but moves on working to get the firewood moved. His muscle flexes as Tyler throws the piece caging the animal in and watches as it bolts towards the treeline. He slings an arm around her shoulder as the roar of the storm grows closer, all but manhandling her into the storm shelter he'd just looked in. It wasn't shabby by any means, well stocked and clean, but small. He shuts the door with a grunt, turning to face her and watching as she digs through a first aid kit.

"What're you doin'?"

She says nothing, only sticking out her right hand for him to see. It's bleeding from a cut, tiny pieces of wood protruding from around it.

"Shit, baby," he moves to grab the kit from her. "Stop, just stop tryin' to do it on your own, it's only going to get worse."

She stills, looking up at him with dagger-like eyes.

"Look, you did your job. I'm safe here, you can go."

Go? Where the hell did she think he was going?

"I know you're itching to go chase it, it's probably going to be a big one."

Oh.

"You think I'm going to leave you here alone to go chase this thing?"

She shrugs. "Wouldn't be the first time."

It's his turn to look offended, even though he shouldn't be. She was only speaking the truth. He knows he would be quick to defend himself, but he doesn't, knowing the hurt he'd bestowed upon her just hours beforehand. He lightly tugs the kit away from her, giving the soft, sympathetic eyes that had her hardened heart melting. He makes quiet work of removing the shards of wood, and moves to clean it with the tiny bottle of rubbing alcohol. She winces when it makes contact with the open wound, but a sweet kiss to her temple has her distracted as he finishes bandaging it. When he looks down at her, he finds her eyes already looking up at him. The look she gives him begs him to say something, to just apologize and say he'd do better, and actually mean it this time. He opens his mouth to speak, but it's cut off by a boisterous slam to the shelter door, one that startles Y/N, and she slides into his hold without thinking.

"What the hell was that?!" Her voice trembles.

"I don't know." He doesn't want to move her from his arms, but he needs to see what's going on. He kisses her temple again, setting her on the twin sized mattress that sat on the ground. He makes his way up the stairs of the shelter, moving to push the door open. He knows it's a stupid, risky move, but he does it anyway.

He pushes it forward, the door not even budging. He frowns, moving positions to put his entire body weight on the door, and the door remains shut. He pushes with his entire strength multiple times, before his mind draws a conclusion.

"It's probably a tree or somethin'," He sighs as he steps away from the door. "Probably got knocked down by the wind, fell over on top of the door."

"So we're trapped here?"

"For the time being, yes," He starts, coming to sit down next to her, her head resting on his shoulder. "But I'll get in touch with Dexter and Dani, maybe Boone too. See if one of them can get a truck out here and move it. We'll have to wait for this storm to pass though."

He fishes out his phone and begins to type, his eyes darting across the screen before Dexter's typing bubble finally forms into a message.

'We'll be there as soon as this storm settles!'

Y/N nods when he shows her the message, moving to rest her head on his chest, her heart racing. Without a word, he pulls her into his lap, his eyes now focused on her bandaged hand. She notes his concern quickly.

"It's fine, doesn't even really hurt. Just stings."

He shakes his head.

"Doesn't matter. You got hurt, again, because I did somethin' dumb as hell. Seems like all I've done for the past few months is hurt you. M'sorry, I really am. I fucked up, and I'm prepared to grovel for it."

She nods, biting her lip as she pushes a section of wet hair out of his face.

"You did, but that doesn't mean you can't fix it. Just, this time, promise you'll actually do what you say you will. Don't let it be empty words."

He makes an 'X' motion over the center of his chest-cross my heart-and watches as a small smile forms across her face. He notes it's genuine nature and it forms a smile of his own across his face.

He pulls her head softly under his chin, moving his face to where he's whispering directly into her ear. She leans into his warmth, still shivering from her damp clothes.

"I love you," his voice is a sincere whisper, laced with every ounce of emotion he can muster. She kisses the underside of his jaw, making him close his eyes and sigh.

"I know. I love you too, even when you really piss me off."

He lets out a chuckle, kissing behind her ear, a spot that makes her entire frame stiffen in his hold. He places another one just under it, making her pull away for a moment.

"You're playing with fire, Owens. What are you gonna do, take me on this twin mattress on the floor?"

Her voice is laced with sarcasm and humor, completely joking. One look in his now emerald green irises tells her he wasn't joking, not one ounce of him thought it was a joke.

"Well, might as well start my grovelin' as quickly as possible, got a lot to catch up on." He kisses the spot again, making her hand fly to his damp hair. "And I haven't done this in far too long."

His hands come to her hips, pulling her in even closer in his lap. His calloused hands land on her ass, and she yelps.

“Ty, you can’t be serious.”

He sends her a raised eyebrow. His hand squeezes the supple skin of her bottom.

“Baby,” his voice is just above a whisper, deathly serious, his gaze darkening. “When have I ever joked about taking you any time, any place?"

Y/N shudders. "Never."

"That's what I thought."

His lips connect with hers in a rough manner, effectively shutting her up.

-

A few hours later, as Y/N lies across Tyler's chest, her dress tossed somewhere, she's awoken by a sharp knock at the shelter door.

"T? Y/N/N? Hey, we're here. We're gonna get this tree off of y'all!" Boone's voice fills her ears and she all but scrambles up, face flushed red with embarrassment at the thought of them walking into the shelter to see her and Tyler both bare. Tyler only snoozes and turns over, and she rolls her eyes, he'd sleep through a hurricane-literally. She grabs his shirt and lightly pops him with it.

"Tyler!" She whispers-shouts, quickly buttoning up the front of her dress she'd found on the floor. His jade eyes pop open, shuffling off the blanket that had been draped across him for his modesty.

"Hm, what?" His voice comes out groggy.

"Get up, get dressed, they're here!" She throws her cardigan back on her shoulders as she tosses his jeans over to him, his belt buckle just missing his head. Tyler rubs his eyes tiredly, not quite awake enough for him to care about being completely naked.

Y/N turns to him to fuss, but she's cut off at the creaking of the storm shelter's door opening. She stills, face burning from a hot blush. From above ground, Boone, Dani and Dexter look down at them, the latter two jaws dropping and darting their eyes away. Boone clocks Tyler and swallows thickly.

"Ty, man, I am seein' entirely way too much of you right now."

-

taglist:

@fraaaaankiiiiieee

@rebel-ezra

@fanboysfangirl

@mbioooo0000

[tgcg]

happy day of egbert

CG: DON'T YOU JUST HAVE THE MANUAL SOMEWHERE?

TG: dude its the most overwhelmingly basic thing on the planet trust me i literally did all the other settings for you

TG: all you gotta do is point the thing at egbert

TG: half press to focus subject

TG: press down fully and bam done the shit is shot

CG: BUT --

TG: i know youre desperate for this to be rocket science but its genuinely like first grade biz i promise whatever pic you take is gonna be fine

===

EB: yeah, come on karkat!

EB: i am only going to be the birthday bad ass for like, 24 hours total you know.

EB: longest birthday of my LIIIIIIIIFE. haha.

EB: oh hey, from one birthday-dooms day guy to another…

EB: i am pretty sure you understand the magnitude of what i just said!

===

CG: OH HEY. FUCK YOU.

CG: I'M JUST ACCOUNTING FOR THE LITERAL FUCKING INEVITABILITY THAT WHEN I TAKE THIS PHOTO, SOME INSIDIOUS LITTLE KARMA GNOME WILL FROLIC ONTO THE SCENE IN AN UNBELIEVABLE STROKE OF LOATHSOME SERENDIPITY TO BURY ME IN 12 CUBIC METERS OF FOOL-GRADE FUCKING IDIOT POWDER.

CG: AT WHICH POINT ANOTHER HEFTY BOULDER WILL BE ADDED TO THE BULGING MACRO-BINDLE OF SHAME YOU PEOPLE HAVE FORCED ME INTO CARRYING MY WHOLE LIFE.

CG: SHIT, SOMEONE HAS GOTTA LOOK OUT FOR MY ASS.

TG: alright give us a sec

TG: huddle formation

EB: psssshhh, alright.

===

TG: youre not gonna fuck this up

TG: your ass is completely secure dude

TG: i got the double foam padded booster seat and you know that shit is strapped on this 5mph drive through quaint ol piss-easyville

EB: you know if it really is so bad you can just re-take it, right?

EB: it is really not worth aggravationing your sponge over.

TG: 'xactly

TG: knights honor that shit isnt hooked up to my ishades and will not instantly forward me a copy in crisp HD of whatever blunder youre cooking in your beautiful nugbone

===

CG: IT'S NOT JUST THAT.

CG: HAVEN'T I SHADOWED YOUR PHOTOGRAPHY SHENANIGANS LONG ENOUGH FOR YOU TO TOSS ME A GODDAM BONE?

CG: I MEAN. I FEEL LIKE I'M READY FOR THIS. I'VE BEEN PRIMED FOR THIS BULLSHIT FOR EQUINOXES AT THIS POINT, WATCHING YOU PRANCE AROUND WITH THIS FUCKING THING.

TG: woah wait youre legit into it?

CG: YES, I AM LEGIT FUCKING INTO IT.

CG: AND I KNOW IT HAS SETTINGS YOU'RE HIDING FROM ME. WHAT IF I WANT TO TAKE A BLACK AND WHITE SHOT, HUH? WHAT IF I WANT TO ADJUST THE "APERTURE" OR THE "EXPOSURE" OR SOMETHING.

TG: alright i dig the enthusiasm but maybe we can unwrap that shit when we dont have someone waiting for us

TG: i didnt know you were scoping photography man you shoulda said something!

CG: I WAS PLANNING TO! I DIDN'T ENVISION IT COMING UP SO FRIGGIN SUDDENLY MAN.

TG: i promise ill open the pandoras fuckin box of snap addicts anonymous afterwards alright

===

CG: OK, FINE. BUT I AM HOLDING YOU TO THA --

===

CG: HA HA EGBERT. VERY FUCKING FUNNY.

CG: FOR YOUR SAKE I SERIOUSLY HOPE THIS IS JUST AN EMBARRASSING NOSTALGIA-DRIVEN LAPSE IN HUMOR AND NOT A GENUINE ATTEMPT TO "PRANK" ME. I REALLY DO!

EB: huh? who is this "egbert" you speak of? i have never heard of such a character.

CG: OH, JUST THIS BULGECRUD-HUFFING IMBECILE THAT FALLS BACK ON SHITTY PRACTICAL JOKES SO PLAYED-OUT THAT THEY PHYSICALLY HURT TO BEAR WITNESS TO.

CG: MY LOWER JAW IS THREATENING TO REVERSE-DROP WITH ENOUGH VELOCITY TO BURROW DIRECTLY INTO MY THOUGHT SPONGE, KILLING ME INSTANTLY.

CG: SO EITHER GET SOME NEW MATERIAL OR GET ME TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM, YOUR PICK.

EB: damn, ok. that does sound like some pretty serious bullshit, but…

===

EB: whoever that weirdo next to you is kind of seems like he needs medical resistance more than you do!

CG: WHAT

[steddieonbigboy]

Sleepwalkin'

written for @steddiemicrofic april prompt ‘fool’ wc: 454 | rated: T | cw: implied sexual content | read on ao3

🛌🛌🛌

Eddie stirs at the sound of shuffling footsteps and gets jolted awake as Steve drops face-first onto the bed.

"Mhmph. Where've you been?"

"Sleepwalkin'."

"Do anything fun?"

"I got into bed with Wayne." He mumbles into the pillow.

"Wait. What?!" Eddie sits up with a crazed grin, suddenly wide awake, "Steve, sweetheart, that's fucking hilarious."

"Yeah, Wayne thought so too," He rolls onto his side to face Eddie," I, on the other hand, am slightly mortified."

"Baby, I'm sorry but that is actually so funny. What did he say when he woke you up?"

"That's the thing! He didn't! So I obviously woke him up when I, y'know crawled into his bed and cuddled up to him-"

"You cuddled him?! Stevie, be careful, that's the most action he's gotten in years, he's gonna fall in love with you!"

"Fuck off," He reaches across to slap Eddie's shoulder, "Anyway, he just left me to sleep! I woke up to him snoring with his arm around me, and I was so fucking confused."

"How long were you there? I woke up earlier and you were gone but I just thought you were in the bathroom or something. Didn’t realise you’d deserted me."

"Probably like half the fucking night. I went back to sleep after I’d woken up because his bed’s comfier than yours. I only came back in because he went to work and I got cold."

"Is a bed warmer all I am to you, Stevie?" Eddie pouted, "I thought you loved me for my wit and charm and dashingly good looks, not because I keep you toasty."

"I love you for many reasons, including how warm you run, but if you don't like it," Steve shrugged, "I guess I'll have to go to Wayne next time I'm cold. I'm sure he'll warm me up."

"Please don't leave me for my Uncle."

"Well, you better give me a good reason to stay then."

"Nobody can go down on you as well as I can."

"Oh really? Might have to let you prove that you’re the best then."

Eddie just smirks as he slides down the bed.

—

Wayne’s just gotten home from work when Eddie clears his throat and nudges Steve in the ribs.

"Stevie. Don’t you have something to say to Wayne?"

"Huh? Oh, right," Steve looks at Wayne as sincerely as he can possibly manage right now, "I’m so sorry, Wayne, but we were fools to think it’d work out between us. I’ll never forget our wonderful night together though."

"Well shucks, son, you’re breakin’ my dang heart here but I guess I just gotta move on," Wayne gives Steve a wink, "You know where to find me if you change ya mind."

[arieslost]

ok i don’t know if it’s just me who gets really giggly when it’s late at night but imagine laying in bed with lando and you’re just rambling about smth so stupid that it ends with you two just giggling at nothing. like getting full on stomach cramps from laughing but there wasn’t even anything funny to begin with

anon u and i are the SAME! once its past midnight i always end up becoming a victim of the late night sillies 💔

© arieslost 2024. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.

1:30 am | ln4

you knew you were up too late when you nearly tripped over the loose edge of the blanket you and lando had been sharing on your way back to the couch, and when he had caught you before you could hit your head or anything, you started laughing.

“oh, no,” he’d groaned dramatically. “got the late night giggles already, huh?”

“uh-uh,” you shook your head, even though him saying the words “late night giggles” was enough to make laughter start bubbling up in your throat again.

something always shifted in you when the clock struck a certain hour at night, and lando had only been witness to it a handful of times before you moved in together.

now, you’d managed to get through the rest of the movie the two of you were watching without laughing, even if it meant biting your lip hard and refusing to make eye contact with your boyfriend. it was bad enough feeling his eyes on you every time he wanted to see your reaction to something that happened on the tv. making eye contact would just take you out entirely for no reason whatsoever.

which is why you think you’ve successfully avoided making a fool of yourself when you’re both finally laying in bed with the lights out at the fine hour of 1:30 in the morning.

“you’re so far away,” lando grumbles, dragging your body into his so his one arm is around your shoulders and your face is nestled in his neck.

“better?” you ask, smiling when he shivers as your lips brush his skin.

“mhmm.” he’s quiet for a moment, running his fingers up and down your arm. “you’re gonna come to miami, right?”

“yeah, if you want me to.”

“what kind of question is that, babe?” he cranes his neck in a way that tells you he’s fixing you with a judgy look even though you can’t see each other.

you shrug, feeling the giggles building up again for no reason whatsoever. “i dunno.”

“obviously i want you there, why wouldn’t i?”

“i dunno,” you repeat. “it’s miami. maybe you just wanna party with all your homies.” and just like that, you’re laughing again.

“oh dear god, here we go,” he sighs, pressing his lips together to repress his own laughter as your body shakes against his. “my homies? when have i ever referred to any of my mates as my ‘homie’?”

he sounds so incredulous that you laugh even harder. “oh, you’re so british! i can’t call them your mates, lan. it sounds too weird.”

“so homies is the word you went with? why can’t you be normal and just say my friends?”

“why can’t you be normal and say your friends?” you shoot back, and that does lando in.

“it’s not funny,” he tries to admonish, and it’s entirely true, but it’s a moot point when you can barely understand him through his laughter.

“stop laughing then!”

“you stop!”

naturally, that makes you both laugh harder still, to the point where you have to roll away from him, clutching your stomach from how badly all the laughing is making it hurt.

“i can’t breathe,” lando gasps from behind you.

“stop laughing,” you repeat. “you’re killing me.”

“i think i’m dying,” he continues like he didn’t hear you, and he honestly might not have because your face is half shoved into your pillow in your attempts to stifle yourself.

a few more minutes go by of the two of you absolutely losing your minds before you’re finally able to catch your breath.

“ow,” you whine, holding your stomach. “i think i just grew a six pack.”

“i think mine just became ten times more defined,” lando says, voice raspy from all the exertion on his vocal chords.

“ooh, lemme feel.”

“absolutely not, because you’re going to tickle me,” he grabs your wrist out of thin air. “i know your tricks, baby. i’ve laughed more than enough tonight thanks to you.”

“not my fault you’re weird and british.”

“i love you,” he says sweetly, pulling you back towards him and kissing your forehead. “now’s where you say, ‘i love you too.’”

“i love you too,” you reply dutifully, blindly reaching for his face so you can kiss him properly. “even though you’re weird and british.”

he kisses you again. “i thought it was especially because i’m weird and british.”

you snuggle into his side, now thoroughly exhausted. “please don’t make me laugh more, lan.”

you both know he’s right, of course, but you usually need to have the last word, so he lets you get away with it. he does love you, after all, even though you had him in stitches over nothing at 1:30 in the morning.

word count: 790

masterlist — join my tag list here!

note: this was sooo self indulgent, like i was laughing as i wrote this because the term “homies” is so silly to me for some reason. also helped me test my dialogue skills!! n e wayz…

requests are OPEN, and my inbox is always open for comments, criticism, and conversation!

reblogs are greatly appreciated <33

dividers by @/saradika

tags: @venusacrossthestars @67-angelofthelordme-67 @emails-i-can-send @nelly187 @cixrosie @fangirl-dot-com @sainzluvrr @imheretoread @mellowarcadefun @yourbane @monsieurbacteria6 @c-losur3 @papayatori @ssprayberrythings @namgification @maih23 @evlkking @witchycarmen @ilovethispookie @maxverstappenfan79 @sya-skies @sweatrevenge5436-blog @kimis-gloves @mia-rrrs @decafmickey @customsbyjcg-blog @bigheartsthings @tania2748 @scuderiadevils @iloveyou3000morgan @ctrlyomomma @hiireadstuff @daemyratwst @arian-directioner @evelyn-ny @avg-golden-retriever @likedbygaslyy @vintagefucksstuff @piastorys @jisungstuff @personwhoisther @bernelflo

[winterarmyy]

Welcome Home, Daddy

The aftermath of when Bucky accidentally relapsed into the Winter Soldier.

Summary: Bucky was over the moon when he discovered that Y/N was pregnant with his child. But, when the danger that lurks in dark threatened to steal his family away, a fellow soldier decided to come home.

