#this is not a society *without* violence to be clear
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http-ducky · 2 days ago
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"Dove in The Crows Nest: A Love and Deepspace Story"
Chapter 1: Mourning
Luke + Kieran x Reader
SUMMARY: Before the Chrososhift Catastrophe that led to the opening of the Deepspace tunnel, your home was normal. You had loving parents, lived in a lovely house, and played with the neighbor boys almost daily. There was no way you could've known that your simple life would be destroyed. Torn apart by energy fluctuations and monsters that killed anything that moved. Your family left you behind, lost in the panic. By all means, you should be dead. A toddler left behind in the remnants of a once bustling technology hub, now overrun with wanderers and criminals-it's the perfect tragedy. But you weren't dead; against all odds, you survived thanks to the boys you once played with: Luke and Kieran. Their adaptability protected you and guided you whenever you were lost. Thanks to them, you live to fight another day, and you owe them more than you might realize. Now it's your turn to protect them. To prove your worth and not only survive but thrive. Show them that you are worth fighting for, and show yourself that you are stronger than you know.
A few warnings just in case: This chapter covers graphic descriptions of minor character death and goes into detail about the reader's experiences with disassociating to escape a situation mentally, being aggressively pulled out of that dissociative state, having a loose grip on reality, and PTSD induced night terrors that might trigger readers with dissociative disorders or anxiety. Please read with care.
A/N: Quite a few lines and scenes are taken from the LADS wiki or Luke & Kieran's World Underneath Anecdotes: Mischief to make the story feel as immersive as possible. They're pretty easy to spot if you've read Mischief or played the game up to Long-Awaited Revelry: Ambiguous Chaos (which I'm pretty sure you have if you're reading this), but just in case those lines and scenes are credited to Infold and the writers of Love & Deepspace, and a big thanks to the LADS wiki for being the backbone of the world building.
FYI: With what I have planned for this story, the lovey-dovey stuff probably isn't going to start until WAY later, so…slow burn? These first few chapters will primarily establish the reader's place in the story, their relationship with the twins, their experiences growing up in the N109 zone, and setting up the main storyline. I hope you enjoy my attempt at world-building (???) As always, criticism is appreciated!!!
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Image Source: 饱饱家的小画家 ❤️
Being abandoned by society wasn't ideal. There weren't many outstanding role models to look up to after the smoke had cleared and any sensible adults decided to evacuate. Considering how many pets and children were left behind, however, it isn't easy to think there were any sensible adults in the first place. Perhaps all the chronoshift did was peel away the pretty facade the city put over itself. Hiding away the ugly truth that nothing good ever came from this place. Just selfish people and their selfish ideologies. 'If you throw away all morality and compassion, was it really all that bad?' At least, that's what the twins kept telling you. Those two adapted quicker to what your home had turned into than you ever could. Weirdly, they seemed…happier? Or it was that their boredom was now easier to satiate, what with all the violence and death that permeated the very air you breathed. It was hard to wake up in the morning without finding a life-threatening catastrophe to fight for survival against. Whether it was wanderers or flesh and blood, the only common courtesy found in these streets was the imminent threat of death.
Luke and Kieran were twin boys who lived next to you back when the N109 was still a typical city. In their panic, the adults, your parents, abandoned the city in mass hysteria. You always hoped it was due to their fear that they left you behind. Lost in the panic of it all, their minds prioritized their survival over risking the consequences of trying to save infant children, but the boys always said it must have been because they didn't want you. Any of you. You remember watching the news while in hiding, sitting in your ruined bedroom with them, curled into a blanket as all three of you watched the mass memorial broadcasted to mourn the lost children left behind, presumed dead. You remember frantically searching for your parents' faces in the crowd, looking for one last chance of closure. You didn't find them.
Ultimately, the three of you decided to stick together, recognizing that your chances of survival would be better than if you split. And it did; that first year, you saw kids' and adults' bodies alike strewn across the streets when it was your turn to gather food and supplies, torn apart by the wanderers in a brutal display. You ran home, holding in your tears, hoping a wanderer wouldn't catch you, too. The boys didn't make you go out again after that. You all were so young when "the Catastrophe" happened. Fragments of memories replay in your mind, often plaguing you with night terrors of the things you experienced. Things no child should go through.
They always start as nightmares. You were six in this dream when wanderers still roamed most areas. It was a nicer day, quieter than usual, thanks to the efforts of the newly formed hunters association. You and Luke decided to go outside to play while Kieran was getting food. You were playing catch, and Luke had thrown the ball too hard for you to get a grab on it, so it flew to the other side of the street. He teased you for having slippery hands, and you stuck your tongue at him as you ran off to get it. It had rolled into a bush that separated the subdivisions; a familiar roundabout would be on the other side. That's when you saw her—a hunter fighting with the biggest wanderer you had ever seen: its looming figure and the singular red eye was enough to burn its image into your retinas.
She was severely injured, the hunter; her face was covered in blood, and her leg looked to be bent in the wrong direction. You could see its bone pierce through her muscle and flesh, its foul scent almost reaching you. Every step she took looked painful, a hiss pushed from between her teeth every time she dodged or ran, but she still had her pistol pointed at the monster. You swore you could see tears falling down her cheeks, mimicking your own that stung your eyes whenever your lids threatened to close. Adrenaline flushed blood to your ears; you could hear your heartbeats pulse from your ear drum. The muscle in your chest wanted to jump out of your chest and run away, and you with it if your circulation could reach your legs. Its methodical rhythm only emphasized the unbearable pressure, like your skull would pop if you dared to look away.
Miss Hunter fought hard. Despite how much pain she was in, despite the wet reflections from the pools of her own blood, she fought. You could almost see yourself; you could stare at the mirror image she left in the murky, rusted brown of her blood and find another little girl fighting for the right to live. The irony wasn't lost on you, even despite your underdeveloped brain. She was losing this fight; she was putting in everything her humanity could give and losing. The banging of gunshots made you jump every time she squeezed the trigger. Its violent sound made your head hurt; your ears began to ring so loudly that you had to cover them and crouch over in an attempt to ease the pain. The shadows of their fight almost looked like dancing in a child's mind. Their twists and turns, her flailing to find stable ground to aim as the monster swung and scratched and clawed and bit. If you imagined hard enough, the woman's screams became singing, the monster's roars were the wind, and the blood that stained your hands and knees was just the paint for the roses. If you could escape into your very own wonderland, then maybe Luke and Kieren could come find you. Perhaps you could finally leave this terrible, awful place. Maybe you could be free and happy with the two people you loved the most. The snapping sound was just a twig; those sudden loud noises were birds, and the stream of reddish-brown liquid that began to pool at your feet was the river of tea. It was wacky and weird here, but it was safe. You were safe. They were safe…
But you just couldn't dream hard enough, could you, Alice?
All it took to shatter your carefully curated reality was a single, curious glance up: to find the Jabberwocky tear the white queen apart, her pristine dress and hair ruined by your tea. Because this was real, and you weren't in Wonderland. There was no magic cake to make you taller, just as her arm was no longer attached to her body. You couldn't make a magic potion to make you the size of a mouse, just the same as how you couldn't mend the bone that snapped so cleanly on her other leg. The Cheshire cat, his grin so pointed and fun, couldn't guide your way any more than you could guide your eyes away from hers. That moment, she saw you, and you saw her. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She was silent in her death when the monster snapped its jaws shut, tearing her torso from her waist. You, too, watched in silence as her now still body rolled on the ground, her arm still outstretched towards you. The part of you that wanted to still believe in your fairytale told you she was sleeping, exhausted from her fight, and getting some well-deserved shut-eye. But the other part of you, the part that remembered, took all of five seconds to rewire your brain again. Your hands shot up to your mouth to cover any screams that threatened to come out, just like Keiren taught you.
In reality, you don't quite remember how long you stayed there, watching the corpse's eyes stare into your soul as her blood pooled around her remaining body and stained the grass red. It must have been a while because, by the time the wanderer was finally satisfied with the state it left her in and disappeared, Kieran had returned from scavaging and joined Luke in searching for you. It was nightfall when they found you in that bush, and it only took one side glance from Luke at what you were locked in staring at and a nudge to Kieran's side that they agreed to ditch the ball in favor of heading home. In the terrible nightmare world of your dreams, however, you couldn't help it. Your terror and lack of ability to run away made you scream. A shrill, bloodcurdling kind of scream that couldn't be held back by a child's hand. And the wanderer heard you; how could it not? Your cries rang in your ears well out of your dream as you awoke in your bed and could still see, hear, and feel the wanderer's breath, the metallic scent of blood on its maws covering your face. The upper half of that hunter is in its jaws, trying to claw her way out. You could almost feel her fingertips trying to caress your skin while her wails of agony overlap your own. The lines between fiction and reality have blurred to the point where you can't tell what's real anymore. Was this another intruder upon your wonderland, or should you pray to whatever god would listen for the chance to finally feel at peace?
"WHAT IS IT? WHOOSE THERE!?" The door to your room flew off its hinges as Luke and Kieran burst in, holding darts and a wooden bat while wildly searching the room for any signs of an intruder. When it was evident that, in fact, nothing was there, Luke was the first to run to you to try and calm you down. He wrapped his arms around you, pushed your head into his chest, and squeezed, effectively covering your eyes and ears. You tried to toss and shove him away, still fearful of the monster that you could no longer see. Your nails dug into his arms as you tried to push them away from you with all your might. But he didn't budge, only held on higher so you could hear his heartbeat from his chest. A reminder that he was still there, that none of what you saw was real. Kieran sat next to you on the mattress and softly rubbed your back while he called your name to try and coax you back to reality. "( )? ( ) it's okay; it's just us in here. There's nothing over there." And while the comfort of their gentle tones and touch did help, the imagined scent of blood being quickly replaced by the real thing certainly didn't.
It was only until your breath began to even and you whispered to Luke that it was getting difficult to breathe that he finally let you go. As you began rubbing away any tear stains left on your face (and quietly chastising yourself for the apparent discoloration of Luke's shirt), you lifted your head to get a good look at them. Their faces, shirts, and arms were covered in cuts, bruises, and blood. Your heart dropped as your panic-ridden brain imagined they were like the hunter: vengeful ghosts haunting your dreams for being weak, but again, when the logical side of your brain kicked in, the thought was quickly thrown away. After taking a few deep breaths, as ordered by Kieren, you looked around for your clock. "What time is it…?" "Three AM," they answered in unison. Luke backed up to stand next to his brother; you got a better look at the two as their identical eyes did the same to you.
Thankfully, they didn't seem too hurt, and most of the blood didn't look to be theirs. Keiran had his hair tied up behind him, giving you a better view of his massive black eye, while Luke's unruly hair stayed down in an attempt to cover the busted lip you saw peeking through the strands. You sigh. "How was the fighting ring?" Kieran was the first to speak. "They said we couldn't join because we were 'too skinny' or something-." You vaguely recalled last night when the two of them came home angry because something didn't go according to plan. Luke's lips curled into a mischievous grin as he went to finish his twin's sentence. "So we beat up all the other fighters; that way, they had no choice but to let us in." Naturally.
You scooted over to Keiran at the edge of the bed and placed a hand over his chest, closing your eyes when a soft glow radiated from your palm. When you were twelve, you learned you were an Evolver: someone who obtained a special superpower, known as an Evol, only possessed by a small portion of the human population. You were "lucky" enough to have been born with a potent healing Evol, which came in handy with the maniacs in your life who seemed to always be in some danger as of late. So, like all things in the N109 zone, it became part of a deal. They protected you and let you stay with them; in return, you'd heal their injuries. The boys didn't seem to develop any powers, something they would often whine about; you saw that as a blessing. They got themselves into enough trouble as it is without adding magical powers into the mix.
"Sooo…" Luke began, "What was that?" Kieran gave Luke a pointed look as he put his hands up in defense. "What? I'm the only one who thought the screams of bloody murder were weird?" Kieran's wounds fully healed, and you beckoned Luke to come closer, putting your hand on his chest as well when he stood before you. "It was nothing. Just another nightmare." They looked at each other in a silent exchange. You were always jealous of how they could do that, have entire conversations with each other, and not need to say a word. A simple glance and they were on the same page. Most people could only wish to have that sort of connection in their lifetime, you included.
"Been getting those a lot lately; did something happen? Wanna talk about it…?" You couldn't tell which twin had asked you, not that it mattered. The answer would be the same. There was no way you could risk proving your weakness to them and risk getting left behind. They were strong and had each other; they didn't need you. You were safe as long as you continued to prove your value, so regardless of how you might feel, you couldn't tell them anything. You owed it to them.
You shook your head again in silent denial and quickly moved on from the subject, so they didn't have time to bring it back up. Something that would distract them: "All this to try and kill Onychinus's boss…you two really are crazy. Aren't you worried he might hurt you? Or worse…?" Kieran pulled out one of his darts and began fiddling with it. "It's not like we have much to lose; might as well make the most of it. Go big or go home, right?" You furrowed your brows at his lax attitude towards the subject. "Your lives? Each other?" 'Me?' You could only think of the last part. As much as you wished they cared for you half as much as you did for them, you knew they only had room in their hearts for each other and their own amusement.
They looked at each other and laughed. "We're on borrowed time anyway, aren't we? Might as well go out with a bang!" Luke's words felt like one of Kieran's darts shot straight into your heart. "Yeah!" Kieran continued, "We should count ourselves lucky to be killed by him; better that than risk transforming into one of those…things." You tighten at every word they speak. They were right, probably, but that didn't mean the reality of the situation hurt any less.
Two years ago, when you were fourteen, a group from an illegal research facility started gathering up as many kids roaming the streets of the N109 as they could. They were looking for test subjects to experiment with the effects of protocore enhancement and embedding those protocores into human specimens, trying to see if the cosmic energy residing in protocores could force an Evol or somehow augment a pre-existing one. Kids of the N109 were the perfect targets, already considered forgotten tragedies; no one would miss them or notice they were gone. For two years, you were separated. Luke and Kieran were taken to a facility whose specialty was powerless twins; from what they told you, they each had half of a protocore lodged in their hearts. Their connection surpassed the subconscious, and now they felt everything together. See from each other's eyes, feel what each other feels. Their pain was shared, split between the two of them. Some part of you tried to find the bright side: that at least this way, neither one of them would feel alone in their suffering. You couldn't help how your skin crawled, however, imagining waking up from the procedure and suddenly seeing double, feeling double, hurting twice as much as faceless researchers poked and prodded at you to see if your brother could feel the same. You shook in anger every time you thought of it. Stupid people and their stupid misconceptions about twins.
Truthfully, you couldn't quite remember what happened to you. It was like you spent two years falling in and out of sleep. If you thought hard enough, you could place the blinding lights of the operating table, the stale scent of the room you always seemed to wake up in, and the blurry faces of children and doctors alike asking you questions, but no matter what you did you can't seem to recall what they were about. You couldn't regain yourself until days after Luke and Kieran broke you out and managed to escape. You broke into tears the first time you saw yourself in a mirror. The boys had mugged some people for money and took you to a clothing store to get out of the rags the lab kept you in. They randomly handed you some clothes to try on and shoved you into a dressing room while they "handled the store owner" (as they put it). Your feelings overwhelmed you when you turned around to check yourself in the mirror, and your face and body were completely different from how you remembered. You were taller and built differently from the way you were before. Your hands roamed your face and skin while trying to find some sense of normalcy, something recognizable, but you couldn't find anything. You tugged and scratched at your arms and cheeks, making red marks with every passing of your nails. You scratched so hard that you drew blood from your forearms, but not even the hue looked the same as it dripped onto the floor. You don't remember when you screamed or when you fell to your knees. When you sobbed and broke the mirror in fear of what you were looking at.
The twins flung the curtain off its rack to find you curled into a corner, broken and scared. Only then did you think of getting a good look at their faces and seeing that they, too, had changed. Whereas before, you stood a few inches above them, they now were a good foot taller than you. And while their faces still mimicked each other, there was something so decidedly different that, for a moment, you thought there was no way it could be them. Their smiles weren't the same, and their eyes had lost their playful glint. Before another wave of despair could wash over you, they grabbed your arms and ran out of the store without a word. That night, the three of you discussed each other's experiences with the experiments…and you discovered that two years of your life were gone. Forever.
It'd only been a few weeks since the three of you escaped, hiding in a small abandoned house you temporarily called home. Most buildings in the N109 Zone were renovated from previously derelict structures. In the shadows, where neon lights from the bustling streets can't reach, it was easy to find a vacant space that wasn't too dilapidated. However, A few days ago, they returned to you with a document they 'found' with their names on it. It described their procedure, the effects, and…their estimated time of death
Three months. Their bodies were rejecting the protocore, and it was predicted that they had three months to live before becoming…something. Not quite wanderer, not quite human. When you asked them what this transformation would entail, they wouldn't elaborate, just insisting that allowing themselves to undergo it was out of the question. It was the first time in a long time that you could recall genuinely seeing them scared. But before you could process the words enough to react, Luke ripped the papers from your hand and threw them out the window before telling you their master plan: they were going after Sylus, the unofficial head of the N109 zone.
You had reminded them multiple times of the stories you heard growing up about his influence and power; nobody could lay a finger on him, but they would wave you off and tell you the same thing they were telling you now. Once, when trying to convince them to give up on this fruitless adventure, they asked you if you could heal them. If whatever experiment was done on you could stabilize the protocores in their hearts. You didn't think they could have that much hope in you, but you didn't know. You didn't know what had been done to you, and you didn't know if it affected your Evol at all. It was the only thing that felt the same as before.
Which brought you back to the present: Your fingers started to sting while the last of Luke's wounds closed up, and you shook your hand away as the burning sensation subsided. You didn't bother looking up at him when you stood up from bed. "I'm gonna go get some water." Luke's eyes lit up at your statement, and he dashed out of the room to the ice machine. Kieran groaned and rolled his eyes at the sound of his brother rummaging around for the best block. You couldn't help the tug of a smile from the corner of your lips when you watched them. They are so similar, yet so different.
You once asked Luke why he loved ice so much, and apparently, during one of their escape attempts they got caught by the guards, and Kieran ended up getting beaten up so badly that he ended up with a mouthful of blood. They were stuck in solitary confinement for two weeks because they refused to reveal how they managed to get out, and Kieren denied all medical treatment. But because they're connected, Luke also had to suffer despite having already healed. The ice was initially numb to the pain that wasn't his own, and it later developed into a thrill for the cold. Kieran, after his two-week confinement, had taken the lesson to heart. The day his punishment ended, he exacted his revenge with a dart he made. After that, crafting darts became a hobby. Yet another instance of change that happened without you ever knowing about it.
Luke was already crunching away at his ice cubes and waiting for more when you poured a water bottle into a glass and topped it off with ice. Luke scooped up two cubes as they fell, popped them into his mouth, and then turned back to his brother, who was now sitting on the couch. "You want some ice?" but Kieran waved his hand in dismissal. "Ice reminds me of when I got beat up. I'll pass." Laughter filled the room as Luke tossed an ice cube at Kieran before plopping onto the couch and crossing his legs. "Serves you right." His twin looks down at the ice cube in his hand with a frown before dropping it on the ground, making Luke whine about 'wasting a perfectly good ice cube.'
You drank your water and sat on the floor beneath them, leaning against the couch frame. The room was silent, except for the ice melting in your glass and Luke's crunching. There was comfort in the quiet. For a moment, it was like you were fourteen again. All the wanderers were wiped out, the hunters' association had officially deemed you no-hunt zone 109, and you had each other. All you had to do was stick together and survive. In that memory, nothing else mattered.
"We're going back tomorrow." Kieran leaned back against the cushions and reached his arms above him. "Fourth rule of a successful ambush: swiftly abandon flawed tactics and use new strategies to confuse your opponent!" you stared down at your now empty glass in quiet contentment. You knew what he was referring to: "The Four Rules of A Succesful Ambush!" was something you used to read in a comic book about spies when you were younger. They loved it so much that they began to use them as their own. You doubted that the silly rules used to fight comic book villains would work on the real threat they were going after. You could hardly manage to mumble out a meek "What's the plan…?" without the threat of tears rolling down your face again. If they had noticed your struggle, they wouldn't have mentioned it. Instead, choosing to continue with a level of excitement that didn't match the conversation topic.
Luke punches the air in front of him: "We're gonna pretend to want to be his subordinates! Then, when he least expects it, we'll stab him in the back!" He makes a gesture with his fists to mimic the action of stabbing someone as his other hand goes to give his brother a high-five. You could only give a hum in response. You could say something about how Sylus had likely seen this tactic before, what with being the most extended running boss in the N109's history, and that they were almost certain to fail. You wanted to tell them to stop, to give up on this adrenaline high, and stay with you where it was safe. You could crawl on your knees and beg them to return to the way things were before, one last chance to feel some sense of normalcy before the only friends you'd ever known and your only source of protection from this damnable place were gone forever. But you couldn't. You couldn't be so selfish as to take away their last chance at feeling some sense of purpose before it'd be taken away. So you stood up from the floor, leaving behind your empty glass, and went back to the room to sleep. From behind you, you could hear one of the boys stand up and call out to you; their voice almost seemed strained, "Night ( )!" Kieran.
You didn't bother to look over your shoulder; it was too painful to think this would be the last time you'd ever see them again. Instead, you nodded your head and walked away. "Goodnight, Kieran…Luke. Good luck tomorrow; I'll be here when you get back…"
Did you know you could've read this sooner? Chapters get posted earlier on my A03 page! Chapter 2 is already out!!!
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tavina-writes · 1 year ago
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MDZS Society! aka: there's a lot less killing than you'd expect
This follows from this post and also the recent translations of MXTX’s most recent interview (which I can now no longer bother to find bc this has been sitting in drafts for like, siiiix months? More? Oh god anyway.) which reminded me about my feelings regarding MDZS society and how different it is from the martial societies we see depicted in typical modern wuxia. (Small disclaimer, I am a wuxia genre fiend and I love like, thinking about fictional societies so this is like, “AHA! You’ve unlocked my trap card!”) 
For the purposes of this, I’m going to be looking at MDZS/CQL’s depiction of the jianghu (which I think is fairly similar! I don’t actually think the show writers made CQL’s jianghu/martial society more genre typical than it was in the book) and comparing that with modern classic wuxia (mostly Jin Yong and Gu Long works.) For this comparison, I’ll be looking at a Jin Yong book — Legend of the Condor Heroes (which is widely considered the starting point of modern wuxia as a genre) — and one Gu Long book — Dagger Li/Sentimental Swordsman, Ruthless Sword (widely considered his most popular work) — and seeing how their societies differ from MDZS society. 
This will likely come in two parts because this one was already getting long, and I don’t think we can fit “how often does nobility exist in a typical jianghu and what do bloodline sects look like normally versus what they look like in MDZS” in this post along with the main topic of “is MDZS society a particularly physically violent place?” 
This post discusses how often cultivators are socially expected to kill people. Like, actual living human beings instead of, say, monsters or ghosts which have been categorized differently than like, human beings. 
EDIT: I forgot to talk about Dagger Li but this was already much too long sorry. Feel free to hmu for more thoughts though.
Now, it might be easy to think that cultivators killing actual people is a really common thing in MDZS/CQL universe! After all, they do have martial arts training and one of the prominent things about the first life is just how many people die both in the Sunshot Campaign and the fallout afterwards. However, I would argue that a lot of the traumas and related issues and reactions that happen in MDZS happen because cultivators are, by training and education, not actually prepared for killing actual living breathing human beings! (And also that the morality of this world prevents it for the most part) 
Now, we do actually get a pretty good window into what the typical training is like for young cultivators in MDZS, because we get a fairly well defined schoolhouse scene where LQR is asking them questions about "how do you tell the difference between various different problems we have to solve?" and "how do you go about fixing this problem?" and none of those include the moral quandary of "if I, a young cultivator out in the Jianghu, see a guy who is doing something I morally disagree with, under what circumstances do I beat him up and/or kill him." This does not appear to enter the curriculum at any point, leading me to believe that the morally correct number of people not like, ghosts or ghouls or fierce corpses, a regular average MDZS cultivator is supposed to have killed is approximately 0.
Which. Is a thing you get in a normal martial arts wuxia jianghu. There is generally the threat of "oh yeah this that or the other faction will be doing shitty things and thereby try to murder you." Instead, in MDZS/CQL most of the heirs of sects are...attending school together. Doing teenage things like partying and gossiping and attending classes.
And sure yes, there was a case of WWX and JZX trying to beat each other up. But the sects did sure let their kids stay at Lan summer camp for months on end (sometimes repeatedly, see NHS) without fearing for their lives or that anyone would steal another sect's techniques or otherwise causing real havoc or intersect warfare etc.
Which is infeasible in any other sort of Jianghu situation. For example, contrast this scenario with this scene from LOCH where Guo Jing's shifus are giving him advice since he is newly 17 and about to set out by himself into the great big world:
Guo Jing therefore bid farewell to his teachers. They had witnessed his battle against the Four Demons of the Yellow River, and were not too greatly worried. The young man had proved that he knew how to use the skills that they taught him. Therefore they let him leave alone. On one hand, the meeting of outlaws in Yanjing worried them greatly, so that they could not ignore it; and on the other hand, a youngster always had to travel the jianghu alone, in order to learn lessons that no teacher could pass on. At the moment of parting, each made their last recommendations. As usual when the Six spoke after one another, Nan Xiren was the last one to express himself. "If you cannot defeat the enemy," he said. "Flee!" He knew that given Guo Jing's dogged character, he would prefer to die rather than to surrender, if he met a master, he would certainly fight to the bitter end, even at the risk of death. That was the reason Nan Xiren gave him this common sense warning. " Martial arts have no limits," added Zhu Cong. " As the proverb says, 'For every peak there is one yet higher', so for every man there is one stronger. Whatever your power, you will always one day meet a foe stronger than you. A true man knows to retreat when necessary, when facing grave danger, it is necessary to contain one's impatience and anger. This what is meant by the adage, « If one preserves the earth and its forests, one does not fear to lack firewood ». It is not therefore not cowardly to take good advice! When the enemy is too numerous and that you cannot face them there, it is especially necessary to avoid being too reckless. Keep in mind Fourth Shifu's advice!"
Does this seem like the sort of advice that any Young MDZS Cultivator would get? "You're a good kid, but when you go out into the world, there will be people who straight up want you dead even though they met you 15 minutes ago, you cannot persist in fighting with these people because they will want you dead and you are a baby cultivator who needs to learn to run away when shit gets rough or you will be dead."
And again I come back to how MDZS cultivators are more like occupational ghostbusters because this really does inform how their society functions and runs and how everyone reacts so badly to the Sunshot Campaign beginning and its aftermaths and possibly explains how JGS could get his way after Sunshot.
Because what happens when you get a society that does train heavily in martial arts and have Able To Kill Real People Weapons who spends most of their time solving very black and white situations of "okay is this ghost whose eating people's livers good or bad? y/n?" and a clear hierarchy of "how do we get rid of the ghost eating people's livers in town x" instead of say "is it morally correct to kill this group of bandits who's been threatening the town" or "is it morally correct to kill this shitty businessman who's been holding people hostage and threatening to hack off their limbs" you have a reduced level of philosophical musing on like, "what is the purpose of martial arts, which is designed to kill people and what do I use martial arts for?" and "under what circumstances and situations would I personally find it morally correct to kill a man?" Which are all questions that Wuxia coming of age stories typically have, and I think MDZS does have, but expressed differently.
Again, it appears that the number of Real Live Human Beings that it is morally acceptable to have stabbed in your life is approximately 0 in this universe, and the expectation that you, personally, might have to fend off people trying to stab you over brunch is also approximately 0.
This also leads to a situation where like, questions of vengeance have very difficult escape hatches! If your parents are murdered on the job by an evil rampaging ghost, this is very sad and tragic and now you're an orphan and of course that's not good, but this is a occupational job hazard, not like, "Yeah Joe Bob from the sect down the street murdered my dad because #Reasons~, and now it's my legacy to grow up to murder Job Bob from the sect down the street to avenge my dad."
(I have a whole essay about how this pertains to both of the Nie Brothers, and how it pertains to JGY and also Jin Ling, and how this seems to routinely fuck people up in MDZS in a very specific way we don't typically see in other wuxias, but this is getting SO long as it is).
