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navybrat817 · 10 months ago

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Hold You Tight: Part 8

Pairing: Club Owner!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Fic Summary: The owner of The 107th wants you to be his girl whether you like it or not.

Part 7 | Series Masterlist | Part 9

Chapter Summary: You talk with some of Bucky's friends and witness what happens to someone who disrespects you.

Chapter Word Count: Over 5.2k

Chapter Warnings: DARK AU, tension, mention of stalking, inner conflict, insecurities, manipulation, possessiveness, violence (not against reader), Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?), more warnings to come.

A/N: More Hold You Tight and thank you for your patience! Hope you lovelies continue to enjoy. Bucky edit by the beautiful @nixakimbo . ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @whisperlullaby , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You didn’t respond to the comment and did your best to ignore the stares from the others. Intrigue filled their eyes and you suddenly felt as if they placed you under a microscope. Being the center of Bucky’s attention was smothering, but the weight of their gazes settled so hard in your chest that you worried you wouldn’t breathe properly again.

You looked around in the hopes it would distract you. A nice office, just as you expected. A high ceiling like his penthouse, but with carpet instead of a marble floor. The dark, expensive desk and furniture added to the vibe, powerful and ominous. A bookshelf along one wall lined with books reminded you that Bucky really liked to read. You also wondered who painted the lone piece of art that hung above his desk. A black dahlia, symbolic of sadness or betrayal.

Why that flower?

The wall to your left pushed that thought away. Monitors took up the top half and displayed various parts of the club. You weren’t sure why it took you by surprise, especially since he mentioned seeing you in the VIP section. The man was a control freak. At the same time, the club belonged to him and he certainly wouldn’t be the first business owner to have eyes and ears everywhere around his place.

“Quick introduction before we get into specifics,” Bucky said, nodding around the room. “Thor Odinson, Nick Fowler, Sam Wilson, and Steve Rogers.”

A large blonde with long hair clapped his hands together. “Finally! The future Queen of The 107th! And a beautiful one at that. It’s a pleasure.” Your eyes widened as he stood, his stature as booming as his voice before he bowed. He actually bowed to you. “Are the rest of you not standing? Fowler, Wilson, on your feet with Rogers. This is not just a woman, this is Barnes’s woman. Show her some respect.”

“I swear, you aren’t from this world,” a brunette in a sharp black suit mumbled, but got to his feet along with the others. The unexpected gesture stunned you into silence. “We were starting to wonder if you stood us up.”

“Took a bit of convincing to get her here, Nick,” Bucky explained, making you bite your tongue when he kissed your temple. “She wanted a quiet night.”

The handsome man had a menacing glint in his brilliant blue eyes. “And how exactly did you convince her?”

“You know, you can all sit back down,” you cut in. “There’s no reason to stand just because I’m here,” you added, though you appreciated Thor’s genuine enthusiasm. It was kind of endearing.

“Nonsense. You’re all he speaks of, so you are a Queen in our eyes,” Thor said.

“Future Queen does have a nice ring to it. Maybe I can buy you a tiara,” Bucky smiled. The men chuckled in unison, with the exception of Ray.

Hyenas.

Whatever expression you had on your face made Bucky frown. “Are you okay?”

You wanted to scream how you weren’t okay at all and how terrifying the entire situation was, but Bucky took your hand before you could answer and kissed your fingers. It somehow soothed a bit of the nerves, which wasn’t fair since he was the one who tangled you in this web in the first place. “Just not used to so much attention,” you admitted.

“Let’s sit,” Bucky suggested, leading you to the remaining empty sofa. Instead of giving you space, he kept you at his side once you both sat. Was it a display of ownership in front of everyone or did he just want you right beside him? “Ray, bring her some water.”

Your heart thumped against your ribcage and the gentleness of Bucky’s hand on your cheek startled you. It was different on the club floor. Even with his men teasing you, there were tons of others around. Here in the office, the spotlight was solely on you. All because Bucky wanted you. Otherwise, you’d be invisible.

“I’ll have you home soon,” Bucky whispered, grounding you with the reminder that you didn't have to stay all night. “Just a little bit longer.”

“Told you it was too soon to bring her here,” the dark-eyed gentleman beside Thor spoke, a mildly sympathetic look on his face. “But, no, you never listen to me.”

“And I told you where to shove your opinion, Sam,” Bucky snapped, thanking Ray in a softer tone when he placed a bottle in your hand. At least you knew it wasn’t drugged or tampered with since you had to open it yourself.

“So, Barnes tells us you work with flowers?” Thor questioned.

You nodded, not sure if it should bother you that he spoke about your job or impressed that his friends took the time to remember. “Yeah, I’m a florist. I enjoy it.”

“That is a lovely profession. He also mentioned you occasionally bring flowers to the local hospital at no charge,” Thor continued before the others gave him a look you couldn't decipher. “We do not see a lot of kindness like that around here.”

“Yeah, I sometimes…” you trailed off when you noticed Bucky’s jaw clench. It wasn’t something the two of you talked about during your date, but he clearly knew. You’d have to revisit this conversation later. “Bucky, why don't you tell me about your friends?” You suggested. Anything to take the focus off you.

Bucky blinked and gave you a smile after a moment. “Sure. Years ago, Steve decided to drag me to a veteran support meeting after we served, which is how I met Thor and Sam. They invest in real estate,” he explained. “Sam focuses more on the commercial end and Thor on homes.”

The military background didn't surprise you. Brotherhood. Loyalty. Respect. There was an unmistakable bond there.

“Wilson and I were just discussing our newest acquisitions before you walked in,” Thor said, tilting his glass toward you. “Barnes didn't tell us you lived in such a nice area.”

Your stomach tightened with nerves. “Excuse me?”

Sam looked like he was considering his words when Thor’s gaze flickered to him. “Bucky may have mentioned a property or two in that neighborhood that might be a good investment. He’s right.”

Your gaze jerked to the man holding you. His lips curled, knowing and unashamed. His promise to have you out of your home… “Is my apartment building one of those properties?”

Bucky shrugged. “It might be.”

Your heart gave a hard thud. If he was serious… If his friend bought the building… No, he couldn’t do that to you.

“Nick deals with investments, too, but he focuses more on businesses over real estate. We actually introduced him to Bucky,” Sam said, effortlessly shifting the conservation back to the group. He seemed nice, but how nice could he be if he was Bucky’s friend?

“It really is nice to see the future wife in person.” Nick gave you a quick once over, but there was no judgment, unlike that jerk at the bar. “I can see exactly why he broke into your place just to talk to you.”

Bucky rubbed your back when you coughed. Nick was almost as nonchalant about the situation as Bucky was. “So, everyone really is aware that he’s a stalker,” you said.

“He prefers to think of himself as passionate or intense.”

“Pay no attention to him,” Bucky advised.

Nick simply smirked. “I was giving her a compliment.”

“Jax and Hal have already hit on her and I don't need you bothering her, too.”

“I’m not bothering her. Maybe you're the one bothering her.”

“Please, you don't have to talk about me like I'm not here,” you interrupted. Wanting to be invisible was one thing, but you wouldn't be treated as such.

You shut your mouth when everyone looked your way, but relaxed when all the men laughed again. “I like you,” Nick said. That brought a small smile to your face. It wasn't like you wanted the people in Bucky's life to like you, but it was nice to see that others weren’t phased by his power.

Bucky shot him a look for a split second before the latter put his hands up. “I don’t like her that way. We all know she's your girl,” he promised before looking at you again. “But I do like your spirit. It's good for him.”

Bucky shifted his gaze back to you adoringly as you shrank back into the sofa. “Thanks,” you whispered.

“And since you’re here, I wanted to ask what you think I should get Brady and Addison for their upcoming wedding,” Nick smirked again, but it was much softer this time. “I asked Bucky, but he thought I should ask you since you're so close to them.”

A chill ran over you. How did… “Nick,” you whispered, recalling your earlier conversation with Addison. “You’re Brady’s new boss, aren't you?”

“Smart girl.” he smiled, impressed. “I’m a boss of sorts. He’s a hard worker. Loves his fiancé. I hope they're enjoying their dinner.”

“Check their registry. Everything they want is there,” you said as evenly as you could manage, wishing you had the strength to bolt from the room.

You swallowed back the urge to get sick as Bucky rubbed your side. This wasn't just meeting his friends. This was a not-so-subtle way to tell you that you weren't getting away from him. And how could you? There was a chance that Sam bought your building. Nick had a way to get to people you cared about. And Steve showed up at your job, one of your only safe-havens. What was next?

It would've been easy to feel hollow to it all as Bucky wove himself into your life. Was it just control he sought? Or did he want to be in as much of life as possible so you couldn't forget him if you tried? No matter where you went, where you looked, who you saw, it would now trace back to him. Like he wanted everything to begin and end with him.

You looked toward Ray, but he looked at the floor. Sighing, you shook her head. You were all alone. “So, Bucky knows how to get into my home and pretty much knows everywhere I go. Sam or Thor might be buying the building I live in. Nick is working with someone close to me. And Steve… clearly knows where I work. Am I missing anything? Is this totally normal behavior for all of you?”

You could still see the intrigue in their eyes at your clipped tone. “You seem unhappy by that, but it is a dangerous world out there and you are a guarded treasure who needs to be looked after,” Thor spoke, looking to the others for support. “All of our women are.”

Nick nodded after a moment. “Varying degrees with our approaches, but yes. It’s dangerous out there.”

You huffed. Did they think they were the good guys? Were their significant others like you? Trapped? “It’s dangerous here, too.”

“You’re not in any danger with us.” Bucky turned your head toward him. “But Thor's right. You are my treasure, Kotyonok. I found you and I’m not letting you go.”

A possession. Something to covet. “You could’ve just left me buried in the sand or at the bottom of the ocean,” you whispered, ignoring the hurt in his eyes. “I didn’t ask for you to dig me up.”

“This is all overwhelming. I know it is,” Bucky whispered back, like the others weren’t listening. “If you’re upset that Steve went into your shop or for anything else, you can blame me.”

Of course that was the thing he commented on. “Oh, don’t worry. I do blame you.”

The men laughed again as he ran a finger along your neck. “Another thing I’ll make up to you.”

You huffed again. “And how will you do that? Jerk off while I’m on the phone with you? Because you already did that earlier.”

Bucky smirked at your sass when Sam coughed and said, “Steve, you’re being awfully quiet over there.” You almost forgot he was there since he hadn't said much else since you walked in.

“Who cares about Steve?” Nick grinned as he sipped his drink. “Let’s hear more about that phone call.”

“Just observing, Sam.” Steve cut in and crossed his arms as his gaze swept over the group. “And don’t be rude, Nick.”

“Is it rude if I also want to hear about the phone call?” Thor asked.

Heat flowed to your cheeks and you wished you just kept your mouth shut. “Please, forget I said that,” you begged. Because now that you mentioned it, it would play on a loop again in your mind.

Bucky said low enough for only you to hear, “Next time I get off, I want you right there with me.” The heat in your veins turned to molten lava. “But since you want to change the subject, Steve has been my best friend since we were kids and now he helps out around the club and with other endeavors,” he introduced, a hint of pride and fondness that wasn't fully extended to the other men. “I think you two are going to get along very well.”

