#wood wound dining table

[the-laughing-puppeteer]

Kitchen Dining Dining Room Inspiration for a mid-sized farmhouse remodel with a medium tone wood floor, white walls, and no fireplace

[taintandviolent]

Taco Tuesday ; Gambit x reader!

summary: You live across the hall from Wade Wilson, and one Tuesday, he invites you over for tacos. 🌮 And that’s where you meet him. The Gambit. Post-Void, everyone got out alive and everything is fine. [PART TWO HERE]

word count & w a r n i n g s: 5.4K | smut with very little plot, alcohol mention, slightly drunk (but very consenting) reader, French and typing out accents/dialects, pet names (cher, mon ami, mon coeur, etc.), dirty talk (cos he is a dirty talker, don't argue with me on this), fingering, unprotected sex, p in v, no use of y/n.

a/n: this is based 100% on Deadpool and Wolverine Gambit / Channing's version of Gambit!! sorry for the lack of plot here, he deserves better than this filth, but I am down ASTRONOMICALLY and I needed to get it out. I spent so much time trying to get his accent right, I hope it comes off the way I wanted it to... anyway! i'm not certain if anyone will read this, but if you do - thank you a million times over! as always, requests are open! - banner by @/strangergraphics, and Remy gif by @scintie!

↓ full fic under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here! / I don��t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

He’s handsome. Like really handsome. 

Your stomach does a flip as he smiles at you, reaching for the bottle of Jack between your legs — wait. Pause. Rewind. How’d we get here?

Living in the same apartment complex as Wade Wilson was a trip. Even more of a trip was living across the hall from him. The things you heard coming from that apartment... nobody would believe you. So, you never told anyone. 

He’s kind. Albeit, zany but kind. Your interactions have been cordial and nauseatingly neighbourly. But on one regular ol' Tuesday afternoon, Wade invited you inside. He said something about having a party later that night, making tacos and being neighborly. He assured you that it wasn't a sex party... which to be honest, you weren't worried about until he'd mentioned it. Against your better judgement though, you'd agreed, and said you'd bring some liquor.

So, that evening, you opened your door, one bottle of Jack tucked under your arm, and another in your left hand. You shut the door to your apartment and walked straight across to your neighbour’s door. Your fist had rapped against the wood only twice before the door swung open, revealing Wade, and a very… strange and very bald looking dog in his arms. 

"Oh, what the fuck?" You asked, looking down at the creature. "I didn't know you had a dog…?"

Wade’s voice rose an octave or two, in a cutesy tone. "She's a new addition, yes she is!" 

"I brought... well, this. Sorry, it was all I had in my cabinets and to be perfectly honest, I wasn't about to go out and spend money on this. I like… barely know you."

"HA! Brutal honesty. We love to hear it." 

Wade took hold of your shoulder and yanked you inside, harsh enough that you made a small sound as he did. He shut the door with his foot, and towed you towards the table, where everyone was gathered. And that was when you first saw him. He wore all black, save for a tan trench coat with a high collar. He lounged casually on one of the dining chairs, playing with a deck of cards. They fluttered from hand to hand effortlessly, and for a moment, you were stuck, mesmerized by the dexterous way he handled them. You weren't sure what was pulling you towards him harder, your heart or your cunt, but you felt an undeniable draw to the man.

Wade's arm wound itself around your shoulders, guiding you around the room to meet each of his friends. At that point, living next to him, mutants were a forced transition. You were used to the concept of them, so meeting a giant silver man, for example, wasn't unexpected. Vanessa was the most normal - you were pretty sure she was human.

Finally, he got to the one you really wanted to meet. The one that your eyes had been darting back and forth to the entire time, the one that when he briefly met your gaze, your heart thudded in your chest. 

"And this... handsome slice of man, is the Gambit. Good luck understanding him, he's a real mouthful."

I’ll bet he is, you thought. 

He pocketed the cards in a quick motion and stood up from his chair. With a syrup-smooth chuckle, the man laughed and said: "You can call me Remy." He did in fact have a thick Cajun accent and spoke quickly – almost too quickly. You blinked once, focusing hard on his words.

"Remy," you repeated finally, before saying your own name and extending your hand. He took it gently and as he shook it, your palm tingled with what felt like electricity.

"Enchanté." (Enchanted)

Your cheeks burned, and you knew they were flushing. You couldn’t control it. "De même..." (Likewise.)

His brows lifted, surprised. "You speak French, mon ami?" (my friend) 

"Heh, uhh... comme un enfant." (Like a child) You chuckled low, averting your eyes for a millisecond. "I took a few years of it in high school and again in college. I’m by no means an expert."

Wade's eyes were wide, flicking back and forth between the two of you. There was obvious chemistry there, and a knowing smirk drew itself across his lips. Abruptly, he yanked one of the bottles of Jack Daniels from beneath your arm, before leaning against the nearby wall.

"Oh, fuck me. You understand Gumbo here? That’s cute. No idea what either of you are saying though, someone forgot to turn the subtitles on. I'll leave you two to get acquainted." Whatever that meant. You scoffed, but turned your attention back to Gambit, looking at him.

“Sit a while, cher.” 

You happily took the chair that he pulled out, not caring that it was facing away from the others, and plopped down onto it, situating the other bottle of Jack between your legs. You gripped the neck of the bottle tightly, and looked at him with a timid, but a come hither sort of smile. After a moment, you twisted the cap off, and flicked it off somewhere to your right. Wade would find it later, or he wouldn’t. You didn’t really care. 

You two talked for hours, most of which consisted of him telling you about the Void, and how hard it had been, while you pretended to comprehend it. Between words, you passed the bottle back and forth, taking mouthfuls, and inadvertently swapping spit as you did. The thought occurred to you about halfway through the conversation, and your stomach tightened. You shook your head lightly and clenched your thighs together, trying to stave off the arousal that was bubbling in your core. 

There we go. That’s better.

He’s handsome. Like really handsome. 

Your stomach does a flip as he smiles at you, reaching for the bottle, which was still situated between your legs. His fingertips just graze the side of your thigh and his eyes flit to yours. He holds his smile, waiting for you to either protest or move the moment forward, and all you can do is gawk, because your cunt starts throbbing. 

As the evening wears on, though cautious, it’s obvious that Remy feels the same pull that you do. He remains cool on the outside, but internally, he was battling the magnetic tugging he felt from you. He couldn't shake it. He’d compliment you, you’d compliment him. At one point, in between sips, you casually drop that you think his accent is hot and he whispers something underneath his breath, something you don’t understand. Before either of you realized it, you had started to lean closer to each other, your faces inches apart, and you felt the warm rush of his breath over your cheeks.

It was as if you both realized it simultaneously. You rear back, an embarrassed expression plastered on your face. Remy clears his throat. His attraction to you was stifling; something that he rarely felt. He was powerless in his want for you, the draw you had was irresistible.

"Maybe we should... uh..." You murmur, looking deep into his eyes. In a room full of people that were starting to fade away the closer you two got to each other, you were thankful you were still sober enough to suggest a different setting. Any longer and you surely would’ve just straddled him and gone to town. 

Remy moves first. 

"We gon' take a walk." He announces to the others, getting to his feet. 

The conversation stops abruptly, silence hanging heavy. You straighten up, trying your best to avert your gaze, but you still see everyone’s reaction. Someone clears their throat and your heart sinks, feeling like you might die on the spot. The one that had been introduced as Logan, gruff looking dude, raises a single brow at you. In true Wade-character, he ugly cackles, shattering the moment. Your shoulders sink, embarrassed, as you head towards the door, doing the proverbial walk of shame. 

Remy meets you at the door and pulls it open, holding it for you. You duck underneath his arm, looking sheepish and as you exit into the hallway, you think you heard Wade mutter something about a fanfiction but Remy yanks the door shut before you can react. 

“You want to… get some air? Or um… I have… well, no I had liquor, but I brought it to Wade’s.” 

He smiles, and looks down at the floor, before lifting his eyes back to you. “We can do whatever you want, chère. You ain’t gon’ catch me complainin’ eitha’ way.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, considering the options. Your heart was hammering in your chest at the prospect of just being near him without the others around. You two had been close to kissing in Wade’s living room, and now, you had the opportunity to continue that… or take a walk. The latter seemed less appealing. 

“Y’know what, why don’t we… just…” You take a few steps backwards, jerking your head towards your front door. Concerningly, you had forgotten to lock your door. However, it allows you to open it quickly, and walk backwards into the apartment. Gambit follows you in, his attention never leaving you. 

"You sure 'bout dis, mon ami? I can walk away righ' now." His words land heavy, a promise behind them. He was a gentleman at heart, you could tell. Fortunately for him, you were very sure, and wanted every inch of him.

Mon ami - something that in the few hours you'd spent with him, he'd called you often. Among other things. Mon ami meant my friend, but you knew you two weren't just friends. You saw how he acted with others, and the comments he made. Sure, he had a quick wit and a mouth on him, but the flirting... god, the flirting.

He stands in the doorway, his shoulders filling the frame. Silently, you nod and take another step back, giving him some room to enter. He takes one wide step towards you, leaving the door open behind him. He reaches for your hip, and you immediately take to playing with his large hands. Delicately, you pay attention to each long digit, trailing your middle finger along the knuckles, and up and down the length of them. You dip into the spaces between, your fingers barely ghosting over the webbing. 

Was that a shiver? Your eyes flit to his, searching them for a hint.

"You sure do know how to make a man feel good." 

Your heart flutters at his words. With his accent, even the simplest of things sounded charming. At least to you. You felt that he could ask if you wanted coffee or how the weather was and you'd be twirling your hair around your finger like a desperate schoolgirl. Embarrassing. 

You’re about to respond and defend yourself by saying that all you had done was play with his hands, which was hardly considered foreplay, but his fingers come up underneath your chin, gently closing your mouth with a dull click of your teeth. He tilts it upwards to an angle where he could easily kiss you. And kiss you, he does. 

It was the kind of kiss that makes your knees buckle, sends a violent shudder from the nape of your neck down to the base of your spine. It’s the kind of kiss that needs to come with a warning; Danger: Will Result In Sex. As his lips move against yours, you feel the urgency of his need, of his want, and hum into his lips. Remy takes that as a green light and deepens the kiss, moving his body so that it’s pressing flush against yours. The action leaves you immediately breathless and in response, you break the kiss, tucking your chin to your chest. Your hand finds his torso, pressing hard against the muscles underneath the shirt.  

"Ah, don't you be actin' shy now. You been teasin' me for hours."

“I have not!”

“You think I didn’t notice all ‘dem touches an’ looks you were givin’ me? I may ‘ave been born at night, but I wasn’t born last night.” 

He had you there. You couldn’t deny that, at all. Even if you’d wanted to. Which, part of you did. Part of you was very nervous, standing before this very handsome man, with the taste of his mouth still lingering on your lips but another part of you, the louder one, was delighted that he’d noticed. Furthermore, that he’d enjoyed them enough to come to your room.

You lift your hand behind him, pushing the door shut with a harsh shove. With a twist of your fingers, you activate the locking mechanism, sliding the deadbolt into place. Gambit chuckles, grinning down at you. Your heart leaps into your throat, but you press on bravely, lacing your arms around his neck. They trail down the front of his body, feeling the muscles as they twitch with each ragged breath. 

He quirks a brow as if to ask, 'Oh, really?' You simply smirk back at him. The contact is electric, and you find yourself resisting the urge to grind against him immediately. Instead, you focus on his hands again, bringing one of them up to your lips. You press a delicate kiss on the pads, before slipping one into your mouth and sucking gently. Remy makes a deep, husky sound in his throat, and brings his other hand to your hip, where he pulls you roughly against him.

For a man that uses his hands often, the sensations are high. The way your mouth envelops his finger, your tongue writhing around the digit had his jaw clenching, muscles fluttering on the side of his face. When you draw his finger into the confines of your throat, deep-throating it, his eyes roll back in pleasure. He pulls his hand back, shaking it off as if the inside of your mouth was hot to the touch.

"Woo, you nasty, huh? Nevah’ woulda' guessed... you been actin' like a good little girl 'uhround me." 

After that, it all happened very quickly. Gambit takes a step and connects his lips with yours again, pushing them into you in an act of desperation. Without breaking the kiss, he shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it onto a nearby surface. You push against him until his back hits the door with a heavy thud, definitely loud enough for any innocent bystanders to hear. Your fingers undo the button of your jeans, breaking the kiss for only a second to slide them down your legs. 

Once you return to his waiting mouth, the kiss deepens and the coil in your stomach winds tighter, claiming your body in a deep, fiery arousal. His big arms wrap around you, enveloping you in a heated embrace. Just for a moment, it’s tender — but shortly after, his hands drop to your ass, fingers slipping underneath the band of fabric to take greedy fistfuls of each cheek. 

Your hands find their way to his shoulders, gripping the roundness of them to use as leverage. Letting out a little hum, you sweep your hips across his groin, pressing tightly against him. His eyes drift shut, head bumping against the door as he leaned it back, a low growl coming from his throat. Keeping at it, you grind your hips against him, feeling the outline of his length as it hardens.

“You be drivin’ Remy crazy, grindin’ on me like ‘dat.”

“That’s the intention….” You stand on your tiptoes to pepper kisses on his lips, your warm breath fanning over his face, smelling faintly of Jack Daniels. Remy trails his hand carefully up your rib cage until he gets to the side of your breast, where he quickly slips around to the front, his large hand cupping the fullness of it outside of your shirt. Your reaction is visceral; your breath hisses through your teeth at the sensitivity. 

Remy laughs again and with his free hand, pulls your hips back to his. Swiftly, he spins you around, pinning you between his body and the hard surface of the door. He presses himself tightly against you, shifting slightly so that his thigh was between your legs. The sensation of something that close to your core is dangerous and brings a weak, mewling whimper from your mouth.

“We gon’ have ourselves some fun.” His voice is low, tinged with a new sort of lustful tone that you hadn't heard before. Your mind is spinning, growing dizzy with lust. The alcohol had certainly helped your nerves, you were never usually this brazen. Your core burns with desire at his words, silently begging for everything he was about to give you. His lips hover just over yours; you can feel his breath on your skin and the heat that radiates off his body as it presses into yours.

"Oh my god," you whisper into his mouth. "Fuck..."

His teeth nip at your bottom lip before he captures your mouth in a heated, passionate kiss again. His tongue explores the inside, swirling along your own wet muscle. With every passing second, your heart beats faster and his hands grip your hips tighter, thumbs massaging the flesh above your jeans.

“Wrap ‘dem legs around me, mon coeur.” (My heart) Remy’s voice is husky with want; amongst his playful, lilted tone, a possessiveness lingered, and the thought sends a chill down your spine. He nods once, encouraging you into his waiting arms. You jump up, and he catches you effortlessly, gripping your thighs tight and hoisting you up into his grasp. Feeling secure, you wrap both legs around his waist and encircle his neck with your arms. Your gaze meets his and you can see the wanton need mirrored in his own eyes, darkened with desire.

Remy's smirk is dripping with confidence. Your body's response to him was causing his ego to swell within his chest, and his cock to swell within his pants. He leans in close, his lips against your ear, nipping at the lobe softly before pulling back slightly. In one fluid movement, his hips buck up against your center, teasing you over the layers of clothing. You let out a moan, throwing your head back against the door.

He thrusts up into you again, chuckling low against your ear. The hard line of his cock grinds against you, making you stutter out expletives as it presses against you with a needy demand. 

"You like 'dat, cher? Talk t' me..."

You nod, swallowing and wetting your throat. "Y-yeah, fuck... I do... need you – it – so bad."

“Whaddya’ need?”

“N-need you… so bad.” 

“You can do betta’. Tell Remy what you need...” 

He presses you harder against the door, your back sliding against the wood as he kisses a trail down from your mouth to your shoulder, sucking and biting with all the right intensities. As his hips grind against yours, you feel the damp fabric slide across your cunt, alerting you to just how wet he’d made you. Fuck. 

“Need… need you to fuck me. Hard. Need to feel you everywhere.”  

A few hours ago, you’d agreed to Taco Tuesday at Wade’s. Now, you were getting dry humped by a really hot Cajun guy and moaning into the curve between his neck and his shoulder. You were positive that if someone opened their door, they’d hear you. Somewhere in your brain, the thought should have been moderately embarrassing, but you were far too invested in Remy to care. 

Without warning, Gambit lifts you away from the door and carries you to the nearby couch. He never breaks the kiss, still feverishly claiming your mouth as he moves. Your back hits the cushions and before you can process it, his body weight is on top of you. He slots himself in between your legs, and his hard-on bumps into your stomach as his hips rut against you, finding some relief in the friction. But not enough. 

Remy’s hand finds the hem of your shirt, lifting it just enough to allow his fingers underneath the fabric. You bite down on the pillow of your bottom lip and push your hips up into his. Thick, strong digits sweep across your skin, leaving a burning trail of fire in their wake. Every touch brings your temperature up, and it isn’t long before your entire body is consumed in flames. You sigh contentedly, arching up into his touch. 

Abruptly, Remy straightens up, crosses his arms over his torso and pulls his shirt over his head, revealing his tan skin and bulky muscles. His stocky stature makes your tummy clench with anticipation. He was fit, as you assumed, but that didn’t stop your jaw from falling open at the sight. 

“Wow,” you finally choke.

Remy grins. “You like what you see?” 

You nod furiously, hands snapping to his toned abdomen. He’s warm and his skin is soft, begging to be touched. The muscles flex underneath your fingers as you trace a long stripe from his belly button to his collarbone. Your hands claw at his shoulder, attempting to pull him back down on you, but he resists. 

He spoke with a playfulness, almost a sort of pleading. His thumbs flicks at the hem of your shirt. “Ah, c’mon, ‘dat ain’t fair. Enlève-tout toi, huh?” (Take it all off.)

You thought you understood, but if you didn’t, it didn’t matter. Remy was quick to translate his words, busy undressing you, pulling your worn t-shirt over your head, and reaching around your back to unclasp your bra. Most men would’ve fumbled with the clasp, but not him. His adept fingers make quick work of it, allowing your breasts to fall free. He throws your bra somewhere behind him. 

“Hooo, cher…!” His eyes light up at the visual and you feel heat blooming on your cheeks again, half expecting him to make a lewd comment. Instead, his hands cup your tits, kneading the soft plumpness like dough, thumbs grazing the nipples. He exhales through his mouth, jerking his head to the side. 

Finally, he kisses you again. It’s wet and sloppy and his mouth is consuming you, tasting you hungrily. His hips are still moving, sweeping into yours with a calculated precision. You try to spread your legs but the back of the couch thwarts your attempt. He notices this, watching as you struggle with the space. 

“You got a bed?” He asked in between smearing kisses along your neck and collarbone. 

“Yeah-yeah…. Down the hall.” 

“Remy be needin’ more room for what he wanna’ do t’you.”

His weight is suddenly gone from you, an unwelcome sensation, even though you know he’s about to carry you wedding-style down the hallway. He bends down, one arm sliding underneath your neck, the other in the crook behind your knees. For the second time that night, he lifts you into his arms.

You rest your cheek against his warm pectoral muscle, rocking back and forth, as he walks you both down the dark hallway. The only light in the room comes from the window, the city outside alive and humming. Carefully, Remy sets you down on the bed, unmade from this morning, your dark gray sheets cool to the touch. 

In nothing but your underwear, which at this point, are damp to the touch, you’re left feeling very exposed. But you can’t muster up any shame, not when he’s looking at you with such hunger, such want. Your tummy feels tight, and the feeling gets worse when Remy’s hands drop to his waist, unzipping and unbuttoning his pants. They fall loose at the waist, and he shucks them down the rest of the way, leaving him in nothing but a pair of deep purple boxers. Your eyes swing heavy to the outline that’s now presented to you. 

Oh my god. 

Your breath hitches in your throat. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise; Remy was a big guy, and that proved true downstairs, too. You can barely pull your eyes away from it, but you begrudgingly rip them away, to look up into his gaze. 

“Please,” you beg. “You’re too far away…” Your cunt is aching and nothing but him, his hands, his dick, will sate her. 

He leans forward, flattening both hands on the mattress and walks them back until his face is in front of yours. He sweeps you into another kiss and your heart races. His hands are perfectly positioned on either side of your hips, you feel them graze the flesh. His finger hooks around the elastic of your panties, twisting it around his pointer finger and gradually, he tugs them down over the curve of your hip.

You nod lazily against his mouth, as you feel the warmth of his hand near your core. Your legs drop apart, knees touching the mattress as you allow him access. One hand sweeps across your inner thighs, stroking them, while the other palms your soft mound. His other hand comes to pause at your knee, and pushes his weight into it softly, forcing you to stay spread-eagle for him. No way you could’ve done this on the sofa. 

There’s no hesitation in the way he fingers you; sweeping up through your slick folds, smearing your arousal around until she’s coated in it, splaying your pretty, wet cunt apart with his fingers, looking upon it hungrily. He knows what he’s doing, and how to do it right. You briefly wonder if that’s another mutant power he has… though being an expert at fingering someone seems outlandish. But he’s just so good at it. His middle finger barely touches you, circling the bundle of nerves delicately. Your back arches up towards him, a desperate groan vibrating your vocal chords. Delighted by your reaction, his finger flicks upwards at your swollen, sensitive clit, making your body literally quiver. 

“Uhugh – god…. Shit, oh my god.” 

He continues like this for several minutes, until your cunt is blazing hot and clenching with every moan you give. 

By the time he presses one finger inside, you’re teetering on the edge of an orgasm and your voice fills the room with needy, desperate sounds. You let out a shrill whine, and he slips in another finger, feeling the stretch of muscle as he does. His heart is pounding in his chest, overcome with lust. The way you sound, the way your body is moving and writhing on the bed, he can’t wait to sink himself into you. 

Amidst a laugh, he says: “People gon’ think we up in here watchin’ porn.”

Did he just insinuate that you sounded like a pornstar? You lifted your head, wearily, to look at him. Your chest heaves with each breath as you try to formulate a snarky remark to no avail. He looked so good – well, always – but he looked particularly good on top of you, his bright eyes lust blown and hungry. 

“We’re… we’re… porn… it’s…  oh god.” 

He shushes you. “You just lay back and keep moanin’.” 

Defeated, you huff and your head hits the sheets again, but not before you catch a glimpse of the way the muscles in his forearm ripple as it pumps back and forth into your cunt. You can’t help but moan at the sight, feeling a shockwave rupture your core. Your hips meet his fingers, rutting and writhing against the mattress in a needy rhythm.

Your first orgasm claims your body before you can stop it. You’re clenching around his fingers as they move, crooking upwards into your sensitive spots. Your slick coats his fingers and when Gambit pulls his hand back, thick, clear strands string from between them. He smiles down at you. 

Remy raises himself to his knees. “Turn ‘round…” 

You flip over and back yourself towards him, thinking that he’s going to go at it doggy-style, but to your surprise, he pulls you upright, pressing your back against his chest. His dick is hot between your legs, and when he reaches down to line it up, you let your head loll back against his shoulder. Gambit’s mouth finds the side of your neck, streaking it with wet, suckling kisses. He was taking his time with you, savouring you and you hum happily through closed lips, reaching behind you to thread your fingers through his hair.

“Fuck, you feel so good…” Instinctively, your hips undulate and his cock slips between your folds. Remy’s hips buck once, letting out a groan that comes from somewhere deep. 

“You ready, cher?” He asks, sweeping your hair away from your neck. You nod furiously. You’ve been ready – you were ready the moment you laid eyes on him.

Remy reaches down to sweep his fingers along your entrance briefly, before gripping himself and guiding the head of his cock into the slit. You keen at the feeling of his velvet-soft head pressing into your entrance, warm pre-cum leaking from the slit. He murmurs words of encouragement into your ear as you feel his hips press against your ass, urging his thick, veiny shaft inside your cunt. He does it gently, allowing you time to adjust to the girth, but the sting still makes you cry out. “Fffuck!”

He begins to thrust his hips shallowly, your cunt stretching around his cock. The feeling is all-consuming, and your body feels heavy in his grasp. One hand is gripping your waist tightly, the other, fingers splayed out on your stomach just above your cunt. There’s a pressure building in your cunt, and each thrust magnifies it. The sting of his cock fades to an ache, then to a dull throbbing that makes you want more and you lean forward slightly and press your ass into the curves of his hips, meeting his thrusts. 

“Mm, ‘dat’s it, cher…” His voice is hot on your skin. 

His thrusts get deeper, but there’s a lingering tension in his body that makes you feel like he’s not getting what he wants. You’re right; all at once, Remy pulls his cock from you and switches positions. 

You’re suddenly on your back, looking up at him as he looms over you, all muscle. His cockhead nudges your entrance again, but doesn’t penetrate. 

“Say my name, cher… I needa’ hear it leave ‘dat pretty mouth.” 

“Which one? Gambit? Or Remy?” You ask, breathlessly.

The way his eyes rolled back at the second option told you everything you needed to know. A smirk twisted your lips cruelly and you lifted your body slightly, just enough for your mouth to reach his ear. You moan his name over and over again, knowing full well the effect it’s having on the mutant man.

“Remy, Remy, Remy….” Your tone is high-pitched and whiny, but he seems to enjoy the lewdness of it all. He bucks his hips hard into you, and the fullness reaches an all-time high as he bottoms out, his pelvis hitting yours with a slap.

“Huhhh—!” You gasp, breathing ragged. “Fuck!”

“Gonna’ make you cum so hard you ain’t gon’ walk right for days.” His voice is low and filthy and leaves a stain on your mind. Your cunt clenches around him possessively, pulling him somehow deeper inside of you. 

As your head bangs into your headboard, the tip of his cock bumps your cervix over and over again, and your jaw goes slack, literally fucked silent. Remy hears the thudding of your skull and puts a hand between it and the wood, but he doesn’t stop his relentless, deep thrusting. 

The pleasure reaches a peak and your nails dig into his back, leaving crescent moon shaped indentations on his golden skin. Remy’s groaning loud into your ear as he cums, muttering in an almost incoherent melange of French and English. His accent is somehow heavier, and you can barely make out the words as he’s saying them into your skin. It doesn’t matter though, because you feel how full you are, and Remy’s hot, white completion is leaking out the sides and staining your sheets. 

He stays like that for a moment, hovering on top of you. His cock softens inside, completely spent and eventually, he slips it out, rolling over onto your bed.

“Ah, joi de vivre, huh.” (the joy of life), he says drowsily.

You laugh, and nestle underneath his arm, in the space he’s left for you. 

If you had your way, you’d do it all over again. 

Though he doesn’t say it, so would he. 

[satoruhour]

Accidentally sending gojo a nude and before you can properly apologise he sends a video of his own which leads to..well🫣

BABY BLUE SWEETNESS

a/n: my clit grew hands and wrote this. combined this w/ a part 2 of being gojo’s roommate / tagging @jabamin @hyomagiri @utahimeow @lov3rbody my gojo fuckers

wc: 3.7k (I HAVE GOT TO STOP WRITING SM ....)

warnings: mutual pining, roommate!gojo, dom!gojo, he gets rough but only bc he loves ur pussy sssoooo much, sending nudes by accident to gojo, semi-public m! masturbation, filming (on gojo’s end), pet names, praise, slight f! masturbation, oral / cunnilingus, nipple play, bit of dialogue during sex, unprotected sex, creampie / breeding kink (twice!), multiple rounds, implied m! oral, n*sfw under the cut

the next week goes by uneventfully.

but you think there’s hardly anything worth happening when you hadn’t even said anything about that: standing outside satoru’s room, hearing his pleasured moans along with the slickness of his hand on his cock and watching him at his most vulnerable with whispers of your name.

gojo did have a few moments of weakness — brief bouts of failing to meet your eyes, stuttering, but he was still predominantly himself after, throwing laundry on the floor and leaving the toilet paper roll unfilled. by date, he was the messiest roommate you’ve roomed with, compared to sleeping over at shoko’s and geto’s places before; sure it was obvious enough being friends with him since high school, though you hadn’t thought that the rowdy, outgoing way that he spoke would translate into his living space, too.

and despite being the one who has the upper hand that very day you decided to stop and watch, he still manages to have some sort of hold on you, catching you off-guard at the worst times.

“any luck with the mods?” gojo peeks over at your laptop over at the small dining table, your leg propped up and a scowl on your face at how you were still on the waitlist. while mr. perfect beside you has gotten every module he’s bidded for, a course on philosophy, romantic and 20th century music as well as an online mod about ethics.

“i don’t even know why you got that last one! funny how the most annoying person who has anything but morals is entering an ethics course.” maybe it was the fact that you’ve already waited one and a half weeks. perhaps it was that one piece of clothing gojo loved to leave on the floor, or simply it was just because of the man himself — you were on your wit’s end with the week.

that fades away when you’re turning your head and gojo is right there, hovering over your computer screen with a sly smirk on his face and his stupid bright, blue eyes that you could spend hours staring at.

“you wound me, baby,” gojo whispers, like it was a secret between the two of you and he pulls away, both hearts beating an unnatural speed at the proximity. gojo swears to himself he’ll never call you anything close to that or be that close because it’s absolutely not good for his heaving chest and hardening dick — those pretty plump lips of yours and the innocent look on your face — he wanted to both kiss it and fuck it.

and yet, on dormitory movie nights where you’re sat on both ends of the couch with geto and shoko between the two of you, satoru wills himself to patiently wait until the end of the first movie to stretch his limbs and get more snacks; he knows you’ll follow, too, because it’s been like that for as long as he can remember.

“you know you have to stop eating all that candy, right?” you’re saying it mindlessly, pouring more chips into a bowl and getting the hummus and guac, “it’s not healthy.”

gojo’s leaning on the counter and doesn’t help whatsoever, both elbows on the wood and head tipped back to meet your height.

“aw, is my cute roomie worried about me?” you almost want to ignore him with that little compliment, not sure if he even meant it, but you’re leaning into him this time with a little glance down to his lips that he thinks he imagined it.

“no, just wondering how embarrassed i’ll be when i have to tell the paramedics that when you finally collapse on the floor, it was because my dumb roommate had consumed too much sugar.” you like this little game you play with satoru, yet you’ve never been this bold; maybe it’s because you know he finds you hot, too, but the two of you are too stubborn to stand your ground and admit the obvious.

gojo’s feigned pout spreads into a grin and simply blows a raspberry at your explanation. there’s a crinkle of yet another sweet packet, disregarding your chastise from earlier. “smart little thing, hm?”

