#there is violence and character death be warned

[nickfowlerrr]

something good and true - part 1

part two / part three

pairing: mob boss!bucky barnes x reader

warnings (for all parts in whole): 18+ only. domestic violence. retelling of abuse and battery. minor character death mentioned. angst. sweet and protective bucky. fluff. not sure if this qualifies as a slow burn or not 👀 smut. there’s a happy ending! (as per usual)

words: 4.5k

notes: this fic was supposed to be posted last year for suz’s blind date writing challenge but clearly that is not what happened. a year later and some thousands+ words over the maximum allowed (in total), i was finally able to wrap this thing up. i’m posting in parts bc it’s just so long and ahhh i’m sorry i didn’t follow your rules suz @targaryenvampireslayer 😭 and honest to god there is absolutely no expectation for you to read or even acknowledge this! i just want to give credit where credit is due and so this, my first mob boss!fic, is all thanks to the mob boss au prompt you had given to me! so thank you - and sorry again 🫢 dialogue used: “Does it make you nervous when I stare?”. thank you in advance for reading, i’d be happy to hear your thoughts! as always, comments and reblogs are welcome and so appreciated. 🩵

He’s staring again. You can feel it. The heat creeps up your spine as your heart begins to beat a little faster. The feeling has become quite familiar. It’s been two months of this. You had a feeling he’d be back, but really you hoped he’d have just let it go by now. It’s not like you thought any of this through, though… Of course there’d be consequences; and none worse, you’re sure, than the ones he could dish out.

It’s not your fault, you try to remind yourself. It’s not. You finish wiping off the table of the newly vacated booth, tucking the cash tip left for you in your pocket, before you turn around.

You steel yourself, taking a strong breath before you start to walk toward his private booth. You’re not stupid, you know the only reason he comes here is for you, he told you as much himself. And everyone else knows that too as the place has become nearly empty since his arrival. Even your coworkers aren’t bustling about. You don’t know if you prefer having the audience or not. You don’t blame anyone for their fleeing, though. After all the stories you’d heard about the man, you always made yourself scarce in his presence, too.

Until the faithful night he requested you at his table by name… You sigh, it seems you no longer have the luxury of avoidance.

You remember that night well. The first time you formally met the infamous mob boss, James ‘Bucky’ Barnes.

You remember how it felt like your blood turned to ice in your very veins when Molly uttered your name with worried eyes, “Mr. Barnes is asking for you specifically,” she had whispered as she peaked into the kitchen where you’d fled when you heard he was being sat at his rarely used, always reserved table.

You felt sick. Like a lead weight was dropped in your stomach. You wrung your hands until it hurt before you finally nodded. You were sure she could see the fear in your eyes when you looked at her. “O-okay. I’ll be right there,” you’d nodded. You had to swallow down the bile threatening to creep up your throat. He knows, you’d thought. He has to know. That’s why he’s here. That’s why he’s looking for you. You were breathing hard and heavy and you could feel the tears welling in your still sensitive eyes. You were caked in makeup, had been all week, to hide the bruises that marred all over your face. It wasn’t anything unusual. But there was an eerie comfort you felt in knowing once they were finally gone this time, you wouldn’t have to see yourself like that again.

You were in a long sleeve so you knew he wouldn’t be able to see the marks along your arms, and unless he had X-ray vision he wouldn’t be able to see the contusions littered all over your body either. You had a brace on your wrist but it wasn’t too noticeable under the sleeve… Okay, you breathed. You can do this. Deny, deny, deny. You don’t even truly know what he’s here for. You shouldn’t freak yourself out before you’ve even seen him.

You exhaled a shaky breath before you reached for the kitchen door.

It was dead silent as you entered the dining hall and it only added to the compounding fear and anxiety growing inside you.

You approached his table cautiously, too nervous to make direct eye contact as you held your pen and pad in hand.

“Good evening, sir, - uhm, Mr. Barnes,” you corrected yourself, “can I get you started with something to-“

“I’m not here for drinks or the mediocre food, doll,” he stopped you easily, unnervingly calm.

You chanced a glance at him and his deep blue gaze had you swallowing hard.

You didn’t know how to respond, so you stayed quiet as he stared at you. Like he knew something. Like he knew you knew something.

“Hm,” he considered you for a moment longer before nodding, “ya know, I think you know why I’m here.”

“I-“, you shook your head almost imperceptibly, “I don’t,” was all you could muster as your eyes were now glued to him. You couldn’t will yourself to look away. You were too terrified.

He licked his lip seemingly out of habit before he spoke again.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” He asked, sounding exasperated, bored of the interaction already as he tilted his head at you.

You stiffened at the question, your heart threatening to beat out of your chest.

“I don’t-“

“You do.” He stopped you again, the certainty in his voice leaving no room to deny his accusation. His eyes cutting into you as you stood before him, defenseless. You felt like you couldn’t breathe but you couldn’t just stand there looking terrified. You had to work up your voice and it came out quiet, but Bucky was listening, and watching you, intently.

“I don’t know where Freddy is,” you said, voice low, trying to keep the tremor from it as you finally felt your eyes sting, the fear and pain catching up to you as you blinked the would be tears away before a single one fell. “And he’s not my boyfriend,” you swallowed, “anymore.”

“No?”

“No. We broke up…about a month ago.”

“That’s interesting…” he hummed. “Why did someone see his car at your place the other week, then, huh?”

You winced at the images that ran through your mind as you thought back to that day, the one you knew he was referring to.

“He came over, to talk,” you forced out, no longer looking at the man before you. “But nothing came from it,” you added quickly, “and he left. I haven’t seen him since. Haven’t heard from him, I don’t know where he is.”

You didn’t look at him but by the weight of his gaze you knew he wasn’t buying what you were selling.

“What happened here?” he asked, reaching for your hand.

You were quite literally frozen to your spot as he grabbed your hand in his. His touch was the most gentle you’d experienced in a long while and it sent an unexpected hum through you. You watched your hand in his as he pulled you just the tiniest bit closer to him and the table. He inched up your sleeve to see more of the brace on your wrist and when he moved to raise your sleeve further up your arm, your body finally moved into action. You yanked your hand back, as if his touch had burned you, keeping him from seeing anything more than the brace.

“Fell,” you answered shortly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Barnes, but I don’t know what else to tell you. I don’t know where he is. And to be perfectly honest, I don’t really care.”

You met his eye once more, feeling a little safer as the words came easily. It wasn’t a complete lie. You really didn’t know where he was. And you certainly didn’t care. Despite the scrutiny of the mob boss’ gaze, you didn’t feel nearly as scared as you had before he touched your hand. Something about the softness there… You wouldn’t dwell on it.

“If there’s nothing else,” you added, though it was definitely more of an unspoken question than anything. You weren’t as scared but you weren’t stupid either. You wouldn’t be going anywhere until he dismissed you.

He smirked, huffing a laugh as he watched you.

“You hear from him, I’d be grateful to know,” he slipped his hand into his coat pocket and took out a business card, placing it on the table as he flicked his sharp eyes up to you once more, moving to pull out his wallet next. You watched as he slipped out two bills and blanched as he put them down on the table, moving the card so it sat on the money.

Your breath caught in your throat as he stood from his seat, standing right in front of you as you took in his build and stature. Everything about him screamed success, power, and authority and the two hundreds he left on the table were nothing more than chump change to him, you were sure.

“Just so you know, doll,” he spoke lowly, “I will find him, one way or another,” he took a step closer to you, “and if you think you’re protecting him by not telling me the truth, I promise you’re not.” He held your gaze and you were terrified he could see straight into your soul with how intent it was, “What’s even worse, is he knows we know all about you. He doesn’t care if he’s putting you in harm’s way or not… Forgive me for saying, but nice girl like you, you deserve a hell of a lot better than that. So, if you think of anything you might wanna tell me, my number’s right there,” he said looking back over to the card and money on the table. “That’s your tip. You enjoy your night, sweetheart. I’ll be seeing you.”

His words weren’t a threat, but a promise.

He would be seeing you. Didn’t always call you to his table, sometimes just observed you while you worked, but every week without fail from that day on, he would be at the restaurant.

You never called him, you didn’t have anything to say. You wouldn’t tell him the truth, no, you couldn’t tell him the truth. He was half right, you were protecting someone. But it wasn’t Freddy.

You breathe another strong sigh as you get closer to him and once you’re at the table, you don’t say a word, only meeting his brilliant and pointed gaze.

There’s something different about him tonight, something unnerving in his stare that you take notice of right away. You work to keep your calm but you’re not sure how convincing your faux headstrong demeanor is tonight.

He lets the silence between you grow for a moment longer before finally, he speaks.

“Does it make you nervous when I stare?”

His voice is like honey, smooth and rich with that familiar lilt as his lips quirk up just at the corner of his mouth. It warms you while he holds your eye. There’s unspoken tension between you two as you stand so close yet so far, it’s been brewing since your first meeting and has only grown with each interaction since. You’ve never named it, but you couldn’t deny it if you’d wanted to. You haven’t felt your tummy flutter like this since…you can’t remember when.

Surely he knows what his gaze does to anyone, you’re no exception. But the nerves you feel under the weight of his stare are twofold - not all due to fear, but to flustering.

You haven’t responded, but you’ve held his eye in the silence. He smirks at you before gesturing to the open space across from him.

“Why don’t you take a seat, sweetheart.”

It sounds like an invitation, but you know it’s more than that.

It’s an instruction.

You look around briefly, as if someone might stop you or get you in trouble - but that’s laughable when you’re standing next to, arguably, the most feared and respected man this city has ever seen. Standing. Why is he standing? You realize suddenly he’s still waiting for you to move.

You do as he said and gingerly sit down across from him. He retakes his own seat as you settle. How chivalrous.

“I’ll get right to it,” he starts, his deep blue eyes never leaving you, “Freddy-“

God, that name. You can’t hold your tongue. You know it’s why he’s here but you don’t want to talk about this. You just want this to be over!

“Like I told you the last time, and the time before, and the time before, and every other time you’ve asked, I haven’t seen him.” You cut him off without thinking. But you really can’t have the same conversation again. You can’t keep having to think about him. About that night. You're at your wits end - you don’t want to have to so much as hear his name again. You don’t catch yourself in the moment but it hits you when you’re done talking that you just spoke to Bucky in such a familiar way…someone walking past might wonder who exactly you are to him. Clearly you’ve forgotten your place, gotten a little too comfortable around him.

You look up from where you watch yourself wring your hand and shamefully meet his eye again. You inhale and start to apologize but he doesn’t give you the chance.

His hand is on yours before you realize he’s even moving and you flinch a second late, his gentle touch already on you, stilling your nervous habit.

His eyes soften as he makes you meet his gaze, his thumb gently rubbing your fidgety hand.

You swallow hard and watch as he blinks away the previous softness in his gaze, his familiar confident twinkle back as he speaks,

“I know,” he nods, his hand still on yours. He’s closer as he leans across the table. “I found him.”

Your breath catches and your face falls. Fuck fuck fuck.

What does that mean? What does he know? You’re on the verge of having a complete freak out and god he can probably see it written all over your face. You feel a squeeze of your hand and are brought back into your body, into this very moment.

“Don’t look so sick, sweetheart,” he says, a half smile on his lips. “You don’t have anything to worry about, you or your old man.”

Your heart drops at the mention of your father and Bucky must see it because he leans closer still, now holding your hand in his. It’s strangely comforting, but more so is the look in his eyes. The sincerity there, and the hard edge of protection.

You want to believe him but you’ve been gullible before.

“I just wanna know the whole story. I know pretty much what went down, some things I think can safely be assumed, but I wanna hear your narrative, just to get the full picture and get this whole mess squared away, yeah?”

The way he’s looking deeply into your shining eyes, the intimate gaze and soft touch as it seems like he’s trying to keep you calm, you can’t speak much but you give him a quiet, “yeah.”

He nods and you feel a single tear slip down your cheek. He slowly raises his hand, and your eyes are glued to him as he makes sure you watch his movements. Like he’s trying to reach out to a scared little puppy, he reaches to gently touch your cheek. You don’t flinch but as his hand makes contact with your skin, your eyes shut as you try and suppress a shudder.

“No tears, sweetheart,” he tells you in a soothing timbre as he wipes it from your cheek. “You’re too pretty to cry over a loser like that,” he adds with a soft smile.

You shake your head, “He’s not why I’m-“

“I know,” he cuts you off. “Look at me,” he orders gently.

You do as he says and slowly meet his eye. “You don’t have anything to worry about, ya hear me? Not the police, not my men, and certainly not me. Got it?”

You know you’re staring at him like he’s crazy, but you do understand what he’s saying. It takes you a second but you force yourself to nod.

“Good.”

His touch is still on you as his eyes trail all over your face before he lets his hand slip away.

“Alright, you wanna do this tonight or tomorrow night?”

You’re momentarily stunned. You definitely don’t want to do this tonight. You just need to get through the last two hours here and then you’re headed home to unravel in your own space. But tomorrow…

“Tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day,” you point out, sounding unsure.

“What,” he sniffs, looking at you once again, “you got plans?”

“I, I have work,” you answer dumbly after a second.

“Not anymore you don’t,” he says, moving to stand. “So tomorrow it is.” He walks closer to you and extends his hand for you to take, helping you out of the booth. “And you’ve got the rest of the night off.”

“Oh, I carpooled today so, I have to wait anyway,” you explain, though the idea of leaving early sounds like heaven.

“I’ll drive you. Get your things, I’ll have the car pulled around,” he supplies easily. He leaves to the front of the restaurant and you stand in your stupor for only a moment longer before you move to get your things from the back. You have a silly thought worrying about giving him your address, then remember he’s had it this entire time. And he told you you had nothing to worry about.

You’re not a typically trusting person, even more so after Fred, but there's something about Bucky. Something trustworthy, something that feels safe.

You grab your bag and let Molly know you’re leaving early and you got a ride before you head to the front to find Bucky.

He’s waiting patiently and his eyes seem to light up just a bit when he sees you coming.

Your manager is smiling tightly behind the stand as she watches you go. You feel slightly bad for just cutting out like this, but once Bucky came in, the place cleared out some, so it’s not like they’re in the midst of a rush.

You let your work worries slip away as the brisk night air hits you, Bucky holds the door for you as you exit and then opens the passenger of his sleek, blacked out Jaguar for you to get in.

You always assumed someone like him, in his position, would have a driver, but maybe that’s just not his style.

Bucky gets in and as you buckle, begins to drive off. You don’t need to supply him with your address as he heads in the right direction without a word.

It’s quiet but not unbearably so. It’s not until you’re just a couple minutes away from your place that he breaks the silence.

“I’ll pick you up at 7 tomorrow. I figure it’s a delicate conversation we’ll be having, so somewhere private would be better. Are you okay with going to my place? We can have dinner.”

It’s a genuine question, and the earnestness of it eases your nerves even further. He’s truly asking, genuinely concerned with your comfortability.

“Mhm,” you nod with a quiet hum. “Yeah.”

He pulls up in front of your house, the porch light on and shining because you knew you wouldn’t be off until late.

The car cuts off and you turn to face Bucky only to find him opening his door and getting out himself.

You grab your bag and follow him with your eyes as he rounds the car to get to your side. He gallantly pulls open the door for you and helps you out with care. You stand and he closes the car door before you start up the path to the front door. It’s a short walk and as you reach the door you turn to look at him as he stays beside you.

“Thank you, for the ride, and…” you trail off not knowing how to articulate what it is you want to say. Thankfully he doesn’t make you continue. He smiles softly at you.

“It’s my pleasure, sweetheart.”

You blink at him. You don’t know what else to say. You finally look away and turn to the door to unlock it.

“When you said I don’t have anything to worry about,”

“I meant you don’t have anything to worry about,” he answers you before you finish your question. “I’m gonna make this all go away, I just need to know if there’s any loose ends we need to tie up to be done with it, that’s all.”

Your eyes sting again. He makes it sound so easy, so simple.

“I-“ your voice threatens to break.

“Hey, we don’t needa talk about it right now, doll. You just go inside, relax, eat, get some rest. You don’t gotta stress a thing anymore, alright? I’ve got you, there’s nothin for you to worry about.”

“…Why are you being so nice to me?” you look at him with bleary eyes as you crack the front door open and ask the question you’ve been wondering for the past two months.

He takes a small step closer to you and gently turns your face to look at him. “Why do you expect cruelty?”

You stutter a breath as you look at him and feel the memories of the year you spent caught up with Freddy stab at you. You know why, and you’re sure he does, too. But there’s no sense of judgment coming from him, and you don’t feel embarrassed; not like the way you do in front of your mom. She’s the only other person who knows what happened, what your dad did. For you.

She never said it, you don’t expect she ever will, but you can sense the thoughts, the subtle judgement from her, especially when this all first happened. She doesn’t know the truth but you don’t have the care to tell her. Because even if what she assumed was true, it doesn’t change anything. No one deserves that.

But the truth is, you didn’t stay. The first time he put his hands on you, you were gone. He just wouldn’t leave you alone. You were together for six months at that point and they were nice, nothing overly romantic like you see in the movies, but nice. You weren’t expecting anything long lasting, marriage wasn’t even a thought. You knew he wasn’t the one, but dating was… fun. And then, one day, a switch flipped.

He wasn’t the kind, but nonchalant guy you thought he was. He was angry, like it was your fault the relationship wasn’t what he wanted, that it wasn’t more. He wanted it to work so badly, but he knew it never would. That only kept his ire burning. And so during the other six months you were ‘together’ you were really nothing close. You avoided him every chance you got and when he’d find his way in he’d always be sure to leave his mark. He kept up appearances of course, to everyone it seemed. You didn’t want to look crazy, so what were you going to say? ‘I broke up with him months ago and I don’t know why he won’t accept that. He uses me like a punching bag when he gets me alone - when he breaks into my car, my home, any way he can weasel into my life.’ He was in with the mob and everyone knew it, so even if they believed you, what the hell would anyone be able to do? At a certain point you just kind of accepted that this must be it. He’d always just be around somehow. Stories of your on and off again relationship floating around thanks to him - he wanted everyone to know that even if you weren’t together, you were together. Making it harder and harder for you in every way possible.

And then, one day, everything changed.

Now you’re here, and he isn’t.

Now you’re here, and so is James Barnes.

His warm hand is still holding your face and his thumb gently rubs your soft cheek, almost mindlessly, while he peers at you - intent as ever. That softness you saw before is back and you have to remind yourself to breathe when you notice his gaze flit to your lips. It’s brief, fleeting as his hand drops and he meets your eyes once more. He takes back his step and you watch him take a deep breath himself, the first time you’ve ever seen him be anything close to unsteady, if that’s what you can call it.

You break eye contact first, looking down to the small space between you while you push your door open a bit more, holding onto the handle with one hand.

“Have a good night,” he says, voice low and quiet as he watches you step closer yet to the door.

You look at him again then, “You too,” you bid softly, finally stepping inside.

He nods and waits for you to close the door behind yourself. As you push it shut, you catch a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and then that fluttering in your belly returns again.

You turn the lock and then press yourself up against the wood, exhaling heavily.

You feel relieved and yet ten times more terrified in the very same breath.

The most pressing feeling in this very moment though is a weird kind of guilt.

You feel more for a man you’ve only known for two months than you ever did for Freddy in the entire time you’d known him. Bucky is intimidating, obviously, and you know what he does, what he’s known for; he’s a man anyone would tell you to avoid at all costs. But when he’s around, there’s this feeling you get that you just can’t shake. You feel safe around him.

He’s known for being a man of his word, and his words to you have never been anything but thoughtful and…caring. He may prod, but he’s never threatened you. Truth be told, you think maybe he’s known this entire time what really happened. Or at least that you were involved somehow. And still, he wasn’t harsh with you even once. He was doing his own investigation this entire time, of course, and if he’d wanted to get the truth from you, surely he could have- he could’ve saved a lot of time too. Could’ve even gone after your dad.

But he didn’t do any of those things. No, he’s been patient, waiting until he had enough proof without having to pry anything out of you. At the very least you were grateful for that.

Not to mention the fact that he had called you pretty. It seems silly given the circumstances, but it did warm you when the compliment hit. It’s crazy but it’s clear that you’re feeling feelings for one James Bucky Barnes. God help you.

Alongside the unexpected romantic stirrings you’re coming to terms with, the anxiety and stress of the truth you’ve been trying, and apparently failing, to keep about what happened to Freddy has been weighing heavily on you, but with Bucky’s veiled acknowledgment of it, you feel more free already.

It’d be a lie to say you aren’t nervous for tomorrow night, but it’d also be a lie to say a part of you isn’t looking forward to it, too. If for no reason other than what Bucky said; to finally just be done with this whole mess.

[narnian-neverlander]

Would You Fall in Love with Me Again [Machine Herald Viktor x GN!Reader]

Preview: “You’re the one who decided he’d rather forget every moment, every laugh, every touch we shared like they all meant nothing! You’re the one who tore out his heart without a second thought and threw it away even though it was mine! And all the while you’re leaving me with the burden of it all! I’m the only person alive who still holds our time together dear to their heart now! Do you have any idea how heavy memories can be? How maddening?! And these—“ you bring your hands up between the two of you, all sleek, perfect metal, the spitting image of him. “You gave me these for all the world to see and left me with yet another reminder of you! Like I needed more of those to know that I am still and always will be irrevocably yours! And now you tell me that it wouldn’t matter if there’s any part of you, however small, that still thinks of yourself as mine?! Fuck you, Viktor!”

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 10,7k

Warnings: slight body horror/modifications, suicidal thoughts, canon typical violence (injuries and blood, mentions of torture, mentions of character death, alluded murder)

This is part of a series of stand alone One-Shots that all feature the same reader, you can find the masterlist here :3

A/N: Does a broken rib from too much coughing count as the AO3 curse yet cause wow this took way longer than expected. Anyways, Epic x Arcane has been bouncing around my head since Season 2 came out, but this was inspired by this post from @le-fruit-de-la-passion cause I saw that and I’ve been internally screaming over it ever since 💁

Happy Valentine’s everybody 💞

Nothing had been the same since you woke up.

It’s to be expected, it had been almost two years after all.

Two years since the explosion. Two years since half the council had died. Two years since any attempt at peace between the two cities had been shattered. Two years that you had spent blissfully unaware of all of this; a coma keeping you trapped within the confines of a hospital bed and your own mind.

You’d expected pain after coming back to your senses; it was the last thing you remembered before the world had went dark. But you’d slept through most of your recovery. Through your wounds turning into scars. Through your muscles growing weak from disuse. Your hands were a different story, though. They didn’t so much hurt, only at times, as they were simply numb. Shattered bones and nerve damage had made them mostly useless and that was not something any amount of time would simply fix.

Not everything had completely changed, though, you’d found. You’d been awake for not more than an hour when Jayce had burst through the doors of your hospital room. And sure, he’d looked different: his hair longer, a beard, the white and gold that had always dominated his outfits replaced with black and silver, a brace on one of his legs and a cane at his side. But the relief in his hazel eyes when he’d found his friend conscious was familiar. The way his hug had felt. And how he’d completely avoided your gaze when you’d asked about your lover.

He’s gone. I’m so sorry, but… he’s gone.

He’d expected you to cry, scream, anything. But you hadn’t. You’d merely nodded, as numb as your broken hands, and had thanked him for coming to see you. Had told him to go back to his work, he must certainly be busy after all. And it had torn him apart, to see you, someone he’d always known as energetic and joyful, so tired, so apathetic. The very least for him to do had been to offer his help in any way he could, including finding a doctor that would fix your hands. He’d been more than reluctant to leave you, but you’d asked for some time alone to rest and he could hardly deny you that - it had still taken him a good ten minutes more to actually take his leave, with promises of a soon return and to simply send for him if you needed anything.

You’d settled back into the bed, fully intent on going back to sleep and pretending you’d be able to wake up in a different world, but the sun had caught on something metallic on your bedside table, hidden behind flowers and cards. You’d reached for it with stiff, unsteady fingers, almost sending the small, scratched up, mechanical cat crashing to the ground; luckily it had just ended up bouncing off your leg and then settling in your lap.

You’d stared at the little robotic feline in astonishment for a long time, unblinking amber eyes staring right back, like it would tell you who had brought it here, when it should’ve been sitting on a shelf in your apartment. Like it would give you all the answers and solutions in the world. An answer to your pain. To the hopelessness creeping in. To the feeling of your heart slowly shattering.

I’m coming back for you. I’ll find a way to fix you, to fix us both, and then I’m coming back for you, I promise.

It had almost made you drop your precious possession all over again, breaths heavy and migraine pounding in the back of your skull. And your racing mind had very clearly told you that there’s no recollection of ever having heard him say anything like this, your aching heart replying that it had been an idle wish, nothing more.

This idle wish comes back to you know, lying bruised and bloody and dazed in a ditch somewhere in Zaun. The people you’d been sent to for help had turned out to be anything but the kind, generous researches they’d made themselves look like; only interested in their own profit, gained on the backs of the helpless and the beaten. And after months of more pain and suffering, once you’d no longer been of use, your body even more mutilated and damaged than before, you’d been discarded like the trash they viewed you as. Face in the dirt, body and mind exhausted and screaming for rest, just a small respite, you consider letting go. Consider closing your eyes and just letting eternal rest take you; you don’t have anything left, after all. No home to go back to. No loved ones waiting for you.

Your shattered psyche seems to welcome the idea more than anything; through blurry vision you swear you see your lost beloved right in front of you, like it’s just another lazy morning spent in bed together. A warm hand cupping your cheek, gentle amber eyes, voice still raspy and accent thick from sleep. Telling you to go back to sleep. That it’s okay to rest. You blink and he’s gone.

He’s gone. I’m so sorry, but… he’s gone.

I’m coming back for you. I’ll find a way to fix you, to fix us both, and then I’m coming back for you, I promise.

A cry for help, created from a desperate mind and a broken heart. A fantasy. Wishful thinking. Nothing more. No one would be coming for you. Nobody would know or care if you just laid down to die right here. But there’s still a part of you, tiny as it may be, that wants to live. That under no circumstances wants to die on the same streets you once crawled your way out of, while your tormentors get rich on your suffering and are left with no consequences. Your blood’s starting to boil, powering you like a steam engine, getting you up on your hands and knees, groaning and whimpering in pain as you hopelessly try to get your feet back under you.

Peace is for the dead, revenge is for the living.

It’s what forces you towards the city limits on wobbly, clumsy legs, one stumbling step at a time. If revenge would be your only reason to live, then so be it. You’d take it over simply giving up and being forgotten; your body left to rot in the dirt.

So you live off scraps and garbage. Get your quick bouts of rest on dark, dirty street corners. Collect herbs from the riverbed, as scarce as they may be, to fight off the infections you incurred. It’s not pretty or elegant and you can barely call it living, but you’re alive. And eventually you catch rumors, whispers, only spoken in the same shadows you’ve now spent months living in: rumors of a healer. Well, some call him that. Others revere him as a god. Others fear him as a monster, more machine than man. But they all agree on two things: that he’s the one to go to if you’re in desperate need of help and have nothing left to lose. And where to find him.

The gate to the house on Emberflit Alley is old and bent and rusted. Not locked, but your stiff, useless fingers have enough trouble opening it anyways. The front door is a different story entirely, encrusted with interlocking gears to keep you and anyone else out unless invited in. So you knock and you wait. And then you repeat that process. Until it becomes clear that either no one is home or that a disturbance isn’t currently wanted. You’re not about to give up so easily though, so you step off the porch and start making your way around the house in search of any windows to knock on instead or maybe even break if necessary. It’s dusk by now and the ever present fog that always seems to cling to this area of the Lanes isn’t making your job much easier; your foot inevitably catches on something, a loose brick or a protruding pipe maybe, and sends you stumbling, falling and while you manage to catch yourself against the brick wall, your flailing palm ends up going straight through a window.

Perfect. You hadn’t actually been serious about breaking and entering. Not entirely, anyways. Trying to assess the damage to your hand in the dimly lit alley, you’re distracted enough to not pick up on the sound of a door opening and you only notice the heavy footsteps when they stop right behind you.

“You’re persistent if nothing else, I will give you that.”

The voice is deep, warped, with a mechanical echo to it, but it’s the accent that sends an unwelcome and unexpected twinge to your heart. You turn around very slowly and carefully, prey about to get caught by something terrible, and gulp when you actually need to crane your head back and look up cause fuck, he’s tall. At least a head taller than you, with a broad frame, all heavy armor and pieces of metal, a sharp, three pronged claw pulsing with energy pointed right at you from over his shoulder and a mask with only two hollow, glowing, yellow eyes staring back at you. He’s an imposing, unforgiving presence and you’re starting to understand why people only come to him as a last resort. But you’d come this far and he’s right, you’re persistent, stubborn, if nothing else, for better or for worse.

“I was— No one was opening the door and I was just trying to— Are you the Herald?” It’s a redundant question, really. “It’s what they insist on calling me.” Okay, you’re having a conversation. Sorta. That’s progress. “They also say that you… help people?” He crosses his arms over his chest and cocks his head to the side and while you might not be able to see his eyes, you can feel them taking you in from head to toe. “To the best of my abilities. What would you need help with?” You falter for a second. “It’s uhm… a lot, really, but mostly my hands?” Most people have always reacted with disgust or pity and you don’t expect him to be much different, so the way you bring your hands in front of you for him to see is slow and hesitant. He leans forward for a better look and you fight the urge to back away and flee. It’s quiet, too quiet, the way he’s so intensely studying you and your injuries unnerving and the metal claw that looks like it could tear you in half opening and closing and rotating as if in thought is most definitely not helping your anxiety. Finally, he straightens up and turns around. “Follow me.” He doesn’t wait for you, nor does he check to see if you actually do follow him, merely strides back inside the house, leaving you scrambling to catch up.

The halls that he leads you through have dozens of motionless automatons leaning against the walls, the room you eventually arrive in is lined with shelves of glass jars containing organic and metal organs floating in green fluid and in the far corner a leather gurney with a mechanized drill laid upon it and stains you don’t want to think too hard about. Fortunately, he doesn’t lead you over to that, but instead to a workbench cluttered with machinery and tools and blueprints. He sits in the old, rusty chair and then drags out a little stool from under the table, gesturing for you to copy him while he reaches above his head and fiddles with what is revealed to be a bright, neon lamp when it finally flickers to life, blinding you for a moment and leaving spots in your vision. You do as your told and finally place your hands in his when he holds out his own, one gloved and from what you can tell human, the other solid metal.

There’s a certain gentle diligence with which he conducts his examination, something you most definitely didn’t expect, but it puts your frayed nerves at ease. It also triggers a memory from long ago, an accident in the lab, that had ended with you curled up against your boyfriend’s shoulder while Jayce had carefully picked glass shards from your palms. A slight shake of your head brings you back to the present; a different life, it no longer matters. It’s silent between you two, except for the occasional question from his side that you answer truthfully. Eventually, he sits back and switches off the lamp above you. “Your hands can not be salvaged; the damage is too severe and was left insufficiently treated for too long. If you want full use of them back, they will need to be replaced.” He says it like it’s the most logical, natural thing in the world and to him it must be, but to you? It leaves you stunned, mouth going dry. “So I’d lose them entirely…?”

“You already have,” he states matter of factly. “Now it’s just a matter of wether you’re insisting on clinging on to broken, useless flesh and bone for the sake of sentimentality or if you’d rather exceed your human limitations and be able to return to a normal life.” It takes everything you have not to laugh bitterly; new hands or not, you weren’t going back to your old, normal life anytime soon. But he’s right nonetheless. “And you can do that? Replace them? Make them work like before?” You can’t be certain, with the mask’s filter and all but it almost sounds like he scoffs in offense. He waves his own hand in front of your face and flexes his fingers for show; dark, solid metal, expertly welded and crafted together to create a perfectly functioning hand. “Naturally.”