“I think so, too.” Steve smiled and you did your best to return it, but it fell flat as you remembered the flowers at Bucky's penthouse. “Thank you for making my best friend happy. That’s all I want for him.”

“Thanks,” you said. That was all you wanted for your best friend, so you understood to an extent. “Did your girl enjoy the tulips or did you make that whole thing up?”

You weren't exactly sure what Bucky told him to do when he went into the shop, or what he told any of the men to do for that matter. Spying, keeping tabs, it was just a reminder of the eyes and ears your pseudo-boyfriend had around the city. Your brain begged you to get out of there, but you couldn't move.

“She really does love tulips and was very happy with them,” he assured you. “So I should thank you again for making her happy, too.”

You shouldn't dig the knife in after he complimented you, but you couldn't help yourself. “And are you like Bucky and stalking her, too?”

A hint of pink showed in the blonde’s cheeks when Bucky and Nick chuckled, but he gave you a lopsided grin and didn't seem at all offended. “I've actually done a little bit more than that,” he said, your heart dropping as he looked at Bucky. What did he mean? “Did you get a chance to introduce her?”

Bucky shook his head as Steve’s face fell. “Didn't stop at coat check,” he answered before he added, “His girl works here part-time, but I thought it would be better for you two to officially meet when we go on a double date.”

“A double date?” You asked.

“Yeah, the four of us. Steve and I already have a few ideas on where to go.” Another thing that wasn’t a suggestion. Wouldn’t be a choice. Did Steve’s poor girl have any idea?

“What does coat check girl’s boyfriend think about the double dates?” Nick said, typing out something on his phone.

Steve's smile slipped. “Soon-to-be ex and she has a name.”

“That's right, I forgot. You're going to ‘handle him’,” he said, your body tensing at the implication.

“I'm sorry. Didn't you break your future brother-in-law's arm?”

“I almost broke both arms,” he shrugged when you gawked at him. “My girl’s a best-selling author, but her brother is a piece of shit.”

Thor downed the rest of his drink. “That reminds me of the time I broke my father-in-law's fingers. My brother advised against it, but…”

The voices blended together as you took a sip of the water. You weren't a violent person, didn’t speak casually of violence the way they did, but the urge to hit or throw something became stronger with each passing second. All things considered, you were extremely patient with everything. How much more could you take?

“I want to go home, please,” you told Bucky. You had to get out of there. “I mean it. I met your friends and-”

The room went silent as someone knocked on the door. No one made a move, except for Ray and Steve who both reached for something in their jackets. “Expecting someone, boss?” Ray asked.

“Actually, I am.” Bucky checked his watch. “Should be Ari and a guest.”

“What guest? Not Ransom,” Steve said, his body still tense.

“And not Andy or Scott. They’re out of town,” Nick added.

Bucky’s wolfish smile was back on his face. “You’ll see.”

The doors opened and in walked the man who insulted you at the bar, looking around like he owned the place. Ari followed with a glare that had you shrinking into the sofa again. The night was just getting better and better, wasn't it?

“John?” Sam didn't look impressed. “Really?”

Bucky stood up to shake the man’s hand and you suddenly missed his warmth. “John. Enjoying your evening?”

“Yeah. That shirtless bartender gave me drinks on the house.”

“I’m glad Hal took care of you.” You could smell the liquor coming from him the further he stepped into the room. “And I think you know just about everyone here.”

While the men had smiled and welcomed you, none of them extended the same courtesy to John. Steve and Sam looked like they wanted to punch him. Nick didn't even glance up from his phone to acknowledge him. Thor simply got himself another drink.

“I do.” John hiccuped. “‘Bout time you invited me up here.”

“Yeah, I guess it is about time.” The look on Bucky’s face gave you chills as he grabbed John’s arm and stopped him from sitting down. “Oh, no. You don’t need to sit. You won't be here long.”

“Is that right?”

“That is right.” The grip on John’s arm tightened enough to make him wince. “You see, I told Hal to give you free drinks until Ari came to get you. And the only reason I had you brought up here was so you could officially meet my girl before I have you kicked out.”

“Kick me out?! What the fuck are…” John had a noticeable twinge in his cheek as he spotted you. You wanted to cover yourself up even though you weren’t exposed. “That's your girl?”

“She’s my everything.” Bucky briefly looked away from John to gaze at you. “And from what I understand, you knocked her out of the way at the bar and made a rude comment. I’d like to know exactly what you said to her.”

Nick glanced up from his phone, more interested in the conversation now. All of the men were. That wasn't good. Not at all.

“Look, I may have bumped into her, but I don’t…” John cleared his throat as Bucky stared at him, underlying rage in his eyes. “I don’t recall mouthing off to her or anything.”

“Bucky, it’s fine,” you said. You told him that earlier. What was he doing?

“Kotyonok, do you remember what he said to you since John’s memory is so terrible?” Bucky asked, his gaze still fixed on the man in front of him who was starting to sweat. “It’s okay. You can tell us.”

The others stared at you expectantly. You shifted, not wanting to blurt out exactly what the guy said. Lying wouldn’t make it any better though. Bucky clearly knew what happened.

“See? Nothing happened,” John tried to dismiss you when you stayed silent. “How about a drink?”

Bucky pursed his lips in disdain. “How about I have Ari beat the words out of you instead?”

You gasped when Ari pushed himself off the wall, fear all over John’s face as he advanced. He looked like he was going to piss himself. “He called me an ugly undressed bitch,” you said loud enough to make Ari stop.

Something in the room shifted, the silence extended and uncomfortable as the men rose to their feet one by one. Thor made a show of cracking his knuckles after he winked at you. You had nothing to fear. They didn't want to hurt you. So why were you still trembling?

Steve slipped his jacket off and strode forward until he was beside his best friend. “You said that to her?”

John bravely or stupidly attempted to deflect. “The music is loud and-”

“You better shut your fucking mouth if you even think of calling her a liar. Not that I need anyone else’s word except for hers, but Hal also heard you. Even told you to apologize, which you chose to ignore. I can pull up the camera if you want to see the footage.” Bucky’s even tone had you trembling in your spot just like John. “You really have the nerve to come into my club and speak to my girl like that?”

John scrambled for words as he pointed at you. “I didn't… I mean, look at what she’s wearing! How was I supposed to know?”

“That should've been your first clue that she was special. Everyone else down there has to abide by a dress code, but not her. That’s how much power she has. And you tried to make her feel bad for that?” Bucky held a hand up when Ari stepped forward again. “No. I won't let that stand.”

“Bucky.” John swallowed when the rest of the men shifted to surround him. The only exception was Ray, who stood closest to you. “I…”

“Apologize to her,” he snarled. “Get on your fucking knees and say you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry.” John glanced at the floor. “Don't make me get on my knees.”

“That’s enough! I don't want his apology anyway,” you spoke up. An empty apology from a jackass was meaningless. “I appreciate that you want him to say sorry, but I’d rather he just leave if that's okay. Please.”

Bucky let out a slow breath. “My girl has a kind heart.” He briefly took his eyes off John to offer you a soft smile before turning his attention back to him. “But I don't. You’re banned from my club. And by the end of the day tomorrow, you’ll be banned from just about everywhere in the city.”

John laughed, a broken, nervous sound. “This is a joke, right?”

Bucky cracked his neck. “I’ve never liked you. None of us do. We tolerated you, but I won't tolerate you insulting my girl.” He signaled for Ari to open the doors. “So you have two options. You can leave on your own and be permanently banned from this establishment. Or I can make you leave and you’ll be permanently banned from this establishment. Your choice.”

“You can't ban me for one comment! That's insane!”

“I consider it harassment,” Bucky corrected him. Ironic coming from him since he invaded your life. “I take it I'll have to make you leave?”

“You know what? Fuck you. This club sucks anyway.” John moved toward the door before he stopped to look back at you. “And you think you’re special since you're up here? You’re just an uptight bitch who-”

Bucky’s fist connected with John’s jaw before he could finish his insult and you could only shriek as he hit the wall and crumbled to the floor a heartbeat later. Steve hauled him to his feet by his collar before he could recover and punched him in the stomach hard enough that you flinched. Ray shielded your body as best as he could as everyone took turns punching him.

“Don't look,” he whispered.

“I don't know if I can do this,” you whispered back. You were trying to stay calm, but this…

“Yes, you can. Just breathe. In and out,” Ray urged. His face didn't give much away, but you sensed his relief when you took a few deep breaths. “There you go. And don't look.”

You didn't look. It still didn’t block out the sounds, fists connecting against skin and bones, and John’s pained groans. Nor did it stop you from shaking. It couldn't have lasted more than a minute, but it felt like a lifetime until the room went quiet again. Was it over?

“What did you guys do to him?!” You asked, loosening your hold on Ray’s arm. When did you grab him?

“We taught him a lesson.” Bucky flexed his fingers with a sigh. “I have an abundance of patience for you, it's less so with people who are disrespectful and vulgar with you.”

Ray still shielded you when you tried to look where John lay in a heap, but was careful not to touch you. “...Is he breathing?”

“He is and he's lucky for that,” Bucky replied, nudging him with his foot. “Looking strong, John.”

“About time we shut him up,” Nick said, plopping back down in his seat. “Should've banned him months ago.”

“No one deserves a beating more than John,” Steve said, gazing at you like a big brother who just beat up a schoolyard bully for picking on you. “And don't worry. He won’t speak to you like that again.”

“He won’t be speaking much at all after that,” Sam said, taking a drink from Thor’s outstretched hand. “No big loss there.”

“Ari, would you mind taking out the trash?” Bucky asked, tilting his head as he looked down at John. “And can you get the cleaners up here to do something about the blood on my carpet?”

“On it.” Ari effortlessly picked John up and put him over his shoulder as you tried to process what you witnessed. You were past processing any of it, your brain nearly broken from the stress.

In fact, the only one phased by the violence was you as everyone went about their business again. It made your head spin. That was all from a guy insulting you. What would they do if someone actually tried to do anything to you?

Ray stepped aside when Bucky made his way back to you, the anger gone from his eyes. “You’re shaking,” he whispered, pressing his lips against your forehead. “I'm sorry if that scared you.”

“Of course, it scared me! You all beat the hell out of him,” you scolded. On instinct, you grabbed his hand to check it. You had no idea why you wanted to make sure his hand was okay after everything. “None of you had to do that.”

“We don't like bullies,” Steve said as Bucky let you inspect his hand, your fingers gently brushing over his knuckles. “It was bad enough what he said, but he knocked you out the way, too, and didn't apologize. He deserved it.”

“Yeah, he did,” Bucky agreed, taking the opportunity to grip your hand before you could let him go.

“That was a bit much,” you said. It was overkill in your eyes. “I'm not worth beating someone up over.”

He met your gaze with a smile. “You’re worth more than I can ever give you. And he won't be bothering anyone in this club ever again.”

“You're really going to ban him?”

“Absolutely. I have a reputation to uphold. He's only going to mess that up if I let him stick around.”

“Ari isn't going to…” You weren’t sure what he would do to John since they were out of sight.

“You don’t need to worry about a thing.” Bucky moved his hand to your cheek. “I only wish I could hit him again for how he spoke about you.”