Note: Highly recommend to read 《 Welcome Home... Soldat? 》 for backstory. But, you can also read this as a stand alone (though you might miss some call backs on the soldat's behaviour if you skip)

Pairing: winter soldier!bucky x female!reader

Words: 7.1k++ (bare with me, please)

Warnings: graphic violence, torture, blood, gore, deaths, dark undertones, sudden fluff, tiny bit of angst, google translated russian, and just so much detained anger exploding around, soldat is just deadly yet adorable in this one (i can't even handle it, and i'm the author), this event takes place far in the future after what happened in 《 Welcome Home...Soldat? 》

A/N: Looks like we have the winner for the poll 👀 Who's ready for our lovely soldat to make his appearance again? I know I'm not, but here we are. So, strap in and let's do this!

P/S: Also, I might as well make this as my submission for the seven writing event hosted by @nickfowlerrr 💌 Check out the event masterlist and support the writers by reading and reblogging their stories!

Read my other works here: Masterlist

They say the wrath of a fighter may threatened a heinous war but the wrath of a lover will let the earth drenched in bloody gore. And if a fool was daft enough to tore a lover from his other half, then they might just court themselves right into the hands of death.

And this couldn't be more true, especially if we consider the crime that the soldat was currently committing. Surely, the blood pooling on the floor will forever leave a grim mark that'll haunt the people who ever witness it.

"Where is she?" the soldat prompted the frail woman, limping on the chained chair. Despite the horrid situation, he sounded rather calm when he spoke.

How unfortunate it was for Elle to be associated with Hydra yet to also be so exposed to the dangers of the ghost himself, the Winter Soldier. Hydra may have their suspicion about the soldat making a move, but she didn't expect that she would be involved in the mess of this ordeal.

The cold metal of the soldat's vibranium fingers, particularly his index and thumb, latched themselves on another one of her nails. Her mouth slacked open but no sound was able to be formed when the soldat mercilessly ripped her nail right off her finger.

And oh, the pain was beyond any kind of injury that she had ever experienced, not a even a bullet through her flesh could be compared to this agony of a torture.

He harshly grabbed Elle by the back of her neck, forcing her to watch the blood leaking from the reddened flesh of her fingers, "I asked you a simple question, су́ка (bitch). Where the fuck is she?" The soldat's patience had been running thin and rage had clouded his judgements.

He needed to find her. His precious Родная (darling).

No matter whose neck he needed to slay or whose blood that have to be shed dry. He had to bring his darling home; no matter what it takes.

Unfortunately, it had been almost a month since he lost her.

And no one saw it coming.

Who would've thought that the old Hydra compound that the team raided were meant to be a part of a plan to weaken the Avengers. It was just a distraction filled with unexpected traps and triggers. By the time they flew home, the team were already tired and injured as the result of the raid.

So imagine the desperate struggle and utter panic that Bucky had to go through the moment he stepped his foot into the comfort of their home and had to witness Y/N's exhausted figure fighting for her life.

Hers and the baby's inside.

After hitting the 2 months mark of pregnancy, Bucky decided that Y/N shouldn't be involved in any high stake mission anymore. At first, she only laughed to his statement, thinking he was surely joking but when his stern expression didn't flatter, that was when she reliazed Bucky was not open for negotiation.

Y/N knew it was way too early to settle into her maternal leave but after having a long conversation with Bucky, they both agreed to keep her missions strictly on low-risk stakeouts and desk works at the tower.

It was supposedly be some kind of a precaution for her, to keep her and the baby safe, away from any type harm that might come their way. But, that certainly back fired.

When Bucky's burning anger had pumped him full with high stream of adrenaline, it was as if he went into an auto pilot; a murderous one at that. And soon enough he managed to take down half of Hydra's best agents that joined the mission of collecting Y/N from the tower.

For a moment, it seemed like luck was on their side, at least it felt like it.

It lasted only until Bucky saw how harsh the kick of the enemy landed on Y/N's hip, and how she managed to shield her stomach seconds before her body slammed down to the ground.

That was when fear crawled into his pumping nerves and the roots of it ran extremely cold.

And that was all it takes for Hydra to distract Bucky then immobilize him on the spot with a replica of the Sonic Taser developed by Stark Industries a few years back.

Bucky grunted painfully in protest of the high pitched sonic frequency from the device that overloads his nervous system. His body couldn't help but to slowly paralyzed its movements as his skin turned pale and the strain in his blood vessels became visible.

On the opposite side, Y/N could be seen being forcefully dragged away by a few of the Hydra agents that was left. There were couple of nasty injuries torn all over her body yet she was still stubborn on fighting back.

While she was being pulled farther away from him, she shouted his name loud and desprete, "Bucky!" Hot tears broke from the corner of her eyes as she desperately reach out her hand.

It felt as if she was right there when Bucky's hand was reaching back towards her. Like, a little bit of a push would've been enough to catch her but alas fate was not planning to be merciful.

Bucky's menancing eyes never left her wavering ones as Hydra tortured Bucky by stealing a part of his soul from him; and no one really knew how his heart clenched and torn to the fact that he was helplessly useless when Y/N needed him the most.

And when he only managed to scream back Y/N's name, he was forced to watch her wailed as she was unwillingly being taken away.

The moment when Bucky drowned himself in regret and rage, that was when the Winter Soldier took over his consciousness.

Unfortunately for the soldat, his mortal body was already worn out from all the intense fight that happened prior; he was knocked out right after he took over the body.

But in those few seconds before the darkness consumed him, the soldat managed to catch a glimpse of his darling. He saw the image of her; teary and bruised in the hands of those who created him. The very same monsters who uses him for despicable things.

That was all that he needed to see in order to break those chains around the dark pandora residing deep within his being.

The team was absolutely not ready to deal with the soldat again, this time without Y/N to tame him. Especially when his demands were unrealistic for them to fulfill.

It's been nearly 3 weeks since the incident and they had failed to locate Y/N; repeatedly. Even if they did manage to get some kind of an intel, all the of bases they had raided were basically bunch of abandoned spaces that Hydra used to occupy.

So of course the soldat was agitated. He had every right to be, more so when he thought of the increasing risk of his darling getting hurt in the hands of Hydra. And at this point, those scumbags were just messing with their minds. Especially with his.

"Listen, we're doing our best here, soldat." Steve tried to reason with him but it only fueled the burning flames within the soldat, "ты делаешь недостаточно! (You're not doing enough!)" He spat harshly that he didn't even noticed that he uses Russian language. It seemed like the unkempt irritation had conquered the chaos of his mind.

So that very night, the soldat decided to do this on his own; thus he ran away from the tower in search for his darling. He had to. Especially when he knew precisely why the Avenger was not able to find Y/N as quickly as they should be.

It was because they were the good guys. They were the heros, they were the light. And the soldat was not. In fact, he was the very opposite.

Unlike the Avengers, the soldat was not planning to play  nice and soon enough he managed to find a lead.

Which bring us to this very moment in which he successfully snuck into a Hydra agent's home to interrogate her.

But, in contrast of those Hydra troops that attack the Avengers Tower a few weeks ago, Elle was not even involved in the mission of retrieving Y/N. She was actually on a solo mission to infiltrate a certain high school to collect informations on Peter Parker. Hydra suspected that he might be involved with the new hero appearing in Queens.

However, even if she was not a part of the team mission, she knew bits and pieces of the overall plan, especially the whereabout of the main character herself, Y/N.

However, the appearance of the Winter Soldier in her temporary house was completely unexpected.

It felt like it was just few moments ago that the intel on Y/N's location reached her ears. Then, she distinctly remember the glimpse of those murderous eyes glaring into her soul. Next thing she knew was everything went pitch black.

Even if it was temporary, however it felt so surreal.

The darkness surrounding her.

The bone rattling cold.

It felt like death itself.

But unfortunately for her, the soldat was far from stopping.

Elle was fraying at the edges while the soldat crouch to her level. Even if she could barely reconstruct the unclear and blurry images through her dazed eyes, however, that didn't stop the soldat from maiming the dying woman's soul through his unforgiving gaze.

"Wake up..." he growled as he yanked her face upwards, "...we're not done yet."

It took a while for Elle to finally adjust to the light, after being in the dark for – how she felt like – so long.

After the light hits her vision, the striking pain came next. The pulsing pain surrounding of her right eye, her broken nose, her busted lips, her bleeding skin; neck, chest, arms, and almost every part of her limbs.

Everything were – slowly but surely, in each cuts and bruises on her skin – blooming its pain into existence.

How can she skipped all of this when she lost her consciousness?

Perhaps that was how she managed to stay alive as long as she had. By running away from the misery; from her reality.

Elle whined in pain but her voice suggested that she might already torn her throat apart when it sounded more like a broken grunt. Her disoriented gaze fell into her aching fingers, each were missing its nail; the tips of them was where the icky blood trickled from and had shaped a pool of blood on the floor where she rested.

The dim lighting from the room reflected on the surface of the deep-red puddle, revealing the resemblance of it to a mirror. And the blurry image looking back, was the soldat, with a sinister expression on his face.

This game, that they're playing.

It hardly seems fair to one of them. To be tortured if not speaking the truth? That's simply unjust; but if we're talking about fairness, then none of those injuries could ever be compared to the pain Y/N might be going through at this very moment. Every second of Elle's useless stubbornness was costing Y/N's safety.

And the soldat didn't like that. Not one bit.

"You mentioned Spain? Where exactly?" In one swift, harsh motion, the soldat thrust his knife through her thighs, "FUCK!"

The loud scream of pain that tore from Elle's throat was probably the last coherent word that she uttered as the torture continued.

The soldat pulled the knife out and stabbing it into the open wound, he listened to Elle's gasp for a moment, relishing her breathless pleading and the tears now openly streaming down her face.

He stabbed again, twice, each was quick and deep, not caring about the blood that spurted out across his face.

At this point Elle was just a puddle of blabbering mess; streams of saliva pouring out her mouth, sobbing, gasping for air; mixture of grunts, moans and whispers of curses and pleas were all spouted incoherently.

Anger.

Frustration.

Rage.

Wrath.

Even hatred.

The soldat was feeling it all.

It was consuming him, devouring any sanity that was left of Bucky's moral values. The eerie glint in the soldat eyes suggested that he was not planning to stop until she gave him what he wants.

God, if it wasn't for chilling atmosphere around her, Elle might just mistook that she was actually in hell.

"Pyrenees!" She cried out. The soldat instantly stopped when she confessed. He waited for an answer and right on cue, she spoke again, breathless and almost silent as the fear that engulfed her prior refused to release her from its haunting grip. And truthfully she doubt that it will ever let her go, "T-there a secret base n-near the Irati forest."

She exhaled a shaky breath as she pleaded, "S-so please. Please stop this." The was tired of the pain and the numbness that came after. And the soldat knows it.

The room was left silent momentarily, as if he was actually considering her plea but alas he already had plans for her all along, "Shame. You should've killed yourself before I came here."

As he finished the last word, the soldat viciously plunged his knife deep into her neck, digging the sharpness of it through the delicate flesh until it reach the base of the blade.

Elle gasped in response, her hands scrabbling around in effort to break free, to stop all of this. But considering the situation she was in, there was nothing she could do about it other than to take it as it was given to her.

When the motion finally stopped, the soldat simply walked away from the scene as if it was a complete norm for him to behave as he was. He didn't even thought of cleaning the mess he left behind. Or hide the corpse somewhere.

Isn't he afraid that he might leave his tracks for the police to find?

Why would he?

This has been his life for decades on end. His sole purpose of living was to kill. So best believe that the authorities will never be able to link the soldat or Bucky to this crime.

Not today, not ever.

Through the days that Y/N was locked deep within Hydra's base, she hadn't been treated the worst. In fact, the sick and twisted agents and residents in the facility was more than willing to care for her.

This was all because they wanted her baby.

It was always sickening to hear them referring her child as merely a tool for their success. And the way they worship Y/N like she was a gift from God to fulfill their purpose, was beyond insanity.

"Oh, to have the privilage of bearing the offspring of the Winter Soldier. To be able to create the perfect weapon, unlike the father. It is just honorable."

It made her stomach churned with pure disgust whenever she heard those types of comments floating around her.

Besides the eerily digusting behaviour of the agents, there was also the regular check-ups and the lab tests that she needed to attend. Out of all the things she had to endure these past few weeks, the medical check-up has always dreaded her the most.

There was this constant debate within her troubled mind; of the possibility of Hydra manipulating her baby's health and genes by inserting unknown substance into her.

"Come on, mama. On the bed." The doctor said as he patted his rubber gloved hand on the surface of the rigid single bed.

She always found it vile that the people here calling her by that nickname. It tickled her throat in a way that she wanted to puke all the tasteless gunk that they had fed her with.

As she laid on the bed and let the process went on as it usually do, the doctor suddenly stopped everything that he was doing. At first she was weirded out by the irregular act of the man, but when she felt the vibration on the ground and the rushing footsteps from the floor above her, she knew exactly why the doctor suddenly froze on his spot.

And the emergency siren that shortly blared after, had only confirmed her speculation.

But mostly, it was the panic in the doctor's eyes that gave him away; then when Y/N noticed the man scrambled to search the drawers from one of the cabinet, she knew that he was up to no good.

The second that the doctor's hurried his steps towards her with a syringe in his hand, Y/N's body immediately recoiled. She quickly stopped him by grabbing his wrist and twisted it back until the syringe dropped from his hold.

The man cursed under his breath and decided to take her by force when he grabbed a handful of her hair, almost dragging her out of the bed. Y/N shrieked painfully while her hands blindly grabbing the silver tray by the bed next to her.

She then slammed it hard against his head, and watched the contents on the tray fell and scatter onto her. She took quick skim over all the tools and saw a potential weapon for her defence; a scissor.

"Stay still, mama. Or the baby will get hurt." The doctor foolishly threatened.

Maybe it was her defence mechanism or maybe it was just her motherly instinct kicking in but something just snapped inside of her when he said those words. There was this incredibly strong urge to either fight or take flight.

Of course she could easily slipped away and make a run for it but she just couldn't risk it. Especially when her baby's life was currently at stake. So, after a short moment of hesitation, she swiftly grabbed the scissors and surge it through his ribs. The man wailed in pain as he staggered off the bed and fell onto the floor.

You'd thought a single yet firm stab through the guts was enough to quench Y/N's need of fighting back but no. Apparently, the haywire of her nerves had drove her feral and she needed him to be soulless by the time she walk out the room.

That had forced her to nearly jumped on him like a predator pinning on a meek prey and the lack of struggling on the victim's side had only gave her full control to dominate him.

Then all of the sudden, the doctor felt another strike of the pain, digging into the flesh of his chest.

He woefully cried in extreme pain while Y/N did not utter a single word or let out any sound, she stayed silent as she thrusts the scissor in and out his flesh.

Each surge was vicious than the previous. Each stab was gradually speeding up as the motion increases it's number of repetition.

She completely let her emotions took over her sanity.

Until what's left in the room was only the sloshing and splashing sound of blood seeping through every thrust, as she continued to violate the body of the corpse.

Until the calm puddle of blood on floor rippled as the tears that broke from her eyes dropped on it's surface.

And when she realized that the doctor was long dead, that broke Y/N out from her feral state. Realizing what she had done; she shakily loosen her grip on the scissors and scrambled off from the lifeless body.

Her breath was near erratic; it was a chaos of unsteady rhythm as her words was lost at the tip of her tongue. She jolted in shock when the commotion in the facility got louder than before, reminding her that Bucky was there to save her.

Y/N felt a sob choking in her throat as her hands searched her stomach to coax the child in her womb, "It's okay sweet bean, daddy's here for us."

Have you ever heard how ear-ringingly loud it is when it's hailing? How the sounds of the frozen raindrops hitting – the top of your car or the roof of the shades of an outdoor café table – can completely mute your words for anyone to hear?

That has nothing compared to the thundering sounds that echoed throughout the whole facility. The shots were fired from multiple range of stolen guns, all were coming from one moving figure.

The once clean grey and white painted walls of the hallways, were now stained and splattered with the color of crimson. The usually empty hallways, were occupied by the dead bodies of fallen Hydra agents. And the distinct scent of well-kept lair, were effortlessly replaced by the unpleasant and pungent smell; a mixture of blood and sweat.

It was a clear trail of the Winter Soldier's deeds.

This place was supposed to be pristine, but now feels more like how it should be; hell.

While the enemies were roaring into their death, the soldat on the other hand was very much the opposite.

Unlike his foe, it took him very little work from the tips of his tongue and much more on the tips of his gun. When the enemies barked like a dog, the soldat pounced like a wolf; silent and resilient.

By nature, the soldat had never been a patient man, especially when it comes to people harming his darling.

Sure, maybe he can tolerate and play along with people who messed with him, but if one were to touch even a strand of hair of his beloved, then they practically reserving themselves a first class ticket of a one-way trip to hell.

And that unhinged tendencies of his only worsen when wrath was the one reigning his mind while hatred was its ruler. His mind was nothing but a chaos of rampage and vengeance. Seeking nothing but blood and death of his foolish foe.

At this point of time, with the amount of life he had taken from the moment he step foot into the gate of the base, to the very stairs he was currently climbing, one could probably matched his heart rate with the rhythm of the shots formed by the bullets he shot.

Magazine upon magazine he reloaded his gun and waste no less than zero bullet as every shot made was accurately deadly and terrifying fatal to his prey.

As the soldat's feet reached half way up the stairs, a Hydra agent's voice spoke from the lower level, "She's on the LG2, we need a team to come and collect her as soon as poss--" A bullet went straight through the top of his head before he could finish his sentence.

And that was the soldat's last ammo.

While he mentally took note on the intel, his feet was quick to jumped into action and made his way down to LG2. As he entered the hallway, his wild eyes wondered around to steal another gun from a dead man's body.

But he rose into a stand, he felt a tip of a cold steel nudged at the back of his head.

Some would call out the soldat's mistake for letting his guard down in the middle of a battle, but another would definitely ridicule the stupidity of that fool's guts for even thinking that the soldat couldn't counter-attack his weak threats.

However, none of the two man managed to made any move towards each other when there was a faster, more accurate trigger was pulled from someone else, from across the hallway.

And that action left an aftermath of the fool's body to drop flat on the floor, quickly finding it's perfect spot with between the other pile of corpses scattered around.

When the soldat turned around, the sharp of his gaze softened almost immediately.

There she was standing there, in the pastel blue of her 'prison' attire. Her hair was a bit messy even if it was tied, and her complexion looked slightly pale with fatigue but to the soldat, she was glowing like angel; despite the blood on her clothes or the gun in her hand.

She was right there.

His heart.

His love.

His darling.

Her eyes were red and puffy, as if she had been crying for days. Her pouty lips trembled when the soldat stepped closer and closer towards her, tears threatening to fall as if she haven't done that during all the weeks that she had been here.