There’s nothing for you to think about anymore. “Okay. Yeah, I… that sounds good. Except…” Maybe there is one thing to think about. “I can’t… pay you for it. B-but I can work it off! Or I could—“ he decisively cuts you off with, “I do not take payment for my work.” And your jaw actually drops, because there is no way anyone in this world would offer services like this for free. There always has to be an angle, something to be gained. “Right. So you just do this out of the goodness of your fucking heart? Do you even have one? A heart, I mean.” He stands to his full height and it hits you like a ton of bricks that you just followed a complete stranger into the confines of his home. A stranger twice your size that would have no trouble turning you into parts for his future experiments. A stranger that has a reputation on Zaun’s streets as an unhinged monster. And it seems like you might’ve hit a nerve.

But he merely reaches past you, for something behind you on the table and comes back with a pair of tweezers and gauze and then proceeds to remove the parts of his window that are still stuck in one of your palms. Right. Since you can’t really feel them, you’d forgotten all about them. “Of course not. And to answer your question, no, I got rid of my heart a long time ago; it was of no use to me any longer. I only ask that you stay here during your recovery so I can oversee the adjustment process. Document it to further my research. You will be paying me in information, knowledge, progress. That is worth more than any gold or jewels you could throw at me.” Your own heart is going a mile a minute after that scare, but you’re slowly coaxing your body to calm back down. If he truly wanted to harm you, he would’ve done so by now. “And you’re sure that’s enough?” A sigh, as if he’s forced to explain something overly simplistic to a child over and over again. “You can bring any scrap metal you may find on the streets to me, if that will make you feel better.” You snort in amusement. “Okay, sure, you got yourself a deal. Sooooo… now what?”

He pauses wrapping your hand for a moment and turns his unblinking gaze to you again. “Malnourished, sick or overly exhausted people make for greater risks, both during surgery and recovery.” You flinch because you damn well know that you check all of those boxes. And you’re sure he knows it, too. “Yeah, well it’s not like I can snap my fingers and magically be healthy again. If I could, I wouldn’t be here. Besides, do you know where you live? You can’t tell me that every Zaunite who comes in here is of picture perfect health?”

“No, I just thought you should be made aware. We can perform the procedure tomorrow, at least get some sleep before that; surely that’s not too difficult?” It almost sounds patronizing and you realize you’ve gained back, or rather are rediscovering a part of yourself you haven’t used in a long time in the few minutes you’ve been talking to him: the defiant smartass. “Of course I can do that, I’m not an imbecile. There’s a brothel owner who owes me a favor, I’m sure I can get her to cough up a bed for the night.” He’s doesn’t look up from putting the finishing touches on your bandages, but apparently he still feels the need to state, “And leave with more diseases than you came with?” Had he just called you diseased? “I’ll have you know I don’t have anything contagious, thank you very much. I don’t think. And it’s that or sleep out on the streets again, so…”

“Or you could just stay here.”

You barely manage a very intelligent ‘Huh?!’ in return.

“You will return here tomorrow anyways. And stay here for your recovery. One night will not make a difference.”

Your eyes flit over to the leather couch in the corner; it’s clearly old and worn, missing an armrest and has obvious tears in the leather. Truly, you shouldn’t be this comfortable around him so quickly, but it’s still the closest thing to an actual bed you’d had in months so you’d take it.

“If it’s okay with you.” you shrug and quickly walk over to the sofa, dropping the bag that contains whatever little belongings you have left to the floor and then promptly collapse on it in an exhausted heap of limbs. That seems to break some of his composed facade as you catch him physically startling in your peripheral while you’re busy shrugging out of one of your coats and turning it into a makeshift pillow. “There is a room upstairs, with a bed, entirely unused. You can sleep there.” But you’re drowsy already, the worn leather surprisingly soft and pliant against your battered body. “So you don’t sleep, I assume; noted. And don’t worry, I don’t snore, so I won’t interrupt your… your work. You won’t… even know… I’m…” You’re out cold before you’ve finished your sentence and it takes all of half a minute before you’re lightly snoring. Liar. But he knew that already.

A heavy sigh and then he’s up, grabbing the blanket and pillow from the bed upstairs; replacing the bunched up coat under your head and pausing before he covers your body with the thick, warm fabric. Your skin has lost color, you’re underweight, he most definitely caught you limping earlier and those are just the things he could tell from a first glance. Your hands would be an easy enough matter to fix, but the rest would take time and care. He covers you with the blanket and you immediately snuggle up into it until only your hair is barely poking out. So you still hate the cold, then. Just like you’re still defiant and mouthy. It’s ridiculous how much you haven’t changed in direct contrast to him; changed so vastly and completely, of course you wouldn’t recognize him.

Carefully dragging down the blanket and the backs of your several layers of clothing, he indeed finds a series of numbers and letters branded into the skin at the back of your neck, as expected. He recognizes their shoddy handiwork by now; you weren’t the first Zaunite to come through his door after they’d fallen victim to that group. But you’d most definitely be the last. He gathers some things from around the lab and finally grabs his staff from where it’s leaning against the wall, gem at the top crackling with energy; one last look at your curled up form and then he’s out of the door, leaving you resting in his lab.

You’re warm, comfortable. It’s quiet and you actually feel well rested. All of that is so utterly foreign to you, it frightens you back to consciousness, makes you startle awake and fall off whatever you’d been asleep on in the process. Blind panic as you untangle yourself from a blanket you don’t remember having and stagger back to your feet, wild eyes searching for the closest threat.

Dim lighting breaking through murky windows, shelves stocked organs, a bloody gurney in the far corner and a hunched over figure at a workbench, their back currently turned to you as a clawed contraption over their shoulder emits a thin, precise ray of light.

“I do not appreciate getting lied to.”

There’s a part of your mind screaming at you that you know this voice, this person, this place, but the terrified haze you’re in yields little room for rationality as he shuts off the laser and turns around to face you, features covered by a mask with nothing but a set of glowing yellow eyes.

“You do, in fact, snore.”

It’s like a switch gets flipped, the haze lifts as you realize that you’re safe and you collapse back into the couch in a relieved heap, breaths still frenzied and heart still trying to jump out of your chest. “Right. Sorry.” He doesn’t comment any further, simply gets back to whatever it is he was working on before, leaving you to recover by yourself. It takes a few minutes, but once you consider yourself sufficiently calmed, you sit back up on the couch cross legged, blanket draped over your shoulders, wanting to apologize and thank him properly, but looking at him gives you pause.

He seems… smaller somehow than the night before. You find your answer in a heap of metal scattered around his workbench: big, cumbersome pieces of armor. Armor that you remember seeing on him yesterday, that you’d just assumed to be irremovable parts of his body. What you most definitely do not recall are the dents, scratches and the dried blood all over the metal. Nervously flitting your gaze back to him, you see what he’s working on is actually himself; laser directed at a part of his chest that he seems to be welding shut. And you’re taken aback at how much skin there is - human skin. The entirety of his chest and his right arm are sleek steel, interlocking gears and mechanisms, flawlessly shifting into each other as he moves, thin glowing panels pulsing with energy from hidden engines. And there’s definitely more metal at his right hip, disappearing into the waistband of his pants, but other than that…

His left arm is mostly pale skin, scarred flesh at his shoulder connecting to the dark steel; a wired glove slipped over his slender fingers seemingly controling the movements of the claw over this shoulder. His stomach and waist are still incredibly human too, if nothing else because of the dark purple bruise forming against his skin. He’s nowhere near as much machine as you’d expected, not to mention he looks… hurt. Had he been in a fight? Gotten attacked?

You open your mouth to ask, but think better of it before any sound can come out. It really has nothing to do with you; what he does in his own time is none of your business. It still feels off, to infringe on his time and help and not even ask if he’s alright when clearly, something that you’re not privy to has happened. Never one to leave well enough alone, you grab your bag from the floor and start sorting through the collection of herbs you’ve managed to acquire over time. Once you’ve found the ones you’re looking for, you package them into the most clean rag you have in your possession and tie it shut; uncrossing your legs you walk over to him and place the haphazardly made package on the table, careful not to disturb him. The movement still gets his attention and even with the mask’s filter, confusion is clear as day in his voice as he asks, “What is that and what is it doing on my workbench?”

“It’s an herbal remedy, for uhm… bruises and the like?” you explain, vaguely gesturing at his waist. “You soak it in boiling water and then put it on the effected area; it helps with swelling and pain.” It’s silent for a few long seconds, then, “I see. Thank you.” Not even remotely close to anything you were readying yourself for as a response, but it makes something within your chest beam with pride. You don’t even realize you’re still staring until he points it out and is met with, “You’re just… not exactly what I expected.”

“A monster?”

The laugh you let out is so shockingly soft, it almost startles him. “You’ve got a reputation, sure, and you’re… intimidating at first glance, I’ll give you that, but… I’ve met plenty of monsters in my life and none of them were anything like you. In fact, all of them looked and acted remarkably, ordinarily human at first.” There’s no further elaboration from your side and your gaze is distant, mind somewhere far away from here. He almost calls your name, but it occurs to him in the nick of time that you never actually introduced yourself. You’ve been here for less than twenty four hours and already he’s slipping, making mistakes; he can’t have that, so he drives the conversation in a direction he has control over. “I am almost finished with my repairs, I can get the general anesthetic started so we can proceed with your surgery as quickly as possible.”

Wild, hot panic takes over your gaze and he fully expects you to bolt out the front door with how you flinch and take a step away from him. “I need be under for the surgery? Can’t you do like, local anesthesia on my arms?” He hesitates; he’s never known you to be afraid of medical procedures, so what’s the problem? “First off, I will not be replacing both of your hands at the same time. Too risky and you’ll be completely incapacitated; we’re going to start with only one today. And no, in theory, you do not have to be under full anesthesia, however, we are talking about a delicate and unusual kind of surgery; I can not promise that it will be painless while you’re still conscious.”

“That’s fine, I don’t mind the pain, I just… I wanna have some agency in what gets done to my body from here on out.”

Ah. So that’s it. One glance at the dried blood still clinging to his armor on the floor and he feels the rage from last night raise it’s ugly head again. He shoves that right back down, cursing internally, before he answers you, voice level and betraying nothing. “All right. It will not be a pretty sight, though.” You shrug, as nonchalant as if he’d just told you about dinner plans. “I mean, I don’t have to watch directly. But I’m gonna admit, I am curious.”

The curiosity lasts for all of the first cut into your flesh, then you turn your head away and simply let him work in silence; wouldn’t want to distract the man currently flaying you open and re-wiring your nerve endings. Luckily, there’s only the occasional pinch and pull, but you stay pain free otherwise. Recovery after the procedure is a different story entirely though; painful and arduous and time consuming. And you’re more than a little surprised at how diligently the Herald takes care of you. Keeping a close eye on his newest test subject, that’s what you write it off as at first. But as the weeks go by there’s a certain familiar domesticity that sneaks into your routine and you find yourself talking with him more and more. Well, it’s mostly you talking, but he listens; you know because the day after you complained about the room you’d been staying in feeling too dark, you’d come back from an errand to find the windows cleaned, the curtains gone and some mismatched lamps placed around the room. It’s a sweet, quiet kind of constant reassurance and you can’t help the way your heart warms at it; so much like what you’d been used to from your lost love.

The day you pick up a glass of water all by yourself, without spilling anything and the glass noticeably cold against your fingers, you almost weep with joy and just barely hold yourself back from tackling him in a hug. Instead you busy yourself with touching as many things in his lab as you can get your one properly functioning hand on - which means you miss the way he so openly stares at you, obvious even with his mask hiding his features. He hasn’t seen you this happy and energized since you showed up on his doorstep. It makes some part in chest whir conspicuously and it almost feels like something is overheating, so he quickly turns away and grabs a random, discarded project from his workbench to fiddle with.

“Do you… ya know, eat?”

It’s a random question, even for you, but he answers nonetheless. He’s used to it by now.

“I no longer require it as a form of energy replenishment, no.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, that doesn’t answer my question, though. You don’t have to, but do you? Sometimes?”

“I fail to comprehend why we are having this conversation in the first place.” He doesn’t put down his tools, nor does he look at you.

Okay, fair point.

“Well, I uh… I used to be a chef, had my own restaurant and everything? And since one of my hands finally works again I figured I’d like to give cooking something a try? And if you have a favorite, I could make it for you? As thanks for… well, for giving me a hand?” It’s not one of your finer jokes, you will admit, so you’re not surprised he doesn’t laugh. Not that you’ve ever heard him laugh at anything, for that matter. He doesn’t react at all, except for, “I told you, I do not take payment for my work. Are we done with this fruitless conversation now?” It stings more than you’d like, to have him dismiss your tries at kindness like that, even though you know it’s not personal.

“Right, yeah, sorry. It’s just… cooking’s the only thing I’ve ever been good for and I like to be some sort of useful so… but you’re right, it’s stupid. I’ll let you get back to work.”

Because if I stopped being useful, then… maybe he wouldn’t want me anymore. Maybe he’d leave me behind for something better.

It was years ago, he shouldn’t remember you saying it as clearly as he does. Nor the way you’d looked then; all teary eyed and vulnerable, in front of him and only him. He shouldn’t remember and much less should he still care. He finds himself putting down his tools anyways.

“Sweetmilk.”

It doesn’t even register that he’s talking to you at first, considering you’re already halfway out the door to give him some peace and quiet. “P-pardon?”

“Sweetmilk.” he repeats. “It’s technically not food, but a weakness of mine and it’s still made on a stove. However, I am out of—“

“I got it! I’ll go get everything; I know how to make it!” The biggest grin on your face, you’re out of his lab in an instant and he hears the front door open and close not long after that.

There’s an actual skip in your step as you make your way down the street, there’s no other way to put it.

You are no fool. It’s in the way he hyperfocuses on his work. In the way his place is always a mess, right down to how his tools and notes clutter his desk. In the way what little sunlight manages to reach this part of the Lanes catches in his chestnut hair when it filters through the windows. In the little vocal mannerisms and gestures that you remember oh so well, that he apparently was unable to remove, no matter how much of a perfect machine he claims himself to be. It’s all right there, it had been from the start, this had just been the final push you’d needed. The final push to actually let yourself hope.

You are no fool. He knows this. He knows this and yet he let you have this. This tiny, obsolete, aggravating piece of information that has now turned him into the fool instead. He’s certain you’ve already figured it out, how could you not have? With the way you were immediately way too comfortable around him? With the way you sometimes talked about yourself, your past, just naturally assuming he’d be able to fill in the blanks, cause to him, they weren’t blanks at all? With the way it had been so easy to slip back into old, dangerously domestic habits with you? This had simply been the final nail in the coffin, yours or his, he isn’t sure; he is sure, however that you do not belong here in his oh so carefully crafted solitude.

Over two years. That’s how long it had taken him to put himself back together again. To rid himself of the parts the Hexcore had already infected, tainted, taken from his control. To replace his dying lungs. To make sure he didn’t fall apart again after every second step. To ensure he was no longer weak. And then he’d come for you, intending to save you, make you whole again, but you’d been gone. Disappeared from your hospital bed, from Piltover all together it had seemed. He’d crossed several lines in his search for you, even the ones he’d set for himself; namely never asking for help from his former best friend and partner again. In the end, the only thing he’d accomplished had been to widen the ever growing rift between them, no step closer to you. So he’d done the only thing he could still think of: rip his heart straight from his chest to maybe, hopefully, get rid of the agony right along with it; erase the joyful memories that held nothing but misery anymore. And it had worked; everything inside him dulled and numbed enough to simply drown himself in his work with no interferences. Until you’d stumbled back into his life. And things should be different, he shouldn’t care about you anymore outside of how you can further his research, but they’re not. The way the two of you still fit together so effortlessly is disgustingly, hauntingly familiar and he has to put a stop to it. He has chosen to live like this, in isolation and loneliness, he would not force it on you in the name of some long forgotten affection.

Perfect opportunity strikes some days later, while he’s in the process of replacing your second hand and you question him about his own augmentations. So he tells you about his weak leg and his collapsing lungs like you don’t already know. Watches the smile vanish from you lips and your face fall as he explains how he removed his connections to people from his past.

“So you… you don’t remember anyone who used to be a part of your life? Family, friends, lovers?”

“I remember them just fine, I simply got rid of any unnecessary emotional attachments associated with them. I remember my mother’s lullabies, I do not miss them any longer. I remember the discussions with my old partner, yet I no longer look at them fondly. I remember the lazy mornings spent with my lover, but I don’t yearn for them anymore.”

You visibly flinch at that last one and he merely warns you to stay still, like he doesn’t know what hearing all of this must do to you. It goes quiet between you two afterwards and any glance he steals at you confirms his theory, proves that his action had the desired reaction: the cogs are turning in your head and the longer they do, the more the despair and grief start to show on your face; realization that he is no longer the man you knew and that you no longer have a place by his side. It’s quick, simple work to finish your surgery and he decides to leave you be, give you time to let the new information he provided you with sink in and with some trivial errands used as a quick excuse, you’re left sitting alone on a rickety old stool in his lab.

And you stay seated for a long while, still and unmoving, blankly staring off into the distance as you hopelessly try to process what he just revealed to you. The love you hold for him hasn’t diminished in the slightest, no matter how much he might claim to have changed, but what’s it worth if you’re nothing but a stranger to him now? If the affections he’d had for you in return were lost to his quest of a perfect evolution?

You’re unsure what compels you to rise from your seat, to stroll across the room and absentmindedly trail your fingers across the books on one of his shelves. Maybe you’re simply trying to distract your mind from spiraling further down into the dark abyss of hoplessness it’s currently headed for. Maybe a part of you already knows that this is not meant to last and you’re trying to commit everything to memory through touch alone, now that he’s returned that sensation to you. The very last thing you expect is for one of the spines to catch your attention and for just a moment, you’re back in your old apartment, your old life. Hurriedly pulling the book from it’s spot you find that you are in fact correct, this used to belong to you. The corners of the dark blue cover are frayed and the golden lettering faded, but you recognize it anyways; you’d lent it to him years ago and he’d just never gotten around to giving it back. Which still doesn’t explain what it’s doing here, surely he doesn’t have any use for it anymore. You gingerly dust it off, careful not to over exert your new fingers, and crack it open only for a little slip of paper to immediately come fluttering out and land on the floor in front of you. Picking it up, you find only two words written in a handwriting you know all too well.

Lavender = devotion

The memories flood your mind wether you want them to or not; memories of your absolute mess of a first date. Of the meticulously crafted bouquet of flowers he’d gotten you, based on the book you’d lent him.

Putting the paper back with the page containing it’s corresponding flower, you quickly rifle through the rest of the book and find plenty more notes still left within the pages, all in his handwriting.

Iris = hope, trust

Alstroemeria = mutual support, fascination

Carnations = sincere love, respect, new beginnings

The last entry you come across doesn’t have a written note with it. Instead you find a picture: the two of you, slumped together on the sofa in the lab, all tangled limbs and sleepy intimacy, blissfully unaware of your friend sneaking this picture. It’s marking the pages for camellias and you don’t need a note or a proper look at the information in the book to know what they symbolize; not when you can clearly remember him telling you.

Eternal love. I’m yours for as long as you want. If you’ll have me.

The book slips from your fingers, landing open on the floor with a dull thump as you go right along with it, knees hitting the wood beneath you hard as you curl in on yourself and sob, photograph cradled close against your chest.

It’s the first time you’ve cried, some still coherent part of your mind realizes. Since waking up. Since being imprisoned and tortured. Since coming here. Since being forced to accept stroke after stroke of fate that had irreversibly changed your life entirely against your will or control. So you cry and you weep and you scream at the top of your lungs. For yourself and everything you’ve had to endure. For all you’ve lost. For the life you could’ve had.

You have to leave. You have to. Or you’d spend the the rest of your life desperately trying to rekindle a love that no longer exists. A final glance at the picture still held in your hands and you consider taking it; he wouldn’t miss it, he probably doesn’t even know it’s still here. But the people in that photograph are long gone and it would cause you nothing but more grief, so what’s the point? You drop it between the pages you’d found it in and shove the book back into its’ spot on the shelf before scrambling to your feet and beginning to gather your things strewn across his house. And you could’ve left then and there, things packed and mind made up. You probably should have. But it doesn’t feel quite right either, just disappearing without a trace. So you sit on the bed you’ve called your own for the past weeks and you wait. Until you hear him come home in the middle of the night and the urge to sprint downstairs, throw a quick goodbye and thank you over your shoulder and slam the door on this entire sad, miserable chapter of your life is there. But you don’t. You can’t. Because despite everything, you still want a proper goodbye - you didn’t get one last time, after all. Except you have no idea how you’d go about that, so you stay right where you are and rack your brain. Until dawn breaks and you’re no closer to a solution, so you drag your tired body off the bed and make your way downstairs; you’re just looking for more excuses to stay at this point.

Of course you find him at his workbench, where else, most of his heavier armor discarded and Hexclaw dimantled in front of him as he diligently solders wires to metal. Pausing in the doorway, you wait for him to acknowledge your presence, giving yourself some more time to think, but when several minutes pass and he doesn’t even look up you clear your throat, receiving a quick ‘Morning.’ in return and nothing else. No point beating around the bush, is there?

“When do you think I’ll be able to leave?”

Too busy fiddling with a loose thread at the hem of your shirt to distract yourself, you don’t notice the way he almost flinches, everything he’s doing coming to a halt. It’s quiet for only a moment before he says, “You are not a prisoner here. You may leave whenever you wish to.”

Not the answer you want, not the answer you long for, but an answer nonetheless

“I… now would be good for me, I think.”

“Very well.”

And that’s the end of it. The room is blanketed in silence once again, except for the scrapes and shuffles of his tools as he goes back to work. No grand, emotional request for you stay and why would he? You’re a stranger, an experiment and there’ll be others like you; others to further his research and learn from. He doesn’t need you anymore. He hasn’t for a very long time, you realize. Oh how you wish you could feel the same. You go to grab your bag from the hallway in apathetic, almost mechanical movements, nothing but muscle memory driving you at this point and you expect to walk out the front door without another word exchanged between the two of you, but surprisingly enough, he calls out to you again.

“Where will you go?”

Stopping in your tracks, you come to lean against the door frame, gaze falling anywhere but him. You’re not sure what he’s even asking for, it won’t have any impact on his life after all, but you answer honestly anyways. “As far away from this city as I can get, probably. There’s no one— there’s… nothing left for me here anymore.” A pause as the faces of your tormentors flash before your inner eye. “Not before making the bastards who used me pay for it, though.” He unscrews a panel at the base of the Hexclaw while posing another question. “And if that costs you your life?” You shrug even though he can’t see. “Just as well. I’m not sure I’ve got the will to build something new for myself anyways…”

Silence falls again and you interpret it as the natural end of the conversation and your cue to leave. Except there’s one last thing you need to get off your chest - quite literally, in fact. Slipping off the chain around your neck, ring still safely attached to it as always, you approach him and place it on the surface of his workbench. To your utter surprise, he actually interrupts his work and picks it up with careful fingers; his face might be hidden from you by his mask, but he radiates confusion so you explain before he has a chance to ask. “When I first came here, you told me I could pay you in scrap metal if it made me feel any better about encroaching on your space and time. You can melt this down, throw it out, I don’t care; I’ve carried it around with me long enough and it was always meant to be yours.” You truly don’t have the strength to wait for his reaction, or probable lack thereof; this means nothing to him now, you mean nothing, and that thought makes you hurry towards the exit, tears burning in your eyes.

Despite better judgment, you pause in the doorway, fingers tight around the strap of your bag and swallow around the growing lump in your throat. “Thank you…” It’s barely above a whisper and it’s not enough. You were the one who wanted a proper goodbye this time, weren’t you? So you turn to fully face him, met with the same blank, hollow eyed stare you’ve grown oh so used to and you smile, genuine and grief stricken. “Thank you for everything, Viktor.”

Part of you wonders when he last heard his own name. If he even still remembers it.

And then you’re gone, leaving him alone in his quiet lab, with only his research to keep him company, just as it should be.

The front door is as far your shaky legs get you, bag slipping from your shoulder as you slump against it, forehead pressed to the cool, worn wood as you press a hand against your mouth in a desperate attempt to to stifle the sobs. The man you’re leaving behind is the love of your life no matter what, you’ve known that for ages; there was a before him, but there was never supposed to be an after. And yet now you have to figure out exactly what that after is going to look like, because he’s gone and at the same time he’s still here and that, oh that aches something awful. It’s unfair and it’s cruel and it makes you want to claw your own chest open to strangle your heart with your bare hands just to make the pain stop. It makes you envy him for the first time, no heart left in his chest to ail him. And it makes you despise him, because how dare he leave you alone with the burden of this love you were supposed to share?

The heavy footfalls behind you should jumpstart you into action, make you wrench the door open and get out or at the very least compose yourself, but you can’t. You find that you simply don’t care anymore either. Let him see what he’s done to you, what he’s turned you into, even if he wouldn’t shed a single tear over it. A mechanical hand comes to rest next to your head, his presence right at your back, so close and so very much like the first night you came to this place and yet everything’s so incredibly different now.

“What? Did you forget some kind of last diagnostics test on the new hand or something?” The tears are obvious in your tone. “No. But you should know that the people you plan on taking revenge on are already dead. I made sure of it.” Breath catching in your throat, the memory of your first morning in this house comes back to you: the bruises, the blood on his armor, the way everything about him had screamed violence and death that day. “You… Why?” It makes no sense whatsoever and it’s making your head spin and he’s not answering, until, “That’s hardly a concern for you now. I simply thought it consequential for you to be made aware of the fact that if you wish to depart from this city you may do so. There is nothing—“ It’s the first time you’ve heard him falter and fumble in all your time here and when he speaks again there’s an edge to his voice that you can’t quite place, accompanied by the hand against the door clenching into a fist. “There is no one keeping you here anymore.”

The clock in the corner counts down the seconds, loud and echoing in comparison to the quiet that has befallen you both. A quiet you decide to break, tentative and scared.

“Isn’t there? My tormentors might be gone, but what of the man I love? Could he still find it in him to love me if I stayed?”

“I don’t believe that still matters, does it? You’ll leave either way.”

And something inside of you snaps.

You brace your forearms against the door and shove backwards, catching him so off guard he stumbles back a step or two, creating just enough distance for you to rear back your hand and punch him square in the jaw. His mask gets knocked clean off his face, loudly clattering to the floor; your freshly operated hand sparks and creaks ominously, fingers now bent at odd angles while searing pain shoots up your entire arm, but you don’t care. It’s nothing compared to the white, hot fury that’s boiling you alive from the inside out.

“How dare you? How fucking dare you?!”

He doesn’t even deem it necessary to look at you; completely frozen to the spot, head turned away from you and hair covering his eyes from your view. He will have to listen to you either way, wether he wants to or not. Wether he still cares or not.

“You’re the one who decided he’d rather forget every moment, every laugh, every touch we shared like they all meant nothing! You’re the one who tore out his heart without a second thought and threw it away even though it was mine! And all the while you’re leaving me with the burden of it all! I’m the only person alive who still holds our time together dear to their heart now! Do you have any idea how heavy memories can be? How maddening?! And these—“ you bring your hands up between the two of you, all sleek, perfect metal, the spitting image of him. “You gave me these for all the world to see and left me with yet another reminder of you! Like I needed more of those to know that I am still and always will be irrevocably yours! And now you tell me that it wouldn’t matter if there’s any part of you, however small, that still thinks of yourself as mine?! Fuck you, Viktor!”

You slump back against the door for support, chest heaving and unharmed hand coming up to cover your face; a desperate and all but pointless attempt to hide the tears and stifle the sobs.

He’s a scientist, an engineer. Solving problems, fixing things, improving lives; it’s what he does. What he thrives in. Yet he doesn’t know how to fix this. So he zeroes in on the one thing he can fix.

“Let me see your hand.”

But you don’t let him. Curl in on yourself and angle your body and injured hand away from him; it makes you seem so much smaller. So vulnerable. So defeated. Good. Maybe if he can drive you away even further then…

“You are… a distraction. A hindrance to my work that I can not tolerate. You do not belong here and it would be better for the both of us if you left and never returned.”

With the mask gone, the mechanical edge to his voice is missing as well, but every word still stings like the cut of a blade.

“So turn around and let me go. You’ll never have to see me again, I promise.”

He knows all too well how seriously you take that; every promise, no matter how small or menial, a solemn oath, never to be broken. He can not let you make this one; every part of himself rebels against the very thought of letting you walk out that damn door, even if it would be the logical thing to do. Drive you further away, he’s not capable of that any longer, who is he trying to fool? Himself, most likely.

Stepping closer he gauges your reaction and when you don’t recoil from him any further, he rests his hands on either side of you and drops his forehead against the old, worn wood above your shoulder.

“I can’t.”

It’s spat through grit teeth, like it physically pains him to admit it. But it’s the most emotion you’ve heard in his voice during all the time you’ve been here.

“I removed every function that wasn’t vital; every memory that was redundant to my work. Affection, jealousy, admiration, anger, joy, sorrow; any emotion that would’ve proven an aberration sooner rather than later. I clawed and prodded and scraped at my own insides until nothing remained and yet you refused to let go.”

Your sobs have reduced to sniffles, your body still beneath him; except for the hand you’ve dropped from your face that he now feels running up his back, titanium fingers gliding over the metal ridges that make up his spine until they settle at the nape of his neck.

“Your face, your laugh, your favorite color, the way you’d look cooking breakfast in the mornings, the way your body would feel against mine; every detail, no matter how minute stayed. Etched into the fissures of my brain, burned into the steel I used to rebuild myself, regardless of how many times I replaced it. Carved into my being, my very soul; I could not remove you any more than I could remove the engine beating as my heart. And I can not go back to how things were before you came here. Before you found me again.”

“Why not? You seemed perfectly happy in your solitude with your work.” Your voice is small, but genuine. And you almost squeak in shock, wind knocked out of you, when his arms come around your middle to hold you tight, almost too tight, flush against him as he buries his face into crook of your neck.

“Because you are in every fraction of skin, in every blood vein that still remains within me. In every bolt, every wire, every piece of metal I welded to myself. I do not… function properly unless I know of your whereabouts. Unless I know you’re safe and cared for. And it was maddening, to surpress it, to ignore it all these years; a clear error constantly rearing its’ ugly head, telling me that I will never get any further in my research, my work, my vision, unless it’s resolved. Constantly running on loop in the back of my head, reminding me that I am incomplete. I need you, you are an essential part of me, right down to my very atoms and it makes me, all of me, no matter what else I might become, yours.”

There’s fresh tears streaming down your face, because he sounds so tired. So desperate. So upset. So painfully human. You find yourself doing the same thing you’ve always done when you’ve had him in your arms, worried and anxious about something; gently thread your fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp and lean your head against his carefully. “Viktor, if you want me to stay, all you have to do is ask. You know that; if you want something all you ever had to do was ask it of me. But I need you to ask me, all right? I need to hear you say it.” He doesn’t answer right away, only draws patterns into the small of your back in thought; a habit of his you remember all too well. This close, you can feel the heat coming off him, generated from the several engines powering him and a barely there hum and whirr of machinery against your chest; a sound that comes in regular intervals, akin to a heartbeat. When he does speak, his voice is weary. Conflicted. Unsure. Scared.

“I am not the man you fell in love with, my heart. Not gentle, nor kind. There is no coming back from the lines I’ve crossed and I don’t— I can not love you the same way I used to. The way you’d deserve. And yet… I want to be selfish.” He pauses for a bitter, ridiculing bark of laughter and shifts in your hold and it’s only then that you realize the skin at the slope of your neck and your collarbone is wet. Shame threatens to choke you when it occurs to you that up until now you didn’t think he still could cry. “I shouldn’t want for anything. Machines do not want or desire or long for things. But… they need all their components to operate as they’re supposed to; to perform at their full potential.” He’s rationalizing it, you know and you’ll be fucking damned if you interrupt him. “And I need you to stay. Here, with me. Then maybe in time you’ll be able to love me as I am now.”