But yeah "the socially acceptable number of real living people (instead of ghosts or demons or fierce corpses or whatever) to have killed in your lifetime as a cultivator is approximately 0" means that the Sunshot Generation gets really really fucked up by all of this "killing real people" they did.
Which! might be why JFM was so slow to move on "yeah the Wen are threatening to kill your heirs." <- socially inconceivable behavior. Why society in general is so shocked by Xue Yang and the murder of the Chang <- which would be bad normally but not quite like this. And why no one did anything specific about JGS even if they felt he wasn't entirely correct. What are they going to threaten him with? Death???? A trial of his peers? Social Shunning??? Public shame???
"But Tav how does this relate to CQL!Su She's morality?" I hear you ask. Well you see, the question of "he should've been ready to die for his sect!" is utterly baffling in a society where nobody is expected to be ready to die for their sect on a regular basis because the idea that you should be ready for someone trying to stab you before brunch is utterly nonsensical in a world where most people expect that the baseline number of murders a cultivator does in their lifetimes is 0. That's the world he lives in.
On this regard CQL!Su She is utterly blameless. Nobody handed him a rulebook or expectations sheet for "the sect down the street will try to kill you" nor SHOULD they expect he'd be ready to die at a drop of a hat when no part of the education or social expectations include "ready to die for your sect because it's routine for people to try to kill you."
If you don't even expect to be stabbed and possibly die at a discussion conference where there are lots of cultivators from many sects why on EARTH would you expect to be facing down death in your own home when there's. cultivators here to kill you, this situation is so out of left field?
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magnusmodig · 5 months ago
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ovo whispers menacingly abt his grandstanding .
#(you can grandstand and be impulsive and prone to violence and have a terrible temper without being arrogant thanks)#(the closest he ever gets to saying he's above anyone else is w/ the jotuns if you really squint at it and he only ever said-)#(- that he wanted to use /force/ aka /violence/ to get them to submit to his rule bc otherwise he views them as DANGEROUS)#(based not only on historical /fact/ but cultural differences boogeymanning and seeing firsthand how they-)#(-MURDERED SOME OF HIS PEOPLE???? AND BROKE INTO HIS HOME???? ON CORONATION DAY????)#(he doesn't act like heimdall or the warriors or sif or even loki is below him. he wouldn't /ask them/ for permission otherwise)#(he even asks the humans-he-just-met for permission a la jane and then respects their decisions and apologizes for being rude abt the mug)#(and the one time he says 'know your place' to loki is when loki is actively bUTTING INTO A CONVERSATION that thor is being ridiculous abou#(bc to thor it's about /winning/ the argument with laufey and he's totally losing track of his goal to try and figure out wtf the jotuns)#(were doing ///in asgard inside the palace IN THE VAULT on CORONATION DAY///.)#(arrogance is specifically thinking you are inherently better than anyone else bc you exist)#(thor very clearly demonstrates selfish desires that translate to poorly thought out deeds)#(eg: taking it directly to laufey instead of trying to take a step back and figure it out in OTHER WAYS before a direct confrontation)#(and he also demonstrates overblown self-confidence.)#(eg the “i have no plans to die today” / “none do.”)#(that's being overconfident in his own abilities that's still not arrogance.)#( ooc . ) — stories that leap from the page .#( salt to taste . ) — in this house we love the actual main character . crazy i know .#tbd#(thor expresses boastfulness and pride similarly to his whole culture of over-exaggerating ur war stories)#(his vice is letting that vanity get to his head and fueling increasingly impulsive and stubborn decisions)#(out of the sheer and desperate desire to prove he's good enough to take up such a heavy mantle as the crown of asgard + nine realms)#(but he doesn't just look at other people and go 'oh yeah i'm so totally better than you just because i exist')#(he's also not a lightning mcqueen who actually DOES see himself above the rustees cars and the route 66 cars)#(goes out of his way to make that abundantly clear and wants actually nothing to do with any of them in pursuit of his own gains)#(only to finally figure out he's not all hot shit and slows tf down to understand and enjoy life as part of society not above it)#(he literally flies of the handle because he fully believes the jotunar actually plotted an entire elaborate scheme)#(SPECIFICALLY in the effort to exploit him as the green thumb weak link as Newly Instated King who Doesn't Know What He's Doing)#(And therefore will OBVIOUSLY do a terrible job because he's not odin and can never be odin but he /needs/ to be like odin bc odin is stron#(HE doesn't know it was loki's plan. he doesn't know it was /loki/ who timed it to the coronation.)
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mangled-by-disuse · 2 months ago
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not everything bad is white supremacy
not everything bad is capitalism
not everything bad is conservatism
not everything good is leftist for that matter
maybe this is a hot take but posts that blame, idk, the urge to punish on white supremacy, or power imbalance as a whole on capitalism, or personal greed on conservatism, are just a really great way to not be taken seriously. and shouldn't be taken seriously, because they strongly suggest that you put no thought into the cause of social ills beyond your own context.
#also because it's almost always a way to say that YOUR side would NEVER#like I'm wary about any statements on “human nature”#but it is a fact that many of the things I've seen this applied to#(bigotry and exploitation and greed and violence and over-rationalism and punitive justice and stratified societies and expansionism and...#have existed in societies that are not capitalist and not white or influenced by whiteness#and exist in the left SOMETIMES AS AN EXPRESSION OF LEFTIST THOUGHT#(...and misogyny and classism and ableism and disregard for life/valuing only some lives and hypocrisy and coercion and...)#like to be clear ALL of these are actual examples I've seen in the wild#of assigning things as “the result of [ideology]” with the implications that they would not exist without that ideology#and like i do get that it's more nuanced than that. that the EXPRESSION of bad things is often specific to an ideology.#but i also feel like the more we allow ourselves to believe that bad things come solely from bad politics#the less able we will be to build a better world that addresses social tendencies towards those things#idk mostly I'm just being pissed off by the idea that punitive justice is not just a tool of but a result of white supremacy#LIKE NO THE REASON IT WORKS AS A TOOL IS THAT THE DESIRE FOR PUNITIVE JUSTICE WAS ALREADY THERE#you don't want punitive justice BECAUSE you live in a white supremacist society!#this is not a desire unique to white or white supremacist cultures!#(“nearly all modern societies are affected by white supremacist ideals” is probably true but not relevant because they weren't always)#(my source for a lot of these disputes is to gesture loudly at history)#also because i always fear pissing on the poor: i am NOT saying that the link between action and ideology isn't relevant and with discussin#I'm saying that please stop claiming in so many words that a social evil exists BECAUSE of a political ideology#unless you can actually back it up#(also while we're at it a daily reminder that commerce is not the same thing as capitalism)#(and white supremacy is not the same thing as being white)#(conservatism is a looser term so i don't have as many pithy statements about that one)
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winterarmyy · 7 months ago
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Against All Odds | Part I
An arranged marriage with the duke's illegitimate son!bucky.
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Summary: In a medieval kingdom where magic and political intrigue are woven into the fabric of society, Y/N, the youngest daughter of a noble Earl family, finds herself in an arranged marriage to James Buchanan Barnes, the illegitimate son of the Duke. Known as the Winter Soldier, Bucky's reputation as a monster in war had instilled anxiety into Y/N's heart. But that fear quickly begins to crumble when she discovers that her husband is not the brutal figure society depicts him to be.
Navigation: Part I | Part II | Part III (end)
Words: 8.1k++
Pairing: duke's illegitimate son!bucky x noble!female!reader
Warnings: fantasy/medieval au, i did not write this with much knowledge of fantasy nor medieval lore. I write it solely for plot and the couple dynamic lmao. if you're expecting full blown fantasy novel; this ain't it, man. anyways, 18+ contents, no minors allowed, nsfw, cunnilingus, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, loss of virginity, praise kink, breeding kink (if you squint), marking kink (i think), soft fluffy smut, a wee bit of dirty talk. soft!reader and even softer!bucky. (idk what else, so tell me if there's something i miss.)
P/S: This is the fic for an idea I had earlier this year. The first chapter will only cover the original post but what happens next is something you will need to look forward on the upcoming chapters. Enjoy your read!
Read my other works here: Masterlist
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Y/N stood in front of the grand mirror in her chamber, her reflection staring back at her with wide, fearful eyes. The delicate lace of her wedding dress was the opposite of the twisting anxiety in her stomach. Today, she was to marry James Buchanan Barnes, the illegitimate son of the Duke of the kingdom, a man labelled to be more beast than human.
He was known as the Winter Soldier, a title whispered with both fear and awe. Tales of his gruesome feats in battle, his merciless brutality, and his cold, metal arm was deemed as a horror story for the children in the kingdom. People spoke of him as a monstrous weapon, a beast moulded by the Emperor to do his bidding without question or hesitation. 
Y/N had heard the stories many times before; and it has always been a hushed conversation that floats around whether a ballroom of a gala, or at the tables of the garden parties, sometimes even in between the racks of books in the library.
They always painted a picture of a man who lived only for war, devoid of humanity.
She couldn't help but let these tales feed her imagination. What kind of man was he truly? Did he revel in the violence, or was he a prisoner to his fate? Y/N shuddered at the thought, her heart heavy with fear and uncertainty.
Her father, the Earl, had made it clear why she needed to marry him. It was a political manoeuvre, a strategic alliance to strengthen their family's position. The duke, Bucky's father, wielded considerable power, and their union would bring the Earl closer to the heart of the kingdom's influence. 
And when he heard that the duke was looking for a wife for his bastard son, he knew that she would be perfect. That was when Y/N, the youngest daughter, became the pawn in this game. Her father's ambitions certainly outweighed any consideration for her feelings or desires.
Y/N had always longed for a marriage of love, a dream she clung to despite her circumstances. She was a hopeless romantic through and through; much like her late mother. She remembered the nights when her mother would read to her and her siblings, spinning tales of prince charming and valiant heroes.
The fire crackled warmly in the hearth as her mother’s soothing voice filled the room. Y/N and her siblings, her older brother Eric and sister Clara, lay tucked under blankets, their eyes wide with wonder.
"And then the prince, with a heart full of love, swept the princess into his arms, vowing to protect her forever," her mother read, her voice a melodic whisper.
Y/N, her eyes sparkling with innocence, declared, "When I grow up, I want to marry a prince charming too!"
Clara, ever the practical one, nodded in agreement. "Me too! He has to be brave and kind."
Eric, being a little boy, scrunched his nose in distaste. "I don’t want to get married. I want to be a knight!"
Their mother chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair from Y/N’s forehead. "It does not matter if he is a prince charming or a humble knight. As long as you marry the one you love, that is what truly matters."
Y/N's heart ached at the memory. How she wished her mother were still here to guide her through this terrifying day. The gentle knock on the door brought her back to the present.
"Lady Y/N, it’s time," one of the maids said softly.
Y/N took a long and deep breath, smoothing down the fabric of her dress. She followed the maid down the corridor, her mind a swirl of emotions. Reaching the grand doors of the church, her father waited for her.
"Remember, Y/N," he said, his voice stern. "Do not mess this up. Just endure it. And you'll be fine. This is the most useful you can be to our family."
Her heart sank further; yet she nodded obediently.
Compared to Y/N, her elder brother, a celebrated swordsman, and her sister, a master in the art of business, had always outshone her in their father's eyes. Y/N's talent with languages; ancient and modern – was seen as a useless skill, something that brought no tangible benefit to the family. 
Her father had never been cruel when she was younger but everything changed when her mother died. In fact, everyone in the family had lost a piece of their soul when she left. Now, his lack of affection only increases the number of scars on her heart.
The doors opened, revealing the crowds of high-ranking nobles; who were mostly strangers – staring at her. Some were judging her; some pitied her. She reminded herself that she was doing this for her family, for the greater good. But the little girl inside her who dreamed of prince charming certainly felt a pang of sorrow.
As she walked down the aisle, her legs trembled, and her hands shook so violently that she had to clasp them together to steady herself. From afar, she saw the silhouette of the man she was destined to marry. His tall and huge figure stood out compared to anyone in the hall. As she got closer, she kept her gaze fixed on the floor, too afraid to look up at her husband-to-be.
When she finally reached the altar, the priest began the ceremony. His speech was long and dragging, giving Y/N too much time to entertain her growing curiosity that she dared to glance up at the man next to her. Even from behind the veil, she could see his towering and broad-shouldered build, his presence commanding the room. His long hair was slightly untamed, and a scruffy beard framed his face. His metal hand, glinting in the sun that leaked through the church’s windows, was a jarring reminder of the rumors that surrounded him.
There were no heartfelt vows to recite to each other; only their promise of "I do" was exchanged. And that was the first time Y/N heard his voice. It was deep and resonant, sending a shiver down her spine; but there was a certain warmth in it that contrasted sharply with his fearsome reputation.
When the priest announced their union and Bucky lifted her veil, Y/N was struck by the unexpected gentleness in his eyes. They were a brilliant, mesmerizing blue, and for a moment, she forgot to breathe. Bucky's eyes softened as he looked at her, his gaze tender and almost reverent. Slowly, he placed one hand gently around her waist, pulling her slightly closer. His other hand came up to cup her cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle against her skin.
Y/N's heart pounded in her chest as he leaned in, her breath catching in her throat. When his lips met hers, they were soft, warm, and so unexpected. She could smell his cologne; an earthy, woodsy scent mixed with a hint of something fruity; like peaches or tangerines. It made her head spin and her heart jumped all at the same time. 
The kiss was gentle and unhurried, very much differs to the forceful gesture she had feared. As he pulled away, Y/N found herself blinking slowly, her cheeks flushed and her fear momentarily replaced by confusion and a surprising awe. She was caught off guard by the tenderness of his touch, the way his lips had brushed against hers so gently.
Could the rumors about him be wrong?
"I’m sorry if I startled you," he said, his voice low and gentle. "I hope I didn’t scare you, my dear."
Y/N blinked slowly, trying to process the sudden shift in her emotions. The fear that had gripped her so tightly seemed to dissipate, replaced by a confusing mix of relief and intrigue. Her hands, which had been trembling, now rested at her sides, feeling strangely steady. Her eyes met his, and she could see softness in his gaze that contradicted the harsh rumors she had heard.
“I—no, you didn’t scare me,” she managed to say; her voice barely more than a whisper. She took a deep breath, her cheeks getting warmer as she processed the endearment he just called her. On the other hand, her mind was racing as she tried to reconcile the man in front of her with the fearsome figure of the Winter Soldier.
Bucky’s eyes mellowed even further, his gaze glazed with a tenderness that seemed to pierce through the weight of the room. A warm smile spread across his face, and he held her gaze with a comforting assurance.
“Good,” he said, his voice carrying a gentle affection. “I’m glad to hear that.”
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The reception that followed was a blur of faces and polite conversation. Y/N moved through the crowd, accepting congratulations and well-wishes, but her mind was elsewhere. She couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to Bucky than the rumors suggested. Every time she caught his eye, he gave her a small, reassuring smile that made the butterflies inside of her go wild.
As the evening drew to a close, they were escorted to one of the Emperor’s palaces, a grand and opulent residence that was to serve as their temporary home before they traveled north to Bucky’s territory. The palace, with its lavish furnishings and golden accents, seemed to mock the uncertainty Y/N felt. She had been assigned a chamber to prepare for the night, and the palace maids were bustling around her, helping her into a set of elaborate, far-from-modest lingerie.
The palace’s maids’ whispers and side glances did nothing to ease her growing anxiety. Their condescending tones and occasional snickers were laced with cruel speculation about how roughly Bucky would treat her. The more Y/N overheard, the more her apprehension grew. Despite the gentleness Bucky had shown her earlier, she found herself doubting its sincerity.
Could he really be the caring husband he appeared to be, or was it all just an elaborate show?
The maids finally left, their laughter fading down the hallway, leaving Y/N alone in the grand chamber. Her heart raced, and cold sweat formed at her brow as she sat quietly on the edge of the ornate bed. She kept her gaze firmly on the floor, her hands fidgeting in her lap. The room felt enormous, its sheer size heightening her sense of isolation and dread.
The door creaked open, and Bucky entered the room. Y/N’s heart nearly stopped as she heard the heavy, measured footsteps approaching. She couldn’t bring herself to look up, her body tense and her mind a swirl of panic and unease. She almost held her breath entire when she felt the slight indentation of the mattress beside her.
“Y/N,” Bucky’s voice was soft and coaxing, a distinct difference to the coldness she was expecting. “Look at me.” He continued. She hesitated momentarily; torn between obeying and disobeying but ultimately decided to raise her eyes to meet his.
The sight of him; his upper body bare, revealing a tapestry of scars and the stark metal of his prosthetic arm; made her breath hitch. Her eyes traced the lines of his faded wound, particularly the jagged marks where his shoulder met his metal arm. She couldn’t help but feel a pang of sorrow and concern. Her fingers, almost of their own accord, reached out to trace the contours of his chest and shoulder.
Bucky let the innocence of her touch to trace the most tainted parts of him; however noting her trembling eyes, he misunderstood her apprehension. “I want you to know, Y/N,” he said, his voice firm yet gentle, “that I will never hurt you. You are safe with me.”
Y/N shook her head, her heart aching. She felt an unexplainable pain growing in her chest as she gazed at him. Her fingers still lightly touching his scars; her eyes, full of unshed tears, silently asked a question she was too afraid to voice. “Does it still hurt?” she wanted to ask, her expression betraying her concern.
Bucky’s eyes sparkled with affection, and he took her hand in his, holding it tenderly against his chest. “Don't worry. It does not hurt anymore,” he said with a reassuring smile. 
The connection between them was electric, charged with a deep, unspoken understanding. Bucky’s gaze was steady and filled with a depth of unspoken emotion that took Y/N’s breath away. “I know this is difficult for you, Y/N,” he said, his voice laden with sincerity. “But I promise, I will do everything in my power to make you happy.”
His words and the way he looked at her left Y/N feeling both comforted and overwhelmed. For the first time since their wedding, she felt a genuine, flickering hope that maybe, just maybe, their marriage could become something more than a mere political arrangement. Bucky’s assurances, his gentleness, and the tenderness in his eyes began to dissolve the fears she had harboured since the beginning of their union.
As they sat there, the weight of the night’s expectations seemed to lift, replaced by a fragile but growing trust. Y/N had entered this marriage with a sense of duty, convinced that she would have to endure the consummation of their union as a matter of obligation. But Bucky’s tenderness, his understanding, and the sincere reassurance he had given her began to change her perspective.
The idea of fulfilling her marital duty had initially felt like a burden she had to bear. She had steeled herself to face it with resignation, convinced that it was merely another part of her role in this arranged marriage. But now, she found herself reconsidering. The idea of being with him no longer felt like an obligation but a possibility of something more profound and intimate.
Y/N hands softly toyed with the delicate strings of her sheer lingerie, pulling it softly as her doe eyes signalled her husband of her intention. Bucky, sensing the shift in her demeanor, looked into her eyes with a mixture of concern and affection. “Are you sure, my dear?” he asked softly. “I want you to feel safe with me and not afraid of me.”
Y/N’s heart fluttered as she met his gaze, her own eyes reflecting the depth of her emotions. “I am,” she said with quiet conviction. “I feel safe with you, James”
Bucky's hand naturally went to brush her hair behind her ear, “It’s Bucky, my dear,” he corrected softly.
“Hmm?” she asked, slightly puzzled.
He chuckled warmly. “You can call me Bucky from now on. It’s a nickname only a selected few who I trust and love knows.” Her eyes sparkled at his choice words; trust and love.
“Bucky…” she tested the name on her tongue, the syllables feeling strangely intimate. Upon hearing his name from her lips, Bucky’s heart swelled, almost bursting from his ribcage. He hummed in approval, “That's right, my dear. I’m your Bucky.” 
His reassuring smile grew wider, his calloused thumb gently stroke her cheek causing a shiver to strum all over her nerves; sending an emerging desire. One she had not fully acknowledged until now. The way he looked at her, the pure and raw endearment in his eyes, and the softness of his touch stirred something deep within her.
As the moments passed, Y/N realised she wanted this. She wanted to feel his lips on hers, to explore the warmth of his hands, to connect with him on a level she had longed for. The yearning for his touch, which had been dormant under layers of fear and uncertainty, now surged forward with undeniable intensity.
Without fully understanding why, Y/N found herself leaning closer to him, her breath coming in soft, eager gasps. She whispered, her voice barely audible but full of longing, “Bucky, please.”
Bucky’s expression softened, and a tender light filled his blue eyes, “May I?” he asked, his voice low and gentle as he held out his hand. There a shy hesitation before she finally placed her hand in his.
With a gentle but firm pull, Bucky lifted her onto his lap, his careful hands beginning the process of undressing her. Each movement was full of care, yet almost deliberate, as he slowly removed her dress, leaving her in nothing but the flimsy lace piece covering the sacred area between her thighs.
Bucky's eyes roamed over her bare skin, admiration clear in his gaze. Y/N could feel the heat of his gaze, the way his eyes traced every curve and contour of her body. The intensity of it made her feel both vulnerable and cherished, a potent combination that sent pleasurable shivers all over her body.
Seeing the hunger in his blue eyes, she felt the warmth of his body and caught the scent of him; the same once she noticed at the church; warm and comforting. Her breath quickened, and she found herself unsure of what to do or where to place her hands, feeling like a deer caught in headlights.
Noticing the subtle panic, Bucky reached for her hands and guided them through the thick strands of his long hair. “You can touch me as you please, my dear,” he whispered, his voice soothing as he reassured her. He leaned in to kiss her bare shoulder, then moved up to her neck, along her jaw, leaving a trail of warmth on her skin.
Y/N’s fingers tangled in his hair, the softness surprising her. The intimacy of the moment, combined with his gentle kisses, began to dissolve the last remnants of her anxiety. The feel of his lips on her skin was electrifying, each kiss sending waves of sensation she never felt before.
Bucky’s hands, still careful and tender, caressed her back, drawing her closer to him. Her breath hitched as he kissed the valley of her breasts; soft gasps escaping her lips as Bucky begins to lick and sucked on her delicate skin; likely trying to mark his claim on her. 
Every touch and little kisses he left sent shivers straight to her already dripping core. And by the time his lips grazed her nipple, her body jerked forward; in response, unintentionally dragging her aching pussy against his thick thigh.
His lips latched around her right nipples as he licks and sucks the hardening skin; lapping at it as if he was feeding from her. The sensation was overwhelming, yet she found herself leaning into his touch, her body responding to his gentle ministrations. The grip on his hair grew tighter as the strings of moans poured out her lips.
Bucky’s large hands find their place on her hips, guiding her to gently rut on his thigh. Trusting him, she followed his lead as he continue to grind her clit through the thin fabric she was wearing; introducing the sweet friction in on her core. Bucky pulled back slightly to look into her eyes, his expression filled with a mixture of subtle affection and desire. “You’re doing wonderfully, my dear. Can feel your pussy leaking on me. Do you feel good?” he murmured as he dipped back to kiss her neck.
Oh, he was filthy with his choice of words but surprisingly she was not mad about it. In fact she didn’t even notice the whimpers purring in her throat upon hearing those sinful words.
It was as if Bucky recognized that needy sound she made; it caused a smile to spread on his lips. She can feel it grow against the skin in between her breasts, “My my, is my sweet wife feeling needy right now?” he teased playfully as he effortlessly lifted her up and laid her down on their bed. 
Placing himself in between her soft thighs, his lustful gaze trained on her naked body; he admired the marks he has left on her breasts, the wet patch on the flimsy fabric covering her cunt, and the way her breath shuddered when he teasingly grind his harden cock against her.
Y/N can feel the contrast of his hands on her thigh, one warm, one cold. Her eyes drew her attention from his hands to his gorgeous face. Oh, the pure unfiltered lust in his eyes was pulling her in so effortlessly; seducing her to submit her body and soul to him completely. Shying away from his stare, she dragged her view down to his chiselled jaw, his broad chest then slowly to his beautiful abs. 
She admired his body as much as he did of hers.
But what was more prominent out of all, was the way she could feel his erection throbbing against her heat. Blood went rushing towards her face when Bucky guided her hips against the confinement of his cock, which in response; causing her hands naturally found their way to cover her face in embarrassment.
A deep chuckle bubbled from Bucky’s throat; he found her reaction to be absolutely endearing. He leaned down towards her, one hand holding himself up and another tenderly pulling her hands away, then drawing it close to his chest, right against his beating heart. 
Having nowhere to run, Y/N’s teary eyes drowned in his ocean blues, “Don’t hide from me, dearest.” He peppered a delicate kiss on her forehead, then on her nose, then on her cheek. She could feel the prickly sensation of his beard grazing on her skin. It was ticklish and a little bit painful and yet weirdly enough, it felt good that it naturally made her want to nuzzle it more.
But before she could, Bucky’s lips were already making their way down to her stomach. Her body responds to how soft his lips trailing down; and further down until she could feel them on her clothed core. A surprised yelp fell from her lips as he tore the last piece of clothing from her.
“Now, hands away from your face, my dear. I want to see that beautiful eyes of yours when I eat your sweet pussy.” his voice was honeyed when he made himself comfortable in between her thighs. His hands reached upwards to intertwine both of her hands with his own; acting as a restraint to restrict her from covering her face.
Y/N almost sat up upon hearing his words, “Eat what now?”, the question she had in mind was unable to be vocalised; due to her confusion. Prior to marriage, she had learned about sex and its purpose in her marital studies. Unbeknownst to her, the knowledge she had was few and limited for academic purposes only. Which means there were only the few illustrations of penetration depicted in books and the process of how children are bred as a result of it.
So what does he mean when he said those words? While she was still lost and confused, Bucky on the other hand was in his own world; completely and utterly transfixed on the glistening need of her cunt. She was dripping wet; the juices covering her slits perfectly; her scent was intoxicating and if it weren’t for the fact that this is her first time, Bucky would’ve ate her like a man starved of touch. But, he can’t do that. Not tonight. He wanted to be gentle; to cherish her, to love on her.
Seeing the darkened clouds in his eyes as he stared at her private, Y/N braved herself to ask, “What are you– ohh hmmm” her sentence ended up transforming into a toe curling moan as she felt Bucky’s wet tongue flattened across her weeping core. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head as he dragged her clit into his mouth and sucked. He strummed her clit with his tongue, causing her to arch her back and he took the opportunity to push his face further into her cunt; licking and sucking quite the literal soul out her.
It felt amazing but her self-consciousness won the battle in her head, she let out a whimpering plea, “Buc--bucky st-stop. That’s dirty.” as she gripped on his hands, trying to escape from his grip. Bucky growled against her in response to her futile protest. The sweet vibration only caused her pleasure all over her fluttering core. 
When Bucky pulled away for a moment; it caused her to feel a sense of loss. “It’s not dirty, my dear. In fact, it’s so sweet.” His lips moved to kiss on her inner thigh, murmuring against her skin as he left yet more of his marks on her, “So fucking sweet.” He releases his right hand from hers, just to rub his thumb on her clit, slowly dragging it in between her slit; smearing her wetness all around her throbbing bundle of nerves. Her thighs trembled to the sensation of his rough movement of his thumb and a string of shaky mewls fell out of her.
“But..” she tried to protest but immediately stopped when Bucky brought his soaked thumb to her mouth. Her lips were wet from how he gently smeared the juices on her, “Taste yourself.” He lured her softly. Hesitation glints in her eyes as her cheeks redden. Bucky’s eyes grew tender at her watery ones, he whispered lowly, “Sweetheart, do you trust me?” 
She does; but she does not trust her own voice to not come out sounding like a needy moan, so she simply nodded. Bucky’s pink lips spread into a smile, “Good girl. Now, open up.” he coaxed lovingly.
Y/N opened her mouth as she was told and let Bucky slip his thumb inside; he was not shy to smother her juices across her tongue, coaxing her to suck on it. To get a taste of what he was having. “It’s sweet”, she thought to herself. A muffled moan purred in her throat at the thought of her husband enjoying the taste of her.