The soldat's steps grew faster.

So does Y/N's.

Tap taping until they were almost running towards each other.

Until the moment they reunited in the middle.

Catching each other's lips in a desperate and insatiable kiss, the soldat pulled her body tight around the waist as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

Both whimpered in a yearning moan, both still had their guns hanging on one of their hands.

So many feelings at once, relief and grief, with each of them had a different story to tell.

The couple kept breaking and mending the kiss ever-so-passionately as if they weren't in the middle of the grave-less cemetery; as if they weren't in the center of the piling corpses.

Briefly opening his eyes, the soldat could see a shadow running towards them. When Y/N heard the footsteps from her back, she knew they need to pull away, but the soldat was firm and stubborn with his hold.

So instead of letting her break the kiss, he groaned in disapproval and pulled her lips back to his. An angry growl vibrated against her lips as he continued to explore her wet and warm mouth.

Caught off-guard she melted to his silent demand, almost forgot that the enemy was right behind her. But, she should've know better when the soldat loosen one of his arms from the embrace and pointed his gun towards the target.

His finger pulled the trigger almost as easily as his teeth tugging into the bottom of her lips. And suddenly the sound of a body collapsing behind didn't matter anymore.

When the soldat felt that he had enough of the sweetness of her kiss, he finally pulled away, at least for now. He whispered dearly, "Родная (darling)..." he cupped her face in his large hands and rested his forehead on hers.

She thought she heard it wrong, but did he just called her darling? It took her a few second to piece it together and realized that this man was not Bucky, that he had relapsed into the Winter Soldier again, "Soldat?"

The soldat smiled and leaned forward to steal a chaste kiss on her lips, "Yes, it's me, мое Родная (my darling)" he cooed as he swept her by her feet, off the bloody ground and carried her in his arm, "I got you, Куколка (little one). You can rest now."

"We're just wanted make sure she's alright."

"You can follow us if you want so just please--"

"Soldat! You're going to hurt her."

The familiar voices leaked through Y/N's ears as she was drifting through her dreamless slumber. Soon enough, the loud commotion of her surrounding woke her up from the deep sleep.

The words that the Avengers were yelling out became clearer as she gained her consciousness, and the ever-changing movements of the soldat, evading every step the Avengers made to get closer to him, made her aware of the way she was resting in his arms; perfectly cocooned in a form of a bridal carry style.

The soldat halted on his spot when Y/N opened her eyes to see what was going on, "Soldat?" She blinked multiple times as she adjusted to the lights. The menacing frown of the soldat melted into a much softer expression, "Родная(darling), you shouldn't be awake yet." He craddled her closer to him as he cooed.

Where is she? How long was she out? When did she changed her clothes?

"What is happening?" She asked as she peered over his shoulder to see Natasha sighing in relief, "Sweetheart, thank god you're awake."

Y/N then looked over to Steve, "You've been gone for weeks, y/n. We got news about your rescue yesterday, and you guys just arrived home. Now, if we could just to take you to the medbay and get you check-up, that'll be great." He briefly explained.

"Yeah, that's all we want isn't it? But, someone just had to be sappy and refuse to let anyone touch you. You know, how it is with the soldier." Tony quickly intercepted.

The soldat didn't pay them any attention now that his darling was awake. He was merely focusing on whispering the sweetest things as he traces delicate trails of kisses on her forehead, her nose, her cheek, basically all over her face.

Sam took it as opportunity to get closer when the soldat was distracted on suffocating Y/N with kisses. But he should learn by now how alert and agile the soldat can be, especially when he have Y/N close to his proximity.

So, when Sam took a step closer, the soldat recoiled almost immediately, putting quite of a distance between them.

"Man, if Bucky has a staring problem, then the winter soldier over here has a hogging problem." Sam accusingly pointed at the soldat, only getting grunts as a reply.

Looking at the current situation, Y/N pondered for awhile. As much as she wanted to get herself check-up, it was also wise to not pressure the soldat to give her away.

Considering what she witnessed at the Hydra base, Y/N knew the risk that comes when we let the soldat dwell in anger for too long.

So she consulted the rest of the team to back down for now, and let the soldat do what he wants. Y/N promised them that she will conviced the soldat to let her get a check-up as soon as possible. But for now, they really need to trust her words.

At first every one of them was reluctant to let her go but in the end they agreed to her suggestion.

When the team spread out and gave some space for the soldat, he didn't waste any time and marched straight to where their bedroom supposed to be. As soon as they arrived at their safe space, the soldat almost threw Y/N onto the bed and swiftly drew a knife from the holster of his thigh as his predatory eyes searched the room.

He refused to move even an inch away from where he stood and remained close to Y/N; shielding her figure with his own.

It was very faint, but the soldat could sensed that they weren't the only ones in the room.

Y/N eyed him curiously, wondering why the soldat was still on edge when he wasn't supposed to. So, she hopped off from the bed and stood on her feet before reaching out to hug the soldat from behind.

"You can put the knife down, soldat. It's just us here." She coaxed but the soldat refused to believe her. He pulled her by the arms, breaking her hug in the process and hold her close to his chest, "There's someone else here."

His actions was rather rougher than he intended it to be; even Y/N was startled by the sudden movement, "Oooff, careful there, soldat. You might give the little one a fright." She chuckled softly as she give her belly a loving rub.

And suddenly his attention was completely focused on Y/N now. Usually his frown symbolized irritation, but this time there was a clear confusion in his eyes. The amount of appalled blinking of his eyes increases when the puzzle pieces in his head started to merge.

The soldat knew that he heard a third heartbeat in the room; that was why he was on alert for threats but apparently he had been closer to the source than he thought was.

In fact, it was right his arms. Or maybe a little bit lower, somewhere around his torso.

Y/N didn't say anything, she simply nodded and smiled up to him as she continued to rub her belly.

When the conclusion finally hits him, the soldat dropped the knife in his hand at the same time he fell on his knees. His gaze never broke from hers, not even a split second, until he was face to face with her tummy.

The soldat leaned one side of his ear closer to her and the thumping sound of the third heartbeat got louder. The discovery had caused him to jolt away as shock decorated his features. He titled his head upwards to Y/N with the same wide, confused look in his blue eyes.

"It's okay, love." She giggled amusingly when the soldat repeated his previous actions. He leaned in and jolted back again as if he couldn't believe what he just heard was real, "Is it... his?" The soldat asked as he implied his existance to be separated from Bucky.

There was a hint of sadness in Y/N's expression when he said it like that. There's been many long conversations that she and Bucky had about the soldat after his first relapse.

Though Bucky was still unsure of his own dissociating self, Y/N on other hand believed that the soldat, this particular man whose drenched the earth with blood just to save her, the same man whose currently on his knees to hear a heartbeat of an unborn child; he deserved a little kindness in his life.

"Yes..." Y/N answered truthfully before she continued, "...and he's yours too."

And that surely knocked the air out of the soldat's lungs, he couldn't tell if she was telling him the truth or was just trying to kill him; either way the butterflies in his chest was suffocating him from the inside.

The soldat couldn't speak a single word; because he didn't know what to say. But there was this beam on his features, light in his eyes, softness on his smile when he dreamily stared at her growing belly.

Y/N took him by his flesh hand and place his palm on her stomach, then she spoke tenderly to the baby inside her, "Wanna say hi to daddy, sweet bean? Say, 'Welcome home, daddy.' "

She knew it was silly, because obviously the child in her womb shouldn't be able to speak, and he was not yet developed enough to be kicking his feet. Hell, they don't even know his gender yet.

But how could she not say it when the soldat looked so damn happy when she did. He looked so peaceful and has this daze and some of those twinkling hearts in those steel-blue eyes of. The soldat sighed in pure joy before he leaned to kiss her stomach.

And as it turns out that was all she needed to do to persuade the soldat to letting her see the doctors. He was there through the whole process, refusing to let go of her hand. It was such a good news to hear that the baby was healthy and there wasn't any foreign substance that might contaminated her during her times in Hydra.

After getting proper medical care and some food in her system, the soldat immediately carry her back to their room to settle down. While she laid on the bed, making up for the lost time to finally get the mental rest she desperately needed, the soldat on the other hand, had made himself comfortable by lying his head on her stomach.

He just couldn't stop; as if he was hypnotised by the melody of the baby's heartbeat. His hand snuck under her shirt, lifting the fabric up to reveal the belly where their miracle resides.

Y/N's droopy eyes followed his actions as she watched how carefully the soldat approached her. Out of habit, her hands absentmindedly rake through the softness of his hair as she held him by the head.

The soldat dotingly caressed the child's sleeping chambers as he leaned closer to it, "...Hi there, little one." he greeted with a quiet and loving whisper.

Immediately, a smile beamed brightly on Y/N's face when the soldat proceed to pamper her belly with countless of tender kisses, "...it's daddy." he introduced himself, as if the baby was able to understand him.

The silence that came after was so sweet and comfortable. And Y/N knew she wouldn't be able to have this without the soldat. She tucked a piece of his loose strand of hair behind his ear when she spoke gently, "Thank you for saving me, soldat."

He briefly lifted his head and smiled up at her, "You know I can't live without you Родная (darling). I will always need you." He declared a truthful confession before turning his attention away. His lips grazed on the skin of her belly as he mumbled against it, "And you too, little one."

Y/N could burst into tears just from this interaction alone but she try not to. She doesn't want to look back at this moment and remember how much she wept, so she blinked her tears away while she watched the soldat spoiled the little buddle of joy inside her with so much endearments.

Even though it was always a happy memory for the soldat when he spend time with his darling, but this... this was rare. And he wanted to cherish it for as long as he could.

The soldat laid on his ears again when he peered from where he had his head rested, his deep gaze captured her attention, "Has he been taking care of you good, darling?" He asked.

The soldat probably had no idea how Bucky adored her; if anyone paid enough attention they might even caught him worshipping the very ground she stepped on.

A breathy chuckle escaped from her mouth as nodded with a drunken grin, "He's the best." She hummed approvingly, "Best husband, and best daddy too." She exclaimed brightly as she glanced at the ring on her finger; it was barely visible through the thick of the soldat's hair.

Surprisingly, the soldat didn't react negatively to her remarks, instead, a proud smile curved on his lips as the pride in his chest overflowed and leaked all through his very being, "Good." He simply said.

The smile lines on the corner of his eyes didn't flatten even when he closed his eyes. For a moment, he tried to silenced everything else around him and focused on the fluttering sounds of the baby's tiny heart.

It might have been the thick haze of lavender smoke in their head or the swarming butterflies in their chest, that they didn't even notice the fatigue that had been slowly taking over them, until the tenderness of their caresses were barely moving.

When the heaviness of her eyes weighted the lids, she sleepily asked the soldat, "Will you still be here when I wake up?" Truth to be told, she was afraid that all of this was just a dream; an escape from reality of the cruel captivity.

The soldat briefly opened his own tired eyes and cooed softly, "I'm always with you, Родная (darling)." And Y/N took it as a promise for her desprete soul to cling on; a ray of hope for her to hold onto, if she ever wakes up in that cell again.

Not long after, both of them lost to the lure of somnolent and their soul quickly drifted into the peaceful dreamland. Soft snores were filling the quiet of the room as their mortal body continued to entangled themselves with each other.

It was safe to say that if Steve would ever barge into the room, he'd probably maxed the storage of his phone with photos of the soldat smushing his face on Y/N's belly as she perfectly curled around him.

Maybe it was the sunlight leaking through the window or maybe it was the intense gaze she felt burning on the skin of her face. Eitherway, it certainly disturbed her from her sleep.

When her body stirred, Y/N realized that she didn't need to open her eyes to know that last night was not a dream, especially when she can feel a pair of familiar arms wrapping around her waist under her shirt.

Y/N slowly peeled her eyes open to see a recognizable ceiling. Her eyes then trailed to her side and met a pair of blue of eyes staring back at her. Her gaze searched for the soul within him and found the semblance of Bucky reflected in his eyes.

Still dazed from sleep, she continued to watch him blinking at her, slowly and silently, like a cat declaring their love to their human. But even then, he couldn't hide the afterglow of the tears on his face.

"Bucky, honey. Have you been crying?" Her voice rasped from lack of use, yet her tender fingers find themselves crawling across his wet cheeks. 

It was as if her voice was a trigger, and tears quickly reformed in Bucky's eyes again. Y/N gently pulled him to her chest, one hand threading his hair and another rubbing his back as he sobbed in her arms, "It's okay, Bucky. We're okay." She continued to coax him lovingly.

They spend most of the early morning holding each other close and dear. Then when the tears started to lessen, Bucky finally pulled himself away from her. Y/N wiped the excess tears on his cheeks but he caught her hand underneath his; he relished in the relief of her presence when he sighed to her touch.

Bucky's gaze wobbled in the pool of tears in his eyes but he was still determined to speak his mind  "I'm so sorry, doll." He apologized, "I couldn't stop them. Even with this damned serum in me, I still couldn't protect you; both of you." If his defeated voice didn't convey his truth, then the tremble of his touch should be enough.

And Y/N's heart simply shattered for him; what did he meant by that? He did save her though. The winter soldier or Bucky. It didn't matter who but she was here now because of him. She was safe; they both were, "But you saved me, did you not?"

"But, I didn't. The sol--" Before Bucky could even finish his sentence, Y/N quickly cuts in, "The soldat is always going to be a part of you, Bucky. And if he saved me, that means you saved me too." She reassured him.

Seeing the hesitation in his eyes, she continued to persuade him, "And if I could speak for our child, which I absolutely can because I'm his mother, then he would say that he is proud that his strong daddy managed to beat the absolute shit out of those bad guys."

Bucky blurted out a hearty laugh, "I don't think it's good to teach our baby to curse when he is still in your womb, mama." His laugh gradually reduced to a chuckle when he wiped the remaining tears from his eyes.

Y/N simply shrugged to his suggestion, "It's not like he wouldn remember this anyway." She smirked playfully.

Another chuckle managed to slip through Bucky's lips before he lowered his face to her tummy, "And you? How's your play date with Winter, hmm sweet bean?" He mumbled as his lips planted on her skin.

Besides the heartbeat of his child, he could also hear the tiny twitching of the baby's limbs moving ever-so-slightly, "Yeah, I bet he spoiled you with lots of kisses and cuddles, huh? Like he did your mommy?" He continued to coo against her belly, unaware of the shock on his wife's face.

"Winter?" A small smile cracked from the corner of her lips. Yes, she was shocked but that doesn't mean she wasn't pleasantly surprised by it.

Bucky didn't even bother to look up at Y/N's face as he was busy blowing raspberries on her stomach, "If he's going to keep popping up in our lives then we might as well call him something else other than 'soldat', don't you think?" He simply said, marking one last kiss on the small growing bulge on her belly, before working his way back up to her face.

Y/N's heart swelled to his gesture and when he laid his head next to hers, she carefully took him by his cheeks, pulling him in for a gentle kiss, "I think he'd love that, Bucky." She whispered against his lips, feeling his smile in return.

Bucky nudges forward to catch her lips again; kissing her slow and sweet as if his whole world has been waiting for this moment. And when the kiss naturally broke, he tempted her with something he knew she couldn't resist, "Now, how about we grab you both something to bite, hmm?"

End.

Read my other works here: Masterlist

A/N: The use of the title in the fic is suprisingly wholesome despite the insinuation of it, don't you think? Lol. Btw, thank you so much for stopping by and read my work. Leave your thoughts behind for me, I'd love to hear from you!

[purinfelix]

just for the weekend ᯓᡣ𐭩.ᐟ - franco colapinto

summary: your teammate has an absolutely ridiculous plan to bring your team back from the dead - but it might be just crazy enough to work w/c: 5.5k + some smau style tweets warnings: a little angst, some uncomfortable touching/kissing since it's fake dating (not too bad but better safe than sorry), some miscommunication - just two idiots in love i fear

a/n: WOW it's finally here, fake dating is literally a guilty pleasure trope for me so i hope yall enjoy this HAHA - also sorry to Williams fans bc there's a lot of slander in this but trust its all for the plot <333 (also holy shit this is the longest fic I've ever written WOW)

"You're actually insane."

"Oh c'mon, at least think about it for a minute, it's perfect!"

You fold your arms over your chest and try your best to look uninterested in whatever it is your teammate has to say. The two of you had been racing together for a little over half a year now, and you had witnessed him make (at least in your opinion) a grand fool of himself. Flirting with interviewers, winking at cameras, having absolutely no filter during press conferences - but this, this was by far the craziest thing you had heard come out of his mouth.

"A fake relationship?"

"Ah ah ah," he tuts, jutting a finger in your face, "a media relationship, one that will draw the attention away from how crap we're doing and onto the personalities of the team. Think about it, McLaren has whatever Oscar and Lando have got going on and Ferrari basically has two models for drivers. We need something to put us on the map, to make people care about us!"

You pause, and for a minute you seriously consider his outrageous proposition - he isn't completely wrong. For the two of you, making it into the points range was a rare occurrence, and even though the team always made sure to celebrate it like a podium there was something that stung about constantly being at the bottom.

"Do you realise how much trouble we could get into?"

"Ah," he sighs, and it's starting to annoy you how lightly he's talking about this, "ever the pragmatist."

"Well one of us has to be if the other's going to keep saying stupid shit," you huff before turning around and beelining out of his driver's room.

Seriously, a fake relationship? Had he lost his mind? Maybe if he focused more on his racing you wouldn't be constantly outperforming him.

"At least think about it, okay?" You hear him call out from behind you, and consider yourself lucky to be facing the other way so that he doesn't catch your obnoxious eye roll. Surely he had to be kidding because there was no way you were going to devote any amount of time to this ridiculous thought.

God fucking damnit.

It was frustratingly confusing, the kind of power Franco had. You had witnessed it first hand with how smoothly he spoke to anyone and managed to get his way almost instantly - but this was your first time experiencing it first-hand. It was another weekend, another country, another race, but the only thing you could think of was his stupid consideration - which, with each passing moment, seemed increasingly genius.

You had almost a year of experience with the team over your teammate, and with that, your fair share of embarrassment and disappointment. Sure, his idea was a little out there but you were close to being at your wits end and if nothing else, you hoped this would at least be a little fun. Plus you were pretty sure at this point if you didn't act on this thought soon, it would start interfering with your performance.

"Fine," you said a little breathlessly as you burst into his driver's room ahead of a race.

"Hey!" he exclaimed, looking at you with a shocked look, "whatever happened to knocking? I could've been naked in here!"

You roll your eyes before continuing, "You still up to the ..." You pause, thinking of how best to word it, "Fake relationship thing?"

His eyes light up immediately, "Ah, I knew you'd come around eventually."

Letting out a soft huff, just to let him know that you still aren't fully convinced this will work, you sit down on his couch. "I think we should lay down some ground rules first."

"Yes ma'am." He nods, straightening up and forcing a serious expression you can only assume is mocking yours.

"Firstly, no kissing."