Your chuckle is weak; you’re exhausted physically and emotionally. “What a silly thing to say. That’s assuming I ever stopped loving you in the first place.” It should be impossible, for his embrace to become any tighter, but it does and it’s almost starting to hurt - good, because the pain makes it real.

It’s in the way he buries his face against you further, a noise oh so very similar to a sob escaping him, and how your gaze catches on his mask left discarded on the ground that it finally dawns on you: he’s hiding. From you or from himself, you’re not certain, but you’re not having it any longer. “My love, let me see you.” He doesn’t move; if anything he freezes up. “Please?” You try again and are met with the same result, except for, “You will not like what you find.” Irritation flares up in your chest, manifesting itself in a harsh tug on his hair and, “That’s for me to decide.” It takes him a few very long, agonizing seconds, but eventually, he sighs in defeat and pulls back enough for you to be able to get your first proper look at his face after all these years.

No wonder you managed to break your hand, his jaw and cheeks are all solid, dark, smooth metal, connecting to the column of his throat. Your fingers are moving before you can stop yourself, trailing along his cheek bones where hard steel meets soft, scarred flesh. Still as pale as always, almost deathly so, faint blue veins under his skin now in plain view and the contrast to the two moles you adore all the more prominent. The ever present dark circles under his eyes have evolved into lasting bruises. And oh his eyes. The same beautiful gold you remember, except now they’re rimmed with a thin ring of bright pink, courtesy of the Shimmer you’ve seen in his lab no doubt, bright against the deep, dark, purple-ish black that now makes up his sclera. But dissimilar from your memory as they may be, the look in them is one you recognize: careful, poised for rejection, but the remaining tears betray him. It’s strange, how he can look so utterly different yet so hauntingly the same.

He had imagined this moment plenty of times, but never in his wildest dreams could he have come up with this. Yes, there’s several emotions at once crossing your face when you finally see him, yet none of them negative. It’s genuine, innocent curiosity at first, reflected in the careful fingers that reach out to touch him. And before he has time to fully register your touch against his skin, your expression shifts and it’s nothing but pure, unadulterated admiration and affection. “Still so beautiful. Still all mine.”

Just like that, all the tumult and chaos and noise in the back of his head that hadn’t once stopped in the last few years finally seems to silence and he can actually fucking think in peace again for the first time - and the first thing he thinks to do, the most logical thing to do, really, is to curse under his breath before crashing his lips to yours. It’s needy and filthy and all tongues and teeth, your back making abrupt contact with the door again as he shoves you against it, hands coming up from your waist to cup your face. The gesture is tender and sweet and entirely contrasting to the way he’s kissing you; to what he claims to have become. It’s more than welcome nonetheless, giving you a sense of security you didn’t realize you needed as your intact hand moves away from his hair to cover his. It just so happens to be the one that’s still mostly flesh and blood, warm against your skin, except for a thin, cold sliver of metal you feel that you can’t place at first. You don’t remember seeing any augmentations that would feel like this on his hand before. Curious despite the adoring, addictive haze that’s starting to cloud your mind, fingertips try to make out more detail and you find it in tiny little ridges in the metal sitting specifically on his ringfinger that feel suspiciously like letters. Letters that spell out one word: Unconditional.

Your ring. He’s wearing your ring.

It makes you kiss him harder, wanting him so much closer even though it’s hardly possible. You could stay like this for the rest of your life and you wouldn’t ever need for anything else. How unfortunate it is then that one of you both still needs air to fill their lungs to live. How unfortunate that that someone is you; personally you gladly would’ve suffocated against his lips, but he seems to have other plans as he pulls back to let you take some much needed deep breaths, chest heaving while he settles for leaving chaste pecks against the skin of your face.

“Still all yours,” he confirms and you mirror the smile you can hear in his voice. “Now and always.”

[melercies]

pairing(s): thanos x (gender-neutral) reader (squid game + post-squid game)

warning(s): mature/suggestive themes & parts, deaths (thanos & reader separately), violence/threats, psychological manipulation, my best interpretation of the character and lowercase usage intended.

author's note: THANOS HEADCANONS, i love him so much, it's not even funny anymore along with nam-gyu. correction. love and hate them. that's one thing for sure. please let me know if i missed anything! likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated!

when it comes to thanos, love isn't gentle. it’s fire and chaos, something hungry and relentless. he doesn’t do soft confessions or sweet nothings. love, for him, is about claiming—staking his place in your life so deeply that you can’t imagine a world without him in it.

his version of affection is intense, overwhelming, and sometimes, suffocating. he likes knowing that you’re his, that when you look around the dormitory filled with desperate, terrified people, you don’t see safety in anyone else but him.

he thrives in the chaos of the games. he's loud, unpredictable, and somehow, dangerously charming—always knowing how to manipulate people into doing what he wants. but when it comes to you? there’s an unsettling sincerity beneath all his usual antics. you’re not just another pawn to him. you’re something he refuses to lose.

he makes sure you stick by his side. “you’re safer with me,” he’d say, slinging an arm around your shoulder, fingers digging in just enough to make you feel his grip. “ain’t no one touching you when i’m around.”

if someone so much as looks at you wrong, he makes sure they regret it. he plays it off like a joke, but there’s a deadly edge to his words. “oh, don’t worry about them. they won’t be a problem anymore.” and sure enough, they don’t make it past the next round or you see them keeping their distance.

he steals extra food for you—sometimes by force, sometimes by sheer charisma. but he won’t just hand it over for free. he likes watching you work for it or he expects something from you in return. ���c’mon, babe, say please,” he teases, dangling a piece of bread in front of your lips. if you refuse, he shrugs and takes a bite himself, grinning. “suit yourself.”

thanos dangles the piece of bread just out of your reach, his smirk wide and infuriating. "y'know," he drawls, tapping it against his chin like he's thinking, "i was just gonna ask for a little 'please,' but now i think i want something a little sweeter."

you narrow your eyes. "screw you."

he chuckles, all amusement and mischief, before leaning in, his voice dropping to a murmur. "tempting, babe, but let’s start smaller." his eyes flicker down to your lips, then back up. "how ‘bout a kiss?"

your stomach twists—not just from hunger but from the way he’s looking at you, like he already knows your answer. you clench your fists. "not happening."

thanos gasps dramatically, placing a hand over his chest like you wounded him. "oof. that one actually hurt." then, he clicks his tongue. "guess you don’t want the bread that bad, huh?"

you scowl as he pops a bite into his mouth, chewing slowly, savoring it.

"fucking asshole," you mutter under your breath.

he grins. "c’mon. it’s just a little peck—what, afraid you’ll like it?"

you glare at him, refusing to take the bait and give the satisfaction. "i’d rather starve."

he hums, amused. "dramatic. I like that." then, with zero warning, he leans closer, his breath warm against your ear as he whispers, "but I think I’d like it better if you got on your knees and earned it."

your breath catches, and your face burns. "you’re disgusting!"

thanos barks out a laugh, tilting his head. "ohhh, sweetheart, if you think that’s bad, you should hear what I really wanna say." he pops the last of the bread into his mouth, licking his fingers before smirking. "mmm. that could’ve been yours."

you swear under your breath, turning to storm off, but before you can, he grabs your wrist, stopping you. his grin softens—just slightly. "relax, sweetheart. i’ll bring you something tomorrow." then, he leans in just enough to make your heart skip. "but you’re gonna have to make it worth my while."

and just like that, he releases you, strutting off, leaving you hot with frustration—and maybe something else that makes you question yourself.

nights in the sleeping quarters are tense. you never know when someone might try to take you out in your sleep. but thanos? he sleeps like a king. always somehow finding a way to make himself comfortable, stretching out like he owns the place. but you? he keeps you close. “wouldn’t want you wandering off,” he mutters, an arm draped lazily over your waist, pulling you in. “or worse, someone trying to snatch you up.”

he practically thrives off getting under your skin. when the stress of the games starts getting to you, he leans in, lips brushing against your ear. “relax, sweetheart. you’re wound up so tight,” he purrs. “you need me to help you unwind?”

and damn it, he knows exactly what he’s doing. the teasing, the touches, the way his eyes stay locked onto you like you’re the only thing worth looking at. it’s infuriating how much he enjoys watching you squirm under his gaze.

the air in the dormitory was thick with tension, bodies pressed into cramped spaces, the weight of survival hanging heavy over everyone's heads. but none of that matters—not when thanos has you cornered against the cold metal frame of your bunk, his arm braced beside your head, blocking any escape.

damn him.

he's too close, leaning in just enough that you can the warmth of his breath against your cheek. his fingers ghost along your wrist, barely touching, just enough to make you hyper-aware of every movement. his lips curl into that lazy smirk of his, like he already knows how this is going to play out.

"y’know," he murmurs, voice dropping just low enough that only you can hear, "you really don’t hide it well."

your brows furrow. "hide what?"

his eyes flick down to your lips for just a second before snapping back up to meet your gaze, sharp and calculating. "how much you like this."

your breath hitches.

he chuckles as he takes notice, the sound deep, teasing—like he’s enjoying this more than he should. of course he is. he lives for moments like these, where he can get under your skin, make you second-guess yourself. it’s a game to him. one he’s all too good at playing.

"you can act tough all you want," he muses, fingers trailing higher, skimming the inside of your wrist. his touch is light, barely there, but it still sends a shiver up your spine. his grin widens. he notices. "but I see right through you, sweetheart."

you glare, trying to push him back, but he doesn’t budge. if anything, he leans in even closer, his forehead nearly brushing yours. his free hand skims down your waist, just slow enough to be deliberate, before stopping right at the hem of your uniform.

"you’re such a pain in the ass," you mutter, voice tighter than you’d like.

he laughs, tilting his head, fingers curling slightly against your hip. "yeah? and yet, you never stop running into me."

his tone is smug. it's infuriating. he’s enjoying this. the way you shift under his touch, the way your pulse jumps when his lips hover just near your ear—never quite touching, but just enough to make you want to close the distance yourself.

but that’s the game.

and just when you think he might actually push further, just when you’re bracing yourself for the inevitable—he pulls back. steps away like nothing happened, leaving you standing there, heat rising to your cheeks, pulse hammering in your ears.

"you should get some sleep," he muses, stretching his arms behind his head. his voice is casual, like he didn’t just toy with you, like he didn’t just leave you on edge. "big day tomorrow."

you exhale sharply, forcing yourself to glare, but it only makes his smirk widen as he turns back towards nam-gyu whose verbally fighting with se-mi as gyeong-su and min-su watch quietly.

bastard.

if you survive, but he doesn't? at first, it doesn't feel real. the games end, the money is in your hands, and yet, it feels hollow. you're supposed to feel free. instead, all you can think about is him.

thanos, with his wild energy and relentless teasing. thanos, who could make you laugh even when you were both inches from death. thanos, whose cocky grin never faltered—even when he should have been afraid. his absence follows you like a shadow.

you find yourself scanning through crowds, expecting to see that familiar smirk, or that effortless confidence that made him impossible to ignore. but he's not there. he never will be.

you still hear him sometimes. in the quiet moments. "c'mon, you know i'd make this more fun. don't tell me you're getting boring without me." you tell yourself it's just your imagination. your mind is just tricking you to believe he's still with you. just the lingering echos of someone who burned too brightly, too chaotically, to last. and yet, some part you doesn't want to let go.

an article of clothing, a shirt or jacket of his—is still in your closet. You don’t wear it, but you don’t get rid of it either. You tell yourself it’s just another piece of the past, but deep down, you know the truth. it's proof that, for a little while, he was real. that you were real.

and some nights, when the silence becomes unbearable, you slip it on and close your eyes.

if he survives, but you don't? at first, he laughs. a short, bitter sound emitting from his lips, like he's trying to convince himself that it's all just a bad joke once he hears your player number being announced or you're laying in front of him motionlessly. "nah, they're not gone. they're just screwing with me, right?"

but when no sarcastic response comes, no exasperated sigh, no teasing remark to fill the space or your presence showing up anywhere, the reality starts to sink in. and it burns.

thanos doesn't do grief. not the way most people do. he drinks too much. fights too much. spends money like it's an illusion—because, to him, it might as well be. the prize means nothing without you there to roll your eyes at his ridiculous spending habits or call him an idiot when he does something reckless.

your absence is a wound he refuses to acknowledge, but it festers beneath the surface. occasionally, he finds himself turning, expecting you to be there, leaning against the wall with that unimpressed look. but there's nothing. just the crushing weight of the silence.

if he had the chance to trade places with you? some nights, he thinks he would. but instead, he lives. because even if you're gone, he knows you wouldn't want him to waste it. and maybe, just maybe, living is his own twisted way of keeping you close.

he never talks about you. not to anyone. not even when he's alone. because if he does, it makes it real. and if it's real, then that means he lost. and thanos hates losing.

but when no one's around, when the liquor stops working and the noise in his head refuses to quiet down, he’ll pull out something of yours—something small, something insignificant, something only you would know the importance of.

and for a brief moment, he lets himself remember. then, just as quickly, he shoves it away. because memories don't change reality. and reality is that you're gone. and he's still here. alone.

[myswans0ng]

As Grief Consumes | Chapter Three

synopsis: An overconfident prodigy, a chain-smoking-alcohol-chugging brunette, a self-righteous hypocrite, a stoic unimpressed blonde, an overly enthusiastic boy and then there's you...A suicidal maniac.

ch. summary: The big dog returns and he’s off the leash…

contents/warning: MDNI, graphic depictions of violence/mature themes, ANGST, mutual pining, eventual smut/smut, slow burn, multiple love interests, character death/s, no use of y/n, hurt/comfort, humor, established age of characters is 18yo, jjk x oc, curse user!/jujutsu sorcerer!reader, fem!reader

w/c: 7.3k

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⋅ ───⊱ iii. bet on losing dogs ⊰───⋅

A gun went off at around 7 am in the morning.

… in school grounds.

And now you and your ‘friend’ Geto, are in Yaga-sensei’s office. 

Both of you knelt down, head facing down before his towering figure as he sat across the two of you, with his arms crossed. 

You’re in trouble. 

Trouble is understatement. This isn’t a slap-on-the-wrist kind of deal, this was probably— most likely a risk of expulsion type of situation. 

And it was your fault.

To Geto, it was abundantly clear that you were to blame but you’ve managed to drag him down with you.

And he’s definitely not hiding the fact that he’s fuming right now.

The air in the room was still and the silence was brutal, to say the least. Yaga’s vivid disappointment looming over you both like children who broke an expensive antique vase. You didn’t dare look up, nor did the person next to you.

You could feel the tension radiating off of Geto beside you. His still and calm posture, betrayed by the twitch in his jaw and the quiet exhale of his irritation. Not at Yaga, but at you, of course.

You’re an idiot. If he could say that to you right now, he would.

“Explain yourselves.” Yaga-sensei’s deep voice felt like a tremor as it echoed in the room. 

You swallowed the lump in your throat as sweat trickled down your lower back. You steal a glance at Geto from the corner of your eye. He didn’t move, he didn’t even flinch, but you could tell he was waiting.

Waiting for you to own up and fix the mess you created. 

Yaga’s eyes narrowed, his patience already wearing thin. 

You sighed, finally lifting your head.

How exactly do you explain the turn of events that occurred this morning?

How do you explain to Yaga-sensei that you— who he no doubt thinks of you as the well-behaved, well-mannered and maybe a little outspoken heir of the Kisaragi clan, tried to put a bullet through your brain this fine morning?

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

A Few Nights Ago….

As a kid, you remember being told to never touch stray animals that come your way. Whether it was a wet puppy whimpering and pawing your leg for scraps or a lost kitten wandering and searching for its mother. You were always told to stay away and keep your hands to yourself.

You never understood where their concern was rooting from. Were they worried you’ll get fleas or that it’ll bite you and infect you with rabies? Or was it fear that you’d get attached to something fragile, and fleeting, something you couldn’t keep?

Maybe the latter was a little far-fetched but as you grew older, anyone you’ve ever helped or cared for seemed to prove that right. People, much like those stray animals, had a habit of wandering into your life with their broken pieces and leaving just as quietly when they no longer needed fixing.

Toji Zenin.

A stray animal. But very far from fragile, at least you’d like to think so.

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” Your gaze meets his sunken green eyes. The scar on the corner of his lip, stretching slightly as he smirked. His face is more rugged than the last time you saw him. His sharp canines shining faintly at the dim light casting over him.

A stray… dog.

Toji Zenin is a stray dog.

You noticed what looked like sticky purple residue, presumably from a curse splattered on his clothes and neck, mixing with the blood dripping from the side of his head, painting his ear and cheek red. His disheveled appearance was almost comical if it didn’t look like he was about to die.

A wounded stray dog— severely one, at that. 

“You look like shit.” You said flatly, your tone void of shock or concern.

He laughed at that, a low, raspy, amused sound that echoed in the abandoned warehouse he had told you to meet him at. The sound, too familiar. His body was leaning back against a stack of dusty crates. 

“S’nice to see ya too kid,” he replied, chuckling in short ragged breaths. “Mind helping your favorite sensei out?”

Sensei. He always called himself that, whether mockingly or not, because there was a time where he was and was yours, for four years in fact. Though you loathed addressing him that way.

Toji Zenin was the one who taught you how to fight with everything you had— and then some. 

You could still hear the words he drilled into your head, each one you remember distinctively, each time he managed to take you down because you were being ‘too nice’,

 “Fair fights are for losers and dead men.”

“You want something? Take it, rip it outta their hands if ya have to!”

“Do ya think they’ll stop jus’ ‘cause you’re crying?”

The training was brutal, it had left you bruised and aching more times than your other so-called senseis who were too afraid to disobey your mother’s wishes to keep your training… medium— more like, subpar compared to Toji’s methods.

At first you hated training with him, you hated his guts, you hated his stupid fucking cocky grin whenever he beat you! 

He fought like a feral, cornered, rabid mutt, all teeth and desperation, while you were more like a timid, kicked kitten, struggling to keep up.

But later on, the training made you sharper, faster and unrelenting. The fights where he didn’t hold back, where he forced you to claw and bite your way to victory if you wanted to survive, it was a cruel thing to teach a young impressionable mind but you’d be lying if you said you missed the version of you that didn’t know any better. 

“Are ya really just gonna stand there?” Toji muttered, his hand clutching the side of his abdomen.

Now looking at him, you couldn’t help but wonder if he regrets teaching you his merciless philosophy. 

“You’re lucky I don’t finish what this loser started,” you shot back, walking towards the bloodied dog standing at six-foot-two, even when he was slightly hunched.

Without missing a beat, he lifts his black shirt up to his underarms, the thin fabric bundled, revealing his strong, muscular torso marred with scars, both old and new. But the real kicker was the large jagged hole where his kidney used to be. Your eyes scanned the gory crater, assessing the wound.

“I still got it, don’t I?” he drawled, noticing your gaze. “The ladies love tuh’ see it.”

You rolled your eyes, unimpressed. “You do know you’re missing an organ right?”

“Still, your sensei’s a fucking machine, ‘m I right?” He smirked faintly. Chuckling slowly as he tried to mask the pain by stroking his own ego. 

You sighed. “Ya know I might just do the world a favor, and let you bleed out.” 

“Nahh I know ya wouldn’t let your favorite sensei die like this,” he rasped, his tone filled with amusement.

You feel your eyes roll again, the habit growing back the more you spoke to him. Without another word, you placed your hand on his firm, toned stomach that was slicked with his sweat and blood, just right  next to the open wound and on instinct, you channeled your cursed technique. Your power surged, weaving itself into the torn muscles and broken tissues in his body. 

You could feel his pain transmit to you, the process was methodical yet excruciating. The worst part was the stabbing ache piercing through your abdomen when your technique started regrowing the missing kidney. It was like knitting flesh out of nothing, your cursed energy burned hotter like molten iron in your veins. 

Every inch of your body screamed in protest, as if it was your organ being ripped from your side. Sweat trickled down your temples, as you clenched your teeth, toughing it out. Though you can’t say this is the first time you’d done this, regenerating loss parts was hard to get used to. 

Toji, on the other hand, let out a low, relieved groan. His head lolling back as the pain began to ebb away, replaced by a strange, almost euphoric sensation. It was like being on morphine but much sweeter and addictive.

“Damn, forgot how good this feels…” He said, his voice thick, almost slurring as his shoulders sagged. You could feel his slow breathing vibrating through his muscles. “S’much better than the stuff they got in hospitals. Ever thought about opening a clinic?”

You snorted, your hand leaving his body as the wound fully closed up like it was never there. “Did you forget my family already has those?”

“Not that legal crap, I mean like doing this typa stuff for people like me?” A lazy grin curved on his lips as he pulled his dirty shirt down. “Where they pay ya with favors or just straight up cash.”

“You mean you want me running an underground operation patching up lowlifes and criminals?” 

“Why not? You’d make bank,” he smirked.

“No you’d bankrupt me.” You retort.

You take a step back, you feel your knees tremble slightly, your eyes seeing dark spots in your vision. The effects of your abilities cause you to falter, but you force yourself to stay upright.

“Easy there, kid,” his grin fell, his tone had a flicker of worry as his hand caught your arm, keeping you from stumbling back. “Need me to carry ya?”

You shot him a glare, huffing out as you regained your composure. You pull your arm back from his grip. “I’m fine,” you muttered, the sensation of regenerating flesh back together still lingered— like phantom pains crawling up your own spine.

“And stop calling me that, not a fucking kid.” 

“Heh, guess you’re right,” Toji chuckled, his voice carrying a teasing tone. “My bad though for having to wear ya out this much.”

“Maybe next time try not getting gutted like a fish, Zenin!” you replied, your tone sharper than you intended.

Toji chuckled again, this time softer, as if genuinely amused. He glanced toward the warehouse exit, his expression turning distant for a moment before he spoke again.

“It’s Fushiguro now.”

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

There was a humble little izakaya near the train station where Toji seemed to know well. After the long, exhausting day you had, the takoyaki you had consumed earlier in the afternoon was long digested. You could practically hear your stomach grumble, especially right after tending to your former sensei’s wounds.

The dim lights kept a cozy glow inside the place and there was a rundown jukebox in the corner that still somehow worked perfectly well as it played classic romantic ballads. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was warm, alive and just comfortable enough for its frequent nightly patrons. Toji insisted on buying you dinner, saying it was for old time’s sake and not just to repay you. 

You were still ‘good friends’ after all.

The large gruff man returned to the counter where you sat, the small stool made a noise as it got weighted down by his burly physique. He had changed into a clean shirt and washed off in the bathroom sink, though his damp hair still clung to the sides of his forehead. You on the other hand have been glancing at the menu since you got here, seeing more options than you expected.

You see Toji wave off the cook in the corner of your eye, who immediately took notice of him.

“Lotus root chips, salted shallots and,...” Toji trailed off, scratching his head as if trying to remember something crucial. “Tuna with those sticky soybeans. One for her, two f’me— ‘n’ bring out a bottle of saké while you’re at it.” He held up two fingers lazily to emphasize his hefty portion. The cook gave a curt nod before disappearing into the small kitchen. 

“Don’t worry about it kid, I still know what you like,” he said casually. You scowled at him. “Right, not a kid no more.” Though you were a little surprised that he remembered that maguro natto was your comfort food.

“I’m surprised your little brain can still work, thought that guy got you good when I saw your head bleeding.” You replied.

“Wasn’t my blood.” He snickered, propping his chin on his hand as he leaned forward, pretending to read the menu then tossing it to the side lazily.

Moments later, the food arrived. The cook placed everything in front of you and Toji, with practiced ease, finishing off by setting down a bottle of saké and two tiny ceramic cups.

Toji wasted no time pouring the saké, sliding a cup your way. He raises his cup, gesturing towards you. You picked up yours and mirrored his motion.

You looked at each other for a brief moment, both had nothing to say or celebrate so instead he nodded at you knowingly and you did the same then clinked your cup against his nonetheless. You take a sip of the saké, there was a slight burn that settled in your throat and in your chest, enveloping you in a warm, tingling sensation.

Toji downed his drink in one go, sighing contentedly as he set the cup down. He wasted no time reaching for his food, grabbing a piece of lotus root chip and crunching into it like a man who hadn’t eaten in days. He was starving, just as much as you. You then started digging into the natto and raw fish.

“So… Fushiguro,” you began, your chopsticks fidgeting with the glutinous rice. “Is that like a fake name? Try’na hide or something?”

Toji paused mid-bite, his sharp eyes flicking to you with a glimmer of amusement. He chewed slowly, as if considering how much to tell you. “Nah, it’s not fake. Took my wife’s name.”

That made you stop, your chopsticks hovering mid-air. “Wife?” You repeated, your tone stuck between surprise and curiosity.

He smirked at your reaction, reaching for his sake cup to pour himself another drink. “Yeah, didn’t think I’d be the type, huh?”

“That and…” your mind pondered for a second, searching for the right word to say or where to begin. “I don’t know… I don’t actually know what I thought,” you admit. He chuckled, shaking his head as he took another chip.

“A wife huh? Who's the unlucky woman who had to put up with you?” You picked up your cup and took another long sip.

You hear a hearty laugh rumbling out of Toji. Then he gulps down another cup and let out a deep sigh. “... Late wife.” He said. His voice quieter.

“Sorry to hear that,” you said. “My condolences.”

Is that where he’s been for the past three years? You wondered.

Toji’s lips twitched into a faint smirk. “Must’ve surprised ya when I disappeared huh,” he said as if he had read your mind. 

“Can’t say I didn’t see it coming,” you said, remembering the chaos that ensued when Toji just up and left the Zenin clan. “I can’t blame you.” You swirled the sake in your cup, staring at the small whirlpool.

His eyes softened at your words, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “So you knew what those shitheads were planning?”

“Of course I knew,” you replied, “My family doesn’t keep their cards close to their chests when it comes to their grand plans. It wasn’t hard to piece things together especially when the elders were mouthy dimwits,”

You set your cup down, leaning forward slightly. ”Said something about you being the perfect candidate for the merger.”

Toji let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, perfect candidate, yeah right,’” he repeated mockingly. 

You were supposed to marry Toji when you’ve come of age. Your clan and the Zenin had carefully orchestrated the arrangement, calling it a union that would strengthen and bring the two families together to further their influence in the world of jujutsu. 

To the Zenin, they were always keen on getting rid of the problem of their family— Toji, but for once, they had an opportunity to make use of the said problem. He became someone they could conveniently offload onto the Kisaragi, all the while it would help build their empire.

For the Kisaragi, Toji fit the criteria for filling the role as your ‘spouse’. Your family was strictly selective in choosing the father of your offspring, given the circumstances of your abilities and the lineage they wanted to preserve, Toji, in your mother’s words, was— an ‘ideal specimen’ because he was practically a non-sorcerer. It was a deeply rooted tradition within your clan, one meant to safeguard the delicate balance of the Kisaragi curse, an inherited curse and technique that grew unstable or inconsistent when mixed with cursed energy users. Toji, in your family’s eyes, was exceptionally better than a healthy, normal, average human male— zero cursed energy but with outstanding physical prowess. 

What started out as a plan where they had hired Toji as your sensei— turned out to be just the tip of the iceberg.

You should’ve known better. It was never just one thing with these people. 

Your mother, along with the elders were convinced that the union would produce an heir who would not only carry on the family legacy, but could redefine a new generation of Kisaragi healers, unburdened by the limitations of your cursed energy and technique, plus an unparalleled set of skills and finally, for the Zenin, they could make use of the runts in their litter and the clan would finally have a more prominent standing amongst the rest. Your family and his shared these ideals.

This idea was ambitious.

And quite frankly… ridiculous. 

But the two clans were eager and too blinded by that delusion. They were practically patting themselves on the back for their so-called brilliance.

Fools.

"Bastards thought they could just pawn me off to get what they wanted.” Toji scoffed. “They sure didn’t expect me robbing ‘em blind, heh.” He let out a low, amused laugh, shaking his head.

Neither of you were consulted in this arrangement, not until a little later when you overheard the elders that both your family and the Zenin offered Toji a rather hefty sum for his cooperation. He would’ve gotten more if he had pushed through with their plans but that was the day you also found out that Toji had vanished. 

And both clans went in cahoots, desperately searching for the man who just stole 250 million yen. 

If Toji had run off with that kind of money, even with the knowledge that he could’ve gotten more if he stayed, that he could’ve finally gotten the acceptance or approval of his clan— then whatever drove him to leave must have been… worth it.

And now you know that reason was to be with the love of his life. The thought of Toji getting married and settling down, almost made you laugh at how… cheesy it was.

Toji leaned back, exhaling sharply. “My bad for not telling ya I was leaving, you probably hate me now,”

You’re supposed to be pissed right?

Furious, even. One of the only people you ever trusted just disappeared without a trace, without so much of a phone call. Now he shows up out of nowhere, three years later asking for a favor as if you hadn’t already given him enough. 

But surprisingly, you weren’t angry. On one hand, a part of you was relieved that he was still alive, though you would rather eat rocks than admit that, while the other— was apathetic.

Toji Zenin  Fushiguro may be a stray dog but he was your only friend. If the tables were turned, you would’ve done the same and he would’ve been proud. 

There was a beat of silence before you continued, your voice softer. “I don’t hate you… If anything, I envied you.”

That caught him off guard. His eyebrows raised slightly, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. 

“You had the guts to leave…” You explained, your eyes staring into space as you spoke. “You walked away from it all— Hell, I’m surprised you stayed as long as you did with those assholes… I can’t say the same for me.”

He let out a long breath, his hand running through his dark hair. “So you don’t think I’m a piece ‘a shit?” “Oh I still do, but for different reasons,” you chuckled, lightening the mood. “You didn’t owe them—or me, anything. And honestly? I was glad you took the money and left. At least one of us got something out of that mess.”

Toji’s smirk returned, then poured himself another drink. “And that’s why you’re my favorite student!” He raises his cup at you, in salute.

“I’m your only student.” You scoffed, grabbing your own cup and clinking it lightly against his.

Toji grinned. “All the more reason.” You rolled your eyes but took a sip anyway.

He was still the same idiot who was sometimes denser than a bag of bricks like that one time he tried to teach you how to dodge by literally throwing knives at you.

“You need to be quicker,” he had said, flipping a knife between his fingers. “If you can dodge a blade, you can dodge anything.”

You had given him a sharp glare. “That’s not how training works.”

“Sure it is.”

You barely had time to react before he actually chucked the knife at you.

Instinct kicked in, and you twisted to the side just in time for the blade to whiz past your ear and lodge itself into the wooden post behind you.

“What the hell, Toji?!”

He grinned, clearly unfazed. “See? You dodged it.”

“That’s not the point!”

“C’mon, kid, you’ll thank me later.”

You didn’t. Especially not when he did it again but for some unknown reason you can still see his heart peeking through the cracks even in those moments, if you looked hard enough. 

And if you looked a little closer, you could see yourself in this man beside you, the way he wandered with no direction, ignoring the weight on his shoulders as if it came with him the moment he was born, so ingrained in him that he barely noticed it anymore. 

Were you going to end up like him? 

Would you wake up one day, just like Toji, and realize you had nothing left to fight for? That you were just going through the motions, waiting for something, anything to pull you out of the abyss?

The same abyss you’re in right now. 

Would you go back to pieces of the past just to feel a little less lonely? Because that’s what you were to him. A ‘piece of the past’ that still knew who he was is and didn’t force him to be any other person. 

Or maybe one day… you’d stumble onto something too, because that’s what he did. He found something good, at least that’s what you assumed, something that made him want it enough to climb out of the hole he was sinking into. 

And if you did, would it slip through your fingers just as quickly?

How incredibly… sad.

How incredibly sad this tragic dog’s life is. Did you pity him? No. But you saw him, you got a peek through the shell of a broken man and you saw yourself. 