Bucky smirk grew at her reaction, “Tastes good huh, sweetheart?” he pulled his thumb away, leaving her nodding to his question. “Now are you going to let me enjoy your pussy?” his brow quirked when he tilted his head to the side. How can she deny him now? Her eyes glazed with need as she replied,  “Yes, please”.
Her mouth falls open in anticipation as a low moan creeps up her throat. Bucky’s tongue slips past her folds, she watched him between her legs, savouring her pussy with his unfiltered groans vibrating against her sensitive spot. Breathless moans and incoherent pleads fall from her mouth as the soft and firm tip of his tongue circled her swollen pearl and flicked it. Bucky’s hands went to her hips, guiding it in time with her own movements, giving her partial control to set the pace.
“Buckyyyy.” She gasped as she alternated between wanting to push his head away or keep him in place. Meanwhile, the man in between her thighs had lost himself; consumed by pure desire the more he drank from her cunt. His tongue moved faster against her clit when he noticed the beat of her throbbing cunt increased. She was going to come. He was sure of it.
The way that she was practically creaming on his tongue drove him near feral. He kept lapping at her juices as if it was the sweetest honey he ever tasted; fuck he even sucked her clit in hopes to force out more of her nectar to leak; then he’d lap on it again. 
The sweet cycle had pushed Y/N over the edge, her eyes rolling back as pleasure and her hips slightly lifted as pleasure surges through her veins.“Oh oh Bucky please please.” She didn’t what she was begging for as she chanted his name. “I’m gonna, ‘m gonna–“ her words died as she squealed; her body trembling in pleasure. 
His tongue moved faster against her clit; her cum was dripping out of her; coating his beard but his frantic licks didn’t stop even when she continue to gush on his tongue. 
“Bucky please, sensitive..” It was too much; her orgasm, her swollen clit, his tongue. Everything. 
Unfortunately for her, Bucky was far gone to stop now. He had the taste of her cum, now he wants nothing more than to have it again. Despite her protest, Bucky held her hip down, interlocking his hands across her stomach to keep her in place and continue to lick and suck on her overstimulated cunt.
Her whiny pleas didn’t come across as a sign for him to stop; instead it kept him going causing him to bury his face further in between her legs. His cock continued to throb in his pants, probably leaking with so much pre-cum and in need of some sort of relief but he ignored it. He wants nothing more than for Y/N to cum on his tongue again.
And that is exactly what happened next.
The moment she fell over the edge, Bucky pushed her even harder against him as her whole body spasmed. He maintained his pace on lapping up at her all throughout her high as her hands went from his hair to the headboard, trying to hold her limp body upright. Y/N took a moment to gather herself together, panting heavily as she regained their senses; while Bucky was swift to pull his pants off and throw it to the side.
He grabbed on her hips, holding her firmly in place as his heavy leaking cock nestled between her aching pussy. “Are you sure about this, my dear?” his hot breath fanning against her neck as he gently ruts into her heat. Even though Bucky can see the darken lust in her eyes, he still wanted to make sure that she was sure of her decision.
Y/N’s heart swelled at his concern, and she found herself smiling, a genuine smile that reflected the warmth she felt inside. She pulled him closer and kissed him, pouring all her newfound trust and affection into the kiss. “Yes, Bucky. I am very sure. ”
Bucky quickly responded with equal passion, his tongue slipped in between her lips; exploring the warmness of her mouth, the softness of her tongue. Their muffled moans filled the silenced room, his hands moved to caress her sides, drawing her even closer before breaking away from the heated kiss.
Resting his forehead on hers, his eyes trained on her beautiful face; not wanting to miss his chance to witness the pleasure contorting on her expression. He nudges her clit first, rubbing it slow and sensual before trailing down to her entrance. Gradually, he inches closer, he pushes in and through the tightness of her sacred channel.
Delving impossibly deep, her tightness wrapped around his thick cock until the tip of him reached the deepest parts of her. The sudden feeling of fullness on her untainted pussy caused her to experience both pain and the delightful sensation inside her. The ecstasy of being so knitly connected to each other caused both of them to simultaneously let out moans and groans of raw pleasure.
Bucky waited for her to adjust to his size; leaning down to pamper her with the softest kisses and praises that tears started to swell in her eyes. It was as if Bucky knew exactly what she wanted to hear, how she wanted to be treated and what makes her feel good.
“You’re doing so good, my dear.”
“Look at how perfect your pussy’s taking my cock. So perfect.”
“Made for me aren’t you, sweetheart?. Made to be loved by me, made to be stuffed full of my cock.”
“I promise you’ll be safe with me, Y/N. Always.”
When Y/N finally gave him the permission to move, Bucky kissed her pouty lips and murmured sweetly, “Thank you, my dear.” His hands travelled to find her ankle; which he then gently prop her calf over his broad shoulder. He started pumping in and out slowly, letting her get used to the friction. 
Bucky couldn’t help but to groan out to the feeling of her wet hole gripping his cock ever-so-tightly. It was slippery and dripping, that he almost completely slid out of her. Gripping her closer he continue ramming himself back in, deeper, harder; sliding in and out of her at an even pace. Each force of his cock causing her body to jerk in ecstasy; hitting that good spot in her so perfectly.
“S-shit, sweetheart,” he moans deep and heavy as he felt her pussy tightening around him. His metal hand slid in between them and his thumb hones in on her clit. The coldness of his finger made her jolt at first but when he proceeded to rub and pinch on it, everything suddenly started to feel too intense; so incredibly good.
With his fingers assaulting her clit, each thrust of his cock and every deep guttural moan and groan coming from Bucky, she felt her release was growing closer. Bucky also started thrusting faster and harder; he knew he was about to come. Especially when he can feel how much pre-cum has been leaking inside her.
He leaned and rested his forehead on hers, his needy ruts became more and more irregular when her pretty doe eyes looked up at him, “Cum for me, my dear.” his lips brushed against Y/N’s as he coaxed her to her sweet release. His thrusts got harsher and deeper and the friction of his metal finger working on her clit got her cunt to frantically tremble around him, “I wanna feel you milk my cock, sweetheart. Then, I’m gonna my pump cum inside you until you’re leaking.”
Although his words were debauched to no end, however Y/N could sense his genuine affection for her. She felt his sincerity in the way he looked at her, in the way he held her, in the silenced gaze they shared. Overwhelmed with pleasure, her nails dragged across Bucky’s back as she moaned and screamed out his name; letting the high took over her body.
“Fuck,, sweetheart. I’m gonna cum!” groaned as he took in the sound of her pleasured mewls. He ruthlessly grinds into her, savouring the feeling of her cunt tightened around him. With one last rut, he thrust his cock, balls deep inside and let his warm white strings filling her up to the brim. His cock twitches in her fluttering cunt, his legs tensing with every small grind he makes, groaning lowly at her as he bites down on her shoulder, almost drooling on her as he emptied himself completely into her.
Y/N continued to let out strings of soft moans as he pulled out from her leaking cunt; all swollen and sensitive. While she thought she could finally catch some breaths, she didn’t notice the way Bucky was biting on his lip at the sight of his cum dripping out of her, or how his hands lazily tugging on his now hardened cock.
“Dearest?” Bucky hovered above her as he cradled her by her flushed cheeks. She smiled sweetly as she leaned to his touch, “Yes, Bucky?”, she was anticipating him to utter more of those soft words and praises to her; but instead his lips curled into a devilish grin when he slid his cock back into her, immediately pulling a long sinful mewl of his name from her. Bucky hummed approvingly in response; he gently brushed his lips against hers, “May I fill you up again?”
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As the morning sun streamed through the windows, Y/N slowly stirred awake. She reached out, instinctively searching for the warmth of her husband beside her, but found the space empty. A pang of loneliness touched her heart, but it was quickly replaced by curiosity when she saw a bouquet of bluebells, her favourite flower, placed delicately on the bedside table.
Next to the bouquet was a note. With a small smile, she picked it up and began to read.
"My Dearest Y/N,
I hate to leave you alone this morning, but I must ensure our journey home is smooth and safe. I trust you slept well, and I promise to return to your side as soon as I can.
Yours always,
Bucky"
The words written on the note were filled with sincerity and reassurance that made her heart flutter. She smiled, a blush creeping across her cheeks as she wondered how he knew bluebells were her favourite.
Just as she was lost in thought, the door opened, and the palace’s maids entered the room. Their faces were a mixture of curiosity and impatience, clearly expecting to see a frightened and bruised young bride.
However, when they saw Y/N's skin, they temporarily froze in their spots. Her skin was indeed bruised, but each one of them recognized the marks for what they were: love marks, not signs of harsh abuse that they were expecting. The traces of Bucky's possessive love were prominent all over her neck, chest, and inner thighs, leaving Y/N blushing as the maids, too, found themselves flushed with embarrassment.
“Well, isn’t this a surprise,” one of the older maids muttered under her breath, her tone laced with irritation. Another maid, with a more condescending sneer, huffed. “Looks like we lost the bet, ladies. Who would have thought the beast could be so... tender?”
Y/N’s cheeks burned with a mix of embarrassment and pride. She could feel their resentful glances and knew they were not pleased with the outcome. The marks on her body were a testament to the affection and desire Bucky had shown her, and despite the initial fear, she now wore them as symbols of the unexpected bond they had begun to forge.
The head maid, who had been the most vocal the night before, now seemed to handle her with an edge of bitterness. The other maids, who had been so quick to judge, were now silent, their eyes wide with resentment.One of the younger maids, braver than the rest, couldn’t hide her frustration. “Well, my lady, I suppose you’re alright, then?” she asked, her voice barely masking her disappointment.
Y/N looked at her, considering the appropriate response. If it was up to her, she ought to punish every single one of them for not knowing their place. Unfortunately, they were not her maids to begin with, but the palace's staff. Otherwise, she would likely fire each one of them. 
The memory of Bucky’s affection and care filled her heart, leaving no room for anger or resentment. The warmth of his embrace and the gentle way he had treated her made the maids' behaviour seem petty and insignificant.
She could still feel the lingering touch of his lips on her skin, the way his hands had caressed her so delicately, and the sound of his reassuring voice. Her body was still tingling with the remnants of the previous night's intimacy. Her skin bore the marks of his love, not of brutality, and each bruise was a testament to the passion they had shared. It was completely different to the vile expectations of the maids.
A small smile playing on her lips despite the blush that still coloured her cheeks. "Yes," she said softly, "I am quite alright."
The maids exchanged annoyed glances, their expressions a mix of frustration and disbelief. Their muttered disappointments were tuned out as Y/N focused on the lingering warmth from the night before.
She couldn't hear a single thing except her heart beating to the thought of her husband. She missed him already. Who would’ve thought she’d be swooning for him so soon?
She found herself yearning for his presence, the comfort of his touch, and the sound of his reassuring voice. The memory of his gentle kiss and tender words lingered in her mind yet again, making her heart flutter.
As the maids continued their work, Y/N hoped they would at least perform their duties well enough to cover up for their childish behaviour. She wanted to be ready to see Bucky, to greet him with the same warmth and affection he had shown her. Despite their rudeness, she resolved to focus on the positive, cherishing the newfound bond with her husband.
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Bucky stood at the head of the table, his stern expression and commanding presence filling the room. He was reviewing the logistics of their journey home, his voice cold and decisive as he issued instructions to his knights. His trusted knight, Sam, was detailing the possible hotspots for bandits they might encounter along the way.
"We'll likely face trouble here," Sam said, pointing to a spot on the map. "We should send some of our best men ahead to clear the path."
"Agreed," Bucky responded, his tone unyielding. "Deploy the knights in advance. Ensure the path is secure before we proceed."
Sam nodded and continued outlining the plan. He paused, expecting Bucky to reconfirm, but noticed a change in his leader's face. The harsh lines softened, his eyes filled with a tender warmth, as he stared intently at something across the room. Before Sam could look or utter a word, Bucky turned and walked away with determination.
Sam followed Bucky's gaze and understood immediately. "Ah, that's why," he muttered to himself as he watched Bucky approach Y/N. The change in Bucky’s demeanour was striking. He moved with a grace and warmth that was at odds with his usual stern and imposing presence.
Bucky’s eyes softened as he took in the sight of Y/N. He admired her beauty with a gaze filled with awe and adoration. The way he looked at her was as if he was seeing a vision he had longed for, a rare and precious gem that had finally come into his life.
As he extended his hand toward her, a gesture usually seen as etiquette but now entirely with different meaning, especially with the hearts bursting our of his blue eyes. Y/N’s face lighting up with a shy smile, took his hand; almost too eagerly. Bucky's fingers closed gently around hers, his touch tender and reassuring. The contrast between his usual, fearsome reputation and the gentle way he interacted with her was profound, making it clear that his feelings for Y/N were deeply genuine.
Bucky kissed the back of her hand, his lips softly caressing her knuckles. "My dear," he greeted her, using the endearment he had chosen when they first met at the altar. 
The scene seemed like it was pulled raw from a romance novel that the surrounding staff and knights simply watched in shock and awe. "Did he just..." one knight whispered, eyes wide. "Called her 'my dear'?" another finished, equally stunned.
Sam, who had witnessed firsthand the monstrous side of Bucky in war, found himself in a state of utter disbelief, jaw dropped loose. He had seen Bucky’s sword painted blood-red, his face splattered with the gore of countless enemies. The Winter Soldier was a force of nature on the battlefield, his brutal efficiency leaving a trail of carnage in his wake. Sam recalled the sight of Bucky’s cold, unyielding eyes as he cut through foes without hesitation, his armor and weaponry gleaming with the blood of those who dared oppose him.
And yet, here he was, the same man who had struck terror into the hearts of many, now standing before Y/N with a tenderness that seemed unimaginable. Sam could hardly believe his eyes. The disparity was pronounced and bewildering. Bucky’s expression was soft, his movements gentle as he held Y/N’s hand in his.
“I’ve missed you,” Y/N said softly, her eyes shining with affection. She truly did, it would be a lie that she didn’t felt the ache in her heart when she woke up alone that morning. The emptiness beside her had felt profound. The bed still carried his scent, a lingering warmth that whispered of his recent presence. Even though the separation had been brief, as evidenced by the thoughtful note and the bouquet of her favourite flowers he had left behind, the loneliness she felt was palpable. His absence, however fleeting, had created a void that left her feeling incomplete.
Bucky’s heart seemed to burst with emotion. He couldn't care less about the gawking staff surrounding them as he pulled her close and kissed her deeply. She initially froze, caught off guard and embarrassed, but soon melted into his kiss with a blossoming confidence.
As their lips met, memories of their tender and passionate night together surged through Bucky's mind. The way she moan his name, the taste of her cum, the tightness of her pussy gripping on his cock, the way his cum leaked out of her, every single sinful scene replayed in head; infinitely. The intensity of the moment was overwhelming, and he found himself nearly losing control. Reluctantly, he pulled back from the kiss, his breath uneven and his gaze filled with an unspoken hunger.
"God, what should I do with you, hmm, sweetheart?" Bucky whispered, his voice laced with seduction as he continued to place gentle kisses along her cheeks and jaw. His lips brushed softly against her skin, whispering how much he had missed her and expressing a wistful desire to stay wrapped in the warmth of their shared bed just a little longer.
Y/N’s soft giggle rang out as she felt the roughness of his stubble against her delicate skin. The sound was like music to Bucky's ears, brightening his mood and filling him with a profound sense of joy. Despite the joyful exchange, he reluctantly ended the sweet torment, his kisses lingering just a moment longer before he pulled away.
“We should be ready to begin our journey shortly,” Bucky said, his tone shifting to a more practical note when e turned to Sam, who had approached during their moment of intimacy.
“Y/N, this is Sam Wilson, he is one of my trusted knights.” Bucky introduced, his gaze shifting to his wife. Sam gave a respectful nod to Y/N, a hint of surprise still evident in his expression from witnessing Bucky's affectionate display. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Y/N.”
Y/N smiled warmly at Sam, appreciating the introduction. “The pleasure is mine, Sir Wilson.”
Sam, sensing that the formality was unnecessary given their imminent interactions, decided to ease the situation. “Just Sam, my lady,” he said with a friendly tone. Y/N repeated his name with a touch of amusement. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Sam.”
Bucky, observing the growing camaraderie between his wife and his trusted knight, couldn’t help but feel a twinge of protectiveness. The easy familiarity between them seemed a bit too casual for his liking. His eyes narrowed slightly as he gave Sam a warning look. “Watch it, Wilson.”
Sam, not missing a beat, chuckled at Bucky’s protective demeanour. “What’s the matter, my lord? Can’t handle a bit of friendly conversation?”
Y/N, noticing the playful tension and Bucky’s slight irritation, couldn’t help but laugh. The contrast between Bucky’s usually soft demeanour that Y/N had witnessed and his current protective stance were both endearing and amusing. Her laughter lightened the mood, making Sam’s teasing even more enjoyable.
Bucky's stern gaze softened as he watched Y/N’s laughter, though his protective instinct remained palpable. Steering the conversion back to the preparations, he allowed a faint smile to tug at the corners of his mouth despite his earlier warning.
“I trust you can escort my wife to the carriage,” Bucky said, his voice serious but tinged with a hint of a smile. “However, I expect you to maintain proper distance and adhere to these additional guidelines.” He paused, ensuring his words were clear. “No unnecessary physical contact or overly familiar behaviour. And if you could, avoid any casual conversations that might be misinterpreted.”
Sam looked at Bucky in disbelief, shaking his head with a bemused expression. “Seriously, Barnes? You’re laying down rules for me to keep my distance from your wife now?”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed playfully. “Consider it a precaution. I’d rather not have any misunderstandings.” Sam chuckled, rolling his eyes as he complied. “Understood. I’ll make sure to follow your... guidelines.”
Y/N watched the exchange with amusement, her earlier shyness melting away into a warm appreciation for Bucky’s protectiveness. The scene, tinged with a touch of comedy, only deepened the connection between them.
Bucky, intent on making a point to Sam while expressing his affection, pulled Y/N close and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. The gesture was both intimate and deliberate, a subtle yet clear indication to Sam that she belongs to Bucky. “I’ll join you shortly, my dear,” Bucky said softly, his voice filled with warmth as he gazed into her eyes.
Sam, unimpressed by Bucky’s display, rolled his eyes at the seemingly childish antics. “This way, my lady,” he said with a hint of impatience. Y/N nodded in agreement but paused before turning her back on Bucky. With a loving smile, she whispered, “I’ll see you later,” before following Sam.
Bucky watched as Sam guided Y/N away, his gaze lingered with a mix of affection and something much deeper; an unspoken sadness. As their silhouettes walked further and further away from his sight, a sombre glaze settled over his eyes.
Beneath the surface of his composed exterior, his heart ached; the was a silent reflection of a pain he had hidden deep within his heart. It was a lingering sorrow that had shadowed him ever since he stood at the altar, the weight of unvoiced grief clinging to him as he gazed at his future bride.
Part II >>
Read my other works here: Masterlist
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A/N: Wondering why he was in the feels at the end? We’ll know it soon enough. I’ll see you in the next parts! Thank you for reading!
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dimepdf · 2 years ago
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★  𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇-𝐀, 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇-𝐀, 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐌𝐄. + 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐎'𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀
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masterlist. / taglist. / tip jar. synopsis. no matter how many times you try to convince yourself that Miguel is the bane of your existence, the way you react during training proves otherwise.
─── ☆ notes. i need fics of miguel being an absolute dick, like a petty bitch just for the hell of it i need more attitude yk? Like if that man isn't calling me a slut it ain't canon! | — feedback is always welcomed & don't forget to reblog 🤍
─── ☆ length. 4.3k (33 min read).
─── ☆ genre and warnings. +18 nsfw under the cut. minors dni | no spoilers | smut, enemies to lovers, maybe mutual pining, fighting and violence, semi public sex, gym sex, mentions of abuse, size difference, pain kink, strength kink, degradation kink, manhandling, power play(?), begging, rough sex, cervix kissing, choking, fangs, biting, marking, cunnilingus, eye contact, hair pulling, creampie, open ended, not an taiyo fic without a few typos.
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IF YOU ASKED any of the other Spider-men what they loved so much about being Spider-Man, their answers would all be the same, ranging from "the suit" to "the enhanced abilities." It was a no-brainer that being a superhero came with a few awesome perks.
Which was why your answer was just a bit confusing, "the combat." You would always smile, despite the many eyebrows raises and looks that convinced you you had to be some type of overcover masochist, especially since you would never really go into true detail about why.
Your reasoning behind putting on the mask was similar to all the others: another traumatized kid being thrown into a whole new reality that you never would have dreamed of being possible.
Sadly, you had been raised with the loss of most of your loved ones, and your family was in shambles from the abuse you would go through from them. It was the reason why it was difficult for you to grow up and make many friends, let alone navigate your abilities on your own accord, which was why it was a whole different ball game when you first joined the spider society.
When you first met Miguel O'Hara, you thought he was an overly intimidating man with an even more scary personality. Your aesthetics and morals would clash in the first few run-ins you would have with him.
In all honesty, you first thought him to be a massive dick who surprisingly needed more therapy than you did. From his bored expression to his unnerving glare, it was clear upon the first introduction that you two just would not get along.
Which was why the universe made him the only spider person willing and with enough free time to train you. It came as a surprise to you both, who are usually butting heads. Miguel was adamant about not wanting to waste his time training some little girl who didn't even know how to throw a punch.
With much shit-talking on your part and a lot of teasing claims of him being afraid that you were going to kick your ass, training had quite literally started in full swing.
It was probably a bad move on your part to push the buttons of the guy who was teaching you how to fight. Miguel was clear with his fight-style techniques. He was nimble with his limbs and swift on his feet. It was hard for anyone to get a hit on him, especially since he wasn't the type to hold back his punches. 
His teaching style was the same: your sessions included throwing you around as if you were some ragdoll and picking you up as if you weighed nothing, just to slam you into the ground with full bruising force.
There would be some very rare occasions when you would manage to get the upper hand on him. Miguel was about a foot taller than you, not to mention how pathetically compressed you looked standing next to him. You learned that the only way you could manage to get the upper hand was by using your size difference to your advantage.
All the sessions you won were hosted by you managing to tangle yourself from his claws and climb his towering figure into a headlock, praying that you had enough strength in your legs to make him tap out.
"How is she not dead yet?" Miles would mutter, looking concerned, as he stood from the sidelines of the training room, watching one of your sessions, as the blonde by his side didn't even wince at the sound of Miguel untangling you from the headlock you had him in.
His arms moved faster than you could process as he managed to loosen your hold enough to slam the air from your lungs as you fell back facing against the mat so hard that even Miles was convinced he could feel the blow in the lower spine.
"I mean, at this point, I'm kind of convinced she’s turned into his personal punching bag." Miles strains to watch Miguel not even wipe a sweat as he sprung back on his feet. He stretched out his full body, towering over you, curled flat against the mat, trying to collect your breathing as well as your broken ego.
Gwen nodded in agreement. "I don't even know how someone could hit someone so...squishy? She’s just so cute." She muttered, watching with her arms crossed. 
"This punching bag needs to learn that in the real world, people aren't going to go as easy on her just because she’s cute." Miguel, despite glaring at the two bystanders, leaned down and yanked you back onto your stumbling feet. 
Your fingers combed through the matted curls now drenched in sweat away from your forehead, using your water break as the perfect excuse to help cover up the reaction to the sudden compliment that came from his lips and the way he had made you feel.
"And her being my personal punching bag is completely at her fault, if you want to learn how to fight, you have to learn how to take a few punches." You couldn't help but roll your eyes and wave your hand out in annoyance at another one of Miguel O’Hara’s famous lectures.
"I’m not a punching bag, did you not see the hold I had on him early?" You huffed, almost choking on your water, trying to protest. Gwen humored your claim, the blonde reaching out and rubbing your shoulder out of support as you continued with your defense. "Any tighter, and I would have easily snapped his neck."
Of course, Miguel only smirked as you continued grasping at straws at the point of trying to prove to your friends your improvement, his eyes flitting back and forth at the exchange, expressionless at the sight of you managing to still joke around as if you weren't about to pass out from fatigue at any second.
"And was that before or after the part where I kicked your ass, little girl?" He shot out, chipping away at the final lock that held back your annoyance, you hadn't even had time to process the insult before he bumped his shoulder into you on his way out of the training room.
His rude exit enticed a round of reactions from Miles and Gwen trying their awkward best to comfort the boiling pot of anger they saw written all over your face, rolling your eyes, you pushed past the two, not without grumbling a string of insults in Miguel’s name to the washrooms.
You blessed the spider lords for somehow having the ability to shower under running water, let alone the unexplainable strange amount of amenities that the spider society dimensions had. 
Like a web shooter's wonderland, you quickly shed the sweating clothes you trained in and stepped foot into the cold cubicle shower booth, letting the water run for a bit until enough steam fogged clouded stepping under the stream. Even with the hot water splashing pressure against your aching muscles, no amount of water could manage to wash away the annoying feeling in your legs. 
It was enough of a jab at your pride to even find Miguel attractive in the first place, and here your body was betraying you once more, begging, throbbing desperately for his every touch in its every form, and having the nerve to grow more intense during your training.
The feeling had yet to fully disappear the next day, even with your session starting off with you fueled from yesterday's comments. You tried pushing the feeling as you were just ready to have Miguel mutter another word insult with the ass kick you were ready to give him. It was the only possible explanation for why you were so jittery about getting to training on time.
"It took you long enough." Was the first thing you heard Miguel announce throughout the empty room.
He wasn’t wearing his suit—neither of you did while training—instead, he was wearing dark gray sweatpants paired with some random dark red graphic shirt that fit him a bit too snuggly to leave room for imagination around his arms.
"Almost thought you were gonna skip out."
You were aware enough to spot this quick observation of your outfit as well. Keeping it casual and opting for better mobility, you shimmied yourself into plain Nike shorts that stopped higher up than you had expected them to on your thighs with a loose tank top that peeked out the straps of your sports bra.
Nothing about your clothes screamed attention grabbing—at least that's what you thought before you caught Miguel’s red-tinted stare on the way your shorts hugged your thighs.
He glanced away, muttering something in Spanish you couldn't quite translate the moment your fingers fidgeted with the bottom hems of the shorts, tugging them slightly more down while deciding to break the tense silence that had managed to sneak up on you. "So what are we doing today?"
"Huh, I’ve been thinking." He answered, followed by the clearing of his throat, "We try something a little different." You could never get used to the roughness of his voice or the way he spoke with so much arrogance that it reminded just about everyone that he thought he was better than just about everyone.
Even now that you stepped towards the middle of the mat, standing rigidly just a few paces away from him, you could tell from that stupid, cocky expression as he stood looking down at you that there was no possible way that he would ever see you as a real threat. "I want you to try to hit me." 
Your brows creased together in confusion. 
"What?" was all you asked, which seemed to be the wrong question to ask as Miguel stretched out a sigh from his mouth, his hands coming close to his to pinch the bridge of his nose. 
"I said hit me." He speaks more slowly, making sure to mockingly over pronounce every symbol in every word as if you were a child. "Preferably soon and as hard as you can." A grimace finds itself twisting on your lips before you can even process your bubbling annoyance. Your body moved on autopilot because of your keen senses, jumping over the swing of his left leg with ease.
You couldn't say that swift grace stuck with your attempt at a counterattack. Bending your knee just enough to reach out and kick, you were only met with the bottom of your foot stomping flat against the floor mat and Miguel dodging your kick, standing just a few paces away. "Too predictable," he scolded in that annoyingly deep voice you hated oh so much and totally did not turn on you at all. You sprung yourself up by the heels of your feet and charged at him with full determination to land at least one punch on his stupidly chiseled, handsome face.
It had been your second mistake, giving him too much time to brace himself. Already regretting your emotionally impulsive start, resulting in the punch you swung being easily deflected by Miguel.
His hand wrapped entirely around your wrist, bending your arm almost out of your socket and kicking the back of your knee to the mat with his heel. You feel down to a kneel with a hissing pain in your arm threatening to get worse at any wrong twist.
"Lose that fucking attitude, or you’ll get sloppy." As if your body could radiate any more anger, you knew he was just trying to push your buttons, trying to throw you off your game with smack talk that was not working on you or anything.
"Again," he prompted, letting your arm go and stepping back, egging on another attack from you.