"Understood."

"Actually no public affection at all, holding hands, hugging, nothing."

"Oh sure and how exactly are we going to convince people then?"

You pause, thinking for a little, "Okay maybe hand-holding and hugs are fine, but you better not push it - that goes for the pet names as well." He nods with a satisfied smile.

"And no one other than us two can know this is fake, alright? Otherwise, it'll spoil the plan."

"Trust me, I don't need anyone knowing I'm going along with something as ridiculous as this. It'll be our little secret."

"Our little secret," he repeats with a hum, a sly sort of smile spreading across his face as he gets up from his spot. "See you after the race, my love."

You sighed in exasperation, tossing your phone to the side of the couch in your driver's room where it fell with a light thud. You had about a thousand other things to be worrying about - your pretty disappointing result in qualifying for one - but for some reason, the main thing on your mind was your 'relationship' with Franco. Somehow, it had proved even more intense than you had expected, which planted a seed of worry in your mind as you realised how hard this was actually going to be to pull off. Since his not-so-subtle announcement to a hoard of hungry press members at last week's race, the media had managed up a flurry about the two of you.

There were supportive fans who liked you both enough not to see any problem with two teammates dating, as well as others who were more sceptical about how it might impact your performance. However, what really seemed to get to you were those who doubted you more than the relationship.

Your social media had been bombarded with comments and theories about the reason behind your relationship, doubting your place on the grid, and calling you names that - after shedding the status of 'first girl rookie', you thought you had left behind. Regardless, you feel a little stupid for being so unprepared for all this - not just the tweets but the harsh articles, the questions during press interviews and even shouting fans. Maybe if you had done a little more thinking about it first, you would've realised this was a stupid idea that should've been left at just that.

Throwing your head back you let out an exasperated sigh, trying to clear your head so that you could move on and focus on the race that was happening tomorrow. The last thing you wanted was for this plan to start impacting your driving. But Franco always seemed to have the worst timing - or best, depending on who you asked.

"Hello?" A couple quick knocks alert you of his presence before he cracks the door just wide enough to peek in. "There's my beautiful girlfriend." The way the pet names and affection seem to come to him so easily makes you simultaneously impressed and concerned, unsure of whether it's an indication of his great acting or flirting skills.

"What do you want?" You try to make it as obvious as you can that you're not in the mood, and he realises this right away.

"Oh, nothing, I just wanted to ask if you were free after this."

"You know I'm not really a huge fan of the big team dinners, especially not when we have a race tomorrow."

"Oh it's not like that, I was just going to go check out a restaurant near our hotel and wondered if you wanted to join me."

When you finally speak it's just above a whisper, "Is this a part of the fake dating thing?"

He laughs softly, his ability to find everything entertaining has always amazed you. "If you want to, it can be. If that gives you a reason to come hang out with me, though if you don't it's totally fine."

"No, I'll come, not like I've got anything better to do." You hate how every word you've said so far has sounded so pathetic.

"Great, I'll meet you by the paddock entry in ten?"

"See you then."

The street lights were dim, just bright enough to illuminate the street the two of you were walking down. The night was cool and still, and there were barely any people out other than you. You weren't sure why, but you had ended up telling Franco a lot more than you had expected. Maybe it was the extremely fancy restaurant you had initially gone to or the local one the two of you agreed to ditch it for instead, or maybe it was just the freeing feeling of being in another country.

The two of you had talked before, of course - as teammates it was difficult to avoid. But beyond the casual small talk, discussions about strategies or banter during challenges your relationship never extended beyond casual co-existence. It was one of the reasons you were glad your higher-ups had never tried to force the two of you into a professional friendship. There was something about Franco, his ability to strike up a conversation and maintain it even when the topic clearly strayed far beyond his interests, that made him so likeable, so easy to get along with. And the support he got from fans and the media reflected this well. You just never felt like there was any room for you in that equation.

But here, away from the cameras and shedding the roles of drivers, the two of you became normal people. You spoke, you laughed, you vented to him everything that worried you about your 'relationship' and he listened throughout all of it - all the while the two of you shared the biggest, best, pizza you had ever had.

"I have to say, I don't know if our engineers will appreciate the extra weight I've just put on," he jokes, breaking the comfortable silence that had been lingering around you two as you walked.

"Me neither, they might have to roll me into the car at this rate."

"You know, I think this is the first time the two of us have hung out, just us two."

You think for a little before answering, "You're right."

"Do you think there's a reason for that?"

"You mean besides us both being extremely busy people and already seeing each other pretty often? Not really, no."

"Good point, though with our little plan, we're definitely going to be seeing each other a lot more."

There's a beat of silence. "This is nice though, right?" He asks, and his voice is so tentative you almost find it endearing.

"It is nice, this was fun." You try not to think too much about the fact the two of you could be mistaken by any passer-by as a couple of lovebirds on a first date - or that fact that even to those who knew you, you were.

"I appreciate you telling me all that stuff, you know, about what people are saying about you."

"Oh, if anything I should be thanking you for listening to me vent about it."

"It is serious though, I'm so stupid for not even thinking about what you'd have to deal with."

"Well I don't think either of us gave it enough thought but," you pause and look up at him, "we're too far in to back out now."

He shoots you a comforting smile, one that shows how reassured he feels that you seem to finally be coming around to his idea. That is, at least, before his face morphs into one of discomfort.

"God, I'm so full."

"We're almost back at the hotel now, let's just sleep and then we can wake up early tomorrow morning to-"

"Wait, is that ice cream?" Franco interrupts you to point out a street vendor who's about to pack up for the night, and before you know it he's running up to the man eagerly. You can only follow suit with a sigh, knowing full well you wouldn't mind some dessert either.

"You two are lucky, you'll be my last customers for the night," the moustachioed owner of the cart says with a warm smile.

"Thanks," you reply kindly, before turning to Franco, "what flavour do you think you'll get."

"Hm, not sure, maybe chocolate?"

"Wow, boring."

He scoffs, "Oh yeah? And what exotic flavour are you going to get then?"

"Mint choc," you smile, but your face drops once you see your teammate's disgusted expression.

"You've got to be kidding me, that's like the worst choice."

You feign offence, "How dare you insult the best ice cream flavour of all time?"

"Ah, you two are quite the couple," the man laughs and you watch as Franco's eyes widen in embarrassment.

"Oh we're not-"

"Thank you," it's your turn to interrupt him, turning to the man with a smile. "One chocolate and one mint choc chip please."

You go to reach for your wallet to pay but you feel a hand on yours, stopping you.

"No, it's okay, I got this."

"Wh- Franco c'mon you know full well both of us could afford about a thousand of these ice cream cones don't be ridiculous."

"I know," he smiles and even though he's trying to be serious you know he's also trying not to laugh, "but I just figured you know, I'm the one who dragged you out here and like, got you into this whole fake dating mess."

You furrow your brows, a little confused at what exactly he's getting at.

"I guess I just want to say thank you, you know?"

"Alright, alright," you laugh softly, watching as he pays and takes both of the cones, handing you yours. Once you grab yours, you instinctively loop your arm around his, pulling him close and resting your head against his shoulder. The ice cream man laughs endearingly at the two of you.

"You're the best boyfriend ever!" you say in as high and cute a voice you can manage, cringing a little but determined to keep up the bit - you don't even bother to think about how fast you can feel Franco's heart race when you do.

Last night was really nice. You're sitting next to your race engineer, nodding along as she points to various multi-coloured dots and lines on the screen. You hear yourself agreeing with a couple quick "mhms", "of course" and "yep"s even though you can barely hear what she's saying. You're mere minutes away from getting in your car for a race, getting briefed on your strategy, and the only thing you can think of is the 'date' you had with Franco last night - if you can even call it that.

You had thought that getting everything off your chest, the hate comments, the doubt you had, would help you feel better and relieve any worries you had. And it did, at least until you got back to your hotel room alone and caught yourself smiling at the thought of seeing your teammate again the next day. How, even as you washed up and got ready for bed, you found yourself thinking - pizza, ice cream, walking at night together, isn't that something a real couple would do?

"Are you listening to me?" your race engineer's voice cuts through the haze of your thoughts, causing you to straighten up immediately.

"Yes! Sorry," you mumble, but just at that moment, you see him walk into the garage, greeting a couple of the mechanics warmly. Before you realise it, he's beelining straight for you, his arm coming around your waist as he leans in close to your ear.

"There's a ton of cameras, I just wanted to be believable," he whispers, and when he pulls back you can see the smile on his face. You nod curtly, fully aware of how red your face feels over such a small interaction as he waltzes away.

"Okay, so as I was saying," your race engineer pipes up again, though you couldn't be paying her less of your attention - watching as your 'boyfriend' walks off, his brown hair illuminating in the afternoon light. For a fake relationship, the quickening pace of your heart felt far too real.

"Well you two have been teammates since the beginning of this year, can you tell us a little about when you realised you might be more?"

Your struggle was never-ending - or at least, that's what it felt like, finding yourself at the centre of an impromptu interview with Franco. Around you, the other drivers were getting questions about their place in their teams, how they felt about their current strategy and about their racing futures. And there the two of you were, getting thrown question after question about your 'relationship'.

"Well," you begin, before being saved by your teammate. You had to give it to him - he was great at making stuff up on the spot.

"Well, I think it was somewhere around a month after I first joined the team, and met her. It was just something about her, she's sort of electric in this almost untouchable way, you know?"

You try not to look too awkward standing next to him as he talks, feigning your best-interested smile - though a part of you is extremely intrigued by this fake story he's creating.

"At first I thought I just wanted to be like her, her passion and talent were just so respectable, but the more time I spent with her the more I realised it was something completely different."

He turns to look at you, his arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you close to him. Your expression falters a little as you're caught off guard by the sudden contact and as you turn away from the journalists and towards him, your eyes widen in shock at the sight of his pursed lips nearing yours. Before you realise it, his lips are against yours and you're pulling away as quickly as possible, face bright red. You're just barely aware of the thousands of flashing camera lights as you turn to quickly excuse yourself.

"Thank you all for coming, it was nice talking to you but, uhm, I have to go!" You hurriedly blurt out before slipping out of Franco's grip and darting off to your driver's room.

You hear his footsteps following closely behind you, as well as the sound of him calling out your name. When you near the door of your room, you turn around and grab his wrist to yank him in before you shut the door.

"What the hell was that?" is all you can muster out, "I thought we agreed no kissing?"

"Look, I can explain!"

You cross your arms with a huff, looking at him expectedly.

"I was just going to peck you quickly on the cheek, you know because we were getting all romantic and I wanted it to be believable! B-but then you turned, and then we," he's struggling not to ramble and his quickly moving hands do little to help. That's when you also realise his face is bright red as well, and he doesn't seem any less flustered by it than you do. "I'm really, really sorry I really shouldn't have done that."

You'd be lying if you said his explanation didn't make you feel any better. You're not actually upset about the kiss itself though, in fact, it's the opposite - actually, the grudge you're holding is doing little to help the internal struggle going on in your head. The kiss didn't make you angry, but the realisation that you wanted it to be real, did.

You sigh, rubbing your temples as you slump down in the nearest chair. Franco does the same on the adjacent couch, though his gaze stays carefully on you, almost afraid of what you might say next.

"It's fine, I think we just need to coordinate our PDA a little better then."

"Yes, of course," he nods quickly.

There's a beat of silence. "You're really good at acting though."

"What?"

"That whole story you made up about how you fell in love with me, it was really believable." You laugh lightheartedly trying to lighten the situation and alleviate the awkwardness that's settled between you two.

"Well it's pretty easy, I didn't need to make up much of it," his eyes catch yours and his gaze is soft when he smiles at you.

"What?" you're confused.

"Never mind," he scoffs lightly, his gaze dropping to the floor as he rubs the back of his neck. He looks almost disappointed at something, though you can't realise what. "Well, I'll leave you alone now. I really am sorry about what happened before." You watch as he pushes himself up from the couch, his head hanging guiltily - looking almost like a scolded puppy.

"It's fine Franco, really, please don't feel too bad about it." He nods thankfully before slipping out the door, leaving you alone.

Being a driver, hotel rooms had come to be a companion you knew far too familiarly. Their high ceilings, plush sterile white bedsheets, the empty bathroom - almost everything about them felt a sign of loneliness, of temporality, a house that never felt like home. Even though you knew how ridiculous it would be to complain about something that others would see as a privilege, it was hard to deny the isolation you felt whenever in a new country, away from most of your family or friends.

Maybe that's why you had been so eager to latch onto Franco's idea - it made sense, he had become the person you spent the most time with so why not give yourself some ridiculous reason to be around him even more? However somewhere along the way you stopped needing the reason of fake dating, somewhere in between hushed conversations, planned posts and candid photos - and instead found yourself genuinely enjoying his company. It was a little strange and sometimes acted as a sour reminder of how lonely you'd become but more than anything it felt like a blessing in disguise.

You were reminded of this fact as you lay, wrapped in a plush white hotel robe, across your messy bedsheets - laughing to yourself at the tweets your boyfriend had sent you. They were all about you, or the two of you, of course. Comments on the tiniest things, the way the two of you looked at each other, the way Franco held your hand, the way you worried about him.

"I feel a little bad, they're all so gullible," you typed quickly.

"Oh, so now you feel bad?" His response was almost instant.

"Don't you?"

"It's fun, isn't it? All this playing pretend."

Right, pretend. You rolled onto your back with a deep sigh, staring up at the tall hotel ceiling. All of this was just so confusing - as if figuring out how you felt about someone wasn't difficult enough, the two of you had complicated it by tricking the entire world into thinking you were in love. Whether you truly liked him or not, the idea was doomed for failure - and the more you thought about it, the more it seemed like the former.

"You're right," you typed back, watching intently as the three tiny dots appeared, disappeared then reappeared. What could he be saying that would need so much thinking?

"Can we talk tomorrow, after the race?"

You felt your stomach drop, had he finally caught on to how obvious you were being about how you truly felt, and decided that actually it might be better to just drop this whole act and go on as just teammates? With trembling hands, you typed back.

"Sure, what about?"

"I'll tell you then, for now, we should sleep."

"Goodnight Franco."

"Goodnight mi amor." You laughed softly to yourself at the nickname he had given you, though a small part of you took it as salt to the wound - almost as if he was dangling the possibility of something that could never happen right in front of your desperate little face.

However, not like you had a choice - all you could do now was get ready for bed and brace yourself for whatever tomorrow brought.

You couldn't believe it. The sounds of celebration erupted around you, but you sat completely still in your car, silent, attempting to process what had just happened. Your first win, and, your first double podium, with Franco. Your head was spinning as the never-ending stream of thoughts raced through your mind. Suddenly, you heard a voice coming from above your car's halo, muffled by your helmet. You flick the visor up, lifting your head as highly as you could - locking eyes with your teammate.

"We did it! Oh my god!" The excitement on his face is enough to send a slight surge of energy through you as he offers you his hand, helping you out of the car. When you do though, you stumble a little - the nerves are almost too much for you.

"Woah, you alright?" Even through the fog clouding your mind you can make out the concern in Franco's voice and feel his arms steadying you.

"Yeah, just-" you mumble, gesturing to your helmet and making weak attempts to undo the clasps underneath it. It's almost suffocating you, and the chaos going on around you isn't helping the pounding headache.

"Oh, let me," he reacts immediately, dropping his own helmet and bringing his hands below your chin to swiftly undo the clasps and pull the helmet off of you. You take a deep breath of air as you pull off your fireproof mask, though it sounds more like a desperate gasp.

Around you, the crowds roar with excitement, both your team and others as they make attempts to gesture at the two of you to join them. Your head spins though, and you wobble backwards into Franco.

"It's too loud," is all you can stutter out, though he understands you almost immediately, a strong hand gripping your wrist and pulling you away from the noise and somewhere quieter. You're not entirely sure where he's taking you but at that moment you feel as though you'd follow him just about anywhere.

Luckily though, when your eyes refocus you're in his driver's room, and even though outside you can hear the cheers continuing, you're offered some solace here, the walls muffling the sound. You sigh, sinking into his couch as you throw your head back, panting still.

You feel like it's all just too much - not just the physicality of the race, but the feeling of winning it, winning it with Franco, just Franco himself. When you finally manage to catch your breath you lift your head to see him standing over you, watching intently.

"Better?"

"Much better, thank you." You smile earnestly, "Though I don't think we'll be able to hide in here much longer, there is a cooldown room for this exact reason."

"Oh, I mentioned it to someone, not sure who but he looked important, and he said it would be okay."

You laugh softly, amazed at how he can seem so calm even at a moment like this.

"We did it," you say, still not being able to believe it.

"We did," he smiles, sitting on the couch next to you, "a couples podium."

You feel your heart skip a beat at the sudden reminder of your conversation last night, him mentioning he had something to tell you. Was this it? The two of you had achieved what you had been wanting this entire time, and there was no better time to let this ridiculous bit go than now.

You stare at the wall of his room, the gigantic flag of his home country, and let out a shaky breath, mustering up the courage to break the silence. "So..."

He turns to you, one eyebrow raised in interest.

"What was it you wanted to talk to me about?" You're trying your best to keep your voice lighthearted, "it sounded serious."

"Oh, well about that," he seems to have forgotten it temporarily as well, but the fact that he turns to look at the flag as well, almost unable to maintain eye contact with you, isn't a good sign.

Maybe it's the adrenaline from the race, maybe it's the fact that both of you are going to be needed out on the podium in about ten minutes - or maybe it's the fact that you're so desperate to get out these feelings and make him understand how you feel, but you start talking before you even realise it.

"Look, Franco, I," you start, not entirely sure of where you're going to end up, "I know you asked me to do this whole fake dating thing with you and I completely understand if you want to end it now, I mean why wouldn't we? It's perfect!"

He looks at you confused, lips parted as if about to interrupt you but you continue anyway, stupidly.

"But, look, here's the thing," you turn to him now, and you're sure your face is bright red, "I don't want this to end!"

You let out a deep sigh, and clutch your hands together to stop them from shaking, though it doesn't help that Franco looks even more confused now.

"What?" he says, and your heart drops.

"I," you pause, struggling to find the right words, and struggling to get them out, "I think I like you, like, for real." Okay, not exactly the best choice of words but it'll do.

"Like, not for the whole fake relationship thing?" his tone is still concerned and he leans in a little for clarification.

"Yes! Okay, I know it's not exactly what we thought would happen and it'll probably jeopardise our relationship as teammates but there, I like you okay."

"When did you realise?"

"A couple days ago, I'm sorry."

There's a beat of silence, and you're left with the agonising feeling of your heart racing in your chest, waiting eagerly for his response - for him to laugh in your face, for him to get mad, for him to reject you.

But instead, you watch as Franco's confused expression melts into one of pure relief as he sinks back into the couch with a sigh. "Oh, thank God."

It's your turn to be confused. "I'm sorry, what?"