Do you pity yourself? Hmm.

“What did you do with the money anyway?” You asked, breaking away from memories of the past and your roaming thoughts. “Did you do all of that nice-house-and-a-white-picket-fence thing?”

“Tch, nothin’ much, blew most of it on those damn horses!” He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “A’shame, really.”

You scoffed at the man-child next to you. Just as dense. It’s no shock at this point. 

“You’re a dumbass.”

He smirked, his smile hinting that he had no regrets.

“Pff, you sound like my wife.”

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Present…

You’ve spent almost all your late nights meeting up with Toji. Usually after his secret assignments. Though they weren't really a secret, considering that you were aware that he was a hitman for hire. He just chose to not discuss the details with you, ‘for your safety’, he said. 

You’ve spent those nights training with him again since during the day, Nanami was still hesitant even though he denies it and was back to sparring with Haibara, Shoko doesn’t like to sweat and prefers to just lounge on the grass, Geto wasn’t particularly fond of having you around and Gojo— well Gojo was just Gojo, being infuriatingly annoying with his infinity, no point in fighting him when he already had the upper hand, though you did try and try until it got boring— for you, at least. 

On one of those nights, you had the privilege of meeting Shiu Kong, the handler of that dog you’ve been running with. It didn’t take a second for Shiu to recognize your name, and already he was sizing you up after Toji had introduced you. He may even have a file on you somewhere tucked away in his office. “You’ve got the chops, kid,” you remember him saying the first time. “It’d be a waste not to put your skills to good use.” 

Shiu Kong was an interesting man. A man who had seen too much and cared too little. One night, after sparring with Toji, you both sought respite at the same place near the train station, which was now becoming your usual spot with him. As predicted, Shiu was there and again he was eager to recruit you. Toji couldn’t care less. He even vouched for you in a way, telling his handler that you were a real tough cookie. 

“What’s your price kid? What would it take to get you to consider working with us?”

After almost pestering you quite a bit, you said the first thing that came to your mind.

“A nickel finish, Colt Python .357 Magnum. Six-inch barrel with a custom leather grip.”

It was a joke. Obviously. An answer you didn’t think much of as it was meant to be disregarded. 

But boy oh boy did Shiu pull through, because Shiu— like Toji, took a gamble and was willing to lay it all out on the table just to get a chance.

Because the next time you saw him, he came bearing gifts.

And on the table did it lay, it was oh so shiny resting on the dark velvet cloth, sprawled out on his office desk like expensive jewelry. It was an enticing invitation.

Sleek.

Polished.

Deadly.

It was almost flattering.

You can’t say you weren’t tempted.

Because really, who are you, if not morally… ambiguous?

A week. Shiu gave you seven days to think it over and let him know by then what you’ve decided. You were free to test out your new shiny toy, if you wanted to.

And maybe you shouldn’t have. 

Earlier today, you were in the bathroom. You had just taken a long, hot bath. The steam still swirling around the room like ghostly fingers. Your reflection stared back at you, droplets trailing down your skin. 

Your mind started to wander again. Like clockwork, it took a turn to the deepest and darkest crevices of your thoughts. Slipping past reason, past restraint and feeling, your thoughts festering in the void.

Since stepping foot in Jujutsu High, your routine drastically changed.

Yaga-sensei had sent out your contact information for emergencies— public accessible information amongst jujutsu sorcerers and those who were a part of it. Your phone never stopped ringing or buzzing, calls came at all hours, even in the middle of class or training. You were always automatically excused to leave so you can remedy the problem.

Even when you were sleeping— at those ungodly hours, there was no peace. 

Healing was one thing but then now you had to take into account your academics, your training, and the missions assigned to you then reporting them— which was a separate task altogether. 

A part of you almost missed the times where your family would just ship you off to some war-torn country, leaving you there for months at a time. Almost.

But at least then, you knew what to expect.

At least then it was serious and not some rookie sorcerer who sprained their wrist exorcising a curse. Or one of the higher-ups' overly pampered relatives coming down with a flu, and acting like the world would end if they weren’t personally nursed back to health immediately.

Not to mention, the long trip from here to Kyoto, every now and then.

You weren’t a person to them. You were a service.

Quick and available.

The best kind of health insurance.

This— this is what you had been reduced to. 

You weren’t lying when you said you envied Toji, that you wish you had the capacity to just run from it all.

Not just jujutsu, not just your clan but everything.

But then where would you go?

If you’re not the heir of the Kisaragi clan, if you’re not a healer or a curse user or jujutsu sorcerer— or whatever the hell they taught and expected you to be,

If you weren’t useful,

If you weren’t a tool,

Then who are you?

A nobody?

A ghost?

A stranger with no name to call her own?

A body without a purpose?

A hollow shell masquerading as a human?

Has there ever been a version of you that existed beyond what they made you to be?

Just another sheep…

Bred to serve, trained to obey— never meant to stray too far, never meant to be anything more.

That’s all you’ve ever been, right?

Shut up! 

Shut up!

SHUT UP.

Your teeth clenched, your palms pressed against your temples, your fingers digging into your scalp, clawing at your skin as if you were trying to physically take out the suffocating thoughts— voices in your head. 

You could scream.

You wanted to scream but your voice, much like your heart, was empty.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Because there was no answer.

There will never be an answer.

There was no you.

Not outside of this room.

Not outside of them.

The bathroom mirror fogged over, your reflection disappearing behind it. You could feel the weight of your own emptiness pressing down on you. A feeling so familiar, it was almost comforting. 

Your body moved before your mind did.

Bare feet against the cold tile as you motioned out the door, water dripping on the wooden floors leaving wet tracks. It was like you were watching yourself move but whatever possessed you, took the reins, guiding you with a feeling so sinister, that you can only let it. You were just a spectator.

You found yourself in the kitchen, your hands reached as if it already knew. 

Beneath the sink, behind the cleaning supplies and forgotten odds and ends— there it was.

Your fingertips brushing against the metal. The coolness teetering you closer to the edge. Its cold touch ironically igniting a small spark inside your chest. But there was no warmth, just a small jolt, the feeling you get before you step off the cliff.

The revolver was in your hands, before you even realized you had pulled it out of its hiding.

The weight settled in your grip comfortably like it knew you. Like it belonged to you more so than anything else. 

It was always waiting for you.

Familiar. Comforting.

Before you know it, you open its chamber, letting the bullets tumble out one by one. The sound of iron clattering on the kitchen floors like pennies tossed into an empty well.

But you only had one wish.

A single round remained— your luck of the draw. 

You spun the cylinder, the metallic whir so close to your ear, it almost sounded soothing.

Your gaze drifted to the kitchen window. The sky stretched, so vast and endless, painted in soft shades of blue. It was a perfect day outside. 

What a shame.

Maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll be able to soar with the clouds and just wander aimlessly but content.

And fortunately, you’re feeling extra lucky today.

The cold press of steel against your temple was grounding . The weight in your hand, familiar. The silence in your head, finally a relief.

You breathe in.

Hold.

Your finger curled over the trigger, slow, steady—

Bang!

The gunshot ripped through the quiet, deafening and disorienting but there was no pain.

Your ears rang before you could even register that… Geto had yanked your hand just as you pulled the trigger.

The dark haired sorcerer yelled at you but you couldn’t make out the words.

Your eyes widened, surprised at the intrusion that this man had caused. The bullet tore through the ceiling, leaving behind a hole as dust and debris came crumbling down like snow.

Your pulse slammed against your ribs. Though the bullet didn’t hit you, the adrenaline remained. 

“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!”

You finally hear his voice cutting through, dragging you back to reality. The ringing in your ear, fading. He ripped the gun out of your hands, by loosening it within your hold as he held your wrist, causing you to involuntarily toss it to the corner.

The sheer force of his pull managed to catch you off guard. Then you feel a whisper of cool air against your skin.

You looked down and so did he. 

Your towel that was wrapped around your body was now on the floor. 

For a brief second, neither of you moved. Both stunned as the air shifted, suddenly becoming awkward but the rage, still there.

You saw how Geto’s eyes flickered down at your bare body. That split-second slip up before he snapped his eyes back at your face, his cheeks turning a flush shade of pink.

Your brow twitched, your jaw clenched as you called him out, pulling your hand from his grip.

“PERVERT!!!” You yelled at him accusingly. 

Geto scowled, ears turning red. “I’m not a pervert!”

“You just checked me out! Pervert!’

“I DID NOT!” His voice suddenly higher, his composure cracking as his face turned to the side, avoiding your gaze— your body.

“YES YOU DID! YOU TOTALLY DID! YOU PERVERT!” You shot back, folding your arms across your chest only to realize,

Right… you were still naked. 

You quickly grabbed the towel back from the floor and wrapped it around you swiftly. Heat rising to your face, whether it was from anger or sheer embarrassment or both, you weren’t sure.

He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples.

“Why the hell am I even arguing about this?! I should be the one pissed at you! What the hell were you thinking just now?!”

“Oh, I don’t know! What the hell were you doing in my room anyway, huh?” You countered, tilting your head. “That’s kinda weird, don’t you think? Sounds pretty perverted to me!”

“I- I am not a pervert! Stop calling me that!” Geto groaned, dragging a hand down his face, already regretting every single life choice that led him here.

But what was he doing in your room?

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Since Geto made it very clear the other day that he doesn’t trust you. He wasn’t about to let you just walk around at night, going to god knows where. He decided to follow you discreetly, not out of concern but because he was suspicious of you.

He’d be lying to himself if he thought that you were an easy target to follow. You were always looking over your shoulder and stopped every time you would hear a slight rustle in the bushes. It resorted to him using a more obscure method.

Which was flying through the air riding one of his aerial curses because you never bothered to look up. Though the distance from where he was watching you wasn’t ideal. He’d stop in his sleuthing, every time you got into a stranger’s car. It was too risky for him to follow you all the way or too close, especially when you weren’t alone.

He had spotted you for a couple of nights now, leaving the school outside of curfew, then would come back hours later.

He was dead set on proving to your friends that you weren’t what you seemed. This was an itch he’s been dying to scratch and had sacrificed a couple of sleepless nights trying to find evidence for his suspicions. He despised how his friends, even Satoru, were too trusting, not when your family had quite the reputation helping those weird, mindless cultists. Especially when there were words circulating that they were behind the disappearances of some sorcerers. So he had to take matters into his own hands. 

He would wait you out sometimes if time allowed him to and if he wasn’t too tired. Until that one night where he saw you come home  carrying a small case, that looked anything but ordinary. 

Which brought him here, inside your home in Jujutsu High. He had snuck in there the moment you drifted off to sleep. He had been looking for that damn case for god knows how long. He hadn’t expected that you would be up so early when he heard you stirring in your sleep. The sound of your alarm waking you.

He instinctively hid in the broom closet and he stayed there till you walked past the closet door and heard the bathroom door click shut and the sound of water running. He continued his search but was now under pressure, being cautious since you could step out of the bathroom any minute now. He rummaged through every drawer and cabinet, or wherever he thought the case could be hidden. He was so sure that if he found it, it would be enough proof that you’re not to be trusted. 

Not until he saw you take it out underneath the kitchen sink when he hid once again, peeking through the gap of the broom closet’s door.

Which led to this moment, having to stop you from offing yourself again then hearing your accusations thrown at him for having misguided perversions which were far from the truth.

Not that he saw anything.

… That’s a lie.

He admitted to himself. He saw everything. He cursed under his breath as if scolding himself, the image of your damp, glistening skin flashing through his mind once again. 

His grip tightened at his sides, jaw clenching as he pictured the supple skin of the woman in front of him who was yelling at him.

Damn it. Of all the things to be thinking about right now.

Well how was he supposed to defend himself?

What was he supposed to say?

That he had been tailing you for the past few nights, trying to dig up dirt on you? Hiding in your broom closet while he was snooping through your things?

Shit, even admitting that, it wouldn’t help his case.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Geto didn’t have time to defend himself or explain himself to you— hell, he barely had time to process everything because the door suddenly burst open.

Yaga-sensei stormed in, his sharp eyes scanning the room, drawn immediately to the smoking hole in the ceiling. His gaze flicked to the discarded revolver, then to you— completely and utterly shocked, before his eyes narrowed at Geto. 

Now in your teacher’s office, he was watching your contorted face trying to come up with an excuse, an explanation— anything!

Yaga-sensei had an impression that you would be the more sensible one so he granted you a chance— a benefit of a doubt that all of this was just a little misunderstanding. But the way you were acting, was making him think otherwise.

You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again.

“Well,” you finally started, dragging out the word. “You see, I—”

You stammered. Your heart rate rising. You cleared your throat, an attempt to compose yourself as if you were also trying to clear your head and think straight.

You took a deep breath, and decided to do what you do best.

You decided to lie. Isn’t that what your family taught you?

But before you could even answer, Geto interjected.

“It was my fault.” 

What?!

You eyed Geto, confused and caught off guard. Your brow raised, curious what he was going to say next.

“I had run in with an anti-sorcerer—  an individual that didn’t rely on cursed energy. I thought this was just a rumor but I was wrong.” His eyes flickered briefly at you, and you didn’t know what to think of it. Was he hinting at something?

Did he know about Toji? Had he been watching you?

Your thoughts scattered, trying to connect the dots. You knew Geto was lying about running into someone he was describing, because if he wasn’t, Geto wouldn’t be here right now.

Yaga’s expression hardened, the weight of the statement settling over him. “Where did you hear that?” He demanded. The sharpness in his voice confirmed it— this wasn’t just some convenient excuse. This was real.

And you may know a certain someone who may or may not be the cause of why a number of curse users or sorcerers were dropping like flies.

“Still, that doesn’t explain the gun in your possession?” Yaga pressed.

“They tried to use that gun on me, but I managed to snatch it away. I was careless, they were able to escape,” Geto said smoothly. “I came to Kisaragi for help since their bullet nicked my ear.” 

Escape? Toji would never run.

Yaga was quiet for a moment, thinking. His face was unreadable but stern.

“I shouldn’t have brought the gun with me,” Geto continues to explain. “Didn’t expect the thing to go off so easily, it must have a loose trigger or something.” 

“Is this true?’ Yaga-sensei looks over at you, while you were processing all the little details of Geto’s lies.

You nod, playing along. Your lips pressed into a thin line. Deciding it was better to not say anything. 

Yaga’s jaw tightened. “You should’ve reported this immediately.” He tells Geto.

“I wasn’t sure what to make of it yet, since it wasn’t a mission and it wasn’t a curse or if it was really the guy everyone’s talking about, so I didn’t know how I was going to explain it, but I figured getting my injury healed was my first priority.” Geto replied, keeping up the act flawlessly. 

Yaga clicked his tongue, rubbing his temple. ‘Alright, next time I need  you to tell me these things immediately after you’ve taken aid, of course. I’ll be keeping the weapon with me for now for further investigation. We cannot take this threat lightly.” 

Fuck. Well, there goes your brand new toy.

“You two are dismissed.” Yaga said decisively.

You both bow your heads at your teacher. You were already halfway out the door when Yaga’s voice stopped you.

“Kisaragi,”

Your breath hitched. You looked back at him. Your heart pounding in your chest again. Your hand gripping the side of the tatami door tightly.

What did he want from you?

“I know you report to your family about your progress in regards to your duties here in Jujutsu High, I ask that you keep this incident confidential for now, just until we figure out who this Sorcerer Killer is.”

“Yes, I understand.” Was all you said, offering a polite nod before you stepped out of the room. 

You could hear your own pulse, beating in your eardrums. Your mind racing. You were stuck between a rock and a hard place. You weren’t sure if Geto actually knew who Toji was or did he just coincidentally make up a lie so eerily accurate that you almost believe that he ran into that dog?

Shit! Shit! Shit.

[ comment if you want to be added in the taglist for future updates ]

a/n: ok ik this took a while... i am sorry... i had work (im such a loser, i know)... i hope i didn't disappoint... happy valentine's day(?) ily....

also on ao3: here

taglist: @oneofthesevensins, @yatowmotd, @enchantingkitty, @allzballz1, @tid4lwav3

© 2025 myswans0ng, my_swansong. All Rights Reserved. Do NOT repost, modify, translate or plagiarize.

[piracytheorist]

In Life, And in Death (1/11)

Fandom: Spy x Family Word count: 4.1k for this chapter | 32.4k in total Rating: T Warnings: Temporary character death, graphic violence, horror imagery, body horror, mild gore, whump, language Cover art by @buf309

Summary: Anya is kidnapped, and Twilight is thrown into the horrors of a mysterious, deadly village. Forced and then choosing to survive its trials - physical and mental - he's brought to figure out who he truly is. (A Resident Evil Village fusion)

AO3

~

Author's Note: Probably my most insane fanfic project yet. After I successfully probed SOMEONE, aka @spencer-is-someone, into watching a Resident Evil Village gameplay, they fell in love with Ethan Winters but felt he went through too much in the game, prompting the idea "What if Loid went through all that stuff instead". And well, 32 thousand words later, here I am, inflicting this literal horror upon y'all.

I made a post about it, and the absolutely wonderful @buf309 went and made this amazing cover art, and I literally couldn't be more thankful for that. I was so amazed when I saw the first draft sketch that I went like I'M GONNA WAIT TILL IT'S READY TO POST THE FIC. Seriously, words cannot describe how grateful I am, I sincerely hope the fic feels satisfying enough for the work you've done <3

If you know how the Resident Evil Village story goes, this is pretty much the same... yes, in all of its "parts-in-jars" glory (if you know you know, if you don't you will soon), just with Twilight taking the place of Ethan Winters. There will be a few changes from the original story to fit Twilight's character, some to facilitate the adaptation from game narrative to fanfic narrative, some to fit my own tastes, and an actually hopeful ending because we were all left heartbroken after the ending of RE Village so might as well pour some healing juice to put our hearts back together same way Ethan puts his limbs back together and hope for the best.

Do take note of the warnings, please. There is one part of the story I actually had chills while writing (yes, that part for those of you who know, it will be slightly changed but the essence will be the same) and it is based on the story of a horror/survival game, so make sure you're okay to read something as intense as this.

The story is written in full, though I'm still doing small bits of editing here and there. I don't have a posting schedule, but I'm thinking of updating twice a week, or once if I see the editing is taking longer. Chapter titles are taken from track titles of the game's original soundtrack.

So yeah, long intro over, take not of the warnings, I hope you enjoy if you read on!

~

Chapter 1: Bloodthirsty

~

“Anya, don’t sit so close to the TV,” Loid said, not looking up from the counter.

Unsurprisingly, there was no response. He wouldn’t doubt that she hadn’t even heard him, let alone acknowledged his request.

He picked up a handful of minced meat to mould into a burger steak, deciding to give her another reminder in two minutes from now. Yor had just left to walk Bond, so it was only his direction she had to follow – and she was starting to make clear whose directions she preferred to follow nowadays.

He placed the burger on the pan as his body tensed. A split second later, the door burst open.

He jumped through the opening between the kitchen and the living room, but even that seemed a pointless blessing as thick smoke quickly covered the apartment.

He rushed through it to grab Anya, who trembled against him, but he didn’t have the time to move away from the shots.

Two silenced shots, piercing through his clothes and reaching into the skin of his back.

No blood. But they were pinching his skin, and he immediately felt groggy…

He dropped to his side, unable to move as figures approached him. One of them took Anya.

“PAPA!” she screamed at him.

He feebly raised his hand. “Wait,” was the only thing he could say, before his hand dropped.

More figures approached him, and then his vision went dark.

~

Focus, Twilight.

Don’t open your eyes yet. Don’t alert the enemy yet.

He held his breath for a moment.

He was somewhere cold, outside.

He could feel something soft but freezing underneath him. Snow?

His hair didn’t feel wet, so he mustn’t have been lying there long.

It was quiet. He could only hear distant sounds of wind and crows flying somewhere close.

He couldn’t feel anyone’s presence, so he decided to open one single eye to check.

But then both his eyes shot wide open.

In front of him stood a magnificent gothic mansion. It could be a mansion, or it could be a damn castle. It was surrounded by a thick wall, like a fortress.

He sat up. He was indeed lying on the snow, but it was the least of his concerns right now.

He had apparently been placed on the castle’s garden. Right in the middle of the winter, it was only decorated by a few naked trees as well as three scarecrows.

Those didn’t seem to do their job well enough, he thought, as crows still flew around, some even sitting on them.

He got up, checking himself for injuries. He couldn’t feel any pain or any indication of pierced skin. How had they drugged him?

It was then he realized he was now wearing his jacket.

Had they dressed him for the cold? While taking off his apron and the gloves he wore while preparing food?

What the hell?

Where even was this place?

Why was he brought here?

Where was Anya?

His attention was drawn back to the apparently useless scarecrows, and a chill ran down his spine – unrelated to the cold – when he noticed something eerie about them.

Carefully, he took a few steps towards them.

His breath caught in his throat when he was close enough to notice.

Those weren’t plain scarecrows.

Those were actual, human bodies hanging on wooden crosses.

His breath finally came out shaky, forming a cloud.

What the hell was this place?

Unable to quell his curiosity, he stepped closer, trying to notice for any details on the bodies, in case he recognized them.

All three seemed to be men, of ages between thirty and fifty, and they couldn’t have been dead for longer than a week or so. The cold might have preserved their bodies, but exposure to the outside would do as much more damage.

He couldn’t recognize any of their faces – or what was left of them.

Well, he didn’t even know where he was, how far away from Berlint or even in Ostania for that matter.

He clenched his hands into fists and turned around, looking around the walls surrounding the castle.

There was a huge metal door blocking the path outside. No climbing the wall; it was too smooth and covered in even more slippery ice. Climbing the trees wouldn’t give him enough height to swing himself out.

Which meant, his only way of getting answers was through the castle.

He must have been placed there for a reason, after all, and if they’d wanted to kill him they would have already done so.

He reached the entrance, and the door swung open easily.

The entrance hall was as luxuriously decorated as the outside hinted at. A lush burgundy carpet went up the few steps, leading to a wall where a painting of three young women hung.

The door closed behind him, and he didn’t miss the definitive clang as metal bars started descending right in front of it.

He turned, and for a few seconds he weighed his options.

He could break the door quickly enough before the bars descended too low, and slip outside.

But then again, they obviously wanted him in there, and again, it didn’t seem that killing him was their priority.

He faced forward, ignoring the sound of the bars trapping him in there.

He might as well play their game.

He walked to the painting. Underneath it was an inscription that wrote “Bela, Daniela, and Cassandra.”

Which one was which?

The women on the painting didn’t seem too different from each other. The painting itself didn’t seem all too enlightening, either; it looked like any common Romantic-style oil painting.

Well, it wasn’t going to give him any answers, would it?

He turned around, walking down a corridor and out into another, larger hall. He noticed how warm the whole building was, despite the freezing weather outside and the apparently old construction of the place.

This hall had hanging, lit candles all over the walls, though they couldn’t be the source of the heating. The lighting was low, but lucky for him, he’d been trained enough in low lighting for that not to be an issue.

He jerked back at the sound of a swarm of flies coming his way, then he sensed someone’s presence.

Flies, he could handle.

But then the flies started gathering together, and within seconds they morphed into three women, dressed in black hooded cloaks.

“Wha—?” he whispered.

“Looking for Anya?” a voice said, and he assumed it’d come from one of the women. Who had just formed from flies.

The absurdity of his situation almost made him forget that she had just mentioned Anya.

Which meant they probably knew where she was.

However, he was too shocked by the sight that he couldn’t move when one of the women, all of whom were cackling, approached him and pushed him backwards.

She swung the scythe she held in her hand, and he pulled his legs away just before she could bury it in his calf.

“Oh, he’s feisty!” the woman said with a wide smile.

Her arm then almost zapped through the air, and his left leg was exploding in pain before he could even register the movement.

He yelped in pain as she leaned closer to him and took a long sniff.

Her mouth and jaw were covered in blood, though her blond hair looked pristine clean.

“Mmm, man-blood,” she said.

She then leaned back and started dragging him, by the scythe embedded in his leg, as he still lay helplessly on the ground.

She was too fast. He flailed around, trying to grab at anything they passed by to make her stop, even though that would mean the scythe would rip his entire leg open, but then another woman reached his other side and buried her scythe in his right leg.

He threw his head back, biting down another yell of pain.

Could he just have one moment?!

The women dragged him down another corridor and into what he quickly realized was a bedroom. They removed their scythes, and he quickly reached to assess the damage, when he heard the blond woman say “Mother, I bring you fresh prey,” as she pointed at him with her hand.

“You are so kind to me, daughters,” came a voice of a woman who sounded older than them.

Older, and bigger.

She was sitting on a massive chair, holding an equally massive glass of red wine. She took a sip from it, then stood up and turned to him, saying, “Now, lets take a look at him.”

He raised his head to look at her.

And then raised it higher.

She had the build of a muscular woman, with curves proportionate to her height, which must have been about three meters tall. She wore a black wide-brimmed hat over her chin-length black hair, and a long white dress that reached down to her feet, though she moved comfortably in it.

“Well, well. Loid Forger,” she said. “Came looking for your daughter, I presume?”

He sat there, frozen.

They knew who he was – or at least pretended to be? And they knew Anya was also taken?

She walked closer to him, smiling as she put her hands on her hips. “For you to think you can waltz right in here—let’s see how special you are,” she nearly purred.

She threw her hands up in a sign for something, and two of the younger women said “Yes, mother,” as they grabbed his arms and pulled him up.

His first thought was that he was standing up surprisingly well for just having had two scythes ran through his legs.

His second thought was terror as one woman grabbed his hand, and the other produced a very sharp-looking knife.

Before he could jerk back, she sliced his palm open.

He bit back a grunt; it wasn’t a deep cut, but it would be annoying…

His last thought trailed off as the tall woman reached down, grabbed his hand, brought it to her lips… and started sucking.

Now he really was frozen in terror.

What the hell was this nightmare?

The woman pulled her head back, licking at her lips with a blood-soaked tongue.

She threw his hand away. “Hmm,” she said. “Still fresh, but only barely.”

He wrapped his hand into a fist, keeping it close to his chest.

“Then let’s devour his man-flesh quickly, mother!” one of the women said, handing a handkerchief to her.

“But I’m the one who captured him!” the blond woman protested.

“Now, now, daughters,” the tall woman said, patting at her lips with the handkerchief. “First, I must inform Mother Miranda. But later, well, there will be enough for everyone.” She threw the handkerchief aside, smiling down at him. “Put him up!”

The young women surrounded him, and though he struggled, they were too strong for him as they put heavy manacles on his wrists.

A thick build, but he could break out of them with little effort.

But then, they secured a chain to them, and the chain started going up. He was lifted off his feet, and started grunting as the full force of his weight fell on his wrists.

Don’t say anything. Don’t let them take a hold of any weaknesses.

He clenched his jaw, keeping his voice from making any sounds as they headed out of the room. The tall woman had to bend to get through that door, and one of the young women – the second one who had stabbed his leg – bent down and picked up the discarded handkerchief, smelling the blood on it and laughing, as she followed them.

Breathing hard, he looked up at the manacles.

The pain was intense but manageable, though he already felt the tingling of numbness in his fingers. By his calculations, he had about fifteen or so minutes before cut blood circulation would start causing permanent damage.

Escape, first. Then you can freak out.

He grabbed the chain and dragged his body up. Though his legs were still bleeding, he brought them up so he could hold the chain between his feet.

He was gasping by the time he managed that, but at least he had less pain on his hands and a better view of the manacles.

They were old and rusty, but seemed to have a fairly standard locking mechanism. Bringing his body closer, he fished the lockpick out from a hidden pocket of his jacket.

Biting his lip, he worked through the lock of the right manacle. Just as it opened, his feet slipped from the chain and dropped down, causing all of his weight to drop onto his injured left hand.

The pain knocked the air out of his lungs.

Think! Think! Pull yourself together!

Taking in a laboured breath, he looked back up.

The lockpick had slipped from his hand and was now too far down for him to get it. His right hand was free, but he didn’t have any other options left.

Reaching up, he wrapped his free hand around his left thumb, and with a sharp pull, he dislocated it.

As his other hand was coated in blood from the cut, his wrist slipped through the manacle as soon as his thumb wasn’t in the way.

He dropped to the ground clumsily, not managing to balance his landing.

Wheezing, he looked at his left hand.

Bleeding, and a dislocated thumb.

He gave himself ten seconds.

Ten seconds to wonder where the hell he had gotten himself into, what that tall woman even was, standing at three meters tall and drinking blood, and what her “daughters” were, emerging from flies and also participating in… blood drinking? Cannibalism?

Ten seconds, and he was back to himself.

Focus, Twilight.

He looked at his legs – they were still bleeding, but he felt confident he could stand on them. Though those scythes looked sharp, they must have split a tendon or two apart.

At the corner of the room stood a vanity table, and on top of it, along with various cosmetics, lay a small green bottle with a cross on the label.

He stood up carefully, glad that his legs weren’t trembling. He picked up the bottle, carefully reading the label.

Medical alcohol.

Not one to trust this place that much, he opened the lid, and sure enough, it smelled like ethyl alcohol.

He sat down with a grunt, pulling his right trouser up. He didn’t have any clean gauze, so his only option was to pour liquid right over the wound.

He braced himself for the sting of pain, but instead, the liquid brought a cool, numbing sensation.

And then, right in front of his eyes, his wound closed then disappeared completely.

He stared at it.

Ten more seconds.

What the hell.

He looked at the bottle again. Medical alcohol, it said. It smelled like it too.

He looked back at his leg, raising his other trouser where the other wound still stood.

What the hell?!

Uncertain, he poured a little less liquid over that wound.

The wound immediately stopped bleeding as new skin seemed to form, though it didn’t heal completely.

He let out a breath. If he were honest with himself, this wasn’t really the weirdest thing to happen in the last few minutes, was it?

He turned to his mangled hand. Just how much could that liquid heal?

He poured an equal dosage to it, and was still surprised to see his thumb painlessly slide into its place, as well as the cut close completely.

Well, at least it could be useful.

He didn’t have time to worry over the supernatural. He had to get out of there, and find out where Anya was.

He took the path of unlocked doors, as he didn’t want to waste time and noise trying to break the lock of every locked door he found. Breaking the windows wouldn’t lead him anywhere – each one was sealed shut, and though he wasn’t averse to turning into a hooligan for the sake of escaping, the entire castle seemed to be surrounded by that wall.

He needed to get to a higher floor, but the safest and most silent path led him to the basement, where he found himself walking along piles and piles of dead bodies.

He had to hold his breath as he passed them by; apparently the occupants of the castle had the habit of feasting on the blood of humans, and did it so often that the amount of bodies was too big to act as decoration for their garden.

It was all men, however. As young as twenty-three, from what he could gather with a quick look.

The fly-women seemed to be confident enough in their hunting that they didn’t take away the handgun from one of the more fresh bodies. Twilight couldn’t tell if that was a police officer, a soldier, or a man aware of what he’d been dealing with, but it didn’t matter to him. He undid the holster, as gently as he could out of respect of the deceased man, and he put it on under his jacket.

He checked the magazine. Ten bullets out of sixteen.

He looked at the man. Had he shot those first six bullets right before he was killed?

The man had a shoulder bag on him, and inside was a box of bullets, a total of forty. He slid that too over his own shoulder.

He kept the safety on the gun on, but held it in his hand. He picked up a hunting knife from one of the other bodies and walked on.

As the bodies thinned out, he found a lone skeletal figure draped in a plain canvas cloak. The limbs stood out, bare, emaciated, and rotting. While other bodies were in a similar state of decomposition, they were fully clothed, at most with a few rips in their clothes. This one was the only one so bare.

And it was holding a scythe in its hand, old and rusty in comparison to the women’s scythes, but still sharp enough to do harm.

He approached it carefully, keeping both hands on the gun.

He thanked his training for that, as the figure moved when he passed right by it.