“i become the brightest when you’re involved,” you swipe the sweet from his fingers and pop it into your mouth, “i have to when i need to insult you.” the two of you spend the rest of the movie night hip to hip on the couch, ignoring the fire in your connected limbs and the spark of your fingers when they brush against each other.

it’s a few months before you’re fully embracing that you might not just find your roommate hot, but that maybe you’d want to “wife” him up as the other has expressed jokingly. it didn’t help that gojo is cleaning up a little more often these days, learning how to cook and using his inside voice like you told him to (you didn’t think he’d remember). the last straw was possibly seeing him fuss over you when you fell sick, switching to remote classes just so he could be close to you — his main excuse was that he didn’t want his laundry to be infected.

“but you don’t even like to use shirts half the time you’re home!”

“you’re calling this home—” gojo giggles while simultaneously shoving cough mixture down your throat, “i didn’t know we were married!”

“shut your trap before i really make you regret this.”

but gojo thinks that maybe it wasn’t so bad to come home to you in one of his future days, he just had to get through this first.

it was meant to be a simple photo to show off your new set of lingerie, the ones that you had gotten with your girls at a half-off price just the other day. you couldn’t blame yourself when your hands naturally reached for one that mirrored gojo’s eyes alongside the white details that represent his hair. buy it, take a potential nude and laugh about it in the group chat, that’s all. you felt so damn sexy in it that you even went as far as to take a few photos with your bra unclasped and phone in hand hiding your chest, until the very last one where it was fully off.

you felt unlike yourself, in that stuffy, small dorm while satoru was out in a lecture—

before gojo texts you about groceries and his chat moves to the very top that same moment you’ve got all these lewd, unnatural pictures of you waiting to be sent. it happened all too fast: at least 10 being delivered and read on the spot that your panic is indescribable and you want to melt into mush on the floor.

while you’re scrambling to delete them, gojo stares at your figure in that last racy picture, hands skilfully covering your breasts just enough that he could still see the curve of them and then down to your figure interrupted by a pretty pair of blue lace undies. it’s like you planned this, looking so delectable in your little get-up until it all disappears and you’re sending multiple messages of “i’m so sorry”’s and “it was an accident”’s.

gojo thanked the heavens he was sat at the very back of the lecture theatre, immediately booking it out of there with the images of you seared into his brain. his cock is throbbing and so, so hard it almost hurts to walk to the restroom, and you’re still continuing your apologies. he wants to scream at you — how you do not need to say sorry for whatever you’ve just sent, because as he removes his dick from his tight pants, there’s a soft sigh of your name that falls from his lips.

satoru is reminded of the times you’d be sat in your stupid booty shorts in the dorm, basically showing your folds because he just knew you didn’t like to use underwear underneath. he’s reminded of the times you had to (unwillingly) use one of his shirts when the washing machine had broken down and the only thing on his mind at the time was what you’d look like bouncing on him — he thinks that maybe he just needs to spit it the fuck out, and so he opens the video feature on your private chat.

“this is what you do t’me, baby,” gojo’s tip is already leaking so much pre-cum, making sure he can be seen, expression and all, “you make me so— s-shit— fucking hard.”

he didn’t even care if he could be heard, pumping his cock to the thought of you in that baby blue set of lingerie. he thinks of ripping it all off of you and buying you more just so he could do the same thing again and again, eyes scrunching up in bliss as his hand continues to move up and down his length. his hand isn’t even close to what he wants to feel — your tight pussy sucking him in — but he settles for it, squeezing his palm around his shaft and thumbs his tip.

“ya see this, angel?” gojo chokes out a moan when he sees another notification of ‘i really didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable’ and it was the exact opposite for him in this bathroom stall, really hoping this video would drive his point home, “s’all for you, f— fuck.”

the video is incoherent from then on, because it’s all too much for him, the strokes of his warm hand, the images of your body, the sensitivity of his cock. lewd noises of him jerking off and his whines echo throughout the restroom, cumming with a slack mouth and babbles of your name on his lips.

“fuck, fuck, fuckkk…” satoru can hardly care as his cum stains his shirt, leaving his cock in needy spurts that dribble down his hand as well, wishing he could see it against your skin instead of his own. the end of the video is messy and hasty that he doesn’t even think much as he sends it, but it’s not even halfway through the video before you’re sending a simple “please come back, now.” and his heart jumps in his chest.

gojo simply shoots a quick text to geto, asking him to help him pack his things because he will definitely not be returning.

you’re so glad you don’t have any more classes for the day, too, because all you can think about now is satoru and his cock, blessed again with the sight of him losing himself in pleasure except now, he knew. your hands aren’t hesitant in reaching down to your core, lingerie already soaked through as you watch the short two minute video over and over as you lazily play with your clit with your eyes trained on his hand. it’s so hypnotising you don’t realise gojo’s already home, standing at your room door with his bulge showing through his pants and sweat lining his brow.

“did you run here?” you sit up, hands covering your chest instinctively. he shakes his head and you remove them.

“you know the bus will take too long, baby.”

you ignore the flutter of your heart and pussy when you know he says the pet name with intent, now, not in a joking or teasing manner. you want to hear it more.

“was that really an accident?”

you’re kneeling on your bed now, and gojo just wants to shut you up and make you take back all your apologies.

“it was!” you counter, not minding how your roommate slips his hand around your waist and is just inches from you, “but…”

gojo never truly loses his personality even when he’s hot and bothered, “but what, princess?”

that’s new.

you grin at his chivalry even when you’ve got your chest all vulnerable like this: he’s trying to break you with his eyes, the one thing that led you to choose baby blue in the first place. you win when his eyes flit down to your tits.

“but you still ended up sending me a video of you jerking off — hardly any decorum, huh, satoru?”

gojo rolls his eyes, hands trailing up your body and coming to rest at your boobs, “yeah. but you love it.”

that’s all he says before he dips down and takes a nipple into his mouth, leaving your hands to tangle in his hair as your back arches to give him more space. he’s so hungry, swirling his tongue around your hardened bud as he kneads the other, eyes occasionally meeting yours from your chest.

“d’you like the vid?” his speech is muffled.

“like it? i loved it—” a soft moan leaves you, “didn’t know you were such a sub, though.”

gojo laughs into your skin and you’re obsessed with the feeling, challenging him when he reaches your eyes again with a glint in his eyes.

“oh, you’re in for it, baby.” gojo grins, capturing your lips and feeling so free now that everything’s out in the open. he’s finally able to feel your lips on his, so soft and slow, making him go crazy from such a simple gesture. gojo pushes you gently onto your bed, kissing down your exposed body before coming to your pelvis, playing with the hem of the underwear.

“gotta thank this little guy for solving our problems.”

“please do not call my lingerie ‘little guy’,” you giggle, letting him remove the garment and you preen at the praise he gives your pussy.

“s’wet… is this all for me?” gojo shamelessly inhales your essence, the sight of him between your legs enough to make anyone cum.

“yeah…” it’s a whisper when you say it, breathless and impatient yet loving the way he treats you. “i get wet only for you, ‘toru.”

gojo moans at that, eyes rolling back momentarily before his mouth descends on your pussy and you think you can hear a brief hymn of hallelujah. he savours your cunt slowly, licking lazy stripes up and down your pussy and your moans match them — soft, drawn out — hands playing seamlessly with his hair. gojo’s startling baby blues meet you for a second and he smiles softly before he places a kiss to your clit.

a twitch, and satoru fully shows his expertise in the next second, eating you out like he was a starved man and you were the last meal on earth. your roommate sucks on your clit, groaning into your core as he feels your thighs close in around his head and your heels dig into his back. he switches easily to your hole, driving his tongue into the leaking entrance and his nose starts to nudge at your nub.

“satoru— s-shit!” your moans increase in volume, hands pulling harshly at his locks. “feel s’good—”

“yeah?” he speaks into your cunt, slurping up your juices time and time again until his jaw aches. your pussy just tastes so sweet that it’s got him grinding into the bed, too, relieving his cock with desperation. “was made just to eat you out, sweetness.”

“doing so well— are you close?” it was difficult to hold on when satoru was talking to you like that and devouring you so good, thumb now playing with your folds while his tongue focuses primarily on your clit again. he flicks at it and his eyes look at you for your answer, merely nodding pathetically as his abuse on your cunt is relentless. gojo would love to memorise the way you clench around his thumb, but he’s too fixated on your whines before you cum with a cry of his name.

“o—oh fuck— ‘t-toru! oh my goddd…” his mouth never stops moving even when your thighs tremble around his head and your body convulses, clit throbbing in his mouth and your mewls reaching the highest heavens.

gojo grins into your cunt, making sure you watch him as he collects all your juices onto his tongue, giving your pussy one last satisfied lick before he sits up, making quick work of his pants and he shows you how to not have one ounce of decorum like you commented on earlier—

because as he pumps the cock you saw just minutes ago, you tongue darts out to lick your lips unknowingly. as he drags the tip along your folds, you’re spreading your legs wider for him. as he slaps his cock along your cunt, your hips are moving on their own accord to feel more of him.

“filthy girl,” gojo leans in to your face, “talkin’ bout me having decorum. you should see yourself.”

you laugh, bringing him in for a brief kiss. you liked that you still could banter in times like this.

“i’ll admit i never had it, so it would b-be—” gojo slips just the tip in and you’re cut off, a choked whimper leaving you, “hypocritical to criticise you.”

“ya think?” gojo wiggles his hips gently, sinking into you and the squeeze of your cunt around his cock is too perfect, too tight. his own whines leave him as he eases inch by inch into you before you’re confessing.

“y’know after seeing you jerk off that day— f-fuck, in your room,” you mumble, wrapping your legs around his middle that causes him to moan, “i wanted nothing more than to help you clean up, cum and all.”

gojo chuckles breathlessly, you two have been pining for months? but he recovers just as quickly, bottoming out with a loud sigh. he lets your hands travel over his face, holding it in your palms.

“y-yeah? why didn’t you?”

“wasn’t sure if you liked me—” a whine cuts through your words as he takes the first slam into you.

“i’ll make sure you know how much i like you, baby, ‘kay?” gojo manages to get out before his hips moves into you, no longer able to hold conversation with the way your cunt sucks him in. he’s determined now, to show you how someone like you had a hold on him so strong that he was willing to pick up dirty clothes and take time out of his day to collect groceries. it’s not long before your roommate is able to pick up a pace, loving the way you trap him with your legs as his hips piston in and out of you.

the room is so much more stuffy, now, filled with the scent of sweat and sex as his pelvis meets your ass in timed thrusts. it was so filthy, too, cum from your previous orgasm aiding him as lube and sticking to his pubes from how much you were dripping.

“y-yeah— fuck me like how you’ve been wanting to, ‘toru—” you mumble out softly, already drunk on his cock. you swear you can feel the veins and his cockhead twitch at that, the sounds of the other filling your ears.

“you take me so, so well, baby,” gojo praises, face buried in your neck as he gives you kisses there, mind blank except for how you’re so wet that your arousal is spurting everywhere each time he comes up to the hilt in you, “taking my cock and squeezing me s’good.”

little pants leave you at the affirmations, and like always, gojo is a fast learner, already knowing your sweet spots when a hand sneaks down to rub at your clit. the circles go in time with his thrusts, and before then, you’re jerking in his arms, nails scratching at his back as your pussy spasms on his cock. gojo groans into your skin, hips still ramming into you before the clench of your cunt prompts him to cum as well.

“right there— s-shit!” you’re moaning when you can feel his cum seeping into you, the exact thing you’re imagining feeling even better as he loads you up, but you don’t have time to react when gojo flips you over. a quick glance to his face tells you he’s intoxicated on your pussy, pressing down on your arch.

“can you handle— another load— baby?” it comes out in between his thrusts, the way he begs to cum in you again and you’re never one to deny when you’ve wanted this for the longest time. you let satoru use you, face buried in the sheets below you while his thrusts start to turn sloppy. he’s not giving one fuck that he’s cummed the fastest he’s ever done before and how he’s going to do it again, but it’s inevitable when he’s got your cunt wrapped around him.

“y— yes, satoru— want you to fill me up, p-please—” it all overloads him: the way his cock disappears into your hole, the residual cum from earlier sticking to your ass and his pelvis, that white ring of semen around the base of his dick, your desperate pleas and cries.

it only takes one stroke of his hand on your clit before you’re cumming so fast again together with him, fingers grasping at the sheets as your pussy flutters around his length and you get his second load in return. it’s so viscous and hot, spilling into your hole. it’s so much, body going limp against satoru’s messy thrusts as he continues to rut into you, stilling finally when he starts to cramp in his thighs.

“attagirl, that’s it, sweetness,” gojo gasps out from behind you, staying locked in you as his cock spurts out the last bits of his cum. he presses a small kiss to your shoulder, asking softly into your skin if you were okay.

“more than okay—” a small mewl is heard when gojo pulls out slowly, sighing to himself upon seeing the way your cunt push out his cum naturally. there’s so much of it, spilling onto the sheets, but before he can take it upon himself to plug two fingers into your entrance, you’re dragging him to lie properly on the bed—

“not done?” your roommate laughs, a hand playing with your neck and the hickeys he’s left there.

you shake your head, noting how satoru’s cock is still sensitive when your hand closes around it, and you finally can see gojo in all of his glory when your tongue kitten licks at his tip and a shiver travels through his body. his hooded eyes and the buck of his hips are all you need to continue.

“i haven’t told you how much i like you, ‘toru. should i show you now?”

somewhere on your dresser, there’s several messages from your girls, but you’re too preoccupied with satoru’s cock in your mouth to notice — ah, well, you’d update them later.

[6:23pm, operation get (y/n) a partner]: photo attached (4)

@(y/n) girl where is your pic !!!! show us that cute baby blue lingerie pleaseee!!

[gghostwriter]

The Language of Flowers

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: Spencer prepares a personalized gift for his first date with you Trope: Fluff! Just fluff! w.c: 1.02k a/n: It’s been a while and I’ve been very much under the weather lately but I wanted to finally let this out of my drafts to make way for new ideas! Not proofread. Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated! masterlist

Spencer could feel his calloused fingers shaking from the weight of making a mistake that would put him back to square one. He had been hunched over his dining table since the ungodly hour of five am—grateful it wasn’t a work day. He wanted to get this right. 

No, he needed to get this right. 

There was a sheen of perspiration that started to cover the crevices of his tightly wound body making him briefly wonder if this was what bomb squad members felt when faced with the choice of cutting between a blue and red wire.But instead of wires, he was cutting papers with such precision that only a Doctor would have during surgery. 

A single bead of sweat made its torturous way down from his temple to his chin, hanging on the precipice as if threatening to leave its’ teardrop mark on the colorful sheets scattered around the table.

He sighed, uncurling his hunched form, as the back of his palm wiped away the built-up sweat, eyes roving the crafted perfection laid in front of him. 

When the concept formed in his expansive brain, he had entered research mode on which specialized papers would be best and, with the help of Garcia’s complied instructions via the web, he had started test run a week before this very special day. 

Everything had to go right—be perfect for his very first date, one of the many, he hoped, with you. 

The grandfather clock tucked between his bookshelves chimed—a quarter past four. He jumped from his musings, hurriedly rushing to change into his carefully selected outfit, all the while muttering a series of affirmations under his breath to ease his nerves. 

He never thought he’d ever get the chance to ask you out. When he first ran into you, literally, you had this magnetic pull to his very being, as if you were his very source of gravity on Earth rather than Earth itself. 

It was unlike anything he experienced before and if Spencer had to describe a best representation of smitten at first sight, it would be that exact moment when he spilled his coffee on you and you, head thrown back, laughing before flashing a sweet, saccharine smile that made him tongue-tied and bumbling. 

That was a few years ago and you’ve been a constant figure in his life ever since—always lovely and radiant and him, always pining for a future he thought could never be.

He spritzed himself with the perfume you’ve gifted, peppermint and cedar wood, before grabbing his personalized gift to commemorate the first date. 

An origami bouquet of purple Morning Glory.

———

“Hi,” you opened the apartment door. There was a hint of breathlessness behind your words—an effect of your ceaselessly pacing while waiting for him to arrive. 

“You look beautiful,” he dazedly whispered, cheeks coloring a shade of bright red. “I—uhm, these are for you—” he conjured the bouquet behind his back.

You gasped, warmth blossoming from your chest. “For me?”

He nodded. “You love flowers but you—” he cleared his throat. “—mentioned you get sad when they wilt so I made you eternal flowers. Is, is that alright?”

The corners of your gloss painted lips lifting up to a smile. The same exact one that got him hooked from the first look.

Your lack of reply did little to ease his trepidation, causing him to ramble. “Uh, they’re these flower called ‘Morning Glory’ and they signify affection and new beginnings. They’re also one of your birth flowers—September and actually in Chinese folklore, they represent ‘a single day for lovers to meet’ not that we’re lovers, yet I mean, at all but yeah—they remind of you.”

“That’s so sweet of you, Spence,” you step away from the entrance to let him in. “Why don’t you come on in, I’ll just place them on a vase.”

He shuffled inside after you, taking in the warmth and life your apartment evoked. The sunlight streaming in through the thin, almost translucent white curtains that light the place with softness. The precariously stacked books, half of the authors he had never heard of, beside your worn out beige sofa and a lively green plant that threatens to grow out of its pottery.

Everything felt homely.

Every piece reflected you.

“Sorry it looks a little bit messy right now,” you rambled on, placing the origami bouquets on top of the living room table—effectively making it into a center piece.

He shook his head and laughed. “No, no. It looks lived in, homely.”

“That’s good to hear. So—” you rocked back and forth on your heels. “Should we get going?” 

“Yeah,” he opened the door and gestured with his arm. “Ladies first.” 

The hallway was filled with giggles and shy glances as you went ahead and locked the apartment behind you. Life felt surreal ever since you uttered the word ‘yes’ to his ramblings on going out on weekend market date. He briefly wondered if he had to clarify his invitation as a ‘date’ between two individuals that would like to broaden their relationship and not as a ‘date’ between two platonic people. But your cheeks turned this candy pink in color before your sweet voice spelled out that it will be a romantic one and, in which case, he vigorously nodded. 

“So,” you started.

“So,” he mimicked.

You laughed before slowly moving your hand towards his. The backs of your palms gently rubbing against each other, creating friction that sent his beating heart into overdrive. You bit your gloss pillowy lips before intertwining your pinky with his. 

“I’m glad you asked me out,” you breathed out. 

He tried to steady his breath, all of his fingers now intertwining with yours. “I’m glad you said yes.”

“As if I could ever say no.” 

And when he let go of your hand to help you get in his vintage faded blue car, he reached out over the console to tangle it back together, finding the solace and comfort that he had hopefully and finally, found his forevermore partner. 

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[theemporium]

[22k] in attempt to bridge the decades old rivalry between the two gangs, a marriage of alliance is proposed between the new jersey devils and the new york rangers. the last thing you expected was to find yourself offered on a silver platter to your enemies. and you certainly didn't expect your future husband to be the likes of the devils leader himself, nico hischier.

new jersey mob masterlist || nhl mob masterlist

warning: this is a mob au. topics and themes such as violence, blood, murder and gun use are prevalent and constant throughout the fic. please keep that in mind if you choose to proceed with this fic and the whole series.

read part one here

.

It was chaos the second you walked through the door.

You had never seen the house in such a state: orders being yelled out, people pushing past each other, guns and weapons being loaded onto belts and into bags, screams so loud they were basically incoherent. 

Somewhere in the mess, Nico had taken your hand and refused to let go. You couldn’t find it in yourself to pull away just yet either. 

He tugged you through the bustling crowd of people, pulling you towards a large dining room in the back of the house—the one used for the weekly family dinners—when the incoherent screams began to make sense. You could hear each of their voices so clear, so distinct, so angry. 

It made something in your own chest tighten and twist into something ugly.

Jesper was the first one to notice you both. Or maybe he was the only one willing to tear his eyes away from the heart-stopping sight in the middle of the room. 

You had seen Jack in many states. You had seen him in his usual everyday, bubbly and loud moods where he was charming and sweet and a little sassy. You had seen him drunk and clingy and throwing himself around like he was unstoppable. You had seen him silent and angry and huffy when things didn’t go his way, when he messed up or didn’t do something up to his personal standards. 

You had seen him so many ways and yet, nothing could have prepared you for the sight of him now. 

He looked dead. 

There was no other way to put it, no way to sugarcoat it. He was laying out on the dining table they used for family dinners: his face was black and bruised and cut up, his clothes were ripped and wrecked, his shirt was practically nonexistent and giving you a clear view of his torso. 

It was shredded. 

You had seen men die in a million different ways, fast and slow and easy and torturous. You had seen men on the brink of their life, begging and pleading and praying to a god that wasn’t watching over them. You had seen men beg for mercy. You had seen men so arrogant they could barely finish their sentence before the bullet was put through their head. 

But you had never seen something like this—or maybe you had never seen someone you care about like this.

There were large gashes spanning across his stomach. They were huge and deep and gruesome to look at. And it was bloody. So bloody. So much blood seeping out of his wounds and staining his skin, his clothes, the table, the wood. 

Everything. 

And his body was unresponsive. His eyes were closed. His skin was pale. 

And he looked dead. 

Jack Hughes looked dead and it made you queasy. 

It hadn’t even clicked to you where the screams were coming from, or rather who they were coming from before you heard Jesper talking.

“They can’t do anything to help him until he moves,” Jesper rasped, something quite like fear lacing his words as he spoke. “Nico, he’s freaking out and he’s—”

“I’m not leaving! I-I can’t! He can’t leave me!” 

Your eyes snapped over Jesper’s shoulder, finally spotting Luke being held back by Kurtis and Kevin with sombre looks on their faces. He was thrashing against their hold, angry and worried and upset. For the first time since you met the boy, it hit you just how young he really looked when his emotions really took over. 

“Get him out of here,” Nico hissed, short and snappy but the concern could still be heard. 

“We can’t,” Jesper repeated, exasperated. “We tried—” 

“Let me,” you spoke up, not even waiting for a response from the two boys before you headed straight towards Luke and the others.  

“He can’t be dead,” Luke yelled, his voice raspy and broken. “He—He can’t!” 

“Luke,” Kurtis tried, squeezing the boy’s shoulder. “They need to—” 

“He’s not allowed to die!” Luke pleaded, his voice almost sounding like a choked out sob. “He…we…he can’t!”

“And he won’t,” you said in a firm voice, even if the words tasted like battery acid on your tongue. “He won’t die if you let them help, Luke.”

His eyes snapped away from Jack, away from his dying brother on the table, to look at you and it broke your heart. It broke your heart to see the fear and anguish and misery, a haunted look in his eyes that you couldn’t quite understand but shattered the pieces of your heart into dust regardless. 

“I can’t do this alone,” he whispered, no longer tugging against the hands pulling him back as he stared at you with a hopeless expression. “I don’t want to do this without him.”

“You won’t,” you said it like a promise. 

Luke shook his head, his eyes red and glossy from tears. “You don’t know that—”

“I do,” you interrupted. “I do know that. It’s scary, I know. But you’re not alone and neither is Jack. The doctors are going to do everything they can, Luke.” 

A small ‘ooft’ left your lips as the boy stumbled forward, as his body fell into yours and you caught him as best you could, letting him press his face against your shoulder and let the fight leave his body. 

“Let’s give them space, okay?” You whispered, just loud enough for him to hear.

“Stay with me?” 

“Of course,” you murmured, squeezing him tighter. 

…

You had spent almost every day with Luke Hughes for the better part of the last four months.

You had seen the younger child charm in him, the slightly awkward but endearing allure that captivated a part of you. You never had any siblings, destined to be the only child your parents had, but you liked to think in another world you had a younger sibling quite like Luke: one that was good-natured and irritating and sassy and witty. 

You liked to think that in this world, in this lifetime where you met under unwanted circumstances, that he was more than the boy appointed to be your bodyguard under Nico’s command.

Even from day one, he had never seemed like the young, obedient henchman following the instructions given to him by his boss in an eager attempt to please him. He became a friend, even if it took him a few weeks of wiggling his way into your life until you accepted it. You cared for him more than you ever cared for the younger boys back in New York that made feeble attempts to get on your good side to get an in with Jacob.

You had been denying a lot of emotions and feelings and truths to yourself over the last few weeks and Luke was one of them. You cared for the younger boy. You saw him as a friend, as a brother even. It hurt when he was upset with you, ignoring you for a few days. 

And it hurt seeing him now, so broken and hopeless and a shell of the boy who was usually finding new ways to get under your skin. 

“He’s all I have left,” Luke murmured, his cheek squished against the pillow beneath his head. “I know the Devils are a family but—”

“I know,” you assured him before the guilt of his words could swallow him whole. “He’s your brother. No one is judging you.” 

“I should be beside him,” Luke rasped. 

“What Jack needs right now is the doctors,” you murmured, pushing some curls away from his face and watching his eyes flutter shut. “And you need to rest.” 

His eyes snapped open. “I can’t—”

“You will,” you said with a pointed look. “You can stay here. If he wakes up, I’ll wake you up.” 

Luke swallowed. “Promise?” 

“Promise,” you said with a soft smile.

“You’re a good person, Rogue,” he whispered as he slumped back down against the pillow, no longer fighting the exhaustion. 

“Yeah, you too, kid,” you said fondly. 

You didn’t move from your spot until the boy had fallen asleep, his breaths slowing and his face looking a little more peaceful as he rested. And even then, you remained for a little longer just in case. It was only once you were sure Luke was asleep and okay that you moved to stand up, throwing a blanket over him before you snuck out of your own bedroom. 

You almost jumped out of your skin when you turned around to find Nico leaning against the opposite wall, waiting for you. 

“Sorry,” he shot you a sheepish smile. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“I didn’t expect anyone to be outside,” you admitted, slumping against the door as you mirrored his smile. “How’s Jack?” 

“He’s gonna be okay,” Nico said, and you felt the relief hit you like a truck. Even if you hadn’t wanted to admit it out loud (especially around Luke), you were terrified of the other outcome, that Luke would wake up to his brother gone. “Probably won’t be happy he will be stuck on bedrest for a few weeks.”

You snorted, despite yourself. “He will be bummed but at least he will be alive.”

“How’s Luke?” Nico asked, a crease between his brows as he tried—and failed—to hide his concern. 

“He’ll be okay too,” you said with a soft but sad smile. “I know Jack is his brother but…god, seeing him like that was heartbreaking.” 

“Thank you,” Nico murmured, watching as your face morphed into one of confusion before he nodded towards your bedroom. “For what you did for him.” 

“You don’t have to thank me for that,” you said, the emotions of the last hour or so finally catching up on you as you tried to ease the suffocating feeling around your throat. “I always wanted a roommate,” you added, though the joke fell flat. 

Nico frowned. 

“Sorry,” you winced a little. “I was just going to sleep on the floor anyways—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Nico quickly intercepted. “You can sleep in my room.”

You paused, raising your brows. “I thought that wasn’t until we were married.”

His lips twitched. “We can make some exceptions.” 

…

The second you stepped into his room, you almost wanted to laugh. 

Maybe it was the rush of emotions or maybe it was the fact that after four months, some things about Nico Hischier were so predictable to you and his bedroom was one of them. It had dark wooden floors and matching furniture. It was black silk sheets and a door that led off to a walk-in wardrobe where you could almost imagine all his suits neatly hung up. It was fit for a mob boss. 

And then there were the things that did genuinely catch you by surprise. 

The bookshelves stocked with a variety of titles you both recognised and had never heard of before. Trinkets dotted around the room like small reminders. Photo frames holding pictures that almost made him seem like a normal person, like he was just some twenty-something year old who wanted to decorate his space with sweet memories. 

It was just another one of those things that made your chest tighten. 

You had been staring at a photo on his dresser—one of him, Jonas and Timo grinning shamelessly at the camera whilst they sat in some bar—when you heard the man let out a sigh. He was slumped against the edge of his bed, running a hand through his hair and almost looking out of place in his casual wear from the picnic. 

And he looked exhausted. Dejected. Crushed. 

Your feet were moving before you could stop yourself, before you could second-guess your actions. 

Nico lifted his head as you stood in front of him, his legs spreading a little wider as you stood between them and replaced his hand with your own. His eyes fluttered shut, enjoying the feeling for a few moments before you spoke. 

“Jack and Luke will be fine,” you murmured, nails lightly scratching against his scalp as he let out a deep sigh.

“I know,” he swallowed harshly. “I just worry. They have been through so much and today could have been avoided and—”

You lightly tugged on his hair for him to continue. 

Nico looked contemplative before he spoke. “Did Luke ever tell you about Quinn?”

Your brows furrowed together. “Who’s Quinn?” 

“He was Jack and Luke’s oldest brother,” Nico said, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

You blinked. “Was as in…?”

“Dead,” Nico confirmed with a nod. “They used to live in Toronto. They got into some shit with some bad people up there but Quinn never made it out alive. Jack and Luke were lucky to make it to New Jersey.” 

“Oh my god,” you breathed out, the realisation hitting you like a punch in the gut. His freakout went beyond just caring about his brother, it was about potentially losing his second brother. “How old were they when—”

“Luke was thirteen or so,” Nico said with a blank face. “Jack turned sixteen a week after it happened.”

“Fuck,” you swore. 

“Yeah,” he flashed you a sad smile. “Fuck indeed.” 

You frowned. “They came to New Jersey alone?” 

“I remember the day I first met them so clearly,” Nico murmured, swallowing back the thickness in the back of his throat that made it hard to mutter out the words. “They were so young and hopeless and—” He paused for a moment. “I promised myself I would never let them feel like that again. I know what this world is like and I know it’s impossible to put that on myself but I never wanted to see them or any of the others look like that again. And that was exactly what I saw in Luke today.” 

“Nico,” you whispered softly.

“M’sorry,” he huffed out, tucking his head down as he let out a sad, pitiful laugh. “You just spent the last hour comforting Luke, you don’t need to do this again.” 

“You care about them so much,” you murmured as you tugged his head back, as his chin rested on your stomach as he looked up at you. “And you put so much pressure on yourself to be the one they can lean on. But you need someone who takes care of you too.”

“I like taking care of them,” he whispered, soft and honest. “I like taking care of you. The Devils are my family and it’s my job to look after them, to be the one they can always rely on.” 

“Let me be that to you,” you whispered back, your thumb lightly stroking against his cheek. “You don’t have to do this alone.” 

He leaned into your touch. “This is enough. This is all I need.” 

And it felt hard to ignore when he whispered those words to you. It felt hard to push down the feelings you had been having for the last few weeks, to ignore what you think you had known for a while but couldn’t quite admit to yourself. It felt hard to ignore the truth. 

You lowered your hands until both hands were cupping his face in your palms, your eyes meeting his warm gaze, your body trapped between his legs. It was close but not close enough and you never wanted to leave the twisted embrace. 

It took less than a second before you leaned down to press your lips against his. 

In an instant, Nico’s arms were winding around your thighs and tugging you closer. He kissed back like it was instinctive, like he had been waiting for the moment to approach. He kissed you like he loved you, in a way you had never experienced before. He kissed you like you had the rest of your life ahead of you to live off of these kisses. And you found that you really wanted that.