"Give me a damn minute." No matter how much you wanted to snap back at him with something snarky, you knew it would only prove his point entirely—not only that but also the fact that he was mentally hitting you in all the places that he knew counted the most to throw you off your game. 
Biting back the insult you already had threatened to slip from your tongue instead of making a point by rolling your eyes as you stumbled back to your feet. Rolling your sore shoulder back as your eyes scan over his stance, trying to find the best opening for a better attack, you steady your breath and cloud your mind in thought. "You aren't going to get anywhere but dead standing around like that, you know."
So much for wanting to consider your options. Miguel took the first swing at you and was on the verge of kicking you on your ass if it weren't for your shoddy dodge.
"Didn't you just say I had to be less fucking predictable?" You snarled, lifting your foot with most of your weight pointed in the direction of his jaw. Surprisingly, the kick landed just not in the place you wanted it to; instead, Miguel’s arm blocked the blow, much to your annoyance.
"I also said—" All he was doing was using dodging moves on you, swiping your other foot from under you as he held the other one that you kicked up in his arm, resulting in you landing once again flat on your ass. "to lose that fucking attitude."
You had not gone down without a fight, twisting and kicking, trying to wrestle your limbs free by any means. Miguel had almost embarrassingly quickly ceased your squirming, his palm cuffing your arms and pressing hard against your chest as his other hand pressed tightly into your thighs, folding your legs in place under his hips.
The position was interesting, to say the least, but you still had some fight in you, wiggling against his grip with any strength you had left to break free. It was a useless battle, but the man had his grip around you tight as well as an overpowering size difference that blanketed your entire figure like one big rock.
And that's how you caught yourself in another web of misfortune. Your nerves are surging at the feeling of something—him brushing against your calf. Maybe it was all the adrenaline pumping through your veins or the fact that you were practically being manhandled so easily that did another thing to your body, or maybe it was just pure horny instability that your brain couldn't even process the lewd whine that tugged from your throat after the fact that it had happened.
Watching in pure horror as Miguel loomed on top of you, his mouth slightly agape as his chest heaved and his brows pulled together, the embarrassment from his confused, almost offended looking expression hit you fast. Here your body was betraying you once more, this time going absolutely haywire and melting like a stupid pile of putty at the fact that you were being body pressed against some mat with some guy's hard junk pressed into your leg.
You couldn't bear to even look him in the eye anymore, your head tilting to the side, pressing your cheek into the mat, and squeezing your eyes closed, not suddenly envying the spidermen with teleportation powers. "Fucking Christ, can you get off now?"
A beat of silence hovered between the small distance between you two, neither moving nor talking. It was starting to become unbearable how tightly Miguel had folded your legs against him, in the sense that you could already feel his body heat radiating. The close proximity did not help with how unbearably your heart was beating against your chest. "How do you manage after all of that to still have that shameless fucking attitude?"
You stilled at how his voice had managed to cut through your own thick cloud of betraying thoughts as well as the ringing in your eardrums. "Shameless? As if you don't have your dick pressed against me right now."
"By the sounds of it, you don't seem that bothered at all." Miguel taunted, You thought you were bound to die of embarrassment.
Yeah, this is how you went out—by dying from the sheer effect of your own extremely horny though—not some overpowered supervillain with a vendetta against you but Miguel O'Hara and his dick print.
You could already hear the new taunts that he would use against you, "Not even in your fucking dreams." being the only comeback that you could muster, your limbs tingling with slight pins and needles, threatening to go stiff under his unbound grasp. 
"Oh, like you wouldn't love to," he sneered, shifting the weight from his hips flat against your thighs. "Probably thinking about me taking off these tight fucking shorts and having my way with you?" Your body reacted first to the accusation, cursing under your breath as you felt your second heartbeat flutter in between your legs.
His lingering stare hadn't helped one bit, and you watched from the sidelines as his eyes raked over your body with interest.
"I bet this was your plan the entire fucking time, huh?" He asked, leaning in as the distance dwindled until you could feel the brush of his breath against your face. "Put on some sweet naive act in front of everyone, knowing that you're getting yourself off on me throwing you around, touching yourself like some bitch in heat."
You hadn't bothered covering the whine that parted from your lips at the feeling of his erection slowly rutting against your thigh, the cocky smirk on his lips wanting you to melt away against the mat.
Miguel practically growled at the pathetic sounds that parted from your lips, tugging your legs apart to rut his hips down against your core. You shivered at the intrusion of his bulge pressed against your eagerness, the foreign feeling of him grinding against you left your thoughts in a dizzy fog.
"What? Can’t fucking speak now," he said as if he were dangling your most prized possession in front of your face, his fingers creeping into dangerous territory, making it a point for his fingertips to drag down your lower torso only to halt right above the elastic waistband of your shorts. "Go on, use your words."
"...fuck you."
The small amount of distance made the space between you two fall tensely thick, and the words spoken from your lips were different from the feelings that made your heart thud against your ribs. You weren't stupid, you knew Miguel could sense it, he could sense just about everything about your body from how close he kneeled on top of you.
Maybe that was why he had closed the distance so quickly after, letting the tight grip around your wrists give way to his hand finding a new objective, wrapping his fingers around your neck, not bothering to be gentle as he guided your lips towards his. The kiss was as rough as you had dreamed it to be. Eager for each other's kiss, you couldn't even process the noise that vibrated sharply from your throat before Miguel could pull away first, leaving you panting for more of his touch.
"First time I've ever seen you so quiet," his deep taunts were starting to grow unbearable, shifting your hips at the brush of his fangs against the jugular of your neck with every word, "who knew all you needed was some dick?" The harsh kisses he left trailing down to your collarbone made you feel like a hot, needy mess of putty. If it weren't for the tight grasp he had on your body, you were convinced that you would feel like you'd melt into some type of puddle. The growing frustration had only started to build up more as Miguel let go of your thighs, his hand trailing between your legs ruthlessly as the bud of his fingers rubbed against your clothed pussy. 
As for why you shifted your hips up and let him impatiently tug and yank at the bow knotted around the waist of your shorts, breaking away from the red splotching light bruises already forming against your brown skin and wiggling you out of your shorts, Miguel thought it was quite the image, his eyes were fixated on the drooling sight of you under him, so vulnerable with your thighs hugging to your chest, spread open, revealing yourself in your pants.
All sanity was thrown out the window the moment he tugged you closer by your knees, your lower half lifted in his arms just enough for him to sit face to face with your cunt. His eyes darkened, his pupils blown as his tongue lapped over his lips, leaving you feeling restless. It was a slow and almost painful battle of trying to reach down and shove his face closer or buck your hips as his fingers sheathed and explored themselves against the fabric of your underwear.
As if Miguel could read your mind, his fingers hooked the fabric under the bend of his finger, followed by a quick tearing sound. "I’ll get you new ones," the comfort emitting a whine from your throat as you couldn't even scowl at him for ruining your underwear because you were too busy admiring the work his fingers were doing. Without warning, Miguel leans in closer, the warmth of his mouth almost sending you into a frenzy as his fingers spread open your lips, his lips sucking at your clitoral area, prompting you to let out a very lewd moan.
"Too loud," Miguel mumbled against your pussy, too busy webbed up in your own pleasure to even notice how every embarrassedly sloppy wet noise had seemed to perfectly echo throughout the empty room. You couldn't even explain the number of emotions that were flowing through you, from shame from being tongue fucked and fingered against the floor about the one man you hated so much to bashfulness from holding eye contact with him as he lay between your legs and ate your pussy like he was starving for you.
"I can't help it," you whined, shivering at the string of spit that contacted Miguel as he lifted his head in an idea. It took a second to process Miguel picking you up and turning you on your stomach, his hands guiding your hips up and stripping your torn panties down your legs to stuff them in your mouth.
Without a word, Miguel grabbed your ass with another hand, guiding your lower back into an arch as the other made small indents from his nail bearing into your cheeks as he spread them apart.
Before you could even feel embarrassed at the new position, he shoved his face between them, your moan being muffled by your makeshift cloth gag that worked a bit too well in lowering your whines as Miguel’s mouth sought his tongue out for your pussy once more.
"You're close I can smell it," you almost missed Miguel's groan over your building ecstasy, "just let it go, baby, let me take care of you. That's what you want, right?" His voice is drastically different from his usual rough, rude tone, softened to something of a coo that has managed to unknot your pleasure with his tongue. Your body tensed against his mouth for a moment as he had the nerve to suck his fingers clean. No grace period was given before he could lift you once more with a grunt, laying you flat on your back.
Slotting himself back between his legs, Miguel chuckled at the dazed look on your face. "It's alright, baby, I can take it from here." taking the balled up drool covered panties from your mouth and instead replaced them with his lips. The sensual change of pace wasn't enough to stop the shiver that rid your nerves of the feeling of his bare cock rutting against your slit, using his thumb to spread your lips apart to sink his tip inside of you with a low hiss against your mouth.
A gasp left yours as his girthy length intruded deeper inside of you, the burying stretch of his dick having your nails roughly grasping at the nape neck of his hair tugging a handful as his pace hadn't bothered to even get familiar already. Miguel’s hips weren't letting out as he fucked you almost animalistic against the floor. You were convinced he was trying to fuck you into the mat, to be one with the floor, which would perfectly explain the rough pace that left you breathless with each piston of his hips. 
The graphically lewd sounds of your weak groans were nothing compared to the pornographic sound of your skin meeting his, your brain empty with nothing but greed, wanting to take everything and more of what Miguel was giving you. His fingers reach to unwrap your fingers tangled in his hair to intertwine them in his. "That's it, mama, that's it," he whispers against the shell of your ear, earning a whimpering reply from you, almost close to spilling the tears clouding your waterline.
Your mind couldn't process anything other than how good Miguel’s dick felt being shoved inside of you, his cock dragging against your tight, flustering walls with each shaky breath brushed against your ear. Your cunt seemed to react to Miguel’s lashes tickling against your neck as his eyes screwed tightly shut, muttering a string of compliments in his mother tongue.
You weren't lucky enough to be more stable, surprised that your throat hasn't gone horse with how ruined your vocal cords sounded in the pace of his pistoning hips. Only going up an octave higher as one of Miguel’s hands reaches down to pay attention to your clit, he doesn't stop even when your limbs start to tremble from your climax. 
With one last hard thrust, he finally stills, your name being the only thing you could make out through his mumbling as his unfamiliar warm sensation welcomed itself inside of you. 
Groaning right in your ear, he cums inside of you with his entire dead weight pressed against you, caging you against the floor. "Alright," Miguel sighs, settling on top of you once more with his arms holding himself just a few inches away from your face. "Again."
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utterlyazriel · 18 days ago
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this ribbon of blood that ties us together
a/n: i luv ignoring my wips and going feral and emerging from a doc 48 hours with this word count: 6.3k synopsis: Once upon a time, a high-society girl, you were to be wed. Two years on, you live a much different life alongside Arthur Morgan, an outlaw life, despite your squeamishness to blood, killing, and the like. But when the past won't stay buried, you learn just how far you'll go to protect the man you love. hurt/comfort, mutual pining, friends to lovers, period-typical sexism & canon-typical violence
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By all accounts, according to Arthur, the two of you should not be friends.
Not that you weren’t lovely company! And nor was it that you couldn’t stand his long, sullen silences, even if he had trouble believing you were enjoying yourself, just sitting by him.
But there was a clear difference between you — one that Arthur felt sorely.
He hadn’t wanted to call you innocent, ‘cos you weren’t the naive type and you weren't stupid neither. But for running with a gang of outlaws? Your hands were remarkably clean.
See, you hadn’t killed a thing, ever: man or beast.
You got squeamish if you were on cooking duty when Pearson was butchering up the latest hunt, eyes hastily averted. You had pouted all day when John tread on a butterfly, even if it was entirely by accident. You passed off darning shirts to Tilly if they were too blood-soaked, nausea evident on your face.
Well, passed off is the wrong wording. More like, tried to sew without looking at your hands til Tilly took pity and offered to switch with you.
You weren't naive, you just didn't like to see things die. Not an awful hill to die on, Arthur had to agree. Neither did he in most cases.
Micah liked to grouse that you were definitely not cut out for gang life—said with a predatory curl of his lip, eyes shining with malicious intent. Probably was dreaming up all those ways to frighten you, or ruin your "innocence", just for the hell of seeing you shriek.
But Micah was a bad man. You knew that.
It’s why Arthur didn’t understand why the hell you tolerated him.
Watching you over the fire, the air bending in the heat, Arthur relents with a sigh. You did much more than tolerate him. If he wasn’t feeling so sour-faced, he probably go as far as to say you liked him, good and proper.
Besides, he could admit he was a better man than Micah; even if only in the faintest of ways.
He killed just as much. He’s beat men to death with his bare hands, blood flying and bones crunching. He doesn’t hesitate to send a bullet into any unlucky bastard getting between him and the next score for the gang.
Arthur knows feeling guilty doesn’t absolve him of nothin’.
At least he helped people too. Stopped when a lonely straggler needed a ride, retrieved stolen bags, and hunted down herbs and flowers. He enjoyed being the good thing riding into town, even if at time it took a hell of a lotta patience.
That was something he had, that Micah did not.
It just wasn’t enough for Arthur to understand why you might care for him.
But Arthur Morgan is not one to look the gift horse in the mouth and so despite how unlikely it should be, the two of you were friends.
It means being greeted in the early morning with a cup of coffee, the cup pressed into his hand before he’s even wiped the sleep from his eyes. You don’t linger, not any longer than you need to make sure he’s not gonna drop the hot mug.
The first time you had offered it, Arthur had been so surprised he had nearly dropped it.
You had laughed, hands darting out to steady the cup, and looked up at him through your lashes. “Hold tight, cowboy. That’s important stuff in there.”
Arthur had wondered then if this was what it was like to be struck by lightning. Each atom of his body fizzed, coming alive with a hum.
He had opened his mouth, then closed it, uncharacteristically flustered by the gesture.
You had laughed again, softer this time. Arthur finally reined himself in and tipped his hat in appreciation—mainly to hide the colour on his cheeks.
“Thank you kindly, miss.”
“You’re very welcome, Mister Morgan.” You had mused, amusement in your smile. Then you departed, other chores calling your name, with nothing more than a smile thrown over your shoulder.
For him, your friendship means finding the little gifts of the world to bring back. He hadn’t thought too much of it before, passing through homesteads and general stores with only fleeting glances.
However, after a week of hand-delivered cups of coffee, Arthur had begun to hunt for something of equal calibre he could give in return.
Several flowers sat in his tent, wilting and drying in the sun, in the grasp of a man too unsure of himself to gift them. He bought sweets, an extra chocolate bar in his satchel, before it was eaten in gnawing worry of what you’d think.
He was a brute. Trying to gift you nice things from his violent hands was downright laughable.
It wasn’t until he found a hair-pin, silver and slender with a delicate flower atop it, did Arthur manage to finally give back. He’d bought it before he could chicken out and once he had it, he thought it would be far stranger to keep it than to gift it.
You liked wearing flowers in your hair. That had been why Arthur picked them for you—but this, you could wear always, without it wilting.
He’d handed it over as you had passed him his morning coffee, pressing it into your palm as nonchalantly as he could manage. Then he hid his smile behind his coffee at your delighted gasp, your joy infectious and unmistakable.
You had thanked him profusely, for the first time not calling him Mister Morgan, but instead Arthur. His name had never sounded sweeter than falling from your lips
And that there… that was the one other, really good reason that you and him shouldn’t be friends.
Because as sure as the sun rose every morning, Arthur Morgan rose with it, undeniably in love with you.
You had been engaged once before.
Not by choice—an important distinction you hold fast to. Even if Karen likes to make passing jokes about you being a woman already spoken for, you’re thankful when Abigail quickly shoots her down with a piercing glare.
There is, after all, only one real reason a woman like you ends up on the run.
Rufus Hugo is your particular reason. A man up to his neck in wealth, pilfering the land for oil, and, as last you knew, looking for a fourth wife.
You’d once thought him unlucky, your poor fiancé.
How is it one man can be followed by such tragedy? Three young wives, in the space of a couple years, each found violated and slaughtered in the back alleys of Saint Denis, red smiles cut into their throats.
You’d once been a fool.
The papers and Sheriff had to be under his thumb, considering the blind eye and frilly stories they turned out. The rumours told a different, darker tale — ones that fell on deaf ears, too twisted up in your own plastic assurances.
Your father wouldn’t have organised this if he knew. And— and he couldn’t know, because it simply couldn’t be true.
Rufus treated you like a jewel, plying you with expensive gifts and decadent clothing, more than you’d ever had before.
When the nag in your gut didn’t leave, he had coaxed it out of you — the fear of some maniacal killer, out for the blood of Mister Hugo’s betrothed — and then he assured you with a feline smile of a wolf.
No one’s going to lay a hand on you, treasure. The only man who gets to touch you is me.
Adoring at the time.
Stomach-churning in hindsight.
You’d overheard entirely by accident, a fact that makes your heart skip stutter if you think about it too long.
Pure luck saved your life. Pure chance that you’d overheard them, wandering the halls at one of the many parties held in the honour of your engagement.
His nasty habit revealed to you in a manner of words, floating out the keyhole.
His sickening tone, lusty and humorous at once, you heard him tell the other men at the party how there was nothing better than how tight their cunts had got when he dragged the blade across their jugular.
Your stomach had plummeted. Bile crawled thickly up your throat.
The version of the world you knew contorted painfully, upside down and suddenly all wrong.
And like the vicious pain of stepping into a bear trap, the hinges of it sweeping up with sharpened blades, you knew if you stayed that you would undoubtedly be next.
You ran.
With nothing but the clothes on your back, frenzied like an animal being cornered, you ran. It was thankful you managed any coherent ideas as you tore down the stairs, pushing through the party, uncaring of the cries that followed you — but stealing a horse was probably the only reason you survived.
Though you sparsely knew how to ride it, you rode for two long, hard days before exhaustion caught up.
No amount of distance felt safe enough to slide off your dead-tired horse but you were given no choice. Your stomach ached with the growl of hunger and delirium had begun to creep in from your lack of sleep.
You were parched beyond relief and still in your god forsaken party dress, when you let your horse slow to a stop in a shallow river.
Then you’d fallen off in one spineless lump.
Caught somewhere between physical exhaustion and sleep, the freezing water had been quite the wake-up. More so when you surfaced, spluttering, and there was a man standing before you — muttering something about a strange damn woman.
It was the very first night you laid your eyes upon Arthur Morgan—soon after which, you promptly fainted from exhaustion.
The same night you disappeared from Saint Denis — becoming a ghost before you were doomed to become one at the hands on your to-be husband — you were reinvented in the warmth of a gang on the run.
Two years on, you stop wondering if Rufus Hugo still hunts for his fourth bride.
There would have been search parties for you, you’re sure of it. Even if half the party could attest to you fleeing of your own accord, a rich man doesn’t give up his prizes so easily.
But somewhere along the way, you’re not sure when, you stopped looking over your shoulder. You no longer tensed at every new, unfamiliar figure on the horizon, certain it was your past crawling back.
You’re not sure when—but you sure as hell know why.
Sliding off his horse in one fluid motion, Arthur hitches the reins on the post out front the general store with a grunt.
It’s a blazing day in Rhodes, the desert sun overhead. A mirage pools in the distance, along the main road. There’s little wind to cool you, just the buzz of flies around the horses.
It’s just you and Arthur travelling today.
An unnecessary journey for the sake of enjoying each other’s company; under the guise of camp work, of course.
You two are friends. Arthur kept his distance from most gang members, happier on the outside of the circle, which you knew.
It meant that when you got these moments — Arthur inviting you along for a journey to a town, the myriad of gifts he seemed to find for you — you couldn’t help but… hope.
You steal a glance at the cowboy, drinking in his rugged profile. He’s due for a shave, his beard a little longer than you know he prefers, but you gladly enjoy the sight.
Men in the city were groomed and clean-shaven. There’s something much more real about the ruggedness of Arthur’s appearance, his blue eyes flashing your way from beneath his hat. You catch the hint of his smile too.
Watching him subtly, he takes a moment to coo his praise to his mare, Hypatia. She nickers affectionately, searching for a treat that he dotingly gives. His rough voice whispers lowly of how he spoils her, even as he brushes her neck gently.
Sometimes, you really think Arthur likes horses more than he likes people.
It doesn’t bother you—how could it? How could you feel anything but soft-hearted when you see him dote on his horse, all his corners softened?
Besides, you think it’s a good show of character.
You’ve heard how he talks to himself sometimes, self-deprecating mutterings of how he’s a bad man, unworthy of your kindness.
But you’ve met worse men before.
Arthur may have killed, but never senselessly. Never for pleasure.
“I think,” Arthur says, his southern drawl thick. He tips his hat to the general store ahead of you both. “The spices will be second floor.”
Can’t hunt, can’t kill, can’t thieve — but god, can you cook.
It had been nice to have something to bring to the gang, considering your general squeamishness. Arthur decided long ago it was worth heading further south for the better spices closer to the city.
“I gots to pick up some more ammo, but I’ll meet ya in there.” His gaze finds the gun store across the street before tracking back to yours. He checks, “That alright?”
You nod to him, as your own mare butts your shoulder gently, making you laugh.
“Yeah, that’s alright, Arthur.” You affirm, reaching back to give her a pat. The sweet smile you wear is equal parts for her as it is for the cowboy before you.
“See you in a minute,” you say. Arthur nods, boots kicking up the red dirt as he begins to make his way down the main street.
The worn steps of the general store creek underfoot as you make your way up them, already mentally flicking through what you’d wanted to buy.
Salt, oregano, thyme… maybe some cumin, knowing how much Arthur seems to like it. Nodding politely to the shopkeeper, you head for the second story stairs — missing the flash of someone familiar through the window, peering in.
These wooden stairs are far less worn than those outside, but the traces of countless boots are evident all the same. Hand on the railing, you ascend slow, mind wandering off easily.
It’s venison for dinner, if you aren’t mistaken, from the latest hunt Charles brought in. Maybe tonight you’ll make convince Pearson to make the stew your way—spiced heavily and just the way Arthur likes it. (He hasn’t told you that half the reason is because it’s you making it.)
You approach the lined shelves with a hum, eyes dancing from colourful tin to colourful tin. Spotting your first target, a trusty tin of salt, you miss the creek of the floorboards behind you as you reach for it.
“Treasure.”
Your hand falters, fingers outstretched, halted in the place. There’s the unmistakable heat of a body behind you— but even so, the scrape of a knife leaving its sheathe confirms it.
A shuddering exhale forces from your mouth as the knife is suddenly beneath your chin, hovered above your throat. You lock in place, hand still held out. A hurricane of harrowing dread howls through you.
It couldn’t… it couldn’t be him.
No way could he have found you now, after years of your disappearance — no way was he still fucking looking for you.
The well of horror in your chest caves in, growing like a sinkhole, as your mind repeats the same word over and over: no, no, no, no, no.
The blade moves up, the cool edge of it pressing to your chin. You inhale sharply and feel a tremble start to take your body as your face is forcibly turned, pulling your gaze to a sickeningly familiar face.
“My, my,” Rufus croons. “My little bride to-be. Been lookin' for you a long time.”
Your nose wrinkles at the title, one you’d renounced the minute you'd fled, all those months ago. His dark eyes narrow at the motion and travel to your outstretched left hand, eyeing it with a glint.
“No ring.” He tuts, letting the knife fall back against your throat and resting it there.
You snatch your hand back in, hands flying to his arm and pulling with all your might—a fruitless battle against his strength. All it earns you is the sharp edge of the blade pressing further into your skin and you stop moving quickly, another gutted gasp pulled from you.
"Do you even know," He hisses into your ear. "How much goddamn money I spent on you? On trying to track you down?"
The venom in his voice leaks out, replaced by a charismatic purr you're far more familiar with. Once upon a time, it had voiced believable assurances from a man who would happen to be your husband.
Now, it only widens the sinkhole in your chest.
"You've cost me a fortune, treasure. Now I've come to collect what I'm owed."
A finger draws an idle line on your back, creeping forward along the stroke of your waist. Try as you might to suppress it, a shiver skitters through you and your throat presses ever closer to the knife again.
It's enough to pierce the skin, just a sliver, before the finger on your waist turns is joined by four others, clamping tightly.
Your balance wavers as you're forced back, the hard line of his body pressing flush up against you.
Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck are you going to do?
Eyes screwing closed, you force your breath to remain even. You— you have your own revolver but if you move, you don't doubt Rufus has any qualms with painting the shop-floor with your blood.
If he wants you, he'll have to move you- he— he'll have to leave the shop and then, you can try—
A loud clatter sound and your eyes fly open, catching on to what's been dropped — your stomach following suit quickly. Your revolver glints back at you.
"Here's what's going to happen," Rufus begins, as if he's merely discussing the weather. "You and I are gonna—"
His voice drops at the intrusion of noise, a squeak from the stairs behind you. In an instant, you remember the person you're waiting on. Arthur.
A desperate mixture of terror and relief shoves up your throat. It's a warning and a cry for help simultaneously.
When the knife shifts, you have no choice but to shift too, your body and Rufus twisting deftly—his other hand drawing his revolver in an instant, the barrel directed at Arthur. He's already drawn back the hammer.
There's no keeping your breathing even now. Not as you get to watch Arthur's distracted gaze tug upward, seeing the horror seep into his expression. His body becomes deathly still.
You don't come along on jobs for good reason. Even so, you aren't so naive as to think being an outlaw has no risks. You know Arthur has been on the barrel-end of innumerable weapons, that he risks his life on the daily.
You've just never had to see it with your own eyes before.
The scene unfolding before you feels like a honest-to-god nightmare, ripped from the most fearful parts of your mind and thrust into reality.
A slush of hysteria churns within you at the realisation you may very, very well watch Arthur die today. The man who had been the first to hold out his hand, to offer you aid, to pull you from the life you were running to escape.
The one you hold too closely in your heart, in your affections.
The thought triggers something to seize terribly in your heart — and you know suddenly, without doubt, you'll do anything to stop it from happening.
There's a long moment where nobody breathes. You watch as Arthur's sharp eyes dart from the gun, to the knife on your neck, up to your face in rapid succession. You watch his horror bleed into a vengeful fury, one like you've never seen before.
"You don't want to do that."
The words come out so low it's nearly a growl. Arthur's hand moves, drawing back to his holster when Rufus interrupts.
"Uh, uh, uh," He taunts, quickly turning the barrel of the gun to your head. The barrel of it butts against your temple.
Arthur freezes.
"That's right. You're going to drop your revolver."
It's a staggeringly long moment as Arthur wrestles with what to do, his hand still hovering, fingers twitching. Then the knife nudges closer and the single trickle of blood down the column of your neck is enough to have him complying.
It lands with a thud against the floor. It feels like the nail in the coffin.
"Why are you doin' this?"
The revolver in Rufus' hand lolls forward to aim back at Arthur, the motion almost lazy. He smiles.
"She didn't tell you?" His attention switches to you, using his thumb on the knife to stroke along your neck. "Is this who you replaced me with, treasure? He's hardly an upgrade. Hell, he looks—"
The words die off as Rufus' head snaps back to Arthur, his passive grip on his gun changing in an instant.
For one long moment, he studies the outlaw across from you both and then, horribly, you feel the moment he starts to laugh.
"Oh, treasure," He all but coos at you. You see Arthur bristle across the room. "You're precious. Runaway with the outlaws, did you? This day just gets better and better."
He focuses his gaze back on Arthur and lines up his aim, hand steady. "I've seen your wanted posters, Mister Morgan. A fine five thousand to bring you in. My bride and my money all in a day's work."
He grins like the goddamn cat that got the cream, finger adjusting on the trigger.
And even though you know he knows, even though you know you told him, you can't help how your focus snaps to Arthur's reaction. Your stomach swoops in a horrible twist.
Because you can't but wonder if you're worth the trouble. As if you think, that now, as he realises who this man from your past is, he'll relent. He'll hand you over.
Understanding flickers across Arthur's face, the word bride sinking in with a sting. Then, somehow, the lethality rippling from his very being grows, expanding tenfold.
He's downright murderous, looking every bit of the immoral, malevolent man he believes himself to be.