"You have no idea how long I've waited to hear you say that," he says, eyes fixed on the ceiling with the widest smile you've ever seen.

"Wait you mean you-"

"I win!"

You're absolutely speechless, not a single coherent thought on what is going on or how to respond. All you can get out is a confused sort of grunt.

"I win, I've liked you for longer!" he laughs, sitting up and grabbing your hands in his.

You feel as though your jaw is going to dislocate at how fast it drops, "I'm sorry?"

"Oh c'mon, we've been teammates for a year I know you're not that oblivious."

"Well, apparently I am because I'm really confused."

"I've liked you since the moment I met you, you idiot."

"Wh-" You're about to be offended at the name-calling until what he says finally hits you. He likes you. He has liked you. For ages. You idiot.

"Even when you proposed this to me?"

"Yep."

"Even when we went to get ice cream?"

"Yep."

"Even when you kissed me?"

"Y- well wait no that was completely unintentional," he holds his hands out in defence. You slump back, trying your best to process everything today has entailed, it's almost too much. That is until you feel Franco move a little closer to you, his arm stretching around your shoulders and gently moving your head to lay on his. At that moment, it all becomes clear, and you're suddenly unsure about why you ever felt confused about any of this.

"What now?" You say, barely above a whisper.

"We go and get our trophies," even though you're not looking you can hear the smile in his voice. "Though, before then."

You lift your head up off his shoulder to turn to him with raised brows. "Hm?"

"Now that we aren't fake dating, do the rules still apply?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I'd really like to kiss you right now," he whispers, and there's a hint of nerves as you watch his eyes dart in between yours and your lips.

"Really can't wait can you," you tease, though you still move to close the space in between you to. But just before your lips can touch his there's a knock at the door, causing you both to slump back with a sigh.

"Hey, are you two in there?" it's your race mechanic, "you're needed, you know, on the podium."

You roll your eyes to show your obvious disappointment at being interrupted, though Franco just watches you with an endeared smile.

"What are you thinking about?" you ask, not being able to hide your own smile.

"I'm just thinking about how beautiful you're going to look up on that podium, and how I won't have to pretend not to be in love with you anymore."

Taglist : @spreadyourwings-my-smiling-angel @cinderellawithashoe @vanicogh @taasgirl @claudiajacobs

@dripostsstuff @boiolay @earth-to-lottie @dejavuontrack @dudududu-fangirl

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@lovestruck-sky @im-an-op81-fan @blubra @vienoiserieetc

(don't ask me why it's formatted so weird, tumblr hates me)

[bloodyshadow1]

I feel like people are underestimating Zeus' reaction to Athena at the beginning of his part of God Games. Like yes, of course he's pissed, no one is supposed to be able to win his rigged game, it makes him look like a fool for losing his game, but there's something else.

Athena after winning his game is literally Zeus' nightmare come to life. Zeus was prophecized to be deposed by his and Metis' child, some say they would have a daughter and then a son who would usurp him, but I've seen a couple interpretations. That's why Zeus ate his first wife so he could murder his children by her before it came to pass. Athena was born from his skull anyway, but it was clear and scared him enough to become just like his father.

Now hundreds or so years later, his 'favorite' daughter comes with a request so he makes her do the impossible task, getting members of their family to agree with her. He stacked the deck, Apollo and Hephaestus don't care, but Ares and Aphrodite hate Athena and the feeling is mutual, and Hera would never back one of his kids that weren't hers, at least not for a mortal. Athena could get one or two of them to release Odysseus, but the man is such a divisive figure that there's no way she'd be able to get 5 gods on her side.

Yet Athena did, not only did she beat him, beat his game, she showed off how capable she is. She showed her wits, her strength, the skills a true ruler would need, and she's standing in front of him making 'demands.'

No wonder Zeus freaked out, he literally took a page out of his father's playbook and tried to devour one of his children to avert a prophecy and there she is standing in front of her, 5 gods behind her, nearly half of the Olympians, the same amount of siblings he freed and overthrew his father with, the biggest threat to his power since hera's coup.

Now Athena doesn't want his throne, she wants her friend free, but that doesn't matter to Zeus. The guy was paranoid enough to try and murder Athena in the womb and here she is like the prodigal daughter like he was when he free his own siblings, no wonder the guy freaked out on her. He only relents when Athena, with her 'dying' breath, reiterates that she only wants Odysseus free, not his throne and starts to let his guard down

I could be overthinking this, I love to overthink Greek Mythology, but it does make sense if you look at Zeus' history. Child overthrowing their fathers is the founding of their dynasty, If I was the king of the gods I would be freaking out

[persicipen]

emotionally charged sex ノ zhongli

₊ ˙ ⊹ . morax fakes his death to escape the erosion that would otherwise eat his soul and spirit. to have his plan succeed, he had to keep it secret even from you, his beloved of many years. now that it’s revealed to you, you approach zhongli after he unexpectedly shows up in liyue harbour after days you spent on mourning him.

ৎ୭ — · · 4.6k ノ afab gn reader — sponsored through @ficsforgaza project ノ reader is a long-living adeptus loyal to geo archon ノ zhongli shapeshifts into a half-dragon because reader is into it lol ノ size kink . big dragon dick ofc ノ lots of biting and marking ノ teasing and playful zhongli ノ unprotected sex . cumming inside ノ emotional confessions etc.

This felt like a betrayal. The worst kind.

The afternoon sun was the witness of your meltdown as it seeped through the intricate timberwork of the windows, liquid gold pouring on the floors and turning dust into diamonds dancing in the stuffy air moved only by your screams and wails. A heartbreaking serenade to the one and only you thought dead — standing before you like a pillar of stone, accepting the tantrum and tears thrown at him.

To see his extended cobalt hands, now, of all times, feels more like a curse, a violent reminder that you cannot compare to his longevity, to his wisdom. If he’s not willing to share his plans with you, you’re no different from any of his servants, any of the people of Liyue. A little fickle of life along the shining thread of history, nothing more than a name that appears and disappears when the time comes.

If this is the treatment you get after being told you’re the most precious gem laid upon his open palms, his one and only, the other half he’s been missing for centuries before he has finally found you, then what’s the point of feeling these heavy sobs inside your lungs? What’s the point of moving, of looking, of trying when it can all be gone in an instant?

To be together with him.

Zhongli, Morax, Rex Lapis, Geo Archon… No matter the title, no matter the name, you know him for who he is.

For he’s someone you love.

He draws his touch down your body, his carbon fingers leaving a golden dust along their path as they sink into the soft side you so willingly arch to get the most out of the fleeting contact. Such apology will not work on you, but he’s aware. He’s not trying to make you forgive him, no. What is stirring within his cunning mind is to make you submit once again to his rule and deem him as godlike, as you won’t focus any more on the commotion caused by his faked death. Oh, he may listen later in delight to your complaints that he should not use his divinity against you this way. To prove you still love him beneath the disappointed visage.

Unavoidable sensation that blooms from his bones whenever he sees you like that — frustrated and on the verge of tears — still clinging to the might and the faint glow of his geo powers like a lost soul towards the light. He’s a little unserious about it, a tiny guilty pleasure he excuses whenever he has the time to annoy you, as if you two weren’t bound by the contract older than some riverbeds cutting through the plains.

Seems like you also forget about it in such heated moments as this one.

The hollowness left after he draws his touch away has you pursue him with your hips, chasing the bittersweet heat of his palms pressed flat against your chest, close to the steaming heart that lives inside your ribcage.

“Ah, so I was right, in the end?” He smiles faintly, eyes shining softly, no strong emotions found in his voice. “Missing me dearly these past few days, were you? A loyal thing you are, maybe even the most loyal.”

“My Archon, you cannot simply— no, this is exactly what is hurting me the most. That you can fool everyone into believing you are gone. Even me…” How can you maintain the discussion when your voice breaks down at the selfish thought of what he may think of you?

Are you not overstepping, claiming that you are more important than the precious people of Liyue? Or is this exactly where you should hold your ground, reminding your Archon, your dear man in this life, that he should love you more?

“I wish you had told me about it first… I want to help you. But all I’ve been doing these past few days is trying to digest the news you have given me… too late.”

“Love,” His voice wraps around you like a dark silk, strong yet so gentle with you as if you’re his beloved vase made of paper-thin glass.

How tacky of him to consider such endearment out of nowhere will work on you instead of stirring your anger further into a frenzy.

Silent, giving him the benefit of doubt, you let him continue.

“Don’t cry, my love. I should have thought better before withholding this burden from you. I needed to do it in order to keep you all safe.”

The very next moment, his hold is on your face, soft enough not to leave marks, but also steady enough to sink into the swell of your cheeks. A careful thumb sweeps the skin under your eye, his gaze a blazing gold melting the glossy surface, bringing out the scent of salt — the forevermore bittersweet memory of one of the gods you two used to invite to sit by the same table, no longer here — and thin wet trails that form even when you squeeze your eyelids shut.

“I know you must’ve been worried.” His voice is silky as always, as if speaking through layers of fine fibre he himself weaved with his obsidian hands. “I firmly believe you trust me enough to understand that I did what was necessary. And that I intend to repay each hour you’ve spent fretting for my life.”

The intention is pure, yes. With the last breath uttered with the finished sentence, he leans in to kiss you. A chaste gesture, like a greeting, rather than a confession of centuries old desire. No teeth, no tongue — the undying devotion lingers in the press of lips on yours. It’s an intimate promise to correct the misjudged solitude he’s mistakenly given you.

At first you’re taken aback by his behaviour, your gaze following him, along with your body when he leans back and into the cushions behind him, a river pulling you with the current.

His silken touch dances over your skin, setting sparks as they go down to your jawline and towards your neck, palm slowly settling around the curve of your throat.

“Is this my punishment? To endure your kind caresses with a heart that is still furious?” You whisper in a tame voice, asking for more.

Though you wish to appear unbothered, it still hurts. The golden serpent you are, slithering to make your way into his arms, contradicting the words hanging in the stuffy air between your mouths.

You crave him.

Even if you want to make him feel guilty, you still have been missing him too much to pass up on this opportunity to have him closer, to feel his skin on yours again.

“That’s exactly what I had in mind.” Zhongli nods in a short move, observing your reactions.

When you don’t push him away, his smile grows warmer, stretching lips and taking away the focus from those smouldering golden eyes you often fall into like a rabbit in a trap.

“Will you let me make it up to you? To be reminded how much you mean to me, so that we can share in happiness once more.”

“Yes. You better…”

The touch of his kiss lingers there, though you’re no longer aware of it as he prolongs the contact with your cheek — rough like granite despite his gentle nature — and you cannot but laugh a little at the idea of an ancient dragon trying to seduce you into forgiveness.

How do you not notice his scaly hands undoing the ribbons holding your robes in place, piece by piece, until he has access to your naked skin?

Your nervous laughter stirs an emotion in him, pulling him out of this feigned playfulness, and he exhales.

Amidst the desperate breaths losing rhythm, escape words you two shared twice, maybe thrice in the past millennium. They ring within your mind, pleasured moans like prayers for him, mixed with your faint hisses and mutters of his titles. It’s a perfect calligraphy written on the wall of your hearts that separates you from others, because you’re no one but his — whether you live as his servant or his lover.

Always marked with his name, carved into your flesh.

With the growing desire and your fingers running up and down his sides, catching on the growing scales from beneath the tunic, swelling his slender body into a dominant entity, you grab onto his marbled muscles, suddenly aware of the difference that he assesses between your silhouettes. That is he who’s given an ability to shapeshift, to mould his visage into whatever he desires; you remain the same, forever easy to spot for his aureate irises.

“Oh? Do I sense a preference for roughness this time?” He says in a mirthful tone, placing his hand over yours when you try to adjust your touch. “Why the rush?”

“Your arrogance— no, I will not indulge your humours.” You sigh with a pout as you shift closer, thighs snug around his waist, fists riding up his shoulders, opening up the tunic in the process. “First you must satisfy me before I consider remission.”

There’s a fond laugh that comes from his throat, pushing a tiny puff of warm air on your face. “Ah, so we’ve come to terms. Does it mean I have your permission to please you however I want?”

You freeze at the notion he presents, because it could be both your favourite game and a way to completely break your mind and body when he inevitably slips into his lustful fantasy. Of course, you don’t oppose such ideas when your own vision for the upcoming events is based on similar principles, but the doubt makes you narrow your eyes at him.

“I allow it.”

“My my…” His lips touch your earlobe, a chuckle stirring deep in his chest when he hears you whine and feels you squirm in his lap, “You really do desire for something out of the ordinary, don’t you?”

As soon as you open your mouth, Zhongli kisses you, over and over again, down the neck, nibbling on your collarbone while his teeth shape into fangs and his tongue lengthens as it traces a damp trail down your jugular. Soon the sharpness starts to graze your skin, along with the clawed fingers brushing over the front of your body, hard enough to leave vivid lines and slight scratch marks where they got tangled under the flimsy silk of your garment. Yet you only exhale, heated, temperature rising.

The light chafe from his touches sends shivers down your spine as the next follows.

“F-feels nice…” You whisper into the thick air, relaxing, gradually growing needier with every drag of his fingers along your sides, hugging you so tightly that he may as well become one. “More, I want more of you.”

But no matter how sweetly you plead, there’s no rush to his movement. As if he’s calculating every next step in advance, he brings you into a proper embrace, two living beings pressed together — oh how you can feel his heartbeat on your own, matching the rhythm, powerful enough to echo through your ribcage.

When you lay your head on his shoulder, there’s a faint scent of sandalwood emanating from his collarbones. Or maybe it’s the pungent fragrance of the osmanthus wine you’d found him earlier sipping on? Either way, it wraps you up in comfort, enough to dull your senses and not notice a curious touch sneaking between your legs, playfully groping any curve and any angle along the way, squeezing the softness like to measure if you’re still relaxed in his arms.

“You’ve made me worried I would have to take hours to prepare you…” Zhongli says as he hears you exhale heavily, followed by a tiny whine from you when his fingers slowly rub the wetness sticking to the delicate folds. “But you’re wet like never before.”

“Oh, it is—!” You move your hips closer, instinctively seeking out more friction — more of anything he’s willing to give.

Just a little. Please…

Maybe then he’ll slide his hand further in, though instead of listening to your silent request, he whispers about your pussy getting so excited when he’s not around for a while and then back for you to touch him.

The amused voice causes a fire to engulf your face, making you feel how a fresh wave of embarrassment stirs your heart and muddles your mind even more than his palm cupping your mound.

You clutch onto his shoulders and bury your head deeper into his collarbone, letting him lift your hips up and drag a long finger down your slit — something so insignificant to him, yet it has you clenching your thighs and grab tighter, desperate for more, more, more. Enough of that teasing, the fleeting caresses. What you need is to feel him as real and might like stone, pressing on your body with all his weight. But the good and loyal servant you are, you wantonly yelp as he pokes at your entrance, coaxing out of it another rush of wetness.

He shushes you and brings his free hand over your mouth, placing the heel of his palm under your chin, then tilts your head up to watch you. He’s excited to see you squirming and thrashing about in his arms as soon as he plays around your hole, pulls your folds apart and together again.

You inhale harshly through your nose, drooling on the elegant fist that smells faintly of tea leaves as he stops — bringing you down to sit on the growing erection under the half-undressed robes you tried to tear off his fragrant body. There’s nothing to hide from him, no need to disguise the obvious lust dwelling in the quivering breaths when you assess the hefty girth rising underneath your needy cunt. You’re one motion away from making him take his clothes off completely, reveal all the darkness and amber-coloured scales along with the striking yellow irises gazing into your eyes.

But what about you?

You shudder and arch your back when he pulls you closer, almost dropping onto the hard bulge beneath. It’s so difficult to control the desperate jerks of your hips. Delirious before he even takes care of you properly, you use all your strength to bring him down to his knees, messily roll down on the floor together. And he laughs! Laughs at the way you cross your legs behind his back, at how wet you’re making his clothes — eager and loud, almost hissing at him to make up for everything.

The throbbing in your abdomen becomes unbearable. The tension is growing as soon as you feel something coiling around your calf — one of the ribbons holding his robe, now untied and playfully wrapped to squeeze you there. That’s not all of it, no, not with the lustful god who has nothing else but time to waste. He gets comfortable enough to pull out his cock and leave it hanging just above your tense stomach whilst his eyes are busy taking in the visage of yours; mouth hanging open, frenzied, and burning with impatience.

He smiles, and you laugh when you finally, finally get what you want — he pushes himself inside. The feeling of being stretched to the fullest is like no other; it feels almost like the first time you two laid together. It’s a strange kind of happiness to look at his face and see him equally satisfied with the way your warm insides fit his girth.

A pleasure beyond any comparison, unified and shared, because you’re always getting too easily and too wet for him in no time, as if always ready to expect him to change into a dragon of Cor Lapis. He’s still human, though, and you whine to spur him to change, at least partially.

Zhongli takes you fast and hard, desperate even, sliding back and forth until his forehead touches yours. His mouth finds yours once again, teeth tugging at your lower lip, but it doesn’t last long before he has to break the kiss, throwing his head back, grunting. The more he moves his hips, the louder his breaths turn into growls, slow and deep. He’s way too impatient, despite all the games and pleasantries from earlier, grinding his pelvis against yours, missing you just as much as you have missed him.

Soon enough he finds a rhythm that suits him the most — needy, to say it the simplest way. His hand is under your nape, another one reaching down to massage your thigh, just for a few seconds until he allows the pleasure to consume him whole and—

It is pure bliss to hear him moan your name into your neck, and the gold in his veins shimmers brightly.

Then it comes, the best part of your shared intimacy; that strange and unique sensation when the black emblems of his geo powers spiral up his arms, marking the insides of his wrists, clavicles, fanning out on the sides of his neck. The intensity of the sensation varies, from an intense ache when he decides to pull out and ram back inside you in one swift motion to the sharp pain when he clutches your waist, shifting you lower onto his pulsating cock.

Dizzy from pleasure, but instead of relishing in it, you think how easily you could’ve lost it…

“No, please, don’t leave me!” You sob, stricken again with the image of his lifeless body, the always springy serpent body limp against the stone courtyard. An icy blade of a vision amidst the waves of intimate warmth.

“I’m deep inside you. Can’t you feel it well enough?”

“Closer. Deeper, please…”

He forces a kiss on your lips and then does exactly as you wish, pushing himself fiercely into your slick flesh. Balls snugly pressed, taut and heavy, to your skin, just as his girth carves your insides to its form. Throbbing fullness swirls into the all-consuming sensation that throbs down to your toes and tips of fingers, melting in the touch of his sharpened nails.

Like molten gold enveloping whatever it’s poured onto, you cling to him with an incessant longing drawing from your heart. Enough to ignore the subtle abrasions covering your inner thighs when they repeatedly brush the chocolate carbon scales of his waist.

As you see stars and the landscape of Liyue bathed in the hues of red and orange from beyond the terrace, a waning moon, your skin burning with love marks where he nibbled and sucked.