“I want to marry you,” you whispered, watching his expression change with the admission. “I don’t care about the wedding. I don’t care about finding the perfect venue or getting the most expensive flowers or any of it. I just want you. I just want to marry you.”

Your thumb pressed against the dip of his dimple as he smiled at you. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you nodded. 

His hands gripped your thighs, tightening his hold. “God, if I knew all it would take was one kiss, I would have made a move sooner.”

You snorted, trying to push him back but he just pulled you closer. “Shut up.” 

“I’ve been waiting for you to catch up,” he added, but there was something affectionate in his voice.

“We may have been a little unconventional in the way we got here but I mean it,” you said, your palms still holding his face. “I want to marry you, Nico.”

“I can’t wait to marry you, baby.”

…

You weren’t shocked to find Luke already in the room, sitting by Jack’s bed where you had expected him to be since he woke up the following morning.

You were shocked to find that Jack was already awake.

If you were being completely honest, he didn’t look much better than when you last saw him, bleeding out on the dining table. But he was awake. His eyes were open, there was somehow still a smile on his face—even if it was a little tender—and he was talking, which was more than you were expecting to see. 

He had been the one to spot you by the door first, flashing you a somewhat sheepish smile as he nodded you to come in. 

“Found time in your schedule to see lil’ old me? I’m honoured.” 

You shook your head, though it was almost fond. “Good to see they didn’t break your sense of humour.”

“Gonna need to do more than almost kill me for that,” he joked, the words leaving his mouth before he even realised. 

Your eyes instantly snapped towards Luke. There was a mixed expression on his face, one you couldn’t quite figure out but it was giving you the same overbearing need to hold him in your arms like you had done the previous night. 

“Too soon,” Luke grumbled.

“Sorry,” Jack murmured, his eyes softening as he reached for his little brother, as he took his hand and gave it a soft squeeze. Like a reassurance that he was still there.

“Well, there will be no more attempts because Nico has put you on bedrest indefinitely,” you quickly chimed in, crossing the room to stand by where Luke sat. 

Jack’s jaw dropped. “What? No fucking way.” 

“Yes fucking way,” you snapped back, giving the boy a look. “You’re out, Hughes.”

“This is unfair,” Jack huffed, leaning back against his pillows and trying to hide his wince as he did so.

“It took us twenty minutes to get you to sit up,” Luke deadpanned. “For once in your life, listen to Nico.” 

“Whatever,” Jack huffed. “I get jumped out of nowhere and yet, I am punished for it.”

“Nico is already on it,” you told the boy. 

“If this is just going to be the same argument, I’m gonna go get breakfast,” Luke muttered as he stood up from his seat, wincing a little as he stretched his legs. “Do you want anything?” 

You shook your head. “I already grabbed something with Nico earlier.”

Luke shot you a curious look but didn’t say anything before he left the room. His brother, on the other hand, was less than subtle. In fact, he was just downright blunt. 

“Since when did you and Nico become so close?” Jack retorted, the pout long gone and replaced with a smile that oddly resembled the Cheshire Cat. “Anything you want to tell me?” 

“He’s my fiancé,” you retorted. “I am bound to be close to him, aren’t I?” 

“Oh, he so wore the white tank in front of you,” Jack snorted, only to wince a little afterwards. And yet, his injuries didn’t stop him from being a meddling gossip. “Did his plan to make you love him back finally work? Am I finally free from his two hour rants about which cufflinks you’d notice?” 

You rolled your eyes. “Rest, Jack.” There was a small pause before you continued. “I’m happy you’re okay.”

His face softened. “Thank you for looking after Luke for me.”

“Anytime,” you murmured, giving him a soft smile. You hesitated for a moment before you reached out, squeezing his hand the way he had done with Luke earlier. “For both of you.” 

Jack didn’t say anything but he nodded like he understood and, for now, that was more than enough for you. 

…

It was the following Sunday when you received the call from Jacob Trouba.

It was ironic how much could change in a short space of time. Just a few months ago you were cursing his name for not reaching out after you stepped out of that meeting room, spent nights almost wishing he would finally reach out. The alliance was about bringing the Devils and Rangers together, and yet you just felt iced out from your previous life.

And now? 

Now, you were staring at his name on your phone screen and you felt…indifferent. The feelings of awe, admiration and respect you once held for the leader of the Rangers was now gone, replaced with a sort of irritance that left a crawling sensation under your skin. 

You waited three rings before you finally answered the call, lifting the phone to your ear with the oddest desire to hang up and end the call already. But you were curious and you knew he would never speak first.

“Calling on God’s day,” you mused. “This must be important.”

“It’s nice to hear your voice, Rogue.”

“Surprised you remember my name at all,” you snapped back, your fingers tracing over the spines of the books on Nico’s bookshelves. Despite the fact your room was now free, you had spent every day since in his room. You didn’t see that changing any time soon. 

“Don’t be like that.”

You knew he was goading for a reaction. You could imagine the scene so clearly with him sitting in his office, leaning back in his chair with a knowing smirk on his face. You almost rolled your eyes at the thought.

“Is there a reason you’ve phoned me?” You asked, straightforward and blunt. 

“Always so straight to the point. I’ve always liked that about you.” 

This time you did roll your eyes. “Jacob.” 

“Oh, c’mon, baby.” Your jaw clenched a little at the nickname, your stomach twisting in disgust at the word leaving anyone else’s mouth but Nico’s. “Don’t tell me you’ve become all stuck up and boring over there.”

“I thought I wasn’t your problem anymore,” you chimed, fingers fiddling with some random trinket as you spoke. 

“I’ll always care about you, Rogue.” 

“So you called to be sentimental?” You deadpanned. 

“I apologise for wanting to catch up with my best girl.” 

“Not your girl,” you gritted out. “Never have been, Trouba.”

“Oh, Trouba now? Guess Hischier has really gotten into that head of yours. It’s fine, you’ll snap out of it when you come back home.”

You froze, your brows furrowing together. “Excuse me?” 

“I am breaking the alliance. The deal is off the table. You’re coming back to New York.” 

You scoffed. “No, I’m not.” 

“I do not permit you to marry him anymore.” 

“I don’t give a fuck what you permit me to do,” you bit back, your irritance growing into something more angry. “You can’t just break the alliance, Jacob, you signed a contract. You both signed—”

“I don’t give two shits about the contract or the alliance or any of it. I expect you back in New York by Wednesday.” 

You laughed, dry and unamused and severely pissed off. “Jersey is my home now.” 

“So that’s it? After everything I do for you, and this is what I get in return?” 

“Oh, cry me a river,” you retorted. 

“Fine. Stay with the fucking rats.” 

“You’re the one breaking the alliance!” 

“And your future husband is the one that sent his pretty boy sniffing around my territory!” 

Your jaw clenched. “It was you who attacked Jack?” 

“Yes. A shame the bastard is alive. But that’s what I get for sending a couple of idiots to do the job.” 

“And you’re responsible for just Jack?” You questioned, something quite like dread and anticipation swirling in your stomach. 

“I look forward to seeing you crawling back to me, Rogue. I bet you look pretty on all fours.” 

The line went dead before he finished his sentence. 

…

The click of your heels were frantic as you approached Nico’s study. 

You hadn’t bothered knocking, pushing the door open with the words ready on the tip of your tongue, only to find a handful of people already in the room. You froze for a moment, taking in their various expressions of concern, annoyance and contemplation. Your shoulders practically sagged in relief when your gaze caught Nico’s.

“You already know.” 

He nodded in response. 

“How?” 

“The shredded alliance contract left burning at the front door was telling enough,” Nico answered with a frown. 

“Fuck,” you muttered. 

“He has someone working for him,” Nico continued. “Someone feeding him information. From Candy to the warehouses to Jack. Someone was telling him everything and we didn’t even fucking know.” 

“What?” You shook your head, stepping into the room and closing the door behind you. You were in his circle for years, someone he trusted, someone he confided in. You would have known about a spy in one of the Rangers’ biggest enemy territories, especially long before he was contemplating the alliance. “No, that’s not possible. I don’t know how he—”

“Do you not?” Timo questioned. 

You blinked. “What?”

“Do you not know how?” Timo continued, something written across his expression that you couldn’t quite work out. “You’re close to Trouba, no? One of his lackeys?”

Your eyes narrowed. “Are you insinuating something?” 

“Does a duck quack?” He retorted.

“Enough,” Nico interrupted, his lips turned downwards. “We don’t know for sure who—”

“Jacob Trouba is practically flaunting around New York that he gutted Jack,” Jesper chimed in. “He has someone he trusts—someone we trust too—whispering in his ear.” 

“And you think it’s me?” You spluttered out, your shock clearly written across your face. “Are you fucking serious?” 

“I am just pointing out the facts,” Jesper responded.

“I wasn’t even here when half of the attacks happened,” you retorted. “I didn’t even know I was coming here until that day in the meeting room.”

“So you say,” Timo muttered, eyes narrowed. 

“I have spent every day for the last four months here,” you gritted out through clenched teeth. “What do you think I was doing? Sending carrier pigeons to Trouba?” 

“You have a phone,” Timo pointed out.

You let out a humourless laugh, throwing the phone towards the boy as he effortlessly caught it. “Check it if you’re so sure.”

“We are wasting time,” John spoke up, having stayed mostly silent as he stood by the desk, brooding as he usually did. “And arguing is getting us nowhere.” 

“Wherever he is leading you, it will be a trap,” you pointed out, ignoring the glares some of the boys were sending you and, instead, focusing on the one man you could rely on. “Nico, please. I know him. I know how his head works.” 

Nico’s jaw clenched, a pained look in his eyes that made your heart twist in discomfort. But it was his words that cut through you, leaving it a little harder to breathe as he spoke with a blank face.

“Maybe it’s best if you stay behind.”

“You think I’m the rat?” You whispered, your voice cracking despite your attempts to keep it even.

He couldn’t bring himself to look you in the eye after that.

…

“Not you too.” 

Luke didn’t say anything, staring blankly at the wall in front of him.

“Are you serious?”

Luke remained silent.

“I don’t need a fucking babysitter,” you muttered under your breath as you threw the book down on the bed beside you, a failed attempt to distract yourself from the sick feeling in your stomach when you thought about what Nico was going to walk in to. “They need the fucking babysitter! They are the ones walking straight into a trap!”

Luke still remained silent.

“Do not fucking do this now,” you grumbled as you pushed yourself to stand up, rounding the bed and walking towards the boy. You almost scoffed as he moved just as quick, stepping in front of the door, blocking your way out. “You don’t seriously believe I’m the rat?” 

“I am just following orders,” Luke stated.

“Luke,” you stood in front of him, your hands on your hips. “Do not fucking play with me right now. We spent every fucking waking moment together, do you really think I would do any of that?”

His eyes snapped down to you, a conflicted expression painted on his face. 

“Do you really think I would do that to Jack?” You continued, your voice a little softer and you watched as the boy swallowed harshly.

“No,” he rasped, his voice rough but honest. “But there is a rat. Someone did do that to Jack and I—”

“I know,” you murmured, winding your arms around his torso. It didn’t take much for the boy to return the hug, to find comfort in your embrace. “We will find them. I promise. And I will personally let you be the one to give them what they deserve. But we need to help the others first before Trouba gets to them.” 

“How can I help?” 

You pulled back, a somewhat sheepish expression on your face. “Depends. How well do your puppy dog eyes work on Jack?” 

…

“Absolutely not.”

“Jack—”

“Nuh uh. Not happening.” 

“Dude, come on—”

“It’s bad enough that I am stuck in this bed whilst everyone else gets to go have fun,” Jack huffed, though the pile of pillows surrounding him did little to help sell the angry expression on his face. “I am not giving you my baby on top of everything else.” 

You shot him a look. “You boys and your motor toys.”

Jack blanched. “She is not just a toy, she is—”

“A motorcycle,” Luke intercepted, shooting his brother an apologetic look.

His eyes narrowed. “Why can’t you just take one of the cars?” 

Your gaze wandered to the floor, slightly sheepish as you shrugged. “I can’t drive stick.” 

“Luke can.”

“Luke isn’t coming.”

“Wait, what?” Luke snapped his head around to look at you. “Yes, I am. You’re not going in alone.” 

“It is bad enough that the rest of them are already there,” you bit out. “I am not letting you risk yourself too. You saw what he did to Jack.”

“I was caught off guard,” Jack grumbled.

“I am going alone and I am not arguing about this,” you said, hands on your hips as you waited for the boy to do the exact opposite and start arguing with you. 

And just like clockwork, he did.

“How the hell am I supposed to help from here?” Luke questioned, a crease forming between his brows and the beginnings of the classic upset Hughes’ pout starting to show. “Jack is the injured one, I am completely fine!”

“Stop reminding me,” Jack sighed deeply.

“You can help from here,” you stated. 

Luke shot you a look. “How?” 

“I don’t care how you do it and I don’t care what lies you have to tell but get on that phone and get the others back as fast as you can,” you said, your face remaining serious. “Nico wouldn’t have taken them all. They are probably waiting somewhere as back up. Call them and get them back here. Lie, bribe, blackmail—do whatever.” 

Jack blinked. “You really think it’s that bad?” 

“I think killing them would be too easy for Trouba,” you said honestly. “I think there is a bigger picture we are not seeing and tonight is not the night to figure out what that is. At least not under Trouba’s discretion.” 

Luke stared at you for a few moments. “Fine. But stay safe or whatever.”

You smiled, playfully patting his cheek. “Don’t worry about me, kid. I can handle myself.”

…

“So, she was right.” 

Nico slowly turned his head to look at Timo who was on the chair next to him, his arms and legs tied tightly just like his were. He shot the other man a look, his face remaining blank and unimpressed. 

“Got yourself quite a wife there, Boss. Smart lady,” he continued, flashing Nico a slightly strained smile. 

“Your ability to act like we aren’t completely fucked is admirable,” Jonas deadpanned from his spot on the other side of Nico. “On the off chance we get out of here alive—”

“Which we probably won’t,” Timo supplied. 

“—Nico will kill you for that comment alone,” Jonas finished.

“I wouldn’t,” Nico spoke up. “I would let her.”

Jonas snorted. 

Timo nodded. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

“As endearing as this whole moment is,” another voice spoke up from the other side of the room. “You are really making me regret not bringing gags with me.” 

“Kinky,” Timo mused. 

Nico shot him another look. 

“My bad for trying to make our last moments enjoyable,” Timo huffed.

“Would be enjoyable if the ropes weren’t tied so badly,” Jonas grumbled. 

“God,” Jacob growled, pushing himself off the desk and walking towards where the three of them were currently stationed. “I don’t know how that little bitch could stand you for months. Thirty minutes and I don’t know if I want to put a bullet through your heads or mine.” 

Nico’s jaw clenched. “Watch your mouth.” 

“Aw, touched a nerve?” Jacob smiled as he closed the distance, crouching down a little so he was face to face with the Devils’ boss. “Possessive over your wannabe wife, Hischier?”

“Keep her out of this,” Nico growled, his teeth gritted. 

“Hm, it’s cute you think you have any power here,” Jacob commented, his next movement a flash of blurred colours. It wasn’t until the pain erupted in his nose and he could feel the blood starting to drip down his face that he realised Jacob had smacked him with the handle of his gun. “Don’t make me muzzle you like a fucking mutt.” 

“Bite me, Trouba,” Nico snapped back. 

“He might be into that,” Timo murmured.

“Dude,” Jonas hissed. 

Nico let out another groan, his head snapping to the side as Jacob pistol-whipped him once again. 

“Hey!” Timo exclaimed, the legs of his chair scuffling against the floor as he tried to fight against the restraints. 

“You were annoying me,” Jacob said with a shrug as he stood back up. “And his pretty face annoys me.” 

Nico lifted his head, spitting the blood pooling inside his mouth in Jacob’s direction before flashing him a smile. “You think I’m pretty?”

Jacob shot him a blank look. 

“My wife thinks I’m pretty too,” he continued, something almost sadistic written across his face. “Remind me, did she ever think you were pretty?” 

“I think,” Jacob began, the telltale click of the safety lock being removed echoing through the empty office space. “I’m sick and tired of having your lot become such a problem for me.” 

“Yeah, I could really tell from that alliance you signed,” Nico deadpanned. 

Jacob let out a dry laugh. “There is no honest man in this life, Hischier. You’re a naive bastard if you believe anyone other than yourself.” 

“He does know contracts are legally binding, right?” Timo muttered. 

“Yeah, because everything we do is so legal,” Jonas drawled, unamused.

“Why sign it?” Nico questioned, his eyes trained on the man in front of him. 

“It was fun messing with you,” Jacob said with a shrug.

“Bullshit,” Timo snorted. “You just laid back for four months for fun? Yeah, sure.” 

Nico glanced at his friend before returning his gaze to Jacob. He noted the way his jaw clenched, his eye twitching a little in frustration. He tried—and failed—not to take pleasure in the small signs of annoyance. 

“Because the plan didn’t work out the way you intended,” Nico guessed, and assuming from the small, irritated huff Jacob let out, he was right. “Because you had to hold back and work out some things but, like a petulant child, you ran out of patience. That’s why the attack on Jack was so messy. You threw caution out the window.”

“You seem far too interested in the fine details for a man in your position, Hischier,” Jacob grumbled. 

“Call it a dead man’s curiosity,” Nico retorted with a smile.

“Speaking of death,” Timo piped up. “You are keeping us alive for a surprisingly long time.” 

“Because he needs something from us,” Nico assumed.

“You think you’re so smart,” Jacob hissed. 

“Well, he knows how to tie a better knot,” Jonas grumbled under his breath.

Nico shot him a look, only for Jonas to shrug in response. 

“I’m just saying, you can tell he doesn’t do the dirty work.” Jonas added.

Jacob looked unimpressed. “I don’t typically lower myself to dirty work.”

“How noble,” Timo snorted.

“What are you waiting for?” Nico poked, his eyes narrowing a little with determination. “Why keep us alive? One bullet through my head and you would have everything you want. But you’re hesitating.” 

“You done with your conspiracies?” Jacob bit back.

“Whatever it is you want, you’re not going to get it,” Nico told him, so sure of himself. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Jacob responded.

Nico shrugged as best he could in his restraints. “I would.” 

…

As a Ranger, you were one of Jacob’s top enforcers. 

It was the unexpected factor that made you effective. The others were tall or buff or intimidating, but you were able to get away with a lot more—call it taking advantage of the inherent and ridiculous misogyny within the mob life. 

But your effectiveness and skill was the exact reason why Jacob Trouba trusted you, why he let you in on the private meetings, why he kept you so close within his circle. It was also one of the main reasons why the initial arranged marriage caught you off guard. 

You weren’t made for marriages of alliance, you were made for this.

The forty-eight floor office building in Lower Manhattan was an abandoned project that failed extensive safety acts but was too expensive for the city to knock down—in the books. Off the books, it was a grey area the police tended to look away from and not prod too much. It was the perfect place for someone like Trouba—who controlled the majority of the crime and underground businesses in New York, who didn’t like any more eyes on him than he allowed. 

It was a building you were familiar with, one you had spent many days and nights in for the years you stood in Trouba’s circle. You knew the ins and outs, the various corridors to sneak around and hide. You knew the exact rooms where the screams and pleas of a man would be deaf to the bustling city outside. You knew which floors were reserved for the kind of things people with weak stomachs tended to avoid. 

And, for the first time ever in your life, you stepped into the building with a sense of dread lingering over your head. 

Every time you had ever stepped into this building, you were indifferent. You were there to complete a job and you always did so. You never hesitated or second-guessed yourself. You went in, you did your job and you left. 

Because never once had there ever been the life of someone you cared about on the line—never once had you ever feared you wouldn’t be able to save someone’s life, rather than being the one to end it. 

And yet, the mere idea of walking into one of these rooms and finding out you were too late was eating you alive as you made your way in through the side entrance, trying not to take the lack of men stationed around the building as a sign that you weren’t fast enough. 

At least, it was eating you alive until you were distracted by your phone buzzing in your pocket.

“You better have a good fucking reason to be calling me right now.” 

“First of all, that was rude. I am bed-ridden and lonely. You could at least say hi.” 

You rolled your eyes. 

“And second of all, I wanted to make sure my baby is okay.” 

“Your motorcycle is fine, Jack,” you deadpanned. 

“One scratch on her and we are going to have problems.”

“However will I escape your wrath when you are bound to your bed?” You questioned, the sarcasm dripping from your words as you made your way through the corridors—one hand holding your phone and the other clutching your gun. 

“That was also rude.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes again. “Why did you call, Jack?” 

“Well, there’s good news and bad news.”

You paused for a moment, straightening your back. “Good news?”

“We got everyone back. Jesper is a little pissed. John is really pissed but that is on Luke for lying about—”

You quickly interrupted. “And the bad news?” 

“Timo and Jonas are with Nico, so you are now on a three man rescue mission—”

“Which would have been easier if you let me come,” Luke yelled from somewhere in the background.

“And he is waiting for someone. Supposedly. We are assuming whoever the rat is.” 

Your brows furrowed together. “How can you be so sure it’s them?” 

“According to the dude Kurtis bet up for some information, Trouba has been sending money to the rat for months. Today was meant to be the day they met, and supposedly Nico was the price they demanded.”

“He doesn't even know who his rat is?” You scoffed. “I’m assuming there’s no real name attached to the account.” 

“Unless you know a Barbra Parker who lives in Brooklyn and attends weekly zumba classes for senior citizens and sometimes attends church when she wants to gossip, then no. We have no name and no more clues towards whoever Trouba has been paying.” 

You let out a sigh. “Great.”

“On the bright side, Jesper did admit he was wrong for accusing you and I got the admission on video for you to blackmail him with.” 

You laughed a little. “Thanks, Jack.”

“We got your back, Rogue. You’re a Devil. But if Nico asks, this was totally my idea and he owes me dinner at that fancy steak place I got banned from three years ago.” 

This time you did roll your eyes before hanging up. 

…

Nico watched as Jacob Trouba paced the room, the nerves emitting from him like a bat signal for weakness as he kept glancing down at his watch. He had never seen such obvious and badly concealed emotions from a man like Trouba, it was almost off-putting to watch if he weren’t trying to work out the little puzzle in his head right now. 

Most of the pieces were there, but there was something glaringly obvious that Nico was missing and it was starting to irritate him.

“It’s actually quite sad to watch,” Timo commented. “He looks like a distressed polar bear.”

Jonas flashed him a confused look. “What?” 

“You know, those videos where the polar bear is in a zoo enclosure and gets really stressed and starts exhibiting weird behaviours?” Timo said, only to receive blank expressions in response. “What? I literally sent you the video a few weeks ago. Assholes.”

“You sent it to me when I was down in Philly,” Jonas retorted.

“Excuses,” Timo huffed. 

“We really need to discuss your hostage conversation topics when we are back,” Nico deadpanned. 

“Hard to have that discussion when you three will be dead in a few hours,” Jacob spoke up, turning to finally look at them for the first time in the last thirty minutes. 

“Seems like you’ve been stood up, Trouba,” Nico assumed, the amusement clear in his voice despite the fact he was the one who was restrained. “It happens to many men, you’re in good company, I’m sure.” 

Jacob clenched his jaw, rounding towards him. “You little—” 

“Watch how you talk about my husband, Trouba.” 

All four pairs of eyes snapped towards the entrance. 

You stood there, your hands holding onto your gun tightly and pointing it directly at your former boss—your former friend—with your finger on the trigger. It was an odd feeling, one you had never really experienced before. Because as much as you wanted to tell yourself you felt indifferent towards Jacob—that maybe even a part of you despised him for the way he treated you over the last four months—there was a louder, more vocal voice in your head reminding you just who he was to you. 

Just who he used to be to you. 

And it was so fucking disorienting. 

Something quite like surprise and elation crossed Jacob’s face. “Rogue.”

“Drop the gun,” you nodded towards the gun in his hand. “Right now.” 

He smiled, his head tilting a little. “You know I’m not going to do that. And I know why you’re really here, you can drop the act.” 

Your eyes narrowed. 

“Not quite on your knees,” he continued, his grin growing when Nico let out a string of curses. “But I knew you’d come back to me.” 

“Your ego is truly astounding,” you mused, your eyes glued on Trouba. You couldn’t look towards Nico. Not right yet. Not until you had dealt with the man in front of you. “Almost as pathetic as your mind games.” 

Jacob cocked an eyebrow. 

“I mean, of all the people to choose as your rat,” you continued, watching as his face dropped a little as the lie passed your lips. “You really thought I wouldn’t find out?”

Jacob huffed out a laugh, dry and a bit tense. “Rogue—”

“Meanwhile, you don’t even know who your rat is,” you added.

His jaw clenched a little. “I do.”

“Do you?” You questioned.

“You were always the smartest one in my ranks,” Jacob mused.

“And yet, you sent me away,” you finished for him. 

“But you came back,” Jacob grinned, as though he had planned this all along, as though he was the mastermind. “Like I always knew you would.” 

“And you need your ears checked because I think I have made myself very clear where I stand,” you gritted out. 

“Don’t tell me you have gone soft for him?” Jacob scoffed,  looking at you in a mix of disbelief and amusement. But when your gun remained pointed at him, he only laughed. “Yeah? You expect me to believe you’re going to do it? Fine then.” 

You watched as his gun moved away from Nico, watched as the barrel of the gun was pointed towards you instead. Something prickled under your skin, your hair standing on the nape of your neck. You have watched that gun in his hands kill so many people and now it was directed at you. 

It felt so wrong and, yet, you didn’t lower your weapon either.

“Is this what you wanted? Some noble showdown to prove yourself to them?” Jacob goaded. “They will never trust you. You will never be one of them, no matter who you marry or who’s dick you suck. You will always be an outsider. You will always be a Ranger.”

Your jaw twitched. “I stopped being a Ranger the second you sold me off like fucking cattle.”

“Rogue, baby, you never stopped as long as I say you haven’t,” Jacob smiled, all-knowing and smug. “Now, put the gun down. The game was cute but it’s getting a bit dull now. You’ve put on your little show, you’ve made your point. It won’t happen again. Scout’s promise.”

You stared at the man for a few moments, stared at the person you once knew so well. “You know the difference between me and you?” 

He raised his brows. “What?”

“You’re far too sentimental over shit that doesn’t ultimately matter anymore,” you said, your finger pressing down on the trigger before you even finished your sentence. 

Jacob let out a pained exclamation, his body falling towards the floor as his hand instantly went to the bullet wound now oozing blood from his thigh. His grip on his gun was still firm but before he could even raise it, you shot him once more on the opposite shoulder, letting his cries of pain bounce through the room. 

“Take this as my one and only mercy, Trouba, for the man you once were to me,” you spoke, blunt and indifferent as you approached the man. Your foot was pining his wrist down, letting you throw his gun towards the other side of the room before you turned back to him. “Next time you even touch a hair on my family’s head, I’ll put a bullet through yours. Remember that.” 

Jacob didn’t even get a chance to reply to your threat before you slammed the handle of your gun against his temple, knocking him out cold as he laid motionless on the ground. 

“Fuck, that was hot.” 

Your head snapped around, finally settling on the three men tied to the chairs in front of you. You took a quick glance over Jonas and Timo, happy to see a limited amount of blood on them before your eyes finally stopped on Nico. It was almost embarrassing the way relief drowned you at the sight of him smiling at you. 

“Fucking hell,” you murmured out, your body moving on autopilot as you stumbled towards him. You took his face in your hands, unbothered about the blood drying on his face as you leaned your forehead against his. “I fucking told you I was right.” 

Nico huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, baby, you did. Should listen to you more often.” 

You smiled a little. “You have time to learn.” 

“All the time in the world, Rogue,” he confirmed, his nose nudging against yours. 

“This is really cute and that was really badass but could you two please stop so she can untie us and we can go home?” Timo spoke up. 

“Please, it’s insulting having these terribly tied knots holding us down,” Jonas added.

You laughed, pulling away to look at the other two with a fond smile. “Yeah, let’s go home.” 

…

“You know, I am pretty sure it’s considered rude to sneak away from the party when the party is for us.” 

“I don’t see you trying very hard to go back to the party.” 

“Well,” Nico said with a heavy sigh, trying to bite back his smile as he let you pull him towards the counter you were currently sitting on. “I am a weak man when it comes to the whims of my beautiful, cunning, scheming wife—” 

You snorted, your arms wrapping around his neck as he stood between your legs. “So dramatic.”

“You still married me though,” Nico grinned, his hands on your thighs as he shamelessly played with the edge of the little white dress you put on for the occasion. “You’re stuck with me, baby. I’m all yours.” 

“What a tragic life sentence,” you mused, your eyes softening a little as you leaned in to press a quick kiss against his lips. “What have I got myself into?” 

“Hm, let’s see,” he started, puffing his cheeks a little before he let out a sigh. “We are basically at war with the Rangers and all their allies, there’s an unknown rat in our ranks that knows we are on their tail and one of my best men is still out of service until further notice. Add in the fact that we have a handful of rocky aliases to strengthen across the country, especially the west coast, and you have a pretty big fucking mess you’re walking into.”

“But it’s something we will solve together,” you said in a determined voice, your hands moving to cup his face so you could stare into his eyes. “Me and you. In sickness and in health and in huge fucking messes.”

His lips twitched. “I don’t remember that in the wedding vows.”

You shrugged. “I’m paraphrasing.” 

He laughed softly as he fisted the material of your skirt in his hands. “There is no one else I would rather have standing by my side, Mrs Hischier.” 

“Good,” you huffed, lifting your chin a little as the mischief shone in your eyes. “Because in the wise words of a smart man I know, you’re stuck with me, baby. I’m all yours.” 

His grin widened. “And that is more than enough for me.” 

Your smile pressed against his as he leaned in to kiss you again, a soft sigh leaving your lips as you sunk into the embrace. The music thumping through the speakers could still be heard, even so far from the actual party, but in the arms of your husband is exactly where you wanted—no, needed—to be. 

You huffed out a small laugh, though you couldn’t find it in yourself to bat his wandering hands away as he squeezed your thighs before tugging you closer to the edge of the counter. You pulled back a little, taking in his flushed cheeks and shining eyes and felt something quite like fondness explode in your chest. 

“I am so in love with you, Nico Hischier,” you whispered, like a soft confession shared just between the two of you. 

“I’m glad you’ve finally caught up, baby,” he whispered back. “It’s about time people know.” 

“Know what?”

But his grin only widened, the love and adoration he held for you so clearly written across his face as he cupped your face in his hands. “That my girl is a Devil, through and through.” 

And as you stared back at him with a similar expression on your face, there were a few things you knew for certain: Nico Hishcier was the leader of the New Jersey Devils, he was a kind and fair man despite the world you lived in, and that you were truly and utterly in love with him.