You rolled your lips between your teeth. Defending you that way was a lot, but a morbid part of you liked that he stood up for you. “Thank you, but no more hitting people in my name. I can't stand it if someone else was hurt because of me.”

“His actions got him hurt because he hurt you first. I know he did. And I said I’d step in if someone hurt or upset you.” His gaze dropped to your mouth when you bit your lip again. The insult did bother you, but it didn’t matter now. “You really do have a kind heart and you’re making it very difficult not to kiss you right now,” he added, brushing his thumb over your lips.

Goosebumps rolled over your skin at the touch, but you stepped back before he could push his thumb into your mouth. He was still dangerous. Still taking over your life. That was enough to wake you from any spell he tried to put you under. “You’re driving me crazy.”

“Just returning the favor.” He held up his hand again with a small smile. “You sure you don’t want to give it another look? A little kiss might make it feel better.”

You rolled your eyes. The man was utterly ridiculous. “I’m not kissing your hand, Bucky. We both know it’s fine.”

“One little kiss? Please?” He winced for show as he flexed his fingers again, but you wouldn't budge. “C’mon. You were worried about my hand enough to check it for damage.”

You shook your head. “I wasn't worried. I just wanted to make sure you didn't injure yourself because that would just be one more thing you’d hold over my head,” you deflected, glancing around to find everyone staring at you again with smiles on their faces at the exchange. “Thanks for defending me.”

“Nothing to thank us for,” Thor held his glass up to you.

Steve looked at the monitor that displayed the coat room. “We take care of our own.”

An alarm on Bucky’s phone went off before you could say anything else. “And look at that? It’s time to go.” The men groaned before he shut the alarm off. “I promised I’d have her home and I’m keeping that promise.”

Steve looked the most disappointed of all. “I barely got to talk to her,” he grumbled.

“Next time, okay? And the double date soon.” Bucky smiled at his friend.

“It was wonderful to meet you,” Thor said as Nick and Sam nodded in your direction. “And I hope to see you at my party next week. Everyone will be there.”

“Maybe,” you said, putting as much emphasis on the word as possible. How would you get out of that? And the double date?

“Okay, you’re all welcome to hang out, but we’re leaving,” Bucky said.

“Maybe I should find my own way home,” you said. Bucky didn’t just have his claws in you, his friends did, too. You needed a breather. Some wine. “I really don't mind getting a cab.”

“Not happening,” he whispered. It was worth a shot. “I need to make sure you get in bed safely.”

“In bed?” You repeated, almost laughing until you saw his serious expression. “You seriously don't expect me to invite you in, do you?”

“Yeah, I do,” he said, steering you toward the door as Ray followed. “Besides, who else is going to tuck you in?”

Was tucking you in going to be enough to satisfy him tonight or would he take it further?

You’d find out soon enough.

Now we know what happened to John! What do we think of his friends? Will Bucky be good when he takes you home? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

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oaksgrove · 7 months ago

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Lieutenant’s Sanctuary

pairing: Platonic Task Force 141 & Lieutenant!Reader, CallSign ‘Reaper’

synopsis: After years of tradition, the 141 team decides it’s time to crash at Lieutenant Reaper’s place for the first time. They’re expecting something practical and minimal, but instead, they find a storybook-like sanctuary.

warnings: Fluff, humor, found family vibes, and Soap being Soap.

word count: 1700

a/n: I’m such a sucker for Found Family and tiny cottages so this was so cute to write!

Every time Task Force 141 returned from deployment, they followed the same ritual: gather at someone’s place to decompress. It started as an impromptu thing—no one ready to face an empty flat just yet—and quickly became tradition.

Ghost’s apartment was Spartan: a single chair, a TV that looked like it had seen combat, and exactly one fork in the kitchen drawer. Soap’s place? Chaos incarnate, with mismatched furniture and a fridge stocked solely with beer, takeout boxes, and mystery condiments. Gaz’s flat was sleek and modern, but he was never there long enough to enjoy it. Price’s house was comfortably captainly, with sturdy furniture and the scent of pipe tobacco lingering like a welcome mat.

But no one had ever been to Reaper’s.

“You got a place, Reaper?” Soap asked, leaning against the Humvee after their latest mission. “Or d’you just materialize out of the shadows like a proper ghost?”

Reaper glanced up, her expression unreadable beneath the smudges of dirt and exhaustion. “I’ve got a place,” she replied simply, tossing her gear into the back of the vehicle.

“Really?” Soap pressed, grinning. “I thought you just slept hanging upside down somewhere…”

“It’s a house,” she replied, voice as flat as her expression. “And it’s off-limits.”

Soap didn’t relent. “So you do live in the shadows! Does it come with creepy fog and a drawbridge, or bats coming out of the chimney…?”

Reaper gave him a deathly glare through the rear mirror

“It’s a house,” she deadpanned. “And no bats.”

Soap wasn’t done. “How do we know you’re not just haunting an abandoned castle somewhere?”

“Because I’m not you,” she shot back smoothly.

The team laughed, but Soap was relentless. “So, when are we visiting this haunted manor of yours?”

Reaper sighed, rubbing her temples. “Fine. One visit. But don’t touch anything.”

And with that ominous warning, the deal was sealed.

The drive to Reaper’s place was unnerving, to say the least. Pavement gave way to gravel, gravel turned to dirt, and dirt became a narrow trail flanked by looming trees. The deeper they went, the quieter it got.

“Are you sure you’re not leading us to a burial site?” Gaz asked, staring out the window at the oppressive forest.

Reaper didn’t answer, her silence only adding to the tension.

“Swear I saw this in a horror film once,” Soap muttered. “Five soldiers go into the woods, only one comes out.”

When they finally pulled up, everyone stared in stunned silence. Nestled by a bubbling stream, the house was a picture-perfect storybook cottage. The small structure had ivy creeping up its stone walls, a pitched roof dusted with moss, and a chimney that puffed lazy spirals of smoke into the air. The garden surrounding it was meticulously cared for, with rows of herbs, vegetables, and vibrant flowers. Wind chimes tinkled softly in the breeze.

“Did we take a wrong turn?” Soap whispered. “This looks like something out of Sleeping Beauty.”

“Is this where you live,” Ghost asked dryly, “or where you lure unsuspecting hikers?”

“Are we meeting a witch to trade for supplies?” Gaz joked, his arms crossed as he surveyed the scene.

Reaper cut the engine and grabbed her bag. “It’s mine. Don’t get too comfortable.”

Before anyone could respond, a low bark rumbled through the trees.

The massive dog bounded out from behind the house, a massive blur of fur and slobber. “Bloody hell!” Soap yelped, scrambling behind Ghost, who, to his credit, stood still as the enormous Saint Bernard thundered toward them stopping in front of Reaper, wagging his tail so hard it could have knocked a grown man over. Clifford, as Reaper introduced him, was as big as he was slobbery.

“You never said you had a bear,” Soap muttered, peeking out from behind Ghost.

“Harmless,” she said, scratching behind his ears.

“Harmless, she says,” Soap grumbled. “That thing could bench-press me.”

Clifford tilted his head at Soap’s voice, letting out a deep woof before trotting over to sniff at his boots.

Gaz, meanwhile, was practically cooing at Clifford. “You’ve got a dog? That's adorable.”

Reaper raised a brow. “I’m not adorable.”

“Your cottage begs to differ,” Gaz shot back, gesturing to the idyllic scene around them.

Ghost raised a brow. “You live here?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Ghost gestured helplessly at the idyllic scene. “You don’t exactly give off ‘granny in a cottage’ vibes.”

Reaper smirked faintly. “Good.”

“Figured you’d live in a dungeon,” Soap teased. “Not... whatever this is.”

If the outside surprised them, the interior rendered them speechless. The cabin was minimal yet cozy, every detail carefully curated. Handmade quilts and pillows adorned the couch, and shelves were lined with jars of dried herbs and homemade preserves. String lights cast a warm glow, and a faint aroma of lavender and something earthy lingered in the air. A bookshelf in the corner overflowed with worn novels and journals, while a small fireplace crackled softly.

Ghost, who rarely spoke about anything unrelated to missions, ran a gloved hand over the carved wooden mantle. “You made this?” he asked, nodding to the intricate designs.

You nodded, a little sheepish. “Most of it. I like working with my hands when I’m not… you know, shooting.”

Soap was already poking around, pulling open cupboards and exclaiming over jars of pickled vegetables. “You’ve got jam? Like, homemade jam?” He held up a jar like it was a precious artifact. “She’s got jam, boys. Homemade bloody jam!”

“Yes,” Reaper said, crossing her arms. “Try not to break anything.”

“Did you crochet these pillows too?” he teased, holding up a throw pillow embroidered with flowers.

She hesitated, then nodded. “Keeps me busy.”

“Busy,” Soap repeated, incredulous. “You’re secretly everyone’s gran, aren’t you?”

“Oi, I’m not that old,” you protested, swatting at him with a dish towel.

“But look at this!” he said, holding up a patchwork quilt.

Reaper didn’t dignify that with a response, just shrugged, but Clifford let out a loud snore from the corner, effectively ending the discussion.

As Reaper prepared a hearty stew, the team gravitated to the kitchen. Soap and Gaz hovered like starving children, while Price helped slice bread.

“Is this… homemade?” Price asked, nodding at the loaf cooling on the counter.

“Figured you’d be hungry, it’s not that hard.” Reaper said, not looking up from the pot.

“Not that hard,” Soap mimicked in a high-pitched voice. “Meanwhile, I nearly set my flat on fire boiling pasta.”

Dinner was a revelation. Ghost surprised everyone by going back for thirds, and Soap declared it the best meal he’d ever eaten (between mouthfuls of stew and bread).

“Not bad, Lieutenant,” Ghost muttered, which from him was practically a glowing review.

“You’ve ruined us,” Gaz added, wiping his plate clean. “How’re we supposed to go back to regular food after this?”

“This is the best thing I’ve eaten in months,” Soap muttered around a mouthful of bread.

“You’ve been hiding this paradise from us?” Gaz said, gesturing at the cozy interior.

“Thought you preferred your chaos,” Reaper replied, smirking faintly.

“We do,” Soap said quickly, “but this? This is next level.”

By the time the meal ended, the team had fully invaded every corner of Reaper’s space. Soap challenged Gaz to cards, Clifford sprawled across Price’s feet, and Ghost—ever the enigma—quietly helped Reaper chop vegetables for tomorrow’s meal.

“You don’t have to,” she said with a sympathetic smile.

“I know,” Ghost replied simply, his tone soft.

“You’re full of surprises,” she said as he handed her a perfectly diced carrot.

“You have no idea,” Ghost replied, his tone unreadable.

As the night wore on, the team sank into an unspoken rhythm. Soap’s laughter mixed with the crackle of the fire, and even Ghost’s stoic presence seemed lighter.

Price absently scratched behind the dog’s ears, looking unusually relaxed. “You’ve got quite the setup here, Lieutenant.”

Reaper glanced at him, settled into one of the armchairs near the fire, her expression softening slightly. “Thanks, Captain.”

As the night wore on, the unspoken bond between them deepened. For all her stoicism in the field, Reaper’s home was a haven—a place of warmth and quiet that each of them hadn’t realized they desperately needed.