Like a serpentine shadow of a dragon, Zhongli looms over you with his broad shoulders and rich features as you lay spent on the floor, among the dishevelled garments and cushions, leaning to the railing of the seating to gain some composure back, adjusting to having his cock sheathed wholly.

A coy smile peeks from behind the silk fan of your lashes, peering up at him. He holds your cheek tenderly, praising you with a soft hum of satisfaction for having taken him well.

But, of course, you ask him if he thinks this is enough to make up for your temporary separation. To have his soothing voice narrate that the few days felt like forever. You listen with closed eyes and trembling fingers, awed by how this man could have stayed silent about his plan — now a string of compliments weeping down his elegant lips to heal your worries with a honey layer of love.

The thorns still dig into your soul when you realise the permanence of the pain he’s caused you.

But that doesn’t matter right now.

What matters is the bond you share as the burning gaze from beneath the mahogany silk of hair rakes over your body and the shallow gasps you take to soothe the invasion in your lower belly.

“A struggle is what I see. Such a sweetling you are, brave in words yet shaking like a leaf as you try to act as if my cock doesn’t ravage your insides.” Zhongli remarks with a mocking tone, though his eyes twinkle with kindness when you roll yours at him. “Need I remind you, my love, that it’s you who has called upon me deeper?”

But now, with him having grown significantly in size, you’re still considering how much of a challenge this could become. Still, his affection makes your heart throb with want. And, again, you find yourself following the dangerous path leading to the eternity he offers you, with eyes wide open.

You ask him to thrust deeper, pulling his shoulders closer until your fingers sink into the tough substance that is his muscle. A mellow yelp comes from your throat as you feel the heat he radiates overpower your whole body, eclipsing the autumn wind and bringing the smell of dry leaves and bark — reminding you that it was him who shaped the entirety of your shared homeland.

And even if Liyue changes over time, the sight you’re granted tonight is one for your memories only, because no matter how long you may live, no mortal has seen their beloved god like this. Lustful, glimmering like a star from the sheen of sweat covering his proud chest. For years, he’s held back from not turning into this form in your company, to keep the essence of Rex Lapis still here for you to admire in awe. A feat which you praise with your uncertain kisses that grow messy as soon as his hand wraps around your waist and pulls you back on his shaft. The warm stretch you feel once more between your thighs makes you tilt your head; see how he disappears inside you.

You wail and take the best of this position, arms wrapped around his neck, giving him full control over the speed and force behind the push. You guide him with your heels pressing to his lower back, rubbing the smooth scales as if they were his clothes. But it seems like this gesture spurs him to repeat the movements even faster and deeper, pushing you onto the hard floor — body rocking to the rhythm he dictates.

“Take it as my token of gratitude for having allowed me this chance to relish you anew,” Zhongli mutters in a hoarse voice as his tongue flicks between your parted lips.

Promising words mingle with the filthy sounds of arousal. And when the images of a few hours ago become blurry and fade away, you notice the ancient dragon gazing down at you from the embrace of his ruddy horns. It’s those beady golden eyes that shift into bright crimson from time to time, overrun with passion, as they observe your body with greed. How your own skin is now a canvas for his letters drawn by his fangs and talons, decorating every curve, every sensitive spot — each causing you to flutter and clench around his cock, hungry to claim your being.

And all this time he would laugh at your obvious attempts to catch his eyes, sending a shiver up your spine, kissing you in between praises, from time to time mumbling against your plump lips, “I could spend the eternity like this. In you.”

“You say this now, but what I need to hear is that you will respect me when it comes down to another serious decision.” You hum out in a tired voice, brushing your fingers through his mane.

Though he seems to have not listened, or at least chose not to react, he instead growls and makes you open up for him again, biting into your flesh like a beast. The physical confessions of love he leaves all over your shoulders, where you can easily hide them under the robes, may look like simple bruises from far away, yet there’s an intricate pattern to them, written in his own ancient tongue — no one will be able to read them but him.

That you are to be his alone and stay forever by his side.

Such a greedy dragon, taking whatever he desires in hope you will forgive him, making you whine as the flames of arousal start to lick at your ankles once more. But it’s not something that needs to be asked about now, when you two are just about to reach your highs.

Zhongli keeps you close, pounding your soppy pussy with reserve and intent, at times holding onto your waist to feel the swell of his cock stretching you. And just like this, he whispers, giving you orders — to meet his thrusts halfway, to pull him in deeper, and to let him listen to your heated moans when he curls his hips to conquer your core.

A semblance of hunger itself, always calling out for you while chasing the blissful finish with single-minded determination, so different from the usual languid pace.

Each word spoken is followed by a stinging kiss, the dampness on his chin dripping down his neck, making you feel how primal of an instinct that is to come together.

Your insides tremble with lust, quaking under the building pressure of his release, squeezing him tightly as your pleasure erupts in a wave of puffy breaths and slick heat gushing out around his girth. He chokes on his own saliva, husky moans spilling between his parted lips. The grand finale is right there, somewhere beyond the horizon of your sweaty bodies, so close yet not in reach — each drag of his erection becoming a slow torture to endure.

And that’s when he clenches his jaws and rolls his eyes, hands wrapping around your ankles to keep them wide apart as his thrusts grow erratic and quick, pounding you into the floor. Every sound he makes, like a deep rumble coming from the centre of the earth. A huff here and a broken call for your name there — along with praises of your heavenly body — while the searing liquid pours into your cunt, filling your womb until it starts to drip out with every movement.

It feels like a seal is carved on your souls, deepened by each ragged thrust as he lets himself succumb to this mortal desire, bucking into you and groaning out for you to stay. With his heated weight leaning on you, trapping you in his powerful arms, he stays for a while inside you, thrusting just a bit to spur the overstimulated nerves and force a few more whimpers from you.

Finally, he laughs in relief and rubs your nose with his, pulling away with a wink. “Would you be so kind to remind me of what happened before we got carried away?”

“How rude!” You exclaim, puffing your cheeks out as you push him off you, gently though. “You might have explained yourself well, but I’m still upset with you for tricking me like that.”

Zhongli looks at you from the corner of his eye, fully aware of your sudden change in demeanour, and shakes his head with an amused sigh. A gentle roll of his body brings out a still wanton moan from your throat, awakened with the rub of his cock inside you.

“Now, now, darling, I see your mood has changed finally to a brighter one.” He grins and brushes his finger over your bottom lip. “Or are you just unwilling to admit that you cannot stay mad at me for long?”

You bite your tongue so as not to give him the satisfaction of correcting his statement. Instead, you mutter, rolling your eyes at his arrogant expression.

“How can I say no to such an endearing face?”

The moment those words leave your lips, Zhongli withdraws from your warm body, nibbling at your jawline with his usual gentleness. You see how your mingled cum and essence drip down his legs, how it paints the floorboards with pearly marks, though soon the crispy wind brings your attention back to your own state. It is an oddly pleasant sensation of the fresh breeze playing with your soaked petals and aching thighs — sore from clasping hard ‘round the wide stature of your lover.

Like you never plan to let go of him. And that is true.

₊ ˙ ⊹ . AUTHOR’S NOTE — hewwo! happy kinktober! something that was supposed to be a first part of this year’s kinktober, but i decided to post it individually and not bother with making an entirely new masterlist just for five stories. it would make sense if i were prepared better but as we all know, life can be weird, and i could not make it. regardless, i hope this was enjoyable, and that i didn’t mess up with the new labelling — if i should turn it back into basic fem reader, please let me know :3

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCXDP FIC IDEA: The Dauntless Matchmaker

Danny Fenton is short on cash. He has been short on cash almost all his adult life, but usually, he can pull through untill the last minute before breaking and asking his family for help.

It's a pain in a half trying to find a job that is flexible enough to accommodate his "Health" issues.

He needs time off to keep his agreement. See back when he was sixteen, he realized that the ghosts that had been bothering him were all trying to challenge him for his power.

At first he looked like easy prey- being new and all- but the more fights he won the more his reputation rose and that made the ghosts attack less frequently.

They just became harder since the big guns wanted a crack at him. Danny proposed that the fights be in neutral grounds- the ghost zone- since fights in Amity Park were ruining his haunt.

Haunt Rights were highly protected and respected in the Infinite Releams.

His adversaries agreed under the condition that Danny responded to the battles within two hours; otherwise, they would haunt him in the human world.

Ghost fighting in the Infinite Releams to keep the ghosts busy, and nowadays, only the strongest bothered him like a bi-weekly challenge from dead beings that don't understand scheduling.

It worked out.....until he couldn't explain why he was missing so often in the human world. With the help of some friendly ghosts, he was able to fake a diagnosis of some muscle disorder and has been living with the excuse that he would go MIA because of it. He missed a lot.

Often enough to have almost every job he's gotten to fire him.

This brings him to his current problem. Yes, Danny can argue that he has a disability but to do so would mean having someone look into it and realize it's not real.

So when Charlie from the Tea MadHouse tells him not to bother returning tomorrow after a four-day-long battle, he can only sigh and turn in his tea maker apron.

He might have to call his parents to ask for help on this month's rent. That's a bitter pill to swallow.

If only there was a job that he could do that had no problem with him taking multiple days off without notice.

"Pardon me. I need a moment of your time." a voice calls out. Danny twists around, turning his neck slightly downwards to meet the green-eyed stare of a young boy.

"I have a proposition for you. My elder brother requires a fake lover to fool our family butler into thinking that he has moved on from the heartbreak of his last disastrous relationship. Not that anyone could blame Dowd for ending things with Drake. In any case, seeing as I have witnessed your unemployment, I figured you would do well for the job."

Danny blinks "I'm sorry?"

The kid pulls out a wad of cash. Danny can practically hear the ca-ching sound surrounding the boy as he raises a brow.

He gapes as the youth slaps the cash into his hand without so much as a blink.

"Do we have an accord?" The boy asks while Danny slowly turns the money in his hand.

"Whatever you say, temporary in-law," He says after flipping through the bills only to realize it's a hundred-dollars. A quick count of how many he's been handed causes his eyes to almost pop out of thier socket.

It's more then enough for this month's rent-hell he has some left over for at least four months!

"Excellent, we are expected at dinner. If Drake acts surprised to see you merely tap the table six times, then four. He shall fall into line and build off our lie."

Danny scrambles after the kid, nodding to himself. "Six, then four. Got it. Ugh, does the dinner have a dress code?"

It sounds like it would since a young boy just gave out hundreds like it was nothing. Danny would feel bad showing up in an old pair of jeans and a faded t-shirt.

Maybe he has a formal shirt somewhere.

The boy's green eyes flickered to him, then his watch on his wrist. "An impressive observation. Pennyworth will not be impressed by a poorly dressed paramour. We have time to purchase a suit. Come along."

Danny has no idea how someone so small can walk so fast. He feels his breathing is coming in quick bursts, but the boy doesn't seem winded at all. He winces when the boy enters a well-known suit place that is very pricey. "Is this coming out of my pay?"

"No. This shall be covered by the company card," The strange child says, holding up a black card with a quick flick of his wrist. At the sight of it, two store attendants appear at their side, offering assistance. Danny has never seen such power.

"W-wait we have a company card?" He shutters, overwhelmed by the attendant pushing him into a changing room and a light blue suit in his arms.

"Yes. However, you have a limit on what can be spent with it. I shall review the details later regarding your medical, dental, and vision benefits."

"I GET DENTAL?!"

"Of course. America's ridiculous health programs will mistreat no employee of mine simply due to lack of funds. " The boy scoffed, sounding offended by the very idea.

Danny doesn't care how long he needs to pretend to be this boy's boyfriend, and he'll sign a contract right now.

_______________________________________

Damian waited for Fenton to finish trying on all the suits the personal sellers had pushed onto him. He personally thinks the light blue was the best but it doesn't hurt to try other options.

They need Fenton to look his best to woo Drake and get him to stop acting so pathetic.

Yes, Dowd had broken up with him for reasons Damian is unaware of, nor does he care enough to find them, but Drake has had plenty of people break up with him before and remain on good terms with him.

Just look at Brown.

Drake had also always bounced right back after the breakup, usually because he would get tied up in either work at Wayne Industries or Red Robin.

Yet, for some reason, unlike all the others, Dowd leaving has not only been messy it also threw Drake into a downwards spiral.

He has refused even to get dress- walking around in a bathrobe and fluffy slippers- eating ice cream and sobbing over photos of Dowd for hours on end. He taken a leave from Wayne Industries and mostly stayed on monitor duty as Red Robin.

At other times, he plays sad songs and watches romance movies with a dead look in his eyes. Usually there were crumbs of some unknown spicy chips all over his face too.

Really it was unseemly.

It's been four months of this, and Drake does not seem to be getting it together. Damian had researched online, and all of the articles indicate that he should have felt better by the third-month mark.

He would have left the fool well alone only Pennyworth is beginning to worry. And Damian refuses to let Pennyworth worry over something fixable.

His research showed that a "rebound" was highly recommended (if done correctly), in the healing process of a breakup. Drake refused to find one, so Damian assigned himself the task of finding one for him instead.

He considered Drake's past lovers' looks, interests, and personalities. Then creating a list of what was considered a good candidate he wandered around Gotham in search of someone who would be a perfect rebound.

His efforts led him to Tea MadHouse- a tea shop with a surprisingly good coffee menu- where Daniel Fenton worked. Over three weeks, Damian had watched him, categorizing the pros and cons that Drake would find within Fenton, and concluded that he would be perfect.

The fact Fenton has lost his job now only worked in his favor. He'll convince Drake that Fenton is a decoy for Pennyworth - since Drake was getting fed up with all the hovering- and he would never notice that the real target of this fake relationship would be Drake himself all along.

Fenton will woo him, sweep him off his feet, make him forget Dowd and ride off into the sunset with Drake none the wiser. It was full-proof.

Damian will make Drake rebound on Fenton, even if he has to throw the idiot at the other teen. He is getting awful tired of the concerned glances whenever Drake slumps his way into a room.

No other reason. He certainly didn't care about Drake that much nor did does he lay awake at night wondering how Drake is doing now that he does not have someone to hold him.

Drake doesn't sleep well alone.

"How do I look?" Fenton stepped out of the booth wearing the light blue suit. It made his eyes pop and framed his body well.

Yes, muscular. The body of a boxer. Drake will lose his mind over those biceps.

"Ravishing." He tells the nineteen-year-old. Damian barely bites back a smirk as Fenton flushed, painting a pretty picture. Drake enjoys talking his lovers up, and Fenton will do well to receive plenty of compliments. "Let us be off."

Drake won't know what hit him.

[tomriddleslove]

Omg I have a THEODORE NOTT request for you

Super duper angst hurt comfort

Theo’s dad basically hurts the reader and sends her back to Theo as a warning to stay away from such mudbloods and its just heart wrenching guilt and hurt and tending to her wounds through treat

Song: Half a Man by dean lewis perhaps?

I already have.

✩Theodore Nott x Reader (request)

Summary: The one where Theo has the one person he loves the most hurt by his worst nightmare. Alternatively: He thinks he’d rather die than see you in pain.

A/N: I DID MANAGE TO DO IT BY TODAY!!! I’ll be responding to the next few requests soon. You said comfort but didn’t specify a happy ending 😺

Warnings: Mentions of Abuse, blood.

Theodore Nott never expected to fall in love.

It seemed rather bleak for him, to be honest. He didn’t have the time to think about love when he was too busy wrapped up in navigating the life he had ahead of him.

One couldn't blame him though. With his family as the only example of what love could be, he certainly didn't have a good impression.

Theodore couldn’t recall a single time when he had seen his father treat his mother with kindness or respect.

Let alone love? A truly laughable notion.

Theodore's father had not shown a single ounce of love to his wife, or Theodore. Even on that godforsaken day when Theodore had witnessed his mother die, his father had simply delivered a swift strike to his face and told him to ‘man up.’

So to put it simply, The absence of love in his family cast a shadow over his perception of relationships, making it difficult for him to fathom the idea of falling in love himself.

Then you came.

You came, and god, Theodore doesn't remember how he lived without you. It wasn’t a whirlwind love, a sort of fell fast and hard, rather you entered his life like a slow and steady rain, seeping through the foundations of Theodore's life till you had consumed them completely, crumbling them down against his own will.

It rained, and you became the quiet storm, soft yet unyielding.

Love came like the easiest thing when he met you. It wasn't foreign, or a distant concept; instead, it felt like the most natural and effortless occurrence in Theodore's life. Love with you was as simple and uncomplicated as breathing, a seamless rhythm that he hadn't known was missing until you came along.

You were more than shocked when Theodore admitted he didn’t think he could ever fall in love. The boy, who loved you as though he was born to (he argues he was), who would so tenderly kiss your forehead and hold your hand, not capable of love? The one who would leave his coat for you during the winter months and bring a spare scarf because, he knew you were stubborn, and he was worried you'd get sick, not deserving of love?

You kissed him deeply and made him swear he'd never think of that ever again.

You reminisced on Theodore like some sort of lovesick fool separated by war from their lover, though it was merely only the summer holidays. Whilst Theodore would want nothing more than to come with you, his father demanded his presence back at home. You knew little about Theodore's mother, and even less about his father. Anything leading up to a conversation about them would simply result in Theodore immediately redirecting the conversation, becoming a tad more guarded for the next day or so.

It’s not that he didn’t trust you, because he wholeheartedly did. He would place his beating heart in your hands even if you had a knife in the other, for he trusted you that much.

No, in fact, it was the very opposite. Theodore knew you, and he refused to let you ever get involved in that part of his life. He swore he would never let his father even lay his eyes on you.

He would have loved for his mother to have met you. He doesn't remember her that well, but he's sure, some sort of instinctive feeling within him, that she would have loved you.

You had been back in Hogsmeade a mere 2 days before school had started, to stockpile on some supplies for school.

Students were permitted to start returning to Hogwarts three days before school began, and you would always go back early, valuing having the near-empty castle. It meant you could settle back into a school routine comfortably, and have some time alone before school resumes.

It also gave you time to do stuff for Theodore. You didn't know much about what went on at his house, but assuming from the way he’d come back absolutely exhausted with bags under his eyes, you figured it wasn't good.

It seemed to be the same routine almost every time you'd come back - he comes over to your dorm (luckily for you, all your dormmates essentially lived in their boyfriend's dorms, as they were all friends with one another, so you had it all to yourself 99% of the time). He’d kiss you hello and wordlessly take off his shoes and jacket. You’d lie on your bed and he’d come lie on top of you, wrapping his arms around your waist. He would rest his head on your chest, the sound of your heartbeat soothing him, as he listened to you talk about your holidays till he fell asleep, feeling safe for the first time, unburdened by his worries.

He’d sleep, and you'd trace the furrow of his brow. You ached for the ability to just, alivieate him of everything he carried so close to him. But you knew that healing was a long journey, and you'd be there for him on the way.