He is never going to hand you over, you realise, the fear dissipating in the air like smoke.
Another one takes its' place. It's a terrible truth; he'll get himself killed trying to save you.
"Best of all?" Rufus hums. "You're wanted dead or alive, Mister Morgan."
He'll kill him.
You act without thinking. Distracted enough, Rufus' strength is beaten as your wrench the arm holding the knife back far enough to bite down into it, hard. Blood springs up beneath your teeth, the hard lines of sinew snapping beneath the force.
Rufus howls in pain. The revolver drops Arthur from its' sights as Rufus shoves against you fiercely, the butt of the gun slamming against your temple in a loud knock. You both hurtle to the ground in a desperate struggle—and all you can think of it the blade in his hand.
It presses forward, aimed for your neck, and you rip your teeth out of his arm, taking a pound of flesh with it. Rufus wails again and the knife surges forward, intended for your heart.
You twist frantically and escape the hold, scampering up and with nothing but pure instinct, your urge the blade into his own chest, pressing with all your weight.
It sinks in with a satisfying, bubbling gurgle. Blood rises quickly to spew from the wound, a river of red spilling out.
He's going to kill him—he's going to kill Arthur. The manic thought has your hands prying the knife out and driving it back in again, over and over, his body making soft squelching as gutted sounds drag from his mouth.
Blood sprays wildly, coating your face and clothes, but you can't stop. You can't stop, he's going to kill Arthur and take you away from him. You can't let it happen— you can't—
Hands pull at your arms and you seize wildly, dropping the knife and thrashing away, but in doing so, Arthur swings into vision.
It's him. He's alive. He's the one touching you. He's speaking, his lips moving, but no words are reaching your ears.
Your chest is heaving, hyperventilation wracking your body. Your ringing ears finally tune back in.
"—alright, you're alright. It's me. He's dead. He's dead. You're okay." Arthur murmurs, almost nonsensically, his hands held out, palms up. He's crouched before you and he barely knows what he's saying, but you're staring at him like a wild animal, drenched in blood.
"It's okay," He says again, desperate to help you in any way he can, blue eyes locked on you. "You're okay."
There's still blood in your mouth from the chunk you've taken out of Rufus' arm and a bright red splatter of it sprayed across your face.
"I—" The word coughs out of you.
Your gaze falls into horror as you take in the body growing cold on the floor next to you. Arthur watches the panic set in as the realisation of what you've done sets in.
"I- I had to, I had to," You begin to babble, terror threaded in your tone. "I had to, he was— he was gonna kill you."
"Hey, hey," Soothing sounds fall from his lips as Arthur shifts forward, reaching for you desperately. You grip his forearms, eyes wide, as if you need to make him understand.
"He was gonna—" Your words are interrupted by your own choking sob, breathing coming too fast. "Arthur, he was gonna kill you, I-I had to."
"I know, I know," Arthur croaks out, his throat thickening as his own realisation dawns. This hadn't been an act of rabid self-defence, as he thought. You had killed Rufus for him.
You, who can't stand the sight of blood, who gets queasy at the butchers, who doesn't like to hunt or kill — but will for him. To protect him. If he wasn't already there, the sheer display of love would send Arthur crumbling to his knees.
But he just moves his hands, his violent hands, to cup your face. The blood smears. "I know, sweetheart."
You’re staring him, your eyes still wide and wild, looking frantically for something in his face. Forgiveness? Absolution?
Arthur will gladly absolve you of this, a crime that was barely a crime at all. Saving his life and your own, at the cost of the life of a killer.
There's blood on your eyelashes and in your hair. Your breathing slows but your bottom lip quivers with a fierceness. In the smallest voice he's ever heard from you, you whisper, "I had to," then crumble.
Arthur's large body cradles yours easily, one hand tucking around your middle and the other shifting to cup the back of your head as you sink into him. Your head tucks away in the crook of his neck, soft sobs spilling out easily now, and something awful aches in Arthur's chest.
"I got you," He repeats, a promise, a goddamn oath he swears to keep. "I got you, you're okay. You didn't do nothin' wrong."
He feels downright evil to move you so soon but his ears prick at some commotion below. Casting his eyes back to dead body, Arthur knows the large pool of blood has made its way through the floorboards. It's only a matter of minutes before the Sheriff will be here.
"Shit." He curses. He strokes a tender hand along your hair, calling gently for your attention.
"We gotta move. People are comin'. Can you walk?"
You dig your face out of his neck, movements sluggish. The exhaustion from the terror has drained you, your eyelids already drooping, limbs heavier.
Arthur makes the call for you.
Hoisting you softly into his hold, he keeps you nestled against his broad chest, arms tucked behind your back and the bend of your knees. He's almost thankful you can't stand, if only so he can feel the puffs of breaths that escape you against his neck, a reminder you're still with him.
Arthur eyes the locked door in the back corner. It'll lead around the back of the general store and out to the street but Hypatia and your own horse were still hitched out the front. Gritting his teeth, he prepares himself for a wild run, hoping the element of surprise is enough.
It will be enough. It has to be enough.
It's with a charging sprint that he makes it down the stairs, his boots slamming against the wooden floorboards. He doesn't pause to take in the shop-keepers aghast reaction, nor the sprinkling shower of red from the ceiling.
He bursts out into the daylight. Eagle eyes scanning the streets, it's clear that, for now, he's ahead of the law.
With less gentleness than he'd prefer, Arthur pushes you up onto Hypatia's saddle, keeping one hand on your waist to keep you upright and on. His other reaches for the reins hitched over the post and he snags them free, quickly doing the same for your horse.
There's a yell down the street, loud and demanding. Arthur doesn't spare a glance, vaulting himself up onto the saddle behind you.
With a hyah! and a loud, practised whistle, Hypatia breaks into a sprint, quickly followed by your own horse.
Two horses tear down main street, hooves thundering, a fearsome and unstoppable silhouette against the western sun.
The townspeople bleat their fear, barely leaping out the way in time as the horses rush by. Dust kicks up a red-dirt storm. Soon, when it settles, gone will be the only proof you were ever there.
Arthur rides.
The weight of you, slumped back in his chest, is less of a comfort than he would like.
He wants to— no, needs to see your eyes, needs to intercept every foul, wicked thought running rabid in your mind. You’re clawing at your soiled conscience, he’s sure of it, trying to tear the new stain on it from you.
Ruined yourself—for him.
A spidering guilt cloys in his chest, darker than ink and sharper than any blade or bullet he’s ever felt before. His chest aches.
Arthur knows he’s a bad man. He just never imagined he might drag you down to his murky depths.
Swallowing heavy, he grips the reins tighter. Leather bites into his palms. He welcomes the punishment.
He feels, more than hears, your sudden shuddering gasp as you come back to yourself. Your exhaustion must have dipped away enough and it’s clear, for a moment, you struggle to place yourself and your surroundings.
The jostle of a horse beneath you is a giveaway but even so, Arthur feels your hand curl across his toned forearm. Your grip is tight, nearly masking the tremble in your fingers. Nearly.
“It’s me,” Arthur assures, raising his gruff voice loud enough for you to hear over the rumble of galloping. “I got you, it’s Arthur.”
The grip on his arm loosens, his works sinking in, and you nod wordlessly. You let him cocoon you in safety, surrounded in his arms.
Unknown to Arthur, the ride is far too reminiscent of the journey you’d taken all those years ago; the long, hard ride with no goal but putting distance between you and where you were running from. Who you were running from.
Except this time, the one you're running from is dead. He’s dead and you killed him.
It’s unclear how far he travels, the sun sitting lower in the sky, a pinkness blooming on the horizon, before Arthur pulls Hypatia into a slower trot.
You hadn't been followed out of Rhodes, he knows, but he’d still taken you as far as he could, likely further than necessary.
But now, out of physical danger, his priority switches on a dime, all of his senses zoned in to you before him. You, still wordless, still vacant, still painted in a glaze of scarlet.
The decision come easy, Arthur using his keen skills to trot towards the sound of water. A thorough check ensures you'll have no company and Arthur wastes no time, tugging the reins to a halt with a quiet click. He dismounts, large hands reaching for you before his boots even hit the dirt.
You’re willing, your hands seeking him, finding his shoulders and allowing him to help you off Hypatia. There’s a dulled look in your eyes and Arthur knows he will do anything—anything— to change that.
Feet on the ground, you’re level with his chest and you blink slowly, staring forward.
For a moment, Arthur waits, his brows drawn together in his concern. He gives you the moment. If you need to cry, to scream, to blame him — he'll take it, weather whatever storm you have brewing within you.
But you only drag yours eyes up to meet his, voice still small, "I got blood on you."
Another fracture in his chest, another ache of misery. Arthur sighs, gaze softening immeasurably, his hand coming up to cup your cheek tenderly. The blood smears beneath his touch.
"That's alrigh', sweetheart." He murmurs, sweet as he can. He tilts his head slightly, towards the lazy, roving river, blue eyes never leaving you. “Will ya let me clean yer up? In the river?”
You seem to just notice the riverbank you’re standing upon, head twisting to peer at the roaming water of the river.
A nod, minuscule and unnoticeable, if he wasn’t tuned into your every movement.
His hand on your face shifts, reaching down to tangle with your own. It's an anchor in unsteady seas, solid and unflinching.
Your eyes take in your hands, intertwined, and trail up to his face — and you know, with a sudden burning intensity, you can't regret what you've done today.
Not if it means having him. Not if it means saving him.
Arthur leads you down to the water, slow and steady. You follow, hand clutching his tightly, like a devoted follower who trails a messiah, your salvation ahead.
Stopping only to remove your boots and his own, along with his hat, Arthur bites back his hiss at the chill of the water as he wades his way in, fully clothed. The water licks up his calves, thighs, rushing around the sudden intrusion. When it reaches above his waist, he pauses, letting you catch up.
The sun kisses the horizon in the distance, a mellow and amber light cast far across the landscape. Strange how much had happened, had changed, in a manner of hours.
Crickets chorus. In the nearby trees, an owl hoots a soft lullaby.
Arthur doesn't let go of your hand. With the other, he brushes it across the surface of the river and then reaches in, letting it pool into his palm. He brings it your face and lets its run across your hairline, loosening the blood that's crusted there.
It's a slow, dedicated process.
Hands, scarred and calloused, pass over your skin the softest of touches. His thumb works gently at your hair, washing the blood away into the river. You close your eyes when he asks you to, in a low murmur, and the cake of sin is cleaned from you in the most tender of motions.
"Will I ever be clean again?"
A whispered question, eyes still closed. The blood may be leaving but you can still feel it spraying across your face, hot and thick. It's sunk in, you're sure of it—evidence of your crime just an inch beneath your flesh.
"You are not unclean." Arthur grunts, his hand still moving as he speaks. His thumb passes over your jaw. "This— what you did, it don't dirty these hands, you hear me? You did what you needed to do. You did nothin' wrong."
The assurances feel heady and heavy and you want to shake them off. You're not yet sure if you deserve them.
"I'm not mad he's dead." You say. He has to know this.
"I'm not mad I—" Your voice wavers terribly, even if your mind is set. "—killed him."
Eyes fluttering open, you gaze up at Arthur, reverent and resolute. "I... I would do it again, Arthur."
The for you is unspoken.
But if he looks, if he peers between the lines, you know Arthur would find it, beside the I love you hidden within your earnest words.
It's barely a secret—not when you want him to see it. You've been torn open today, a festering wound split down your middle, and somehow nothing feels more crucial than him knowing.
Him knowing and loving you still, seeing you unchanged, despite it all.
The water rushes around you, carrying your transgressions away, and his hand in yours, dwarfing it, does not falter. Arthur's eyes graze across your face. He seems to find what he's searching for.
"You won't ever have to, sweetheart." He says, voice nearly a whisper.
His lips find your hairline, scraping a delicate kiss against the clean skin there. Then he presses his forehead against yours, soothing and intimate, a lifeline. An understanding and a reciprocation.
A sudden urge possesses you, the words clawing up your throat in a frenzy.
You need to tell him, need to say the words aloud and make him understand, as you had on that shop floor.
What if he doesn't know?
His forehead shifts against yours, the tips of your noses nudging together, your interwoven hands grasping each other just as tightly as the other. A warmth rises in your chest, glowing and fizzling, and despite the day, your lips twitch with the hint of a smile.
He knows.
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honeyryewhiskey · 2 months ago
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it's just a stupid holiday
abt, dean takes his cupid to a valentine's gala, where a rogue angel has been preying on adulterers. you're just excited to be part of the chaos, and dean is trying desperately to keep his focus on the mission and not on his bubbly lovebird wrapped in a little red dress. what could possibly go wrong with this situation?  cw, grumpyxsunshine go on a fake date  ! dean practicing restraint ! and failing bc this stupid cupid is just so sweet ! fluff !  mentions of violence but no gruesome details, mdni, 18+  3.9k words
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“i still don’t get why it has to be me doing this crap,” dean groans, shifting uncomfortably in his usual seat behind the impala’s wheel. his fingers drum against it as he scowls out the windshield.
sam, sitting to his right, doesn’t bother looking up from the stack of papers he’s reviewing. “because you’re better at the whole…” he gestures vaguely, searching for the right words, “pretending-to-be-charming-with-women thing.”
dean snorts, tossing his brother a sideways glare. “gee, thanks, sammy. real boost to the ‘ol self-esteem.” he rolls his eyes and adjusts the rearview mirror—only to catch a glimpse of you in the backseat.
that stupid dress. that strappy, red, distracting dress. you’re busy fiddling with the silky hem, completely oblivious to the way it hugs you in all the right places.
dean clears his throat sharply. fidgeting with his suit tie, he forces his eyes back to the road. “hey, cupid,” he growls, trying to sound annoyed instead of flustered. “remember, this is a job. we’re not going to this thing to drink champagne and play house. we’re hunting. focus.”
you lean forward, resting your arms on the back of their seat. a playful grin spreads across your lips as you reach out to pinch his cheek. “oh, dean, don’t you worry,” you assure, ignoring his quick swat at your hand. “i’ll be the best hunting partner ever. all business. no play.”
you deepen your voice, mimicking his usual gruff tone. “just like you.”
dean groans louder this time, and sam smirks faintly without looking up.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
the plan for tonight? attend some high society valentine’s night gala as dean’s date, while sam kept watch of the perimeter. honestly all you really heard was sam and dean entrusting you to go undercover on a hunt with them—and you smiled so hard your cheeks ached (to which the brothers again started bickering about whether or not including you was a good idea). then they explained the holiday, humans practically worshipping cupids for a day, the excitement thrummed through you so hard you damn near passed out right there in the middle of the war room. 
sam and dean made it sound so straightforward, but as you walked into the venue—your arm looped through a stiff and uncomfortable dean’s—it became glaringly obvious this event would be anything but simple.  
red and pink heart shaped balloons spilled out from the entrance, framing a sleek red carpet scattered with rose petals that guided you into the heart of the party. the ballroom was enormous, yet nearly every inch of the room was drenched in lavish decor—flowers, jewels, endless shades of red and pink. a sizable crowd mingled beneath the dazzling display, their chatter blending harmoniously with the soft, elegant symphony flowing from the orchestra on stage. 
a small gasp left your painted lips as you took everything in, “this is incredible.”
dean, watching you carefully as your eyes darted from one dazzling detail to the next, murmured, “yeah, sure is.” his voice was barely audible in that soft tone. 
you peeled your gaze away from the galore, meeting his with that sugary sweet smile that makes his knees grow weak. “this is really all for cupids and love?” 
his brows cock as he considers your words, trying for once to not immediately destroy the innocence beaming from your eyes with his charmingly pessimistic perspective on, well, everything. “yeah,” he clears his throat, his arm slipped from yours, absentmindedly raising his hand to push the stray hairs that had fallen in your face, he hated when anything—anything at all—hid that view. “all of this exists because of what you lovebirds do to us.” 
you’ve gotten sharper in the weeks you’ve spent with the winchesters. picking up on what they call sarcasm and double meanings isn’t the easiest, but you’ve become so observant of dean you can almost feel it when he says one thing, and inside guards his true emotions. something in the way his face tightens, how deep of a breath he takes to release the stress, you’re not even sure if he’s aware of these tells but you know better than to clue him in on your cheat codes for decoding this ever-complicated man. 
dean sighs, slipping his hands into his dress pants as his eyes scanned the crowd, “alright little angel, let’s—”
you’re about ten feet away before he can finish his sentence, bee-lining to a side table overflowing with chocolate boxes, teddy bears, bouquets, flower-shaped ornaments, and so many little cherubs adorning nearly every item. 
a woman dressed in crisp black and white approached you with a polite smile, balancing a platter of dainty, bite-sized cakes. “please, help yourself to anything you’d like. mr. and mrs. nightingale donated all of these lovely trinkets for our guests.” 
“uh, we’re good on toys, thanks.” a gruff voice booms over your shoulder. dean snakes one arm around your waist as he reaches out with his free hand, swiping two mini cakes off the platter. the woman shot him a withering glare before turning away. 
“here.” he muttered, plopping one of the treats into your open palm, devouring the other in one bite. 
“but, dean,” you whine, dropping the cake onto the table and reaching for a plush brown bear sitting front and center. 
dean’s grip around your waist tightened, pulling you snug against his chest. the sudden shift made you wobble on the cherry-red heels you’d only recently learned to walk in.
“nuh uh.” he hums, low and firm. “business, lovebird. focus.” 
your pouted lips and narrowed eyes meet his steady squint—a silent warning for you to cut it out. 
“fine.” you whimper, giving the bear one last wistful glance before turning reluctantly back to the crowd. “what are we doing again?” 
“trying to figure out who the next victim is, while sam watches for the angel.” leaning down so only you could hear. his breath on your ear sends little sockwaves down your spine, his tone low to avoid drawing attention from the nearby guests. “think your cupid crap can sniff out any cheaters in the crowd?” 
your brows knit as you try to focus your energy on observing with your angel vision. you can’t necessarily see or smell infidelity, but there are glittering strings that exist between connected humans and only a cupid is capable of detecting them. 
slowly, the ballroom came alive before your eyes, dozens of ribbons in gold, red, white, and silver weaving through the spaces between bodies. each color represents a distinct bond woven in fate. but the sheer number of people packed so tightly together made it difficult to pinpoint who belonged to what thread. the tangled web shifted and shimmered, overwhelming your senses as you struggled to unravel it. 
“i can’t smell infidelity,” you state plainly, your tone clipped as you strain to focus on the red strings in particular. a throbbing begins in your head, growing sharper with each passing second. “There’s red, but—”
the throbbing quickly escalates into a pounding ache, forcing you to release the energy of the room. your vision shifts back to that of a mortal’s as your hands instinctively clutch dean’s arm for support.
he reacts instantly, turning you to face him as his strong hands steady your swaying form at the waist. “hey, hey, what’s wrong?” he asks, voice low but firm, concern flashing in those jade-green eyes as they search your face for an answer.
“i can’t, dean, i’m not really strong enough to read this many people,” your eyes find the floor, feeling too embarrassed to meet his gaze, “the energy, it just kinda pushes me out.” 
when cas left you with the brothers, he failed to mention that you were a bit of a heaven reject. a cupid with faulty powers—and the whole issue with you not always wanting to follow heavenly orders. cas saw something in you, at least, and you hoped that the winchesters would, too. 
“c’mere.” dean huffs, locking your fingers in his as he guides you down another hall. you step into a smaller room where a few people are scattered about on lavish couches and chairs. standing slightly behind you he places a reassuring hand on the small of your back he leans over your shoulder, “try it in here.”
with a nod you focus again, dean’s thumb rubs against your back soothingly, his other hand tightly wrapped over the top of yours as he watches you with care. again the room is dancing with ribbons, but the power isn’t nearly as overwhelming. “there’s a lot of gold in here.” you speak without looking away from the crowd, a smile finding your lips as you notice the elderly couples bound in glittering gold. 
“what’s that mean?” 
“purity turned everlasting.” you release his hand to face him, unable to contain the smile on your lips as you describe the phenomenon that makes you most excited to be a cupid, “they were fated with white strings, or bonds, to have something sweet between them, a simple fling or a good marriage. but it could have easily turned red and fragile from something like cheating, and it didn’t. these souls will probably find themselves in the same heaven, now, because of their commitment to the bond.”  
dean grins down at you, catching the way your excitement practically vibrates through your body. truthfully, it all sounded like a load of crap to him. but then there’s you—with that unbound energy, one he’s certain no one else—angel or human—could ever replicate. the way your infatuation with love seems so genuine, so pure, it softens parts of him that have been hardened for years, wound tightly in cynicism for the very thing you embody.
before he can stop himself, his mind drifts. he’s already considering leaving sam to handle the case on his own, just for one night, so he can watch you explore this world with that wide-eyed wonder. to see you smile up at him like that a little longer.
and maybe—just maybe—to catch a few more glimpses of you prancing around in that little dress, oblivious to the way it rides up your thighs when you move, or how your bouncing excitement causes… other things to bounce right along with you.
dean clenches his jaw, mentally reprimanding himself as he forces his gaze away from you. focus, winchester. focus.
“so, you’re saying we need to find red bonds or whatever,” he mutters, working to keep his voice steady. “but you can’t see ’em with all those people in there.”
you nod, watching him closely as he weighs his options.
“uh-huh,” he breathes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “guess that means we’ll have to chat up some of the drunk old birds with loose lips.”
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
dean’s plan worked. after about an hour of mingling with the party guests, the two of you find yourselves on the edge of the crowd, watching a middle-aged married couple whom numerous women had whispered about. rumors swirled of the wife and her tennis coach, the husband and his secretary—long trips taken without the other, late nights at the office. all the signs of mutual betrayal.
the exact kind of relationship the rogue angel has been targeting. 
“classic,” dean mutters, eyes narrowing as he observes the couple, now mingling on opposite ends of the room. his stance is tall and stiff, locked in hunter mode.
you tilt your head, less focused on the case and more on the glittering display of treats and trinkets catching your eye a few tables away. a quick glance confirms dean is too busy scowling at the couple to notice you quietly slip off.
the desserts are as extravagant as the rest of the party, each treat adorned with ribbons and delicate designs. A small card catches your attention: cordial cherries. intrigued, you pop one into your mouth. the sugary red juice takes you by surprise, spilling down your chin and all over your fingertips. 
the flavor is sweet against your tongue, the chewy red center tart in contrast. you reach for another, taking it whole, and another for good measure, needing more of that sugary taste. you hadn’t heard dean approach, closing in on you with a confused scowl etched into his brows.
“love,” dean’s gruff voice startles you, his hand suddenly grasping your sticky chin to turn your face towards his, “you’re making a mess.”
embarrassed, you freeze, cheeks flushed as you glance up at him with cherry-stained lips. dean’s eyes darken slightly, flicking down to your mouth as he brushes his thumb along your sticky chin. without a second thought, he sucks the sugary residue off his thumb, his eyes never leaving yours. 
a strange, warm sensation blooms in your chest—and lower—making your eyes widen in surprise. that was a new feeling, and something about dean’s expression told you now probably wasn’t the time to ask him about it. 
dean looks over his shoulder toward the couple again, his expression unreadable. looking back to you, he sighs. “bathroom,” he nods to the corner, “now.” he orders, his voice a little rougher than usual. 
You pout but follow him obediently, weaving through the crowd until you slip into the lavishly decorated restroom. Dean locks the door behind you, the click of the latch oddly loud in the quiet space. In the mirror, you catch a glimpse of your reflection—smudged lipstick, syrupy streaks trailing down your chin, and little splotches on the swell of your breasts.
without a word dean is behind you, in the reflection his face is blank, barely hiding his agitation. he spins you to face him, his pupils eating away at the green of his eyes. his hands find your hips and in one motion you’re seated on top of the porcelain space between the sinks. 
“‘m sorry, dean.” you mumble, looking down at your hands in lap, fidgeting with the hem of your dress. he grunts a ‘mhm’ in response, making that warmth in your center morph into a ball of anxiety. the feeling you usually get after doing something terribly wrong, and dean gets that familiar scowl and grumpy tone. 
like he is now, except he usually isn’t this quiet. 
he comes back to you with a handful of wet paper towels. his eyes are focused on your lips as he wipes away the lipstick and sticky sugar. 
“stop pouting like that.” he grumbles, folding the paper before dragging it down your chin. his hand stops, eyes flicking between your chest and eyes for a moment before he’s handing the paper over to you, “you can get the rest.” 
as you dab at the mess on your chest, the silence stretches between you, weighted by unspoken thoughts. your mind drifts back to the couple in the ballroom, their entwined red strings sullied by betrayal.
“why do they do that?” you ask softly, breaking the quiet, “that couple, why do they do that to each other?” 
dean shrugs, standing between your legs with his arms crossed. “just what people do, lovebird. it’s not something i can really explain. everyone makes choices for their own reasons, hell, they probably don’t even know why they do that to each other.” 
you nod, mulling over his words. “i wouldn’t make those choices,” you say after a moment. “if I could be human, i wouldn’t waste it. What they have… it’s a gift.”
dean chuckles dryly, “and somehow i believe you, little angel. but being human isn’t all kittens and rainbows, mortality sucks. our emotions suck. and making the right choices, it—it’s hard.” 
“but you get to feel,” you say, your voice softening. “you get to fall in love. those emotions are what make humans so… special. sometimes i wish i could feel that.” you pause, suddenly shy. “maybe that’s why I’m not a very good cupid. i get too distracted by all these questions.”
Dean’s gaze softens, his arms uncrossing, planting his strong hands on either side of you, leaning closer. “You’re not a bad cupid,” he says gruffly, fighting with himself to sound more gentle than usual. “you care, a whole lot. if it were up to me, i’d say that’s not a bad thing.”
before you can respond, the ring of dean’s phone echos in the room, shattering the tension. he pulls away to retrieve it out of his pocket, scowling at the screen. “sam says the angel’s outside. we need to move.”
his hand finds yours, instinctively, tugging you out of the room and through the crowd. dean is locked into hunter mode again, his entire body on high alert as he’s practically dragging you across the ballroom.  
reaching the furthest wall, large windows give view to an expansive flower garden shimmering under the moonlight. a rather beautiful sight, where each bush is perfectly trimmed to line the weaving cobblestone paths. dean pauses at the door, looking back at you with a look that makes you wonder if he’s about to be sick.
before you can ask what’s wrong, he’s dropping your clasped hands, “just—stay in here. keep watch of the people while sam and i handle this.” 
“what?” you begin, flustered. sam and dean had spent days prepping you for whatever might happen. you learned how to actually use your own angel blade, the one you only carried around because it was an order but had never intended on using. dean taught you how to shoot his guns, and despite your distaste for their sharp sounds and harsh rebound—you sucked it up because the boys were trusting you. “no! i’m in this, too, remember? i can help—”
“no.” his voice is stern, his mind already made. he was giving you that look again, that made you feel like a helpless baby. it was comforting when it got him to ease up on you for little mistakes, but right now it was annoying. irritating, because you finally felt like you’d get to prove your worth with this hunt. 
“dean—” you start, but the door swings shut behind him before you can finish. with an exasperated groan, you rush to a near by window, heart pounding as you watch him dart down the shadowed path. 
the moment he’s out of sight, a sick twist of nerves coils in your stomach. seconds stretch into centuries, a burning lump rising in your throat as your imagination runs wild. then, movement catches your eye in the darkness.
dean’s body flies through the air, crashing hard into the ground like a ragdoll. 
your breath stutters. you’ve never witnessed a hunt before—not firsthand—but you’ve seen the aftermath. bruises, cuts, even broken bones you’d healed despite dean’s gruff protests against your divine touch helping him.
he struggles back to his feet, but he’s too slow. the angel—a tall, imposing figure in a crisp suit—stalks towards him with eerie precision, circling like a predator toying with its prey. from your vantage point, the angel’s back is turned to you. that’s all the opening you need.
without thinking, you dart for the door. the cool night air sends goosebumps rippling over your skin, the chill mixing with the nervous heat burning inside you. you catch sam out of the corner of your eye, lying on the ground further up the path and groggily coming back to consciousness as he sits up. 
stopping short, you kick off one of your cherry-red heels, gripping it tightly in your hand. it may not be a bow, but you’re still an archer—and this will have to do. with a flick of your wrist, you send the stiletto flying through the air.
the heel collides sharply with the back of the angel’s head. he stumbles slightly before spinning around, fury etched into his face as his silver blade flashes in the moonlight.
fear floods your system, making your knees weak. you’re not sure if it’s bravery or recklessness keeping you standing as he charges towards you. but your distraction is enough.
dean is on his feet again, blade in hand. with one swift motion, he drives it deep into the angel’s neck. the being’s body flickers with light before crumpling to the ground, lifeless.
for a moment, everything is still. to stand frozen, gawking at the scene before you as dean slowly staggers back, panting heavily. when his eyes find yours, they’re sharp with anger. with a huff he’s crossing the grass towards you, that grumpy scowl having taken over his pretty features. 