By morning, it was decided.

“This place is a bloody sanctuary, this is the spot now,” Soap declared, stretching as the sunlight streamed through the windows. “First day back, we’re coming here.”

Reaper raised a brow. “I didn’t agree to that.”

“You didn’t disagree either,” Gaz pointed out, grinning.

Reaper sighed, but there was no real frustration in her tone. “Fine. But next time, you’re bringing the beer.”

“Sorry, Ghost,” Soap added. “Your spooky flat’s been officially replaced.”

Ghost shrugged, leaning against the wall quietly observing as Reaper worked on mending a tear in her field jacket. “Fine by me.”

For all her darkness in the field, Reaper’s home was paradise, and her team decided they’d never let her live it down.

“Well, Reaper,” Soap said, biting into a fresh slice of bread, “you’re officially the heart of this team.”

She rolled her eyes, though couldn’t help but smile. “I don’t mind having you lot here—as long as you pull your weight in the garden.”

As the team loaded into the Humvee, Clifford gave each of them an affectionate nuzzle. Reaper stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her usual stoicism softened by the faintest smile.

“Drive Safely” she said simply.

And they knew they’d return—because for all her darkness in the field, Reaper’s home was a haven, and they were lucky to be part of it.

Months later, after another long and grueling deployment, the team returned to the cabin. This time, Clifford greeted them like old friends, and the warm light spilling from the windows felt like a beacon.

Reaper, standing in the doorway, simply smirked.

“Welcome back.”

#call of duty fanfic #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #cod 141 #cod modern warfare #cod mw2 #cod mwii #cod ghost #call of duty 141 #mw2 141 #tf 141 x reader #tf 141 #task force 141 #tf 141 x you

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purplehoodie09 · 2 months ago

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love love love when people make everyone in the batfam some sort of creature. and im not even talking meta au im talking them being drawn like straight up cryptids just to convey the vibe. like yes please batblob has my whole heart, little critter damian as robin being just a face in a little cape is perfect, nightwing is straight up a silhouette with blue details sometimes and hes beautiful, more artists need to give my boy redhood his HOOD back with the two red dots for eyes because that look is fantastic, someone posted that signal is bat ominous even during the day cause he plays with the light to do so and i live for it, cass my BELOVED no notes you know her, spoiler could be a mischievous foxlike spirit and no one would bat an eye. they are wonderful and i need more. also make tim more mystical and whimsically weird please

#batfam #batsiblings #batman #damian wayne #robin #nightwing #red hood #signal dc #cassandra cain #spoiler dc #tim drake #batblob

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loafysainz · 6 months ago

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the parent trap (remake) | CS 55

cast: carlos sainz x fem!reader

warn: 100% fiction, remake, and this chapter lil bit longer

chap 1, chap 2, chap 3, chap 4, chap 5

PART 4 THE RIPPED PHOTO

All the campers marched like soldiers along the long forest path. Matheo and Mattia, the two boys facing “punishment,” trudged behind, clearly over it. At least the sun wasn’t blazing through the pine trees.

“Alright, everyone else can get back to your activities!” Mr. Hamilton yelled into his megaphone.

The campers cheered and bolted down the road. Mattia and Matheo stayed behind, exchanging annoyed looks as Mr. Hamilton pointed to their destination: a creaky old cabin that looked one strong wind away from collapse.

“Isolation cabin,” Mr. Hamilton declared.

“This place better not have ghosts,” Mattia muttered, adjusting his sunglasses.

Matheo rolled his eyes. “If there are ghosts, they’ll probably be more fun than you.”

***

The cabin creaked ominously as the boys settled in. Matheo unpacked with exaggerated flair, sticking Real Madrid posters on the walls. Mattia ignored him, focused on his card game.

“What are you even playing?” Matheo asked, squinting at the cards.

“Uno. Against myself. I’m winning,” Mattia replied without looking up.

Matheo rolled his eyes, then moved to open the window. A strong wind blew in, scattering his posters everywhere.

“Ugh, help me close this!” Matheo groaned.

Mattia stood, reluctantly helping. Together, they managed to shut the window.

“Thanks,” Matheo mumbled.

“No problem,” Mattia replied, sitting back down.

As they gathered Matheo’s scattered posters, Mattia raised an eyebrow at a particular one.

“What is that?”

“It’s Real Madrid merch,” Matheo said, clutching the poster protectively. “And this guy is Kylian Mbappe. He is my favorite player. Don’t judge.”

Mattia smirked. “Whatever makes you happy, buddy.”

Later, Matheo rummaged through his bag and pulled out a snack.

“Want some chips?”

Mattia shook his head. “I only eat chips with Nutella. You wouldn’t understand.”

Matheo froze. “Excuse me? I eat everything with Nutella. Even fries.”

“No way,” Mattia said, his jaw dropping.

Matheo grabbed a jar from his drawer triumphantly. “Believe it.”

Mattia stared. “Okay, now I trust you a little more. Just a little.”

The two laughed, dunking chips into Nutella like it was the most normal thing in the world.

"Whats your dad like? I mean, is he the kind of father you can talk to or is he one of those workaholic types, who says I'll talk to you later, honey. But you know never really does. Well i hate that" Matheo asked casually with his expressive face and eating his chip.

Mattia chuckle a bit seeing Matheo face,

"I don't have a father, actually." he said with a bit bitter face.

"I mean, I had one once, I suppose. But my parents divorce since I was baby. My mom never even mentioned it. It's like he evaporated into thin air or something." Mattia said it with his voice getting quieter.

Matheo face shocked, his eyes widen, and his posture straightening, "Scary the way nobody stays together anymore."

"Tell me about it."

"How old are you?" Matheo asked.

“I'll be 10 on December 15th,” Mattia replied. “Why?”

Matheo froze. “That’s my birthday.”

Mattia raised an eyebrow. “Weird.”

***

The rain finally stopped, leaving behind that fresh, post-storm vibe. Matheo leaned against the cabin door, his hair slightly damp from the drizzle earlier. “Oh, hey, it stopped raining. Want to get a popsicle or something?” he asked casually, glancing at Mattia, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor, lost in thought.

“What’s the matter?” Matheo pressed, noticing the faraway look in Mattia’s eyes.

Mattia sighed, tilting her head back. “What’s your mother like?” he asked suddenly.

Matheo blinked, caught off guard. “I never met her. She and my dad split up when I was a baby. Maybe even before—I’m not sure. He doesn’t like to talk about her.” He paused, fidgeting with his hands. “But I know she was really, really beautiful.”

Mattia squinted at him. “How do you know that?”

“Well,” Matheo said with a sheepish smile, “my dad had old picture of her hidden on his room. I’d always look at it, like, all the time. He finally caught me and just gave it to me.”

"Look, I’m thirsty. Sure you don’t want to hit the mess hall and grab something to drink?”

Mattia frowned, folding his arms. “Will you stop thinking about your stomach at a time like this?”

Matheo scoffed, hands on his hips. “A time like what?”

Matheo’s eyes widened. “Don’t you realize what’s happening?”

Matheo rolled his eyes dramatically. “No, Mattia, please tell me.”

Matheo hesitated, then shook his head, changing the subject. "Listen, I only have a mother, and you only have a father. You've never seen your mom, and I've never seen my dad. You have one old picture of your mom, and I have one old picture of my dad. But at least yours is probably a whole picture. Mine's a pathetic little thing, all crinkled and ripped right down the middle, and...

Matheo stood in stunned silence, the coincidence weighing heavily in the air.

“What are you doing in your trunk for?” Mattia asked, voice curious but edged with disbelief.

Wordlessly, the other pulled out a crinkled photograph, holding it up with trembling hands. “This... it’s a picture of my mum. And it’s ripped, too. Right down the middle.”

The first stared at the photo, their breath catching in their throat. Their voice was a whisper now. “Right down the middle.”

“Okay, this is freaky,” they said, their tone shaky. “On the count of three, we’ll hold them together. Deal?”

The other nodded, their hands still trembling. “Deal.”

“One... two... three.”

As the halves of the photos came together, the ripped edges fit perfectly. The faded image revealed a couple smiling brightly—Matheo’s father and Mattia’s mother. The realization hit them like a thunderbolt.

“That’s... my mom,” Mattia said, his voice barely audible.

“And thats my old man,” Mattia replied, unable to look away.

Their eyes locked, the truth settling in like a jigsaw finally completed.

#cs55 #carlos sainz fanfic #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz jr #carlos sainz #f1 fluff #f1 imagine #f1 fanfiction #f1 fic

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endofthelinegang · 2 months ago

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a beautiful day in the neighborhood

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ john walker x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ #90 from the prompt list "If I ask you to kiss me in front of all these people, will you do it?"

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ angst, flamingo based issues

use this magical link here to find a number and give me a request for ANY marvel character :)

The night had already started to cool, the air carrying the faint scent of freshly cut grass and the buzz of distant streetlights flickering in the stillness of the neighborhood the two of you decided to walk through wanting to avoid the center of the city. The mission had gone smoothly, in fact it was barely a mission at all just some simple information retrieval, but something between you and John felt off. You could feel it, that tightness that had been building for days now you had not been talking to him as much, not hanging out as often, and it really was not for any particular reason. There was still tension though, and it hung in the air like static before a storm. It wasn’t just about the mission. It was about you two. And in John’s mind it was time to talk about it.

You were walking side by side along the sidewalk, each step punctuated by the sound of your boots hitting the pavement unless you managed to step in one of the little piles of cut grass that had gotten there earlier in the day. The world around you was calm—too calm, almost. A perfect suburban evening, the kind of peacefulness that only made the silence even worse, there was no distracting noise or ominous vibe that something bad was going to happen.

"You don’t get it, do you?" John’s voice was the only sound as he now started walking even closer to you, his words holding more an accusation than a question. He glanced at you sideways and saw that you weren’t even paying attention to him, you were just looking around at the scenery and this made his jaw tighten as if his frustration had built up even more.

You looked at him, brow furrowed. You really couldn’t think of what he was talking about, nothing had happened that would warrant this kind of anger from him. You had a good day, and you had seen him killing it in the workroom before this so you knew he had to be having a half decent day. "What? What don’t I get?"

His shoulders tensed, like he was about to snap, his hand rubbing the back of his neck in that way he always did when he was trying to keep his cool. "This. Everything. Us."

You rolled your eyes, letting out a breath that sounded more exasperated than you meant. "Great. That clears it up." You kicked a stone off the sidewalk, watching it bounce into the grass.

"You know what I’m talking about," he said, voice lowering, now tinged with frustration. "You’ve been shutting me out. You’ve been—" He broke off, his gaze sharpening. "I’m trying to make things right, but every time we’re together, it’s like you’re a million miles away. Like you're not even here."

That hit harder than you expected. You blinked, trying to keep your face neutral, but the sting of his words crawled under your skin. "I’m here. I’m always here. What do you want from me, John?"

He exhaled sharply, his fists clenching at his sides. "I want you to stop acting like I’m the one who can’t handle this. Like I’m the one who’s always making the wrong choice, always the one who’s too much, too intense, too—"

You cut him off before he could finish his thought, the sharpness of your words surprising even you. "Well, maybe you are too much sometimes! Maybe I’m tired of trying to walk on eggshells around you, trying to figure out whether you’re going to blow up on me, or if you’re just going to disappear into whatever mission or duty or... whatever the hell it is that keeps you from being here with me!"