And you knew that you would stand by his side whatever the world threw at the two of you. 

For better or for worse. 

Until death do you part. 

.

[purple-babygirl]

in the far corner of the forest III

Pairing: Orc!Bucky Barnes x human!f!reader

Word Count: 6,540

Summary: For the longest time, the kingdom has used Bucky as their number one fighter, forcing him to win their wars for them. The only thing he asked for in return after he was done was that they give him a wife, and they did. They handed him the orphan he picked on a silver platter; it wasn't like anyone would miss her. It would've been perfect if she actually wanted to be there though.

Warnings: hand injury, mentions of blood, wound sutures/stitches, angry behaviour, jealousy, fighting, crying, racism against orcs. I think that's all.

A/N: this is the longest part yet because it might take me a while with part 4 depending on how the very important interview i have on the 17th goes. please send me good wishes on the stars if possible i would really appreciate it. And please enjoy this one and let me know what you thought if you can xx💜💜

~

“I got you something, little human,” Bucky said, his tone softer than it was that same afternoon as he scratched the back of his head.

He was new to courting, and it wasn’t exactly normal that he was courting his already-wife. Still, he was doing everything possible.

Bucky’s life has all been about fighting and wars. He didn’t do love or courtship. He didn’t do coddling or romancing. But there was a first time for everything and he was trying his best.

“Thank you,” she replied without looking up, pretending to be focused on folding laundry.

She was ignoring him.

Bucky had let his voice get loud a couple of hours ago after he had found her lost in the forest again. Only this time her foot was already messed up and she needed the rest, but she wouldn’t listen.

It hurt him how much pain she was willing to go through if it meant she could get away from him, but he wouldn’t let it show.

Instead, he yelled in frustration as he brought her back to their cottage.

She seemed like she wouldn’t quit, and so he wasn’t going to quit either.

Despite her constant rejection, Bucky refused to give up, his determination fueled by a newfound sense of purpose. He was willing to endure anything, face anything, if it meant earning even a glimmer of acceptance, or even affection, from her.

“You didn’t even see what I got you,” Bucky tried again, hoping she would at least look at him.

When she did, he gave a tiny smile and walked to the cottage door, bringing something inside.

“Here.” He dragged in a shiny wooden chair and placed it before his on their small dining table.

“You bought me a chair,” she said, pretending to be uninterested to hide the warmth that just spread throughout her heart.

“I made you a chair,” Bucky corrected, proudly palming the smooth wood, swiping his tongue over his tusks.

Bucky knew gifts were an essential part of courting and he didn’t like how she had to eat on the bed while he ate alone on the dining table because he only owned one chair.

He knew his days as a loner were long gone and it made his heart swell that he had her to share his house and life with now.

So he got to work and decided to make her her own chair out of an old oak tree. Being a lumberjack who had a woodworking shop had its perks after all.

It was going to be a weekend surprise, but he thought now was better timing after the fight they just had.

“You— you made this? From scratch?” She stood up in surprise, laundry forgotten for now.

“Yes.”

“For me?” She asked, not able to hide her emotions at the kind gesture anymore.

“Yeah,” Bucky chuckled, taking a step back so she could examine the chair.

She sat down and a big smile found its way on her lips when she looked up at Bucky. The chair was comfy and new and hers.

No one has ever gotten her anything, let alone made her something so beautiful. It was so special and a flood of emotions washed over her at the idea that someone had actually thought of her enough to make her a chair. That Bucky had made her a chair.

“Thank you,” she whispered, breaking eye contact so that she wouldn’t tear up.

Bucky only nodded in reply, internally celebrating the win with his heart doing backflips. She liked the chair.

She stood up and closed the small distance between her and the orc, getting on her tiptoes to press a quick kiss to his cheek, “welcome home.”

She quickly put the clean laundry in its place in the closet and went to the kitchen to start dinner, leaving Bucky with the most idiotic smile on his face as he shifted back and forth on his feet like a teenager.

She was punishing him for yelling at her by not making dinner, but that chair and the effort behind it deserved a good meal.

~

She was cleaning up after dinner later that night when she heard Bucky moving stuff outside. She didn’t pay it much mind; it was his house after all.

“Come outside, little human,” his voice called for her and she tentatively stepped out of the kitchen.

Bucky was standing by the open cottage door, a hopeful smile on his face as he encouragingly nodded for her to come over to him.

She didn’t know what to think, but any chance not to stay cooped up inside the cottage was going to receive a yes from her.

It wasn’t like she was ungrateful. She was certainly thankful she had a roof over her head and warm walls that she could hide inside from the rain and the cold.

But again, her situation wasn’t the most ideal either. If it was up to her, she would have stayed at the orphanage with the rest of the girls because if her fate was drawn for her to be an isolated orc’s wife, she didn’t want to be married.

When she stepped outside, however, marriage and Bucky didn’t seem that bad for a second.

“I thought we could watch the stars now that the sky was clear,” Bucky explained, internally nervous that she might call him ridiculous and refuse to sit with him.

He had waited for a day without rain and laid out a thick blanket on the ground before their cottage, the way lit for her feet by a close by lantern he had put out.

She was enthralled, mouth open and breath stolen. Tears welled up in her eyes, a mixture of joy and disbelief engulfing her.

Bucky has even went as far as bringing out the shawl he had gotten her just in case she felt cold.

It was just like… a date.

Her heart raced and she smiled shyly at the orc, making him smile too as he watched her sit down on the blanket, holding her knees to her as she glanced up at the night sky nervously.

She has never been on a date before in her life, the town’s boys always picking other girls from the orphanage to fool around with, but never her. She was never really anyone’s type.

She slightly shook her head to shut down her insecure thoughts, knowing that none of those player town boys could have ever brought her on a date like this.

“Is the ground too cold?” Bucky asked as he draped her shawl over her shoulders.

She hugged the soft material around her body, smiling gratefully at the orc as she shook her head.

She was too shy to even speak at this point, her mind barely registering the amazingly romantic end to her day that Bucky had brought into existence.

Bucky then laid down on his back, wordlessly urging her to do the same.

She got on her back, eyes mesmerized by the sight of the stars. She has never seen so many before, her view from her room’s window at the orphanage was very limited.

It was different here in the middle of the woods because there were no town lights to take the view away from the sky and it was gorgeous.

“So beautiful,” she whispered with a smile, observing how the stars sparkled above them.

“Yes, the most beautiful,” Bucky whispered back, watching her as she watched the sky.

He wished she could one day look at him the same way she was looking at those stars; the same way he was looking at her.

In his eyes, there was a mix of determination and yearning, reflecting his unwavering commitment to win her heart despite her initial reluctance. Bucky’s gaze lingered on her, drinking in every detail as if he couldn’t believe she was really here, right next to him.

She turned her eyes to him, her shy smile widening, “thank you for this, Bucky.”

Gods, the way she said his name was something else.

“You’re welcome, sweet thing.” Bucky smiled back, turning his eyes back to the sky as to not make her uncomfortable under his stare.

As they silently continued stargazing, she felt her heart become lighter. She felt so serene, so content, and she had suddenly forgiven Bucky for raising his voice at her just hours ago, wanting nothing but for this peacefulness to last for as long as possible.

Was it imaginable for marriage to be this good? Could her life finally be turning around?

She couldn’t help but want to see Bucky in a different light in this very moment.

She knew that he was harsh sometimes, but she also knew that she wasn’t making it easy for him either.

Maybe she didn’t choose him and didn’t choose this marriage, but Bucky was trying with real effort and she wasn’t blind to it.

Bucky cared for her when she was sick. He provided for her. He brought her gifts, filled up her half of the closet for her with anything and everything she could need. And he, most importantly, apologized when he was in the wrong, which wasn’t something common for the human males of this kingdom. He also respected her boundaries and hadn’t tried touching her after their first night together.

Could this all be preparation for the purpose of bedding?

No, it couldn’t be. Bucky didn’t need to do this to get her in his bed. He had already had her there and he had willingly let her go. He could have his way with her anytime if he really wanted to.

She wanted to believe that this moment was real so bad. She wanted to believe that Bucky was trying to win her heart.

So she did.

And if Bucky was trying, she was going to start trying too.

She knew just the thing to do actually.

She was going to make Bucky strawberry jam tomorrow to show him how grateful she was.

She might have not much to offer, but she knew she made the most delicious fruit jams and marmalades. It was her specialty at the orphanage. All the other girls always managed to ruin the jams, adding too much or too little sugar, applying too much heat or not enough, eventually producing something inedible. But not her. No, that was one thing she knew with her whole heart that she was good at.

She might’ve not been the prettiest of the girls, but she deserved a good life and she was now determined to build one. With Bucky.

She wasn’t in love with him, she knew that, but she didn’t need love to have a good marriage. Respect and effort were going to be enough.

This marriage could be her chance at building a life worth living.

“Could you bring home some strawberries tomorrow?”

~

“Oh my gods, this is amazing!” Bucky exclaimed, sliding another spoonful of strawberry jam in his mouth.

“I’m happy you like it,” she replied proudly, a smile plastered on her timid features as she brought a basket of sliced bread to the table.

It felt so good to have someone other than the orphanage girls taste her hand’s making. Receiving Bucky’s praise felt so much different than all the compliments she’s ever received before.

It felt… way better.

“It’s really good, little human.” Bucky was too busy adding jam on the piece of bread in his hand, groaning as he slipped it into his mouth and chewed, “how much of this did you make?”

She laughed, “well, I wanted to start with a small pot because I didn’t know if you liked jam and I didn’t wanna throw out any of it, but we have enough if you finish this and want more!”

“None of this is getting thrown out, little human,” Bucky told her seriously, “I asked because I wanted to take some to Sarah. She has a sweet tooth and she would love this.”

A frown quickly replaced her smile at the mention of another female’s name. She suddenly felt like wanting to take the bowl of jam away from the orc. Hell, she felt like she wanted to get back the jam he had already ate and swallowed.

“Who’s Sarah?” She asked, trying to act nonchalant as she greased her bread with some jam.

“She’s Sam’s sister,” Bucky answered innocently, oblivious to the way she hummed with her jaw clenched.

“And who’s Sam?”

“Oh, right, you don’t know Sam. He’s my best friend; and my partner in the shop. Great guy,” Bucky told her, more interested in the jam than her reaction.

At least Sam was a male.

So just to be clear, Bucky wanted to take the jam she made to his best friend’s sister so she could have a taste and satisfy her sweet tooth? Yeah, she didn’t like that very much.

“Is she, like, married?” She wondered, trying hard not to show her anger.

“Who?” Bucky asked, chewing the bite in his mouth, the foreign question finally gaining his attention.

“Sweet tooth Sarah,” she answered with a somewhat bitter tone that Bucky has never heard before, her thumb swiping under his plump lips before she could stop herself as she harshly wiped away jam from the orc’s face.

The realization as to why her mood had suddenly turned sour made Bucky smile as he hurriedly swallowed his food, “little human,”

She looked up at him with a silent glare.

Despite her efforts to appear unaffected, there was a vulnerability in her eyes, a hint of insecurity betraying her true feelings

“Are you… jealous?”

Bucky’s amused smile made her even angrier as she watched his lips literally twitching.

Jealous? Pfft, of course not! Why would she be jealous!

“No!” She replied aloud defensively, “it was just a question.” She stood up, collecting the plates from the table without asking if Bucky was done eating.

“Hey, that’s mine!” Bucky laughed, holding onto the small bowl of jam.

“Try to save some for your Sarah,” she snapped, snatching her hand from the orc’s as she let him have the bowl.

Bucky raised an eyebrow at her surprising reaction, his widening smile still glued to his face.

She frustratingly sped to the kitchen, violently twisting the water tab open as she rolled her sleeves up and started washing the things in the sink.

She had went through all this trouble and used all of these bowls that she now had to wash just for him to want to take her jam to another female to eat.

Who did he think he was?

It was her fault for trying to do something nice in the first place.

He didn’t even answer her question, and that Sarah was probably unmarried. She was probably an orc too. Yeah, it made sense that Bucky would be attracted to someone similar to him. Those two ‘friends’ were probably part of his clan.

The clan he never introduced her to.

How naive was she to think this marriage could actually work?

Bucky was outside still smiling to himself like a fool as he finished the rest of her sweet jam.

She was jealous. She was jealous over him.

He didn’t want to upset her though, so he didn’t say anything, letting her calm down first.

He took the empty bowl to her, setting it in the sink as she avoided looking at him.

She heard him chuckle as he left the kitchen and it made her punch the sponge in her hand inside the bowl, pounding it angrily as she ‘washed’ it clean.

When she was done cleaning the kitchen and brushing her teeth, she stomped out to the bed, getting in and covering herself from head to toe as she gave Bucky her back.

Bucky walked to the lanterns and dimmed their lights before joining her in bed.

He laid on his back, innocently waiting for his good night’s kiss.

A minute passed. 2 minutes. 5 minutes. The kiss didn’t come.

“Hey,” Bucky whispered as not to startle her in the dark, “we had a deal. Where’s my kiss?” He put a hopeful hand on her shoulder, trying to twist her to face him.

“Have Sarah give you your kiss,” she replied with a deadpan tone, masking her fury as she pushed her pillow over her head, shrugging Bucky’s touch off her body.

Bucky stared at the back turned to him with an open mouth as he took his hand away and laid back, disappointment replacing his surprise and filling him up.

It was the first time since she had started feeling well again that she has refused to give him any of his kisses. Yet, respectful of her feelings, Bucky let her.

Maybe making her jealous wasn’t all that fun after all. But he didn’t even mean to make her jealous, he was just talking!

Bucky sighed, turning on his side as well as he fell asleep staring at the hidden back of her head.

~

The next morning as she put his breakfast on the table, she didn’t sit or eat with him, preferring to scrub the kitchen sink while Bucky ate even though she had just washed it the night before.

She didn’t give him his good morning kiss either; didn’t even speak to him.

She was still mad at him. This was serious for her, he realized.

Bucky might have found it fun last night, but today as she deliberately ignored his existence, he wanted nothing but to make her understand that what was in her head was nothing like the truth.

“Here, I packed jam for your sweet tooth Sarah,” she said harshly as she set a small jar of strawberry jam on the table before him.

“She’s not my—”

“Hope she likes it,” she cut him off, disappearing into the kitchen again.

Bucky sighed aloud, running a hand over his face as he stood up. Grabbing the jam, he took one look at the kitchen entrance before leaving the house for work with a clenched jaw.

She peeked outside when she heard the door shut to see the table empty. Bucky had taken the jar to Sarah.

Oh, that was it.

She could take being given to an orc against her will. She could take never having been chosen or given the chance to choose. She could take not being loved.

But she couldn’t and wouldn’t take being cheated on.

Was that why Bucky had decided to relieve her off her wifely duties in bed? Because he had another female? Was it because he had someone else to keep him warm and wet where he needed to be?

She couldn’t even think about the idea without feeling herself gag.

Why would he ruin her life by bringing her here when he already had that Sarah?!

How could she be so dumb, trying to meet him in the middle like that? Starting a peaceful life with this orc was never going to work!

She tried to pick the lock on the door like she usually would, but the new lock Bucky had put in wouldn’t budge.

She groaned in frustration before hauling herself up and out of the cottage window, running off to gods know where, hoping that luck would be her friend for once and maybe lead her somewhere out of these woods for good this time.

This marriage ends today.

~

Back at the shop, Bucky was as exasperated as they come as he used his chisel to shape the rough piece of wood in his hand.

After everything he was doing, how could she think that he had someone else? What was he doing wrong? What was missing?

Bucky had only ever wanted her. He thought he was the luckiest orc just because he got to fall asleep next to her every night.

How could he make her see that?

As his mind ran with thoughts and before Bucky could stop it, the chisel slipped and sharply cut the inside of his palm.

“Gods, fuck!” He shouted in pain as blood started flowing from the fresh wound.

Bucky tried to get the chisel from the floor so that no one would step on it, but his hand hurt more when he tried to squeeze his fist around the item. He grabbed it with his metal hand instead, rushing to the supply closet to find a clean towel to wrap around his cut.

He couldn’t continue working like that; couldn’t do anything with his hand.

Sam insisted on sending for his sister after seeing the amount of blood staining the cloth around Bucky’s hand.

Sarah tried to be efficient while messily stitching the wound as best as she could, wrapping it up carefully with gauze before advising Bucky to take a few days off work until his hand was healed. She was no doctor but she did her best for her friend.

Bucky thanked both siblings, giving Sarah the jam jar before leaving to go back home as his friends insisted.

He thought that his day couldn’t get any worse, but then he opened the cottage door to find the place empty and he could all but forget about his injury as he slammed his fist against the wall, crying out in anger. If his wound had started bleeding again, Bucky didn’t care.

~

“What the hell did you think you were doing out there again?!”

Bucky was enraged. He had found her wandering around the forest, as lost and as stubborn as ever.

“Getting as far away from you as possible.” She crossed her arms, her stare upset and unbending.

“And going where exactly!” He shouted, the idea of her spending the night inside a cold cave clawing at his back.

“Anywhere but here!” She yelled back, her face so hot she could feel sweat forming on her hairline in the middle of winter.

“It’s going to snow soon! Do you wanna get sick again?” Bucky held her by the arm, not too roughly as he didn’t really want to cause any real damage.

Neither of them noticed his blood staining her clothes.

She was too infuriated to notice Bucky’s hand wrapped in gauze. She saw nothing but red.

“I don’t care. I just don’t wanna be with you!” She retorted, snatching her arm out of his hold and pushing at his chest.

Though he didn’t move, her touch too weak to do anything to his colossal body, Bucky was hurt.

“Are you doing all of this just because of a little jealousy? Gods, human females are just—” Bucky shook his head in frustration.

“Jealousy? Hah! You think I’m jealous?” She faked a laugh, “this is not even a real marriage! What’s there for me to be jealous over?!” She continued raising her voice, the mention of her jealousy provoking her further.

Her words hurt Bucky more, the real gash now slashed across his heart.

Not even a real marriage.

Despite everything he was doing and trying, she still didn’t consider their marriage a real marriage.

“Well, do you wanna make it real, little human?” Bucky growled lowly, bringing her closer to his heaving chest by her arm, painting the sleeve of her dress in more of his blood.

Her heart thrummed in her ears at the proximity, her breath trembling as she imagined what the orc could do to her if he only wanted to.

“Let go of me,” she whispered as tears clouded her vision, hoping he wouldn’t be able to hear how scared she was in her voice.

Bucky complied, hating how nervous she got in the span of a second.

She ran to the kitchen at once, a hand on her chest as she felt her heart trying to escape her ribcage.

What an audacious orc! He was already with someone else and he dared threaten her with taking her to bed?! Damn, she was so stupid to think they could make something good out of this marriage. So stupid.

Bucky took a seat on the bed, face in his metal hand as he tried to gather his thoughts.

He had almost lost her for the millionth time today.

Was it going to be like this forever? What could he do to make it stop? How could he show her that this life with her was all he ever wanted? That he never wanted anybody else?

“You’re not gonna eat with me?” He asked when he saw her slam one bowl of rice on the table.

“I’m not hungry,” she replied curtly, her eyes on the ground and her jaw tense as she waited for him to get off the bed.

Bucky moved away understandably, taking a seat on the dining table instead as she climbed in bed, burying herself under the covers and hiding away from him.

Bucky knew she wasn’t asleep and he needed to talk to her; or at least see her face.

How was he supposed to have an appetite to eat if she wasn’t on the table with him, her beautiful eyes facing him and her shy smile greeting him every time he would moan over the taste of her delicious food?

“Hey.”

She felt the bed dip next to her as it took on Bucky’s body, his warm hand on her shoulder just like last night.

“Let your sweet tooth Sarah give you a kiss,” she spoke before he could say anything.

“This is not about the kiss. And She’s not my Sarah,” Bucky told her, turning her on her back so she could see his sincere face and hopefully believe him, “she’s not my anything. She’s just a good friend.”

She snorted, not buying it as she turned back to face the wall.

Bucky brought her back to him again, “she’s not married. She’s a widow, who is loyal to the memory of her husband, with two kids that are her whole world.” Bucky answered her earlier question, not wanting to hide anything from her.

“That’s none of my business.” She pretended to be uninterested, giving him the cold shoulder for the third time as she turned away, covering her head with the blanket.

Deep inside, she knew she was relieved to know that Sarah wasn’t interested though.

“It is your business,” Bucky sighed, taking the blanket away from her hands, making her look at him again, “it is your business when you think I’m involved with her.”

“You can do whatever you want.” She shrugged, acting indifferent, making Bucky more frustrated.

He released a loud exhale, “you’re what I want, little human.”

She remained silent, not expecting the orc’s patience or this admittance.

He had told her he wanted her before, but that was on their ‘wedding night’ when he had forced her to get completely naked for him.

This one was different. It sounded different and felt different.

“You don’t have to say all these things. We both know how this marriage came to be a thing.” She tried her best to hold her tears in.

“How did it come to be a thing?” Bucky wanted to see inside her head.

“How?” She sat up, her voice loud yet wobbly with emotions, “they gave you an orphaned girl you didn’t get to see or pick beforehand to make up for making you go to war for them, that’s how!” She felt bad for him, but even more for herself.

So she had read the contracts.

“Who told you I didn’t get to see or pick you?” Bucky swallowed.

“What do you mean?!”

“I’ve seen you before, little human. More than once. And I asked for you to be my wife instead of the noble man’s daughter I was originally offered.” Bucky came clean about the truth behind their arranged marriage.

“You what?!” She became even angrier.

He did this? She was here now because of him?!

“I willingly picked you, little human.”

“Why! Why me! Did you ever stop to think that I might not want this? Or you?!” She practically screamed in anger.

Who was he to decide her future for her? Why didn’t he just take the nobleman’s daughter!

“I did. But you were the only human female who has ever caught my attention. I couldn’t take my eyes off you every time I won a glimpse.” Bucky confessed, his light grey skin gaining a tint at the cheeks as he bared his heart to her, “I knew I couldn’t continue if I didn’t have you, little human.”

Won a glimpse

Couldn’t continue if I didn’t have you

No one has ever used such words to describe an act so normal as looking at her. No one had ever wanted or needed her. Why was her heartbeat speeding up? What was that orc doing to her?

“The minute you entered my cottage, you became my one and only. I don’t want anyone but you.” He promised, squeezing her smaller hand in his, “I will live and die loyal to you, little human.”

She knew he was telling the truth because she had heard the stories. Loyalty was very important to orcs and their mates were for life.

She just stared at Bucky, words stolen from her throat by the way he was looking at her.

No one has ever looked at her like that. Like she was the most beautiful thing they could see. Like she was the only girl in the world. Like she was the only one with any sort of control over this orc’s mind and heart.

“When I suggested gifting Sarah some jam, I was only thinking of doing something nice for a friend.”

She listened with a frown, a little angry again at the mention of the other female’s name.

“If it wasn’t for Sam and Sarah and the boys, I wouldn’t have survived a lot of things. They are my only friends and the only ones I can share nice things with.”

“The only ones?” She pouted, turning her face to the dining table in discontent.

“That’s not what I meant! I just— I’m not used to saying such things, but—” Bucky took a deep breath, squeezing her smaller hand closer, “I was so proud of you being my wife and knowing how to make such delicious things that I wanted the important ones in my life to share it with me…”

Bucky didn’t have to know, but those words were everything to her because when she thought about it, no one has ever been proud to know or have her. No one has ever been proud of her for anything.

But Bucky was, and he wanted to show her off.

When she looked back at the orc, he was staring at the blanket covering her thighs, doubtful to meet her gaze.

Bucky looked… nervous, if you will.

She smiled, eyes tearing up despite herself as she waited for him to look back at her.

When he did, Bucky was instantly smiling back at the sight of her grin. That smile was the whole world for him; it sent him up on cloud nine.

“Have dinner with me?” He asked, his metal thumb wiping away a stray tear from the corner of her eye.

She nodded, her smile bigger as she got up and walked to the kitchen to make herself a plate, her heart going a hundred miles per minute as she couldn’t make her smile leave her face.

She wanted to be angrier over the fact that he got to choose and she didn’t, but then again, if she was being honest with herself, she probably could have never dreamt up a husband as good as Bucky was to her if she tried.

She believed that everything happened for a reason and she was too dreamy not to imagine that this whole marriage had to happen exactly the way it did just for her to meet this orc, and maybe, against all odds, have her happy ending with him.

Taking the lid off of the rice pot, she finally saw it: her palm covered in fresh blood.

“Oh gods!” She quickly washed her hand under the water, seeing and feeling no injuries, the realization that it must be Bucky’s blood sent a pang to her chest.

“Bucky?” Tears blurred her vision as she found the orc in the bathroom, trying and failing to remove the wrapping around his right palm with his left one.

She had been forced into this marriage, a union she never agreed to, but as she watched him struggle to tend to his wound, something inside her softened.

How did she not notice that he had come home with a covered up hand?

“Are you okay?!” Bucky asked, troubled to see her crying even when he was the one bleeding above his bathroom sink.

Her heart clenched at the sight; at the care in his cerulean eyes, “what happened to you?”

She sped up to get the first-aid box from him, getting out everything she was going to need as she looked at his bloody palm.

“It’s nothing, sweet thing,” Bucky told her softly, hating the look of anxiety on her precious face even if it was for him; even if it was making him feel all sorts of things, “just a scratch, really. Nothing I can’t handle”.

She tenderly finished unwrapping his hand, gasping as she saw the bleeding gash across it, “this doesn’t look like nothing!” She cried, more tears streaming down her face, “how did you get this?”

“I just hurt myself while working…” Bucky’s metal hand hesitantly pat her shoulder.

“Bucky.” She looked up at him, not believing that that was the only reason because the wound seemed to be loosely stitched and it was obvious that something had happened to make the wound bleed after it had been stitched.

“And I might have punched the wall when I came home and didn’t find you,” Bucky mumbled lowly, not wanting to make her feel bad.

It was just a silly scrape compared to what he had to endure back when he was still fighting wars, really.

“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed into the back of her hand, feeling terrible for all the things she has been putting him through ever since she came here.

“Hey, I’m okay.” Bucky’s metal hand cupped her cheek, his smooth thumb sliding across to wipe her tears.

“No, you’re not.” She shook her head in deep regret, not believing that he was still the one reassuring her in such a state.

“I am, I swear on our marriage.” Bucky wiped under her eyes patiently, caring about nothing but her heart carrying no burdens.

She was speechless because did Bucky just use their marriage to swear? Was it really that important to him that he would swear on it?

She didn’t care that this was an arranged marriage in possibly the most twisted of ways, a woman knew love when she encountered it and that orc’s eyes were showing nothing but pure love.

In the middle of her heart’s longing for a person to care about her, she couldn’t bring herself to step on Bucky’s. Trying to calm her down when he was the one injured and dripping blood? Yeah, that was an orc worth trying, caring and staying for.

“I’m— I’m gonna need to redo the stitches, is that okay?” She sniffled, relaxing herself as she wordlessly promised those concerned blue eyes to give them and this marriage her all.

“Yes.” Bucky smiled when he saw her wipe her tears away and the smile she gave him back made his heart soar.

“It might hurt a little, but just for a short bit, okay?”

Bucky nodded, not believing how delicately she was handling his huge hand with her smaller ones.

He was glad she never had to witness him back then or the actually deadly injuries he had had inflicted on him during wars. He wouldn’t have been able to take that look of fear in her eyes after every fight.

“Who did those sloppy stitches anyway?” She wondered in dissatisfaction with the work and Bucky swallowed hard.

She looked at him knowingly when he remained silent, “it was sweet tooth Sarah, wasn’t it?” She asked with half a smile as she started cautiously taking out the old stitches with the tweezers.

“Yes.” Bucky nodded sheepishly, “but Sam only called for her help because they don’t offer me help in the kingdom’s infirmaries.”

“What?!” Her head snapped up angrily.

They don’t offer him service at the infirmaries?! After all that he had done for this kingdom?

“I’m no longer a soldier of their own so…” Bucky shrugged with a sad smile.

Her expression went from angry to devastated to angry again in less than a second, “this is gonna sting a little.” She warned as she disposed of the old sutures in the bin.

“Don’t be upset, little human.”

She looked up, not knowing what to say or how to apologize to the orc about the terrible treatment of this kingdom’s people, but his smile told her that everything was going to be all right. She couldn’t help but smile back.

Her eyes swayed between his palm and his face as she started disinfecting the wound with the piece of sterilized cotton in her hand.

Bucky hissed and winced, making her stop at once.

“I’m sorry! I’m so so—”

“Ha, fooled ya! It’s not that bad,” Bucky laughed, amused at her reaction, instantly earning himself a slap on his shoulder with the back of her hand.

“Hey, you can’t do that to the injured!” Bucky whined playfully.

“Can’t I?” She teased, biting her smile back.

He smiled wider because she could.

Oh, she could do anything to him and he would take it with a smile and thank her for it.

For a heartbeat, the world around Bucky seemed to blur as he focused solely on her, engraving every detail of her smile into his memory. It was a sight he never wanted to forget, a ray of light in the darkness that had clouded his years for so long.

Everything was going to be okay, Bucky thought as he brought her to his chest with his metal arm, praying to the gods she wouldn’t pull away.

“I’m— I’m almost done,” she muttered coyly, trying to make him let her go so she could finish tending to his injury.

But then she felt it: her husband’s tusks were pressing gently on her scalp as Bucky kissed her hair.

Her breath caught in her throat, a mixture of surprise and tenderness washing over her as she felt herself wanting to stay longer inside his embrace.

“Thank you, little human,” he whispered lovingly.

As she tilted her head slightly to meet Bucky’s captivating eyes, she found herself lost in the depths of their oceans, catching a vulnerability she hadn't noticed before.

She looked deeper and she realized that beneath his rugged exterior lied a heart capable of great tenderness, a heart that might just beat for her and her alone.

She beamed again as she softly replied, “you’re welcome, Bucky.”

Yeah, they were going to be okay.

Part IV

~

Tag List:

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[comfortless]

This Time Around

König + fem! house sprite reader

content/warnings: reader wears dresses, König is soft and lonely, pining, comfort & fluff.

notes: @deltrese put the thought of König inheriting a little dollhouse from his grandmother in my head whilst i was watching Arrietty and… yknow. likely not anyones cup of tea but the idea was too cute to not write out eheh. not proofread, apologies! wc: 8.5k.

She survives on drops of honey, dew trickling from the asters springing up along the brick skirt wrapped around the lower level of the house, sips of canned soup and crumbs of bread when he forgets to clean up after a dinner prepared far too late into the night. He’s far from a messy man; he keeps his house in lovely shape, but he’s weary, more tired than any of the mice undergoing torpor she’s crossed paths with in the attic.