He yelped in shock, moving away from it and raising his gun at it.

“Stop!” he said. “Don’t move!”

The creature, whatever that was, didn’t seem like it listened let alone register his words. It stood up, hunched over, then lunged at him with the scythe.

Not finding any alternatives, he shot right at its head.

The creature jerked back as a screech left its mouth.

Twilight held his breath.

His blood froze when he saw it still stand on its legs and try to swing at him again.

He shot again. He was perfectly certain the bullet got through its head.

Yet the creature moved again.

And he shot again.

Only now did the creature finally drop to its knees, but it was still screeching and growling.

Desperate, Twilight took the knife and drove it through the creature’s skull, three times, until he felt it stop moving.

It collapsed on the floor.

Hell knew if it would rise again. It was supposed to be dead already, wasn’t it?

He turned around and ran.

There were more creatures on the way. Some he slashed at with the knife, some he shot at, some he simply ran away from. A few managed to nick him with their scythes, and if he were honest, he was more worried about infections than the injuries themselves.

As he found a quiet corner, he pulled out the alcohol – or whatever that was. It seemed to work on the nicks too, making them close quickly and painlessly.

He supported himself on the wall, forcing his breath to calm down.

He had to get out. Now.

Holding the gun tight to his hand, he moved to leave, but then a buzzing and a voice sounded from behind him.

“Hmm. Warm, bright, red blood.”

He didn’t turn to look at her. He knew it was the blond woman.

He made a run for it as flies swarmed around him, until he found a staircase going up, reaching into what looked like a kitchen area.

“Where are you going, little one?”

The woman appeared right in front of him, cutting off his path. She was smiling at him, surrounded by flies, her face still stained with blood.

“I just want to find Anya,” he managed.

“Aw,” she said. She then pushed him back and he fell on the ground. She lay over him, reaching at his neck and biting.

Yelling, he took the gun and fired twice at her stomach.

She reached up, laughing as fresh blood ran from her lips.

He shot at her head.

“Your bullets cannot harm m—”

Her voice cut off when another of his shots passed through her and hit the window behind her.

The glass cracked, and it quickly shattered as a cold gust of wind blew into the room.

The gust threw the woman’s hood off her head. Twilight tightened his hold on the gun when he spotted a massive, fleshy scar on her temple, a bald spot from her long hair.

The woman shrieked, then growled. Her skin, already pale as it was, seemed to start cracking and turn grey. She looked at her hands, still gasping in pain, and then turned to him, yelling, “You stupid man-thing!”

His mind finally picked up the pace. The cold made her weak?

He stood up, raising his gun at her.

“How dare you bare your teeth at us!” she shouted, then lunged at him with her scythe.

He managed to block her attack, pushing her back, and he shot at her face.

She groaned, still standing, but she said, “What? My body—it’s breaking…”

He kept his gun up. “Just let me go,” he said.

A wild rumble came from her mouth as she turned to attack him again. She reached him, and he could only block her at the last moment, his arms taking the full blow of her scythe. “Give up!” she said, reaching back for another swing of her weapon.

He shot twice at her head, and she yelled again.

The flies seemed to drop in numbers, and her skin cracked more and more. He barely managed to avoid two more of her attacks, and then she fell on him, ready to bite his head off, he supposed in the split second it took him to kick her off of him.

He shot two more times.

“This can’t be,” she said, weakly now, her body swaying.

“Let me go!” he repeated, taking two steps back.

She screamed and reached back with her scythe, and he shot again.

And then a sizzling sound came from her body, as she started swinging wildly, not reaching anything. She groaned and groaned, and her body transformed.

It seemed to calcify into gravel, as she slowly stopped moving, her hand still up in a pose of attack.

And then it broke down.

Whatever it was, it cracked into small pieces, and what started as the form of a woman was now a pile of something on the ground.

Breathing hard, he leaned his back on the wall behind him and slid down to the floor.

His hands were trembling, his feet felt like water.

What the hell was all that?

Were was he?

Why was he brought here?

And where was Anya?

What were those creatures…?

He closed his eyes. Ten seconds. Just ten seconds to freak out.

He just had to get out. Find Anya and…

He opened his eyes, his throat tensing.

Did he really have to find her?

As far as he was concerned, right now she was a liability to him. He had to prioritize his safety first.

It wasn’t like there were piles of bodies of dead girls around, was it?

Letting out a deep sigh, he stood back up. The woman had managed to hurt him a little, but the healing liquid was in short supply and he could handle those injuries up to a point.

The woman. Who was now a pile of ash.

Calm down, Twilight. Get yourself in order and find a way out.

The castle proved massive, and he couldn’t find any viable exit paths even as he seemed to reach what looked like hallways reaching into bedrooms.

Then, a mournful scream sounded from a floor below.

“What have you done to my daughter?!”

His blood chilled. If the “daughter” had been that vicious, he didn’t want to face whatever her mother had in store for him.

[angelremnants]

HIS FOR THE SEASON l L. Laufeyson

CHAPTER ONE,⠀The Price of Pride

chapter summary : In the first installment of our ever-tangled tale, we find both our fair protagonist and the mischievous prince at the crossroads of deception and ambition. As deals are struck and masks are donned, dear readers, be warned that not all that glitters is gold, and not every promise comes without a price.

pairing : Loki Laufeyson x f!reader

warnings : Mature (16+), implied oral gratification (male receiving), emotional turmoil, light violence, referenced/implied minor characters' death, mind games, mild language. Proceed with caution if you're sensitive to such material.

word count : 6.7k

author's notes : Here is the first chapter! I'm honestly so hyped to start writing for this series, but unfortunately I still have to pass my midterms, so the second part might not come as soon as this one.

For a referential point in this story, 1125 years old in Asgardian years is the equivalent of being 18, and 1315 years old would be being 21.

(ao3 version)

⠀

⠀

The road was a serpent of stone and shadow that wound through the untamed countryside beyond the capital's reach. It curled between towering pines with aged branches grasping at the sky and their gnarled roots engulfing the ground below. The air was humid with the promise of rain, dense with the aroma of fir and wet soil, and as the rider moved forward, the storm gathered on earnest—low thundering rumbling in the distance, acting as suggestive caution of his arrival rather than a danger.

No one traveled this road without purpose.

He didn't need a map to know where he it led. He had unfortunately been there before, but the years between visits had thinned them out until they scarcely existed at all. However, the pathway remained undisturbed through and through, like the passage of time hadn't dare to touch it.

The first peek of the estate was a sensation rather than a sight—an eerie change in the surroundings, as the sought-after structure then appeared from the increasing mist, like a specter out of the gloom.

A castle of black stone, wreathed in foliage and partially swallowed by the encroaching wood. It stood apart from the rest of the world, unfettered by court or crown regulations, its mere presence a tacit defiance. At the threshold, the gates were ajar, twisted iron molded into fascinating designs, as if warning invaders of what could lay within. There were no guards, no showcasing of banners or sigils indicating its allegiance. 

The traveler did not slow down. His patience had run thin even before he reached the gates, as seen by the continual readjusting of his gorgeous golden hair, withering in the bleak atmosphere. The journey had been quite lengthy, but not as long as the years of silence that had separated him from the owner of this location.

He dismounted his stallion with practiced grace, and despite the bold statement of his presence, the house did not greet him. There were no servants or movement at the windows—only the uncanny serenity that had come to define this place of residence. His boots sank onto the damp earth, slippery from the distant rain, but he ignored the unease. After all, he had not come here for comfort.

Only when he approached the entry did the doors part open, revealing a figure framed by the sallow luminosity of candlelight. The head butler stood by, as immovable as the granite around him.

"Your Highness," Skurge greeted, mitigating the sound of hesitant recognition. "My master is not expecting you."

Thor exhaled through his nose, his frustration like a slow-burning ember. "I will see him regardless."

The retired warrior did not flinch. "My lord—"

"Enough," The prince cut him off, brooking no argument as he stepped past him without dispute.

Skurge sighed softly but did not stop him. It was an old battle that they had fought numerous times before. He had long since realized that denying entry to Thor was a futile attempt. His weary and knowing stare stayed set on the royal attendant as they both marched farther inside the building.

The stronghold's splendor consumed him whole. Velvet draped like falling dusk over the high-arched windows, reducing the outside world to nothing but a memory. Sconces emitted a warm glow that danced across the dark marble and mahogany, catching on the ornate paintings and carvings of mythical beasts, gods and beings. The smell in the room was laden with incense and wine, almost tied into the very foundation of the building. 

This was not a house of duty. It was a house of indulgence.

With each step, he felt the burden of his task on his shoulders. He had not come for a visit—rather, it was an intrusion. He did not belong here, and neither did his brother.

Skurge finally came to a halt in front of a hefty wooden door that, like the manor, appeared to preserve mysteries within its frame.

"He is inside," the housekeeper quietly announced in a way that hinted that he had witnessed this confrontation countless times already. The blond did not respond, simply pushing the door open, the hinges creaking with an aloofness that matched his own.

And immediately regretted it.

The air within was fragrant with an intoxicatingly faint mix of floral and musky. The room was barely illuminated, only emphasazing on the plush bedding and velvet pillows. A fire crept lazily into the hearth, pouring its warmth over tangled limbs, silk-strewn furnishings, and a scene of pleasure the guest did not want to see.

And in the heart of it all—a man clothed in carefree grace, with dark locks ruffled and keen green eyes lifting up to lazily gaze toward the door. A woman knelt before him, her head lowered and her hands resting on his thighs in an act that left little to the imagination.

Thor recoiled, his expression twisting in disgust. “By the Norns—”

Unconcerned, the man turned his head, peering at him with twisted amusement that showed in a smirk so languid. It was clear that the interruption did not even faze him.

"Ah, brother," Loki drawled in a honey-smoothed voice, his eyes glittering with delight. "What a nice surprise. Are you coming to join us?”

Thor glared. "Seize your rascality and compose yourself."

The dark prince, on the other hand, was never content with silent compliance. His lips curved, teasing at the edges, mocking innocence. With a languid sweep of his fingers, he waved the woman away.

"Go on, pet," he murmured in a deeper undertone. His fingers knotted in the woman's hair, allowing him to easily lift her head. "We will resume our—" his eyes flicked towards his brother, "—conversation later."

The courtesan pouted and slipped away with a lingering brush of fingers over his knee, her silhouette disappearing through the softly shut door that sealed them in.

Loki groaned and stretched like a cat roused from sleep. He stood with a worrying ease, completely unhurried as he fixed the loose buttons on his tunic. "You've become such a bore," he mused, rolling his shoulders, mockingly disappointed. "Had you walked in centuries ago, you might have actually been inclined to join me."

Thor's glare darkened. "And yet you wonder why our father sees you as a disgrace."

Loki smiled in A sluggish, knowledgeable leer. "Oh, I no longer wonder."

He smoothed down his sleeves and carefully adjusted the cuffs before moving toward the magnificent cabinet on the wall. He took out a crystal decanter of mead, the amber liquid reflecting in the firelight as he poured himself a large drink. 

Not once did he glance in Thor’s direction. He never treated him with the same courtesy. Instead, he raised the cup to his lips and took a leisurely, savoring sip, seemingly not caring about the tension hanging between them. Then, only after swallowing did he speak.

"Now," he voiced, swirling the mead in his glass, his eyes bright with laughter. "Tell me, dear brother, what I owe the pleasure to. Another warning? A lecture, perhaps?" He inclined his head, pretending attention. "Do you intend to recount my many misdeeds, as if I am not already aware?"

His brother exhaled sharply to steady himself. "Not this time. I came for another reason."

Loki arched his brow. "Do tell."

Thor's fingers curled along his sides. He had expected resistance, not such carelessness. This was not the brother he had previously known. The brother who had formerly measured every step with care and sought praise no longer stood before him. In his place stood a creature of indulgence and disobedience, a terrifying figure honed and shaped by unwarranted exile.

But for all his decadence, Loki had never been a fool.

“You are to return to the palace.”

The host’s sneer remained constant, although the light behind his eyes flickered for a brief moment. A brief, almost inconspicuous shift.

He laughed, bellowed even.

Thor tightened his grasp on Mjölnir, the hammer's familiar weight both reassuring and frightening in his hand. His knuckles turned white, and the veins in his arm tightened in an effort to contain his mounting rage. This was not the reunion he had hoped for—but, truth be told, he hadn't really expected anything else from his brother.

"Your presence has been requested at the court," he insisted, each word bearing the heft of obligation and haste. "It is time."

Across the room, Loki's smile contorted sardonically. With a sinuous flick, he sent the last drop of mead spiraling from his cup, allowing it to fade into the shadows as he laid the vessel down with exaggerated disregard. 

"Requested my presence?" he repeated. "How quaint. Let me guess, should I expect greater condemnation? Another lecture on my failings?" He leaned back in his chair, the scowl on his lips growing greater in depth. "Is that why you rode all the way here? To offer the customary refrain?" His cold, mocking gaze never left Thor's, challenging him to prove him wrong.

"This isn't another lecture on your reckless behavior," the crown prince bargained, exasperated but determined. "This is about your title."

At those words, the raven-haired stiffened, his eyes flashing with incredulity. “The one you so kindly withheld because of my exile, you mean? The one I was deemed too… troublesome to receive, while you paraded your birthright before all of Asgard?” His voice was sharp as a drawn blade, every syllable dripping with scorn. “I’m past the age of 1125, you know that well enough. It’s too late to rewind time and add the fanfare and ceremony you so cherish. I have no need of it.”

Thor's chest clenched at his cruel words, but he was undeterred. He needed to make him see reason, if only for a moment. "It's not just that," he ground out, the tension in his voice palpable. "It's about what our father intends to do, and you—"

“Your father,” Loki spat, as though the very qualification felt like venom on his tongue. “Not ours. Do not speak of him as if he ever cared about me."

Thor's mouth dried up, and he couldn't help but feel a stab of remorse. But there was no time to dwell on it now. “It’s not just the title, Loki. It’s... a deal.” his voice dropped. “Father wants to strike a deal with you.”

For a long moment, the second prince regarded his elder with amused disbelief that failed to mask his calculating gaze. “A deal?” he echoed. “And what, pray tell, could he possibly offer that would capture my interest at this late hour?”

Thor’s hand twitched by his side as he fought against the torrent of words threatening to overwhelm him. Inwardly, he cursed the inevitable vulnerability that came with speaking the truth.

“It’s about the will.”

Time seemed to stand still at the statements. Loki ceased to move as though struck by an invisible force. It was a genuine reaction, with his eyes reflecting an image of the youngster he once was. But the shock passed as fast as it arrived, replaced by the gravelly resolve of a man who had long forsaken hope. "The will is no longer of my interest," Loki flatly responded. "Why should I care for his proposal now?"

“I never thought you would, Loki.” The blonde exhaled slowly. “I think you should hear him out. Do it at least this once, and I promise we’ll leave you free of these constant intrusions.”

Loki’s gaze bore into his, seeking any flicker of deceit or ulterior motive. Finding none, an unspoken understanding passed between them—a fragile bridge over a chasm of past grievances and present imperatives.

“Fine,” he agreed at last, a trace of genuine curiosity mingling with his ever-present defiance. “I’ll hear him out. But do not mistake my interest for hope.”

Thor’s weary yet steadfast eyes met his brother’s with a silent promise. “I never would.” 

His eyes traced every disorganized detail of Loki's appearance, which was far from the polished princeling he had previously grew up with. His dark hair fell in wild, tangled cascades around his face, and his once impeccable clothes hung in crumpled disarray, as if burdened by a sorrow too great to be contained.

"You look as though you've abandoned even the last shred of dignity," Thor indicated sorrowfully, the words flowing out before he could catch them. "I'd wager she would be disappointed if she were still here to witness this."

He knew his words shattered the fragile peace, and he promptly regretted uttering them, knowing all too well the tragic history that laid behind this pitiful façade.

In an instant, Loki's eyes flared with terrible enmity. He rose from his chair with the predatory elegance of a cornered animal and rushed toward the envoy. In one swift action, the dark prince grabbed his arm, his hold alluding to an implicit warning built over years of suffering and indolence

"Do not speak so idly," he growled alarmingly, in the fashion of a wintry wind. His fingers sank sharply into Thor's flesh. "You would do well not to invoke her again—especially when you know nothing of what transpired."

The blonde stiffened under his grasp, his stare locking with his in a quiet exchange rich with old wounds and buried truths. For a long, tense moment, they stood there—two souls bound together by blood and remorse, their shared history a shaky bridge over a chasm of pain.

Loki finally let go of him, moving back with a controlled calm that concealed his smoldering despair. "We'll go to the palace tomorrow," he stated calmly and dismissively. "Until then, see to it that Skurge assigns you a place for the night. And send the maiden back inside."

Thor halted, but he knew better than to press on. His brother's barriers were too high, and his resistance was too strong. "Understood," he replied, the resignation in his voice combined with the residual pain of loss. "I'll make the arrangements."

He paused only briefly before turning and heading out of the bedroom, his footsteps retreating down the corridor. The door closed behind him with a faint, decisive click, leaving Loki to his own devices.

The silence that followed felt like a heavy blanket pressing from all sides, saturating the entire space with concealed facts. The shunned prince resided stationary, his gaze fixed on the dark horizon visible through the small window panels. Outside, the night stretched out in a never-ending palette filled with ambiguity and impending possibilities. His thoughts were entwined in knots—of the palace, of his contested title, of the Allfather's aspirations, and of the storm that threatened to come tomorrow.

⠀

⠀

The hippodrome was saturated with incense, a perfumed fog that curled through the towering hall and melded with hushed exchanges and muffled sobs. Draped in somber shades of black and violet, the grand chamber exceptionally bore the sigil of House of Sigvard in golden embroidery upon the banners that swung gently from the pillars. It was an extravagant farewell, one meant for a nobleman of once-great stature, though the weight of his transgressions loomed like a silent specter over the gathered mourners.

You stood at the center of it all, clad in mourning robes of midnight silk, your hands gracefully clasped before you in a practiced pose of grief. Condolences flowed in a delicate stream of soft, sorrowful words from nobles who pitied you and empty gestures from those who secretly rejoiced in the slow and continuous decay of your house’s legacy.

“He was a man of duty,” one of your uncle’s acquaintances lamented barely audibly above the solemn dirge.

“A great loss,” another added with feigned regret.

You nodded, lips pressed into a trembling smile as your eyes shimmered with unshed tears that caught the flicker of candlelight. When the final rites were called, the assembled crowd parted with solemn efficiency, leaving you alone before his final resting place—your last remaining close kin. The casket laid upon a raised dais, framed by flickering torches that cast dancing shadows upon its polished wood, awaiting its fate to be consumed by flame.

Each step you took toward it was in sync with the steady rhythm of your breath. At its edge, you bent down, letting your fingertips trace the smooth grain of the wood as though you sought to commit every ridge and curve to memory. Leaning close, you let your lips ghost near his ear, your voice barely more than a whisper in the hush of the hall.

"May your next life be as wretched as this one was undeserved."

Then, with a tenderness that belied the venom in your words, you pressed a soft kiss to his cold forehead—a farewell infused with a bitterness far removed from true grief.

You straightened with grace before turning and rejoining the front lines, harboring a flawless mask of quiet devastation. Behind you, the ceremonial flames were kindled, and soon the fire took hold. A collective, solemn gasp rippled through the assembly as the casket was engulfed, the scent of burning incense giving way to a harsher, acrid tang that stung the senses.

Tears traced glistening paths down your cheeks as you watched the funeral pyre, each flicker of flame reflecting memories of a once-honorable past. For a long and silent juncture, you remained rooted to the spot, witnessing the send-off until the last embers shuddered and died.

The guests began to gradually drift away in final bows and a mumblage of sympathies fading into the chill of the night, until at last only you and your company remained in the desolate quiet of the burial grounds.

A soft cough shattered the welcomed stillness. “My lady?”

You turned around and revealed your once-tear-stained face being carefully composed, with every trace of feigned grief meticulously erased.

“Elva, please fetch me a handkerchief,” you declared, your voice steady and low. “And go ready the carriage.”

Your ever-faithful maid complied without hesitation, retrieving a pristine silk tissue and placing it gently into your outstretched palm. You brought it to your lips first, dabbing them before using it to carefully wipe your face.

Elva’s eyes widened momentarily. “My lady, why did you—” she began, then faltered, her voice a mere whisper. “Why your lips?”

You folded the handkerchief in a neat fold, tucking it away in your palm like a secret too precious for the light.

"Well, I shouldn't afford to leave noxious substances so carelessly on my lips now, should I?” you lightly chipped, tilting your head in private delight. 

You approached one of the liberated flames from the funeral pyre’s dying glow and threw unceremoniously the ruined fabric. The hanked reacted immediately to the contact—an almost unnoticeable sizzle resounded as its edge curled with unnatural speed into ash, erasing any trace of its presence.

Elva’s lips parted in realization as if to offer further counsel, but no words came—only a respectful silence as she bowed her head and hastened toward the waiting carriage. You stepped after her at an unhurried pace, the ghost of your smirk lingering like a promise of the plans yet to be set in motion.

The carriage door closed with a firm click, sealing the both of you inside the dimly lit interior. Without hesitation, you surged for the nearest window and pulled down its heavy velvet curtain, ensuring that no fragment of the outside world might enter on your personal sanctuary. The cabin was warm and quiet, acting as a cocoon where covert revelations might be shared without the jeopardy of inquisitive ears. You carefully secured each window one by one, an exacting process that the brunette quietly observed, her gloved hands lying demurely in her lap.

Only when the last curtain was drawn did you nestle into the soft seat. You exhaled deeply, as if relieving the pressure of a lifetime in one long, slow breath. Outside, the repetitive clatter of hooves against cobblestone blended with the night's silence. Through a narrow rip in the fabric, you watched the vast sacred building fade into darkness, a mere outline absorbed by the small municipality's tortuous highways.

After a long, reflective interval, Elva's kind voice shattered the quiet. "What are you going to do now, my lady? Seeing that you're free?"

You let out a deep, almost languid sigh, one of odd comfort rather than grief. "I've already begun," you remarked. "The furniture is being sold, piece by piece, and most of the staff have been let go."

Elva's posture tensed as she blinked, recognition dawning in her eyes. "Then that would mean..."

Your lips curled with a faint, knowing smile. "Yes, you have been promoted to the position of head maid."

After a minute of calm acceptance, Elva nodded softly. "That should secure our future, along with the savings you've so discreetly accumulated," she answered nervously. "It was fortunate that your uncle was ill enough in his final years to entrust you with managing the household's resources."

“Fortunate indeed,” you mused, a wry note lacing your words. “Though I doubt he ever meant for me to wield it to my own advantage.”

Elva fell silent for a heartbeat before asking with an almost timid curiosity, “Why not sell the estate as well?”

A distant chuckle escaped you, devoid of genuine mirth. "That house is the only reminder of my childhood. I spent my happiest days there," you mused, your mind drifting as memories surfaced. "I am sure you remember the swing that my father built for me among those old pear trees. I can still recall my mother's standing nearby in case I fell. In the end, I had to regrettably sell it."

Your maid regarded you with a blend of understanding and pity, but offered no further words.

You exhaled through your nose, the corners of your mouth softening into a wistful line. “No matter. I’m certain no one would dare engage in dealings with an estate burdened by such a dismal reputation.”

A profound inertia fell between you, interrupted only when Elva spoke once more. "Did you even sell the portraits?"

You shifted your sight to the curtained window, your face unreadable in the flickering shades. "I couldn't," you confessed with a rare vulnerability. "Some things... are too cherished to be relinquished to strangers."

The rest of the route was spent in thoughtful silence, with the city gradually disappearing as the vehicle transported you home. Finally, the estate's imposing gates emerged in the pale moonlight, and the horses halted, the carriage slowly grinding to an end.

As you reached for the door handle, Elva shifted uncomfortably. “You have no guardian now, my lady,” she reminded you in a hushed tone. “And you remain a bachelorette, at that. How do you intend to proceed?”

Stepping out into the cool air, you smoothed the folds of your mourning dress and turned to face her. “How else?” you replied, a smile playing at the corners of your mouth as clear ambition sparkling in your eyes. 

“I’m going to marry rich. Obviously.”

⠀

⠀

The streets of Asgard have never felt colder as they did tonight. The pavement, slippery with twilight mist, glistened beneath your measured tread and lead you through a region of the city you used to avoid. Lanterns sputtered in the heavy darkness, their meager radiance generating wavering shadows that danced maliciously at the borders of your view. This was not the Asgard you remembered—it was bright, resplendent, and full of pomp and color. No, this was the underbelly of a fading realm, where houses' facades crumbled like brittle paper and wealth remained a faraway dream.

You walked with careful intention, each step resounding on the damp cobblestones. In the back of your mind, Elva's gentle query from yesterday's evening lingered. 

"My lady, why suddenly... this wish?" Her worry was evident, a compassionate spark in the midst of your anguish, when you announced your intention to enter the marriage market. It was a decision made out of necessity, not whim, and one that became increasingly urgent with each passing day.

She was positive that you, of all people, would never debase yourself by engaging in such a banal and ignoble transaction. But surely she was aware of your golden cage, of the days spent imprisoned in the decaying confines of your family's home where sycophantic suitors bargained for your attention as if it were a valuable commodity. Pathetic men of low ranks and even simple commoners, dressed in the finest of what they could afford and bursting with fake admiration, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. They were eager, preening before you as if you were the sun that centered their entire world.

Once, you were untouchable.

Your household name had echoed through every banquet hall and noble ceremony, a jewel in the illustrious diadem of House Sigvard. As the daughter of one of Asgard's most powerful families, you were admired for your grace, brilliance, and wit. You had smoothly presided over your mother's salon, the centerpiece of high society, where the elite eagerly awaited your insights on courtly issues, the latest political intrigues, and the scandalous whispers of the realm. Every word you spoke was valuable as gold.

You'd been at the top.

And what of now? You walked these dour alleys like a phantom of your previous self. Your uncle's reckless expenditures had consumed the once-glorious fortune, leaving nothing but sallow ruins. Gambling. The wretched man threw away everything—your family's name, your inheritance, and the future you had once hoped for. When the payments came due, he callously sold your numerous assets, which included your beloved mother's salon, to satisfy his creditors' voracious appetite. You could still picture it vividly in your mind, the day the "sold" sign was hammered into the front yard, along with the harsh laughing of vultures as they swept away the final vestiges of your inheritance.

It was an insult you could never forgive.

That bastard. 

You clutched your fists as a stringent laugh from your lips and echoed off in the lengthy road. "Idiotic rule," you mumbled beneath your breath as you thought of the oppressive law requiring noblewomen to stay under the custody of their male relatives. Such a horrible charade. 

Fortunately, you had no brother to protect you, no distant cousin prepared to challenge the status quo. The few remaining relatives were either too old or already comfortably ensconced with their own fortunes to give a damn. Had your name retained its former glory, they would have fought like starving lions to claim the scraps of you and your estate.

The edifice in front of you resembled an inn at best, its stone walls weathered and pitted from the unrelenting passage of time and neglect. A sprinkling of weakly reflective windows on the higher floors glowed like feeble stars, giving only the sensation of a long-forgotten place, a hollow echo of a purpose that had once existed.

You pushed open the hefty door and walked inside. The smell stale ale, charred wood, and a faint scent of something metallic mixed in a suffocating haze of smoke straightaway assaulted your nostrils. A faint drone of conversations, accented by the odd clink of chipped glass, emanated from the few figures slumped over tattered tables. It was a dramatic contrast to the sumptuous salons of the past, where laughing sounded like music and every word was dressed in polished beauty.

This decomposing hideaway was your destination—a place where answers may be found among the private matters of people who thrived in the dark. Your torn cloak, nevertheless rich in color, was your only protection against inquisitive scrutiny. Here, you appreciated the anonymity it afforded. Being a faceless, nameless wanderer in these forsaken streets was a small comfort in that abandoned world.

You walked to the far end of the room, where a weathered wooden bar stood under the careful eye of a broad-shouldered bartender. As you neared, his face flickered up, marked with the lines of long nights of hard work. You feigned to fix your cloak, taking care not to reveal your features.

"Anything I can get for you?" he asked in a gravelly tone.

You paused before conspiraciously leaning in. "A glass of the Red Eel," you whispered softly, allowing the words to install themselves.

The bartender's hands stopped mid-polish, his eyes narrowing as a spark of recognition flared inside them.

"The bathroom is two rooms down the corridor, on the left. Be quick," he nodded towards the aisle.

A contented smile traced on your lips. "Thank you," you answered calmly before leaving the bar behind. You crept into the small corridor, the inn's muted sounds fading into a distant cacophony. You soon discovered the small door that went to the so-called bathroom, enclosed in peeling wallpaper and illuminated by a single, flickering light overhead.

You shut the door after you, allowing yourself a moment of calm satisfaction. The excitement of being so near your goal sent shivers down your spine—a delicate blend of yearning for rebirth and desperate hope.

You stepped into the narrow room, where the dim glow of a solitary candle revealed a large desk set in the center of an alcove at the far end of the room. The desk was sinister, made from dark oak and marred by age. Its surface was crowded with parchment scraps, old books, and assorted trinkets, all of which had been neglected to accumulate dust. Behind the desk stood a gaunt man with eyes like chipped flint, his face shrouded by the half-light. 

"What brings a stranger to our door?"

You straightened, readying yourself for the next battle of wills to come. "My intentions should be obvious," you coolly replied. "After all, this is the most renowned informational guild in the city—a sanctuary of secrets for those who truly need them."

He chuckled, a dry sound that echoes in the gloom. "Indeed. But we do not entertain any clients who come so freely." He gestured for you to approach the desk with an appraising stare and greedy eyes shining through the dark.

You obeyed without hesitation, your footsteps echoing faintly as you made your way toward him. "Precisely because I know that, I am here," you asserted, producing your family crest from within the folds of your garment and placed the emblem on the scarred surface of the desk.

The man's eyes widened as he inspected the proud and intricate design bearing the insignia. A slow, humorless laugh escapes him. "What a joke, for the House of Sigvard falling so low to be seen here," he scoffs. "The Grand Marshal's legacy has truly reached the very depths of Hel. 

He shook his head as if almost in disbelief. “Tell me, Sygvarddóttir, why should we even be interested in your demand when you hail from a house that now holds little value?"

Your gaze sharpened and you remained still, not fliching at his attempt to undermine—you knew better than to let his words wound you. "Because, as you yourself noted, House of Sigvard was a bastion of prestige for centuries until it fell into unworthy hands," you countered. "I am of the blood of that esteemed lineage, the direct descendant of an union between the most praised ex-lady in waiting for the Allmother herself as well as one of the most strategic and intelligent war scholars our realm has been blessed with. Naturally, I have inherited those qualities."

The man arched an eyebrow, his smile turning wry. "Inherited, perhaps," he conceded. "But let us not forget the disgrace your house was sealed with when your father was accused of treason and of leaking the kingdom's most confidential secrets. A legacy tarnished beyond repair."

The informant looked at you with narrowed eyes, feeling that beneath your calculated façade lurked a secret weight far larger than desperation. You decided to comply and prove his hunch was right by reaching within the folds of your cloak and pulling out a purse. Its contents clinked softly in an exquisite symphony of gold coins and tiny gems, each one a relic of the richness that once established your ancestry. You carefully opened the pouch, allowing the gold and stones to stream over the desk's scarred surface.

But it was not all.

Added to the funding, you set a little book sheathed in a leather cover that had split with age. Marked on its pages were precise notes written in your own hand, a record of secrets acquired over years of patient observation. This book was your weapon, the result of decades spent documenting the illegal activities of people who had betrayed your family. You had kept it buried for fear of the consequences of revealing it, but now was the moment to wield its terrible truth.

The man's gaze shifted between the bag and the book, his interest evidently piqued.