“dean, i—i’m sorry, but—”
he closes the distance in two long strides, hands cupping either side of your face. the firmness in his touch makes your breath catch in your throat. before you can say anything more, he gently tugs, pressing two rough kisses to your forehead.
you blink up at him, your thoughts a buzzing, tangled mess. 
“save it, lovebird. i know.” he sighs, dropping his hands. his voice is gruff but softer than you expect, his relief shining through the cracks of his frustration. “just never do that again.” 
sam slowly approaches, sporting a fresh bruise on his cheek. his expression wavers between amused and impressed. “nice shot, cupid. i told dean you’d come through.”
“shut it, sammy.” dean snaps back, his scowl deepening as he glances over his shoulder at the angel’s body. “let’s get rid of the angel’s body and get the hell out of here.” 
you bite back a sheepish grin, slipping your remaining shoe off to follow behind the brothers. 
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
back at the bunker…
you had tried, several times, to get out of the stupid red dress. the thin straps came loose from your shoulders easily enough. but the damn zipper in the back was just out of your reach, no matter how you twisted or stretched, it remained out of grasp. the nice lady at the dress shop who helped you get into the damn thing, wasn’t around to get you out of it. 
with an annoyed huff, you padded barefoot out of your room and down the hall, the hem of the dress swishing faintly with every step. you stopped in front of dean’s door, hesitating for a moment before knocking. 
there was a pause, followed by a muffled shuffling sound. the door swung open, dean took up most of the door frame clad in an old band shirt and sweats, his hair mussed from sleep and his expression distinctly unimpressed.
“what?” he grumbles, voice rough and gravelly, clearly annoyed at having been woken up. 
“i need help,” you whine, turning your back to him and gesturing over your shoulder. “i can’t get to the stupid zipper.”
he let out a long-suffering sigh, but his rough finger tips brush against your skin as he grips the top of your dress in one hand and tugged the zipper down with the other. 
you’re not really used to wearing dresses, and you’re too tired to think about how, y’know, gravity works. 
the silky red material drops to the floor, pooling over your feet. “oh.” you mumbled, looking down at the discarded dress. 
“jesus,” dean muttered, his voice strained. when you looked back at him, his eyes were fixed firmly on the ceiling, lips pressed tightly together as if trying to keep a lid on something. 
a wicked giggle bubbled up before you could stop it. “thanks, dean!” you chirp, abandoning the dress on the floor and darting down the hall in nothing but your pink underwear. 
the sound of his exasperated cursing followed you, echoing against the hall as your laughter trailed behind. 
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zorostitties · 10 days ago
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Aurora, 3 (m)
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⤕ Your existence had been an endless night, where shadows whispered long forgotten secrets. Trapped in a golden cage, your fragile mind and shattered memories were chains that kept you from dreaming of freedom. Then, he appeared with the first light of dawn, like a gentle sun warming your cold skin. In his gaze, the promise of a new beginning; in his presence, the sunrise your soul had longed for.
In which Alucard saves you from Erzsebet.
pairing: alucard (castlevania) x (f) reader
genre: angst, romance, slow burn, eventual smut
warnings: violence/blood, explicit language, mental health issues, grief, physical abuse.
rating: 18+
word count: 6k
A/N: Happy one week anniversary to this fic!!! Three chapters in seven days??? I don't write this much or this fast since I was like 15. Oh God. Hyperfixation go BOOM Thank you everybody that left comments last chapter!! Reading them makes my day!! Without further ado, let's hear Alucards thoughts. Enjoy! <3
⤕  Chapters: check masterlist in bio! ⤕ Also on AO3
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The fast passage of time never failed to surprise Alucard.
The way the pages of his favorite books would get yellowed and frail without him noticing. How stone pavement would get slippery, worn out, after years of feet walking on it. How quickly a small village with only a few families could turn into a city bubbling with thousands of lives. How a small seedling would turn into a tall apple tree laden with fruit before he could take notice of it. The way fashion changed rapidly; how his clothes would get outdated and he’d be forced to acquire new ones in order to fit better into society.
How fast humans aged.
He didn’t like to ponder too much into it. Not anymore. It always made old scars ache again. However, as he looked at Juste Belmont, he couldn’t stop himself.
A part of his brain still expected to see a skinny and clumsy boy when Richter mentioned Juste. After all, that was his last memory of the Belmont, although he knew it was impossible. And yet… when Alucard laid eyes on the man, he couldn’t help but be shocked. He knew he’d see an adult, yes… not an elderly man with white hair, beard and deep wrinkles, a man that looked older than him (even though he was in much better form than the average human his age).
How many years had it been since Alucard last saw Juste...? It was around the time his grandfather passed, if he wasn’t mistaken. Was it around 50 years ago, perhaps?
Hell. Only 50 years had passed, and Juste already looked like a raisin.
Half of him knew that was part of the beauty of human existence: its fleetingness. Every human had a clear and direct story: beginning, middle, end. Their will to build, transform, adapt, improve and sometimes destroy, despite the little time they had on Earth. That was why human society changed so much in all those years. They had limited time: they were in a hurry to do everything they could with what they got – and that’s why Alucard admired mankind so much. Despite their immortality, vampires didn’t seem as willing to make significant changes, always choosing complacency or destruction instead.
The other half of him – the half where his deepest scars where hidden – hated this fact about humans. Even felt bitter of them, although he wouldn’t admit it out loud. Humans came and went before he could notice. They marked his life and left him alone before he could even prepare himself.
Alucard inherited the human heart that an immortal shouldn’t have. That was one of the small curses he carried for being who he was.
“Why don’t I come to Paris with you?” Juste argued with Richter, which honestly humored Alucard a bit. The younger man was acting as the adult, coming with up with rational reasons, while the elder was eager to join the fight with them. There it was… humans’ will to do something despite everything.
The white-haired vampire watched the scene in silence, sitting on a tree trunk with Annette by his side. The morning fog over the lake and around the clearing made him keep his guard up despite his relaxed demeanor, as it could hide spies easily; in fact, he was almost sure there was someone out there, but he couldn’t tell exactly where. The smell of burnt wood, ashes and vampire corpses was disorienting.
“Are all Belmonts like this?” Annette wondered out loud with a quirked eyebrow.
“Irritating? Oh, yes.” Alucard knew that it was a genetic trait inherited by every Belmont (other than their clear blue eyes). “To be honest, it’s been years since I’ve had much to do with them.” He admitted. Even so, it seemed that things hadn’t changed much in this aspect. “But if I can’t stop Erzsebet, I’ll need a Belmont to finish the job. Or a revolutionary witch, of course.” Annette opened a small, bashful smile at his last sentence.
Richter started to list reasons to why Juste should stay in Machecoul – he owed it to Maria’s mother, he didn’t care if Juste wasn’t great with teenage girls, all the usual Belmont family drama. Well, something else that time hadn’t changed. Alucard almost had a deja vu, as it wasn’t the first time he witnessed a scene like that.
So he decided to lay his attention elsewhere.
Ruby was standing at a good distance from the rest of the group; she had a focused – slightly annoyed, even – expression on her face as she analyzed the pairs of boots in front of her. She had taken them herself from the corpses before the three men collected the deceased vampires to throw them at the fire burning in the Belmont’s now ruined cottage.
She took a boot and placed it next to her barefoot feet, measuring it. Apparently, it was too big. She sighed and did the same with the next pair.
Alucard had been paying much attention to her. He’s one to always focus on the task at hand – said task meant to stop the impending doom hovering over mankind on Europe – however, from the moment he entered her room through her window, things took a different turn. Got more complicated.
The white-haired vampire knew she wasn’t lying. After you live that long, you learn how to pick up the mannerisms of deceit, especially in humans. They blush, blink, avoid your gaze, stutter, their voice gets higher. It takes a lot of practice to get rid of these involuntary quirks. From the moment they first met, Ruby seemed absolutely honest in her fright; in fact, it was as if she couldn’t lie even if she wanted to. As if… she was trained to never lie.
However, it wasn’t enough to make Alucard less suspicious of her. Too much was at stake to let himself be carried away by her story. He knew he was too old to get fooled, but he also knew to never say never – thus why he kept his attention on her, even if he didn’t show it.
He was trying to understand her. Get a glimpse of what was really going on.
Ruby kept silent during most of the way to Juste’s cottage – and that was a lot, given they walked the entire night. She barely made questions. She didn’t ask to rest, to get some water, didn’t complain about her tight shoe (Alucard could feel the faint smell of blood coming from the scratch on her heel). She kept her head low most of the time. Well… she did promise that they wouldn’t even notice she was there, but Alucard didn’t think she was so serious about it.
It made him feel bad for her, to be honest. He could tell it was another thing she was trained to do.
Three moments of their long walk towards Juste’s location caught his attention the most.
The first was during one of their few stops, when Ruby stood apart of the group and stared at the sky for quite some time, in complete silence. She had a focused expression he hadn’t seen her show yet; one that didn’t somehow look pained. The second was when she caught glimpse of a squirrel – the tiny animal ran up a tree so fast that Richter and Annette didn’t notice it – and gasped, her eyes widened, as if she’d never seen a squirrel before. When the two asked what happened, Ruby brushed it off in embarrassment.
The third moment was while Annette explained what they were going to retrieve in Paris – Sekhmet’s mummy which contained half of her soul. And… Ruby didn’t react.
Alucard remembered that both Richter and Annette got confused at what a mummy is. Ruby didn’t. As if she already knew what it was.
That put a question mark in his head.
Alucard wanted to trust her. She seemed genuine. He got really worried about her at the forest, when she learned about Drolta’s death; there was no way she could lie about that. But… how could he trust someone whose own mind was untrustworthy?
Ruby measured her feet with another worn out leather boot, knee-high and with a very short heel. This time, it seemed to match. She put on the pair. Tip-toed, turned her ankles around, took some steps. Finally, she opened a tiny satisfied smile and sighed in relief. “This will do,” she muttered to herself.
Alucard narrowed his eyes slightly.
There was a time – a long time ago –, when he was young, Alucard would trust her in a heartbeat. He wouldn’t even question her. He’d let himself be carried by his inexperience, his naivety… and his inherent taste for beautiful, delicate things. Because yes, Ruby was beautiful like a flower. She reminded him of a weeping begonia – graceful, colorful, yet with a certain melancholy to it. He’d offer help, cook for her, give her a shelter. He’d even offer himself to carry her on his back the entire way due to her hurt heel.
But Alucard wasn’t naive anymore, and there was too much at stake to have faith in her like that.
Of course, one could argue that if that’s the case, then he shouldn’t trust Richter and Annette as well, given he barely knew both. But Richter was a Belmont – and like all Belmonts, he carried his heart on his sleeve; Richter was incapable of deceit. Annette was mature, much more than someone her age should be, due to her past; Alucard could recognize someone with a strong sense of justice and pride like her. There was nothing complicated about them. Ruby was complicated. Ruby meant mystery in a situation that demanded clarity.
Ruby was their upper hand against Erzsebet, but she was also a problem.
“Annette,” the white-haired vampire called quietly. The girl looked at him immediately, understanding his quiet and serious tone. “I’d like to ask you a favor.” She nodded. “Try to… stay close to Ruby. She might feel more comfortable to talk with another woman.”
Annette narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. It might’ve sounded that he was just caring for Ruby, but the suspicion in his expression told her otherwise.
“Do you think she’s lying?” she asked in the same quiet voice.
“No,” Alucard said. “But she doesn’t remember anything from her past, so it doesn’t mean much. Perhaps… the real Ruby hidden in her memories might not be who she seems to be.”
Annette appeared hesitant – Alucard knew she had sympathy for Ruby – but nodded anyway.
The white-haired vampire sighed, tired of hearing the Belmonts talk, and got up.
“Richter. We need to go.” He was about to call Ruby as well, but she was already running towards them.
“Did you find one that fits?” Annette asked as she also got up. Ruby nodded.
“Yes. It doesn’t even smell bad, either.” She appeared so content with something so simple. Annette sent her a small smile before frowning and crossing her arms.
“What happens if we get to Paris and the mummy doesn’t hold any power, it’s just some old corpse that was stolen hundreds of years ago?” Annette wondered – but Alucard didn’t really pay attention to it.
Richter hugged Juste. Ruby watched it in silence – and the faint happiness she held seconds ago for finding good boots immediately faded away, being replaced by… longing. It was like watching a flower wither in front of his eyes.
A weeping begonia, indeed.
It was another one of those moments when Alucard wished he didn’t have his human heart. One of the few things that the fast passage of time hadn’t been able to change.
“Then at least it’s no use to Erzsebet, either,” he answered Annette’s question and turned around, not waiting for anyone to follow him.
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When the great flowing river appeared, you couldn’t help but feel a bit of excitement.
Rivers and lakes kept frozen most of the time in Erzsebet’s country. It amounted to your pile of new experiences. In 24 hours, you’d already seen and done much more than during your time in imprisonment.
You tried not to gasp. This river was much larger than the one you’d seen a few hours ago, during one of the stops you’d made to drink water. The sound of the serene current was hypnotizing; it reflected sunlight beautifully, its surface shimmering with the glow of a million diamonds. A bit of fog still hovered over the nearby trees of the river bank.
“The river will take us much of the way from here,” Alucard explained. Since leaving Juste’s clearing, he had taken the lead and resumed himself to not talking much. Richter and Annette were carrying all of the conversations, to be honest, as you decided to also keep quiet.
Since you left the ruins at Machecoul, you noticed that Alucard was a bit… aloof. Or at least, he decided to act this way due the current situation – and you could understand that. The half-vampire wasn’t being rude, and never once did he appear annoyed anytime Richter and Annette made questions; in fact, he was more than eager to debate their plans or to explain how his hunt for Sekhmet’s mummy went over the years. And at the same time… his expression stayed nonchalant all throughout the way.
Well. You couldn’t expect anything less from a man that stayed extremely calm as he invaded Erzsebet’s chateau.
Nevertheless, it made you feel a bit… weird. You didn’t want to say lonely, but that’s more or less how you felt. Alucard was the one to talk to you at the forest after all, and Richter and Annette… they seemed too enthralled in each other, so you didn’t want to interrupt. You didn’t have the courage to initiate a conversation with Alucard either, scared to bother him. So to you, the entire travel had been a long, weird silence.
There was also the fact that you were in panic of attracting any attention to yourself. They must be extremely confident to walk around at night, you thought; how many vampires could be lurking under the moonlight, between the shadows? As much as the sights amazed you – heavens, you even saw a squirrel! –, you couldn’t help but also shiver whenever one of them stepped on twig.
“We won’t be stopping, so if you need provisions, get them now,” Alucard continued. “Keep out of sight. For sure, we’re being followed.” There it was. Just as you were thinking of vampires lurking, he confirmed your fears. And yet, instead of taking a fight stance or getting tense, he just furrowed his eyebrows and completed in an annoyed tone: “I’m always being bloody followed.”
Richter looked back. Then, you saw as his chest bubbled with excitement.
“Are you going to turn the tables on them, surprise them and then take them out with your flying-sword-thing?!” he asked on the same beat, not taking a second to breathe, his blue eyes shining with anticipation.
Alucard stared at him an embarrassingly second longer than normal.
“...I’m going to find a boat.”
And walked away.
Annette covered her mouth to muffle her laughter. Richter’s face got redder than a tomato. You looked down, unable to hide your chuckle as well. He seemed… very impressed by Alucard, you noticed. Once again, excited like a child. It was cute – and you got surprised at yourself, because you didn’t remember thinking anything was cute before.
Richter recovered from the embarrassment in a second. “I’ll hunt, you gather,” he said, pointing with his thumb. “I mean… you could hunt, too.”
Annette giggled once again. “I’ll find some mushrooms.”
They started to walk into the woods while talking about mushroom types.
For a second, you stood in place like a scared cat. Should you follow Alucard? Would that annoy him? Should you follow the other two? Would you annoy them? Didn’t they said you’d have to keep under watch at all times? But what if you became a burden? What if–
“Why aren’t you coming, Ruby?”
You jumped.
Annette and Richter stopped walking to look back at you. The girl had a little smile on her lips. “Do you like mushrooms?”
Oh. Right.
You ran to reach them. “I do,” you said awkwardly. The only good thing about living under Erzsebet’s enclosure was that you were, in fact, well-fed. It wasn’t always like that… but after you became obedient, you were served good food – and creamy mushroom soup was one of the dishes you liked.
“Let’s just hope that Alucard likes it, too,” Richter pondered, holding his chin. “If he even eats at all.”
“Of course he eats. Why wouldn’t he?” Annette raised one eyebrow.
Richter shrugged. “Well, I’m not an expert in half-vampire anatomy to understand his physiological needs.”
You clasped your hands behind your back, taking courage to speak up. “Is he… always like that?” You knew Alucard must’ve been far by that point, yet you still lowered your voice, as if afraid that he might hear it.
You didn’t even need to explain what “like that” meant. Annette pursed her lips. “I can’t tell. To be honest, we know him as long as you do.” That took you by surprise; you mean that Alucard trusted Richter and Annette without even knowing them?! The girl in yellow smirked and sent a teasing look towards Richter. “I mean, I didn’t know him; Richter right here knows everything about Alucard.”
“Hey– it’s not like that,” the boy blushed yet again and scratched the back of his neck. It seemed to be a quirk of his whenever he felt embarrassed. “It’s just that my family knows him for a long time, okay? I’ve… always heard stories about Alucard.”
“And is he what you were expecting?” Annette asked. Richter hummed, taking a second to answer.
“...Not exactly.” He crossed his arms. “I always imagined he’d look older. I mean, if you heard the stories they told me when I was a kid, you’d expect to meet a giant, like five meters tall.” Annette chuckled.
“Why does your family know him?” you asked Richter. He sighed.
“The Belmonts… we’re a long lineage of vampire hunters. Hundreds of years ago, my ancestors helped him defeat Dracula.”
Hundreds of years ago? So Alucard was that old? You shouldn’t be surprised as you knew that vampires didn’t age, keeping the same appearance they had when they were turned. Yet, since Alucard was only half vampire, you thought that he actually was the age he looked to be...
Annette narrowed her eyes. “I don’t think she knows who Dracula is. I didn’t know.”
“Riiight.” Richter nodded awkwardly. “Well, Dracula was considered by many the Vampire King for a long time. He was extremely powerful. And he almost wiped out life on Earth. Lovely guy,” Richter shrugged. “There’s also the detail that he was Alucard’s father.”
You widened you eyes. That meant that… Alucard had to kill his own father?!
“Does that make him the Vampire Prince?” Annette wondered, not appearing to care about what the blue eyed boy just stated at all.
“That’s one of his titles in the legends, though I don’t think he likes it,” Richter crossed his arms. “Well, he does look like a prince.”
The girl opened the most playful, devious grin you’ve ever seen – in fact, that was the most emotion you’ve seen her show up until now. Annette was somewhat serious and her reactions were very contained, so you were a bit surprised by that. It seemed that only Richter could evoke these reactions from her…
“Oh, God. Are you going to ask his hand in marriage? When you do, tell us previously, so we can leave the room,” she playfully elbowed his ribs.
“Wait– That’s not– What I meant is–“ Richter stumbled over his words, his cheeks redder than ever – and this time you couldn’t help but giggle with Annette, covering your mouth. It also seemed that only Annette could get Richter flustered like that…
“Alright, lover boy. This seems like a good place,” she stopped walking, pointing to her right side. “Let’s see if we can find some good ones. Take care to not get hurt by your dangerous rabbits,” she sent him one last playful look.
Still blushing, Richter smiled, shook his head and kept walking ahead.
Her eyes lingered on his figure. For a second, you wondered if she forgot you were even there.
Finally, she looked at you. “Shall we?”
You nodded, following her into the woods.
And… back to silence.
Awkward silence.
You didn’t really know how to start conversations. You didn’t even know if you should. That might annoy her, you thought. I’m not her friend like Richter. It’s better if I just keep silent to not attract unwanted attention.
With the corner of your eye, you observed Annette.
Richter commented that Alucard looked like a prince - and talking about royalty… you also thought that Annette looked like a princess. Her features were delicate; she was soft spoken, polite and intelligent. Her round brown eyes reminded you of kindness and warmth, although you could see they were clouded with some sadness and distress. The way she matched her yellow vest with the golden hair rings and earrings reminded you of a sunflower. Earrings… looking at them made you feel the ghost of a familiar pain. Whenever they dressed you up for Erzsebet’s night balls, they’d have to pierce your ears to put earrings on them. Every single time. And the skin would constantly try to heal around the earring, making them itch uncontrollably until you’d finally rip them off–
“Oh! Looks like we found some,” Annette cut your line of thoughts before they could spiral. “Well, that was fast…”
She pointed towards the ground nearby. There was a tree with a couple of mushrooms growing near the roots. Annette took a small wooden bowl from the shoulder bag she carried across her chest and knelt down in front of the tree.
You narrowed your eyes as you got closer to the tree…
“These aren’t edible.” You blurted out.
Annette looked back at you.
You stepped closer, shyly pointing towards the mushrooms.
“They’re… too white. The gills. Poisonous,” each word that came out of your mouth made you frown more.
The girl in yellow looked down at the mushrooms, softly pushing them with her fingertips to see under the cap better. Then, she looked back at you.
“You’re right,” she got up, watching you in silence.
You looked back at her in silence, too.
Silence.
“I didn’t know I knew that,” you admitted in a whisper.
Annette cracked a small smile. “That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”
“Why?”
“You remembered something.”
You remembered…?
You were sure of one thing – never once in your life have you ever went mushroom picking under Erzsebet’s imprisonment. Your memory could be a mess, but of that you were sure. So why would you know how to spot a poisonous mushroom?
Was that… was that really a memory?
“You look very shocked,” Annette pointed out. You realized she was already some steps ahead of you looking for another tree. You ran to reach her.
“I… well, I… do you think this could be a memory?” You didn’t like how high pitched your voice sounded.
“Of course it’s a memory. What is knowledge if not a collection of memories?” she said softly.
You felt excitement bubbling within your chest, making your heartbeat increase and you grab the fabric of the skirt.
“Then I think I had another memory past night.” This caught Annette’s attention. “I… I saw a squirrel.” She quirked one eyebrow up, confused. “See, back in Erzsebet’s castle, I was always locked up. And it’s a cold place, there’s always too much snow. Even if I’d go out, I don’t think I’d ever see a squirrel.” You looked up at her, eyes gleaming with excitement. “B-But I saw a squirrel yesterday and I knew what it was, you see? It’s the same situation, isn’t it? A… a knowledge?”
Annette chuckled, but you saw in her eyes – they were very honest – that she didn’t find the situation funny at all. It was… maybe similar to what you saw in Alucard’s eyes past afternoon. It had sympathy and, again, a hint of sadness.
Oh… you let it slip the part about being locked up in a castle.
She was probably feeling bad about you.
“It might be,” she spoke, once again, in that soft tone. “Perhaps those things are common to you, and now you’re beginning to remember.”
Right.
Right, right, right. She was right. Your heartbeat kept up its fast pace as a million ideas flooded your mind. This was the first time you weren’t being mistreated and tortured. When you weren’t being tortured, you were under the constant anxiety of when it was going to happen next. That’s why you slept so much. This was the first time you refused to sleep in order to take in everything happening around you, even the smallest things. What if it was somehow healing your mind?
What if you used to live in a place with mushrooms and squirrels? What if it was a cottage like Juste’s, near a clearing? What if it had trees all around? What if… what if you had relatives that would hug you like Juste and Richter? What if they taught you the difference between an edible and a poisonous mushroom? What if you had parents?
What name did your parents give you?
What was your name? Your actual name, and not this mockery Erzsebet named you that night?
Ruby. That beautiful necklace, bejeweled with diamonds and a big ruby stone that you hated so much. It seemed to burn your skin, seemed to weight tons. But yes, it had the same color of your blood; the necklace got soaked with it whenever Erzebet’s fangs sank in your throat, it’d soak the collar of your dresses, it’d paint your body in that color, it’d paint the Vampire Messiah’s lips–
You gasped and flinched away when you felt a hand on your arm.
Annette looked at you with worry.
“I’m sorry. I called you a few times but you didn’t listen…”
You gulped, putting your hand over your chest and feeling your heart thundering nonstop. The way she was looking at you…
It happened again… just like yesterday, with Alucard…
You hated how your hands were shaking. You hated that you could feel your vision get blurred. You hated all of it, and you hated how a simple thought could make you drift back to her.
You also hated that this thing happened, yet again, with someone to witness. Heavens… you didn’t want to appear weak. These people already had enough problems; all you had to do was not bring them more trouble, to be as unnoticeable as possible, but how could they not notice you if you kept embarrassing yourself like that over and over again?
“My apologies.” You managed to speak somehow. “I’m fine.”
Annette pressed her lips together. Oh, you hated a bit how genuine her eyes were… she couldn’t hide any emotion at all. She felt bad for you. She was worried. You didn’t want to worry anyone.
The girl let out a deep sigh. She held the wooden bowl with both hands, pressing it close to her abdomen, and looked down. For the first time, you noticed the symbol burned on the skin of her right hand… it looked like a flower. Was she branded…?
“I… understand how you feel,” Annette started in a quiet voice. The way she somehow sounded fragile took you off guard; it was the first time you’d seen her like that. “I really do. Those people… they keep haunting you. On your sleep, or even when you’re awake…”
Wind swayed the trees above, played with Annette’s hair, made the golden rings around her locs tinkle softly. In that moment, she looked very young… no. She was very young. Yet, it was the first time you noticed it. She always kept a certain posture, a certain way of speech, that didn’t let this fact be noticed easily. Her fragility almost made her look child-like.
Oh…
The sadness in her eyes… it didn’t have much to do with you. Your state just reminded her of something painful.
“I am not saying that it’s easy to get over it. I still struggle myself,” she admitted quietly, as if she wasn’t proud of it. “And I am not saying that you should be embarrassed to feel this way. It’s… natural.”
Finally, she lifted her head, looking at you once again.
“I don’t know exactly what you went through. But what I can say is that… to be truly freed is to not be afraid. Because when you’re not afraid anymore, they can never hurt you again, even in your mind.” She opened a small, dimpled smile. “And when we defeat Erzsebet, justice will be done. You will be entirely free.”
Sunlight that breached through the leaves touched her face softly. Made her golden earrings glow; lightened her deep brown eyes, making them look caramel. The hint of sadness was still there, but they also shimmered with something else: hope. Courage.
You wondered what Annette must’ve been through; you weren’t brave enough to ask. You could see that life hadn’t been kind to her… her eyes didn’t lie. And even so, she was walking towards indescribable evil to fight against it, even though she had her own demons to face. She was taking her time to offer you encouraging words.
Annette was really like a sunflower; despite the darkness of the world, she chose to face the sun.
You didn’t even know what to reply.
“Thank you,” was all you managed to say now that your heart had fallen into a slower pace again. Luckily, Annette didn’t seem to expect you to elaborate. It’s like she knew you couldn’t.
She nodded and tapped the side of your arm. “We still have mushrooms to pick. And it’s better if you find them… I was about to poison us all, apparently,” she managed to jester, earning a chuckle from you.
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When Annette came back, she had the weirdest expression on her face.
After you finished picking enough mushrooms, she went to look out for Richter. Although you were still uneasy, she declared that there was no danger nearby, so you could rest a little if you wanted – which you accepted to do, sitting under a tree for a while. It was nice being alone for some moments. You tried to hear your own mind; maybe it could whisper new memories…
However, Annette came back barely five minutes later with her eyes widened.