John froze mid-step, his expression a mix of surprise and something else—something darker, like a storm cloud gathering. "That’s what this is about? You think I’m avoiding you? That I don’t want to be with you?"

"You keep shutting me out, John!" Your voice cracked just enough to betray the rawness you’d been keeping buried. "I don’t even know who you are anymore. And I don’t think you do, either."

The words hit the air with a force that left a burning silence in its wake. You were both standing still now, inches apart but worlds away. His jaw clenched, and you could see the muscles in his neck tighten as if he were trying to hold back something—something dangerous, like he was keeping the floodgates shut.

"You think I don’t know who I am?" He stepped toward you, his tone softening just a fraction. "Maybe I’ve been trying too hard to be the guy you want, instead of the guy I am. I—"

You shook your head quickly, anger flaring again. "I don’t want you to change, John. I just want you to be real."

His eyes darkened, and for a moment, you could feel the weight of the tension building between you. The words were barely formed before they exploded. "So that’s it? You don’t want me to change, but you don’t want to deal with me the way I am either?"

You were so close now, the heat of his frustration radiating off him, but you couldn’t back down. "I can’t do this anymore, John. I can’t keep pretending that everything’s fine when it’s not." You threw your hands up in the air, frustration seeping out in every gesture. "I’m not some prize you can just—"

That was when it happened.

His boot hit the plastic flamingo, and with the snap of its neck, the moment of rage shifted in an instant. His fists were already flying, tearing into the flamingo like it was some kind of rival. The ridiculousness of it took a second to register, and before you knew it, you were standing there, watching John, the man you’d been arguing with for the past few minutes, destroying a lawn ornament.

"Jesus Christ, John!" You gaped at him, not sure whether to laugh or shout.

He didn’t answer, his jaw clenched, eyes locked on the inanimate object, a look of pure frustration and anger on his face as he ripped the flamingo from the ground. The plastic gave way with a loud crack, and in that moment, it felt like the world itself stopped spinning.

You took a step back, your breath caught in your throat as neighbors—drawn by the ruckus, by the sound of a grown man literally attacking a lawn decoration—began emerging from their houses. Their faces hovered in the windows and doorways, some even stepping outside, eyes wide, jaws slack in confusion and amusement.

John didn’t seem to notice. He kept swinging, turning the flamingo this way and that as if it were his personal enemy. Every strike echoed down the street, the crunching of plastic a bizarre soundtrack to the building tension.

And then, amid the chaos, a strange calm settled over you. It was quiet. Almost painfully so. The neighbors had all gathered, watching in stunned silence, their faces half-hidden in shadows as they stood just outside their front doors, unsure of whether they were witnessing some kind of therapy session or a crime scene.

It was so ridiculous. So John.

And just like that, the fight—your personal fight—faded into the background.

You stood there for a moment, arms crossed over your chest, staring at him. And without warning, you said it—loud enough for the neighborhood to hear, and loud enough for him to feel every ounce of it.

"If I ask you to kiss me in front of all these people, will you do it?"

John froze. His shoulders tensed, and for a moment, the world around you went completely still. The neighbors—the ones watching you, gossiping behind half-closed curtains—seemed to pause with you, their eyes darting between you and John as if the situation couldn’t possibly get more ridiculous.

Then, in a swift motion, he stopped attacking the flamingo, dropped it to the ground like it was suddenly unimportant, and turned toward you. His gaze softened just a fraction, but there was a flicker of something that you couldn’t place.

"You think this is funny?" he asked, voice low, unsure.

"Maybe," you said, your smile teasing, despite the emotions that had been building between the two of you for god knows how long. "Maybe I do."

He took a step toward you, his jaw tight but his eyes searching yours. "You sure about that?"

Your pulse raced in the quiet that followed, the neighbors still watching, probably waiting for the next move, like this was some kind of reality show. They were silent now, waiting, like they were holding their breath.

But you weren’t the one to wait. Without another word, you stepped forward, closing the space between the two of you, grabbing the front of his shirt, and pulling him close.

"You want me to do it in front of everyone?" you said, voice barely above a whisper. "Then I will."

And just like that, the ridiculousness of the situation faded into something else entirely. The kiss was slow at first—awkward, as if neither of you knew how to handle the weight of what had just happened. But then it deepened, almost like it had been building for years, like the moment you two had been fighting against for so long had finally arrived.

You could hear the neighbors gasping, whispering, the sound of their phones clicking as they surely started to record. It wasn’t just a kiss anymore; it was a spectacle. And yet, somehow, it felt like the most intimate thing you’d ever done.

The world blurred, everything else falling away as John’s hands found your waist, pulling you closer, his kiss growing more urgent, desperate. You felt his heart race against yours, his breath hot against your lips as the moment seemed to stretch on, pulling you into something that neither of you could quite explain.

When you pulled back, it was slow, too slow for the circumstances, but you didn’t care.

John’s eyes were still locked on yours, lips parted, chest rising and falling. His voice was rough when he finally spoke.

“Well,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “That was something."

The neighbors were still there, frozen in place, some with their mouths hanging open, others looking away awkwardly, unsure if they should clap or just pretend this wasn’t happening. You barely noticed them as you slid your hand down John’s arm, your fingers tracing his jacket like you were grounding yourself in the moment.

"Yeah," you replied softly. "Something."

That was the last time the flamingo ever saw the light of day.

#john walker x fem! reader #john walker fanfic #john walker imagine #john walker x reader #john walker #us agent x reader #john walker positive post #thunderbolts x you #thunderbolts x reader #thunderbolts #marvel

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velvetdolor · 2 months ago

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♰𖣐♰ 𝔇𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔩’𝔰 ℭ𝔞𝔱𝔠𝔥. | i.

Chapter i. “We who are forged from Iron and Blood.”

pairings: exorcist!hongjoong x psychic!reader (some ot8 x reader but heavily focused on hongjoong.) ot8 x reader

genres: 18+!! paranormal, religious horror, fantasy, suggestive, SMUT, stupid-yet-gifted friend group trope lol

chapter word count: 7.8k

summary: “the order” is a secret organization of exorcists blessed with special abilities dedicated to expelling higher class demons—located in a ancient crypt hidden beneath the vatican. when an exceptionally gifted child is followed by prophetic omens and falls into possession of an unclassified s-class demon—kim hongjoong, considered one of the greatest exorcists of the 21st century, is dispatched under the mysterious order of convincing an enigmatic psychic hiding away in a metropolis to accompany he and his team in what might be their most daunting exorcism yet.

series warnings: strong language, religious allegories, lots of talk about religious trauma (some of it may be sacrilegious in nature, so if you aren’t comfortable with that please keep that in mind before reading!) exorcisms, possession, sacrificial rituals, alluded mentions of ableism (specifically regarding blindness, as one of the main characters discusses his experiences as a blind man/his background and talks about the process of losing his sight in detail), light mentions of alcohol, suggestive content, horror, angst, child possession, intense imagery, hallucinations, light amount of self inflicted wounds, violence, blood, and gore. additional warnings will be provided for each chapter. (story is marked as 18+ due to the descriptive elements of horror and suggestive scenes.) Smut warnings will be chapter specific.

series masterlist author masterlist next >

authors note: hey guys, siren here—i’m back AGAIN with another series because i can’t resist writing a new story the moment it hits me (even though i already have five different works in progress…but they’ll get done when it feels right to release them yannnoo.) again, this will most likely be a series! so here’s chapter i!

important notice: wanted to note that reader descriptions/ strega are remaining racially ambiguous and there will be little to no anatomical descriptions regarding her body type, skin color, and hair texture/type! since this is a reader insert, i want it to be as inclusive as possible. :) i encourage you to use your imagination!

here’s a spotify playlist i made for this series if you want something to listen to get the vibe/ambiance!

giving you a heads up that this chapter is going to be super hefty, information wise. it’s also unedited…so pls forgive any mistakes! :)

[i. We who are forged from iron and blood.]

** The reader is sometimes referred to as La Strega, literally meaning the witch/witch.

You nonchalantly light a cigarette in the midst of the ominous quiet, already knowing what the priest standing before you is going to say. The spirits’ whispers flood the room—words indecipherable to most and unheard by all the men standing in your strangely baroque yet decrepit apartment, with the exception of you.

It bears a rustic antiquity with its minimal and semi-broken pieces of furniture, wood and paint chipping off the dark sage green surfaces of most objects and walls in the room—simultaneously ugly and beautiful depending on which direction you’re looking at it from. The only sound available to them is the squeaking of your leather-gloved hands as they move to plant the lighter back onto the table.

Whatever question leaves his mouth will likely send you to your grave if you were to accept, the spirits warn. You scoff lightly, humored that the strangely handsome priest—who you were, at most, four inches shorter than—gazed at you with uncertainty, gauging and attempting to unveil why he was ordered to convince some no-name psychic to accompany his beloved sector in exorcising a foreboding evil. You couldn’t blame the guy. Here were some of the greatest exorcists of our century, trying to recruit a shabby inner-city psychic who shoddily advertised her $10 palm-reading specials on a bright, buzzing neon sign hung on the sidelines of the apartment entrance.

However, that’s exactly why you did it: to fly under radars and only have to expend your energy on reading the likelihood of infidelity on a beautiful woman’s palms—one who tragically fears the disloyalty of her ugly and terribly mediocre husband. (For her own good, you prayed she’d get divorced.)

You already know why Hongjoong’s here, but you opt to wait patiently for him to say something—anything, really.

Seven other priests are scattered throughout your living room. You roll your eyes after gathering that they were sent by The Order, having caught the name among the light whispers falling from several spirits’ teeth. Some lean against your living room walls or the large pillars scattered across the spacious apartment, stifling their yawns. Others, like Yunho—you vaguely recall his name—stand elegantly poised and would appear nearly cherubic were it not for the unsettling crackling of energy radiating from his body.

Hongjoong tugs at the fitted collar of his black cassock, a strange rattle emitting from his neck that draws your attention to an ornate and slim black choker resting against his skin. Your eyebrows raise in interest at the sigils carved with precision into the durable leather, but the fabric of his cassock quickly returns to its resting place above the line of his pulse.

Hongjoong finally pushes out the words, unsure, fiddling with his fingers and squeezing his palms before releasing:

“Are you the one the clergy refers to as La Strega?”

Your cigarette hisses as you pull smoke into your mouth, inhaling deeply before readjusting your crossed legs, eyes squinting. “Depends on the clergy, but yes—that was one of my many… pseudonyms.”

Hongjoong’s eyes settle onto yours. The depths of his irises hold an allure that seems to draw you in. You hold his gaze before tilting your head down toward your ashtray, tapping the cigarette filter to flake off the ash from its ember.

“Whatever it is they sent you to ask me to do—the answer is no, Exorcist,” you say, sighing briefly.

He doesn’t waste a beat before uttering a singular phrase that pauses you mid-inhale.

“A child.” He rolls his tongue against the silky walls of his inner cheek, eyeing you with a mild distaste that quickly leaves him.