In her own way, she’s grown fond of this giant. Not fond enough to reveal herself in full, but she’s polite enough to sweep his crumbs from the table after he’s gone to bed, spend a day patching up an old shirt of his with a tiny thorn and scraps of thread if she notes a tear in the fabric of some ugly, dark thing he wears. She’s always amazed when he notices her busywork, too. The way he will hold the shirt in front of his face with a boyish grin after taking notice of how skillfully it’s been repaired, the way he calls out, “Danke freunden!” in that soft tone of voice that reminds her of a breeze passing through a windchime.

She knows that he doesn’t truly think that anyone else is here at all; that’s just how humans were— silly things. Something strange happens and they’ll try any way that they can to rationalize it or personify whatever may have caused it. König looked the part of a rational man, but her heart seems to swell when he gives away just how superstitious he truly is.

He’s ritualistic in some ways; covers his mouth when he yawns as though fearing that the Devil himself will come scurrying out of his windpipe, the wind chimes he has hanging up on his front porch, even knocking on the wood of the dining room table as he passes through lost in thought about something. She might be, too, because she always whispers her wishes of good favor to him when she knows he’s heading off on some grand adventure in the world outside.

She likes that she can make sure he feels less alone.

The man never has any visitors, and more often than not, he’s away. She likes to imagine he visits beautiful places, climbs mountains she will never in her lifetime see the peaks of, runs his calloused hands over the sharp edges of leaves and plucks dandelions puffed with seeds to blow wishes into. She pictures him having sweet, doting friends, all smiles when he’s around. Though, she is almost certain that the reality is nothing of the sort.

She’s seen him come home with fresh wounds, blood seeping through gauze haphazardly wrapped around his side. She’s seen the look in his eye when he stares blankly at the lifeless wall for what feels like hours, breathing out long sighs as his fingers curl and loosen in repetition at his sides. Regrettably, she’s fretted over the sight of tears welling in his eyes to the extent that she’s almost dared to come out of hiding, to console him just a little.

He’s hurting.

She’s alone too, here. There are others like her, of course. Groups of them cluster in lived-in homes chattering all throughout the night, getting into any mischief their tiny hands can fall upon to prepare. Often times, when a little sprite such as herself chooses a place, the others come flocking, too— making merry, stealing from their humans in ways hardly worthy of a second glance and starting colonies in the rafters, far out of sight.

But no one else will touch this place.

The house is a beautiful thing, meant for a family. There were so many rooms that she had yet to even explore herself. Not a pet in sight to chase after her and swallow her whole. The floors are soft carpet she often beds down in on nights she can feel he won’t be returning, plush and soft and so unused to human traffic. She loves it here, even if her kind do not. She might even understand why, too. It’s so melancholic, haunted by this miserable giant with heavy footfalls and tears perpetually unshed, held back by the grace of quivering hands in a body with too many scars.

She’s tried to count them before, once, whilst he was changing in his room. She wasn’t trying to steal a glimpse of his body, no, she only wanted to see what stories he was hiding, written on flesh. Perched on a bookshelf, she watched the giant as he pulled his shirt over his head, some tight, black cloth that didn’t look cozy at all. He had a cut running from his navel to his chest, a few penny sized keloids along his ribcage. The giant’s body was pale, as though he had never at all caught the eye of the sun, the only thing making him look still-alive and healthy were the layers of muscle across the chest, bunching down to his abdomen.

A pretty sight, undoubtedly for women similar in stature to him, but to her she sees only his fluttering pulse in the vein along his neck, the shaking of hands too large, and those horribly sad eyes that shatter her heart with only a glimpse.

She had nearly been caught then, with her palm splayed out over her chest in open awe and sympathy for this poor, cursed beast. His gaze had snapped over to the appeal of small movement on the shelf only to find nothing at all; she had tucked herself behind a copy of a Ungeduld des Herzens.

That was two months ago.

He had left the following morning, a black duffel bag thrown over his shoulder as he meticulously walked through the home shutting off lights and closing doors. Except… he left two lights on this time; the kitchen and his bedroom were cast in a white glow. She thought, assuredly that the artificial suns in their glass casings will burn out by the time that he returns. She also realized how strange it is that he would do such a thing at all. The man was prone to his habits, and it welled her up with dread to think that perhaps the book hadn’t entirely concealed her shape, that he had seen her peeking out between old pages covered in thin layers of dust.

She occupied her time scrounging around for anything that may have suggested his cerulean eyes had fallen upon her, When a human catches sight, it’s best to leave as though a house sprite had never been there at all; she certainly didn’t care for uprooting from this cozy, quiet life in the presence of a man that she harbored a fluttering, sympathetic heart for.

To her relief, she found nothing of note.

— — —

It was rare for him to be gone this long. She’s lost track of the days after a quaint seventy-three. A decent meal is harder to come by when he isn’t accidentally feeding her; the cabinets and pantry are shut, and there’s absolutely no hope of her small hands prying open the big portal leading to a perpetual winter that humans referred to as a refrigerator. Dew drops, wild strawberries and blackberries get tiresome after a while, and sneaking outside is dangerous, anyway. The birds don’t think her anything more than a bug, something simple to descend upon and scoop into a hungry beak.

She gathers up a thin piece of thread and, after tossing it into the air an innumerable amount of times only to have it land in a heap at her feet, she finally manages to hook it onto one of the knobs of a cabinet where she knows he keeps brightly colored packages of store bought cookies.

Those were for rougher days, always in date because god knows the man probably had never had a day that wasn’t somewhat harrowing. She’s seen him drink jåger and munch cookies while watching the television late into the night more times than she can count.

She pulls the thread tight and takes steps backwards to fling the cabinet door wide open. It takes a lot of effort from her small size, but she prides herself on managing even without a cluster of other sprites to help her along. Her stomach rumbles when the package comes into view and she readily climbs into the cabinet, up a few cans and boxes to reach the second shelf.

The package is opened with careful precision. She’s diligent at emulating the rips and tears she’s seen on similar ones to make it look like an accident occurred on some storage room shelf. Her heart swells in utter delight as the sweet smell of sugar and cinnamon wafts up her nostrils, her mouth watering by the time she pulls one of the baked goods free from its confinement as she seats herself on the thin wooden board of the shelf with the treat in her lap.

It’s when her lips part and she lowers her head to take a bite that her ears prick to the sound of the front door opening. She missed the sounds of the turning lock, likely whilst fussing with the plastic and now… now it’s simply too late for her to haul off her spoils, shimmy down back to the linoleum floor, manage to unthread her makeshift cabinet-door-opener and shut it, leave it as though it had never been touched.

She’s never made a grave error like this. There have been close calls, certainly, but never one that set her off with the alarm of certainty that she would be discovered.

The lock clicks back into place, and there’s the sound of heavy boots being dropped to the floor before soft footfalls could be heard against the plush carpet.

… Headed straight in her direction.

Don’t come in the kitchen. Do not come in in the kitchen!

She finds herself in a tossup between petrified by her own fear and utterly entranced by the idea of being caught. Finally, after years of watching her giant from shadows and covered perches. The idea that he might crush her like a bug or capture her to marvel at like a pet crosses her mind, certainly, but a part of her wants to believe that her fondness for him wouldn’t be entirely unreciprocated.

From her perch, she can see the dark camos, the looming shadow as he trudges into the room only to stop, immediately, when he notices the little door flung wide open. He’s wearing that hood he wears often when he returns, a scrap of bleached fabric with eye holes torn out. She’s taken to stitching it more times than she can count, breathing in the scent of sweat, of strange lingering smoke as she works to fix the threading along the eyeholes. It’s difficult to make out his expression like this, but his blue eyes dart from the open cupboard to the rest of the room before landing back there.

He grunts out a noise of confusion, and she can almost hear his thoughts. He wouldn’t have left it open. The lights had been intentionally left on. That was a sign she had foolishly overlooked.

He takes careful steps toward her, so close now that only the fabric of his tight-fitting trousers filled her view. To her horror, her amazement, his knees bend and he kneels down slowly. This wasn’t the way that things should have went, she should have been more cautious. The hood comes into view all too quickly. Blue eyes widen as they land on her with that big cookie still in her lap.

“Hallo, little one.”

Ohgodohgodohgod.

He’s speaking directly to her. He sees her. He’s not afraid, yet her heart is burning with the icy touch of pure dread.

She clutcheds the pastry tight to her chest, lips pressed into a thin line as she takes a tentative step back into the shadow of the cupboard. So tense, so uncertain. She didn’t want to leave, silently willing him to close his eyes, turn away, forget about the tiny thing he happened upon stealing his food.

Instead, he stares down at her as though he had just found a will to keep living, a reason to stick around despite his bloodied wardrobe and the ever-present loneliness.

“Kleine engel… you are safe, please don’t look at me like that…”

He’s so much kinder than she had ever anticipated, his heart laid bare between the red rings of flesh lining his eyes. Her giant is nothing but gentle, cooing at her in such a quiet voice as though she were a wounded baby bird. Those eyes were filled to the brim with such wonder and hope that she couldn’t turn away now even if he was some rotten carnivorous animal.

“Please don’t look at me.”

The words fall from her lips despite her defenses lowering, shoulders relaxing and her eyes filling with that same look of hope he held.

It’s strange, how someone so massive doesn’t seem to send her scurrying for the hills. He’s huge, but that tenderness in his eyes that makes her feel comforted, reminds her of the gentle lull of streams and the sky filled with puffy clouds like castles in mid-morning.

“Ach… But you are so…”

Tiny, strange, a myriad of words hanging on his tongue, and she feels every one of them with each flutter of her pulse.

“… so pretty. Kleine puppe.”

She drops the cookie at that and it falls to the floor of the shelf with a soft thud that makes her jump in place.

The other sprites have their stories. It’s nice to sit and listen from the comfort of a canopy of grass when another passes through. They speak of the humans that they’ve encountered just as they speak of beasts, keen-eyed cats with sharp claws bared ready to feast upon those like herself. Dangerous things not meant to be associated with. Not one of them has ever mentioned encountering one that looks at them like… this, as though they were something breathtaking, something to be protected.

He huffs out a laugh at her shocked expression, his fingers drumming upon his knees as he watches her.

“I am not a ‘puppe’.”

“A fairy, then?”

She sighs, heavy and exasperated as she sorts out her dress and bends down to retrieve her meal. A pretty thing she had sewn herself from a vintage napkin, blue blossoms and thin lace.

“Are you going… to tell anyone?”

Her giant shakes his head with a laugh, and of course he does— who would he tell?

“I will keep you a secret, puppe.”

“Good, or I’ll curse you!” She warns, trying to puff her chest to seem bigger, more intimidating. She’s too cute to seem anything more than a frightened bunny, and his eyes are swimming in mirth at the sight of her. He’s like a giant child, finding out the fairytales in his books were true all along, only… not the ones about boiling folks like him down to bones to teach a lesson, just the ones where true love and sweet princesses existed.

He asks her a million things in rapid succession then— where she came from, how long she’s been here, what she’s doing, why she never came out before, how she can even exist. They make her head swim and she doesn’t answer a single one. He makes no move to touch her, doesn’t move any more than his nervous fingers and his beautiful eyes. They crease at the outer corners with each wide smile he undoubtedly has beneath that hood and her heart stutters each time like the flapping of little bird wings desperately seeking safe wind to coast in a storm.

She decides that she likes him as she brings herself to sit on the edge of the shelf, nibbling at her cookie whilst he tells her his name, that he works as a soldier— a colonel, sounding prideful despite the fact she has no clue just what that entails. He speaks to her in an energetic whisper, drops his shoulders and lowers himself further as though trying to appear her size, despite the vast disparity between their statures.

“Do you have a place to sleep?” König asks her suddenly, glancing over his shoulder as he looks out towards the den with a pinched brow. It was almost as though he expected a castle fit for her to appear from thin air, white gates and a shimmer of fairy dust surrounding it all.

“The floor is soft… sometimes between the sofa cushions, too. You’ve nearly sat on me before.”

“Nein. That will not do.”

He stands to his feet before she can protest and leaves the room. A part of her still teeters on the edge of running off, escaping before they became too familiar, and yet a more impulsive part wills her to wait as she hears the creak of floorboards beneath his feet whilst his footfalls ascend up into the attic.

She pictures the mice scurrying away in fright, just as she should, while she kicks her feet and waits patiently. The taste of cinnamon and sugar remains on her tongue as she places the remnants of the cookie aside and licks her fingers clean of sweet dust.

König returns a few moments later, a large box cradled in his arms.

“Close your eyes, puppe.”

It doesn’t make sense for her to leave herself vulnerable so soon after their impromptu meeting, and she doesn’t want to, but she does as he asks anyhow with a soft smile on her tiny face. Feels her chest pool with a mixture of excitement and fear as she hears him shuffling about the kitchen, the thump of something heavy being placed on the counter encourages her to flinch. She can hear small objects being set down carefully, the water running from the tap for a moment before the sound of something soft meeting wood fills her ears. It all quiets after a moment and she feels a gentle nudge at her side.

Her eyelids flutter open to see König’s finger gently pressed against her waist, his blue eyes beneath the dark hood fill her vision entirely. He’s so close, too close. As if sensing her apprehension, he raises his head back to look down at her instead.

“It is alright. I have a gift for you.”

König nudges her once more before she realizes that he’s inviting her to climb onto his massive hand. Her breath catches as she glances from the calloused flesh to his eyes and back.

Her kin would scold her severely if they were here, tell her she’s gone too far that there’s no way she will ever come back from this if she accepts. She stinks of human already. That’s how she justifies the way she climbs into his palm with her hands folded into the lap of her dress. His other hand curves around her, not touching, but hovering closely enough to keep her in place as he slowly rises to his full height and carries her over to the counter where he immediately allows her to clamber off before dropping his hands to his sides again.

The sight she’s met with dissolves any lingering fear she had harbored against him.

On the counter sits a wooden dollhouse, painted a lovely shade of blue, the roof a quiet shade of gray. It’s a stately thing, speaking of yesteryear’s Victorian styled homes with its vaulted roof, even a small turret beside the upstairs balcony. Expertly crafted and far too beautiful, perhaps even prettier than König’s empty home. Her eyes are welling with tears as she slowly ascends the three sturdy steps to the front door.

“You like?”

She can’t bring herself to respond immediately. She’s too caught up in this, opening the door with a gentle pull as she wanders into the house. It’s furnished in a hurry, some of the furniture misplaced, but… everything is here, as it would be in a normal, human home. A couch that seemed almost tailored for her size sits beside a little rattan shelf, a small table before it, a little hearth, a full kitchen and upstairs she finds a bedroom complete with a canopy bed. The curtains hanging off of it are blue like the outside, like the floral wallpaper adorning the dollhouse. She tests the bed with a gentle hand, marveling at how soft it was, how the sheets bunch beneath her palm.

Then, she approaches the window in admiration of all of the small details, little etchings of plant life carefully scrawled along the wood. The lock even clicks open as she pushes the little sheet of plastic framed by white to rise.

“It’s perfect,” she chirps out to her giant. “It’s so beautiful…”

“Oma gave it to me when I was a boy.” König’s reply sounds bittersweet, but his eyes are shimmering, as though the fact he had made this small woman so happy had been the height of his year, perhaps even an entire decade of his life. She’s seen him quietly weep to himself long into the night, only a breadth away from him as she tucks herself further into couch. He’s seemed gentle, less of a titan and more battered then, but he’s never seemed this sweet. “And now I am giving it to you.”

— — —

Sleeping in a bed is different. It’s quiet and soft with no worries of getting crushed by a heavy boot or threats of having a presence too large finding out about her existence. Those things do absolutely nothing to lull her to comfort as a dull the throbbing in her chest blossoms and continues all throughout the night ceaselessly. She tucks the blanket a little tighter around herself as she tosses and turns on the small mattress.

Mornings are different now, too. When König wakes, he taps at her front door to pull her from her restless dreaming. He has a ritual, expecting her to come out in one of the dresses from the dollhouse’s wardrobe rather than her scrapped clothing with a small mug and a plate in hand. He gives her a drop or two of coffee and food from whatever breakfast he’s pieced together. Sometimes it’s a cookie from the cabinet. She feels like a contented housepet these days as he leans over the counter to speak to her.

It’s painful how attentive König is. His eyes don’t leave her when she speaks and he consistently asks her if she needs anything, if there is anything that he could do to make her feel more comfortable as if he hasn’t already provided her with refuge and companionship, things she hadn’t even realized she had been longing for. As if he hasn’t already made her feel things for a human that no sprite should! Really, the way he loiters about with the stupid grin plastered across his face while she stumbles out of her abode to greet him does nothing to make the flutter in her chest feel warranted. It’s there no matter how much she turns her head away from him and barks out her warnings of curses and other mischief; gnaws at her every time she hears his laugh or he tells her yet another stupid story of things she knows nothing of.

She listens, anyway, utterly mesmerized when he speaks of rescuing hostages or tearing through men like a rampaging bull. He explains to her what guns are, shows her and lets her run her tiny hands over polished metal. She should think him violent and obscene, but the way he looks at her as though she’s all he has stifles any judgements before they can leave her lips.

It quickly froths to a point that she realizes she’s come down with a terrible crush. She worries for him after hearing his tales each time he steps foot out of the house on another deployment, rushes from whichever corner she’s occupied with hurried little steps to greet him. She lets him carry her around on his shoulder sometimes, even leans over his arm when it’s stationed on the counter just to feel him near.

She knows better, which is why she finds herself skittering through tall grass to seek another of her kind. Hoping for a reminder that she’s making too many mistakes. The trip is a short walk for a human, but takes her from morning to sunset to reach her destination, a narrow alder tree full of knotholes with sprigs of dandelion surrounding it.

“You what?!” Bellis exclaims, the very second she’s managed to spill her story and slump against a ruggedly crafted table within the trunk of the tree. Bellis’ voice was like the chirping of little nightingales, and she looks cute when she’s surprised— the other sprite’s brown eyes twinkle in such a way that it makes her think of stars falling into pools of honey.

“Yes… we spoke,” she huffs, curling her arms around her waist, her face feeling hot and her eyes dreamy. Bellis knows the look well enough, the other sprite has it every time she locks eyes with her wife, another sprite far too pretty. It’s affection, one that she graciously spares her friend from commenting on.

“It’s alright, you know… just be safe.”

“Of course…”

She anticipated some long-winded lecture of dangers, to be beaten by words targeting her own selfish wants.

Instead, Bellis only offers comfort and the hope that her feelings are not a lost cause.

“You aren’t the only one who has ended up falling for their human, you know?”

“I thought we were supposed to avoid them, not dream of them.”

Bellis giggles and drapes an arm over her shoulder as she prattles on about sprites and glamours that could make them bigger. She tells her of a couple only a weeks travels away, a male sprite and a human woman, how he feasts upon wild berries and golden herbs under each new moon to keep himself human-sized day and night for the woman that he loves. Bellis reminds her that the other sprites frown upon it out of fear for their own safety, but she also reminds her that she’s damned to live a life far longer than the object of her affection, anyhow, and that if he already knows of her existence then what’s the harm in it?

Those words fill her with fantasies about a happy life, where she can hold her giant properly in an embrace, rather than wrapping her arms around his thumb to satiate the burning affection running rampant through her.

They also damn her to heartbreak when König returns.

He comes home after two short weeks this time, rather than months and she rushes to greet him as always. König bends down on a knee, scoops her up in his palm and brings her over to the sofa where he sets her on the opposite end from where he sits.

“How was your trip?” She asks him sweetly as she plops down onto the pillowy cushion below, fidgeting with the hem of her dress in excitement. She knows what she knows now, and she truly could not wait to tell him, to give life to the newfound feelings in her chest. She wonders what König would say; would he take her on dates? Would he dance across the room with her as she’s seen sprites in the throes of courtship do before? Would he kiss her? The thought makes her feel warm again.

König, on the other hand seems perfectly composed and lost in thought. His hands are fidgeting, but this time, not with themselves. He’s holding a device she doesn’t recognize, tapping at the little screen with the same look in his eyes that she reserves solely for him.

“It was fine.” He mumbles, and for the first time he doesn’t elaborate. She looks forward to his stories. Time away from him is difficult now. It passes slowly without their morning chatter, without his stories, without the films she watches with him late into the night. He’s taught her to use the remote, sure, but it’s not the same without him towering at her side.

“What is that?”

“A phone.”

She listens intently when he explains what this strange object is, even shows her the bright screen and lets her tap her hand against it a few times as she looks at the shifting colors with wide eyes.

“I visited a friend while you were away.”

He rests his phone in his lap and looks down at her then, his interest piqued.

“There are more like you?”

“Yes, lots.” She giggles. She tells him of Bellis who lives in the alder with her wife, of how her dark hair curls and her voice sounds like the chirping of birds. König pays rapt attention as she speaks, belays his curiosity of the prospect of there being many more like his little housemate with a tilt of his head.

“I made a friend while I was away.” He gestures toward his phone with a smirk. “Pretty, like you, but bigger.”

König explains to her what a ‘dating app’ is with a look of pure glee on his face. She’s never seen him so happy, not even when he first met her. It’s not a concept she can wrap her head around, her kind just happen upon one another, sing and dance and feast together until love blooms between them. There’s no need for little, lighted rectangles when it came to courtship.

“She’s coming to visit soon.” He pauses as his phone lights up again, his eyes scanning over the message on screen as a grin spreads over his thin lips. “I will have to hide you.”

Her face scrunches in disdain at that as she rises to her feet to pad a bit closer to the hill of his thigh, spread over into the next seat. She places her palms against the rough fabric of his pants, looking up at him with an expression of sheer bewilderment.

“But I don’t wanna hide anymore — we are friends.”

The man’s smile falters a bit then, as he nods his head in agreement.

“Ja… but she will be more.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I am taking her on a date.”

König seems so happy, and yet she feels as if she’s being bitten by a viper. All of that talk with Bellis was for naught, because the human man that’s won her heart by telling her of his creature comforts, of war and sharing his meals with her has left her to have his heart stolen away by another.

Despite the way it hurts, she doesn’t find herself upset with him. He isn’t like her, and he’s been alone for far too long. She reminds herself that König deserves to be happy, especially after all that he’s done for her.

She only lets herself cry when he brings her back to the dollhouse and she sinks into the sheets of her bed.

The following morning comes and she wakes feeling refreshed before König even begins his tapping. She bathes in the little plastic tub filled with lukewarm water König had graciously fetched for her the night before from the faucet, clothes herself in one of the many doll dresses found in the little wooden wardrobe of her home. Dainty florals like the wallpaper in the little wooden house, only this time pink rather than blue.

When König taps at her door, she’s already prepared with her tiny mug and plate in hand, a smile on her face.

“Guten morgen, puppe.” He greets her with a lazy grin as he opens his palm to take her dainty kitchenware. His yawn is cute when he turns away to begin filling the liner of the well with coffee grounds. She follows after him across the countertop with hurried steps to match his vast strides.

As he prepares their breakfast, they speak endlessly of dreams, sweet syrupy things. He tells her he dreams of flowers sometimes, like the ones on her dress, and she tells him she dreams of exploring the world outside with him.

“I will carry you to the top of a mountain one day, little one.” König says sweetly as they both sip at their coffee. He doesn’t prepare it black as often anymore, often adding sugar and milk simply because he knows that she likes it better that way.

She tells him she doesn’t need to see the tops of mountains, because she already gets a perfect view when he carries her.

— — —

“I’ll be back later.”

König is dressed strangely, she notes as she watches him from the arm of the couch. He’s dressed casually, more so than she had ever seen him, which is a large statement considering the man normally roamed around his abode in nothing more than a pair of black sweatpants. Tonight, however, he’s chosen a black t-shirt with some text scrawled across it that she can’t quite read and tough denim. It’s an odd sight when she’s grown so accustomed to the bare flesh of his scarred torso and gaudy military camos unsuited for cozy, indoor wear.

The giant crouches to lace up his boots with one hand while the other holds his phone. There’s that smile on his face again, but she easily takes notice of the way his hand shakes with it in his grip. He’s nervous, but never so with her.

It’s strange that he’s more comfortable with a little creature in his home than he is with his own kind.

“Oh… your date,” she murmurs, standing up to her full height, despite how small it may be.

“Ja, my date.”

“Can we watch another movie when you get back?”

König nods his head as he approaches the couch, slipping his phone back into his pocket before gently stroking the top of her head as though she were just a small kitten.

She doesn’t like the fact that he doesn’t see her as anything more than a cute pet any longer. Sprites didn’t keep track of their ages as humans do, celebrating the day they were born into the world with silly parties and gifts, but she would hazard to guess she’s at least a century older, maybe more. This wasn’t her first home, only, in the last she had watched that family wither away to an endless rest.

König was different; she wanted him to stay, thrive, live forever here with her. A selfish, silly wish.

When she leans into his touch, she thinks of the couple Bellis spoke of— a sprite and a human woman. It could be the same for she and König, if only he saw her for what she truly was, what she was capable of being.

“Ja, little one. As many as you like.”

She watches as the door closes behind him with her heart in her throat.

König does not keep her waiting long. If she had to hazard any sort of guess, she would assume that the moon hanging in the sky had barely moved by the time he returns. She hadn’t even left the couch, lying on her back staring up at the ceiling when the front door is flung open.

If it were possible for him to somehow look more pitiable, he does in that moment as he kicks off his boots and rests his phone and keys on the table by the door. She knows without a word exchanged that she should not ask him what’s happened. The broad shoulders were slumped, his face somehow paler. In that moment, her giant seemed even smaller than her.

She sits up and presses the buttons on the remote with her entire hand as König had shown her how to do, loading up some Austrian film he had told her was his favorite when he was just a boy. He offers her a lazy smile as he carefully places himself a respectful distance away and leans back into the couch. The movie plays while she occasionally speaks up to ask him what certain words mean, and he patiently teaches her, seeming thankful for the distraction she eagerly provides.

She doesn’t wake in her small house, in her tiny bed, this time, instead pressed against his thigh with his hand draped over her in the world’s heaviest blanket. When she raises her head up to look at him, peacefully resting with his head tilted against the back of the couch, jaw slack and dark lashes fluttering she makes a firm decision.

The golden herbs and berries Bellis had mentioned were on the far side of the forest. A long, dangerous trek, especially for someone who didn’t know the way. Rousing a mouse to treat as a steed could work, but the urgency caused her to fret. She wanted to meet his gaze and not fear stumbling back with each exhale of his breath, to be strong and capable enough to make her giant somehow feel as safe as he made her feel. There was no time to befriend a mouse and train it proper, not if she intended to do this before the new moon came and went.

She slips from beneath König’s limp palm, off of the sofa and out the small gap in the window to set off.

— — —

The early morning is alive with the chirping of birds, the rustling of leaves and calls of strange animals a distance away when she makes it outdoors. She shields herself beneath a broad fallen leaf, hunkering down to soil any time anything soars or wanders too close for her liking. Morning dew chills her to her bones, and she has herself convinced that after all of this she will most certainly craft herself a coat, perhaps one made out of a sleeve from one of König’s old shirts. He would allow it, she’s certain. The thought of him even wasting a day away to help her fills her up with another warmth to carry on.

Her little dress is filthy before she even makes it out of the yard.

Tall grass quickly morphs into a forested trail, the trees so vast and tall, filled with the chattering and singing of others. She waves to some of them, turns her nose up at a few that beckon her to join their little communes hidden beneath layers of tree bark and moss. She spots a red fox chasing after another in the midst of play, they chitter and whine as they topple over one another before bounding off into the brush.

When the sun completes a lazy crawl high up into the sky, it’s rays of warmth beaming down on to the back of the leaf, warming her fingers as they curl over it to keep it in place, she knows she should stop and rest. Tucked away in the shade of a small mulberry bush, she shoos away a vibrantly colored caterpillar before cleaning off one of the berries with a handkerchief she finds in the pocket of her dress. A small lunch that simply leaves her wishing for König’s breakfasts instead, always warm and filled with moments of soft laughter.

She wonders what he’s spending his time doing now, almost feeling a pang of guilt for leaving him after what had assuredly been a terrible outing with a woman he had admired. Did he miss her? Was he thinking of her, too? Searching through his bookshelf and beneath his couch in an effort to find her? She hoped so.

Her journey ends when night finally comes about. The moon above is a mere sliver, but it’s enough to frame the clusters of goldenrod in a soft, white glow amidst a sea of inky darkness. She cheers in utter delight when she realizes she’s made it, that despite no map or guides her senses were keen enough to carry her on the right path. She carefully gathers a few clippings, dropping them into a neat pile before seeking out the strange berries Bellis had told her about. Her thoughts are flooded by the idea of how she and König will dance, how she will tell him in a voice as loud as his own that she’s fallen head over heels for him and that perhaps, he can even teach her to use one of his many weapons before they clamber onto the couch snug and warm to talk throughout a film.

Those thoughts keep her warm when she beds down in a nest of wild grasses.

The next night fills her with excitement. The sky is darker with the new moon hanging up above, only pinpricks of starlight break through the dark. She pictured herself human sized as she performs her little ritual, feasting on berries and swaying with a sprig of goldenrod in a little dance before she bites down into it to. There are other sprites here, doing the same. Some get bigger to move or for silly things such as being able to shop in human markets or taste meat for the first time. They sing and giggle just as she does, and she sees the face flush with love of the one she knew Bellis had spoken of. It lasts the entire night, and she’s far too excited to sleep or stay out when all is done.

She doesn’t know when she’ll change shape, not having thought to even ask, but the sight of the other sprites had solidified her belief that it would come to pass.

The way back feels far shorter than the way forward. She finds herself back in the yard just as the sky settles into mottled purples and orange and puffy white clouds. The smile on her face makes her cheeks hurt, and her chest and legs ache from exertion, but she treks on until she meets the brick foundation of the house. With and arm raised and a foot dig into the firm clay, she begins to climb up towards the window still left slightly ajar.

Only, she feels a warmth at her side that tosses her back into the grass steps away. It pulls her breath from her lungs and it takes a moment for her to force herself back up into a crouch and her vision to cease its swimming. She’s always found cats to be cute from a distance away, all soft fur and pleasant sounds. The one before her, however seems menacing, its claws are bared and its pupils blown as his mouth hangs open to scent. The orange of its fur is like fire, the yellow of irises like the sun itself.

This thing was going to kill her, she knew it before she even caught sight of the way claws had slashed through the side of her dirty dress leaving shallow gashes in her flesh.

The cat rears back, shifting on its haunches in preparation to pounce as she wails out König’s name in a near-silent prayer that he would come rescue her from this adorable little murderer.

The cat is caught in arms the size of trees mid-leap. It yowls for a moment before a hand gently begins to stroke the fiery fur behind its ears. Her giant coos to the little beast, and the vibration of a soft purr could be heard as she dusts herself off and stands.