You got up immediately. “Did you find Richter? Is everything alright?”
The girl blinked several times. “Y-Yes, I found him. Everything’s alright.”
Annette… stuttering?
Then you noticed… she was blushing.
What…?
“We s-should reunite with Alucard,” she sounded a bit exasperated and rushed. “Richter’s still hunting, but I bet he–“
That’s when you heard the sound of the explosion.
The floor shook beneath your feet. The loud noise came from close by, followed by a loud grunt. Richter’s voice.
Your entire body got tense. Your eyes widened. Your breath hitched.
But, before you could say anything, Annette looked at something behind you and widened her eyes.
“Get down!”
She didn’t need to say it twice.
You dropped, covering your head with both hands, one second before a scrawny looking vampire could stab your temple with a knife.
The thing hissed – and for a second you got desperate thinking, Annette is going to die.
Only for one second, though.
It was the time it took her to kill him.
With a quick gesture of hers, the knife the vampire held melted into somewhat a formless pulp mid air and floated to her hand, where it was reshaped as a spear. With a groan of effort, Annette pierced through the vampire’s skull as if it was butter.
You looked at her in absolute shock.
“Nice reflexes!” She said. But you heard Richter’s voice again, the sound of flames whooshing in the wind, and other unknown voices; the sounds of a fight. “Let’s go!”
She grabbed you by the wrist and ran.
Your most primitive instincts wanted to run in the opposite direction; hell, you’d barely recovered from whatever just happened a second ago. Your worst fears became true; there were vampires deep within the forest, hiding in the shadows even during the day. And you were alone in the woods… if Annette had taken a minute longer, you’d have been knocked out. Maybe that vampire would’ve taken you and ran back to Erzsebet’s entourage. Was Alucard nearby? Did he heard the fight? Was he coming to help you three–?
All your thoughts disappeared.
Richter was fighting two vampires at the same time with his bare hands. You watched, in shock, as he switched from fire to ice to lightning, covering his punches and kicks in blue elemental magic, not showing any sign of struggle at all.
He managed to knock two of them – but didn’t notice as a third short vampire was ready to shot him with a shotgun. Annette was faster. Once again, she controlled the metal of the bullet, disintegrating it before it could even touch Richter, and forced the projectiles to ricochet back at its shooter.
Richter looked at you and Annette.
“I would’ve dodged that,” he complained, pouting.
“Is ‘thank you’ so hard?” Annette retorted.
The blue eyed boy looked at you. “Stand behind us, yes?” As if he needed to say it. Another tall vampire wearing an armor sprinted at them as they took their offensive positions.
You were in such a deep shock that you couldn’t even be scared anymore.
They… they weren’t struggling. At all. They were just human beings, fighting against vampires and winning, winning with the help of magic. They predicted the vampires’ moves and broke their attacks like it was nothing. They were so overwhelmingly superior that the enemies barely even noticed you were there, too focused in trying to survive.
Now you understood why Alucard trusted them without even knowing them well.
They didn’t even need Alucard’s aid.
Annette fought against a tall and skinny vampire. She controlled the blades he used on his sleeves, preventing him to run away; she then reshaped his blades into a sharp spear. After exchanging a few blows, she launched the spear with a scream of effort – and hit bullseye. Quite literally. The spear pierced into the vampire’s eye through his skull, killing him immediately.
Richter had ran off after the last vampire, disappearing from your sights.
“Where’d he go?!” she asked in a rushed tone. You pointed towards the direction he sprinted on, unable to speak.
She didn’t need to ask you to follow her.
When you reached him, the situation seemed under control. Richter had retrieved his whip, and the short vampire was down on his knees.
Richter smirked confidently.
“I hope the vampires in Paris are better than this bunch of blood wankers,” he boasted in a cocky way…
But the vampire smirked as well.
With a puff of black smoke, he turned into a small bat.
“Richter!” Annette called. At the same time, another vampire appeared from within the shadows.
The blue eyed boy didn’t know which to chase – but the new enemy seemed faster and more dangerous. His whip got involved in blue fire; with a single whiplash, the vampire was killed.
But the bat had already disappeared.
“The little one’s escaped!” Annette groaned. It was the first time she looked even slightly annoyed at Richter. She had a breathless scowl in her face, her nose slightly crunched. “Great! Now they know where we are going!”
Richter was distressed. He looked around, his cheeks flushed either because of the physical effort or sheer embarrassment. “Let’s– Let’s look around for him, he mustn’t be far!”
“A tiny bat flew away between the trees, Richter. We won’t find it.” The girl put her hands on each side of her waist.
They started arguing on what they should do next. You didn’t have it in you to interrupt.
Now that adrenaline was slowly fading away, you felt… pretty useless. All you could do was stand there like a frozen statue while these two fought like beasts. At least you didn’t disturb them or made the situation more difficult.
The bigger part of your brain was still frightened. A tiny part of it was… a little excited.
“I suppose we should tell Alucard,” Richter admitted defeat after apologizing over a hundred times, shoulders dropped and a flushed pout on his lips. Annette sighed.
“Let’s not. It probably won’t matter.” Maybe she had a point… these vampires didn’t look like Erzsebet’s servants. No cloaks, no moon symbol on their foreheads. She crossed her arms. “And I don’t want to give him another excuse for that ‘oh, you children’ look he does.”
You wanted to disagree, but you didn’t feel that you had the right… not after what you saw them do.
And… you couldn’t judge them for hiding something.
You were hiding something, too. Something you didn’t want to talk about – at least, not yet.
Three memories of yours awakened that day.
You knew what a squirrel was. You knew what poisonous and edible mushrooms were.
And...
I don’t think she knows who Dracula is, Annette said back then.
She was wrong.
You did.
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love-toxin · 2 years ago
Note
MR O’HARA HAS ME ACTING FERAL BOTH OF MY LIPS HAS BEEN DROOLING SINCE I WATCHED ATSV OPENING NIGHT… I NEED HIM TO DESTROY ME
RIGHT??? LIKE--LIKE--
(cws: across the spiderverse spoilers, gn pronouns, smut, rough sex, mating press, size kink, biting/venom, belly bulges, mindbreak(?), breeding mention, a bit of forbidden love trope)
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Like....imagine, if you will, becoming an assistant for the Spider-society after your dimension is destroyed. It's mostly because Miguel took pity on you since you're not a spider-person, you had nothing to do with the unravelling of your world, and/or you were meant to gain your spider-powers but an anomaly in your dimension prevented it. Since there's no place for you in another multiverse, he keeps you on his team both to give you asylum and to keep an eye on you just in case you prove to be an anomaly yourself....but it becomes pretty clear pretty early on that you're not really a threat. Not for violence, at least.
You're just a sweet thing that gets doted on by nearly everyone in the society--you're either a refreshing break from the endless spiderman variants running around or you remind the spiders of their Mary Janes, their Gwen Stacies, their Gayatri Singhs, and being a civilian to boot makes you the perfect candidate to have your things carried for you and be given web-slinging rides around the facility even though you're supposed to be the assistant here.
But even so, even though you're treated so lightly, Miguel really likes you and even--gasp--enjoys your company. It can be hard to tell with him, but the most perceptive of the spiders notice that Miguel keeps you in his good graces always. When he's stressed or in a bad mood, he collects himself before he speaks to you. He never snaps at you, and on the very rare times you get caught in his crosshairs, he apologizes quietly and gently and reiterates that whatever it was about, it wasn't your fault. He gives you so much wiggle room for error to the point that his companions sometimes complain outright that he's such a hardass, but he never berates you when you make a mistake, and without fail Miguel will come up with some reason for it; "That's because they don't screw up as often as you do" or "At least I can trust them to do their job", or he'll just tell whoever's bitching to leave you out of it and he'll dismiss you to discuss the matter privately.
Surprisingly, those incidents don't bother him nearly as much as when the inner circle starts getting closer to you. He feels this deep need to pull you away when Gwen offers to take you on a trip through the dimensions (although that's just plain dangerous), but it also bubbles up when Hobie hangs around and encourages you to join his band, and when Jess asks you questions about your life and is eager to hear about any potential romances you might be getting yourself into--there's a lot of single spider-people out there, and you're not tied to any dimension, so you've got plenty of options!
God, Miguel hates when Jess brings that up. You don't need to go anywhere, your place is here. You can stay here safely, which is something he can't promise in any of those other dimensions the spiders come from. But that's not the real reason, he realizes that when he feels that tingle at the sight of you holding Mayday and playing with her, having been given the task of impromptu babysitter for Peter when he has to rush off and do damage control somewhere.
It's you. He likes having you around, and it's not about letting you venture off into other dimensions, he just doesn't want you to leave him. That's why he loves it when you reply to those people, when you tell them "Oh, but I couldn't leave Mr. O'Hara! He'd lose his head without me." or "I really like this job, actually. I wanna keep working under Mr. Miguel." and especially "Miguel saved my life, I owe him all I can give. I could never leave him all alone." because it just reaffirms that desire for him to keep you as close to his side as possible. When he replays those videos of himself and his daughter, the pain is dulled for a while as he sees your eyes in hers, and envisions a future where you create a new family with him--one that he can properly protect this time.
It's that fantasy that emboldens him to lay hands on you, your body so puny and small in comparison to his massive frame, so fragile as he holds your hips in both hands and waits for you to tell him this isn't really what you want. He's waiting for it, anticipating it, even reminding you that you have the option when you look up at him shell-shocked. He promises that your answer won't affect your position here. It falls on deaf ears, however, because you desperately want to kiss him but you just don't think you can reach.
It's so adorable to see you try. Up on your tiptoes, clutching at his suit, straining to try and reach him where he's at--all it takes is an arm around your waist and he's got you off your feet and in the air, perfectly situated to press your pretty mouth to his own and awaken his instincts that have laid dormant all these long years. The stress of keeping each and every dimension following its intended canon has nearly broken him, it might have done so already if not for your unexpected appearance in his life. It's riled him up so much he doesn't think twice about taking you back to his place, nor gives him second thoughts when you help him peel that tight suit off and he tears through your clothes just as easily--maybe it really doesn't matter. His world is gone and so is yours, but you're both still here and you're begging him for another kiss, for more attention. How sweet could you possibly be? Pleading for something you'll always have and not realizing it's the least you deserve, perfect as you are?
Miguel just can't help himself anymore, he's too far gone and you’re too angelic for him to let down when you want him so badly. You don't seem to mind the rough treatment as he pushes you down either, no, you thrive on his aggressiveness and even encourage it to come out as he clambers over you. That pretty smile and those giggles as he shoves your thighs apart and spits, his venom sending electrifying tingles up and down your spine as he fingers the makeshift lube inside you. He's so bulky you can't even get your legs all the way around him when he lowers himself, forced to let your heels scrabble down his lower back as you struggle to find some kind of purchase on him--to just grab something and let it keep you steady as he slides in and rocks you into oblivion. The toxins loosen you up too, thank god, or else you'd be seriously struggling to take him in when he's practically twice your size. And he doesn't want to force it in, he just wants to ease you into the process before he allows himself to batter your poor body with thrusts that shake the whole bed--it's a little bit of payback for flaunting your pretty self around his office without ever telling him how you actually feel about him. Now you know exactly what you've been missing.
Drooling, hair sticking to your skin, sweat dripping down your chest, body gripping him like a vice yet endlessly slick....you're a total mess and he couldn't be more satisfied. You don't even try to keep yourself together, but that's all that he wants--he wants you to lose yourself in the way he makes you feel so you won't ever want to leave. The taboo is there; you're not from his dimension, he shouldn't be planning any kind of future with someone who doesn't belong in his world. But it makes it all more thrilling in the moment even if he can reason his way around it, it makes his every thrust gain power until he's breaking your willpower down enough to have your eyes rolling back in your head, hips jumping weakly as you try to participate. You don't even know how good you make him feel without lifting a finger.
Gliding through you as if you couldn't be more willing to take him, his position is clear just from a glance down at your stomach--the bulge is obvious, and as sickening as it could be your whines as you brush your fingertips over it sing his praises without a coherent word. You're so wet and stupid and needy on his cock, clearly he should've done this a long time ago when you were so much worse at hiding your pining looks at him from across the room. If he knew it would culminate into this, he would've saved the assistant crap and turned you into his stress relief toy that very first day. If he had, you might've already had a family by now....knowing him, at least.
It's still just as sweet to lick your tears up now, though. You're already drunk on his cock, it doesn't make much more difference for him to sink his fangs into your throat and pump you full of more venom straight from the source, the shock sending you straight into orgasm and dragging it out for so long he fears you might just pass out from the pleasure. It's like he's juicing up a plump little fruit until it's so ripe it could burst. And as if your own ecstasy wasn't enough, you really lose it when Miguel has you pinned and flooding that sore, fluttering little hole with so much seed it burns. Jets of pearly-white cum squirting down your thighs, painting you like a canvas without him even pulling out, because you just can't take him at his peak and you know it. You just have to whine and squirm beneath him as he fills you up, his hot breath puffing over your cheeks as he keeps you barely still enough not to wiggle away. With a shift of your hips you nearly slip off right up to the tip, his cum sloshing about and making everything too slick--but a hand slides up your neck and grips the crown of your head, his biceps flexing as he slowly pushes you back down with vermillion eyes piercing through your heated flesh. Lower, deeper, until he's seated himself up in your guts again and holds you there to milk those last few shots out of him, keep him nice and warm with those precious walls uncontrollably spasming around him. Doesn't stop you from pulling his head down closer, though, and whispering your praises while begging in whimpers in equal measure, urging him not to stop now. You're not ready to let him go.
How convenient is that? Miguel won't ever let you go, and he's known that deep in his chest since the moment you arrived--it couldn't make him any more satisfied to know that you feel the exact same way.
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muddyorbsblr · 10 months ago
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ill-intentioned "compliments"
Drabbles Masterlist See my full list of works here!
Summary: Loki steps in when a man subjects you to his tasteless opinion on your outfit
Pairing: Loki x Reader
Word Count: 955 (issa blurb)
Warnings: creepy men being creepy; the tiniest dose of violence (let me know if I missed anything!)
Things to be aware of: a bit of mutual pining
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"I haven't the slightest idea why we have even been tasked with this," Loki muttered, walking alongside you holding a paper with a list of errands for the two of you to run this weekend. Every other week, two names from the team were picked from a hat, and this week, your names popped up.
"Well Pepper said something about it helping the team seem more approachable, 'human', if the public sees us doing 'normal people' things. So getting groceries, getting the cars cleaned and gassed up, picking up pizza…little things."
He grumbled even worse; if he wasn't such a stickler for his princely stature, he'd probably be slouching and dragging his feet right about now. "I suppose it could be worse," he said softly. "I could have been partnered with less tolerable company."
"Why Mischief, are you saying you like having me around?" you quipped, playfully batting your eyes at the god. "High praise coming from you."
"Do not make me regret saying that, little mortal." He rolled his eyes at you, failing to hold back the twitching of the corner of his mouth and hide the amusement. As he often did when he was around you.
"Well if it makes you feel any better, I like having you around, too."
Your words took him aback. "Truly?"
"Of course." You pointed at the next item on your list, before motioning toward the top shelf. "You're the most tolerable tall person I could've been partnered with. Last time I got partnered with your brother I had to push around two carts on my own."
You had to look away while he reached up for the carton of pickle jars, resisting against every urge to ogle at the way his midnight black jeans stretched over his inhumanly perfectly shaped ass. "Well for what it's worth, darling, I would never let you do any of this on your own--"
"We-he-heeeelll, Agent Y/L/N," a voice drawled out, coming from a man who was no less than two decades your senior, eyes filled with such prurient thoughts that he didn't even bother to hide as he leered at you. The way he said your name, along with the way he looked at you, felt like you were being blanketed in slime.
Made you want nothing more than to kick his ass. Or even rack up a debt to the god you were partnered with and ask for his help.
"Don't you look mighty fine today, in that cute little skirt…" The unwelcome lecherous admirer was reaching his hand out toward you, letting out a yowl of pain when Loki stormed over, grabbed the man's wrist in his significantly larger hand, and squeezed.
"I think not," he said through gritted teeth. "You're undeserving to be sharing the same breath as her and you believe yourself entitled to a touch?"
"What? I was just paying her a compliment!" the man whined. "It's a free country, you fucking alien. What? I can't tell a woman she's pretty anymore? Is that what--"
"You know damn well you were doing more than that. You were putting her in a situation to give a clear message, that despite her stature and place in society, because you have deemed it so, she is still subject to your lecherous thoughts. You were going to touch her without her consent because you wished for her to know that you can, and whatever happens in the aftermath will not nullify how she was already subjected to being groped by your grimy unworthy hands." The god squeezed a touch tighter, a near sadistic smile stretched across his face when he began to hear bones creaking and threatening to crack.
"Fucking psycho you're breaking my hand!"
"Oh I haven't even begun to get psychotic," Loki spat out, squeezing just a touch harder and hearing the first fracture finally give in. He begun to speak lower, and you were too far away to decipher what he said next. "You know not the lengths I would go for her, you impotent, tiny, inconsequential insectile excuse for a man. Anyone who sullies her mood will have me to answer to, am I being clear?"
Another squeeze. More fractures. And the once supercilious man was reduced to a whimpering mess, pleading for mercy. "P-Please I'm sorry, just let me go I won't do it again."
"See to it that you don't." The god's eyes glowed a vibrant green for a moment, casting an enchantment that would replicate the sensation of his hand fracturing whenever he would so much as feel the urge to touch another unfortunate unwitting woman moving forward. When he was certain that the spell had taken, he released the lech's hand with a derisive sneer, not even bothering to watch him scamper away, choosing instead to turn and cross the few steps back to you.
"You know I could've kicked his ass no problem."
"I have no doubts, little mortal, but that would also mean you would have given him the satisfaction of touching him." He broke out into a smile when you scrunched up your face at his response, fighting against the urge to reach for your hand. Or tuck that stray lock of hair behind your ear.
Or kiss you.
"Thank you," you said softly as you both started walking toward the register. "The guys back at the Compound got it so wrong about you. You're not so bad." Loki's heart stumbled at your words, only to start pounding in his chest as you continued. "I'm starting to wonder if you're bad at all."
For the first time in ages, the god found himself unable to form words, a warmth blooming in both his gut and his chest. "Anytime, darling."
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A/N: Made this for @glitchquake because we should be allowed to wear cute workout clothes without worry about creepy fckers that 100% deserve stabbies when they try to bust out their creep factor 😤
'everything' taglist: @simplyholl @loopsisloops @imalovernotahater @coldnique @loz-3 @huntress-artemiss @salempoe @vickie5446 @athalialaufeyson @lokiprompts @kats72 @kikster606 @asgards-princess-of-mischief @lokixryss @thomase1 @mischief2sarawr @lovingchoices14 @lunarnights95 @goblingirlsarah @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @creationsbyme @maple-seed @mjsthrillernp @ladyofthestayingpower @mygfloki @sititran @glitterylokislut @ozymdias @fictive-sl0th  @lokidbadguy @mochie85 @silverfire475 @joyful-enchantress @elizabethmidnight2017 @holdmytesseract @smolvenger @gigglingtiggerv2 @lokidokieokie @lunarnights95 @superficialdomina @kmc1989 @november-rayne @goddessofwonderland @buttercupcookies-blog @peaky-marvel @lokiified @tom-hlover @dryyoursaltyoceantears @herdetectivetheorist
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bella-goths-wife · 3 months ago
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Kiss the barrel of my gun softly: chapter one
Sevika x reader
Warnings for this chapter: violence, gun and knife usage, drinking, gambling mentions, womaniser Sevika, a little bit ooc sevika but I tried I swear, mentions of sex, mentions of prostitution
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The streets surrounding the Last Drop were as busy as usual as Sevika and her men walked calmly along on their way for yet another meeting revolving around how to clean up Jinx’s new mess up. All of them dragging their feet in the process of doing so. 
The markets were alive and thriving with various different creatures running around to steal, sample or buy. The one thing the crowd did do in unison however, was separating and dispersing to make a clear path for the terrifying group. All their eyes trained on the leader of the group with fearful yet respectful expressions, knowing that treating Silco’s second in command with anything but was nothing short of a death sentence. 
Sevika enjoyed this, she liked it even. The respect she was given wherever she went was nothing short of thrilling, knowing she had earned it alongside their fear gave her a feeling that working with Vander never could. So she walks with pride along the newly opened path and tries to ignore the way her men slobber and gloat behind her. 
All's going well until she spots it, until she spots you.
You were rarely spotted in public these days, keeping yourself locked away from undercity society seemed to appeal to you nowadays. You stood there in that familiar black dress and cloak, the one that showed enough of your tempting flesh without exposing your weak points. The dress that showed enough of your figure with your cloak to hide any weapons, the dress that once represented your grief but now represents your power.
You stood there looking beautiful under the lighting of the marketplace, you stood there looking calmly at the woman you were currently attempting to purchase some kind of liquid in a glass bottle from. You stood….
You stood directly in the way of Sevika and her group.
You seemed chillingly calm as you turned your head to notice them, having to be made aware by the muscular red headed woman by the side of you that you had brought along with you for protection reasons presumably.
Your eyes narrowed as your head turned and you made eye contact with sevika, your serenely calm expression changing almost noticeably to one of contempt. The twitch of your eye and the slight snarl of your lips are only noticeable to sevika, having learned all your microexpressions from your past encounters.
You simply quirked a brow at the sight of the group and the situation you had found yourself in, but still choosing to not move out of their way. You stand there still a few feet in front of sevika and her group without a spec of fear or respect in your gaze. The onlookers looked at you with looks of anxiety, knowing that anyone else in your position would usually be shot down or beaten without a second thought, especially given the bad blood that ran between you and Silco.
Sevika could feel her men getting antsy at the sight of your clear disrespect towards them, looking at you with faces of anger and disbelief. Still, your eyes remained trained on Sevika and hers kept on yours. 
Sevika battled internally with how to respond to your disrespect, you seemingly doing the same as you both stood still as statues with gazes locked in a heated battle of wills.
Sevika’s men make the first move, one of the skinner ones darted forward with the clear intent to slay you down as his hand grips the handle of his knife. The muscular red headed woman next to you acted in kind as she also moved forward with her hand grabbing the gun that had been strapped to her thigh.
You both stopped the attacks in action. Sevika gripped the collar of the skinny man's shirt and threw him back into her small group huddled behind her while you simply raised your fist and the woman beside you halted and lowered her gun. The skinny man rubbed his bumped head and glared at Sevika while the muscular woman nodded and slotted the gun back into the holdster on her thigh. 
Sevika stared at you while you stared at her before suddenly you were walking towards her, until with a blink of an eye you and the red headed woman had passed the group with barely an inch between you, you exchanged one more cold look to sevika before you had passed her fully. The onlookers let out sighs of relief, knowing that they had missed what could have been a bloodbath.
“What the hell boss?!” the skinny man exclaims as the group continues to walk, trying to figure out their bosses intent “why’d you stop me?”
Sevika turns and gives the man a deadly glare, towering over the skinny man with a snarl on her scarred lips
“You never attack without my command!” Sevika barks out fiercely “understand me?”
“But she was disrespecting us” The skinny man grunted out, although with much less conviction than before when his intimidating boss wasn't burning holes into his head with her glare “we could have taken her out!”
Sevika’s glare harshens at his words and her body seems to become more tense as her mechanical hand reaches out and digs into the front of his shirt and drags him close enough so that he was looking directly into her angered.
“I don’t care if she was spitting directly into your fucking face, you never attack unless i give the command” Sevika snarls out, droplets of her sit landing on the skinny mans face because of her harsh volume and tone “we ain’t here to start fights over petty shit like that, especially with someone with that amount of influence around here, you understand me?”
The skinny man quickly nods his head, knowing he'd severely overstepped his station by questioning her and sorely regretting it. Sevika only grumbled as she threw him back into the group behind her before turning back around and continuing to walk.
“I just don’t understand why she gets a free pass” The man mumbles out with a sulking expression despite the warning looks from the other members of the group gave him “what makes her so special?”
Sevika simply lets out a sigh and continues walking the route to the last drop, not even sparing the man a look over her shoulder.
“Madame obsidian and Silco already have bad blood between them, we can’t afford to make it worse over something petty” Sevika explains stoically as she aggressively rams her shoulder against any onlookers who got in her way, desperate to cover up her previous weakness that they had witnessed “The Madame has too much influence for us to do that currently”
“How much influence can a brothel owner have?” The man scoffs out in disbelief.
“You’d be surprised” sevika grumbles out with a grim expression.
Sevika tunes out the rest of the group's rants and conversations for the rest of the journey. Her mind wandered back to you, the cold look you gave her as you passed. Your eyes, god how they’d changed so radically. What they once held of warmth and curiosity had now disappeared and left nothing but a hollow calmness and cold contempt.
It's true, Sevika enjoyed the respect she received, although sometimes she regrets what she had to give up in order to maintain it.
Your eyes looked so different from the night you had first met.
——————————-past———————————
It had been a great night for sevika.
She’d successfully overseen a large amount of shimmer making its way into Piltover, meaning Silco had a hefty bag of gold coins waiting for her on his desk when she returned. She’d decided to spend it on her usual vices as she made her way to one of the rundown bars near to her apartment, somewhere she could wind down away from the drama of The Last Drop.
She’d drunk whiskey neat and gambled the night away, cheating her way into winning most of her games. This, mixed with her sore winner attitude, made it so her opponents left in a huff as they’d slam their cards down and refuse to play with her anymore.
This made her consider packing the cards up, settling her tab at the bar and going to babbettes to pick some sweet looking girl to release her excessive energy onto. But something stopped her as she approached the bar to pay her tab.
She spotted you sitting at the bar, sipping some kind of sickly sweet looking concoction. Your dark clothing was dirty and ripped but that did nothing to distract from your lustrous figure and obvious beauty beneath the messed up hair and exhaustion. 
“Don’t you think it's a little dangerous for someone like you to be out here alone?” sevika asks stoically as she sits on the bar stool beside you “especially at night”
You don’t even look at her as you sip your drink before opening your mouth to respond.
“That a threat or an offer?” you ask calmly with a raised brow as you turn to face her
“Your choice” sevika offers stoically as she leans back in her seat to observe you, locking eyes with you
She eyes you with barely concealed lust, eyes obviously trailing from your muddy boots all the way up to your eyes. She notices a considerable amount of curiosity within them that lingers as you watch her trail your body.
“I’ll take offer” you say as your head tilts slightly in curiosity, similar to a puppy dogs, Sevika remarks to herself internally “I’ve had enough threats for one night”
Sevika’s face becomes slightly smug at your acceptance before signaling to the bartender for two of the same drinks.
“What are you doing drinking alone?” Sevika asks as she turns her attention back to you before eyeing your dirty torn clothing “on the run or something?”
“It's the undercity” you point out calmly as you sip your fresh drink “everyone’s running from something down here”
“That's vague” Sevika states somewhat suspiciously “trying to keep yourself a mystery or something?”
“It's not exactly smart to make yourself known to Silco’s right hand woman, now is it?” you point out with a raised brow and narrowed eyes
Sevika is slightly surprised at your correct observation, having it not exactly been public information where Sevika’s place was within Silco’s scheme at the moment. So having you guess it so quickly was certainly intriguing and almost suspicious.
“Clocked it when I heard your voice, you and your boss have had a few meetings at Madame Emerald’s brothel” you explain calmly when noticing her surprised look “you talk loudly in meetings”
“You're one of Emeralds girls?” Sevika asks, slightly confused on why she hadn't seen you working the floor on one of her various visits.
“I’m the Madame’s assistant” you answer calmly as you sip your sweet drink.
Sevika eyes your messy and dishevelled appearance before huffing out a slightly mocking laugh.
“You must be one of the madame’s favourites” Sevika assumes as she sips her whiskey, the implication thick in the air between the two of you.
“It isn't what your thinking” you clarify with a slight scoff “I don’t do brothel work”
“That so?” sevika says with a mocking tone “Then what do you do?”