“A child?” You squint at Hongjoong, your head pounding as the whispers reach the precipice of overwhelming you with their intense shift in volume. The phrases thrown at you get harder and harder to decipher, all simultaneously said and nauseatingly layered over one another. They only get louder after his uttering of that small phrase, and you fight the urge to clutch your head.

“I’ll be honest with you, Strega. I’m unsure why I’ve been dispatched to find you—and only you—but I know The Order would not have us search for you without reason. I assume you know enough about The Order to understand that the existence of an unrecorded S-class demon is alarming. The fact that it’s latched onto an exceptionally spiritually gifted child who isn’t even old enough to attend school yet is all the more strange.” Hongjoong takes a deep breath and sighs out neutrally—not harboring any particularly negative feelings toward you, approaching the task objectively.

The spirits around you whisper of the child’s gifts and whose eye he’s caught. Your own eyes widen for a moment at the information, and your cigarette snuffs out entirely in your stillness. One in particular delivers a message from a divine:

“Fate has its eye on you, Strega. It will not blink nor turn away. Whatever direction you take—you must remember this. Heed our warning, prophetess. You will be fated to die a horrible death should you cross paths with the young boy, for the weight of his gifts is too disruptive to the balance of this realm. He is unnatural.”

You applaud your ability to school your expression completely, remaining vacant despite the onslaught of ominous messages, as the spirits continue to speak:

“The child’s existence will be marked as prey to any straggling energies, big or small. Should he choose to fight to exist, he will be fighting for the rest of his predictably short life.”

Blinking slowly and turning to Hongjoong, you offer him a genuine yet morbid reply.

“Listen, as genuinely tragic as this is to say—if the kid’s already emitting energy to this caliber, this will not be the last time he will be a victim to the hand of fate. I find no joy in accepting an innocent child’s death, but the kind of life one has to live after capturing divinity’s interest is cruel. He will be possessed again and again until he can find a way to control and collect his gifts. But he is far too young—and all the more likely to lose himself completely in the haze of constant possession and returning to the self. It may be better for him to die and hope for better luck the next time his soul comes around.”

The words don’t feel… right. As you mutter them, you can feel the strange clicking and clacking from within your soul—intuition fighting against your declining his plea. Your compass is pointing you due north, straight toward a predisposed death.

But you do not fear death, not by a long shot.

You fear what comes after—knowing there are thousands, possibly millions, waiting for your soul’s arrival at either of the gates. And it won’t be pretty. However, there’s no ignoring the fact that the only reason an entity of that caliber would have slipped through the gates at all was because you chose to abandon your duty to The Order many moons ago.

Hongjoong tilts his head, as if trying to get a read on you.

“You must have faith that God is on our side—” he starts, before you interrupt him.

“Hongjoong, do you honestly believe that they—” you point upward, not referencing the ceiling “—care about all of this? They don’t. They have little to no desire to interfere with human lives and have no hand in your religions. I know this to be fact. The Order blindfolds you all into believing that.”

There’s a sudden small light that appears behind your eyes, Hongjoong notes. A magnificent, covert presence slips through the sudden cracks in your previously immaculate wall of defense and concealment—by a centimeter, but he feels it. Recognizes it. Gazes at you in shock. Every man in the room straightens their back and instantly awakens from their exhaustion, recognizing the strangeness of the presence seemingly hosted from within you.

Before anyone can react, a sudden knock on your door swivels every head in the room toward the entrance of your apartment. The spirits quiet completely, and you dread the fact that it wasn’t the mailman delivering the vintage Cesare Paciotti Lady Black high heels you’ve waited months for and expected to arrive today.

Slow and small knocks knuckle at the thick wood of your door, steadily building momentum into an unnervingly fast banging that makes the door tremble under its force.

The ornate sigil you etched onto your door years ago begins to burn a bright orange—and you widen your eyes at Hongjoong.

“Stay back, all of you. Stay behind the pillars—whatever is at the door isn’t something to be taken lightly.” Sigils began to appear on the pillars, the sounds of small sizzles indicating their sudden burning onto their surfaces as they glowed a deep maroon.

Hongjoong shakes his head, keeping his voice methodical and low, calm yet firm. “Strega, I don’t doubt the strength of your abilities, but I do not know your abilities. Seonghwa—” he calls to a strikingly cold beauty. Seonghwa immediately moves forward and reaches a hand toward the back of his neck, clenching his fist—and to your amazement, a sword is pulled from the base of his spine. The air grows cold as Seonghwa mumbles an ornate prayer in Latin.

Everyone else falls into the muscle memory of their formation as elements fill the air—electricity sparking from the tips of Yunho��s hair as he stands upright, flanking Hongjoong’s left, while a fair-skinned, fairy-like boy with a heart-shaped birthmark near his left eye places his palms onto the floor.

Your expression stiffens at the onslaught of energy surrounding you, an ominous feeling drifting through the air, almost foreboding. They were strong, yes—unquestionably so—but you could hear how the spirits expected their untimely deaths should they intervene. They were rarely wrong.

“Stay back, exorcists. I do not doubt the magnitude of your strength and abilities—but this is something you have never encountered.”

The spirits are screaming—some of the ancestral guides that accompanied the priests, unbeknownst to them, are pleading to you:

‘Do not allow them to interact with the being behind that door. They are not meant to die here—it isn’t their time. Please protect our boy.’ One motions to the man with bangs falling into his asymmetrical eyes, hair kissing the nape of his neck, with a distinct mole on his face. He donned feline features with an irrational fire already burning behind his eyes, tightening his fists as if readying his rage for the fight—he seemed the least priest-like of the group, and you fleetingly wonder what led him down the thorny path.

“Forgive me for this, but when I tell you to close your eyes and kneel, you must do so,” you instruct. Immediately, a pearlescent light raises and widens itself from the ground toward the ceiling, creating a makeshift wall behind the pillars.

The mahogany wood of your door begins to splinter as the slams against it intensify, and you can feel a rabid desperation radiating from just beyond the other side of the wall. Inhaling deeply, you roll the sleeves of your thin turtleneck up to reveal an innumerable amount of scarring on the entirety of the skin stretching across your forearms—above what looks to be a complicated series of tattooed and scarred sigils. You quickly throw off your gloves to reveal sigils scarred grotesquely onto your palms and two large ones tattooed at the base of your forearms.

Just as the door breaks away from its hinges—the protective sigil on the remaining base of the wood fizzles out after its fight to give you enough time. You run to grab a kitchen knife and proceed to stab it into your skin abruptly enough to draw blood, turning it slightly to create a small but elongated gash.

The priests watch in horror as the act seems to bring forth the presence originally merely sleeping within you—an overwhelming power permeates the room, its force mentally disorienting enough to make them want to claw at their skin. They are left confused as to why they’re scrambling to cover their ears despite not hearing anything but the sound of the door falling onto the floor.

Once you’ve awakened him, you quickly pull a protective mental wall over his presence from within you—the boys are keeled and hunched on the floor, trying to catch their unstable breaths at the sudden calm.

When they look up, they are greeted with nothing. That is the first dangerous sign. This is an entity that doesn’t need a physical body to cause this amount of damage. But the presence of a shadow slinking its way over the rubble of the door, leaking with an unpleasant aroma and miasma, appears. You stare at the beast’s true form—the form the boys don’t have the ability to see with their naked eyes, only a sliver of the shadow it casts visible to them.

It is grotesque, to say the least—an array of human limbs ripped from their bodies waves from where they are oddly placed on its centipede-like form. You can hear the faint screaming of its victims fall through its mouth as it wheezes, mimicking its most recent victim to disorient any of those who can hear it. Limbs limp while its body drags itself toward you and the others you stand in front of. You hear a faint gasp—the blind priest, San, stares straight at the anomaly in front of you. The pale blue of his eyes moves in their sockets quickly, seeing in ways that do not require sight. You could end this quickly, of course, but that would only leave you with questions. The spirits in the room exclaim in confusion and horror, while others remain quiet—recognizing the abomination making its way toward you.

A palpable contempt fills your body and you recognize the source of the rising emotion stems from your guardian’s disgust for ‘lower’ life forms—your guardian’s predisposition means there’s no avoiding his superiority complex. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you sigh. You’ll just have to talk to the horrified spirits later. While they may be dead, they flutter about the earth due to their loyalties to their attachments, and can, in turn, still feel many things. You didn’t understand how people believed in Gods but didn’t acknowledge how divine human connections truly are—it is, in fact, the only thing that truly protects us while we’re in the world of the living.

The abomination speaks—no, groans in that unsettling mimicry of agony as it addresses you.

“I bear this burden for the coming of our King—I crawled to this atrocious land with orders to kill the small fry behind you, witch. Your sigils will do nothing and I will grant you a quick death rather than what my nature has the inclination to do,” referring to the torn limbs attached to its body.

You smile lightly as a small light begins to dazzle behind your eyelids, nostalgic to the familiarity of hosting your guardian within your body—awakening him to an unsavory sight. You laugh a bit at the annoyed tone he greets you with.

‘Stupid girl, I thought you wanted peace?’

“Well, yes—and I still do. A couple of exorcists from The Order came and… well, you’ll know the moment you’re fully awake. It’s in your nature to know things after all, Raziel.” You utter softly, a strange breeze pushing some strands of your hair forward. “—but we’ll talk later. I simply wanted to wake you up so that we’d have the chance to figure—” you wave an arm toward the odd-looking demonic centipede “—this out.”

‘No, you simply had the audacity to wake me up to something so ugly, but I digress. For now.’

The priests are curling their bodies to the floor once more—groaning at the overwhelming pressure invading the living room. You hear the youngest priest scream, “For fuck’s sake, what’s going on?!” in anguished confusion. You pitifully eye them and suck in a guilty breath as blood begins to drip from their ear canals, probably caused by the fact that they’re in the presence of Raziel’s unfiltered voice—though they cannot hear him.

Immediately choosing to focus on the task at hand so that you don’t accidentally contribute to the unnecessary murders of what you’ve just seen to be the most gifted exorcists of the modern world to date, you place your efforts into drawing blood from a specific sigil.

The creature sends a horrendous screech your way, taking the form of a cacophony of layered voices accompanied by a strange wailing that has the same effect as banging metal pots against each other.

“You—” it squirms. “Why is a divine host here?!—”

“Close your eyes now! For the love of God, don’t open them until I tell you to.” You quickly bellow at the men, and despite how heavy their limbs feel, they find it in themselves to tightly shut their eyes and press their palms against their faces for extra coverage. Immediately, their stomachs begin to churn, and Hongjoong thinks he faintly hears Mingi vomiting somewhere behind him—even through the harsh ringing threatening to burst their eardrums. Hongjoong grits his teeth and pushes to yell out to his team, “Turn away and keep your eyes closed no matter what!”

A blinding white light fills the entirety of the apartment, almost as clear in its brightness to him as staring straight at a light fixture would be despite his greatest efforts. He hears the unsavory sounds of the creature gurgling and cursing in different languages, uttering one final phrase that makes his blood run cold before the air goes still once more.

‘Cursed angels.’

“…You can open your eyes now,” you mumble cautiously. San moves his palms away from his eyes but cradles his head shakily. “That was the strongest energy I’ve ever sensed before.”