"I'm positive," you stated, "that my father was framed. And I can prove it—with time, money and power." You watched his lips move to speak, but you lifted your hand to silence him. "But for now, what matters is this." You tapped the book lightly. "In these pages are the names of every shady noble my uncle gambled with—the very ones who collaborated with him to dishonor my family's reputation. Their schemes, deceptions, and cover-ups. These are the architects of House of Sigvard's demise."

You leaned forward, your eyes locking onto his with fierce intensity. "I know that your guild despises the crown's myriad laws. They flaunt their wealth and defy every decree. Releasing this information, especially when most concerns imperialist nobles, would shake high society to its very core. And you know it."

A heated silence ensued, laden with the promise of upheaval. The man then let forth a rich, hearty laugh stirring the dust in the dim light.

"By the Allfather," he vociferated in both admiration and menace. "You really are the daughter of Sygvard and Regna, to speak so boldly." His eyes glittered in a blend of curiosity and a tinge of an unsettling look. "Very well, girl. Tell me, what do you want from us?”

You inhaled quietly to calm your nerves, keeping your grip protectively curled around the purse and the book. The man's dark gaze pierced into you, anticipating your next words and the price you would set.

"I want your help," you bid carefully. "I will gradually pay you in coins and reveal names when I'll come to seek your assistance. Presently, I request your aid regarding two issues."

His eyes glinted with interest, prompting you to deliver the next words with purpose and careful arrangement.

"Firstly, I want you to remove the allegations and evidence of tax evasion that my uncle have tarnished my house's reputation with. Clear my reputation in the eyes of the crown, so that the gossip can stop." You paused, letting the weight of the request settle between you. 

"I will also need a list of future bachelors. I need the names of individuals who are wealthy, of impeccable stature, and untainted by nefarious relationships. These individuals must have enough caliber to be able to keep my distant relatives at bay should they seek to claim what I am and what I own, and they have to allow me to develop sa business of my own by using their riches and influence should it be necessary."

The candle's flame trembled in the silence of the room, its feeble glow stretching enough to let you perceive the man reclining in his dilapidated chair that protested with every tiny movement. 

“Very well,” he pronounced resolutely, as if the verdict had been sealed in his mind long before the words escaped his lips. “You will receive a pigeon carrier during the following few days to deliver the information you have requested. Regarding the remainder of your requests, I will make every effort to assist you as soon as you deem it necessary. You have my word.”

A slow nod was your only reply, as the gravity of the agreement pressed upon you like a stone sinking in dark water. With the deal inked in the silent contract between your eyes, you reached for the small, leather-bound book that lay between you. The book’s spine creaked in protest as you opened it, your fingertips caressing its jaundiced pages and you swiftly tore out a single page.

The crisp sound of paper severing its bond with the rest of the book was startling in the impendation, a punctuation to the gravity of the occasion. You laid the page  before him, bearing a list of names—each scrawled letter a testament to your resolve and the fate of those who had wronged you.

“Here,” you piped, betraying nothing of the tumult that churned beneath the surface. “Consider this a preview. This will only be the beginning.” Your fingertips brushed the cool edge of the parchment as you withdrew your hand.

His searching eyes roamed the list, a subtle spark of malevolent glee igniting in their depths. No words were needed, the silent acknowledgment passed between you both was enough. You then released the contents of your pouch, of which jangled softly as you set it beside the page. 

“As promised,” you declared, your tone final. You cast one last glance at the parchment and the pouch—symbols of heritage and leap of faith intertwined—and with a hasty resolve, you retrieved the crest. 

You finally took your departure, your boots tapping against the floor as you advanced. Your hand reached for the cold iron handle, but before you could definitely leave, his voice halted you once more.

“Sygvarddóttir,” he called with curious intrigue. “One last question before you leave.”

You paused, your eyes meeting his as you tilted your head in quiet expectation. “What is it?”

“If you had to represent yourself, how would you do it?”

The question hung between you like a delicate wisp of perfume. For a short stretch of time, you considered its layers, the hidden meanings swirling like autumn leaves caught in a gentle wind. “I suppose you have your own reasons for asking,” you began, a note of uncertainty in your tone. 

“As for how I would present myself... the answer is, in truth, simple.” Your eyes fell to the family crest, seeping cold from the metal in your hand. "I will always bear the signature of my house with pride, regardless of the circumstance. I wear its history, its strength, and even its failures upon my shoulders, and it will forever define who I am at core, along with how I choose to depict myself hereafter.”

A moment passed before the man’s lips twitched into a small, wry smile. “A proud answer indeed,” he concluded thoughtfully in a small appraisal. 

With that, you turned once more toward the door and without a backward glance, you pushed open the door and stepped into the dim corridor beyond, your mind already racing with the preparation of your next move to play.

Inside the room, the man’s attention returned to the page, his fingers tracing over the names with abnormal care. A soft chuckle escaped him as he murmured, almost to himself, “Interesting... Very interesting.”

His form began to blur and shift. The harsh, angular features softened, the masculine lines giving way to the delicate grace of a woman’s visage. In a seamless transformation, the dark, tattered garments were replaced by a gown of deep, earthen green. The fabric flowed around her lithe frame, rich in texture and hue as if woven from the forest’s heart. Golden blonde hair tumbled in gentle waves around her now expressive face that combined ethereal beauty with a spark of calculated brilliance.

She once again fixed her gaze upon the names on the page, her delicate fingers skimming over the inked list as her eyes glinted with a newfound admiration. “If my calculations are correct,” she said softly, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, “this will be a fine choice as an ally. For both of us.”

Her eyes shone with the thrill of the unfolding game, a quiet laugh escaping as she already started to plot the pace to adopt in this upcoming intricate dance of fate. “Yes,” she affirmed to herself, “this will be most interesting indeed.”

⠀

⠀

ending notes : To explain the corrosive part in the burial, my understanding is that in Asgardian funerals, the fire is supposed to slowly process the body to thoroughly purify it. Her accelerating the burning would mean disrupting the ritual and therefore meddle with his passing. Let me know your thoughts about the series so far, comments and interactions are very welcomed ! <3

⠀

PROLOGUE.⠀|⠀CHAPTER ONE.⠀|⠀CHAPTER TWO.

see more His For The Season related works.

Want to read more of my works? Check out my masterlist !

⠀⠀

dividers ©️ @strangergraphics + unknown .

angelremnants ©️ 2025. All rights reserved. Do not repost, reproduce, or distribute without explicit permission.

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

The Thousand Yard Stare Chapter 6

Summary: Bucky Barnes has served his country well, and at a great personal cost.  After being rescued as a prisoner of war, he is struggling as he gets back into civilian life.  His newfound PTSD is severe.  His friends and family try to help, but he needs a lot more than they can give.  His mother signs him up for a Veteran recovery home, where he meets people struggling just like him, and the home director who has her own dark past to deal with.  He might just find love along the way as he searches for peace.

Warnings: mentions of physical assault, violence, being taken prisoner; sexual assault/r@pe; PTSD/anxiety/depression/panic attacks, flashbacks, nightmares; suicide/minor character death; eventual smut

Previous chapter Next chapter

8 months later

Bucky was not okay.  He went through the motions of civilian life.  He’d found a part time job doing office administration, which he hated.  Steve and Sam had tried helping him get back into regular life, inviting him to parties and get togethers with other friends, trying to get him going to clubs with them, meeting people, dating, but his heart wasn’t in it.  He was living in the guest house behind his parent’s home, since he couldn’t afford to get his own place, and as much as he loved his parents, it was hard living under their watchful eyes.  He had all the support and resources open to him, but he just could not stop thinking of her.

He hadn’t told anyone about his almost-relationship with Y/N, but Steve and Sam had been suspicious of something happening when he rejected their attempts to set him up on dates.  “Buck, did something…happen while you were there?” Steve bit the bullet one day as they sat in the backyard having a beer.

“What do you mean?” Bucky asked.

Steve sighed.  “Don’t bullshit me, Buck.  I know something’s up.  I could see it when we visited Mama’s House for Thanksgiving,” he said, giving Bucky an unimpressed look.  Bucky tensed up, looking away from him. “You like her,” Steve said.  “And I think something happened with her while you were there, but circumstances as they are have made you feel like it’s not a possibility–”

“She made it an impossibility,” Bucky said angrily.  He rubbed his face with his hand.  “I really don’t wanna talk about this, Steve.”

“I know your nightmares have come back,” Steve accused.  Bucky shook his head.  “Your mom heard you the other night, and she called me.”

“God,” Bucky quickly stood.  He chugged the rest of his beer and went back inside the guest house.  

“Buck, come on,” Steve said, quickly following him.  “I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.”

“I don’t want or need your help, Steve,” Bucky rounded on him.  “I’m back, aren’t I?  Isn’t that what you all wanted?  For me to come home and get back into regular life?”

“Not if it makes you this miserable,” Steve shook his head.  

Bucky stared at him.  “I’m not miserable.”

Steve scoffed.  “Sure.  If you’re not miserable then come out with me and Sam, try to actually have fun, hook up with somebody, something!  But you can’t keep living like your mind is still there.”  He clapped Bucky’s shoulder.  “I’m sorry whatever it was didn’t work out with her.  But you’ve got to work past it.”

Bucky felt so tired.  A part of him wanted to move on, but the thought of that also made him feel sick.  He patted Steve’s hand.  “Fine.  When were you guys planning on going out?”

Steve smiled.  “Friday night karaoke.”

Bucky sighed.  “Fuck me.”

***

TRIGGER WARNING

Bucky didn’t like this bar as much as the one near Mama’s House.  It was fine but didn’t have the hometown feel, and it was filled with undergrads that made him feel old and out of place.  Each person who got up and sang was terrible, with only a few that could hold a tune, and he knew there wouldn’t be any saving grace at the end of the night.  Sam got up and sang “Edge of Glory” by Lady Gaga, which was the only time Bucky laughed all night.  

There was also a lot more dancing at this bar.  Whether it was during a karaoke performance or the music that was played in between people, there were people dancing and grinding up on each other constantly.  He had to maneuver his way through the crowd so as not to get accidentally thrusted at after grabbing another beer from the bar.  There had been a few brave, flirty souls who had come up to him, Steve and Sam, but Bucky had rebuffed their advances.  It just didn’t feel right.

While the three of them went back up to the bar again for another refill Bucky was suddenly grabbed from behind and pulled into the crowd of people dancing.  He tried to turn and see who was touching him but being surrounded by a tight group of people made it nearly impossible.  Other hands began touching his arms, his chest, his shoulders.  Drunk voices were all around him.  “Hey handsome…”  “Come dance!”  He tried pushing and pulling their hands away, then stiffened when he felt someone with large hands on his waist thrust their hips, a bulge poking into his ass.  “Pretty boy…”  He blacked out.

***

The buzzing woke Y/N up.  She groaned as she turned over and blindly grabbed for her phone.  Glancing at the clock as the light stung her eyes it read 3:32 a.m.  “What the fuck?” she grumbled.  She sat up on her elbow and answered the call.  “Hello?”

“Y/N!” the voice yelled.  “Please, we can’t find him, you have to help us.  I don’t know–”

“Wait wait,” Y/N sat all the way up.  “Who is this?”

“It’s Winnie,” she cried.  “Bucky’s gone!”

“What?” Y/N was now fully awake.  “What do you mean?  What happened?”

Winnie was uncontrollably crying and she heard a muffled noise as someone else took the phone.  “Y/N?” they said.

“Who is this?” she asked, getting out of bed and starting to get dressed.

“Hey, it’s Steve.”  He sounded exhausted.  “I don’t know what happened.  We took him out tonight to a karaoke bar and he got caught up in the crowd and then there was all this shouting and pushing, then he ran,” he said.  “We tried following him out but he was long gone.  We’ve been searching for hours, trying to call him, but he won’t answer.  We don’t know what to do…Winnie just called thinking you might be of help.”

“Shit,” Y/N sighed as she put on her shoes.  “Send me your address.  It’ll take me a few hours but I’m coming.  I don’t know how much help I’ll be…”

“You don’t have to do that,” Steve said.

“Too bad, I’m coming,” she said as she ran down the stairs, grabbing her wallet and keys and booking it to the front door.  She opened it and as she turned to close and lock it she froze as she looked at the porch swing.  “Steve,” she whispered.  “He’s here.”

“What?!” Steve asked incredulously.  

“Listen,” she said quietly.  “I’ll take care of him and call you guys in the morning, okay?  We’ll figure it all out then.  Just know that he’s here, and overall he looks like he’s okay.”

Steve sighed heavily and she heard a noise like he was rubbing his face.  “Okay, thanks Y/N.”

“No problem. Bye,” she hung up.  She slowly approached the porch swing.  Bucky was laying on it, facing away from her, his long legs dangling over the side.  “Bucky?” she called out.  She reached a hand out and shook his arm gently.  Bucky inhaled shakily.  She leaned over him to find him staring wide-eyed at the porch swing slats.  “Buck,” she reached her hand down and caressed his cheek with the backs of her fingers.  His eyes fluttered shut.  “Come back to me,” she whispered.

Bucky shivered and slowly turned his head to look at her.  When his eyes found her they were wet and his chin trembled.  “Y/N,” he whispered.

“Hey lover boy,” she smiled at him.  “Come on, let’s get you warmed up,” she said, pulling his arm.

Bucky stiffly allowed her to move him, sitting up on the porch swing.  She pulled him to stand and brought his arm around her shoulders.  Y/N led him through the house then to the back buildings.  She unlocked the comfy building, pulling him toward the cuddle room, then had him sit on the bed.  She started pulling his jacket and shoes off and looking him over.

“Are you in any pain?” she asked quietly, her hands checking his hands, arms, feet, ankles, neck, and anything else she could immediately see.

“No,” he mumbled.  She looked at him and saw the tell-tale thousand yard stare.  He was in shock.

“That’s good,” she said, watching him carefully.  She cupped his face in her hands, trying to get him to look at her.  “How did you get here?”

Bucky’s eyes were unfocused.  “Bus,” he murmured.

“For fuck’s sake,” Y/N grumbled.  She couldn’t find any injuries and so she pushed him up further onto the bed, sitting in front of him.  She grabbed his hands, taking one in each of her hands and massaging it.    “Do you wanna tell me what happened?” she asked.

Bucky’s eyes closed.  He seemed to be reveling in the touch on his hands.  “Guy grabbed me,” he muttered.  “Touched me…thrusting at me…hands everywhere…” he shivered again, his free hand tightening into a fist.  Y/N quickly grabbed it, forcing his fingers open to massage his palm.  “I…don’t remember.”

“That’s okay,” Y/N soothed him.  “He shouldn’t have done that without your consent.  That wasn’t right.  I’m sorry you felt unsafe.  It’s okay,” her hands moved up to his wrists, massaging them.  “You’re okay.  You’re safe here.”  She took her time as she moved up his arms to his shoulders, massaging along the way.  Her fingers softly scratched up his neck and his face.  His beard had grown in more, and his hair was even longer than when she last saw him.  Y/N leaned forward and scratched up into his hair, gently smoothing out any knots and massaging his scalp with her fingertips.  Bucky’s eyes flew open and focused on her, flicking across her face like he was finally recognizing her.  “I’ve got you,” she whispered.

Bucky’s face scrunched in pain, his eyes filling with tears and spilling over.  He leaned forward until his head rested on her shoulder, Y/N holding him and shushing him as he cried.  His hands reached out and pulled her toward him, Y/N moving herself to straddle his lap as he hugged her tight.  “I’ve got you,” she murmured into his ear, kissing the side of his head.  She pushed him so he would lay down next to her and held him, pulling a blanket over the both of them.  He nuzzled into her chest as he cried, his tight hold never letting up.  “I’ve got you.”

***

The sun streamed into the room and shone on Bucky’s face.  He groaned at the offending light.  He was so comfortable he didn’t want to move.  The steady beating under his ear was soothing, but the pillow seemed to be moving.  He slowly opened his eyes, adjusting to the light, before looking around.  He wasn’t in his room.  He was in…the cuddle room?  The pillow was a body, he was laying on Y/N’s breast.  He moved to sit up and looked up at her.  She was still asleep, her chest rising and falling with each breath, her mouth slightly open and her eyes moving behind her eyelids.  Her arm that cradled his head against her chest was hugging around him, her fingers still poised in his hair.  He smiled.  For the first time in months it was like his heart was settling down, his mind was quiet and his body was at ease.

Bucky settled back down, not wanting to wake her yet, and milk every moment of this peace that he could.  Unfortunately, his squirming made her groan as she stretched next to him, slowly waking up and rubbing her eyes with her free hand.  Y/N looked around momentarily before turning and looking at him.  She sleepily smiled at him.  “Good morning, Buck,” she whispered.

“Good morning,” he answered hoarsely.  He cleared his throat and moved so that he was hovering over her.  He reached a hand up and touched her face, his fingers tracing over her cheek, to her nose, and down her lips.  “I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?” Y/N asked, watching him.

“For this,” he said, looking away.  “Just showing up out of nowhere in the middle of the night, having a panic attack, making you take care of me–”

“No,” Y/N interrupted him.  “You have nothing to apologize for.”  She grabbed the hand near her face and kissed his knuckles.  “I told you, I’ve got you.  But you should probably call your parents.”

Bucky hummed and nodded.  “Probably should.”  He sat up and she joined him, reaching for her phone on the nightstand next to the bed and checking.  She had multiple texts from Winnie, which she quickly answered.  “Your mom’s freaking out,” she said quietly.  “Do you have your phone?”

Bucky checked his pockets and found it.  “Yeah,” he said, trying to turn it on.  “It’s dead.”

“Here,” she said, pulling up Winnie’s phone number.  He thanked her and hit the call button.

“Y/N?” his mother’s voice answered.

“Hey Ma,” Bucky said.

“Bucky!” she yelled, and there was a clattering on the other end and multiple voices calling out.  “What happened?  Oh honey, we were so worried–”

“You fucker!” Sam yelled.

“Sam,” Steve chastised him.  “Buck it’s okay–”

“Bucky,” his father’s voice cut through.  “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Bucky said, watching Y/N hide her smile at all the concerned voices.  “I’m okay.  I just…had something happen that was triggering.  I honestly don’t remember much of last night.”

George sighed shakily.  “Okay.  I’m so sorry, my boy.  Just, come home, okay?  Do you need a ride?  We can come get you.”

“Dad, can I…” he paused, glancing at Y/N.  She was looking down at the bed.  “Can I call you guys back?  And we’ll figure it out?”

George paused.  “Sure, sure.  Just call back soon, please?”

“I will,” Bucky said reassuringly.  “Love you guys.  I’m sorry–”

“Don’t be!” yelled Steve.

Bucky chuckled and said goodbye once more before hanging up.  He handed Y/N her phone back.  “Thank you,” he said.  

“You’re welcome,” she said, giving him a small, polite smile.  She moved so that her back was against the wall to face him.  They stared at each other for a long moment.  “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked finally.

“Yeah,” he answered, looking at his hands.  “I’ll be okay.  Just had a moment.  I’ll stay away from packed bars for a while until I can work through it.”

“Good idea,” she agreed.  They sat silently again.  “I can drive you home,” she offered.

“I don’t wanna leave,” he whispered.  Another moment of silence.  

“You…you gotta go home, Bucky,” Y/N said.

“I can’t,” Bucky shook his head.  “It doesn’t feel right.”

“What do you mean?”

He sighed.  “I feel peace here.  With you.  My mind is finally quiet,” he glanced up at her.  She didn’t move.  “My heart feels calmer.  My anxiety is gone.  Please, don’t send me away,” he reached a hand out and gripped her ankle.  She didn’t move again, but her breathing was getting heavier as she watched him.  Her brow furrowed in the middle and she looked sadly at him.  “I’ll move up here,” he said, scooting forward.  “I can work here, for you, keeping up the property, doing office stuff, whatever it is you need from me,” he said more earnestly.  Y/N opened her mouth to protest.  “Yes, my family and friends are there,” he interrupted her, “but that doesn’t make it home.  You’re home,” he said, sitting in front of her, cupping her face in his hands.  Y/N closed her eyes, hesitantly nuzzling her face into his palm.  “My life is here.  You’re my life.  You, and this house, and this work, and Teddy,” he chuckled, and she snickered with him.  “All I want is this.  All I want is you,” he leaned forward and kissed her nose.  “Please, Y/N,” he whispered.  “I’ll do whatever you need, whatever you want,” he rested his forehead against her forehead, his nose tracing along her cheek.  “I’ll be your lover boy, for as long as you’ll have me.”  

Y/N giggled.  “How can you say so many sweet things and sprinkle something dirty in there?”  

“See?  I’m fun to have around,” Bucky said.  

Y/N looked up at him, the desire in her face giving him hope.  “I want you,” she said.  “I’ve missed you…so much,” her voice wobbled with emotion.  “I just don’t want to take you from your family.”

“They’ll understand,” Bucky said, kissing her cheek.  “Dad will probably want to move up here anyways.”

Y/N huffed a laugh and shook her head.  “You would drop everything to stay here?  With me?”

Bucky nodded.  “I love you.  I would have done it 8 months ago if you’d let me.”

Y/N smiled softly.  “I thought I was doing the right thing.  I didn’t mean to hurt you.”  She nuzzled her nose against his.  “You’re so much more than inappropriate timings and stolen moments,” she said.  

Bucky sighed and pulled her into his lap, his hands on her hips as she wrapped her arms around his neck.  “You love me?”

“Yes,” Y/N said, nodding.

He leaned in and kissed her cheek.  “Say it.”

Y/N smiled teasingly.  “Or what?”

Bucky looked at her in surprise.  “Hm, so you’re not always Mommy are you?”

Y/N blushed and shrugged.  “I said sometimes, didn’t I?”  

Bucky’s eyes narrowed.  “Brat,” he called her teasingly.  Y/N’s eyes widened.  Bucky leaned in again and kissed her other cheek, then her jaw, her chin, then the side of her mouth.  She tried to chase his lips but he moved away and a small whine escaped her throat.  “Say it,” he whispered against her skin.  Y/N minutely shook her head and he groaned.  He started kissing up to her forehead, over her eyelids, her nose, and back to her other cheek, littering kisses all over her face but just out of reach of her lips.  Y/N tried to guide his face back to her mouth but he grabbed her wrists and held them behind her.  She gasped as he kissed her neck.

“Bucky…” she whimpered.

“Say it,” he grunted, nipping at her collarbone.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“Again,” he licked a long stripe up her jugular.

“I love you,” Y/N said a little louder.

“Again,” he growled in her ear.

“Fuck, I love you,” she moaned loudly, pulling at her wrists in his firm hold.

“That’s what I thought,” he chuckled before releasing her wrists.

“God,” Y/N sighed, cupping his face in her hands again.  She leaned in and started kissing all over his face.  Her hips started to grind down on him, making his breath stutter.  “Are you trying to drive me crazy?  We can’t do this in here,” she breathed.

“Then let me take you out,” Bucky said, trying to keep his wits about him.  He stopped her kissing, even though he really didn’t want to, and made her look at him.  “You can drive me back, I’ll tell my family and friends what’s going on, and then we’ll come back home, and I’ll take you out sometime.  Or,” his hands ran up her sides, his fingertips barely sliding over the sides of her breasts, “you can sing me another song next karaoke night, and I can show you just how much it affects me every time you sing?  Especially those sexy songs?”

Y/N hummed as she scratched the back of his neck gently.  “It all sounds perfect,” she sighed.  

Bucky smiled, leaning in and finally kissing her lips.  “Then let’s go.”

@wintrsoldrluvr @isitbiorisitlesbian @starfly-nicole @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @buckys-arm-and-rios-dagger @idontknowhowtonormal

[contentincatastrophes]

SSTRAU Info!

TLDR; Read my gay roman empire life series fanfic, it's very roman.

What is SSTRAU?

SSTRAU stands for 'sic semper tyrannis', Roman alternative universe, this fanfic is a Third Life-based work, following mainly the perspective of Ren as he comes to ultimate power in the Roman Republic.

What is in SSTRAU?

SSTRAU has a large cast of characters including all life series members and some empires and hermitcraft cameos, though keep in mind it is mostly based upon Third Life. The ships present in this fic are treebark, scarian, jizzie and flowerhusbands. promienently so in the treebark department. The fic forfiets a specific genre, but if it could be described in one word, it would probably be 'drama' or 'tragedy', so strap in!

Warnings about SSTRAU

The major possible triggers in this fic are violence, major character death, hurt no comfort and blood, it also mentions slavery in the context of ancient Rome.

Still interested in SSTRAU?

If the above has interested you and you aren't triggered by the above, then SSTRAU might just be the fic for you! I recently uploaded the second chapter and the third is coming probably early next week! I would really appreciate any support your willing to give, even if you aren't interested be sure to share this post :)

Link to SSTRAU

here

#SSTRAU for any art or discussion, and for further updates on this fic, thanks for reading!

[theleutnant]

ACE !

"The winter will always remember."

After escaping a fatal ambush, Ghost and his protégée are trapped in rough Scandinavia — lost in enemy territory.

➼ EXPLICIT CONTENT

PAIRING. simon "ghost" riley x original female character GENRE. slow burn | forbidden romance WARNINGS. graphic description of violence, blood and gore, death STATUS. running

01. what we say in the dark

02. until you find them

03. into the woods

04. stuck on you

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[thehollowwriter]

Hell yeah it's the Abyss magic rant

Just warning for like a tiny Book 7 spoiler regarding the magic in twst and bc translations are still a bit rough so take it with a pinch of salt, and also mentions of death and murder.

Apparently Book 7 talks a bit about where magic in twst came from, and apparently it came from a wish/intense desire. It's certainly very Disney for the magic in twst to come from hopes and dreams XD.

I always wanted Abyssal magic to be separate and different from twst's regular magic. It does not function the same, it does not come from the same place, and it is not cast in the sam way..

Abyssal magic requires drawing things, saying things, drawing from a particular source (blood a bone a ghost a corpse hell you can kill something and start doing it) because it thrives on death and decay and if you channel it with something like a plant that's still alive it will shrivel and rot.

Regular twst magic relies on you picturing what you want to happen and having a strong imagination (which actually makes the wish thing make sense ngl) pointing your pen and casting. You draw from around you (water, flora, fire, cosmic) but it doesn't kill anything because you are essentially making it yourself. Obviously there's then potions and that kinda stuff but I'm just focusing more on what seems to the """raw""" magic if that makes sense.

The Abyss is a place of hopeless agony and endless death and violence and is generally very separated from the rest of the world of twst. (It's like a Slaughter domain lol/ref)

To just clarify, the Abyss is not the entire midnight zone of the Coral Sea, it is simply a specific place (you could call it a huge trench I suppose) in the midnight zone that is below/in the Coral Sea but it is not considered part of it or part of any country. It used to be a mer country of its own though, like the Coral Sea (though not necessarily a wealthy or strong one), till it collapsed but that so so long ago that I doubt even the fae remember it. Perhaps Malleus' grandmother has a vague memory of it though.

Basically yeah the place is a hell hole where imagining about the future doesn't really get you anywhere. So you have to take to survive and kill others to avoid being killed yourself. You can't really dream and hope, you've just gotta wish for survival and do what you can to protect yourself.

I think if one form of magic can come from a hopeful wish, then another can come from a desperate fearful one. Regular magic came from hope and imagination and therefore requires imagination, abyssal magic came from the need to survive in a dog eat dog environment and therefore requires taking from others/killing things.

I think regular twst magic originally came from the raw form of cosmic magic (The evening star/the guide to Neverland ref anybody? Or just the Disney logo with the castle and star) hence why it seems to be the most powerful attack and why the most powerful main character (Malleus) has all cosmic spells for his dorm card.

Twst magic came from the heavens, basically, and Abyssal magic came from the pitch black darkness down below. Heaven and hell/jjj

I think it also works out well because iirc the best mages for regular twst magic have the strongest imagination (since natural power only takes you so far), so I think the best Abyssal magic users would have the strongest desire to survive and would be willing to sacrifice others to do that (like Emrys and Silas. I think Finn's abyssal magic is a little bit weak compared to them because of this) Silas' own magic that was dormant for about 9 years literally manifested cause he was terrified and about to get eaten and then it blasted some random mer's jaw off their face.

Obviously we've seen in twst that magical power can be passed on through blood, but I think Abyssal magic functions differently and you don't need to be born into a family that uses it to learn how to do it (however I think it would be incredibly difficult) and just because your parents were powerful doesn't mean you will be.

The vast difference between the two magics is why it's been so difficult for Silas to learn and master "regular" magic which in turn made it difficult for him to teach it to Finn and resulted in Finn being a bit behind when he arrived at NRC (it was easier for Morrigan cause well *gesures* he's Morrigan)

Then there's also the fact almost nobody has heard of Abyssal magic and most who have think it's just a myth from a time when those on land were very afraid of the creatures in the sea. Kinda hard to learn much about it. Especially since it's basically a dead/dying form of magic.

Tagging: @distant-velleity @br3adtoasty @rainesol @theleechyskrunkly @jovieinramshackle

@galaxies-and-gore @cyanide-latte @cynthinesia @officialdaydreamer00 @krenenbaker

@offorestsongs @kitwasnothere @elenauaurs @boopshoops @inotonline

@1dont-really-know @kazumify @minteasketches @elysia-nsimp @skrimpyskimpy

@casp1an-sea @offorestsongs @tixdixl @poisoned-pearls @the-trinket-witch

@ramshacklerumble @ghostiidasponk @thegoldencontracts @sillyslipperybananapeel @cloudcountry

@skriblee-ksk @twstinginthewind @lumdays @theolivetree123 @natsukishinomiyaswife

@authoruio @jewelulu @raguiras @moonyasnow @skibidibabygirl

@quartztwst @yuizenihaswriten @oya-oya-okay @kirans-wonderland @coffinkissez

@idikeis @s-t-y-x @minutewondertwist @random-twst-and-oc-stuff

[nickfowlerrr]

something good and true - part 2

part one / part three

pairing: mob boss!bucky barnes x reader

warnings (for all parts in whole): 18+ only. domestic violence. retelling of abuse and battery. minor character death mentioned. angst. sweet and protective bucky. fluff. not sure if this qualifies as a slow burn or not 👀 smut. there’s a happy ending! (as per usual)

words: 5k

notes: i’m so happy people are enjoying the first part, hopefully you’ll enjoy the rest too! lol thank you in advance for reading, i’d be happy to hear your thoughts! as always, comments and reblogs are welcome and so appreciated. 🩵

You wake up to the sound of your daily alarm going off, grumbling as you search your sheets for your phone. When you have a grasp on it, you press the ‘stop’ button and make yourself sit up. You reach for your mouth guard case on the night stand as you take out your night guard, putting it in its case and placing it down momentarily. You rub your eyes, sighing as you try and really wake up. You went to bed early last night, somehow slept longer than usual, and are still tired. Great.

You finally force yourself out of bed and get started on your usual morning routine.

It’s Valentine’s Day but you don’t have a place to be until tonight so you take your time, enjoying the pleasure of a slow morning knowing you don’t have to be at work at all today.

When you’re done getting ready in the bathroom you find yourself dilly dallying in the closet. You don’t know what you should wear. Would dressing up be weird for a dinner/crime confessional? Or would it be more rude to show up to the regal Barnes’ home in casual clothes?

Finally you decide to meet in the middle of the two. You grab your fitted long sleeve purple top, the asymmetric off the shoulder style upgrading the otherwise basic top without being too much, and look for your nice figure hugging pants.

You don’t dress right away, wanting to save the outfit for before you’re set to be picked up in case of a mess. In the meantime, you do your usual makeup routine and style your hair for the day. It’s getting close to noon and your stomach growls, reminding you you’ve yet to eat. You head to the kitchen, still in your pajamas, prepared to start on a quick lunch when you hear a knock on the door.

You freeze for a moment before you walk toward the door, completely unsure of who it could be. You aren’t expecting anyone and the only person you’d be worried to answer the door to would be nothing more than a spector today.