You wander around a little bookstore, finding a book for you and Theodore to read. You paid for the copy, turning to leave the shop when you bump into a man.

You quickly offered a polite apology, even though his cold gaze and disdainful demeanour sent a chill down your spine.

Those eyes. They were oh so familiar to the very striking eyes of the boy you so loved. Come to think of it, the hair was the same too. Was this…..

"Watch where you're going, girl," he spat, his voice dripping with disdain

You clenched your jaw, swallowing the anger that threatened to surface. Keeping your composure, you replied evenly, "I apologize if I inconvenienced you, sir."

His eyes then flickered to the books in your hands, a sceptical look crossing his face. "You are a student at Hogwarts? What year?" he sneered.

You took a deep breath before responding, "Final year, sir."

Seeing an opportunity to shift the dynamics, you gestured towards Theodore's family resemblance. "You must be Theodore's father. The resemblance is striking."

His eyes narrowed, and he asked with an air of suspicion, "How do you know Theodore?"

You hesitated for a moment but decided to be honest. "We're dating."

Theodore's father raised an eyebrow, a mix of surprise and derision on his face. "Dating, are you?" he scoffed. "Tell me, girl, who are your parents? Perhaps I've heard of them."

A small smile tugs at your lips as you shake your head, responding. "I doubt you would know them. They're Muggles."

His expression darkened, and a look of pure contempt appeared on his face. "Muggles? Muggles?" He snarls, taking a step closer to you.

Theodore's father's face contorted with disgust, and his voice dripped with venom as he continued, "You, a pathetic Muggle, dare to pollute my son's bloodline? You're nothing but filth, tarnishing the Nott family name with your presence."

You felt a surge of anger and fear. This is what Theodore was trying to keep from you. That his family were prejudiced against your very existence.

Without warning, he roughly grabbed your arm, his grip tightening painfully. The pain shot through you, and you winced.

"Listen closely, Mudblood," he hissed, tightening his hold. "You're nothing more than a passing fancy for my son. If you have any sense, you'll sever ties with him before you bring further shame upon yourself."

Without a second to let you answer, he releases his grip on you, spinning on his heel as he storms out of the store. It takes you a second to recuperate and process what the fuck had just gone on before you turn and quickly dash out of the store, trying to catch a glimpse of his father. Sure enough, you spot him disappearing down a narrow alley.

Before you can stop to think, you chase after him, shouting as you do.

“Hey!” You snap, closing in on the distance.

Theodore was correct in one thing. He knew you well. And he knew that if you ever knew of his father, you’d get involved.

His father’s long black cloak billowed behind him, disappearing down a narrow alleyway that seemed to swallow his wrath. Fueled by a mixture of hurt and anger, you hurried after him, determined to address the injustice he had just unleashed.

Desperation laced your anger-fuelled shouts as you closed the distance. His brisk pace showed no signs of slowing, and as you reached out to grab his arm, the narrowness of the alley made it easy for him to turn around swiftly.

"How dare you touch me, you wretched Mudblood!" he hissed, his eyes ablaze with hatred.

Before you could react, he unleashed a hex.

It hit you with an intensity that sent a shockwave of pain radiating through your body. The force of the curse flung you backwards, and you collided with the cold stone wall, gasping for breath. A searing pain radiates throughout your body, and you cough, looking down. It was akin to some sort of slash, as though he had hit you with an invisible thing, a clean cut on your thigh, and arm. You see a drop of blood drip down onto your skirt and, dazed, bring your hand up to your face. You feel something wet, and when you pull your hand back it has a crimson red glistening on your fingertips, and-

oh.

There was a cut on your face too.

As you steadied yourself, you felt the searing pain intensify, a burning sensation spreading from the point of impact on your arm. Theodore's father approached with a malevolent satisfaction etched across his face. He looms over you, glaring down at you.

"You'd do well to heed my warning, Mudblood," he sneers, his voice low and menacing. "Stay away from my son, or next time, the consequences will be even more severe."

He cast a disdainful glance at your injured form before straightening up, his dark cloak billowing as he walked away without a second thought.

You took a deep breath, shuddering as you braced your palms against the cobblestone floor of the alleyway. You push yourself up, wincing as you try to ignore the throbbing pain in your body as you gingerly get up.

You gather your scattered belongings and look around, seeing nothing but the near-empty village. Summoning every ounce of strength, you began to limp back towards the castle, the weight of humiliation pressing down on your shoulders.

You felt exposed. The idea that Theodore had hidden such a massive thing from you, made you feel all the more humiliated.

You keep your head down and soon enough appear at Hogwarts. It doesn't give you the happiness it usually does, rather you just want to go back to your room and change, and sleep.

It was at this moment that you were rather glad that you decided to come back early, for you can only imagine the looks you'd get if it was packed full of students.

Exhausted, and simply just over it, you make your way up to the dorm. There are only two other students you spotted on the way, but they were far too busy snogging the daylights out of one another to notice you.

It reminded you of…

Theodore.

How would you face Theodore? Did you want to face Theodore?

No, you resolved, you didn’t. You couldn't comprehend keeping such a key detail from someone, let alone the person you loved. Why he did that to you, you’d never understand.

You unlock your dorm room door, dropping your bag at the door, You look up and to your utter confusion, see Theodore sitting on your bed. He looks up at you, the smile on his face very quickly replaced with a deep frown.

He gets up, and-

oh.

Never mind.

You did want to be near him.

You really wanted to be near him.

It was stupid really. You didn’t feel like crying at all, but the second you saw Theodore, that feeling very quickly resolved into the urge to bury your face into your chest, and not stop.

So you did.

Theodore's arms envelop you, and he holds you impossibly tight. He swears every sob that comes from you chips away at his being and he soothes you, rubbing your back as he holds you.

Theodore can count the number of times he's felt pure anger on one hand. Sheer rage. The type that consumes you from the inside out. Once when he was 8, and his mother passed away. He remembers hearing his father disregard the whole thing with such cruel indifference he felt as though a fire was blazing him from the inside out. As with many young wizards his age, he did not know how to control this magic.

He ended up setting fire to the library that day.

The second time, in 1st year, when Alicia Thornsby had made a cruel remark about Theodore’s home life.

“Well, my mother said that Theodore must have a horrible holiday. What, with his father being-” She starts, but she didn’t get to finish.

The teachers couldn’t comprehend under what vindication a child learnt a stinging hex strong enough to permanently mar the skin of the girl, but it was the first and last time anyone dared utter a word against Theodore.

That was the 2nd, and last time Theodore had felt unbridled rage, in his 18 years of life.

That was, until today.

Because, the sight of you, with blood on your cheek, sobbing into his chest, was enough to reignite that dormant flame of anger within Theodore.

“Who?” He manages to utter, voice strained.

You remain quiet, the silence punctuated by the occasional sniffle as you remain hidden in his chest.

He pulls back, lifting your chin. Your eyes are fixated on where the once-dried blood had washed onto his shirt, and he is fixated on you.

“Who?” He emphasises again, his eyes flickering down to the cut on your face. He runs his finger gently along the cut, and when he watches you wince he pauses, a flicker of pain crossing his face. The sight of you wincing, even at his gentle touch, shatters something within Theodore.

You hesitate before you speak, but ultimately, the words slip out of your mouth.

“Your father.”

The weight of those two words, "Your father," hung in the air, and for a moment, Theodore felt as if the very ground beneath him had crumbled.

His eyes widen momentarily, and he can't speak.

No, because there's a horrible feeling of fear, guilt, regret, perhaps a combination of all three, and it's lodged in his throat. It’s almost suffocating him, he can barely breathe, and it's constricting his airways.

The image of you, the person he held dearest, broken and bloodied, collided with the nightmare he had feared for years. He couldn't comprehend the cruelty his own flesh and blood had inflicted upon you, someone he cherished beyond measure. He speaks, and his voice is so heartbreakingly soft, a mere whisper weighed down by the burden of the truth that unfolded before him.

“I'm so, so sorry.” He utters, as though he prompted the hand that came down to hit you.

He believed he did. Because it was only by association, that you had been hurt by his father. That was why you were hurt, right?

His fault. All his fault. All his fault.

He has to take a deep breath and force himself to calm down and think.

Think.

His first priority was you. Always you. He leads you down to your bed and forces you to take a seat on the edge. You watch him as he disappears into the bathroom, reemerging with a damp washcloth in his hand. He kneels down in front of you, hesitating as he slowly lifts the hem of your skirt upwards slightly. He catches a glimpse of the gash on your thigh and that horrible feeling remerges again.

He gently wipes the cloth over the cut, leaning down to press a kiss on your skin. He mutters a few words, and with a small sharp pinch, the skin on your thigh begins to stitch up slightly. Not enough to fully heal, but to ensure it would in the future.

You don’t question how he knows exactly how to heal these wounds.

You know.

He does the same for your arm. Every second he stares at the cut, he feels his resolve shatter further and further, till he can tell whether he wants to cry or ensure the murder of his father with his own hands.

His hands come up to your face, and he lets out a shaky breath. He is ashamed to even look you in the face,

His own reflection of guilt and regret is etched into his features. He keeps his eyes focused on the task at hand, tending to the wounds inflicted upon you by the person who Theodore swore would never even set his gaze on you.

The room is filled with an anguished silence as Theodore continues his ministrations.

As he tends to your injuries, Theodore's mind is a battleground of self-recrimination. The echoes of your sobbing, the memory of your blood on his shirt, haunt him like a relentless ghost. "I'm so, so sorry," he whispers again, the words heavy with remorse as if he could somehow atone for the sins of his family.

With each stitch on your wounds, he feels the seams of his composure unravelling.

When he finally lifts his gaze to meet yours, the vulnerability in his eyes is palpable. The shame he feels is evident.

You muster a weak smile, a hand coming up to cup his face. Your thumb brushes against his cheek lovingly as you speak, your voice calm.

“It's not your fault,”

He wants to cry.

It is. It is his fault.

Theodore pulls you into an embrace, holding you tightly against his chest. The warmth of his embrace is both comforting and suffocating, a paradox of love and guilt; a conflict that threatens to tear him apart.

As Theodore lies down with you, the weight of his guilt still hangs in the air. He holds you as if trying to shield you from the world. He utters words of apology, repeating the words like a mantra.

“I love you.”

But amidst the soothing cadence of his voice, there's an undercurrent of resolution. The conflict within Theodore reaches its zenith, and a painful decision emerges. He knows he can't risk his father ever hurting you again. The love he feels for you clashes with the harsh reality of his future.

Theodore's grip tightens for a moment as if trying to hold onto the fleeting moments of solace. Yet, with a heavy heart, the decision he has to make is almost clear.

“It isn't your fault. Don't apologise.” You whisper, curled into his arms.

“It is. It's all my fault. I got you involved in this,” He utters, as though the admission is poison on his tongue.

“I’m not a good person. I have a horrible family, and he’ll want me to do horrible things, and I’ll have to do them.” He admits, voice breaking.

“No, you don’t. I’m here. I love you, Theodore. I won’t ever leave, and I swear you won’t deal with that alone.” You repeat, voice laced with conviction.

“I'm beyond help. Don’t give your heart to me.” He croaks.

You lift your head up from where it was resting, eyes gazing directly into his. You remain silent for a beat, then two, before you speak.

“I already have.” You respond.

Theodore should feel relief at those words, but he doesn't. Rather, he feels sick. Because he can’t, he won't risk you getting hurt again. He kisses you and pulls you back in, laying next to one another as he wraps his arms around you and holds you tightly, if only for one last night.

Because there was only one thing Theodore could do to make sure his father would never hurt you again.

He had to leave you.

[yuurei20]

Twisted Wonderland Curse Word Compilation: Main Story

⚠️Language Warning!⚠️

Note: these localizations are not literal translations (“くそ” does not literally mean “to damn something,” for example), and are more so examples of what the characters might be saying if they were speaking American English ^^

This post was made in collaboration with the wonderful @irafuwas to whom I am most grateful for the wonderful explanations ♡

#1: くそ (kuso)

An interjection used to express feelings like anger, frustration, disappointment.

Meaning: Dammit/damn it, damn, god damn it, shit, bloody hell, fucking hell, fuck

Ace is the #1 user of this word in the main story, repeating it at least 5 times from the prologue to Book 6.

Jamil repeats it at least four times from Books 4 to 6, Grim at least three times and Deuce at least twice.

Cater,  Epel, Idia, Kalim and General Lilia all use it at least once.

(Note: there seems to be a rumor that Epel uses very dirty language that is being hidden by his dialect, but I did not find this to be the case ^^ I collected all examples of Epel slipping into his natural dialect in the main story and it is mostly just normal words in an accent. He will use casual verb forms with his senpai, which is impolite in a similar way, but he is not using literal curse words.)

#2 ち (tch)

Not so much a word as it is an onomatopoeia, “tch” is still very impolite and is used to express frustration or disdain. It can be considered equivalent to clicking one’s tongue, tsking, or tutting.

Leona is the #1 user of this sound, repeating it at least 30 times from the prologue to Book 7.

General Lilia repeats it at least six times (as of Book 7-4), Jack repeats it at least six times, three times for Floyd, three times for Ace and at least two times each for Azul, Idia and Jamil. It is also used at least one by Cater, Baur, Sebek and an unnamed person in Book 5.

#3 馬鹿 / バカ (baka)

Meaning: Idiot, moron, fool, dumb ass, dummy, stupid

Leona is the #1 user of this word in the main story, repeating it at least 8 times (at least five of which were in a kind of cute way, possibly to make it sound less harsh as it is when he is speaking to Ruggie).

Ace uses this word at least five times (three times to insult Deuce specifically).

Azul uses this word twice, as does Deuce, although one time is just him agreeing with Ace and insulting himself.

Jamil also uses the word twice, as does Lilia (one normal-Lilia, one General-Lilia).

Jack, Jade, Floyd, Epel, Vil, Idia and Sebek also use it at least once each.

#4 野郎 (yarou)

“Yarou” has a literal meaning of “guy” or “dude”, but can be used in a derogatory manner with a meaning of “asshole” or “jackass”.

It can be attached to an otherwise neutral noun to turn it into an insult, which Leona has a penchant for doing, depending on who he is talking about (e.g., snake-yarou for Jamil, octopus-yarou for Azul, etc.).

Leona uses this word a lot, repeating it at least 11 times in the main story.

Unnamed students, Azul, Deuce and soldiers in Book 7 also use it, while General Lilia will sometimes use it to refer to his own men.

#5 ちくしょう (chikushou)

An interjection used to express feelings like anger, frustration, disappointment 

Meaning: Dammit/damn it, damn, god damn it, shit, bloody hell, fucking hell, fuck

Another word used similarly to how “dammit” is used in American English (it is a little harsher than kuso, maybe), Epel uses it at least three times in the main story.

Deuce uses it twice, as do unnamed students at the school, Ace once and General Lilia once (as of 7-4).

#6 間抜け (manuke)

Meaning: fool, moron, blockhead, half-wit, idiot.

This word is used to insult someone for lacking awareness or being absent-minded.

Leona uses it at least twice in the main story, and it is also a part of the string of insults that Jamil delivers to Kalim in Book 4.

#7 アホ (aho)

This is a common insult similar to “idiot” or “stupid,” used at least once by Ace and once by Deuce (in a more slang way) in the main story.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

I know we're all focused on Satyr/Faun König but that bull comment... I'm quite partial to minotaur's and whats better than a darling who isn't from the area. Oh yes she's innocent of the crimes against König because she was not raised there.

Some foreign little creature just running blind in a maze trying to see where there might be a way out. It's been days after all and the screaming has gotten quieter and she wonders if she's the last one left alive. He takes his time eating his meals... this can be stretched out for such a long time as she hides herself in a dead end just a short rest... the darling is so tired unaware of the horrifyingly silent steps moving closer to her little haven. It's just her left now.

@kit-williams I've wanted to write for Minotaur!König for ages!

Minotaur!König x Ariadne!Reader Word count: 5 k oneshot Tags/warnings: Sexual tension, threats of violence and rape, implied cannibalism, power imbalance, moral ambiguity. Predator/prey dynamic, Beauty and the Beast elements, Ancient Greek religion & lore. 18+ MDNI A/N: The Minotaur in this story is not an actual hybrid. Reader is Hecate’s initiate. Merry Christmas y'all! <3

EDIT: PART 2 HERE

The screams are the worst part.

They echo through the Labyrinth while you wait and wait and wait.

Even the very stones seem to cry and wail as you place your hope on Theseus who descended to this hell along with you and the human cattle. Seven young men and seven unwed women, meant to satisfy a beast...

And judging by the screams alone, it sounds like the monster is satisfied. It sounds like it's having a ball.

Fourteen lives have been lost, their blood swallowed by the earth as if Hades himself is drinking the crimson of Athenian youth in His feast. The flesh is the beast’s to devour: an underworld demon born of tainted lust.

Half bull, half man, you always thought the stories were only tales told by the fire to scare children. Turns out that the stories, for once, are true. There's something even worse in this maze, something cursed and foul... Hecate herself would shiver if She were here, in the womb of the earth, witnessing what you’re witnessing now.

You don’t actually see the Bull of Crete cut or hack or slash anyone, and you can only imagine what the monster does to the bloody, gutted corpses of the young. The only thing you see are the hollow, dark walls carved out of soil, sand, and clay, the intestine-like route dug deep into the earth. And you don't have to see the massacre: the screams tell you enough. The silence that follows betrays even more.

Your only light is flickering, waning: the candle will hardly last an hour. If the hero from Athens won’t arrive soon, you will have to leave this place. 

And oh, how you want to leave… You were a fool to follow him here. Blinded by love and hope, you thought Theseus of Athens would be your way out of Crete, but it’s clear that the only thing the young hero is capable of loving is fame. The only time his eyes turned to yours was when you said you might be able to help him with a small bundle of yarn.

Red as the setting sun or spilling blood, the thin woollen string is your only way out now. It’s ironic how a heap of twine is the only thing that can help you out of this hellhole, but the Fates always did possess a cruel sense of humour. Your silly daydreams might’ve cost your life, and even if you’re sworn to the dark goddess, you would rather die anywhere but here. In the darkness, all alone, with nothing but eyeless worms to keep company to your decaying bones.

The sudden draft from the outside world is warm but threatens to blow out your candle. It’s a sign from Apollo: if you don’t leave now, you’re dead. Theseus has to manage without you because you’re not dying in this underworld prison because of some man’s stupid lust for fame.

There's only deafening silence in the maze as you scurry up, taking support from the wall as your sight darkens for a moment. You rose too soon: you can’t even remember the last time you ate. And it appears that even the sun god has abandoned you because there's a faint echo of steps in the tunnel, and they don’t belong to a man. They’re too thick, unduly heavy, and it’s not a pair of sandals that are thumping against the soil.

So, Theseus is dead...

So much for the legend, the myth, the demigod.