Hongjoong crawls over to him in concern, looking at you before explaining slowly, “San is only ‘blind’ in the physical realm—though he cannot see with his eyes, he is able to ‘see’ everything as… energy of sorts. His and our concepts of witnessing life are vastly different—even though he tried his best to ‘close his eyes.’ He probably felt whatever that was astronomically more than the rest of us. I suppose it makes more sense to say that his sight is derived directly from his third eye at all times. That’s his gift.”

He holds San by his shoulder, meaning to comfort him without overwhelming. Wooyoung lays flat on his back, arms cradling his stomach. “I think I’m gonna hurl.”

Mingi begrudgingly mumbles, “Guess I beat you to it.”

The rest of the men aren’t in any better condition—most trying to regulate their nervous systems, some leaning against each other, and others cradling the walls or pillars.

Seonghwa still maintains his cold and calculating expression before turning to gaze deeply into your irises, as if searching for a semblance of an answer himself but frustratingly not coming to any conclusion. “Strega, I believe we deserve some sort of explanation about what just happened.”

You hold his stare before turning to pull a chair to sit before them all with a sigh. “You may have heard him refer to me as a ‘divine host,’ correct? Though your senses may have been too occupied.”

Raziel’s voice flows into your consciousness as if he were an extension of your very own thoughts.

‘Fate doesn’t seem to like you at all, child. Even I feel a sort of pity for you. Will you bear the burden of telling them the blood-stained truth?’

You squint your eyes and glare at the air in front of you, wanting to reply but opting not to. God, this isn’t fair.

Why did it always have to be you? Responsibilities that you’ve never asked for always come crashing in—the constant whiplash, emotional weariness, the scars you have to inflict on yourself and endure in order to hold dangers at bay. At the end of the day, one thing remains true: it always had to be taken care of by you.

Everyone remains silent, signaling you to continue.

“If I were to explain everything to you in intense detail, it would reshape the entirety of what you currently know of the world and of your gifts—understand that what you hear is likely to throw you into a corrosive pit of despair and hatred, however pure your intentions are. It may not be your time to understand, but I cannot move forward in this conversation without unveiling a horrid truth. All else will have to wait, since the rest will take an immense amount of time to relay—and the education I was given had taken years to learn.”

You see Jongho straighten up, immediately wanting to hurl questions your way, and you don’t blame him. But he halts immediately when Yunho holds a hand up and shakes his head at him.

“Not now, Jong. Let her speak, and we’ll ask questions later.”

You take a deep breath before continuing, clamping your trembling fingers in an attempt to keep still. You needed to steel yourself completely if you were going to be the one to reveal their reality, and your heart squeezed as you gazed at them. You didn’t know them at all, but you knew this—the men they came as today will not be the ones who leave your apartment. You… you’re the one who will steal the last of their remaining innocence. You mask your nausea with an unreadable expression.

“Now tell me, boys, heed my warnings—as our entwined tales reek of blood and iron. Do you still wish to know? How far will you go to save this child, who you may see as a reflection of yourself, after knowing what I wish to tell you? He is unnatural, yes—but so are we. The extent of The Order’s ambition is bloody and heavy in their pursuit of fighting against an inevitable apocalypse. Contrary to popular belief, while we were born of a god's creation, he has grown an animosity toward our existence.

The only reason the human race still exists is because we are a means of entertainment for those up high—we are God’s favorite gamble, and so he neither aids us nor eradicates us, to see what ending we eventually fall to. His interest lies in seeing how long we can fight for our very existence. The Earth is his colosseum, and we are his gladiators.

The Order knows that we cannot fight as ordinary humans or with mere divinations and lukewarm abilities. The only way we can fight monsters is by creating them—becoming them. I can’t say that I don’t see the point in what they do, however, they too have fallen to god complexes—choosing who lives and dies.

Tell me now, do you still wish to know?”

A part of you wishes they’d say no or ask for more time, but you know this would not be the case. And so yet again, you simply wait.

An uneasy silence pervades the room. Even the spirits listen with bated breath and sympathy for what’s to come—the ancestors accompanying the men in secret shake their heads fervently, knowing the despair that will follow the unforgiving truth. You glance at them briefly in subtle apology, but it wasn’t their choice to make.

The men feel their stomachs churn, intuitively knowing that whatever you’d tell them will twist their fates entirely. Glances are thrown across the room toward each other, trying to reach a consensus in the choked-up silence.

Hongjoong is the first to speak. There’s a strain to his voice you don’t fail to hear.

“I’m afraid, Strega.” His eyes were unbearably clear and strong. He did nothing to hide his emotions, and somehow that made him the strongest in the room.

“But I know in my heart that the truth exists whether or not we acknowledge it. As exorcists, we must bear the burden of facing the secret and omnipresent horrors of this world. It is both our blessing and our curse.”

As if his words brought strength to his team, they looked at their leader and found the resolve to agree. You feel yourself choke on the words that leave you. Revisiting this old ache yourself didn’t make this any easier.

“I will not lie to you. The cruel reality of what The Order is built upon will likely rip at your loyalties. I know what it’s like—I, too, saw family in the High Priests. The utter care with which they attempt to nurture us, almost as payment for what they themselves have taken away from us as children without our knowing.

To foster us in ignorance for the sake of a better world, but we didn’t choose this. In many ways, they are no better than the god that holds us as if we were pairs of dice. Understand that the child is in the same position as we were—in terms of falling victim to the greater forces wanting to play with our lives—and that if any one of you were to leave your positions, another child would have to replace you.”

The facade of calm on your face begins to crumble, and Seonghwa’s own expression grows uneasy at the sight, suddenly unsure if he wants to hear this any longer, but says nothing for the sake of the others powering through their fear.

“I’m unsure why The Order sent you all to me—what you just witnessed is under strict confidentiality, and my existence isn’t supposed to be known by most, with the exception of the council of High Priests. I was trained, educated, and raised alone—unlike you and the other exorcists of your clergy.

They molded me into the perfect militant dog that would unquestionably work itself into exhaustion because of the devotion I held for them, as they were the only humans I had the chance to interact with after my brief childhood.

It’s easy to say that my attachment to my… role was unhealthy, but it all changed when I came across a strange book. I’m unsure how I came across it, really, but depending on who sent you—I can finally unveil who tried their best to expose the truth of my existence to me. I suspect that they sent you here in secret to expose the truth to you all, as they did for me.

Maybe it’s so that whatever decision you all make moving forward is an informed one—so that you have a choice, no matter what consequences and sacrifices you face.”

You’re shaking now, moving your arms to embrace yourself, and feel yourself drift far into the dark abyss of your memories.

Raziel speaks quickly.

‘Breathe, child. You are strong—remember this.’

Nodding, you continue to push through.

“Since childhood, I have acted as both a portal and defender of the gates to the ‘other world’ up until I left the Order. Whatever you exorcised, I ensured it remained locked away. Demons, spirits—anything you exorcised would have had to pass through my body in order to return to whatever realm it came from.

It’s not to say that exorcisms wouldn’t be possible without a person to act as a vessel or have my ability, but this process made it immensely easier. It was the best way to ensure the spirit was fully returned. Though lower-class demons tend to perish during exorcisms, this isn’t often the case with higher classes.

My role was similar to the Ferryman who steered the skiff and carried souls to the underworld in Greek myths. The skiff—meaning small boat—is my body. Yes, the souls could swim and take the journey back home themselves if the exorcism was well-performed and fully severed any trace of their existence from our realm. But the time it’d take for them to reach their destination could muddle the process if I weren’t there.

It also comes with the risk of the entity psychically attaching to something else if the veil is thin enough, especially for stronger ones. This leads us to the next part. Are you still with me?”

The fairy-like boy, Yeosang, looks at you with pale wonder. “How is that even possible?”

Smiling sadly, you utter, “…For a multitude of reasons, but I still don’t fully understand it either.”

San stares at you with pale eyes—the closest mimicry of the colors that washed across the expanse of the Aegean Sea you’ve ever seen. His abilities, though the weakest in terms of offense, were still in some ways the most dangerous depending on how he utilized them—all the more so if paired with a strategic mind.

“Strega, what is it that you host inside of you?”

Softly, his words carry the weight of a premonition, and you feel the shifting tides of the conversation to come. For now—this is the last and the hardest stretch of the race. The choice is here, and you were the one to deliver the fatal blow.

“I would need to explain how exorcists are truly made before I can tell you that—and this will not be easy for me to relay to you, so please understand that this fate was also mine.”

Yunho catches the detailing of your words, his eyebrows curling together in confusion. “What do you mean by made?”

At this point, you’ve bitten the skin of your lip raw. You notice how Wooyoung’s eyes widen in fear, a strange emotion of denial dawning on his face, but you don’t have it in you to acknowledge it just yet without pulling through the task.

Swallowing hard, you exhale before continuing.

“Exorcists aren’t born with their abilities. The process of choosing which child is a candidate for being initiated into The Order starts with a psychic gift—those who show potential and natural skill.

In order for an exorcist to be made, a ritual of mass sacrifice must be conducted by the council of High Priests—but it comes at a hefty price, Yunho. It wasn’t coincidence that you all became orphans, nor was it fate—”

As their expressions slowly distort into ones of anxious confusion, your breathing grows heavy with grief.

“—S-special children who exhibit psychic prowess are… selected by The Order—and they are able to be located by an individual who bears a gift they call ‘The Eye.’ It’s a divinatory ability, able to foresee and locate the gifted by the brightness of their energies, and it manifests once in each generation as its role is meant to be passed down.

The Eye is capable of seeing things from a bird's-eye view. The expanse of its ability can be frightening once sharpened into its full potential. It can track anything that has a heat signature, energy, sound—it’s also accompanied by a certain clairvoyance due to the exorcist’s sharpened senses with the lack of sight in the physical realm.

They have the makings to be deadly trackers. The Order most likely would’ve recruited San for this role once his predecessor passed away.”

San’s eyes widen in disbelief.

“W-wait, are you saying that I have that same ability? Strega, just because I’m a blind man doesn’t mean that I—”

“San, I can’t fully confirm nor deny the nature of your gifts because I am not you. But based on what Hongjoong explained—it sounds to me that The Order has yet to inform you of your impending future. The true extent of your abilities will only be revealed once your predecessor passes away and you inherit the entirety of the gift. The Order also keeps the existence of The Eye concealed.”

There’s apparent shock in his features, and you pity the boy when you think about how confused he must have been, navigating his gifts alone. The training for an exorcist is usually catered to more offense-based abilities and maneuvering physical defenses, but that wasn’t the most suited for long-distance and strategy-based gifts.

Fuck. This is going to be so hard to say.

You harden yourself as an old anger begins to rise from its depths within you, telling yourself, This is the last stretch, Y/N, just fucking do it.

“—However, The Order does not tell anyone what truly happens once a child is located.

Do you know what separates us from the other gifted? Have you ever questioned why only a select few are recruited by The Order, despite the fact that we need as much manpower as we can possibly get, as the amount of demons running rampant on Earth continues to grow?

It’s because many are spiritually gifted, but none of us are inherently born with abilities that manifest the way ours do. Even we weren’t originally born with the predisposition to manifest what we do now—only with the potential to have a greater gift form if the perfect conditions were to take place. In order for an exorcist to be created, we pay the price in blood.