You look out the peephole and see a delivery woman. With a quirked brow, you unlock the door and pull it open.

“Hello,” you greet.

“How are you, sweetie,” she returns with a bright smile. “Got a nice little delivery for you today,” she gestures to the long box she’s rested against the wall. “Just need a signature.”

You smile and take the pen from her, signing quickly, and probably illegibly.

“I’ll tell you, this is probably the biggest box for a bouquet that I’ve delivered since I started,” she laughs, “someone must really want you as their valentine.”

You laugh in return, trying to hide your confusion. There’s flowers in that box?

“Thank you,” you say as you hand her pen back.

“Have a nice Valentine’s,” she says as she turns and walks back toward her truck.

“You, too,” you say after her.

You turn your attention to the box and are careful as you bring it inside. You get it on the table and open it up.

You’re stunned at the bouquet that it holds. You never would’ve guessed the contents of this if she hadn’t mentioned it. The company name is on the inside of the box along with instructions for removing the bouquet without damaging the flowers. You follow the guidance after removing the glass vase packed safely next to the flowers.

It’s gorgeous, and surely expensive. A bouquet this beautifully arranged, with these varieties of flowers and fillers, you don’t know a whole lot about flower prices but you know arrangements like these cost a pretty penny, especially when they’re this size.

You don’t have to do much to the bouquet but again follow the care instructions as you put them in their vase.

At the very bottom of the box is a small card, it appears to have fallen from its stick that still resides among the stems. You can think of only one person who would be sending flowers, but you’re still a little struck when you read his initials on the card.

Forgive the surprise, but it’d be a shame for a woman as special as you to not be gifted on Valentine's.

I’ll see you tonight, sweetheart.

- J.B.B

You try and quell the butterflies taking flight, try and tamper down the renewed nerves, but… He sent you flowers.

You bite your lip, not wanting to break a full smile. It was nice. But was it too much, and too soon? And no way you should feel this giddy with everything you’ve been going through. You don’t even think you’ve really cried since that day. You know better than to bury emotions, to try and move on without dealing with them. With the - you hate to call it what it is - trauma.

The truth is you don’t feel traumatized. You just don’t like to think about him. You don’t like to think about the pain, or the bruises, or the blood, or the knife. You don’t like remembering the fact that you saw a man die.

You shake the thoughts away, like you always do. No.

He’s ruined enough in your life, you think. You won’t let him ruin this new found light, too.

-

6:30 and you’re only now changing out of your pjs. You put on your pants and your top, checking in the mirror that it looks the way you envisioned it would. You slip on your black heeled mules and touch up your hair and makeup before putting on some simple jewelry. This isn’t a date, you remind yourself. This is dinner and the truth.

Your heart races at the thought of having to recall that day but you ignore it. It’ll be good for you, finally telling someone the whole of it.

A knock on your door startles you and you check the time on your phone to find it’s fifteen til.

You do one last check before turning off the lights and coming out into the front room, shutting the other lights off on your way. You double check the peephole and are reassured of Bucky’s presence on the other side. You have your phone in one hand and your small purse in the other, keys dangling from a finger as you open the door to him.

“Hi,” you muster up the greeting as you try to keep from staring at him. He looks sharp and you suddenly feel a little underdressed. Maybe a dress was the right way to go… You want to compliment him but then you’re unsure he’s dressed for you specifically.

“Hello,” he returns, a small smirk on his lips. “You look lovely.”

“Oh,” you look down at yourself, “thank you.” In the same moment, you remember the flowers and repeat yourself, looking to meet his eye. “And thank you, for the flowers, I- they’re beautiful.”

“Not more than you,” he says smoothly, “but I’m glad you liked them. Are you ready to go?”

“Yes,” you nod, stepping out. You turn to lock the door and slip the keys and your phone into your purse before turning to him again.

Bucky holds his arm out for you to take and you falter for just a split second before you do. He leads you to his car, the same blacked out Jaguar as before, and helps you in.

You try to settle in and buckle yourself before he gets in on his side.

He starts the car and after adjusting the temperature, takes off to his place.

“You like Italian?” he asks out of the blue a couple minutes into the quiet ride.

You glance over at him, “Uhm, yeah. I do.”

“The chef is making spaghetti and meatballs for dinner,” he says with a side glance to you. “Is that alright for you?”

You raise your brows unexpectedly, the question surprising you, “Yes. That ah, sounds good,” you nod.

He looks over at you again, one hand on the wheel as he drives smoothly. You clear your throat nervously.

“How’s your day been?” you ask, your nerves clear in your voice despite your attempt to hide them.

His lips quirk in a half smile, huffing a laugh through his nose.

“Relatively uneventful, until now. Had lunch with an old friend, made some business calls but aside from that I tried to keep my day clear.”

“Oh,” you hum, suddenly feeling bad about having to intrude on his day - though he was the one who didn’t give much of an option at all.

“Truthfully, I’ve just been looking forward to seeing you.”

Your eyes start slowly looking up from your lap as you take in his words until you turn to meet his gaze.

“Me?”

“You.”

You swallow thickly and avert your eyes, you’re once again at a loss for words.

“Sorry,” he chuckles softly, “was that too much?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't think I’ve made myself or my intentions clear enough,” he says, turning onto a desolate street and driving up what you now see is a long, winding driveway. His home comes into view and your eyes widen. It’s like Wayne Manor. The Neo-Georgian style is oddly fitting for the man beside you.

You’re brought back to the conversation as Bucky pulls into the large garage and parks the car. You look at him fully once more, his bright blue eyes already on you.

“I don’t want you feeling scared or nervous, or like you’re in any kind of trouble here. Tonight is really more selfishly motivated on my part than anything. I just wanna talk over dinner. In part to get the whole story about what happened, but also just to be able to have dinner with you without any prying eyes. I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable, I should’ve made that clear to you before.”

“Yeah,” you breathe, “you should’ve.” You breathe deeply but steadily as you look at him, his eyes never leaving yours, “I would’ve worn a dress.”

His lips twitch as he blinks at you; he lets out a titter as he opens his door and gets out, walking around to get your own.

He helps you out of the car and takes your arm in his, “You look beautiful no matter what.”

Your skin burns at his compliment and you can’t help your admiration. You don’t think you’ve ever been treated so nicely before.

“You’re like a real life gentleman,” you muse shyly.

“My mom didn’t raise me any other way,” he says, leading you into the house.

The aroma of marina and garlic fills your nose as you walk through the space and you suddenly feel very hungry.

“I can give you the tour later, but for now, this is the entertainment room,” he gestures to the room as you continue walking through, coming to a door and going out into the hall. “Bathroom,” he points to the door on the left of you. “Kitchen,” he points to the hinged doors the smell is emanating from, continuing down the hall to the open space it lead to. “This is the entrance and sitting room, and on the other side, just there,” he points across the way, “is the dining room. And there’s another bathroom down on the left, too.”

“You have a beautiful home,” you compliment, eyes wandering the space. It’s really like something out of a magazine or a movie. Funny to imagine people actually live in gorgeous homes like this.

“Dinner shouldn’t be too long,” Bucky starts but pauses when he sees the contemplation on your face. “What is it?” he asks.

You look to him, brows furrowed as you think before you fix your face. “Uhm, can we just talk about it now,” you swallow the lump in your throat. “Get it all out and over with.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Please.”

“Sure,” he says after assessing you for a long second, leading you to the couch to sit down.

You set your purse on the coffee table and take a seat, hands trailing down the fabric of your pants as you smooth them out of habit.

Bucky sits down beside, but leaves some space between you and him.

You aren’t sure how to start.

“Uhm, what is it that you want to know again?”

“Everything,” he says firmly, but without being too harsh, keeping his eyes on you. “What happened, how it started, how it ended. The whole story.”

“Right. Okay, well uhm, it started I guess with us getting together… it didn’t last all that long, really. Freddy and I were seeing each other last year for about six months before I ended things. Or, tried to, at least. He was moving really fast and I didn’t have all that much interest in taking our relationship further than just casually dating. We had an argument about moving in together that ended with him… slapping me,” you force the confession, “we were at his place and I just grabbed my bag and keys and left. I thought that’d be the end of it, I said as much on my way out, but he didn’t wanna accept that, I guess. And so the next six months he was…stalking me?” You weren’t sure what qualified. “I dont know, he’d just always show up places, act like nothing was wrong, kept up a front until we were alone. And I was stupid, I didn’t even bother trying to tell anyone we weren’t together after the first few times. No one believed me, anyway. So, outside looking in it seemed like a typical on again off again situation.

It got to the point where I just accepted whatever it was that was happening. I didn’t really know what else to do. How to stop it. He’d show up at my job, be waiting for me in my car sometimes. I didn’t have much of a choice of letting him in, or driving him home. He’d always end up inside, one way or another, and I… didn’t know when to shut up,” you laugh humorlessly. “I’d tell him to leave, that we weren’t together. He was crazy and wasn’t welcome anywhere around me. I’d yell and scream and the fighting was just, god, maddening. I felt like I was going crazy half the time. It didn’t escalate every time, but when it did,” you wince without noticing as you mindlessly wring your hand. “Anyway, about a month before the last time, I had found him in my house and I was just exhausted. I looked at him while he sat at the counter eating a sandwich and I asked him to leave. I told him there wasn’t anything here for him. That I didn’t love him, and I never would. And that he didn’t love me, either, and deep down that he knew it. Which is all true,” you add, chancing a glance at Bucky who is still next to you, listening intently, eyes locked on you. “I mean, we’d been seeing each other pretty casually for six months, and I knew after the first that we weren’t going anywhere. I thought we were just having fun, I just don’t know why he thought anything different…

But, uhm, yeah anyway, he actually listened that time. There wasn’t an argument, he just threw his food in the garbage, and, well, he pushed past me on his way out but he didn’t look back. Slammed the door on his way and I, I really thought that that was finally it. I thought maybe he’d moved on or something, I don’t-“ you pause, taking a needed breath as you shake your head. “I was wrong though. Because two weeks later he showed up again. Out of the blue. I was in the kitchen, making dinner because my dad was coming over to see if he could fix my heater later. I thought maybe it was him at the door so I didn’t even bother to check before I opened it. And when I did, and it was him, I immediately tried to close it. He looked… I don’t know. Bad. Like, really bad.” You can feel your eyes prick with the beginning of tears as your voice tightens at the memory. “I’d seen him in some pretty bad ways, but I never,” you swallow hard, ”I’d never felt that scared of him before. Even with the pushing and slapping and all that he’d put me through me before. This was just like, unhinged. The look in his eyes when he stared at me,” you force a breath at the recalling.

“I wasn’t able to close the door on him, he shoved it open, didn’t even say anything, just shoved me as hard as he could. I fell against the side table I had by the door, caught myself. I was freaking out, telling him to stop, to leave, and he wouldn’t.

I tried to get to the kitchen to grab my phone and call my dad but he caught me by the back of my shirt and yanked me back. He was going on and on about how stupid I was. How I ruined everything. Calling me every expletive under the sun. He shoved me forward and I went straight into the counter, that hurt,” you monologue, recalling the feeling sharply. “He kicked me while I was leaning against the counter but I got my phone and called my dad. I didn’t even wait for him to answer, I just put my phone back on the counter and hoped Freddy hadn’t noticed. Hoped my dad picked up. He kicked me again, in my back and I kinda fell into the chair there. Was holding it because I didn’t wanna be on the ground but he’d knocked the wind out of me and my chest hurt so badly I wasn’t really able to do anything but try and force myself to breathe. And then I felt him closer, he kneeled down, still over me but more on my level and he just, uh, he smashed my head into that back side of the counter. I tried to elbow him away but he did it again. And then I don’t know what I did,” you try to recall, “but I did something that hurt hit, must’ve hit him somewhere somehow because he backed off while calling me a stupid bitch. The whole time I’m like grunting and trying to be as loud as I can just praying my dad answered and could hear and would be on his way.” You have to stop for a second, regaining control of your voice. You’ve almost forgotten that Bucky is beside you as you narrate what you remember.

“I pushed myself up then, got to my feet, but he was already standing too. He shoved me back and back until I hit the wall just next to the kitchen. And then his hands were on my throat and he was choking me. Just forcing me into the wall over and over. I was clawing at him to let me go. I had to shut my eyes because the look on his face,” you cringe. “I kind of stopped listening to what he was saying at one point because it was just an endless stream of blame and anger. I couldn’t breathe,” you squeeze your hand so tight as you speak, “and then I thought, just try to kick him. And so I did. I kneed him, actually, right between his legs and he let go and I kinda dropped. My throat hurt and my head hurt and I was coughing trying to get a good breath in. And then, I didn’t even notice it happening, didn’t even try to dodge it or deflect it, but he just hit me right in the face. Like, boom.

I’d never been punched in the face before,” you chuckle dryly. “Things get blurry around this point. But I remember falling to my hands and knees at some point. He stepped on my hand and kicked my wrist and that hurt like a bitch. Everything was hurting actually. The part I really remember is the kicking. He kicked me in my ribs and I kinda collapsed on my side. Then he kicked me in my back. A few times. Just, as hard as he possibly could it felt like. He started to like, pace around me, and he was still talking but honestly, I have no idea what he was saying. I started to go out of it and I guess he didn’t like that because I remember hearing his voice get louder and then he kicked me again right in the stomach. I was curling up like getting into fetal position basically just trying to not get more hurt. But he just kept kicking me. Over, and over,” your voice shakes as your voice gets breathy, “and over.” Your eyes are misty with unshed tears welling as you stare at your wringing hands. It’s starting to hurt and as if Bucky himself could feel it, he gently reaches to take hold of your hand, stilling your anxious self soothing and giving it the gentlest squeeze, waiting for you to continue as he listens. You glance quickly his way, but don’t look at him. Your eyes instead focusing on your hand in his. You’re not sure you can look at him. You just need to finish telling him what you know about what happened, and then you can face him again.

“We were in front of the kitchen when my dad came in. The door was open, so he got in right away and, most of this is blacked out for me, but I remember hearing my dad saying my name, and,” you feel the tears begin to slip as you sigh in that same relief, “and I thought, thank god,” you titter tightly. “It’s okay now. I’m gonna be okay.” You reach with one hand to swipe at the tears on your cheeks as you sniffle a bit. “There were a lot of loud sounds, I didn’t see anything but I could hear them. I think when my dad first came in he just charged right for Freddy to get him away from me. And my dad, he just saw red. I don’t think anyone would’ve been able to stop him once he got his hands on Freddy. He had been listening to everything that was happening as he drove to my house so I mean, I can only imagine what was going through his head. And then seeing me like that…” you take a pause.

“I really think he saved my life,” you say, finally looking up to Bucky. He looks tense, jaw squared and something dark swimming in his eyes before he recognizes you looking at him - immediately trying to soften his hard gaze. You know innately that he isn’t angered by you, but rather, what happened. And the delicate way he still holds your hand assures you of that.

“And, well, they ended up in the kitchen, and considering only the few defensive marks on my dad after everything, I think he was just pummeling him. I finally got myself to try and get up and made it closer to the kitchen. I wanted to make sure my dad was alright, and right when I saw them, I saw Freddy trying to get the knife I had been using that was still on the counter. My dad noticed, hit him again, and then grabbed it himself. And then, he, uhm,” you try to clear your throat, “he stabbed him. A few times,” you add, turning closer to Bucky without realizing. “And I guess I don’t really have the stomach for that stuff because after that I just passed out. Scared the hell out of my dad. He saw me and immediately left Freddy, let him fall. Let him… die. I really don’t think he meant to, necessarily. But I know he didn’t really care either way if he did or not. Which is, ya know, I’m not mad or upset at my dad for what he did. At all. I don’t think I would’ve been able to do it myself, and at the end of the day it was either gonna be him or one of us.” You bite your lip as you fidget with Bucky’s hand. You take a moment, taking a breath before getting back to the story. It comes a little easier now, like the hardest part of remembering has passed.

“I woke up in my old bedroom at my parents house, my mom was there. I could tell she had been worried. She told me my dad brought me home and that he went to go clean up and ‘get rid of the trash’. You know, take the trash out and all that,” you allude, giving Bucky a look, eyeing him and hoping to lighten a little bit of the tension around him. He lets the smallest hint of a smile tug on his lips as he stares at you.

“I know,” he confirms, then waits for you to go on. You blink away from him, playing with the silver signet ring on his pinky.

“I really don’t know what he did with him,” you tell him. “He wouldn’t tell me. He didn’t want me to know, or to worry about it. He said if anything happened, if police got involved, he didn’t want me to have any part in it.”

“Good man.”

You smile at Bucky’s words and nod slightly. “Yeah. He is,” you look back at Bucky, hoping to explain better that the trouble this whole thing caused wasn’t his fault. “He was just trying to take care of me, keep me safe. So, I know Freddy worked in your organization, and if his…going missing, caused problems for you, I’m sorry. It was neve-“

“Woah, sweetheart,” Bucky cuts you off almost right away, brows furrowed, “That was never an issue. Freddy had been a problem for business for a while, actually. My only regret is not having handled him myself, and sooner;” he says, his voice low and his agitation at the regret clear in his tone and in his eyes. “I owe your father a thank you.”

Another relief washes over you. You had wanted to believe before when he said you and your dad had nothing to worry about, but hearing that now, you fully do. Especially seeing the raw emotions swimming in the blues of his eyes. He means what he says, you know it.

“The only reason I bothered to look into his absence at all was because of the information and money he had in his car the last time he had a job. We got footage of your dad from that night, parking and abandoning the car, a couple weeks after I first met you. We got what we really needed then, got the car and found the inventory. Thought maybe he was going rogue, went into hiding or something, but then, some of my guys actually found him - and I figured we should know what went down if we wanted to make sure getting rid of him for good would be the end of it. And I knew, somehow, this had you all caught up in it. You’re not the best liar,” he smirks teasingly before he gets serious again, “and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to make sure you were okay. And now I know, so it's done. I promise you aren’t ever gonna have to worry or think about that scumbag again.” He moves his hand from yours and instead takes both in his, holding them as he looks at you sincerely. “I know that wasn’t easy for you to have to talk about, but I appreciate you telling me. I’m sorry you ever had to go through any of that. None’a that should’ve happened. And you deserve a hell of a lot better than the likes of him, even at his best, ya know that?”

You look at him, a little taken aback by his sincerity and care. People talk a lot about Bucky Barnes, but clearly not many know him - not like this. You’ve seen the exterior, the hardened, cocky front. But this caring, attentive and protective side is something you’d never have expected. Though it’s more than welcome. You warm at his words but don’t answer, instead looking down at your hands for a second before he takes his back. He lifts his touch to your chin and tilts until your eyes meet his again, a breath caught in your throat when you do.

“You do know that, don’t you, doll?” He repeats, the softness you find yourself growing ever fonder of back in his intent gaze as he seems to try and peer into your soul.

You can’t get your tongue to work but your hand moves to hold his wrist gently and you manage to nod your head. Then your body seems to move without thinking. You pull his hand away and he lets you, but you don’t drop your touch, instead guiding his hand to his side. You then find yourself moving into him without a word. You couldn’t resist the urge to hug him if you’d wanted to. Your arms go around him as you lean into him, his own arms readily coming around you in return. Your eyes fall shut at the feeling the warmth of him sends through you, your body relaxing, the tension that had been coursing through you relieving more and more.

“Thank you,” you murmur before pulling away. “And sorry,” you breathe a slightly embarrassed laugh as you look at him.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he says, a hint of a smile curving his lips, one arm still around your waist. You aren’t sure he even realizes and truthfully, you don’t mind at all. In fact, you like the feeling.

A moment passes as you both just look at one another until you hear his name and his hand falls fully on your hip.

“Mr. Barnes,” a man speaks as he enters from the hall in the direction of the kitchen. You both give him your attention as you turn to look at him. “Oh, excuse me, my apologies,” he smiles at you as you catch his eye. “Dinner will be served shortly, and I can bring your salads out momentarily if you’re ready.”

“Thank you, Grant,” Bucky dismisses before turning his full attention back to you. “Are you hungry?”

You turn to Bucky and nod, a soft, small smile pulling at your lips, “Very,” you answer honestly.

His touch slips away as he stands but he holds his hand out for you to take. You do just that and let him lead you to the dining room.

[subukunojess]

“Ah, ah, ah, don’t spoil the surprise~” The voice changed to something jovial before lowering dangerously, “Not only do you lie and poke and hurt, but you have the nerve to steal what belongs to me!?”

Title: Playful Dragons and Rag Dollies

Word Count: 5,563

Fandom: Poppy Playtime

Main Characters: Doey the Doughman, Kevin Barnes, Amelia Martinez/Fiona Feelings (Original Character)

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Content Warnings: Off-screen violence, blood, mind alteration, death, empathy powers gone wrong, people getting eaten

Prompt: Writer's Choice - Bloody Only You - General - Unable to believe that someone could cause this much damage until they find out who did it.

Summary: Part of the Bloody Hearts Bingo challenge. Bloody Heart Prompt: Only You. Days after Experiment 1327 was created, the scientists discovered that the subject they used was one of the only people 1322B cared gently for, suffering the brash consequences of the choice.

As my life unfolds, I cannot believe that I was able to write a 5K one-shot in 4 days. The power of hyperfixation and escape from reality. For the @bloodyheartsbingo challenge, I wanted to complete a "Bloody Heart Bonus" at least once. It entails writing dark/whump-like prompts and being able to get bingo for other people fast. I found a prompt that I thought would fit Doey from "Poppy Playtime" since I'm obsessed with him and the lore currently. I want to explore Kevin Barnes making friends and what he would do if someone were to hurt said friend. This ended up being a piece of fluff and angst with Raggedy Ann and Andy vibes. All the violence and whump happen off-screen/is implied, but I tried. I know the timeline of this piece is iffy, but I definitely know this happens before the Hour of Joy.... hopefully.

Thank you and I hope you enjoy!

[my-stories-vault]

Chapter 7 ~ The Supernatural Wars.

Pairing: English Dean Winchester X English Y/N L/N

Blurb: When the residents of this Earth found out that they were but a draft in God's numerous stories, they decided to make noise in hopes that their creator would return. Nothing can be louder than the begs of the powerless, the cackles of the ruthless, or the unending destruction left in the wake of the most merciless wars any universe can ever see—here the bloodshed never ends. So, tell me how can two young soulmates, then, find love's shade of red under all this crimson gore?

Warnings/Trigger Warnings (18+): Language, gore, violence, major and minor character deaths, thoughts of suicide (not graphic), substance abuse (alcohol and cigarettes), mentions of wars (I mean, it's in the name).

{ Series Masterlist ; Main Masterlist }

Chapter 7: At Ease, Soldier.

Salem, unaware of your presence, had closed the gates. Inevitably, you had to climb a tree and jump out, tearing the train of your gorgeous dress in the process.

The castle was deathly silent. You easily escaped the night patrol, having known all the insider stuff. You had your heels in your hand; your make-up had run down your face—you must look like salt-and-burn material, you were sure.

In a few minutes, you turned the curve after the hallway beyond the stairs. Your room was the highest one in the Western Tower; that was how the castle had been partitioned after the New Law.

All you cared about right now was sleep. You would deal with the mayhem in the morning. Media would probably be there; ready to turn your every word into the year's scandal; brodcasting your shameful dealing of the Governor to the Continents across the world.

Your plans of sleep went to crap when you noticed the figure sitting at the foot of your door, his head thrown back as if he'd fallen asleep, his hands curled in his lap, and his legs were upside-down Vs.

You paused before him.

The minscule moonlight was streaming in from the window at the end of the hallway, lighting your door, and in that process, Dean. He seemed peaceful; his mouth opened slightly, and he was drooling from the corner. He was in shades of black and white, his dirty blond hair silver on one side and appearing black on the other.

You hadn't observed his well-fitted suit before: velvet green jacket, black pants and black vest with a white undershirt and Italian leather dress shoes. He even had a cute little bow up to his adam's apple, designed intricately with refined gold lines to define his status. In the sombre shades, his dark clothes fell prey to the onyx night—almost disappearing into the walls, but standing out all the same.

Peaceful.

So taken with his beauty, that you realised belatedly why he must be here.

To fire you, of course. Your image of him soured; he couldn't have waited till the morning, could he?

You wondered how much he would notice if you pushed the door open and let him spill inside the threshold of your room. If he was a heavy-enough sleeper, he probably wouldn't notice your moving him back out and closing the door to his back.

He snorted in his sleep, as if mocking you even unconscious. He moved to rest his knees down, trying to cross his legs in a more comfortable manner, you assumed.

Before you could move out of the way, his foot bumped into yours.

It wouldn't have been a big deal, had that not woken him up.

Definitely a light-sleeper, you frowned at his rousing face, shooting a longing glance to the door. So much for sleep.

'Y/N,' his voice crackled with hoarseness. Weirdly, warmth spread in your chest.

It was soon replaced by fear as the man drew to his full height. Without your heels, you came to his chest. You contemplated putting them back on, just to feel better about yourself.

You overruled that plan, and barged in through your door, ignoring him when he opened his mouth, presumably to scold you.

'Where have you been?' his voice was lacking the annoyance you expected. It was soft.

He's pitying me. That was worse.

You threw your heels at the foot of your bed a little petulantly.

'No need for small talk,' you said sharply, on to business. Your hands crossed as you flipped around to face him. The effect must've been diminished with your ruined make-up.

'What do you want, Mr Winchester?'

You didn't expect him to turn a bit pink. He veered his gaze away, his hand going up to scratch his neck - as if he was embarrassed.

'Selina told me not to bother,' he cleared his throat. 'Said you would need space, but, uh, I wanted to check on you,' he shrugged.

'I'm fine, Mr Winchester,' you said, though the clenching of your heart eased at the prospect of not facing expulsion in the same night.

'Good, good,' he shuffled awkwardly. 'Well, good.'

His concern touched you a little. It reminded you of how he saved your career once. While he was quite dislikable, he also had several redeemable qualities . . . More than perhaps you did—he was checking up on you despite you screwing up the chance he gave you on a silver platter, after all.

'Thank you,' you said. Stern and soft. Their weight settled heavily between the two of you. 'For everything.'

His expression mellowed with a brilliant smile—it put the arrogant moon to shame. At least he didn't look like he wanted to run anymore.

'You say that like it's goodbye,' Dean joked, trying to lighten the intensified mood. He expected a smartass retort his way but his intended effect was met with a flinch.

'You should leave,' you were abruptly formal. It gave him a whiplash.

'Did I say something wrong?'

'We can talk about my removal in the morning,' you stated.

'What removal?'

'Is it not enough that I'm being banned; do you want me to narrate it?' your English accent wrapped around the words so that it made them far sharper.

His brows crunched. 'Banned? Where from?'

You were incredulous, yet curious.

'This,' you waved your arms between the two of you. 'I-I crossed a line! I beat a Governor—'

'Who assaulted you.'

'You have no proof!'

Why am I arguing?

But you were right. You failed.

Dean strode with long steps until he was a foot away. His calloused hand brushed up your shoulder, and you tensed. Your instincts itched to punch him too, but your mind caught up to his actions. His rough fingers traced your arm with an unexpected delicacy.

'What's this then?'

You calmed your fight-or-flight enough to follow his fingers. Bruises marred your skin blue in the shape of fingerprints.

Huh.

You hadn't even felt them forming. Sure enough, even your other arm had it.

'I don't understand,' you whispered in dismayal. 'What do you want from me?'

'What?'

'You're being nice to me,' you said it like an explanation, raising your eyes to meet his. 'You hate me,' you pointed out. 'You had a good chance to ban me, but you aren't taking it. You're a Firstborn, people'll believe you blindly. Why would invest your faith in someone you can't tolerate?' You were at a loss with this man, why would he do you a favour if not to flaunt it in your face; if not to blackmail?

His lips pressed thinner, his hand dropped from yours.

'That man was a sleazebag, Y/N,' he declared the obvious. 'And I don't hate you.'

'I got you arrested,' you persisted. 'And you're still helping me. Clearly, you want something.' Your hands went up to cross again.

He'd never been more exaggerated with you. He hadn't known he could be.

'You should've stopped at nice,' he snapped. Everytime he took a step forward with you, he took ten steps back. He didn't know why he bothered at this point.

He turned to leave you alone; next time, he would listen to Selina.

He was halfway out when you muttered it so low that he was almost sure his hearing was fooling him.

'I'm sorry,' you garbled out like it was hard for you.

He turned to make sure it was sincere.

Your hands fidgeted, but at least they weren't crossed before you anymore like a goddamn shield.

'I don't understand human interactions,' you admitted.

He was just glad you realised it, he was starting to think you didn't have that self-awareness.

'But I'm a master-manipulator.'

'You've never been able to manipulate me,' he said. You gave him a look that told him not to test your intelligence.

'I haven't tried,' you confessed.

You realised the cavernous depths of your truth when you said it out loud, even to yourself, for the first time. Come to think of it, you subconsciously chose what people would bear the brunt of your stoicity. The only reason you've been resisting Dean is because you somehow know you can't - or won't - hurt him. You didn't have to resist your family because you loved them, and you didn't have to manipulate them because they would only want good things for and from you. And it scared the bejesus out of you to think of how you've been resisting Dean the hardest - he's the only person outside of your family who you . . . No. You're being silly; you can't care about this stranger.

And yet, the facts were undeniable.

'Why not?' he faced you fully again.

You were frustrated with that question yourself. How nuts would he think you were when you said that an invisible force was seemingly compelling you - giving you a reason to be honest and open with him without wanting to. You wanted to hate him so, so much, but an unseen link was making it impossible.

'I don't know,' you carefully put. 'It's like . . . there is something stopping me from . . . from lying to you.' You huffed then, 'Too bad for you - I'm so much more pleasant when I'm manipulative.'

It made him snort. You shared a truthful smile with the man. An understanding blossomed, and the comfort level rose to what it had been back the first day you'd met him.

'I don't want anything from you,' he said, candidly, trying to be sweet.

Your shoulders fell in disappointment. 'I know.'

Your attitude bewildered him.

'Do you want me to want something?' he asked. This was where he would expect you to lash out and hide again. But as it looked, you were fighting what came natural to you. You were fighting against your resistance, you were fighting to be honest.

'I, uh, well,' you struggled to get it out. 'I don't want you to . . . take advantage of me. You know. But, uh, well, I - okay, I wouldn't mind getting on a case!'

He tilted his head to the side.

'I thought you believed Leaders didn't work cases,' he said. He had been trying to make you comfortable by not letting you on one, by not saddling you on cases with himself, by allowing you to have an option to go to the light ones with whoever you liked. You had seemed disgruntled when Sebastian told you about it originally, and based on his best friend's advice, he'd decided to let you sit it out unless absolutely necessary.

'Well,' you frowned. 'Yeah. But you hunt.'

He raised a brow. 'It's not a competition.'

You got slightly defensive again. 'I know. I just . . . ,' you bit your lip, drawing his attention to them for a second. 'I just feel useless,' you finally huffed out. 'I want to help! However you'll accept it. We share a Leadership now, it isn't about you and I anymore - it's us. We can share the load of cases, divide it between us.'

He considered you for a long moment.

As it was, he felt like he didn't have enough cases without the Leviathans to keep him out of the palace that he found suffocating; he didn't want people to die, but he did want monsters to kill; the castle was too Leaderly, too formal for his tastes; like Hell he would split cases with you. But since he shared a Leadership with you . . . .

'Fine,' he announced. 'We leave in the morning.'

'W-We?'

He shrugged non-chalantly, but your hesitation slightly stung. 'Unless you don't want to.'

'No!' you said quickly. 'I mean, yes! I mean, I wouldn't mind. I mean - you'd be an amazing partner - I'll learn lots.'

He had to bite his lip now, to supress a smile.

This might be why he bothered with you; she's adorable.

'Mr Winchester,' you added, slightly flushed, trying to save your dignity.