Heart thumping in your chest and in the hollow of your throat, it threatens to drown the sound of approaching footsteps. They’re all dead, the people who descended here with you. The only thing you are right now is prey. You're being hunted; whether the Minotaur knows you're here or not, you know you're being hunted. You can feel it in your gut.

You cover the candle with one hand, hoping that the flickering light doesn’t reach around the bend. The falling thump of the footsteps stops, and you still your breath, hoping that the beast would turn around and search the other way.

You hear it sniffing behind the wall. It's trying to catch your scent in the air, the smell of dread and terror, sweat so thick it must reach his nostrils and make them flare with lust. Your heart is thundering in your chest, and the tunnel is so quiet that that you’re certain the creature will hear that, too. (Your heart always betrays you.)

And your luck is cursed.

The beast shifts. 

You can’t see him yet, but you can hear it: the scraping sound underneath his feet as he aligns himself anew, choosing the path that leads straight down to you.

“Hecate save me,” you whisper into the air that seems to grow denser as he approaches, loud thumps of feet now accompanied by metal grating against clay. 

“Hear me, flame-bearing guide... Darkness, protect me…”

He’s dragging bronze against the wall, announcing that he’s carrying a weapon with him, the strength of a bull apparently not satisfying enough if he wants to break your bones with metal.

Don’t blow out the candle... 

If you blow it out, you’ll die.

It’s a clear message, a knowing voice in your head that says it. It’s not young, it’s not old: just knowing. Alert. Wise beyond ages. 

So you still your breath and wait.

Shadows fill the curve of the tunnel just before he emerges: thick like thunder, a darkness so deep that even the name of the twilight goddess escapes your tongue. 

And he’s big. Bigger than the bulls you used to dance with, bigger than kings, or heroes, bigger than even Theseus, the man you thought was a myth walking. His head is enormous, bigger than the rest of him, awkward and rough like it’s not quite part of him even though he’s supposed to be half ox. 

The gigantic, horned figure stops when it sees you. Vast shoulders tense; the fat, double-edged sword falls to his side when he settles to loom between you and your only way to escape this place. You’re oddly thankful that the horrible screeching stopped, but then you notice that his blade is drenched in blood: actually, his torso, thighs, even the buckskin loincloth – the only garment this monster has chosen to wear – is spattered with red dots. 

The bronze tip drips with crimson, and the earth drinks it all. Hades is never satisfied: this beast is never full. Everyone who was sent down here is dead: everyone else has met their doom except you. You wonder if your mother would cry if she heard her only daughter died because she fell in love with a fool.

“I killed your hero,” the walls of hell boom. 

His voice is thick like tar, dark and foul like it’s the God of Earth himself speaking.

The flame in your hand quivers from fear, and you slowly remove your palm, the tiny candle illuminating the beast with warm homely yellow, making the prominent muscles of his chest even bigger. 

He’s carved like the statues in Athens, only, this giant is far hairier than the painted marble heroes of the city. The hair on his chest is thick and wild; it shoots down his abdomen and disappears underneath the loincloth, spreads over his inner thighs, even covers his shins in dark mats. He looks like a wild man, a beast indeed: sweaty, filthy and thick. But you never knew a beast like him could talk…

“A coward, that one,” he snarls, the voice reverberating oddly like it’s a human man speaking from under a wooden mask or inside a clay jug.

And you believe every word he says.

Theseus was strong and able-bodied, but he had built his strength just to show it off. This man’s body speaks of pure, ripe survival.

A hulking shadow with shoulders that barely fit the tunnels of the Labyrinth, with palms nearly twice the size of yours, he’s the myth walking instead of the hero whose blood now adorns that dull bronze blade. The Minotaur who survived his father’s wrath, his mother’s absence, these bleak surroundings, and all the heroes sent down to get his head… His weapon isn’t even sharp anymore, and still, he managed to cut through the sacrificial humans like butter. And what a horrific death it must’ve been to be hacked to pieces by a dull blade.

Is it evil of you to hope that the death of your “hero” wasn’t a quick one…?

Theseus was a fool and a coward, rotten to the core, but you saw all of that too late. He never cared about the human sacrifices or the king’s wrath; he never cared about digging into Pasiphae’s sorrow. He only cared about getting his face depicted on a pot or having his deeds played out in amphitheatres, his name uttered in song, accompanied by harp and flute.

“I know.”  

Your voice gets sucked into the earth: it doesn’t echo from the walls like his. It’s thin, damp, and frail, just like everything else meant to walk under the sun instead of stand buried under the earth.

But the beast before you tilts its head a little. It’s curious. 

Why would you say that? 

Why don’t you cry from hearing the news...? Why don’t you howl out your hero’s name and beg the gods to heed your grief? Why don’t you run away from a monster?

The candlelight is puny and weak, but it’s bright enough to bring out the eyes of an animal. You draw breath in the dampness of the earth when you finally see it: the bull’s head is devoid of eyes, and yet, the beast still has them. Blue as the summer sky, stern as the death grip of winter just before spring.

There’s nothing but ripped shreds of skin where the eyes should be, and instead of looking at you from the sides, they’re greeting you from the front. The horns are sturdy, but otherwise, the colossal head is a bit skewed... Thick patches of fur sticking out as if it was years and years old, and then – you realize it’s not his head; it’s only an illusion. 

There’s a man under there. A full, grown man who’s made himself a terrible helmet out of a bull’s carcass. 

“You’re a man,” you say out loud, earning yourself another shift of the colossal head.

“...What?”

The muffled echo confirms it: he’s speaking from inside the bull, moving only slightly to get a better look at you. 

“You’re not a monster. You’re just a man.”

His eyes are wild but intelligent; they pierce you from inside the inanimate shield. The large chest heaves, his ribs flare like sails as he draws air through what must be the foul stench of a long-dead animal.

He takes a step, and you shrink, almost dropping your candle and the roll of red yarn.

“You think talking will save you, female?”

He speaks like a man, walks like a man, but his moves are an animal’s. Shoulders slightly hunched like he’s a bull about to attack, you recognize the way his muscles quiver from the times when you used to do bull leaping. You don’t dance with Rhea’s oxen anymore: your tasks at Hecate’s temple are more suitable and less wild for a maiden your age. Back when you were younger and more agile, you used to jump from the back of one bull to the next, clouds of dust swirling around you as you showed your prowess to the priests.

But you can’t charm this ox by dancing. This one can’t be tricked or fooled: he will pierce you with those horns or his brazen sword if you take even a step.

“I can get you out of here,” you wet your lips, noticing that the blue eyes shoot straight to your mouth when you do that. “I know the way out.”

“What makes you think I want out,” he says, so tight and tense that you fear he’s either about to leap at your throat or plunge his sword into your chest.

And you should be concerned about your own safety, not about his sensibilities – if he even has such things – but hearing this beast man’s reply is like drinking bile. 

Why would anyone want to stay here?

You don’t know if he eats human flesh; you don’t know if he had to in order to survive. Everyone knows why his father threw him down here, but no one knows he’s not half the things the people above say he is. And if half of it isn’t true, what other lies have been told about the Minotaur? 

Even most prisoners see the sun, yet this man has been deprived of that, too. He’s been robbed of mother’s love, of father’s mercy, of friends and foes, of mentors and guides. He’s been robbed of life, of stars, of fires and summer skies, of women’s giggles, of fistfights with fellow men. Of songs and plays, of festivals and games, of bull dances, and maidens that leap…

“Have you ever been up there…? On the surface?”

You turn your voice into soft water on pebbles, a soothing pour of persuasion and goodwill. His pecs contract, strong abs under thin hair and body fat bunch like you’re about to hit him there. You take a step, and now it’s his turn to shun away. It’s only half an inch, but he actually moves away from you. 

“I can take you there,” you offer gently. “Have you ever seen the sun…?”

It’s like talking to a starved predator, trying to entice them to follow you with a fresh steak in hand, hoping that the fanged mouth won’t take more than was promised if it decides to accept the offering.

And the beast accepts. 

“As a boy,” he grunts, a tad more softly. 

Those eyes are fixed on you, reminding you of horses when they’re slightly afraid. The glint of white and blue behind the carcass is fiercely alive, quite unlike the hollow, disinterested stare of the Athenian hero who was only interested in himself.

But this beast is interested. Oh, the Bull Man of Crete is wildly, fiercely curious about you. 

“You’ll take me to the sun,” he repeats, an affirmation rather than a question.

“Yes. To the surface. I promise.”

He moves. Like an animal who learned long ago to drive others into the corner so that he wouldn’t get forced there himself, he’s primal, sensual in the way that oracles in a trance are sensual.

Approaching you in silence that’s almost eerie, the hairs at the nape of your neck stand on end by the time he’s only an arm’s length away. Why announce his coming earlier if he can move so quietly?

“You’ll lead me to my father.” 

His gaze bores into you, and not even the warm draft from the tunnels can prevent you from shivering. He’s distrustful, and it’s no wonder. It must be odd that some girl with a candle and a bundle of yarn is suddenly waiting for him around the bend, and doesn’t even flee. He’s a behemoth, but he’s not stupid. A stupid man would not have been able to survive, let alone thrive in this place.

And why should he trust you? Who is he supposed to trust in this maze when every person he has seen has either run away from him or tried to kill him? His father will slaughter him if he ever escapes the Labyrinth, so what else is a priestess in his kingdom but a squealing mouse, trying to feed him lies and then guide him to the surface and into a forest of spears? 

“No,” you shake your head slowly. “No, I promise I know the way. There will be no soldiers–”

You shut your mouth just before a huge palm closes around your throat. 

Gods, but he moves fast when he wants to… 

The candle and the yarn drop the instant his hand seizes your neck, strong fingers nearly meeting at the back as he squeezes your windpipe ever so slowly.

And he’s so close now. The carcass reeks of death, but the man underneath stinks of plain human sweat. His musk is a peculiar mix of blood, earth and soil, something both stale and invigorating, the thin sheen of sweat and dirt covering his muscles making him look like a common builder. It’s strange that the bull’s head hasn’t yet decayed in this place, that the man doesn’t reek of bodies and bones that must be scattered around like debris further down the tunnels. 

Another thing that’s strange is that he doesn’t seem to want to simply silence you.

He also wants to touch you.

A wide thumb strokes the underside of your jaw as he studies you. It slides down the column of your throat, the blue eyes gleaming with fascination when you swallow against him.

He drinks in the sight of you: the lips that part with fear, the frail collarbones that breathe against the side of his palm. The promising crevice between your breasts, the enticing softness of your teats. 

You can hear his breath grow heavy under ox skin and bone, the rugged, vicious helmet he has chosen to wear. What lies under, you can only imagine, wherein he has little left to the imagination when taking in the curve of your breasts, your nipples rising to peaks under the thin white linen only temple virgins use. 

Seeing your reaction to his touch makes him growl -- he actually growls like an animal, a deep, low rumble of approval rising up his throat when he sees how different your body is from his. How supple and cushy it is, soft and plump like a peach, covered only barely as if to tease a best like him. You wonder if he ever took pleasure in the maidens sent here by the king… If he ever thrust the sword between his legs into their weak bodies before giving them the mercy of his actual blade. Would he even know what to do with a woman, having lived here for so long?

“Please,” you whisper, bringing his eyes back to yours, the ice in them now liquid sapphire of pure want. 

Gods… You need to bring his attention back to your offer of help before he sees it more compelling to just stay here and play with his new, plump little mouse. Virgin or not, you wouldn’t survive a mating with this man. 

“I swear on Hecate’s torch that it’s not a trap. You have my word: I’m a priestess soon to be.”

He’s entranced. Hypnotized by your lips. You lick them to confirm your fears true: the man grunts with pleasure, out of instinct, absentmindedly like an animal who reacts to the sight of a fat, meaty bone. 

Oh, he might not know what to do with a woman… But he would try his best to find out. 

“Priestess…?” He rasps.

“It’s a holy woman,” you explain. “I serve the Goddess of the Crossroads.”

He snorts, either because he’s not impressed or because he’s downright amused by your vocation. The eyes, warmer, more demanding now, are far from the eyes of a bewildered beast.

“Little female of the crossroads... You will take me to the king. And then, I will kill him.”

He puts weight into his words, tries to make you understand. 

He wants you to guide him to his father. 

To the King who claims his son is half bull, to the husband who claims his wife was adulterous with an ox. To the King who demands tribute as virgins so that he can send them down to hell. The dark goddess screams justice, but you're at a horrible stalemate.

The gods will curse you for this… They will smite you with a bolt of lightning or drown you next time you cross the great sea if they see you’ve helped this half-beast escape. If you guide him to Minos, you’re a participant in kingslaying, and the gods never forget things like that.

“He’s your father and the king of Crete,” you whisper in fear. “The gods will strike you down–”

“Gods?” He spits. “I piss on the gods. I fuck their corpses and leave them to rot.”

You almost choke on the blasphemy levelled at you. The shadows creep closer, the stare behind the black fur is dark and amused, burning with the crooked wrath of a thousand years. 

“Perhaps I’ll fuck you too.”

It’s unnerving that you don’t find the threat wholly unappealing.

If anything, your eyes drift down to the hairs of his chest, to the two big muscles that resemble the work of the best sculptors in Athens. 

“Are you a virgin, female of the crossroads?”

His eyes search for your response: they want to see your fear and disgust. You swallow again, arduously against his hand, both caressing and testing you. 

The beast leans forward, as if weighing if he could somehow insult the gods by pillaging you. The rough hair of his chest meets the white cloth, it brushes against your nipples as he bends down to have a good sniff of you.

“You smell like a virgin,” he growls.

The hand leaves your throat, only to travel down your sternum. He grabs your breast nonchalantly, a little too roughly, the hot palm closing around the teat and squeezing it like it’s a toy. When you don’t react, he squeezes it again, this time hard enough to coax a whimper out of you.

“Sound like a virgin…”

Without warning, the hand dives straight between your legs next, palm forcing its way through your thighs and curving to cup your sex, moulding around it with barbaric thirst.

“Feel like a virgin, too.”

It’s thick, hot, and heavy, how he simply tries you through your dress. Fingers testing your folds, he’s clearly enjoying the subtle wetness he finds down there. You can hear another hitched grunt pushing up his throat, rugged and whiny this time, a broken groan that dissipates because of how dry his throat is. 

No man has ever dared to lay his hands on you... Many have wanted, but none have tried. Even drunkards and fools respect women who belong to the dark goddess.

But he doesn’t care about the wrath of Hecate. He doesn’t give a shit about the gods. He simply takes what he wants, what falls into his lap. The fifteenth offering, but he doesn’t seem to be interested in devouring your flesh. 

How easily he could simply yank that loincloth aside and drag your dress up. Force his cock into your tight, wet heat without uttering a word. You doubt that he would even take the trouble of laying you down on the ground for taking... Beasts rut when they want to: this man could fuck you against this wall if his loins demanded so, guttural groans being the last thing you hear before the candle goes out. 

You don’t know if you have to spread your legs for him before this is over, but you reckon you will do even that if it means you’ll see the sun again. You’ll endure every thick thrust, and gods be cursed, you wouldn’t even be solely disgusted if this half-animal chose to breed you... As shameful as it is, you would somewhat enjoy having him rut you like an animal in heat.

And you’ve gone mad, surely. 

You want to touch him too, just to test another theory. 

Deciding that it's a good idea to stick your hand into the maw of hell, your fingers lift. They meet his bicep, and the lewd panting stops.

He’s not even breathing… He’s just drowsy and drunk, looking at you with a mixture of soft sleepiness and awe in his stare. Like a dog who has never been petted, even his eyes drift half closed when he forgets to threaten you, now focusing solely on your hand. 

And you start to caress him, slowly, so slowly… Tracing the muscle all the way up where it meets the shoulder, you stroke even the thick cord that leads to his neck. The rest of him disappears under the bull, but the man behind it already shivers under your touch. He even bends his head a little in hopes that you would go under the mask and touch him there, and the gesture reminds you of an animal exposing its vulnerable areas, baring its very throat in submission. 

Braving a quick peek down, you notice that the buckskin cloth is stretched high and wide. His whole body is tense and immobile: you could cup him through the soft animal skin and he would probably shoot his seed from a single stroke of your palm. 

If this is not a virgin, you don’t know what is...

In a way, it would perhaps be wise to shove your hand down and disarm this man. That way, you would be safe for a few more minutes. Instead, you lay your palm over his chest, right over where his heart should be. 

“So do you, Bull of Crete...”

His gaze flickers.

The darkness hesitates, widens, nearly swallows the azure pools whole. But he doesn’t look irate or wild... Only shocked.

It’s an impasse. A thicket. His hand on you, your hand on him.

He surrenders first: the underworld budges before the utterly pure. You bless him with grace the instant he withdraws his hand from between your legs – slowly, reluctantly, like leaving a place that belongs to him. Or to which he belongs…

“I promise I’ll help you, Minos Tauros. But I need you to give me something in return.”

You remove your hand too. Softly, slowly, like a horse master who trains and tames wild things. All words seem to have escaped his tongue: he only grunts, unsure of what a beast like him could give you in return for your help.

“You must promise to be kind to me.”

“Kind...?”

“I need you to behave,” you explain. “No bad things on the way up... No fucking.”

Everything else, he seems to accept, but during the last sentence the Minotaur blinks at you, utterly confused.

“But... You smell like you want to fuck.” 

Your jaw drops open a tiny bit. Then you remember that a priestess of Hecate doesn’t gawk.

“I don’t–How would you know that…?”

The beast only shrugs. Then he leans forward and takes another sniff as if to prove it’s true that you want his cock inside you.

“You smell good,” he grunts. “Different... Female, not afraid.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to…”

He even raises his hand to inspect the slight wetness there. Fascinated by the thin film on his fingers, he rubs his thumb in it, probably thinking about bringing it under his mask to get a good sniff of your juices too.

You grab his wrist without thinking, mortified to your core by the prospect of him getting high on your slick. 

“Look. We need to leave before the candle burns out.”

The obsessive stare threatens to swallow you once more, so you let go of his wrist and steel your resolve. Scooting down to grab your things, you try to ignore the violent erection still pointing straight at you.

Hecate keep you from offering yourself to this man out of your own free will...

And you don’t have a torch, only a candle and a skein of blood-red yarn, but you know the way out, so there’s hope. There’s always hope.

“I need you to promise me,” you turn at the mouth of the tunnel, seeing that he’s still standing there, in the place where he almost took you like his first whore. As if waking up from a thrall, he straightens to his full height, picks up his sword and looks like a half-human, half-bull once more.

“I promise,” comes a booming voice from under the animal skull. “No fucking… I’ll behave.” 

You nod. There's a sense of trust in the air. A promise of hope... It's mutual, invigorating -- life-giving, like the sun and blood in your hands.

You don't know if the son of Minos has ever smiled in here, but from the quick glint in his eyes, you suspect that he's smiling right now, the man under that animal mask. Somehow, it reminds you of the stars in the sky.

“Lead the way, maiden.”