“I told you” you point out calmly “i’m an assistant”
“Assistants a bit vague, don’t you think?” Sevika asks with a scoff
“So ask so i can clarify” you say in a challenging manner, a manner that would usually have sevika choking out anyone else who used it.
“Go ahead” Sevika says with a scoff and a challenging tone that rivalled your own “what do you do as her assistant”
You smirk at this as you place your empty glass on the bar and you lean forward slightly 
“I assist Madame Emerald with day to day tasks as well as meetings, business ventures, money handling” you list off calmly as you eye her curiously
“So basically you're her second in command?” sevika asks with a raised brow and an almost condescending tone “might as well be running the damn empire”
“Isn’t that what you do for Silco?” you fire back in a way that has Sevika questioning if your flirting back or if you're genuinely trying to pick a fight with her.
“Suppose so” Sevika states as her eyes narrow slightly and her tone becomes mocking “don’t think Silco would like that comparison though, considering old emerald isn’t particularly good at anything besides playing with the hearts of desperate men”
“Madame Emerald is smarter than this place gives her credit for” you shoot back defensively with a firm tone, your brows furrowing in a way that sevika finds just delightful
The bartender comes over to collect the empty glasses and you reach into your pocket to pull out a few coins for payment, only to have sevika slap your hand away before instructing the bartender to put it on her tab. This causes you to raise your brow at her.
“What exactly are you aiming for out of this conversation?” you ask bluntly as you put your coins away, becoming all too aware of the situation.
“What makes you think I'm aiming for something?” Sevika replies with an amused tone 
“Because you don't even know my name, yet your sat here talking to me and buying me drinks” you point out with a suspicious tone and narrowed eyes “no one does that in the undercity without wanting something”
Sevika lets out a breathy chuckle at your accusation before grabbing one of her cigarettes from her pocket and lighting it up.
“I think you know exactly what I want from you” Sevika states with a smug tone, blowing smoke gently in your face
“You seem pretty confident in how you think the nights gonna end” you scoff out 
“sweetheart , i don't think” Sevika says smugly “i know how tonights gonna end”
This elicits an irritated reaction from you as you let out a scoff before rolling your eyes and crossing your arms.
“I’m not gonna sleep with you” you state bluntly with a firm tone as you lean away from her, temporarily breaking the intense eye contact the two of you had been sharing
“What makes you so sure?” Sevika asks smugly
“Madame Emerald and Silco are business rivals and have a very intense hatred of each other” you point out with an obvious tone “sleeping with her assistant doesn't make you look particularly loyal”
Sevika bristles slightly at your words, always finding it extremely uncomfortable whenever her loyalty was called into question, especially after the Vander incident. She brushes those feelings away quickly with a mocking chuckle.
“Not gonna say that hasn't crossed my mind, but Silco doesnt tell me who i can and can’t fuck” sevika states smugly as she leans in slightly “so your free game in my mind, sweetheart”
“____” you state your name as you stand from the bar stool, correcting her on her pet name “my name, not sweetheart”
“Leaving so soon?” Sevika almost sounds disappointed as you get ready to leave, tipping the rest of her drink down her throat
“You’ll see me around” you state in a way that almost sounds like a promise as you make your way out of the bar, the interaction forcing a small, bashful smile  onto your lips.
Sevika sports her own grin at your words as she lets out an amused huff before slamming some coins down on the bar to pay her tab and getting up to leave.
——————————-present—————————-
Sevika shakes her head to rid her thoughts of you with a grumble and clenched fists as she approaches the Last Drop with the intention to get the work done and go home to drown her sorrows in some kind of bottle, hoping slightly that silco wouldn’t hear of your clear sign of disrespect. She can’t keep protecting you from his and his men’s wraith if you didn’t try and at least act civil with them.
Then again, after all they’d done, she’s not sure she’d act civil either.
Her mind thinks of the girl she had met in that bar, the one she’d determinedly pursued and the one who shut her attempts down but in a way that only made her want you more.
She thinks of the woman who you were now, cold and calculating with anger and sorrow behind every action.
How times had changed for the two or you.
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Chapter two here
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vermiciousyidreborn · 5 months ago
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So people keep assuring me that Palestinians are also indigenous to the southern levant and...well, I admit I'm skeptical of this. Like, I'm NOT advocating expelling them or genocide, etc. Those are all bad, just questioning the notion of indigeneity here. Mostly as a consequentialist. If Palestinians are indigenous to the Levant, that seems to imply other things. Let's think through this.
We're going to set aside the UN notion of indigenous because that's crafted to exclude Jews and often enough this is a statement by people who reject that and consider Jews to be indigenous, they're often saying both groups are. So...I guess that means something like "A group is indigenous to the region where they underwent ethnogenesis" so we'll take that as our definition of indigeneity. Jews are indigenous to the Levant, check. We're good. Arabs are indigenous to Arabia. All makes sense.
So, anyway, what's an ethnic group? From Wikipedia:
An ethnicity or ethnic group is a group of people who identify with each other on the basis of perceived shared attributes that distinguish them from other groups. Those attributes can include a people of a common language, culture, common sets of ancestry, traditions, society, religion, history, or social treatment.[
Ok, so common language, culture, traditions, history, etc.
So European American Protestants are indigenous to North America? Common history (going back to the 1600s!), identify as a group, believe they have a common culture (even if we need to break things up more finely, you can find common cultures, say, New England, or Midwest, wee American Nations), common language (English, which I will posit is part of why there's basically a moral panic about Spanish and has been almost my entire life, in much of the country). Note that an ethnicity "can include" and doesn't need ALL of these things.
So it seems pretty solid that European American Protestants are, at the least, a collection of ethnic groups unique to North America. Which means they did ethnogenesis here. Which means they're indigenous now.
So...let's be clear, to me this is a reductio ad absurdam. OF COURSE white US protestants are not indigenous to North America! But I've yet to see definitions that mark Palestinian Arabs as indigenous to the Levant without also implying that white Americans are indigenous to fucking Ohio (along with the rest of the country).
Especially when you consider that white american protestant as an identity in this sense is older than a distinct Palestinian identity. It just brings us to the eternal questions that the Israeli/Palestinian conflict brings up and that people REALLY don't want to discuss:
When, if ever, does indigeneity expire? Personally, I think it doesn't, and Jews are and will always be indigenous to the Levant, just like the Cherokee Nation is indigenous to the US Southeast, even though they've been displaced. Though I know many "Pro-Palestine" activists implicitly believe indigeneity does expire, at least for Jews, but even if I weren't Jewish, I wouldn't want that precedent set because it would fuck over EVERYONE
When does a colonizer become indigenous to the place they colonized? This is rarely discussed, but lies implicitly behind a lot of things. Again, I want to avoid setting bad precedents, but I don't see how Palestinian Arabs can have hit this threshold and white people in the US haven't, which leads me to reject the idea that colonizers can ever become indigenous, at least while holding onto the identity that did the colonization (White and Arab, respectively, hell, White Christian and Arab Muslim if we want to get more specific).
Now, I don't believe colonizers need to be killed or expelled, I'm generally against violence outside of self-defense, but I do think that the rhetoric we use matters, and I want to interrogate it.
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amaryllis-3 · 3 months ago
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Alpha Simon "Ghost" Riley x Alpha Reader
Word count: 1.7k
WARNINGS: NSFW near the end, 18+, MDNI, Omegaverse AU
AN: I don't know what confidence boost prompted me to publish it, but by now the damage is done. I am quite shy and self-conscious about my writing, so bear with me on this one.
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There was something extremely wrong with him; Ghost was sure of it — something that went against general opinion, against the organisation of their whole society, and unfortunately also against his own nature.
Simon Riley despised Omegas.
No, that was not the right verb to use.
He was scared to death of having to deal with one of them in the future, as one would expect from an Alpha worthy of the name.
The Omegas were too... soft for the likes of him.
Generalise was wrong, he knew. In his military career, he had met many who could give the most unhinged alphas a run for their money.
One thing, however, seemed to bloody well remain constant in each of them: that something sweet and gentle that sent him into complete turmoil, and not in a good way. He felt like an elephant in a glassware shop, as if his breath alone, if not calibrated well enough, could have completely shattered them.
Simon's entire life, for as long as he could remember, had been marked by violence. A mixture of blood, pain, and gunpowder that would have horrified any other ordinary man.
Truth be told, that was fine with him. Maybe even more than just fine. It was absolutely perfect. The adrenaline pumping through his veins, his skin torn by scars, the weight of a rifle in his hand was what made him feel alive, what defined him. Ghost, agile and silent on his feet, able to hide in the shadows as if he were one of them, deadlier than an army of men.
This was him, and what Simon Riley needed was not tenderness and care. It was fight, teeth, bites, a constant challenge that no Omega could bring him; something he could only find in someone like him. Another alpha.
Admitting it to himself had been harder than he had imagined. Perhaps that was why, for a very long time, he refused to consider it.
Soap often joked good-naturedly about how he was the only one who still had not found a mate. The reason, according to the Scot, was how little effort he had put into not looking like what was essentially inseparable from him.
"Ye just need tae catch up wi' someone who can stand up tae ye, Lt," Johnny had commented in that big, positive tone of his, landing a friendly punch on his arm (which earned him a not-so-subtle look of warning). "'N' when ye dae, och how ye'll regret nae givin' it a chance sooner."
Yeah, that was not going to happen, by any means.
He had tried, albeit half-heartedly, prompted by his Captain's suggestions. He had proposed an Omega made especially for him, one that would suit his way of being. Price knew them personally and could vouch for them. They were a great soldier, with a clear head and not afraid to confront him should he be an idiot, and yet...
... it was not what he needed. It was a copy, well done, but nevertheless only a pale imitation of what it should have been.
That was probably the moment when he realised no Omega would ever be good for him. The discovery came as a bit of a shock, a whiplash on the back of his neck, though deep down he had felt it for far too long.
Omegas were not made for him, just as he was not made for them.
That being said, coming across an Alpha he was interested in had proved to be equally difficult. The military base was full of them, but none had managed to catch his attention.
It almost seemed as though no one on the bloody planet was destined for him, that Ghost was doomed to be alone for the rest of his existence. He had pretended to be comfortable with that for a while, carrying on as if nothing had happened.
Until you had barged into his life out of nowhere, turning everything upside down without even noticing.
It was not unusual for new recruits to be accepted. What definitely felt out of the ordinary, however, was to put them into a Special Ops team like his when they looked like they had barely gotten out of prep school. You were an Alpha like him; that much was certain. Your strong, citrusy scent filled the room as if you wanted to let everyone know of your presence, no matter how discreet it appeared to his eyes.
Simon had to be critical of such things. Theirs was a serious job; he could not allow a rookie to ruin everything and put his comrades-in-arms in danger.
Oh, how wrong he was. His sixth sense had never been so incorrect before.
You were lethal, a war machine made and finished, and that had attracted him more than he cared to admit.
Why, when he had chosen to put his soul at rest, did you have to show up and serve him everything he had ever wanted on a silver platter?
It was frustrating having to share common spaces with you, working closely together during missions. Although he didn't want to (lies), he was learning new parts of you that made him even further infatuated.
The situation was getting out of hand. Not only did his gaze find itself constantly following you around during the day (it was inevitable, he told himself; he had to make sure you didn't screw up everything), but to make matters worse, your stupid image had started to haunt him at night as well. Heated dreams of embraces, scratches, slaps of skin against skin that made him wake up in a pool of sweat, more aroused than ever.
It was pathetic, absolutely pathetic, that a man like him, with his past, had regressed to the status of a lovestruck schoolboy. A friendly touch was enough to send all the blood in his body straight to his cock. He had solely his mask to thank for concealing the almost shameful grimace in which his expression twisted into when that happened.
He couldn't go on like this; he was going insane.
Maybe that was why, in the middle of the night, after waking up from yet another wet dream, frustrated and needy, he had left his room to go bang on your door. The two glasses of bourbon he had drunk earlier had clouded his mind just enough to put aside his doubts and possible second thoughts. He was going to do it: put those fantasies to rest once and for all and replace them with the real thing.
It had taken you quite a bit to answer. He couldn't really blame you considering he had woken you up at two in the fucking morning. Your hair was slightly ruffled, your eyes clouded with sleep when you graced him with your presence.
God, he couldn't contain himself any longer.
Before you could ask him what the hell he wanted at that ungodly hour, one of his hands had gripped your shoulder, pushing you back into the dimly lit room, while the other had pulled up his balaclava just enough to reveal the lower half of his face. After absent-mindedly closing the door with the heel of his foot, his lips were pressed to yours, silencing any possible resistance.
Ghost knew he was being an asshole. It wasn't right to force contact on you when, until a few hours earlier, all you'd shared was polite chitchat. Yet you were a tough one, a fighter. You wouldn't have hesitated to push him away and kick him where the sun don't shine if you wanted to.
Simon almost expected it, though the sensation of a slap on the cheek and the accompanying outburst of possible insults never came. Instead, he sensed your fingers run through the light strands of his hair to press his face closer to yours, your tongue duelling with his for control.
You were returning his kiss with as much passion, if not more, than he had put into it.
It was overwhelming, making his head spin and taking the air out of his lungs at how intense it felt.
You wanted it; you really wanted it. You were not rejecting him; you were not rejecting that taboo contact, that something against nature that was the attraction between two Alphas.
Every thread of restraint that might have remained in him snapped at that realisation. His grip on you tightened, and he somehow managed to manoeuvre you underneath him, your back resting against the undone sheets of your bed. It was short-lived since you did not take long to reverse positions, grinding your lap against his whilst your teeth nibbled at the flesh of his neck.
Ghost would not have left you in charge long, but for the moment he could still enjoy the weight of your body on top of his. Your nails had dug into his skin as you sought the pleasure you craved. You were adorable in his eyes. Your pupils dilated, your skin heated, and the growl that echoed in your throat with every movement. All utterly perfect.
Oh, how pleasant was the feeling of your hole contracting around his dick, how immensely arousing was your face contorted into a grimace as you tried to take it all in one go. "Look at you, so greedy... You love it that much, don’t ya?" he grunted, amused, his chest pressing against yours as he forced your knees to rest against the sides of your face. Folding you in half.
You mumbled a "shut up" or something along those lines in return, but you were not denying his statement. He found it quite hilarious, actually, so much so that he cracked a laugh even as he was rearranging your insides.
No real words had been exchanged. They were superficial when the pent-up energy between the two of you had finally obtained an outlet. Thinking about the consequences of his actions did not seem right to Ghost, at least not at that time.
Would things get complicated once the fog of lust had cleared? Probably. Would he have regretted going on anyway? In no fuckin' way. You'd had the chance to push him away before. You hadn't, and now you had to deal with all that was him, Simon Riley.
Maybe, just maybe, there was really nothing wrong with him, just something misunderstood if you too, with those almost teary and yet fiery eyes, seemed to harbour the same feelings as him.
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rafeandonlyrafe · 1 year ago
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the compound part one
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words: 2k
warnings: alien apocalypse au!, violence, reader gets injured, hunger/starvation, mentions of death
part one / part two
you take a deep breath as your eyes focus on the pile of supplies. you know it's bait. you know it's purposely set up near the border of the compound to entice thieves, that someone elses eyes are likely on it right now.
but you have no choice. your stomach growls. you can see canned food. it's been so long since you had something from before. you've resorted to killing wild animals and gathering as much edible berries and plants as you can find, but even those are hard to come by. everything is hard to come by.
you look at the fence separating you. it's chain link, easy enough to climb. there's barbed wire placed on the top, fashioned together with zip ties, but plenty of space for you to fit between.
your eyes adjust as darkness falls, glad your hiding spot is shielding you from most of the wind. now that winter is rolling through the north carolina woods, you need to come up with a new plan. whether it's moving south or finding others to survive with that you trust enough to not kill you for using their resources or leaving you behind as alien bait.
a cloud passes over the moon, sending the world into even further darkness. you don't allow yourself time to second guess, shooting forward as fast as your legs can carry you, praying that your speed makes up for the sound as you scurry over the fence.
you groan when in your haste you cut your leg on the barbed wire, but you have no time to stop and see if the gash is deep.
you make it to the stack of supplies seemingly without notice, but the second your hands touch the box of canned food, a floodlight illuminates the yard of the compound.
“shit.” you allow yourself to mutter a curse word, picking up the small box and tucking it under your arm as you head towards the fence, knowing the other side means safety. 
“stop!” someone shouts from behind as you begin to climb, moving slower now that you have less mobility of one arm.
you let out a scream when someone grabs your leg, you try to kick them away, but then your other foot is grabbed, being pulled down by compound men. you struggle the best you can, even dropping your precious cans of much needed food in hope it hits one of them, but your hands can only hang on for so long before you succumb to their pulling, falling backwards with a thump, head hitting the ground and darkness enveloping you.
--
your head pounds as you try to blink your eyes open before realizing that they're covered by a blindfold. 
what a shitty way to go out, you think to yourself. blindfolded and gagged by compound men. at the end of the world, you don't meet your end in an aliens bite but rather from other humans.
it makes you question if along with the apocalypse people lost their humanity, or if they're just finally able to show their true colors without the expectations of society.
you slowly become more aware of your body. your hands are restricted behind your back to some kind of chair. your fingers reach out to touch the rope and then the chair, sighing when it's cold and smooth. wood you could possibly break, but you have no chance with metal.
your feet aren't restricted. you try to feel around for anything, but the floor around you seems clear.
you consider tipping your chair over, but you have a feeling that would only result in more pain for you.
“you awake?” the question is asked. it's a male voice, of course. it's widely known the compound is almost completely male. only a few rare women have ever been seen behind the fence. you're not sure what their recruitment process is, but you've heard whispers that they bring impressive people in. people that try to steal from them and get caught or defend their stash when the compound men leave on their raids.
you thrash in your seat since you're not able to respond. no use delaying the inevitable. if they're going to kill you, you don't want to wait around for it to happen.
“good.” the voice says, and then all of a sudden the blindfold is tugged off your eyes. it takes you a second to adjust before you can properly look around the room, realizing you're up on a stage, auditorium seats in front of you with a few men in them, all heavily armed.
you realize quickly that the military base the compound men took over must have had some sort of stage for speeches, and that you're now center spotlight.
“she did pretty good.” one of the men in the auditorium hums from the seats as the one who took of your blindfold exits down the stairs to join them. “got to the fence. most people don't even get that far.”
you try to tune out their words, eyes sweeping from some sort of escape, or help. you've learned not to rely on human help after the aliens came, but you might not have any choice.
“yeah, but she got caught.” one man huffs out.
“shit, billy, shut up. we need more women around here.” a new man says, his eyes feeling predatory as he looks over your body, making you press your thighs tightly together. you manage to look to the side to realize there's an armed man on either side of the stage, tucked slightly into the wings, but their dark eyes on you.
“we shouldn't even be arguing.” the man who untied your blindfold says. “wait for him.”
him. the infamous leader of the compound. you've never seen him or even heard his name, but he has a reputation from the bit of gossip you've managed to pick up. cruel. not bloodthirsty or barbaric like some of the men under him, but unflinching in his standards. refusing to give out any sort of help or aid even if a mother is on her knees begging at the fence.
you've heard from some that he doesn't care, you've heard from others that it's because his men come first.
you also know every time the compound men leave on a raid, they're looking for more than just food. someone. someone that the leader lost. presumed dead, just like most of the people after the aliens came, but that doesn't stop him from looking.
your heart breaks for him despite his cruelty. you wonder if it's a son. a daughter. a sister, mother or wife.
you refuse to let your mind turn to the ones you lost. you weren't close with your parents when it happened, but your friends… your boyfriend. you shake your head, willing the thoughts to leave. no use getting emotional right at the end.
you hear footsteps, the men scattered around the first few rows moving to situate themselves, sitting a little straighter, making sure their makeshift uniforms are done properly.
the doors at the back of the auditorium open. you wait for the figure to step out of the darkness, the emerge from the shadow from the mezzanine above.
“untie her. now.” the voice rings out, so familiar it hurts as the men from the wings move quickly to undo your gag. you feel the sudden coolness of a blade against your wrist, but it slashes away at the rope.
the man is moving quicker now, your eyes widening when you realize who he is.
“rafe!” you scream, shooting up from the chair. tears are already streaming down your cheeks as you run, sprint as fast as you can across the stage, rafe also breaking into a run as you take the stairs so fast you're worried you'll fall.
“y/n!” rafe yells out as you reach each other. you're lifted into the air behind him, sobs racking your body as you press your face into his neck, legs wrapping around his hips.
“you're alive!” you can hear the disbelief in rafes voice. 
“i-i thought you were dead rafe.” you whimper into his neck, pressing kisses to his skin between the words. “i came to tanneyhill after they arrived and it was-” you can't finish your sentence. partly because the pain of having to describe what happened to tanneyhill, the home you spent so much time at. but mostly you don't finish because rafe sets you down, moving your head out from his neck to press his lips against yours.
you sigh with relief before kissing back, hands fisting in his uniform, just now realizing how bulky his clothing is, various weapons hanging from them.
“i-i love you so much.” you tell rafe, pressing your fingers against his cheeks, the plains of them still as smooth as you remember. you look into his eyes. it's the same rafe, your rafe, but at the same time he's different. clearly hardened by the apocalypse, aged quicker from the stress.
“i love you.” rafe kisses you again. “i never stopped looking for you.”
you. you're the one. not a son or a sister, but the person the compound men were looking for.
“i-i didn't know you were here.” you wish you saw rafe out on a raid, but just like everyone else in the north carolina woods, you scatter when the compound men leave their base, almost as much of a threat as the aliens are.
“otherwise you wouldn't have stole from me, huh?” rafe smirks, making you giggle. he clearly hasn't lost his sense of humor.
he pulls you close to his chest as he looks to his men. “dismissed. i will be in my chambers. no disturbances unless it's an emergency.”
the men instantly scatter. rafe waits until they all leave before turning to look at you, hands skirting down your body to your wrists. he sighs deeply when he sees the marks from the rope, red and bleeding in some places.
“let me get you cleaned up.” rafe says, and you just nod. it feels surreal to finally be back with him, your boyfriend who you could have sworn was dead. you didn't stay long in the outer banks, not with the limited resources of an island, but you looked every day for rafe to see if he somehow survived the aliens before you fled into the woods.
you feel like your eyes are still glazed over as rafe leads you out of the auditorium, promising you a full tour of the compound later as he moves swiftly down the halls, two men walking in front of him and two men behind him.
you should have known rafe would get himself into some sort of leadership position even after the apocalypse. he might not be the most well versed in combat or shooting, but he can lead and throw commands around like he was born for it.
“this is my- our chambers.” rafe pushes the door open, the four men remaining outside as rafe leads you in. it's surprisingly comfortable inside, suddenly feeling like you're in a home rather than a military base.
“i-i think i may have died when i fell off the fence. there's no way this is real.” you genuinely have to run your hands along your arms, pinching yourself to make sure you aren't dreaming.
“it's real, baby.” rafe sighs with relief as he strips off the weapons, placing them at the table near the door before stripping off his fatigues until he's just in a plain white tshirt and shorts, looking just like the boy you knew before the end came.
as he steps closer, arms wrapping around you and allowing you to relax into his hold, reality comes rushing to you. you try to keep your cries quiet, but in no time sobs are racking your body, rafe lowering you both to the ground as you cry, loud sobs, even interlaced with screams from all the horrors you saw surviving without him. you let it all go, finally safe enough to.
rafe doesn't say anything, just holds you until your cries lessen and you pass out, exhaustion pulling you to sleep.
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latenightdaydreams · 6 months ago
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Pirate Captain König please 🙏
A woman hides aboard his ship and doesn't get caught until he walks his deck late at night while the others are drinking below?
She's on the run and needed to flee.
Pirate!König x Stowaway (fem)
MDNI🔞
Master List ✍🏽
>cw: fem/afab, mentions of murder, light violence, some fluff.
1.0k word count
🏴‍☠️
.
.
To escape prosecution for the death of your late husband, you went on the run. Living life as a lady of society has gotten you nowhere but into more trouble. Along the coastline, there are usually ships that part to the new world. A place you can start new. No one would know your name or life story.
Late at night while walking, you see a single ship docked. This is the chance you’ve been waiting for, so you waste no time in boarding. What you don’t know at the time is that the ship hadn’t docked at an official port. It is simply here so the rambunctious pirates on board can buy more supplies before their next voyage. Once you make sure the coast is clear, you rush on to the ship and quickly find a place to hide. Your body finally feeling safe after the last weeks' events, you eventually fall asleep.
The next day, when you wake up, you can hear the sound of men’s voices booming all around. You decide to stay hidden and wait for nightfall before attempting to move around the ship. In your mind, you try to think of a story to spin for the captain, assuming that you will eventually have to come face to face with one of these men.
That night, König sat with his men down below to celebrate their recent successes. They all sing, drink, and carry on. König, not being a very social man, takes a break from the cramped area and goes up on deck to stretch his legs and get some fresh air. It’s a calm night, the moon large and lighting up the typically dark seas.
With slow footsteps, he begins to walk around and looks up at the stars in the sky. Other than the sounds coming from below deck, it’s a quiet night. König lets out a soft sigh and runs his fingers through his long blond hair. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a silhouette. He turns his head to see you. Standing in a pale-colored dress at the edge of the deck and looking out.
It takes him a good minute to take in what he’s seeing. For a moment he thinks it’s the alcohol mixed with loneliness making him see what he desires, but then he hears you hum softly. His eyes travel up and down your body before settling back on the back of your head. He takes a few soft steps as to not scare you with his presence.
“Miss?” König speaks quietly.
He startles you, causing you to jump. Unaware anyone had even come up, your eyes meet with his as you slowly begin to stammer, stumbling over your words. You never came up with a good excuse to be on board in the instance you were found. For some reason, you figured it would take longer before it happened.
“I’m sorry.” Is all that manages to leave your lips.
“For?” König raises an eyebrow as he continues to approach you, not allowing you to make space between the two of you.
“Being…here.” Your voice sounds small and unsure.
König would usually be annoyed and angry with a situation like this, but you’re a woman; an attractive one at that. Being on the sea leaves König with very little time to meet or interact with women, so he isn’t in a rush to do away with you. He takes a moment to study your facial expression, one of panic.
“You’re on the run I assume?” König asks with a sly grin.
“How did you know?” You ask with wide eyes.
“Beautiful women don’t usually just board any old ship without good reason. They’re usually running from trouble or are trouble.” König steps even closer leaving only a few inches between the two of you. “And which one might you be?”
“I- I’m no trouble.” The tone in which you speak and the look in your eyes gives you away, and König is smart enough to know when he’s being lied to.
“Nein?” König walks around you, inspecting you. He stops behind you and wraps his hands around your waist, holding you and pulling you back towards him. “You know, I’m not exactly a law-abiding citizen. You can trust me, Engel.”
Feeling unsafe with his arms around you, you snap. You turn and land a punch to his face. A look of surprise forms as you pull back to hit him again, but he moves quicker than you. His larger fist wraps around yours, letting out a deep chuckle. There is a sparkle in his eye where you expected rage to be. He pulls you flush against his body as he gazes down at you.
“So, you are the trouble then.” König says, laughing softly. “What did you do, Engel?”
“I killed my husband.” You admit as if at confession, the heavy weight lifts off of your chest.
“I’m sure he deserved it.” König responds with a gentle tone. “You’re safe here with me. My men don’t hurt women.” He reassures you as he lets go of your fist and moves his hand to caress your face.
You nod your head, not expecting this to be the response. The fact you didn’t have to explain yourself and he just… accepts you. For a moment you’re simply speechless, how can you say thank you for this type of tenderness?
“You don’t know how kind you are sir.”
“Call me König, bitte. What’s your name?”
“I’m y/n.”
“Y/n…” König repeats your name to get used to the taste on his tongue. His eyes drift down your body, taking note of how your dress fits your form. You are not only a dangerous woman, but a stunning one. Exactly his type. “Please, let’s get you something to eat.”
König’s fingers slip into yours, intertwining while he holds your hand gently. He leads you forward and down to where the rest of his crew is drinking. They all grow silent quickly when they see you.
“Men, this is y/n. She will be my personal guest so please treat her with the same respect.” König looks down at you and smiles. “Let’s make her feel at home.”
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