“Are you alright, little one?”

His voice is sweet as he carefully sets the cat back into the grass and scoops her up instead. She looks pitiful— dirty, injured and panting as though she’s just escaped Hell itself. König’s expression grows horribly concerned before she can even catch her breath enough to respond.

“I’m okay,” she mumbles as she rests her weary head on the palm that feels more like rough stone than living flesh. “I was only gone for two nights, did you have to get a pet?”

König laughs at that, shaking his head as he takes her back inside the house with metered steps.

“Nein, I did not. He’s the neighbor’s.”

He shuts the door behind him, taking care to ensure the scruffy feline didn’t sneak inside.

“Let’s clean you up, hm?”

The man offers her a human bandage for the scrape along her waist before she wanders into the dollhouse to bathe, dress the wound and change into something less dirty.

After everything, she finds herself utterly exhausted. She tells König good night wishes, but her giant is hellbent on keeping her in his sight. After a close call like that, she doesn’t protest when he tells her they should sleep on the couch again instead. It’s safer, and after two days apart there’s little more that she wants than to be close to him, tucked under his palm eternally safe. König only gets through the start of a story before she’s fallen asleep curled against the side of his thigh. It doesn’t take long for the giant to follow suit, either. His soft snoring is present in her dreaming, a gentle sound accompanying the breeze of wind through a field of lavender where they sit hand-in-hand.

— — —

König does not wake her with gentle tapping the next morning. Instead, it’s a bark of surprise that jolts her from her sleeping. Her vision is blurry when her eyelids flutter. She can make out the view of the coffee table, the television beyond it, and somehow it feels wrong. She was accustomed to straining her neck to look up at things, yet seeing them now she doesn’t need to at all. In fact, it feels stranger when she notes her head is no longer resting on the cushion of the couch below, but on a broad shoulder layered in muscle instead.

König is staring at her as though he’s just encountered a ghoul. In fact, he’s trembling too. His reaction is enough to prompt her to shrink back, away from him and retreat to the arm of the couch. Only, she can’t fit the entirety of herself there as easily as she had many times before. Her legs are much too long, and making her ascent only brings her hands into view. She holds one to her face and marvels at it before her gaze trails down, down and she notices she’s nude. The little dress she had been wearing was no more than a tattered and torn mess on the couch beside König, who’s still gawking at her.

He turns his head away rigidly after a moment while she sits bewildered by her change in shape. The man returns after a beat with a large t-shirt and a pair of his boxers in hand, thrusting them towards her graciously as he keeps his face turned away. She can make out the red tint on his cheeks, the way his lips part only to slam shut when words fail him and she laughs full and giddy as she slips his clothing on and stands up to twirl about the room.

“It worked!”

Her voice sounds strange even to her own ears now. Shouting from her regular stature still resulted in a mere whisper, yet this… along with seeing all she can hear all. Just as he does, she sounds of rustling wind chimes.

She reaches for his hand to pull him along in her rhythmless swaying, and he obliges with a sigh and a shake of his head. König’s grinning, though. Even more so than when he wasted his time tapping away at the phone screen. He looks happier than she’s ever seen him as he clumsily shuffles with her.

“Little one… what did you do?”

He’s still a fair bit bigger than her, but she stands the height she feels as though she should. Her giant is still a giant no matter what silly magic she uses, but it’s fine, because he’s not looking at her as a tiny doll anymore, but in utter amazement instead. The way his pulse races and his pale cheeks burn crimson isn’t lost on her.

She explains to him just what the other sprite told her, tells him about the one she saw so in love with a human woman he did the same each month to keep himself more her size too. König halts her movement as he tugs her against him and pulls her into an embrace, the very thing she’s yearned for since the afternoon they began to speak. She knows he’s confused and entirely confused, but he bends to rest his chin on the crown of her head and squeezes her so tightly that she knows he’s grateful for this small miracle too.

She helps König prepare breakfast this time. Having watched him ready his coffee pot dozens of times by now, she knows how to operate the small, black machine. She prepared the toast too, with a gratuitous sweep of jam over each slice of the warm bread. König is still overly gentle with her, keeping his distance and not resting his hands on her unless it’s required or she prompts it. She does, often intertwine her fingers with his even as they eat, which earns her a shy smile and a gentle squeeze each time. Her giant isn’t nervous with her, their conversations are the same. He tells her that she’s pretty as often as before, cups a steady hand on her shoulder when she reaches out to embrace him after their meal.

She thinks ahead and leads König into the forest to gather a plethora of golden herb and berries to stuff into the winter box for the next time she will need to perform her little ritual, and he swears to her that he will stay up the entire night to watch over her then. The walk is so much shorter from her height now, but she doesn’t forget to tap at Bellis’ alder and flash the sprite a little smile and a wave when König has his back turned on the way back.

He still has his work, and she waits at home for him like a doting housewife. Only now, he returns with gifts. His closet is no longer dark green and black— there are patches of soft colors and whites between, floral fabric and lace, dainty things that seem comical amidst the tactical articles and denims she knows he’s scrubbed blood off of a few too many times.

They don’t share a bed, but they still cuddle against one another on the couch. Hand-in-hand as she’s always dreamt of. In fact, most nights it’s his bed that she sleeps in while he rests elsewhere, and he doesn’t mind it at all. He even tucks her in and presses a kiss to her cheek that makes her so giddy that she can’t find sleep until a half-hour afterwards before he flicks off the lamp and leaves her to her dreaming.

— — —

She’s better at keeping track of time after adjusting to a more domesticated life. König’s been out for fifty-four days, but she doesn’t have to miss him so much. He’s gifted her a phone, sends her letters with his stories scrawled out in black ink. The calls are frequent, and she finds she loves them most of all. They’re at odd hours often, and he always breathes out an apology for having woken her that pulls a giggle from her, because they both know she wouldn’t have preferred to wake any other way than from the sound of his voice.

“I miss you.”

He sounds tired when he says it, and she imagines that he is. Those weary looks from before they had ever even spoken weren’t unwarranted and she knows well enough now. His tales of his heroics were not all spoken to simply boast.

“I miss you too, König.”

He huffs out a laugh into the phone, and she imagines his smile reaching the bright eyes that she loves, twinkling in mirth.

“I should let you sleep.”

“No, it’s fine.” She pauses to chew on her lip, heart sailing up into her throat. “Will you be coming home soon?”

He grunts out his confirmation. “Tomorrow.”

“I wish to take you on a date then— a picnic, maybe. I can bake a cake.”

König falls silent for a moment, and her breathing halts entirely as she slumps back against the bed— his bed— feeling as though she were still just as small as before. Surely… she could not have misread all of those little looks, the warmth and his fluttering pulse she felt as she rested her head on his arm so many times before. She parts her lips to recant her statement, but there’s no need. The contented sigh she hears in response is all of an answer that she needs.

“Ja, please. I would be honored.”

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One Two Three Four Five

What the fuck are you even so happy about? You fucked it up. Jesus you both fucked it up. I didn’t even know something like that could happen.

Eddie smiles at his bedroom ceiling in the dim light, “it was amazing.”

You hugged. Congratulations, you hugged a boy. Eddie can feel Billy roll his eyes.

“You don’t get it.”

There’s nothing to get, because nothing actually happened. Because somehow you both fucked up something as simple as kissing.

Eddie laughs, “you mad Billy? Mad you didn’t get to make out with Harrington?”

Fuck off. I don’t give a shit.

“Uh hu,” Billy is finally quiet. He leaves Eddie alone, lets him grin up at the clean ceiling from his clean new bed, in the room Steve set up for him. Filled with the things Steve went out of his way to save from the old trailer. There’s no beeping here, no hospital smells, he’s warm and comfortable and he’s full of Steve’s casserole and mashed potatoes.

The scent of Steve’s aftershave lingering in his nose, on his cheek.

They were going to kiss, Eddie’s pretty sure they were. They were both so close, heads tilted and eyes wide, but someone twitched wrong, something happened, both of them simultaneously sublimating whatever it was they were doing into a hug instead. Steve’s arms wrapped carefully around Eddie’s middle, conscious of the still healing wounds, his face tucked carefully against Eddie’s neck, ‘never done anything with a guy before.’ The whispered confession from Steve Harrington, the soft lips and sharp stubble against Eddie’s neck.

A confession that means he was going to do something with a guy. Or at least was interested in doing something with a guy, and that guy was, presumably, Eddie.

An incredible turn of events, really.

‘Never done anything with anyone,’ Eddie had whispered back, earning himself a snort of a laugh. God natured though. Happy.

‘We can go slow.’

And Steve had left with a big sappy smile and a dorky little finger tip wave and a promise they would hang out tomorrow.

Eddie sighs. Then grabs a pillow so he can scream into it. And then he’s kind of just grinning, laughing a little, he’s just so fucking happy.

Jesus christ, you fuck ups are actually made for each other.

“I hope so.”

What is this we’re doing now.

Eddie ignores him, sets up his DM shield, his books, his dice. Unpacks his pencils, his notes. Eddie always plays it fast and loose, he’s got a vague plan sure. As long as he knows the plan and the motivations of the bad guys, everything else falls into place pretty easily.

So this is the nerd thing you’ve been planning for.

He wants this one to be good; first game with Will the Wise present, after all. Steve’s in the kitchen, left Eddie to set up the finishing touches. They’re going to hang out and watch a movie once all the kids have gone, and Eddie’s pretty sure he couldn’t have planned a more perfect day if he tried. Steve’s even making them snacks. He’s done something to the dining room table to make it even bigger, unfolding some extra hidden bit of wood to make it longer; wild rich people shit.

The bell tolls; the kids are at the door, and Eddie can’t suppress his joy at having all the kids here together, everyone alive and well. Well, except for Max, which is shitty, but all the kids are going to go and visit her after this, so that’ll be nice for her.

He wants to prance to the front door, leap and skip and play he’s so buzzing with excitement for this, but one single hop is enough for his body to remind him, pretty sharply, that he is absolutely not ready for that sort of nonsense just yet, so he walks instead.

Jesus christ, this kid is a straight up savage.

Lady Applejack stares Eddie down over his DM shield.

Could have done with her against the Mindflayer.

“I’m going to attack.”

Of course she is.

Eddie claps joyously, “everyone roll for initiative.”

Eddie’s standing now, can’t possibly just sit with all this going on, “and that is a hit, his mighty war hammer crashing into your armor with a resounding smack, for one D10 of damage…”

“Dustin,” Mike hisses, “how much health do you even have?”

Dustin shakes his head, worried, but doesn’t answer. Lucas is hanging onto Dustin's shoulder, looking down at Dustin’s character sheet. Eddie’s dice clatters on the table behind the DM shield, Lucas signals ‘five’ to will with his fingers.

The whole table collectively holds it’s breath as Eddie watches his die roll and settle on a nine. “It’s a glancing blow! Your armor must absorb some of the hit as you take four points of damage!”

Eddie, no, don’t lie. Kill the little shit-you're too soft on them.

Will immediately starts on his turn, so excited, “I cast Cure Light Wounds!”

Of course he does.

Why is this taking them so long?

The most simplistic puzzles are the best.

Literally all the have to do is match the colors. I can’t believe how dumb they are.

Eddie does his best to hold in the snort. Doesn’t quite succeed and earns a scathing look from Erica. Yep. They are over thinking it a little.

This is so frustrating, how can you even sit through this.

Watching them struggle is the fun. They’ll get it in a minute.

We’re going to grow old and die here.

They sit and listen to the kids argue a little longer, coming up with wilder and wilder theories on how to solve what is the simplest color match game Eddie could come up with.

Baldie is staring at us.

Don’t call her that, Eddie’s reply is reflexive, but Billy is right. El is watching them.

Eddie isn’t surprised when she lingers. Deliberately makes it so that she’s the last standing on the porch. The boys shot off on their bikes, but El, Mike and the ferocious Lady Applejack are hitching a ride with Nancy.

She waves to him through the wind shield, then turns, talking to Mike.

“Do you talk to him?”

No preamble. Just those big fucking eyes looking up at Eddie. Knowing. A little kid should not look like that.

“Yeah, all the time.” In his mind, Billy is still and quiet. Watching warily.

“Is he alright?”

“He’s still a massive dick, so, I guess so, yeah.”

“Does Max know?”

She cuts right to the heart of it, this kid, “she’s the only one who knows.”

She nods, “for now,” and then leaves, running to get in the car without a care in the world.

She’s terrifying.

I know, fucking great isn’t it?

Part seven

[oh-katsuki]

i love putting characters through hurt and im thinking right now about the "one that got away" trope, particularly in the context of the katy perry song....

katsuki sitting alone in his kitchen. it's well lit, beautiful really. everything a successful pro-hero could ever hope to have, but he can't help but think about the person he'd originally intended to share it with.

all those years ago on his shitty couch in his shitty apartment, you tucked under his arm with a glass of shitty chardonnay that sloshes every time you laugh with your belly. fantasizing about having the type of open living room that would let you see into the kitchen. about an archway with crown-molding, peering into a warmly lit kitchen. no more renting. talking with you about the type of furniture you'd fill the space with. warm dark wood, an antique dining table, bookshelves and not needing to worry about just how much space they take up.

he can't help but think about how he'd decorated it the way you'd talked about. it was unconsciously done, of course and he only really notices it on late nights like these. when he's alone with a cup of steaming tea and takes a moment to remember where he is. katsuki can't help but feel that you'd like the way he decorated his house. like somehow, on some level, he'd done it for you.

of course, that was years ago. 10 maybe? yeah, 10 sounds right. it may be longer, but if it is, katsuki doesn't really want to think about it. just more wasted time.

he tries to be positive about it, about his good standing in life. fame, wealth, power even. he tries to be grateful for the blessings, for the job he loves, the home he finds beautiful, the friends who pulled him out when you left. katsuki tries to move on, to continue forward. but nights like these make the wound fresh. they cut him open a little bit.

it could have been really good, he thinks. if he'd been a little smarter or a little wiser. if he'd ponied up his courage to... be more. pride's a bitch though and it really only leaves you when what matters most already has. but it could have been good. this house could have been good. you could have sat with him, worried about him. he could have taken care of you.

there have been other people. katsuki has tried, he really has. but he's still a bit too stubborn. it only gets worse with age. everyone has a little bit of you in them. something that reminds him of the way things could have been. snippets of someone too far away to reach. yeah, they all have a little bit of you, but they're not you. that's where katuski thinks he's gone wrong.

he has people that never really leave him. that's just who he is. you're one of them, he supposes. in another life, you wouldn't be the one that got away. he'd look in the mirror at his premature gray hairs and instead of being alone, you'd come up next to him and tell him that you've always liked a silver fox. yeah, that sounds about right, like something you would say.

you're probably married now. katsuki can't really bring himself to check, doesn't really want to. no point in mulling it over, he thinks. his tea's getting cold.

[scara-writes]

regress

Knight! Reader x Y! Prince

(gender neutral for readers)

No proofreads. Forgive me for not answering y'all ask/request! I will do them once I'm done publishing the other ocs! (Y'all wilding for yandere gold digger and omega! Lol) this one is short tbh and has another part but I'm unsure about posting it because it was too long. Let me know if you wanna see it.

Warning: hints of death, yandere, psycopath

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

You woke up groaning. Your throat hurts, confused at yourself. You never had a problems with your throat. Always hydrated before going to sleep, So why the hell that it feels like its dry at the same time it's not?

It's kind of like itchy.

You went down the staircase, hearing the bustling sound of your subordinate roommates.

"Captain! You look pretty tired today. Did you perha—woah! What happened to your neck?" One of your members looked shocked, their eyes looking at the said neck. The other members in the room looks at you in confusion before their face was the same as the person who asked you.

You raised your eyebrow at him. "What about it?"

You let your calloused hands caress your neck, feeling if there was out of ordinary. "Can some of you hand me a mirror? I am confused as to why everyone looked shocked right now."

One of your subordinates quickly ran around to find you a mirror. When they found it, they immediately handed it to you.

You look yourself in the mirror. Just like their reaction, you were shock to witness it.

"What... How...?"

"...It looks like a deep wound from one of our melee weapon, specifically a knife. Captain. No wounds can someone survive that!" The person sitting at the dining table said as he observe it."How did you got that?"

You shook your head,"I don't know.... I only woke up feeling my throat feels dry and fine at the same time. Itchy I would say, it doesn't hurt. It feels irritating."

"I think you should consult a physician or a doctor for that."

You trace the scar on your neck. Thoughtful, of where had you gotten this. "... I might."

You strolled up to the palace, not getting any breakfast—even dinner last night—and skipping your schedule to train as forgetting the fact that you are late to see your master, so you immediately went to the palace of your prince. The one you serve in your whole life.

Maids greeting you a good morning, and you greet them back. One of them offered you a sandwich, it looks pretty neat and delicious to eat. Drooling at the thought chewing on it. You tried to refuse but they insisted on giving it to you, seeing you didn't get a breakfast and dinner, you looked a little dizzy for someone who trained to endure without food for months. You accepted it along with a water, thanking them, feeling a little hungry and quickly gobble up the food making your way from hallway to the kitchen with them before anyone can scold you for eating around the halls. Parch from the food, you drank the water from the glass and put them on the sink before going back to your task to check up on your prince. You bid the maids a good bye.

Once you reach the room of your master. You saw there was no lady in waiting nor a butler on his doorway. So you knock on the wood, announcing yourself, waiting for your master's response to let you in.

"(Y-y/n)?" You heard a whimpering voice behind the room. It sounded like he was crying. You asked him if he was alright, but before you could get any answer from him, you saw the door being pulled opened and then finding yourself engulf by an arm around your shoulders.

"Mmm sorry—shouldn't doubt you!—my own fault!... Was supposed to trust you—love you so mmmh–much!I-I— don't l-leave m-me—hicc!" The prince cried on your shoulder, babbling incoherent words that you didn't understand. You look bewildered at his sudden burst, not expecting for someone who always smiles and befriend anyone regardless of their status. You slowly went to embrace him, comforting him, feeling him wrapping his legs around your hips and you let him, crying on your now wet uniform full of tears and snots continuing to blabber incoherent words.

You tried to let him lay down to his king sized bed but his grip on you wouldn't let you. So here you are awkwardly patting him on the back as you sat yourself on the edge of his bed instead. You were hesitant to touch his hair, it is against the rules that a lowly life like you has the audacity to touch them especially in their hair, it's a sign disrespect and could lead to a treason. But you decided to do it anyway, he needs your comfort right now and that rule doesn't apply to you if the prince needed it anyway—plus you already broke the rules when you hugged him back.

He freezes up when he felt your hands on his head before slowly taking a deep breath, sniffling, calming down from your touch. He buried his nose onto your neck, shuddering before planting a small kisses from you, whimpering.

"sssorry—hic-!ssorryyso-sorry... louvv you too..m..much.. shouldnn't...leea-hic-!leave me..."

You cannot comprehend what he was trying to say but his action made you surprised, but you let him be for now, continuing patting his back awkwardly because this isn't what you expect first thing of the day when you work.

Prince Rylle must have a nightmare for him to act like this.

"... Your highness?"

You heard him whimpered before leaning himself away from your neck, slowly looking at you. His eyes were puffy, some tears were spilling. Prince Rylle was sniffing and hiccuping from his tears.

You looked away from his eyes, indirectly obeying his older brother's words to not look straight at him. You carefully wipe away the water droplets coming out from his orbs, waiting for his nerves to calm down.

He stayed there at your lap for a few minutes, until he recollect himself.

After wiping his tears, one of your hand went to grab a handkerchief from your pocket trying to rid of the snot that was clogging his nose.

But before you can do that, the tanned male squeaks and tried to push himself off on you, falling down from your lap. Head first colliding on the floor. Thankfully, he didn't bleed.

"Your highness! Are you alright?" worriedly you went to assess his head from the impact.

"I-I'm fine!" He quickly got up, wincing from the slight concussion from his head.

"I apologize, it was my mistake for startling you. I shall be careful next time."You got up from the edge of his bed before stroking his head gently.

He looks at you, the way he gaze up to you seems like he had seen a ghost.

"... Are you really..here?" He whispered. You were puzzled by his question. "... I'm here your highness." Quickly bowing down to his level.

He walk up again to you, requesting if he could hug you again. You stood up and saw in your peripheral vision his eyes were starting to become teary again. His snot were starting to clog his nose, but you let him hold you.

You felt his arms around your waist. Hands firmly grip on your sides.

"... God, I t-thought I lost you." He whispered. Whatever nightmare that was. It must have traumatised him. You felt his tears running down again to your clothes.

"... I'm here your highness.."

"... You're really.. h-here." He whispered.

You patted his back. "... I am here."

"Today is 7th of May, Year..890." You uttered before jotting down the notes for your report. The prince was beside you, silent at his own office. He too is jotting down his report or at least he is, but you felt his gaze on you. You weren't used to the prince Infront of you being silent. He would always filled this room with his chattering, sharing his knowledge to you on what he learned from his teachers—since a commoner like you doesn't deserve education—and sometimes he would always complain about the other nobles being rude to their servants and how obnoxious they were.

So you broke the silence filling in the room. It is unusual for your master to be this silent.... And staring at you for quite some time."Is everything alright your highness?"

He didn't answer. He was still gazing at you.

"Your highness?" You repeat.

The prince snapped back to reality.

"O-oh! Yes! Yes I am! I'm-I'm still recollecting m-my thoughts about my nightmares haha!" His fake laughter died down when his gaze stayed to your neck. He frowned. He was contemplating whether or not he should ask. But he did.

"... Where did you get that? The... Scar on your neck."

You cleared your throat before feeling the scars again. Just like earlier, you didn't felt any phantom pain from it.

"... I would have tell you the reason behind it but I have no idea, your highness. I must have slip a knife drag it on my nec—" You wanted to jest about it but you got a sullen look. His face was frowning even more.

"Please, do not do it again."

"...I... Yeah. I am jesting your highness... I had woken up with a scar already imprinted on my neck." You didn't get a response after that, he avoided his look from it.

You look back at your finished report. Organizing them, putting them aside the table, before standing up. "Umm.. As much as I would like to accompany you all day, your highness. I have business to attend to with the crown prince." You didn't particularly give him the detail why you need to leave, you walked away. His brother technically assigned you on something dangerou—

"... Were you going to assassinate the southern duke who was accused of embezzlement of the empire's treasury?"

Your boots stop clacking on the tiled floor of the room, quickly turning your head back to your master. Whose eyes were blank as if he just absentmindedly told you what he said.

"... How... Where did his highness learn this... Information."

You were supposed to make him believe that everything around him is perfect. Is what your master's psychopath family told you to do. He doesn't need to know everything.

He was supposed to be completely utterly away from it and only focusing on the bright side of the kingdom.

The tanned male before you gave you a nervous smile. You realized that today he is acting weird."No! Nothing I-I was just speaking something ill! It was a mere jest, my sweet!" His hands were wavering as a sweat formed down to his cheeks, when he talks.

He was lying.

"Where did you get that information, your highness?" You looked at him, your body turning to him. Repeating your words.

He gulped, one of his hand pulled his collar a little as if he was sweating from his clothes. You noticed how his eyes were looking everywhere except your figure. He mumbled something before turning back to you, stammering."... Forgive me... I ... I overheard your meetings with my older brother that n-night."

You thought about the meeting he was talking about. It was Prince Rylle's birthday that time and he was at the very center of the attention so none of the nobles or slaves have witness you left to the garden when the his older brother, the crown prince commanded you to follow him there. You made sure before you left, the last time you saw him before you had gone to follow his highness, Prince Rylle was dancing with one of the noble ladies.

So it is not possible that he might overhear your conversation when he had to take turns on the ladies that lining up to have a dance with him.

"But you were in the middle of dancing with the lady Rub—"

"N-no! I wanted to-to find you to accompany me by the garden when you were not in your post! I found myself walking alone in the garden and then I saw with my brother! I promise I did not mean to eavesdrop on your conversation with my brother!"

That wasn't the only thing that his brother ordered you to kill someone. You would have refused if it weren't for the fact that your mother's expenses for her health wasn't increasing. But the crown prince promised salvation to your mother as long as you do what he told you. It was tempting deal but you did it, feeling pressured as if refusing that bastard's command would give you penalty of death. Was that even a deal? Plus shedding someone's blood by your own hands wasn't your forte. You are a knight that was supposed to protect Prince Rylle. You can only immobalize your enemy but you cannot bring yourself to kill.

The duke was not the only one who you need to assassinate tonight and you weren't even sure if he really did try to embezzled the treasury. You witness that old man to be strict, intimidating but he took a great care the people who serves under him and the villagers who were residing in his property. All you heard from his rumors was that he was a good leader and a good provider.

"Was that all you heard, your highness?" You were internally panicking. Not wishing to meet your punishment if one of his family heard about this. Prince Rylle needs to be pure from this world is what his family told you. He needs to be away from these secrets.

"Y-yes!"

"... Can I ask you a favor?"

His soft gaze wanders around your lips before slowly nodding. So you asked him a favor to never let his family knows about him finding out about this.

He frowned as if he realized something. The white haired male stood up from his seat and walk towards you, as he softly grabbed your hands to his. Clasping it.

"Now that Gods favored me, this time I will protect you."

" Of course, darling... I will not let them." He unclasps his hand from yours before giving you a hug. You can't quite hear the last sentence he said.

[casuallyanidiot]

The Beta Test | Prologue

[yandere male x gn reader]

Local party animal and known social butterfly [name] wakes up to find that they've been abducted by their very reclusive and very wealthy classmate. Why, you might ask, did he do this? Well for one reason of course! He needs to know how he's going to talk to his crush! So now, with their freedom on the line, [name] has to figure out how to get this kid with the one of his dreams or risk never leaving at all. Lots of weird conversations ensue, of course.

600+ words Tw. Swearing, mentions of alcohol and drug consumption, kidnapping, drugging Table of contents

The first thing that came to your groggy mind was: “Shit, I need to work on that research paper.”

The second was: “Oh my god I’m absolutely going to die right now.”

Now, normally when you would wake up somewhere random it wouldn’t be too weird considering the fact that you were a frequent presence at many parties occurring on and off your campus, but you couldn’t say that you had ever found yourself laying on the floor behind a set of bars. Well, the on-the-floor part you had. Just not all that other stuff. 

The first thing, and the most logical thing at that, to consider was that you had somehow wound up being arrested last night. While you would like to say that you were a very responsible person when it came to substances of various degrees, there would be times when you would end up getting swept up in the heat and frenzy of a good time and good music, hence the whole waking up in strangers homes thingy. You had never gotten into any trouble while being in a state like that, but hey, there was a first time for everything. You could only imagine how embarrassing you had behaved last night if you ended up in jail.

It really sucked that you had been arrested though. “What the hell am I going to tell my parents?” you thought with a groan as you pressed your hands to your face. Your knees were placed to your chest and the soft material of your pajamas-

Wait a damn minute.

You looked down to find that you were in fact wearing something that would only be taken to bed or to take out the trash. The stains and faded fabric were proof enough of their use, and there was absolutely no way you’d be wearing sleep clothes while getting blacked out at a party. When you actually thought about it for two seconds, it became apparent that yeah, you had been in your apartment wearing comfy clothes, preparing to actually study, and winding down for the evening before BOOM, Nothing. 

Your brows were furrowed and your lips were pursed as you wiped at your eyes. Your brain felt fuzzy, and the room ( cell?) was blurred. Though the second it cleared up you realized that you were utterly and unequivocally fucked.

Yes, you were inside a cell, on the floor, sitting on a little mat. The floor was gray and cold and hard, but on the other side of the solid metal bars was a kitchenette and a dining table. From what you could see with the virtually nonexistent lighting were clean white marble countertops and sleek wood accents decorating the entire other half of the room. It looked nice, like one of those backdrops that you would see some social media model posing in front of, pretending that they were cooking.

Oh, and there was this guy sitting on a chair just staring at you.

You blinked harshly in surprise. How you hadn’t noticed him before was beyond you, but to be fair you weren’t exactly in the clearest state of mind. Still despite the terror growing in your gut like a weed, you put on a wobbly, awful, nervous smile and said,

“ Oh hi, what’s up?”

[artficlly]

smog & spirits: the premonition (mini-series)

Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader

Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, angst no comfort, graphic wound description, blood/gore, graphic descriptions of stitching, religious punishment (lashings), cults, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, visions, horror, bucky barnes has issues, bucky barnes is a dick, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 5.7k

A/N: this was supposed to be longer but i've decided to spilt it into two parts, so sorry you just get angst but the next part will have more comfort/fluff. i'm not super happy with this chapter but i didn't intend for it to be a stand alone part, so it's a lot of doing and not much feeling/reflection lol. i just wanted to get this out because i'm going back to studying full time (as if the first degree wasn't bad enough lol) so the next few weeks might be a bit quiet. sorry for any typos - not proof read and edited while half asleep lol.

taglist: @nash-dara @sebastians-love

main masterlist | series masterlist

There was a large, white wolf in your kitchen. 

You didn’t remember descending the stairs of your small flat or your bare feet leading you into the cramped kitchen. The wooden panels felt cool against your soles, and dust glittered in the air. A short candle flickered on the dining table, illuminating the beast.

It was huge, towering over your benchtops and oven. Its shoulder would have easily reached your waist. Its stark, white fur was matted and stained, covered in ash and filth. In the dim light, you could see deep gashes beneath the pale strands of hair, dripping fresh crimson blood. The blood pooled on the floor, creeping into the cracks of the wood.

The wolf panted, taking hard, shallow breaths that rattled its considerable mass. Its pink tongue dripped pink, a mix of blood and saliva smeared along its yellowing teeth. You could’ve sworn it smiled as its lips pulled back, revealing large, pointed canines. It let out a deep, thunderous growl that vibrated through your chest and rattled your small, latticed windows. 

You found yourself unable to question the absurdity of it. A wolf. In your home. 

Your home had been heavily warded for weeks, if not months. After what had happened… it was the only way to keep out prying eyes and scum. Bucky’s boys would walk up the stairs, quivering as they reached for their hands to post a letter, knock on the door, or pick the lock. They would try with all their might, only to be filled with an overwhelming sense of dread. They would run, tails tucked between their legs. Not even Natasha Romanoff could make it past the threshold. The redhead who dripped with malice, who could make men sweat with fear with just a single look… too afraid to even leave the pavement. 

Your feet don't touch the floorboards as you float forward, ignoring the canine's raised hackles. You look into its big, blue eyes and understand it is in pain, in danger. Your fingers spread, splaying out across its forehead as you run a hand through its matted fur. Ash catches under your nails, and blood stains your skin.