'Good night,' he half-smirked, shutting the door after himself.

You were left mumbling the platitude back to no one, claret in face.

Your knuckles tapped on the see-through surface, the window droned down.

'What?' he asked. He had a to-go coffee cup in his hand, another one lying in a carrying container on the seat beside him.

'Where's the other car?'

You were all ready. Dressed to impress in your finest hunting attire, if not the most comfortable; with a camping back-pack snug against you.

'It's just us,' he corrected.

'Oh.'

That didn't make you exactly queasy; it was a new feeling you couldn't put your finger on. It was like a mixture of excitement and cold feet.

'Get in,' he ordered.

You did so, belting yourself to the seat. Dean let his car roar, heading it into the forest, beyond the palace gates. It reminded you of freedom; it felt like ages since you'd left the palace, you didn't realise how cooped up you had been.

There was rock music playing pleasantly in the background. You liked cars, long drives, and speed in general. It was the only mode of transport that didn't make you paranoid about your survival.

'I'm surprised you don't take Sebastian everywhere,' you said.

He countered: 'Do you take Boa everywhere?'

'I stay in the castle most of the times,' you said dully. 'You roam.'

'Were you this sheltered back in America?' he turned it on you again. 'I would think you've been on lots of cases.' He took on a teasing tone, 'Thirty vampires and whatnot.'

You smiled at him with an admonishing edge. 'I wasn't a Leader back then.'

'Wait,' he processed that. 'Are you more afraid of people than monsters?'

'We're the most high-ranking officers in the world. And there's only twelve positions. Competition kills, Mr Winchester,' you said. 'Last night was case in point.'

Dean's face twisted with fury; he was glad you'd hit the man where the sun don't shine; if you hadn't taken care of yourself, Dean would've been forced torture the man with his bare hands—his anger hadn't forgiven Neel Simone as easily as you did.

But that wasn't the point.

He managed to rein his temper, taking a few minutes to breathe it out.

'The statistics would suggest we have higher chances of dying by the other factions, Y/N,' he retorted when he was ready. He was hoping that if he took your name enough, you would melt enough to extend him the same courtesy.

'Them, I'm equipped to handle,' you clarified, picking off like you didn't even notice the long pause in between. 'Monsters, Demons, Angels? I get. People are not my cup of tea.'

How English.

You may have not been educated about the tree stuff, but the British routine, you had down-pat. It served to amuse Dean greatly.

'I can attest to that,' he laughed - couldn't help it. A hearty sound it was; made you smile.

'Amusing,' you tried to be snide. But your mood was too good.

'Nah, you take the fun out of stuff,' he playfully claimed. You narrowed your gaze at him, but he wasn't afraid of you to retract the statement; he did notice your analytical attitude though.

'Right there,' he said, waving towards your crunched brows. 'See? You're always overthinking. I shall be more worried that your face will be stuck in that arrangement forever.'

You would disagree but who were you kidding?

'It pays off,' you dryly remarked.

'At what cost?' he scoffed. 'Look at it my way. If anyone, we would be prepared for anything. We would be quick on our toes.'

'I guess,' you said. 'But I wasn't ready for trees,' you commented, doubting what he said.

'And you learnt a large part of it in a month and a half,' he eased you. 'You're better than most, darling.'

There was that nickname again. You wanted to request him to stop calling you that, but you were afraid he would take offense and it would dampen the good mood the older Winchester had going . . .

Okay, fine, you inwardly huffed. Maybe I like it a little. No one had used a nickname for you before; it was a unique experience—all sweet and intimate.

But it's not professional, came the argumentative whine.

'I just mean, a couple of apocalypses won't kill us, you know,' he continued jokingly.

'If Mr Singer doesn't change the way he thinks, a prophecy would be enough,' you rolled your eyes.

'Aw, you know him,' he said, as if he did. 'Just taking precautions. He means well.'

You realised his reverence for the aged man so you didn't ruffle those feathers. You wondered if he knew all the other Leaders close-handedly as well.

Instead, 'Can I ask you something?'

He inclined his head as if he were waiting.

'Where do your ancestors come from?'

Dean raised a brow at the sudden switch of topics. Then again, your brain could barely lay still on one.

'America,' he responded. 'Both sides. Secondborns.'

'Oh. So your paternal side came to Europe, and your maternal side went to Asia?'

If Firstborn Leaders were given claim over the land that their fathers ruled on, then Papa Winchester must've been a European. While the mother would've been from Asia which gave Sam, the Secondborn, a right to that throne.

Just like your mother was from Europe, making you an heir to it, after the Firstborns and all, that was.

'Actually, it was reverse,' Dean said, throwing off your calculations. You stared at him like he was a puzzle. He shifted in his seat, feeling the need to explain.

'I had the claim to Asia,' he started, 'but I gave it up.'

There must have been a buffering sign on your forehead that prompted Dean to explain more.

'Sam got Asia, Cole got Europe with Gordon. All was well.'

'But you've fought Amara,' you told him. Was it all a lie?

His dark smile made you wonder what links you were missing.

'Out of Leadership,' he said.

What the fuck?

'You just solved one of world's largest problems forever, because what? You were bored?' you tried and failed not to sound like you were talking to a misbehaving teenager.

He gave you a grumpy look. 'I gave up my Leadership because . . . I had the Mark Of Cain.'

You were aware of that from the lore. It set back your shoulders into the seats, and uncontrollably, your eyes darted to his right arm.

'It's gone now,' he sighed. 'It was the key to Amara's jail.'

You knew Amara had been a modern problem. But your family often kept you out of loop unless absolutely necessary. For the recent-most years, you didn't know any political facts of the world because your mother thought it best if you were to learn them on your own - part of your training it was. Communication is the best way, she said, we all need to learn to communicate.

'So you were cleaning up your mess,' you phrased.

Dean flinched, but you didn't notice.

'Huh. All that disappointment, such a waste,' thinking of how angry your mother had been, thinking Dean saved all those people out of sheer goodwill.

'What do you mean?'

You didn't trust him with your mother's opinions. What if you got her into trouble?

You just shook your head. 'Nothing at all.'

'No, come on, I want to hear that,' he pushed.

Your expression pinched with denial. 'There's nothing for you to know,' you warned him.

He eyes flashed with his own anger; he'd found another limit of you. He exhaled through his nose. The conversation tapered as a result.

It wasn't until miles had been crossed when you opened your mouth again.

'How'd you become a Leader then?' you asked, your curiosity far greater than the tension between the two of you.

He frowned at your audacity. He wanted to petily strike a deal that he would give an answer for an answer.

Somehow, he knew he wouldn't win that argument.

Maybe if he gave you another inch, you would be willing to open up.

'I defeated her. Lots of casualities,' his throat tightened around the last word. "Casualties" was a loose word for how much loss he had been responsible for.

I'm poison, his heart spit at him. He could still see the gravestones . . . .

'I remember,' you nodded. You had been happy then that no family member of yours had been harmed. Then again, the Darkness had seemed to concentrate her fury on Asia more. It made sense why now - her arch-nemesis was there.

You realised Dean wasn't speaking.

His eyes were on the road, but they were also far away. His hands were tightened severely on the wheel. His bottom lip was quivering.

'Mr Winchester?' you called him. He didn't seem to hear you.

You hesitated, but then you placed a hand on his shoulder.

'Hey,' you said. 'Mr Winchester, are you okay?'

He came back to himself, blinking more. He removed your hand from his shoulder as if it creeped him out; it made you pink with embarrassment, you folded your hands in your lap gently.

He cleared his throat. When he spoke again, he was robotic, answering just for the sake of it. 'I was made Leader here, after Cole was killed during . . . .'

You didn't remember a Cole. He mustn't have been an extraordinary Leader; you felt a passing of sympathy for the forgotten man.

'Where does your family come from?' Dean's voice was thick, and he was just glad you didn't notice - or, if you did, you didn't point it out.

'America, on my father's side. Seth took over,' you stated. 'Europe on my mother's. I'm an heir.'

Dean knew that all, of course. He'd been in this Leadership business half a decade before you came about.

'Did you always want to be a Leader?' he asked.

'Of course,' you said within a heartbeat. Without any thought. No doubts or qualms.

'Why?' he wondered.

You considered him; there was no reason to your wishes; but of course you would be a Leader, or a wife, what other option would a woman have in this world? You chose one of those two.

'Why didn't you want to become one?' you flipped the tables. If anyone would have a unique answer, it would be Dean.

'I asked first.'

You rolled your eyes. 'Fine. It's all I've ever known, done, or thought of.' You seemed proud of that exclamation.

Dean felt a surge of pity eventhough he'd sort of known that. But to hear it from you, coupled with your happiness regarding it, just made it more sad.

'Did you never think about a family?' he hinted.

You gagged. 'I hate marriages.'

That was new information.

'Why?' he frowned.

'You wouldn't understand.'

'Try me,' he persisted.

'It's like using a man,' you sighed.

'What now?'

'Come on,' you urged him to reach the epiphany. 'Whoever I marry, my mother will want a Leader or a high-ranking official, at the least. I'll be using the poor bastard.'

Dean didn't point out that you completely ignored the fact that men use women for their means all the time. He wondered if you saw the irony of not wanting to use men, when your own mother would throw you under the bus if it fitted her needs. Your mother would sell you to immoral men.

'Isn't that what you want?' Dean asked before he could stop himself. 'To be a Leader all your life?' Better to marry a good man and live than marry a dog and die everyday, in that case. If you wanted to be a Leader - this is the reality.

You looked offended. 'Of course not!' you said. 'I want to pave way into our history on my own. Not by piggy-backing credit off of my husband,' you said the last word like it was an insult. 'I'd rather be a good Temp than a bad wife. And if they like my work, maybe I'll be permanent - but all on my own!'

So, you wouldn't marry a man because you'd be hurting him by "leeching" off of him, but did you even consider, through any of this, about yourself? Did you think about protecting yourself in this?

You were selfless in unexpected places; Dean secretly admired you for it even if it angered him inexplicably.

You were unknowingly fighting your mother's ideologies - everything your mother stood for, and you didn't even realise it. At the same time, you were isolating yourself, hurting yourself in the process.

'And you won't marry for love?' he shot at you.

You grimaced. 'Love? Have you met me?'

'Right,' he smiled mildly for that one, albeit, it was with sarcasm.

'Don't tell me you want love?' you teased him by making that word sound breathy and sultry. It made his face warm.

'Are you done?' he rolled his eyes, even if your snickers were infectious. He didn't think he'd heard you laugh after that first night; somehow, you broke his anger.

'Well, but, be honest. Marriage: nay or yay?' you seemed curious enough.

He shrugged, his countenance giving nothing away. 'At one point, I dreamt of it.'

'What changed?' you pried. Then, you gasped - 'Wait, did you have a girl in mind?!'

He gave you a perceptive glance. 'You're having too much fun,' he noted. You didn't seem to gauge his series of serious thoughts at all.

'I thought I was no fun,' the fact seemed to make you guffaw.

'What's so hilarious?' he levied you with his glare.

You tried to cover your mouth but the sounds escaped still, muffled for your efforts. 'Nothing,' you chuckled, 'It's just - you're so . . . taciturn.'

He arched a brow, Explain.

You gestured at him in answer. 'Just, you. You're so hard to read!'

'Is that an insult?' He wasn't sure with you either; you gave him an equally hard time, though he wouldn't admit it. Like right now, you had switched topics faster than made sense.

'Compliment,' you amended. 'You're, like, you're special. And you're frustrating. All at once. I don't understand you.'

'Do you try?' he offered.

You huffed. 'You're just very human. With emotions. You, and your best friend,' you made your face. 'Probably your family, too.'

He didn't know what to do with all of that as you simpered down into your thoughts, looking out the window. He'd seen this happening before: you would stop in the middle of a conversation, forgetting that you were saying something, and look somewhere beyond, pensively.

It gave Dean time to understand you; it was like you weren't thinking of yourself as human. He didn't know how to interact with that.

Just like that, it was silent for the rest of the ride.

Crocottas; a few of them had invaded a small house on the outskirts of a town. It had went unnocticed until recently because it started getting greedy for food. While it had preyed on two-three human souls a year, it was now having a fattening meal of fifteen over three months (maybe it expanded the family). Mostly travelers who were unfortunate enough to hear the monster moan in the voice of a loved one. The Governor asked Dean for help because they had their hands full.

Your research localized the monster. Dean's brawn and practice got you a watchtower a little ways away from the abandoned hut. You were keeping an eye on the house with a shared binoculars - trying to establish the house as a monster's lair and not someone caught in the crossfire. You had insisted on labouring to make the hammocks, where you both could sit or nap.

'You are taking forever,' Dean growled, watching you work alone on the sleeping arrangements. You were halfway through one, and Dean had various ways to make the process ramp up - if only you were open to suggestions.

'Patience is a virtue,' you said in a clipped tone. The combination of the humid atmosphere and the mosquitoes wasn't making this a pleasant experience for either of you. You had slathered enough repalent on your skin but the buzzing of the insects still bothered your keen hearing. Dean's whining wasn't going to uplift your mood.

'Guess who doesn't give a fuck about patience,' he muttered testily, his eyes glued to the instrument of sight.

'Chill out; your knees won't give out until I'm done, old man,' you snapped.

It drew Dean away from his duty long enough to stare at your audacity - who knew you had such a sassy mouth? Surely, no diplomacy of yours was bleeding through right then.

'Old man?' Dean fixated. 'I'm thirty, dude.'

'Yes, and that's five years older than me,' you were smug.

He rolled his eyes. 'I'd like to see you climb a tree faster than me.'

'I'd kick your ass,' you said in amateur confidence.

'Yeah, right. Just because you can swing your own weight now, doesn't make you Tarzan.'

'Who's Tarzan?' your nose scrunched.

He scoffed. 'Don't tell me you haven't watched fucking Disney - what loveless world did you grow up in?'

It was your turn to be exasperated. You ducked under your loose construction for the hammock and snatched the binoculars from his hand.

'Don't be so overdramatic,' you chided. 'Just because I don't like television, or music, doesn't make me an outcast.'

'Maybe you should look up the word, you bookworm,' he made a face at you: a withering glare and a twisted mouth, as if he were watching an alien that disturbed him.

In your periphery, you noticed a movement that prompted your device to your eyes.

'Looks like a normal establishment,' you noted. 'A woman. Middle-aged. Just drew the curtains.'

'Crocottas can shapeshift,' he said.

You nodded. 'Agreed. It's also filthy in there,' you frowned. 'Crocottas like that.'

Dean shrugged, 'True. But you would be surprised by how many humans like that too.'

Fair point.

'Let's give it a day to show it's true colours,' you said. 'We'll discuss ourselves as bait tomorrow.'

'Who made you the boss?' Dean scoffed, even if he liked your plan.

'Oh,' his annoyance seemed to have a different effect on you. Your hands folded before your body, an irritated apology written in your eyes. 'I'm sorry,' you said, fake again. Tense and stiffened, 'Did you have another plan?'

He groaned, 'No. Would you stop treating me like that?' He pushed past you to work on the hammock, his hands agile and quick in wrapping the rope around the tree-trunk.

'Like what?' your lips only etched down deeper.

'Like I'm your frigging boss or something,' Dean said. 'We're equals - you said that yourself.'

'But you're my superior.'

'I'm not.'

'You're a Firstborn, Mr Winchester. And a man. You surpass me by natural advantages.'

'Well, I'm choosing not to use them,' Dean said, slapping the hammer into a nail hard.

You crossed your arms. 'Why so?'

'It's just not me,' Dean's explaination was simple enough. 'Look, you're my colleague. And we're gonna fucking bicker. Don't mean you should duck back into that corporate shell.'

'Seems fairly reasonable,' you contemplated him. 'Also, seems unlike any guy I've met.'

'I'm not any guy,' he said, proud of himself.

He was giving you evidences of that every step of the way. It was you who had a hard time believing him. Because if he was right, then he was infinitely easy to like and care about and that would just be stupid on your part.

Meanwhile, he had finished your hour's worth of job in minutes. He dusted his hands as a show off his brilliance, a smug smile creeping up on his face as he stepped back from the hammocks.

'All right, shut up,' your formality seemed to melt away once more.

Someone yelled your name.

You shot up from your half-dozzing state to full awareness only to be thrown off the hammock and off the watchtower platform altogether. Your hands grasped the edge in time and you pulled with all your might, coming up to a waiting fist that bruised your jaw. You endured it with a grunt and headbutted the monster in it's stomach, simultaneously pulling your legs up.

You landed another kick to a female teen on the edge of the platform - she didn't have the benefit of upper body strength or reflexes to survive like you did. You didn't wait to watch her splatter to the ground two hundred feet below when the guy who had punched you came to take you in a chokehold with an enraged shout.

Half your body was hanging off the edge as you wrangled with the man stemming your flow of air. One hand went in keeping him away from feeding on your soul while the other was discreetly reaching your dagger around the waist.

He landed a surprise blow to your nose and you could feel your nostrils collect blood. It further made breathing harder.

Seeing no other option, you pretended to lose control, your hand limping down to your side. Your other hand was tightly grasped around your weapon

His fingers around you loosened and he threw his head back to let his monstrous teeth descend. Your mouth opened in correspondence, and a white glow transferred from you, connecting the predator with you in a disgustingly intimate way as he began feeding on you.

It took your body a minute to overcome the shock but your mind was screaming against the walls of your head, making it pound. Everything went extremely hazy, you functioned on sheer experience and willpower.

You didn't realise your actions until your blade plunged down into the monster and the blood came down spraying, most of it on your face and some of it in your mouth. You gagged convulsively, squeezing your eyes shut.

Weakly, you shoved the body off of you, and then overturned on the platform to hurl over the side.

When two hands tried to grab you from behind, you threw a misplaced thrust of your weak elbow backwards; it almost made you topple off the platform again. But a gentle hand caught your hand. Another smoothed down your back, soothing you. Two arms with tempered strength pinned you to your place so you wouldn't topple over again. You couldn't hear the words of comfort over the noise of bile exiting your body, but now you were vaguely aware of Dean Winchester taking care of you.

The insects were too much for you to stay in contact with for long. Collecting the bodies, you both made a small pyre in a clearing a little far away and burned them. You called the next village for cleaners to take care of the house the Crocottas had infested.

At that same village, you and Dean freshened up. Brushing your teeth rarely felt as good as it did that day. You also took a long shower to feel the filth of the monsters wash off your body.

When you exited the bathroom of the local motel, you saw Dean munching on room service. He only bothered to look up when you stole a french fry from his plate.

And then he swallowed, his scold dying on his tongue.

His eyes trailed down from your pink one-sided off-shoulder t-shirt that touched your navel but left some space until your light blue ripped jeans began. You completed the ensemble with ankle-length heeled boots. You wore a long overcoat in public spaces, buttoned from top to bottom for Dean to have seen what was underneath any other time; he hadn't thought you were capable of dressing as casually as this.

When you flipped your hair right after towel-drying them, his gaze snapped up to you once again. Warm water had made your cheeks flush, and your wry hair did something to Dean; he wanted to see if he could smooth those unruly curls out with his fingers.

'Your turn,' you said, folding the towel neatly over your arm, never the one to be untidy.

'What?' Dean's voice was a little coarse.

'The shower,' you said, unbeknownst to his attraction for you. 'I left hot water for you.'

'T-Thanks,' he cleared his throat. 'I left some shrimp for you.'

You smiled, taking away the lid from the other covered plate, sure enough, half of the dish remained. You took the chair opposite Dean's and started digging in.

Dean shut the bathroom door behind himself and lightly groaned. He also mentally chided himself for checking you out of all people - what was he thinking?

He climbed into the shower - he just needed to get laid at some point. He could not be attracted to you. Yes, that must be it - it had just been time.

Outside, you had pulled up your phone. You were surprised to find no calls - as if no one had needed you while you were hunting. But you forced yourself to cheer up because you are hunting. That's what's most important.

And you would have to keep doing it if you wanted to make a name for yourself. No one should think you were living on the Leadership money like a leech.

'Uh, Dean?' you called to the closed bathroom door.

'Ye-Yeah?'

Was it you, or was his voice shaky?

The shower could've distorted it, you decided.

'Where are we going next?' you wondered.

'Uh, I don't know.'

'Oh,' you said. 'Because I thought if you'd not gotten a page, I could probably sift through the news and find us something,' you explained enthusiastically. 'What do you think?'

'Uh, can you - um, not talk to me in the shower?'

It instantly made you turn to the colour of beetroot.

'Oh, yeah!' you said, awkwardly. 'My apologies!'

'It's just . . . weird,' he defended.

'Of course!' you said, kicking yourself for not realising it earlier. 'Why don't I take a stroll while I'm on it, huh?'

You didn't wait for his answer and hastily escaped the room.

God, I'm such an idiot, you let your head thump on the closed front door of your temporarily shared room.

It was two more cases before the end of the week when you two started heading back for the castle. It was seven in the evening and you had just entered a five-star motel room to clean up and "hit the hay", as Dean put it.

'I'm just saying we don't need Leader discount,' you told Dean. 'They're sucking up to us! If anything, we should have discounts proportionate to incomes.'

'And that's why you paid for the next ten rooms in case some needful villagers stop by,' Dean said, side-eyeing you as he placed his bag on the bag counter between the main door and a wardrobe.

'I'm going to keep track of that, you know,' you said, like a business woman.

'I believe you,' he chuckled. 'Say, why don't you issue an order about it?'

You were appeased with that idea. 'I'll get right on it!' you were already removing your phone and heading for the balcony.

'Does that mean I get first shower?' he asked.

'Knock yourself out!'

An hour later, you'd taken that shower, and finished your calls and all those formalities. A continent-wide rule for hotels - check! You felt utterly impressed with the idea; and it would not have been possible if you hadn't been hunting and seeing your Continent yourself.

When you raised your head, it was to Dean's form lazily propped against his pillows and yours that he stole from your bed. He was on his stomach, intently watching the fifty-five inch television.

Three times, you had shared a room with this man now, all with twin beds. Out of the week, these were the only three nights where you both hadn't bunked in hammocks. And all three times, he'd asked for a room with a television.

You didn't understand his obsession.

These shows were being streamed especially from the alternate universes because the concepts of acting, sets and movies was quite foreign to about ninety percent of this world. The other ten percent was rich people like you, and half of you guys chose to not waste time; so.

The figures moving on the screen disinterested you, yet Dean watched them like a luxury he highly appreciated. His expressions changed with the flex of emotions the characters demonstrated.

You were more ensnared with his face than the inanimate box of stories.

You hadn't realised how much you liked watching him until this trip you took with him.

You observed him more sincerely than most people. You knew what he looked like better than most people you met, and that fact had taken you by surprise this week.

You didn't know Selina's eye colour, but you knew Dean's was green. You didn't know how the Griffith twins liked their hair but Dean's was cropped into straight badass strands that suited his gorgeous dirty-blond colour. You didn't know where your Governors' faces curved and flattened even when you'd spent hours learning them from their files, yet you knew Dean had a sharp-angled jaw, a straight perfect nose, bow-shaped full lips, and perfectly arching eyebrows; he didn't even have a fucking photo on his file. For God's sake, you knew his arrogantly confident gait and his handsome body atop the pinnacle of his bow-shaped legs. You usually realised his movement in your periphery even when you weren't paying attention to him.

You knew about him without even trying.

It tolled alarm bells in your mind.

Since when did you compliment the most random-ass things about a person you didn't even like?

'You'll wear a hole in my face if you keep staring, darling,' Dean smirked, his eyes religiously never straying from the flatscreen. But he was aware of you, as you were him.

You blushed hotly. That was another setback with Dean, he made you fucking blush. You always felt shy around him when he said and did things like that.

'What are you watching?'

Mercifully, he took your bait to switch topics.

'The Walking Dead,' he glanced at you. 'You mustn't have seen it.'

'Got it in one,' you said.

He uncharacteristically paused the show, turning on his right side to face you better on the bed away from the door. Another quirk of his was to always sleep on whatever side that was closer to the door.

'I still can't believe you don't like this. Or music.'

'It's not like it's a crime,' you shrugged.

It tickled him, 'You're so wrong.'

'I just don't understand what you see in them,' you gestured at the screen.

He got up then. His black shirt loose over his frame, and his black shorts displaying his legs that were currently tangled with his sheets. You had to force your eyes to his face, but your tongue licked your bottom lip unconsciously.

'Okay, forget the television,' he posed. 'Why not music? I've seen you dance.'

'At parties,' you clarified. 'When I don't have an option. It's always so rigid, so . . . annoying,' you said. 'People touching you,' you frowned.

'Haven't you ever danced with someone you like?'

'Sure,' you said. 'Always do, don't I? It's customary to dance with your date and family.'

He rolled his eyes. 'Outside family or whatever platonic date you bring.'

He had your cornered.

'. . . No?'

His eyes narrowed at you. 'You are hetrosexual, right? Or am I wrong?'

Your arms reflexively crossed over your body. 'That's personal.'

'You can tell me,' he assured.

You scoffed, 'Will you be comfortable telling me?'

'Sure,' he replied nonplussed. 'I'm straight,' he winked, just to fuck with you. 'Your turn.'

Heat licked your neck. 'So am I,' you gritted out.

The smile that lit up his face didn't make much sense to you. You were too busy trying not to hide your burning face anyway, lest it gave your emotions away. As is, you weren't able to look him in the eye.

To your dismay, it was only getting worse.

'So you've never danced with a guy you like?'

'I have!'

'It can't be your father, brother, or from your team.'

You glowered at his seriously curious face. '. . . I haven't.'

Why were you getting this third-degree again?

'All right,' he grinned then. 'So you're the hit-'em-and-quit-'em kinda girl?'

His inquiry was met with a blank stare. Slowly, the mirth was wiped off his face.

'You have had one-night-stands, right?'

'Mr Winchester!' you just about shrieked. 'That's preposterous!'

When his cheeks flamed, it settled you a little. But not enough to let him off the hook without a warning.

'You might want to stop talking about my personal life lest you want me to storm out and find another room!'

His eyes widened as you fumed. But he surrendered by resuming his show.

Despite the voices of the television, the awkward silence between the two of you was defeaning. You were stiff and ramrod straight on your bed, and he didn't know what to do with his limbs at all, shifting in his seat with discomfiture.

You groaned audibly when he paused the show again, a few minutes later.

'I'm sorry - it's just, was I the first guy to kiss you?' he asked, his cheeks consisted of red tints as bright as healthy apples.

'Do you want me to walk out?' you hissed.

'Come on, please?' he levied you with a pleading look that you struggled to defy. Your plans to walk out of the room and slam the door in his face seemed silly and uncalled for when his eyes took that sheen of a puppy-dog's.

Curses!

Reluctantly and regrettably, your voice came out softly. 'First person.'

You said that so low that Dean was half-sure he misheard it. He would've asked you to repeat it if you hadn't looked so embarrassed - as if wishing for a natural calamity just so you didn't have to talk to him anymore.

'First . . . person?' Dean confirmed. Your head inclined as if in a nod.

It made Dean's heart clench for you, at the same time as it did a weird happy dance. It made his urge to hold you strong - both out of pain and possessiveness.

As the reality of your words set in, his anger also slowly took form. No one before him had been affectionate enough to kiss you on your forehead?

Now that was preposterous.

He would've called a bluff had he not known you enough to know your truths from your lies.

Once again, he didn't know how to interact with this. It was like you were calling yourself a non-human all over again; and that would actually make sense because it appeared as if you'd never been treated like one.

'I'm going for some air,' you said abruptly. Only you knew how you were controlling your urge to fan your face.

Dean didn't have words to stop you even if he wanted to pull you into his arms and show you how loveable you are - or well, you can be when you're not being a freaking pain in the ass.

But his senses weren't computing fast enough, and he registered the soft shutting of the door.

He cringed at his inability to comfort you and fell face-down on the heap of pillows.

'I'm an asshole,' was muffled.

You had to take a few deep breaths before you could unlock the door. Your phone said it was two in the morning, so you had given Dean plenty of time to fall asleep. It had also been enough time for you to gather yourself without his unavoidable charm to corrupt your feelings.

While you tip-toed in the dark, ready to dive into your bed and get your four hours, hoping that that conversation would be locked in a box in both your heads - Dean sensed you.

His hand hit the switch on the lamp and threw light on your form. You froze like a thief caught. You pouted longingly for your bed.

'Hey,' Dean said softly, as if talking to a baby deer that could hoof away.

You sighed, 'Hello.'

'Look, I'm sorry,' Dean sat up. 'I shouldn't have pried - it's just unbelievable.'

You huffed, 'That's not a good apology.'

'I've told you I think you're beautiful,' Dean argued his case. 'It's just unbelievable that you wouldn't leave a trail of heartbroken men.'

Your brain confused your lips: should you smile or frown with that?

'I'm just not that kind of a woman,' you stated, walking towards him to stand between the two beds. 'And I don't like intrusive questions.'

Even seated, he reached between your chest and your abdomen.

'I think,' he raised a hand that made you tense. His fingers brushed a strand of your hair back behind your ear, leaving a line of tingling on your cheek and butterflies in your stomach. 'You're wrong,' he quirked up a half-smile, 'about being that kind of a woman.'

Your mouth was slightly open in astonishment and speechlessness.

He dropped his hand and retrived your pillow, thrusting it gently into your hands. He plopped down into his bed.

'Sorry if I crossed a line,' he muttered, not sounding sorry at all.

He flicked the lights back off which gave you motivation to find your legs again. You lowered yourself into your bed, facing away from the Older Winchester, feeling your heart rate accelerate for inexplicable reasons. It didn't help that your pillow now had his intoxicating scent all over it. And instead of shoving it away like you probably should've, you snuggled closer into it, hugging it with one hand, while the other brushed your head, remembering the time when his lips touched you there.

It was weird how his presence made you feel least like a soldier you were born-to-be, and it wasn't because you had stopped doing your duty. Somehow you were hunting and protecting while still feeling like this!

So girly. So normal. So real!

As the tow of darkness took over you, you couldn't help but let your heart flutter in Dean Winchester's name.

A/N: They're both like tortoises, huh? Slowly peeking out of their shells 🙃. Fun fact - "Tortoises mate when they're not hibernating. During courtship, the male tortoise bobs his head at the female, nips at her front legs, and then mounts her." Dunno, found it funny from when I looked tortoises up 😂.

Tag List.

@hobby27 @stoneyggirl2 @globetrotter28 @aylacavebear @emma1998sblog

[high-queen-of-the-court]

i'm yours (even though you’re gone) (2186 words) by high_queen_em Chapters: 1/3 Fandom: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Jeremy Knox/Jean Moreau, Neil Josten & Jean Moreau, Elodie Moreau & Jean Moreau Characters: Jean Moreau, Jeremy Knox, Neil Josten, Stuart Hatford, Herve Moreau Additional Tags: Angst, Revenge, Post-Canon, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief & Loss, Mafia Dealings, Trauma Recovery, Found Family, Vigilante Justice, Neil Josten Being Neil Josten, Minor Catalina Alvarez/Laila Dermott, Minor Original Character(s), Canon-Typical Violence, Gun Violence, because we are giving jean a gun, well neil is, No beta we die like riko, Death Summary: Elodie is dead, and Herve Moreau deserves a fate worse than prison. Neil offers Jean the opportunity to end his father and avenge his sister. Jean agrees—after all, he may be a good man, but Moreau blood still flows through his veins and fuels his heart.

writing a fic where they give Jean a gun because he deserves it

[dr-pepperrrr]

Chapters: 4/5 Fandom: Fortnite (Video Game) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

After his escape, Midas learns of a group called the Society and decides to do what he can to take control of the island. After the betrayal of his friends, Montague is desperate to have someone by his side he can finally rely on. - Greed and desperation mix as well as water and oil.

[every-moment-a-different-sound]

Dead Boy Detectives Season 1

My Chemical Romance - Mama