The ritual calls for the sacrifice of one’s closest living relatives—the direct lineage must be eradicated so that the subject can fulfill the requirement of being the final bearer of its ancestors' blood. Our families were killed for the sake of inheriting these abilities. Those who are sacrificed don’t extend to distant relatives—but first cousins, grandmothers, grandfathers, siblings, aunts, uncles, mothers, and fathers? This is the disgusting and bloody reality of what we are. But The Order is cunning and methodical. There are exorcists hidden in the ranks with the ability to cause natural deaths for most of the family, but they never told you this, did they? But our mothers, fathers, siblings?—their blood is needed at the altar. I’m sure I don’t need to go into more detail.”

You grit your teeth. You hear Wooyoung's shaky sobbing and see Mingi crawling toward him to seek comfort as he shakes his head in horror. Seonghwa covers his mouth and runs toward the kitchen sink—bile rising as the entirety of his body shakes and empties itself. Hongjoong, however, is frighteningly still.

Knowing they could still hear you, you continue on. You can’t afford to stop now, else you’d break permanently.

“—But just why do you think such a horrific ritual has to be done in order for an exorcist to exist? This ritual, in particular, is meant to summon and imprison a demon within a gifted child's body and soul so they could foster its abilities. Think of it as if the demon were a power circuit, an outlet—you exorcists are the plugs pushed into the circuit to derive power from it. But the qualities of your body and spirit make it so that the exchange can happen. The Order tries to find us as young as possible so we’re trained and sharpened enough to fight as soon as we can, and because development is crucial to the process of fully integrating into its powers.

The demons you inherit, however, must choose you. Well—maybe saying the demon has a choice isn’t the right term—it’s dependent on what demon is specifically drawn in by your psychic energy before it’s trapped in the ritualistic circle. Since it’s a high-cost ritual, it often attracts higher-class demons. And since we were born with an immense amount of spiritual energy, it’s hard for them to resist the bait. Inside of you all, right now, at this very moment, is an unconscious demon—only to be released from you and awakened with your death.”

All sorts of emotions fill the room: existential crisis, anger, hatred, grief, denial, confusion, and profound betrayal. The adrenaline pulsing through your veins shows in your dilated pupils and the fast movement of your right leg—a repetitive thump, thump, thump reverberating through the room. Words continue to spill from your mouth.

“It’s rare for exorcists of different generations to have the same abilities as another. The one anomaly is The Eye, as it’s an ability that can be passed on and inherited without any blood ties—though I’m unsure why. It could either mean that there’s a possibility The Eye is a demon that means to assist mankind’s fight for survival, or that The Eye’s source is not a demon at all. Which would make it the only case in which this happened—other than my own.”

Seonghwa clenches his fists so hard that his nails dig into the thick of his palms, and his blood drips onto your hardwood floor. The room is deathly quiet following your explanation. His eyes and tone are grim, his entire body tense. He asks a question he fears he knows the answer to.

“Strega, what happens if we try to leave?”

Pure anguish falls onto your features and you don’t hesitate to reply.

“Then they will try to find another child to replace your vacancy, Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa turns to bang his head and fist onto a nearby wall, squeezing a sob out of his throat in an attempt to stifle an incoming wail. Some of the others shut their eyes in despair, turning away from the sight of the typically reserved Seonghwa. They find themselves crushed into a tight space with a clear way out—but not without a hefty cost in exchange for freedom from the corruption at hand.

Hongjoong calmly rises from his seat on the floor to stretch his legs. “Why does it have to be another child?”

“The other exorcists of your clergy—they’re bound to The Order by sheer faith. They’re regular priests with a decent amount of spiritual energy who are dispatched to take care of lower-class entities. Through prayers and invocations, they’re able to exorcise with faith. However, those born with the amount of spiritual energy you’ve all had since birth is exceptionally rare. Typically, there are significantly fewer of you—but this generation has been ‘blessed’ with eight successful vessels. Your true denominations are referred to as ‘Infernal Hosts.’

Hongjoong, the eight of you are the only ones in this world who fall under this category—”

Every face in the room grows pale and cold, recognizing the unfathomable truth and gravity of the situation at hand. They were trapped unless they decided to trade places with a child—and therefore would contribute to another lineage’s annihilation.

“—This is why the child poses a threat to The Order and the worlds beyond the veil. And depending on what path this child takes—should he remain alive, the tides of this ongoing battle of survival could completely turn. The spirits told me... t-they told me that the child was born with the greatest amount of spiritual energy seen in the last few centuries. Even more than you and I, Hongjoong. The Order says they want us to save the child from possession, but they intend to do to him what they’d done to us.

This is also not done without running the risk of him attracting something concerningly powerful, and therefore, becoming too powerful—but should the demon overtake or manipulate him… it’s likely that humanity will greet the dawn of its ending.

The one beneficial factor at hand is that The Eye hasn’t been able to locate any living relatives—most of them have passed away and he was orphaned shortly after his birth due to his own circumstances. The Order needs ancestral blood for the ritual, so they’re scrambling to research an alternative. And this buys him time. Time to either die or find another way out—somehow, some way.” His eyes are unreadable and not nearly as clear as they were earlier.

“You said that there are only eight Infernal Hosts in this world currently. Where is your place in this equation? Why have you suffered the same fate as us? How did you get away from The Order?” he asks. Eyes widen around the room in realization, forgetting that you’d left the association five years ago—when you were freshly twenty-two years old. They quickly turn their heads to gaze at you warily. Even Seonghwa turns from his position on the wall to gaze at you with unabashed judgment.

Raziel chuckles a bit.

‘This one’s discreetly a bitch. Careful— I have a feeling the demon he hosts has something to do with his speech. You’ve probably noticed by now that his spiritual energy is also off the fucking charts. Just an inkling, but keep that in mind.’

“That’s because I’m not an Infernal Host.”

He quirks a brow. “Okay, and?” Eyes around the room bounce back and forth between you two frustratedly.

You roll your eyes at him but are partially relieved that you don’t have to deliver any more painful news.

“I’m referred to as the Divine Host. I don’t know how it happened, so don’t ask—all I know is that during the ritual, I ended up attracting something completely different than they originally planned.”

“Which is?” they ask in unison.

You sigh shakily before confessing the information for the first time in your life outside of The Order.

“An Archangel. I attracted an Archangel.” The room goes still as they try to process the fact that there's an Archangel resting inside of you—which also means it is right there in the room with them… and they all apparently housed demons within themselves.

“This is why The Order couldn’t find a replacement for me and why they didn’t want to risk defying my choice. Raziel’s mere presence, as you’ve noticed, is absolutely frightening—and both psychologically and physically horrendous for anyone with enough spiritual energy to sense him within several kilometers. Paired with the fact that I’m regularly in communication with him? They didn’t know what would happen if they opposed my leaving. There are other factors, but let’s leave that for another day.”

“—And no, he has no desire to attack you. Not yet, at least,” you say, and pique their interest.

“How do you know that?” Yeosang presses, his eyes brightening a bit despite the melancholy draping his body language, elbows resting on the knees of his wide-spread legs, hands locked together as he gazes upward at your figure.

“Because I can hear him whenever he’s awake. He’s usually in a resting state but can be awoken by the drawing of my blood above the skin that bears his mark. Before I became a vessel, I had an affinity for clairaudience and spirit communication—so I suppose that might be the reason why I can speak with him candidly, but Raziel won’t tell me any specifics. I speak to many spirits to pass the time, and in return, spirits also tell me many things. Which is where I got the information about the child.”

San pipes up slowly. “Raziel… he sounds familiar. Is he one of the Archangels listed in the Torah?” His voice is soft and asks more questions to distract himself from the gravity that weighs heavily on him.

You lightly smile at him before agreeing. “Yeah, he’s also mentioned in some Kabbalistic texts—but we can talk more about Raziel later.” Expression dimming slowly as you accept the calling of your fate.

“I will help retrieve the child from the clutches of whatever is attaching itself to him, but I will not return him to The Order.”

Hongjoong knowingly smiles, almost as if he were waiting for you at the finish line, and you arrived exactly where he expected you to. The multiple thick silver hoop earrings hit against each other as he shakes his head a bit.

Seonghwa eyes you with confusion, brushing his long dark hair back with bony fingers. “What do you mean you won’t return him to The Order?”

Resolutely, you gaze at them all. Smiling as you sign your life away, name on the dotted line—

“I won’t return him to The Order, because I will take on the role of his Guardian. If anyone could hide his presence, it’d be Raziel.”

The man himself is quick to interject.

‘I don’t care for your affairs, nor do I care for your stupid little apocalypse, child. I’ve been waiting for mankind to die out. It took way too long.’

You scrunch your brows together, replying to him out loud now that everyone knows about his existence.

“I’d beg to differ. I think you do care about my affairs because it’s fun and you’re unbearably nosy. Not to mention the fact that you clearly made the brilliant decision of willingly inhabiting me because of your distaste for your own kind to begin with, you old buffoon. This is practically a visa marriage. Anyways—think about what mysteries this may hold, will you?”

Jongho’s jaw drops at your rudeness after realizing that you were having some sort of telepathic conversation with the Archangel.

Raziel ponders and momentarily considers calling down a lightning bolt to eradicate you, but it is in his nature to cave to his curiosities.

‘The one thing you will surely die with is the audacity.’ He scoffs and goes silent. You smile because that means yes.

“I don’t want to watch everyone else play God anymore. If the world burns, so be it—if the child lives and disrupts the balance, so be it. He deserves the choice to exist or disappear when the time comes—but until then, I won’t let The Order make it for him. Nothing will succeed in touching a single hair on his body.

We have to stop this because we’re the only ones who truly can. Our true goal is to protect the innocent.”

Hongjoong extends a hand to grasp your own, layering his palm over the back of your hand as a sign of camaraderie.

You’re unsure if the reason you’re so compelled to die for the cause is to find retribution or release yourself from the guilt of ignoring the responsibility that accompanies one blessed with power. Maybe a part of you also wants to take part in the great cosmic gamble. The rest of the men slowly rise and stand tall, leaning over to meet your palms in the middle of the forming circle. All in favor of the task, deciding in silent unison that your shared horrors could only be ameliorated and forgiven by preventing it from happening again.

It’s all or nothing.

Wooyoung speaks for the first time, a palpable darkness twisting in his eyes—an old rage swimming at the surface of his reflection. His gaze flickers and burns hot as he stares at the stack of palms lining his point of vision. His voice is tense as he utters the joining phrase—

“We who are forged from Iron and Blood. May our blades strike upon those who have dared to touch our earthly makers. We pay the price—blood in exchange for innocence. Ancestors, please watch as we avenge your faultless souls and make right the unintentional sins of our youth.”

Meeting your eyes with exhilaration, Hongjoong’s lips fold into a toothy half-smile. The sharpness of his teeth makes something inside of you shiver.

“Welcome to the team, Strega. Let’s have a fun time dying.”

Let’s have a fun time, indeed.

ahh i hope you all enjoyed the first chapter and that it hopefully made sense. please like, reblog, or leave comments to let me know what you thought about it! <3

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