Another reason it was absurd to find such an animal in your home was because wolves were extinct. You had heard tales of these beasts in old folklore—frightening stories to tell children at night, fairytales, and such. Some speculated that these creatures might have roamed the land before the forests were cut down to make way for cities and civilization. Perhaps, out in the wilderness, deep in the forests away from Sootstone and the city of Blackstone, such animals could still exist. Maybe even across the seas, in far-off lands still being explored.

“I fear I’m in a dream, friend.” You murmur to the wolf, touch sweeping to cradle its large, bleeding head. “It’s probably best for us both to wake up.”

The wolf blinks its large, blue eyes at you. Its panting is still ragged, blood sticky across your floors. Deep in your soul, you knew it was a warning. A calling. 

Someone was in danger. 

It is a loud clattering downstairs that startles you awake. 

The sharp clanging and dinging of pots and pans ring through your small abode, as if someone had knocked them from your dining table. In your bleariness, still tangled under your sheets, you blindly search for a candle and match. 

The ruckus below continues, with chairs scraping across the floors, cabinets rattling, and a distinctly male voice muttering all types of obscenities. Your intruder seems to have impulsively walked into your home, knocking over all of your possessions. 

The dream, the premonition—it must have distracted your mind. You could feel your wards were down, the peaceful bubble that had once safely cocooned your home was shattered. The remnants of its invisible wall crunched beneath your bare feet as you thundered down the stairs in your nightgown. 

It must be one of Bucky’s messenger boys. The poor lad must have gotten lucky when he pried open your door and stumbled in just after the ward had fallen. You’d noticed how Bucky’s dogs worked like clockwork; at least three times a day, his boys would try to deliver you a message. You had never intended to find out what that message was. You highly doubted it was an apology, likely just another summons as if you were his pet to call and dismiss as he pleased—

As you rounded the corner into your kitchen, you were met with a sight that made your blood run cold. 

Bucky Barnes, in the flesh, was bleeding and dishevelled in your kitchen.

His face was swollen and mottled with deep purple-black bruising. Dried blood crusted along his temple and brow. His hair, usually neatly slicked back, was now a tangled mess, laden with ash and filth, sticking out in all directions. Gone was his usual suit jacket; instead, he wore a simple white button-down shirt, now barely recognisable beneath the grime. It looked as though he had been dragged through a sewer, with mud and filth clinging to his skin and clothes.

Amidst the caked-on mess, fresh blood seeped from multiple wounds on his back, staining the already dirty fabric with a deep, alarming crimson. Each breath he took seemed laboured, his chest rising and falling with visible effort. He lifted his head to look at you, offering you a haunting grin. One of his eyes was nearly swollen shut, a puffy, dark mound overshadowing his battered face. His bottom lip was split wide open—a deep, jagged tear. Despite his condition, there was an unsettling glint in his one good eye, a spark of something unbroken within the wreckage of his body.

“Your wards were down. Didn’t think you were home.” The gangster wheezes, and his legs give out. 

One of his hands reaches out to brace against your dining table, but his skin, slick with mud and grime, causes his hand to slip, and he plummets forward. In an instant, you rush to his side, grasping the man just before he crashes face-first into your hardwood floors. His weight is staggering—almost too much to bear—as you wrap your arm around his middle, muscles straining as you let out a grunt of exertion. With effort, you manage to push him back into a sitting position. Exhaustion radiates from him as he leans against you, barely able to hold himself up. Your candle has been knocked to the floor, wax dripping onto the floors. 

The flame snuffs itself out, and the two of you are cast into darkness.

“What’re you doin’ here, Barnes?” You mutter demandingly. He responds with a weak chuckle, the sound rough and hollow. His head lolls to the side as he struggles to lift his chin, trying to meet your gaze. In close proximity, the stench on him becomes unbearable—an acrid mix of raw sewage, mud, and the metallic tang of blood. 

“Trust me, I don’t wanna be here either, doll.” Blood gurgles in his mouth as he laughs. You scowl at him, shoving him away so he leans up against the leg of your table. You get to your feet, glancing down at your now filthy nightgown in disgust. 

“You’re really that disgusted by me?” You say under your breath. Your words catch the attention of the gangster, whose amused expression falters. 

“What gave you that impression?” He asks. You frown hard, wavering near his feet as you assess the best way to get the hulking man off your floor. His stocky frame, well filled out with muscle, is almost twice your size. It would be a task to lift him yourself

“Last we spoke. You called me a whore.” You remind him. You don’t meet his eye as you crouch down, wrapping one of his arms around your shoulders. Wrapping one of his heavy arms around your shoulders, you place your hand on his back, feeling the heat of his blood seeping through his shirt. His weight is staggering, and you can feel every ounce of it pressing down on you.

He doesn’t reply to your claim. You can tell he is somewhat floored by your confession, surprised that you are still upset. Gritting your teeth, you start to push upwards, immediately feeling the strain in your thighs, calves, and back. His body is like dead weight, almost completely limp except for the occasional twitch of pain. Every muscle in your body protests, but you dig your heels into the floor. The gangster grunts beside you, and when you look over, you see his jaw ticking. You’re unsure if it’s from the pain or your words.

With one final, desperate push, you feel his weight start to lift. He lets out a pained groan, and the muscles in your legs quiver. Using every ounce of strength you have left, you manage to get him onto one of the dining chairs. He flops backward with a sigh, the chair creaking under his weight, and he winces in pain as his gashed back meets the hardwood. You step back, panting heavily, and take a moment to catch your breath. His emotions are hard to read under all the swelling, bruising, and blood that mar his face. 

“So much for an apology.” You dare to say, words dripping with bitterness. The gangster finally peeks at you through his swollen eye with a disapproving look, his gaze hard.

“Apologisin’ is bad for business,” he says, his voice rough but earnest. “But I can admit when I am wrong. And I was wrong for sayin’ that.”

His words catch you off guard—a rare moment of humility from the hardened criminal. But the walls he’s built around himself are quick to rise again, and you can see the familiar defiance creeping back into his gaze. You don’t linger on it.

You suck in a sharp breath, angling your head as you try to process the situation. “Is one of your boys wanderin’ about nearby? I can get a message to Steve—”

“No.” He interrupts, his voice rough and strained.

“No?” You echo. 

“I had a… let's say a run-in.” He replies, his tone clipped. “The street’ll be crawlin’ with ‘em, lookin’ for me. Best my boys lay low.”

“A run-in with who?” You press.

“Does it matter?”

“You’re gonna bleed to death if you stay here.” You retort, your eyes narrowing as you assess the severity of his wounds.

“You’re a witch.”

“And?” You snap back, folding your arms defensively.

“Heal me.”

You pause, head tilting in disbelief as you look down at him. “Heal—? Gods, you know I’m not a healer—”

“I never said it had to be good. Just stop the bleeding.” He presses.

“I’m not your pet witch, Barnes. You can’t summon me at your leisure.” You snip. Magic was broad in its uses, of course, but your speciality was never any type of healing magic, and Bucky knew that. You had always been one foot between the living and the dead. Your skills lay almost entirely in the territories of spirits and chaos magic. You knew how to look—how to feel—through the veil and channel it’s energy. What you did not know were healing charms, herbs, and potions.

Bucky leans forward, wincing in pain, and looks at you with a seriousness that catches you off guard. “You must know how it’ll look if my men find out that I bled to death in your home?”

“Are you threatenin’ me?” You ask, brow quirking. The gangster has a scowl across his face.

“No. I’m askin’ you.” His dark eyes peer up at you through bloodied lashes. Thick clumps of copper have hardened around the strands. “What do you want? Double your rate? Triple?”

“I’m no healer.” You repeat and let out an irritated sigh, biting the inside of your cheek as you waver in place. Hesitantly, you approach the filthy man, taking his face in your hands as you delicately analyse the damage. You can feel his throat bob as he swallows hard. “Just… don’t get your hopes up.”

You withdraw your touch, the skirts of your nightgown swirling around your ankles. You blindly fumble around your kitchen, locating a match for the candle that was still discarded on the floor. “You would’ve been better off going a few streets over to Isolde Briarwood. I’ve heard her potions are the best in the lower districts.”

The gangster contemplates your words. “I needed discretion.”

Smoke fills your nostrils as you strike the match, lighting the candle once more. You frown as you look over at Bucky. He looks even worse in the dim lighting. The cold, wet filth must have been sinking into his bones. You notice how he shivers. “I suppose you’re right. Isolde has never been known for keepin’ her gob shut.”

Bucky snorts.

Your gaze sweeps over to your narrow stairs, a pang of worry in your gut. “Do you think you’ll have enough strength to climb the stairs? I have a fire goin’ up there, and I’ll need to boil some water to clean those wounds before they start to fester. I should ‘ave enough coal to last us a couple hours—”

“I’ll be fine.”

Bucky hauls himself to his feet. You gape at him as his strength seems to momentarily return. A part of you wonders if the fall had all been for show, a reason to get you to touch him, but you notice his movements are slow and laboured. Every step seems to take a monumental effort as he pulls himself up the first stair. His hand grips the bannister tightly, knuckles white. 

You follow closely behind him, holding a candle in one hand, its flickering flame casting a soft, warm glow on the dimly lit staircase. Your free hand hovers near his back, ready to catch him if he stumbles. The light dances across the walls, illuminating the stains on his shirt and the sweat glistening on his brow.

"Easy now," you murmur, your voice soft yet steady. 

Bucky nods, his jaw set in determination, but you can see the exhaustion in his eyes. His breath comes in short, ragged gasps, and each exhale sounds like a painful rasp. You can tell he's using every ounce of his willpower to keep moving forward.

As he reaches the fourth step, his leg buckles slightly. You immediately step closer, your hand pressing gently against his back to steady him. The contact is brief, but you can feel the heat radiating from his feverish skin. You knew your hand would be bloodied when you withdrew it.

He grunts in response, a sound that might have been a chuckle under different circumstances. His hand slips on the bannister, and for a moment, he teeters dangerously. You instinctively move to support him, your arm wrapping around his waist.

"Why is your house so damn cold?" Bucky grumbles, his voice strained.

"Coal boy didn't come," you reply, a hint of frustration in your voice. “And we both know the Warrens aren’t particularly known for holding warmth.”

"Shit, doll," he mutters, his voice thick with weariness. "If I survive this, I'll buy you a new flat."

You try not to think about the possibility of him dying in this situation or the implications of such an offer, focusing instead on the task at hand.

You can see the effort it takes for him to lift his leg and place his foot on the next step. As you reach the halfway point, he falters once more. This time, his leg gives out completely, and he collapses against you. The sudden weight nearly knocks the candle from your hand, but you manage to keep hold of it, the flame sputtering wildly.

"Whoa, easy," you say, your voice gentle but firm. "Lean on me. We’ll make it."

He nods, his head hanging low. You can feel the tremors running through his body, the sheer exhaustion that threatens to overwhelm him. With a deep breath, you adjust your grip, taking more of his weight onto yourself.

"Okay, Barnes, here we go," you say, steeling yourself for the final push.

Together, you take the last few steps, the candlelight guiding your way. Each movement is slow and measured, the stairs creaking under your combined weight. You can feel Bucky’s breath against your shoulder, hot and laboured.

Finally, you reach the top of the stairs. Bucky sags against the bannister, his body wobbling from the effort. You keep a firm grip on him, not willing to let him fall after all this. 

“Here, next to the fire.” You murmur as you usher him into your room. The fireplace crackles lazily, casting a welcoming glow. Bucky lowers himself with some effort onto the rug in front of the fire, his movements slow and deliberate. The warmth of the fire seems to offer him some small comfort, and he leans back slightly, letting the heat seep into his battered body.

“Stay here, I’ll be right back,” you say, your voice soothing despite the urgency in your movements. You watch him for a moment, making sure he’s stable, before turning and rushing downstairs. Your heart races as you grab a pot, filling it with water. The stream from the tap seems to echo loudly in the silent flat. You try to steady your breath, but your fingers won’t stop trembling.

“Get it together,” you whisper to yourself, gripping the counter for support. You can’t afford to hesitate now. Taking a deep breath, you lift the pot, returning to Bucky’s side as quickly as you can.

When you reenter the room, Bucky’s eyes are closed, but his breathing is still laboured. He opens his eyes as you approach, watching you with a mix of pain and curiosity. Setting the pot on a metal stand over the fire. The flames eagerly lick at the bottom of the pot, and you watch as the water begins to heat up.

You kneel beside him, your hands still trembling slightly. “We need to get you clean first. And dry,” you explain, meeting his gaze. He nods, a grim determination in his eyes.

As you move to peel away Bucky's clothing, the reality of his injuries hits you with full force. In the brighter light of the fire, the mud, sewage, and dried blood caked onto his clothing are worse than you remember. The fabric sticks to his skin in a second, grimy layer, with the fibres melded and mashed into the lashes, which are partially visible through the torn sections. The smell is overwhelming—a nauseating mix of sweat, blood, and decay that catches in the back of your throat. 

“Who did this?” You press the gangster. “I didn’t think there were many high up enough to touch you, Barnes.”

Bucky grunts, his breath hitching as you begin to peel the shirt from his back. “I have plenty of enemies, doll.”

“Like who?” 

“You really want to talk business right now?” He snips. The shirt clings stubbornly, the dried blood acting as glue. Each inch you lift reveals more of his battered skin. The gashes on his back are deep, angry wounds, raw and inflamed. You have to work slowly, carefully prying the shirt away from his flesh to avoid tearing the wounds open further. Bucky’s muscles tense and twitch under your hands, his jaw clenched tight.

“I just don’t understand. How did this happen? Why were you alone… do you really have enemies powerful enough to jump you in your own streets?” You babble, the words distracting you from the nerves that were quickly climbing your throat.

“Arcana Castigatio ring a bell?” Bucky says gruffly. 

“You mean The Penance Boys?” You baulk. The lashes suddenly made sense. The Penance Family were a crime family that had founded a cult based on the religion of Arcana Castigatio. They believed in purification through suffering, administering lashings to themselves and others as acts of penance. They view lashings as a necessary act to purge sin and achieve spiritual purity. “I didn’t think they had business dealings in these parts.”

“They don’t. They’ve been pushin’ their luck, pushin’ their beliefs on workers in the Smokestacks, tryna recruit them for the factories over the river.”

“Gods, Bucky,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. When you finally pull the shirt free, you see the full extent of the damage. His back is a mess of deep lashes, some oozing fresh blood, others scabbed over and encrusted with grime.

“So you went to deal with them alone?” You turn your attention to his pants, which are equally soaked through with mud, sewage, and blood. Your cheeks flush with awkwardness, but you know the filthy clothing needs to come off or the cold will never leave his bones.

“No. I took some boys with me.”

"Lift your hips a bit," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. Bucky complies. You work quickly, trying to remain clinical as you peel the wet fabric away from his skin. The pants slide down his legs, revealing more bruises and scars. He’s left in just his undershorts, and you both pointedly avoid acknowledging it. “Didn’t go well, I take it?”

“Let's say I’ll have a few mothers to visit in the mornin’.”

You frown hard, swallowing dryly. “I don’t think you’ll be quite on your feet in the mornin’. You already feel like you’re developin’ a fever.”

Bucky grunts, clearly in agreement but unwilling to admit it outright. With the worst of the clothing removed, you turn your attention to the task of cleaning his wounds. You take a clean cloth and dip it into a bowl of hot water from the pot, wringing it until damp but not dripping. The heat from the water stings your fingers.

You press the cloth to his back, starting with the worst of the gashes. Bucky hisses through his teeth, his body jerking involuntarily at the touch. You work as gently as you can, but each swipe of the cloth brings fresh agony. The warm water loosens the dried blood and muck, the cloth coming away dark and filthy with each pass. The more you lift, the more you notice that the skin untouched by wounds is equally scarred, as if this lashing had not been the first occurrence. 

His eyes close as you work, and his face contorts. You move methodically from one gash to the next. The wounds are deep and numerous, crisscrossing his back in a chaotic pattern. Some are long and jagged, others short but vicious. 

Finally, you finish cleaning the last of his back wounds. The cloth in your hand is filthy, the water in the basin turned a murky red-brown. 

“There,” you say softly, your voice laced with weariness. “That’s the worst of it.”

You stand up, stretching your aching muscles, and grab a clean bowl from the nearby shelf. You fill it with fresh water from the pot that is already over the fire. Kneeling beside him, you gently tilt his chin up to get a better look at the damage.

“I’m assumin’ the Peance Boys won’t be gettin’ away with this?” You ask, starting with his forehead, carefully dabbing at the cuts and bruises. The cloth quickly darkens with the mix of blood and dirt, but you continue, your movements precise and gentle. As you wipe away the grime, the extent of his injuries becomes more apparent. His face is a mosaic of bruises, some fresh and angry, others older and fading to a sickly yellow. His left eye is swollen nearly shut, and a deep cut runs along his cheekbone.

“You’re not wrong,” he replies, his tone rough and weary.

Bucky’s eyes open and meet yours, and for a moment, the room feels even smaller, the air between you charged with unspoken tension. His gaze is intense, a mix of pain, exhaustion, and something else you can’t quite place. You hold his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest. Your cheeks flush, but you don’t look away.

“Hold still,” you whisper, trying to cover for yourself. He complies, though his muscles tense with every touch of the cloth.

“What’ll you do to them?” You ask, moving to his jawline, the cloth gliding over the rough stubble and the bruised skin beneath. His jaw clenches, a low growl escaping his throat as you clean a particularly painful cut. You hum soothingly, trying to ease his discomfort.

“They’ll pay. With time. I need’ta think on it first,” he responds, his voice a low rumble. His eyes flicker dangerously.

“That would be wise. I don’t think you’re in the condition to start a war.”

When you finally reach his lips, you hesitate. His lower lip is split, swollen, and red. You dab at it gently, your hand trembling slightly. Bucky’s breath hitches, his eyes darkening. “I don’t think it’ll be a war… more like… a massacre.”

His lips twist into a bitter smile despite the pain, and you pause, absorbing his words. Unease settles in your gut as you consider the weight of his intentions. You have always known Bucky to be analytical and sadistic in his methods, his revenge was cold and calculated. The word massacre echoes in your mind, and you can't help but wonder what horrors he will unleash. His wrath won't be a simple act of retaliation; it will be a meticulously planned and bloody spectacle. 

“You’re doin’ great,” you murmur, your voice barely more than a whisper, masking the unease that nearly slips through. Bucky’s eyes soften slightly, a hint of gratitude breaking through.

You finish cleaning his face, the cloth now completely stained. You sit back, taking a moment to breathe. Bucky’s face, though still battered, looks a little better, the dirt and blood no longer obscuring his features.

Dumping the cloth on the ground nearby, you rise to your feet. You’d have to do another cleaning pass later with some soap. His hair was still slick with filth, the unmarked sections of his skin stained. 

Your head tilts as you observe him.

You needed to get those wounds shut as soon as possible.

“The best I can do is stitch up your back and use magic to seal it.” You explain as you wring out your fingers, wavering near the fire. “It’ll hurt. Badly. And the scars won’t be pretty.”

The gangster waves a hand at you half-heartedly, wincing as the movement pulls the torn flesh on his shoulders taut. “I’ll live.”

With hesitant steps, you dip behind him deeper into your room. You only needed two things—some strands of your hair and a needle strong enough to pierce skin. Later, you could make up a poultice or salve for his back, the wounds would be hot and inflamed once you sealed them, a paste could soothe them. You would also need to make up a remedy for his pain—a tonic of some kind. A tea would be best to shake off the cold.

You return to Bucky with your hairbrush and needle in tow. He gives you a quizzical look as you settle beside him. 

“Do you want me to talk while I work, or remain silent?” You ask.

“Talk. I have a feeling that I’ll need a distraction.”

You nod and pick up the brush. A clump of your strands are woven between the bristles. With deft fingers, you isolate a single strand and pull it from the mass. “I will use my hair as thread,” you explain.

“I can channel my magic through parts of myself.” You take the strand and briefly pull the fibre through your lips, wetting the end. “I’ll stitch your wounds and use my magic to seal the skin back together.”

You thread the needle with ease, pulling your hair through the eye in one gentle tug. “The magic will flush out any infection, but the scars will be painful for some time.”

“Will it break the fever?” The gangster asks. You frown, head cocking to the side as you pull your eyes from the needle to his skin. His face is rosy and flushed with heat. A thin layer of sweat glistens in the firelight.

“No.” You sigh, twisting the needle in your grip. The curved metal glints. “I fear your fever is from the cold, not your wounds.”

“It’s partly good news, though, it will be easier to break than a fever brought on by infection.” You shift so you are positioned behind him, staring directly at the criss-crossed lashes. Blood and fluid ooze from the tender flesh.

“This’ll hurt.” You remind him.

You start with the worst of the gashes, threading your hair through the jagged edges of his torn flesh. The needle punctures his skin with a sickening pop. Bucky’s body tenses, his muscles bunching as a low growl of agony rumbles in his chest. A slew of curses leaves his lips, incoherent through his grit teeth.

The smell of blood and sweat fills the air, mingling with the faint scent of smoke from the fire. Each push of the needle is nauseating. The skin resists each stroke of the sharp metal. With each pass, you can feel how your hair grows taut, and you are careful not to allow it to snap as you drag it through the skin. The raw edges come together with an uneven, painful precision.

“I did warn you, I’m no healer.” You murmur. The gangster does not reply. His hand grips the edge of the rug, knuckles white. 

You push through the process, your hands steady despite the horror of it. The strands of hair weave through his wounds, stitches wonky as they barely cinch the skin shut. Your lack of experience shows, but you decide it is not the time to comment on it.

Bucky’s low growl turns into a pained moan as you work on a particularly deep wound. His muscles twitch, and he nearly pulls away from you, but he forces himself to stay still. You coo at him soothingly, your fingers stroking across an untouched patch of skin in a silent gesture of comfort.

“Just a little more,” you whisper, your voice gentle yet strained. The tension in the room is thick, every sound is amplified by the silence between you.

You quicken your pace, your own heart pounding in your chest. The last few stitches are the hardest, Bucky’s body is writhing in agony beneath your touch. His growls turn into cries, raw and guttural. The smell of fresh blood is overpowering, and you fight the urge to gag as you finish the last stitch.

Finally, you tie off the thread, your hands shaking from the effort. The wounds are closed, but you still need to fuse them shut.

You take a deep breath, gathering your resolve for the next part of the process. The stitching is done, but now you need to seal the wounds with your magic. Holding your hands over Bucky’s back, you focus on the strands of hair threaded through his flesh. Slowly, you begin to channel your magic, feeling it surge from within you and through your fingertips.

The feeling of chaos sweeps over your skull, your scalp prickling as the electrifying feeling cascades down your spine. The strands of hair start to glow, a soft, eerie light emanating from them. Bucky tenses immediately, his muscles bunching and his back arching as the heat begins to build. The glow intensifies, with the strands heating up and melding with his skin. The smell of singed flesh fills the room, acrid and nauseating.

Bucky’s reaction is immediate and visceral. He lets out a guttural scream, the sound ripping through the quiet. His body convulses, his hands clawing at the rug beneath him. He cries out, but any words he is attempting to speak are incoherent through his agony. You grit your teeth, fingers curling as you hesitate, but you know this is the only way.

"Hold on," you murmur, your voice trembling. "Just a little longer."

The glow from the hair brightens further, the heat reaching its peak. Bucky’s screams turn into a hoarse, ragged howl, his body writhing in uncontrollable pain. It’s as if molten metal is being poured into his wounds, searing the flesh and fusing it together. The skin bubbles and sizzles, the magic knitting the torn edges with brutal efficiency.

You can feel his pain as if it were your own, each scream and shudder resonating through you. Tears blur your vision, but you force yourself to stay focused. Your hands hover just above his back, fingers trembling as you pour every ounce of your will into the spell. The glow begins to fade, the heat dissipating as the wounds finally seal shut.

This magic, your magic, was not meant for healing. It was not life magic or kind magic. Your magic had never been empathetic, never gracious or soft. Your magic was death, violence, and destruction. If you pushed the blinding white heat any further, it would tear him apart entirely.

You held onto something otherworldly—a power too wicked and cruel for a mere mortal. It lay between worlds, a focus of chaos invisible to the naked eye. 

It was not right to bend and force chaos to your will. 

Yet you could.

Bucky collapses onto the floor, his body shivering uncontrollably. His breath comes in frantic gasps, his voice hoarse from screaming.

"It's over," you whisper, your own voice barely more than a breath. "It’s done."

Without thinking, you rush to his side, dropping to your knees. You grasp his face in your hands, feeling the heat of his fevered skin against your palms. His eyes are half-lidded and glazed with pain, but they lock onto yours. For a moment, everything else fades away—the wounds, the blood, the horror of the past hour.

Your thumb strokes gently across his jaw, then his cheek, tracing the rough stubble and the bruised skin beneath. His breath hitches at the contact, his eyes softening just a fraction. "Bucky," you murmur, his name a fragile whisper on your lips. "It’s over now."

His gaze holds yours, a fleeting tenderness passing between you, but the tenderness is short-lived. You steel yourself, pulling your hands away and standing up. The scent of burnt flesh seems to linger in the air.

“Stay still. I will make up a poultice, it should stop the burning.” You explain to the gangster. 

But he does not reply. 

His eyes seem to have rolled back into his head.

PART FOUR

[wintaerbaer]

things we don’t say: part 1 (kth)

banner credit goes to the absolutely incredible @itaeewon

summary: Three years after graduating college, everything seems to be falling into place for you: stable job, cozy apartment, and a long-term boyfriend with a ring box hidden in his desk drawer. But when a mutual friend makes a remark that your best friend of nearly two decades is clearly in love with you, you realize that life may not be as simple as it seems.

pairing: Taehyung x Reader (with some VERY brief Seokjin x Reader and Yoongi x Reader)

rating: 18+ (minors dni)

genres: best friends to lovers, idiots to lovers (they’re so, SO stupid), slooooow burn, angst, fluff

word count: 8.4k

series warnings: swearing, sexual themes, one instance of mild violence, alcohol use, infidelity, brief mentions of neglectful parents and alcoholism

chapter warnings: potty mouths, oc teasingly threatens her friends, art world inaccuracies (probably, idk how art shows work), fns music festival dynamite performance taehyung (BLESSED), friends who can’t mind their own business, quick backstory on the aforementioned shitty parenting, oc needs (and has) a drink

a/n: so here is my first foray back into writing after being out of the game for several years! big shout outs to @itaeewon​ / @jeonqkooks​ for the banner and encouragement as well as @taegularities​ for giving me writing advice and letting me cry in her inbox every time i got frustrated with this. they’re also both INCREDIBLE writers so go show them some love once you’re done here!

 SERIES MASTERLIST // MASTERLIST

Read on ao3

“She was checking you out.”

“She was not checking me out.”

“Kim Taehyung, she was so checking you out!”

“No.”

“She tucked her hair behind her ear and gave you the ‘come hither’ head tilt.”

Taehyung makes a face. “No one says that anymore, and that’s a perfectly normal gesture to make in everyday conversation.”

“When you want to get someone’s pants off.”

He shushes you, eyes flicking over to the nearby tables in the mostly-empty dining room with all of its dim lights and dark wood paneling. The bar had been a go-to for you and your friends in college, boasting a wide variety of burgers, sandwiches, and wraps that could even satisfy Jungkook and his bottomless appetite. Though your visits have become fewer and farther in between after graduation, nostalgia occasionally drags you back for a lunch or round of late-night drinks, which is how you’ve wound up here on a bright Saturday afternoon.

“You should ask for her number.”

“I am not asking her for her num—!”

“Can I get you anything?”

Taehyung’s face turns bright red as the waitress materializes at the side of your table as if on cue. It’s subtle, but she bats her eyelashes at him, body angled in his direction as if you’re not even there. You raise an eyebrow at him from across the table. See?

“I think we’re ready to order,” you say, mostly to put Taehyung out of his misery as he wordlessly stammers at the blonde.

You’d think he’s never seen a girl before in his life.

The waitress jots your orders down before strolling away in the direction of the kitchen, and you’d swear she’s swinging her hips a little more dramatically than before. You turn towards Taehyung.

“Told you.”

“I said no,” he says sheepishly, cheeks still brushed with pink. “Besides, she looks like she’s probably still in college.”

“You look like you’re probably still in college.” Taehyung rolls his eyes. “And we’re not that old, Tae. You could date a college student.”

“Pass.”

You sigh, leaning back in your seat. “Fine, but we still need to find you a date to the wedding. Can’t let those youthful good looks go to waste.”

Taehyung huffs in faux annoyance, but his lips quirk up at the compliment. “I’m not bringing a date.”

“So you say, but I’m going to change your mind.”

His smile widens. “Oh, really?”

“Really.” You hold out a pinky, and he only hesitates a moment before linking his with yours.

“Okay, we’ll see.”

You fall into one of your usual conversation patterns as you ask about how his job is going. He tells you about the upcoming art show at the gallery where he works as a curator, doing some freelance photography as a side gig. He’d managed to snag Maya, one of the aforementioned friends, a spot in it, and he smiles as he gushes over how great her pieces turned out, cheeks lightly flushed with what you interpret as pride. The two of them met freshman year as photography majors and quickly developed into friends and partners, challenging each other artistically and now occasionally teaming up to shoot larger weddings and events.

It makes pride warm your own belly, seeing him flourish and succeed in the field he had always dreamed of. Photography had been an outlet for him throughout high school, a vital reprieve from the insulated struggles of your shared childhood. Taehyung has never been a negative person, never weighed down in spite of the home life which would have given him every justifiable reason to become jaded. Still, you’d watched a new light bloom in him after he discovered photography as if the camera lens truly gave him a fresh way of seeing the world.

And you’ve always loved seeing happiness spill from your best friend.

Your food is just being brought to the table when Jimin comes shuffling up in a zombie-like trance, eyes wide and mouth slack.

"Finally made i—woah, are you alright?"

Jimin drops into a seat, glazed eyes fixated on the window overlooking the street.

"Maya and Kook are hooking up."

Taehyung chokes on his drink, water spraying onto his plate, while your jaw hits the floor.

"They're what?!"

"What the fuck?!"

Jimin works his jaw before wiping his hands over his face, "Yup."

You and Taehyung gape at him.

"What in the name of God would make you say that?" you ask emphatically, just as Taehyung says, "They hate each other."

"I don't know. Probably because I just caught her straddling him on our couch half-naked. But it’s just a feeling."

"Oh my God, we don't need to know that!"

"Our couch?!"

Jimin scrubs a hand over his face again as if he could wipe the image from his brain. “Yeah, I…can’t say I’m entirely surprised, but, Jesus, I did not need to see that with my own two eyes.”

“Okay, wait, wait,” you say, blinking rapidly in a futile attempt to clear your thoughts. “You’re sure it was Maya—not another one of his random hook-ups?”

“You think I don’t know what she looks like?” Jimin asks, pulling a face. “Look, she stopped by to grab some camera equipment Tae left for her and said she was going to hang around for a minute to wait for an Uber. I was already late for here so I left, but I forgot my wallet. When I went back they were…compromised. And I didn’t exactly stick around to interrogate them.” He frowns again, turning to Taehyung. “Speaking of, can you cover me for lunch?”

“This is unreal. Fucking unreal,” you fume. “I’m going to kill them.”

“Is it really all that surprising?” Jimin asks. “Somewhere in all of their bickering and nagging and constant frowning at each other was always some thinly-veiled sexual tension.” When you glare at him, he adds, “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t sleep with her.”

“That’s not the problem, Chim. You know how this shit goes.” You rub a thumb between your eyes, trying to ease the sudden tension there. “They already fight all the time, and sex only ever complicates things. How long until this blows up and we’re forced to choose sides?”

And that’s the crux of your worry—a disaster seems inevitable. Maya and Jungkook have always been clear about their bare tolerance of each other, seeing it as a necessary evil for the benefit of the rest of your friendships. And while their arguments and bickering have been relatively muted in recent years after you, Taehyung, and Jimin had put down a collective foot and told them you were tired of hearing their shit, you are not eager to see them test the fragile thread that links all of you.

You’ve dealt with enough instability regarding the people in your life; the last thing you need is more.

The waitress comes up to take Jimin’s order while Taehyung studies you as you press the heels of your palms to your eyes.

“Hey,” he says as the waitress walks off again, a hand sliding across the table in your direction but not quite making it there. “No one is getting divorced or anything. Just talk to Maya first. We really don’t even know what’s going on here.”

Jimin lets out a puff of air. “I do. He had his hand up her—” He shuts his mouth as both you and Taehyung shoot daggers at him.

After a moment, your fingers tap absent-mindedly over your phone. “Yeah, I guess I’ll talk to her tonight. We’re supposed to go dress shopping for the art show.”

“Gotta get something nice for Jace?” Jimin asks, wiggling an eyebrow. You smirk back at him.

“No, he can’t make it. Work has him putting in overtime like crazy for their annual convention in a few weeks.”

“How is he doing—Jace?” Taehyung asks. His tone is light, but as Jimin turns to look at him, he notices his hand on the table had closed into a fist.

“He’s good,” you say, the tension finally melting out of your face as your eyes light up. “He’s been incredibly upbeat lately, actually—more romantic even.” There’s a pause as you hesitate. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was going to…you know.” You wave faintly with your left hand.

Jimin’s eyes go wide. “You think he’s planning to pro—” You quickly press a finger over your lips, and Jimin slaps a hand to his thigh. “Fuck yes! About damn time. Hey,” he settles his face in his palm and stares off dreamily. “Can I be your maid of honor?” Then, when you giggle, “Don’t laugh. I would look great in a dress.”

“I’ll put you on the short list,” you say, turning towards your food as Jimin pumps a fist. “But no more talk about that. I’ve waited damn long enough and do not want to jinx it.”

Taehyung’s knuckles had gone white.

“It’s really none of your business,” Maya says, picking up a bright purple, thigh-length dress off the rack and holding it up to her shoulders. “How about this one?”

“Too short.” She puts it back. “And I beg to differ. When something stands to get between two of my best friends who I care about deeply, I think that makes it my business.” When Maya doesn’t say anything, still nonchalantly flipping through dresses, you press on. “You know this can’t end well, right? You’re adding sex to an already volatile relationship, and I don’t like the idea of the friend group having to split if and when the two of you implode.”

“First of all, we’re not your damn parents. Kook may be a walking man child, but the rest of us are mature adults. We’d figure it out,” Maya says. She holds up a green gown, frowns, and returns it. Turning towards you, she quirks an eyebrow. “Second of all, who says that this morning was the first time?”

Your jaw drops. As you stand speechless, Maya resumes her dress perusal.

“Wha—how long?” you finally choke out.

“Ooh, this is pretty.” Maya pulls out a deep red cocktail dress, silver roses adorning the fabric. Catching the look on your face, she says, “Two years, give or take.”

“Two—!” you squeak before shaking your head. “No. No fucking way. You two can barely be in the same room for two minutes let alone sleep together for two years.”

Maya smirks. “Turns out he can do much better things with his mouth when he’s not using it to talk out of his ass.”

“Maya, oh my God!”

“What? You wanted to make it your business, right?”

You take a breath to steady yourself. “Look, I am just worried about you guys, okay? That’s it. You’re two of my best friends, and I don’t want to see anyone get hurt. And I certainly don’t want to be put into a situation where I have to choose between you.”

“That won’t happen,” Maya says, trailing off towards a dressing room. “For someone to get hurt, there’d have to be actual feelings involved, and the only feeling he gives me is a migraine.” She slips into a changing stall while you lean against the wall, still trying to wrap your head around what you’re hearing.

“Besides,” Maya’s voice sounded from behind the curtain, “Jimin only found out because of his stupid wallet, and he notices everything. If we could fool him for that long with no problems…” She pulls the curtain back. The red fabric of the dress hugs her hips, her dark hair draped over one shoulder. “How do I look?”

“Gorgeous, as usual,” you say. And then, because you can’t help it, “I’m sure Kook will love it.”

Maya rolls her eyes. “Oh, please.” She steps back into the stall and yanks the curtain closed again. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just…weird.”

“It’s only weird if you make it weird,” Maya says over the shuffling of clothes. “Nothing changed during the two years when you guys didn’t know and nothing has to change now.”

Maybe she’s right, you think to yourself, resting your head back and closing your eyes to the bright fluorescents above you. Maybe everything would be fine. Jungkook, in spite of his cocky playboy persona, may be a big teddy bear at heart, but you’ve never known him to mix emotions with pleasure. And Maya is certainly capable of handling herself.

Still, the whole thing just reeks of disaster waiting to happen.

The sun has just started its descent when the two of you step out of the shop, Maya now carrying a long white bag along with her. You pause for a moment, taking a slow inhale of the soft spring air. This is probably your favorite time of day, when the whole city is tinted gold, the push of the foot traffic slowing to a lazier pace as college students and businessmen alike meander their way to dinners and evening plans.

“Do you want to do dinner at my place?” Maya asks, starting to move in the direction of her apartment as you trail at her side. “I was planning on trying this new pot roast recipe, and I’d rather not get stuck with too many leftovers.”

“Ooh, that sounds good,” you say. “I’m in.”

“You just have to promise to stop looking so constipated.”

You let out a puff of a laugh. “I’m sorry—I really don’t mean to meddle.” You purse your lips. “I just don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“I know, you said that already,” Maya sighs. “But we’re all grown-ups, Y/N. I know you mean well, but you’ve gotta loosen up the reins a little bit.”

“Whatever. As long as I don’t have to walk in on you guys like Jimin did.” You chew the inside of your cheek. “And just…be careful.”

Maya rolls her eyes for what feels like the hundredth time that day. She knows your heart is in a good place—the stereotypical “mom friend” just looking out for everyone—but your own blind spot drives her crazy.

You insist that you don’t truly mean to meddle. Maya, however, has no such qualms.

“You know,” she says, smirking at you with a sideways glance. “If you’re really worried about someone getting their heart broken, you should spend less time worrying about me and Kook and more time worrying about Tae.”

Your steps slow, frown lines gradually forming on your face. “Tae? What about Tae?” You pause. “He and Luna broke up months ago. He said he was over her.”

They were barely together a year, but the relationship had been the longest of Taehyung’s life. He’d spent the two weeks following the breakup locked in his room while you juggled both making sure he was alright and moving into a new apartment.

Maya gestures to the bag in her hands. “Don’t stop walking. This thing is a bitch to carry.”

As you jog a few steps to catch up, you ask, “Why? Did he say something to you?”

“Oh, please.” Another eyeroll. “He was never into Luna. It’s a wonder they even lasted as long as he did.”

“Then who?”

“C’mon, Y/N.”

“Maya, I genuinely have no fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

It’s Maya’s turn to stop in her tracks this time, passerby giving the two of you dirty looks as they swerve around you. She pins you with a pointed expression that has you blinking back at her. “What?”

Maya only continues to stare, tilting her head and biting her tongue until you finally put the pieces together. Your eyes going wide before you shake your head vigorously.

“No. No. You’re wrong.”

Maya scoffs and continues walking. “Uh-huh.”

“I’ve told you this before. We’re just comfortable with each other. He’s my—”

“Best friend who has made heart eyes at you the entire time I’ve known you two.”

“He does not. He looks at me like he’s always looked at me.”

“Exactly.”

“I—need I remind you that I’m in a committed relationship?”

“So? That doesn’t affect his feelings.”

“Tae has dated plenty of girls.”

“And with much success, obviously.”

You hesitate. “It’s not his fault that they all—”

“See how he looks at you and decide not to waste their time?”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Sure it is.”

“You’re misreading it. It’s just that we have history.”

“And chemistry. And while we’re rattling off school subjects the two of you share, I’m sure he’d be willing to help you with your physical education.”

“Maya.”

“I’m just saying!” She adjusts the bag, the plastic rustling the air. “I just got this sense that something, I don’t know, broke after Luna. I figured he finally realized how hung up on you he is or something, and that’s why he hasn’t dated since.”

The idea of a broken Taehyung squeezes your heart as your frown impossibly deepens. “That’s not…no. That’s definitely not what it was. He’s fine. We’re fine. Everything is fine.”

“Okay. Fine. If you say so.”

The two of you fall into silence, the light crackle of Maya’s bag hanging delicately between you. The sun is starting to dip behind buildings now, stretching long shadows onto the ground in front of you as you turn onto her block. You inhale a long, shaky breath.

Yes, it’s been a while since Taehyung has dated, and yes, this is a little peculiar. He may be your best friend,  but part of that means you’ve watched him grow from awkward kid to gangly teenager to one of the most handsome men you’ve ever laid eyes on. You’re not blind—you’ve seen how it’s unsurprisingly garnered him a good deal of female attention throughout the years (Saturday afternoon was not the first time he’s been hit on by a waitress). And while he’s never been anywhere near Jungkook’s level of playboy, he’s definitely been on his fair share of dates.

You don’t doubt that Maya’s noticed something of a shift in him—after you, she’s probably the person who knows him best. But both you and Taehyung have always insisted that your platonic relationship is, well, entirely platonic. So even if something changed for him, she has to be off base as to the why.

Right?

“Maya—”

“Look, I’m not telling you to sleep with him or leave Jace or anything like that. Just…” Maya purses her lips together, blowing air out of her nose. “Step back and look at what you’re doing to him before you lecture the rest of us. The guy is crazy about you, and you’re the only one who doesn’t see it.”

Well.

Shit.

She climbs the steps to her front door, slipping in the key and opening it before turning back to where you remain at the bottom of the stoop fiddling with your purse strap.

“You coming?”

“Um,” you hesitate. Your eyes drift off down the street, mind suddenly racing . “I don’t know. I’m not really hungry anymore.”

Maya’s expression softens. “I didn’t mean to upset you…”

“No, no,” you say with another shake of your head.  “I’m not mad. I just think I want to go home, maybe take a bath.”

“Okay,” Maya slowly responds. “I’ll see you at the show Friday night?”

You smile. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Perhaps, Maya muses as she watches you saunter down the sidewalk, calling you out was not the right move. But the thought only lingers for a moment before she turns with a shrug and goes inside.

It’s Sunday night when you find yourself at the guys’ apartment for your and Taehyung’s weekly meal prep tradition. The ritual is the evolution of several years of having to care for yourselves—a need to eat turned into a sacred bonding activity for two people who had learned to rely on each other.

You and Taehyung met when you were eight-years-old after your teacher had fatefully situated your desks next to each other on the first day of school. A compliment from Taehyung on the color of your pencil case (a bright and bold turquoise) turned into a fast friendship that rapidly deepened as you realized just how similar you were: both only children living in homes with parents who were neglectful in their own ways.

In spite of growing up in a lavish, sparkling house with more rooms than you could count, your childhood was a struggle as your endlessly-busy, high-powered-lawyer parents virtually ignored your existence and left you to your own devices, working late hours every day and oftentimes not even ensuring that you had been properly fed. The mansion had felt like a prison, long hallways and tall ceilings devoid of life, filled with nothing but a terrible sense of loneliness.

That was, at least, until Taehyung showed up.

When either of you had a bad day (which was, admittedly, most days), he would slip away from the tiny, one-bedroom house on the poorer side of town, where his mother had abandoned him to an alcoholic father, and you'd sneak him in the back door (your parents either never noticed or simply didn't care). The two of you would raid the kitchen cabinets for snacks and lug your loot up to your bedroom, where you'd throw together a giant fort made of pillows and blankets with your prized possession at the center—a small globe light with tiny cut-out stars.

You never really talked about your respective situations—there was never really a need to. He saw your non-relationship with your parents firsthand, and you had heard the rumors about his family—whispers at school about the boy with secondhand clothes and a dad who often had to be dragged out of the local bars. The outside world may have been cruel, passing judgment on the both of you (and Taehyung especially) for circumstances outside of your control, but in the comfort of your room, even that fostered your kinship. It was like your own minuscule universe, belonging only to the two of you, and as you munched on your popcorn and watched the soft stars dance across the propped-up fabric, you'd talk and tell each other stories. Stories about anything from kings and queens to pirates to cowboys to astronauts. The only rule was that every tale had to have a happy ending.

As you got older, you traded your storytelling nights for evenings experimenting in the kitchen, sick of gorging yourselves on chips, pretzels, and sodas. Occasionally, once Taehyung purchased his first camera from a secondhand shop with money he saved delivering newspapers, he'd drag you around town for a photoshoot. You’d wander the streets together, helping him to scout out areas for inspiration, and he’d use you as his model to practice portraits and photographing human subjects. This tradition, too, had faded once the two of you escaped your hometown to go to college (you're not sure your parents even realized you had left), as Taehyung began working on class projects with Maya and you started spending more time with Jace. Only your weekly meal prep had persisted.

Your cooking had been a staple during college, you and Taehyung hosting “family dinners” for you and your friends on weekends (usually followed by a good few rounds of drinks), eventually shifting into you making batch meals on Sundays once you’d all graduated and begun working. That was when it had been you who’d lived in this apartment, back before you’d moved in with Jace and Jungkook had taken your place here. Still, even as lifestyles and living arrangements changed, you always wound up cooking with Taehyung on Sunday nights.

“What are mom and dad making tonight?” Jimin trills, reaching over the counter to take a swipe at a baby carrot. You shoo his hand away.

“Nothing, if you keep stealing our ingredients. Aren’t you supposed to be going to the gym?”

“I am, but someone,” he turns to yell over his shoulder, “is taking their sweet ass time getting ready!”

A door clicks open down the hall before Jungkook’s voice yells out, “Calm down, asshole, I’m almost done!” The door slams shut again.

“Such a diva,” Jimin huffs, gaining an edge to pop a carrot into his mouth. You let out a cry of protest.

“Chim, cut it out!” You turn to Taehyung who is at the opposite counter with his back to you, chopping more vegetables. “Tae, stop him.”

Taehyung snorts, not turning around. “That’s my job?”

“You have a knife.”

“Sorry, I’ve taken a vow of nonviolence.”

“Unbelievable,” you mutter as Jimin tries to reach around you again. “Hands off, Park, or I swear to God I will kick you in the balls, and you will not see it coming.”

“Guy’s gotta get some action somehow, am I right?” Jungkook comes striding down the hallway in a tank top and shorts, looking more like he’s ready for a magazine cover shoot than a gym visit as he bounds up to where you and Jimin stand in the kitchen.

“Hey, I get plenty of action!”

“You were literally whining this morning that it’s been three months.”

Jimin flushes. “That’s because I don’t sleep with my friends.”

“Neither do I,” Jungkook says, throwing a wink in your direction as you roll your eyes back at him.

“You’re disgusting. It’s a wonder Maya puts up with you.”

“It’s definitely more of a puts out situation.” He taps his chin thoughtfully. “And not really up? Contrary to what you might expect, she’s usually under—“

“Jeon Jungkook.” Then, when he makes a move to grab a carrot, you turn to Taehyung and snap, “Tae, give me a knife, I’ll stab them myself.”

Barely looking up, he reaches over to grab a knife out of the block, twisting it in his hands to hold it delicately by the blade and offer it to you handle-first. You grip it, only to slam the knife down firmly on its side in front of you, staring down Jimin and Jungkook in a silent challenge. But Jimin merely quirks an eyebrow in silent laughter, while Jungkook lets out a teasing, “Hot.”

You glare and raise the knife to chest level, pointing it at his sternum and trying to muster as much threatening energy as you possibly can in the face of a guy who could bench press you in his sleep. And while his facial expression remains one of passive amusement, he raises his hands in mock surrender and says, "Fine, fine, we're going."

With a sweep of their gym bags, they make their way out, and there's one last, "Save some for us!" from Jimin before the door swings shut behind them.

You sigh. "Idiots."

"But they're our idiots," Taehyung says, and a glance over your shoulder tells you that he's laughing at your frustration, a smile brightening his features and warming your chest.

"Remind me why we adopted them again?"

"You instantly fell for Jimin's puppy dog eyes when he was wandering around lost at orientation, and Kook..." He trails off. "Why did we adopt Kook?"

"School administration made you dorm with him, and we haven't been able to get rid of him since?"

"Oh yeah, that's right."

You fall into a comfortable silence, the only sound being that of your respective knives hitting the cutting board before Taehyung speaks up again.

"Speaking of Kook, you never told me how your conversation with Maya went."

You're thankful you have your back to him because you immediately feel yourself flush, heat shooting up your neck like an erupting volcano. You want to say, Yeah, it went great. She told me that you're desperately in love with me, and I'm the reason why none of your relationships have worked out. But that's ridiculous, right? Right?!

Instead, you do your best to mask your expression into one of relative impassivity and say, “Well, according to her, this isn’t new. They’ve been doing this for two years.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish.”

Taehyung ignores that. “How did none of us ever notice?”

“That’s what I can’t figure out. You’d think we would’ve noticed a change or something, right?”

He’s quiet, and you glance over to see him staring at a distant point out the window, lost in thought, the heel of the knife absentmindedly tapping a beat against the board. Taehyung’s always been introspective—content to sit in contemplation as he slowly works an idea through his mind. He’s thoughtful like that, ever the deliberator and rarely one to act on impulse. You balance each other out in this regard, with you having always been more inclined to break rules as you see fit and Taehyung being there to reel you in as needed.

“Maybe it works for them,” he finally says, and you feel your eyebrows shoot halfway up your forehead.

“You can’t seriously think this is a good idea.”

He shrugs, attention drawn back to the vegetables in front of him. “It hasn’t caused a problem yet, right?”

“The operative word there being yet.”

He shrugs again, brows tilting together. “I’m just saying that they’re both consenting adults, and if it’s gone this long without any catastrophes, maybe it really is a good arrangement for both of them.”

“It’s Maya and Kook. They’re always a catastrophe.”

“Exactly. They’d probably have an eventual falling out even if they weren’t sleeping together, so who knows? Maybe it actually helps them work some of that tension off.”

“That’s a terrible idea.”

“I didn’t say it was healthy.” He finishes chopping his last onion and sets his knife down, crossing the kitchen to check your own progress. Reaching over you, he grabs a piece of carrot and slips it into his mouth, grinning when you frown at him. “Really, Y/N, what can you do?”

“I know, but they’re…they’re the closest thing to family that we have. You know that.”

“Families can be dysfunctional. We both know that.” He munches on another carrot. “I’d still take them over my biological family any day.”

When that still doesn’t seem to entirely placate you, he reaches out to squeeze your shoulder, the tips of his fingers brushing the base of your neck and raising goosebumps there, before he slides his hand down to loop your pinkies together. “What will happen will happen. Don’t let it worry you unnecessarily.” Then he’s off heating up oil on the stove.

Normally, the brief touch would have barely registered in your mind—a simple gesture you had gotten into the habit of using when you were kids to provide reassurance. But it’s like your conversation with Maya has been inked under your skin, recoloring your perspective on the single-most steadfast relationship you’ve ever had in your life.

You hate it.

The oil begins to bubble on the stove, but Taehyung is distracted, rummaging around the refrigerator for something, so you take over, dumping in the beef that will help form the base for the soup. You throw in some seasoning, poking at the meat with a spoon and willing it to brown.

“So you’re really not interested in dating again?”

The words slip out, and the contents of the pot pop angrily at you.

Yeah, you might regret this later.

“Hmm?” Taehyung closes the fridge, cracking open the beer that’s now in his hand.

You curse your loose tongue under your breath. “Just…the other day at lunch. You were so against asking that waitress for her number.”

“She wasn’t my type.”

“And you don’t want to bring a date to the wedding.”

“I’d only bring a long-term girlfriend to a wedding. Less of a chance we’d have to edit her out of pictures later.”

“And how many dates have you been on since Luna? It’s been what, almost a full year?”

His brow scrunches, and the way he’s studying you makes you blush. “Why the sudden interest in my love life?”

You stare determinedly into the soup pot, trying to look nonchalant. “You’re my best friend, and I want to see you happy. Of course I’m interested.”

He props his hip against the counter in thought and takes a long drag of beer before he answers you. “I thought after Luna that it would be best if I take some time to focus on myself before diving back in. That’s all.”

“She really did a number on you, huh?”

“Something like that.”

You poke at the beginnings of your soup, memories of an absolutely miserable Taehyung surfacing in your mind. “It sucked, you know.”

“What?”

“Seeing your heart break.”

“Ah.” He takes another drink. “Right.”

“I swear, if I saw her again, I’d be tempted to kick her ass.”

He chuckles at that, and it rumbles his entire chest.

It might stir something in yours, too.

“I mean it, Tae.”

“Oh, trust me, I know you do.”

“Could be anywhere: club, grocery store. I’m not afraid to throw hands.”

He gives a tilt of his head. “She was a third degree black belt.”

“Well I kicked that Kenji kid in the groin during recess after he stole your backpack, and he cried for like twenty minutes. Remember that? He was practically six feet tall in the fifth grade, and that didn’t stop me. First degree black belt my ass.”

“Third degree.”

“Whatever.”

“Well as much as I appreciate your determined defense of my pride, I can assure you any emotional distress I suffered was minimal—“

“You haven’t dated since!”

“—and is definitely not worth putting yourself in the hospital over.”

“You don’t miss it though? What about like…” You trail off, cursing your stupid mouth getting ahead of your brain. You’ve never really talked about this before. Relationships, sure, but when it comes to the physical, along with your families, it’s one of the few subjects you avoid.

As your pause stretches on, he raises his eyebrows in question, and you decide to just come out with it.

“What about sex?”

Taehyung, to his credit, is unfazed by your sudden mention of the taboo. “I still have two hands, and they haven’t failed me so far.”

“Oh, Tae, ew.”

He grins devilishly at you, mischief brightening his eyes. It’s a look that he used to wear all the time when you were kids but which became rarer once he mellowed out with adulthood.

Seeing it on him now makes your heart jump.

“Point taken, forget I asked,” you say, and he laughs.

“Really, I’m fine with taking a break from dating for now. Isn’t that what that band you love is always preaching? Self-love and all that.”

You huff out a breath, nodding at his hands. “You don’t say.”

He laughs again, grinning down at you, and the uncertainty you’ve been feeling bubbles up again, your nerves sparking in time with a particularly loud crackle from the pot on the stove.

“Ah, geez, don’t let it burn,” he says, nudging you out of the way to take over. You take the opportunity to wander over to the fridge for a water bottle, feeling the need to cool yourself down. Honestly, what is wrong with you?

Taehyung, in sync with your moods by now, reads you like a book. “I feel like I should be asking you if you’re okay.” He says as he sets the meat aside and begins simmering the mirepoix in the fat. “You seem distracted.”

The conversation has become too much for you to wrestle with at this point, and you feel the need to shut it down before it gets out of control entirely. So you swallow down your anxieties like a pill without water and deflect.

“There’s just…a lot going on right now.”

It’s almost imperceptible, possibly a trick of the light, but his back stiffens ever so slightly. “Hmm, I’m sure.” He looks up at you from the stove, eyes pinning you where you stand. “But you’d tell me if there were something?”

You swallow. “Of course. You?”

“Of course.”

And that has to be enough for now.

The glow of the sunset creeps into your room as you put the finishing touches on your make-up for the night. You're running later than anticipated as you had hoped to catch Jace before you left—you know he has a virtual client meeting scheduled in fifteen minutes that he had planned to attend from home, but he texted you a half-hour ago saying that he got caught up at the office and might just take it there.

With your make-up done, you can't justify lingering any longer and decide to just leave him a note letting him know when you'll be back. Jace's desk is an absolute mess, but you're thankfully able to locate a notepad easily. A pen, however, is a different matter, and it's not long before you're rummaging through the drawers trying to find anything to write with. For a man who keeps his appearance so well-groomed, he has a true affinity for clutter, and you roll your eyes at the junk you have to sift through in search of a simple writing utensil: a hammer, old movie tickets, a broken picture frame, a ring box...

A ring box?

You pause, fingers hovering over the black velvet. Surely, you shouldn't look, right? You already feel like you're crossing some line by discovering the small box—you should preserve some element of surprise for both of your sakes.

Still, the devil on your shoulder whispers to sneak a peek...

Your decision is made for you as you hear the front door click open and shut, and you hastily close the drawer and try to school your features into something casual.

"Hey, gorgeous."

Jace leans in the doorway grinning, not a single sandy brown hair out of place and his impeccably-ironed dress shirt pulled tight across his toned chest. In a fraction of a second, you see his eyes flick from his desk drawer to where you stand stiffly in front of it.

"Hey!" The word comes out a little too loudly, and you rush to cover up the blunder. "I thought I wouldn't see you."

"Wanted to surprise my girl," he says, smile brightening as he swings a hand from behind his back to offer you a single red rose. You feel your cheeks heating up as you take it from him, marveling at how—even four years down the line—he can still manage to charm you.

He presses a kiss to your mouth, hands trailing down the back of your dress to palm your ass with a groan. "Fuck. Can't believe I have this work meeting when you look like this."

"And unfortunately, I need to get going, too, or Maya will have my head." You lean in for another quick peck. "Rain check for later?"

He chuckles, letting you go with one final squeeze. "I'll hold you to that."

"Look who finally showed up!" is what you're greeted with when you locate your friends in the gallery atrium, dodging the other patrons milling about.

"Sorry, got caught up with Jace," you say, shrugging at Maya's teasing glare.

Jungkook winks at you. "I'm sure you did."

"Yah, Kook, don't be gross," Jimin complains, slapping him on the arm.

"What?! She looks great! Right, Tae? Tell her she looks great."

You meet Taehyung's eyes for the first time since you walked up, and he shifts on his feet, gaze darting down to the accentuated curve of your hips. Clearing his throat, he smiles and says, "You look beautiful."

Cheeks hot, you murmur a quiet, "Thanks," so distracted by the awkwardness of the moment that you don't notice the look exchanged by Jimin and Maya between you.

Friends can call friends beautiful and not have it mean anything beyond that, right? You told Maya she looked gorgeous when she bought her dress with you last weekend, and you’d definitely be willing to admit that Taehyung looks incredible tonight. His navy blue suit hugs the lines of his body perfectly—highlighting his tall, lithe form—while his hair is combed up and off his forehead in a style that projects both professionalism and approachability. Combine that with the easy smile he keeps on his face, and he’s basically in male model territory.

You’ll be stunned if he doesn’t get hit on again tonight.

You make some idle small talk with your friends for a few minutes (Jungkook is trying to convince the others to head over to the bar where he works after the reception) before Maya gently nudges you with an elbow.

"Go and have a look around. Mine are back there," she declares, nodding her head towards the right hand corner of the exhibit, "but you should really check out all of the work—there's some good stuff. Hoseok and Sunny are around somewhere too."

You nod, welcoming the chance to see what it is your friends have been working so hard on, and excuse yourself to peruse the gallery. You may not be much of a creative mind yourself, but years of friendship with Taehyung and his infectious enthusiasm have at least helped you develop an appreciation for art. Weaving between the walls of frames and canvases, you stop here and there as a piece catches your eye: dark bars slashed across a messy outline of a heart titled Fake Love; a small boy offering up a waffle cone that holds a rose instead of ice cream—For You.

However, you find yourself slowing down entirely when you get to Maya's collection of photographs. They're mostly black and white candids of strangers. A woman shopping in an outdoor market. A girl chasing a dog in a park. Your friends pop up occasionally, and you smile at one of the memories you recognize: Jungkook pushing Jimin into the pool during your friendcation last year, bunny smile stretched wide across his face.

And suddenly you're frozen by a photo that's in full color.

It's Taehyung's face in close-up, his head turned to the side as he looks at something out of frame. His jaw strikes a downward line, mouth ever so slightly dipped open in something akin to wonder and tan cheeks curving with subtle delight. It's his eyes you can't look away from, though, opened wide enough to soak in whatever he's looking at that they reflect the golden lights around him, tiny galaxies swimming in his irises.

"Enjoying the view?" a deep voice teases at your shoulder, the man himself coming to stand at your side.

"That's an incredible picture of you," you tell him, still taking it in.

He hums in agreement. "I told you, she did a good job."

"Was that last summer?"

"Yeah." He nods his head at the picture of Jimin and Jungkook. "Same night as that, I think."

"What were you looking at?"

Taehyung is quiet as he thinks, scratching lightly at his nose. "I can't say I remember. Probably Hoseok walking out with that plate of pork belly. That was mouth-watering."

You laugh, and he smiles back at you before gesturing at the rows of artwork. "Can I show you some of my favorites?"

"I'd love that."

You let him drag you away, but not before glancing back to read the title card delicately placed next to Taehyung's image.

Your eyes tell.

Taehyung navigates you around the exhibit for a while, describing his role in organizing the gallery and stopping to gush about his favorite pieces. You've always loved hearing him talk about art, his passion for the subject illuminating his face as he enthuses about light and shadows and colors.

He's explaining the rule of thirds to you when Maya interrupts, telling Taehyung she has a potential client for him that she wants him to meet. He promises to find you later as she whisks him away, and, alone again, you decide to head to the adjoining reception area in search of your other friends.

You’re only a few steps into the room when you hear a voice call out your name, Jimin flagging you down from where he stands at a table with Jungkook, Hoseok, and Sunny, and you quickly slide up to hug the latter two.

“You guys made it! We’ve missed you. How’s wedding planning going?”

Hoseok groans into his champagne. “Please do not remind me,” he grumbles. “It makes med school feel like a cakewalk.”

“What my wonderful fiancé meant to say,” Sunny says, playfully elbowing Hoseok in the side and making him sputter on his drink, “is that it’s going fantastically, and we can’t wait to celebrate with you all.”

“Rumor is that it’s the can’t-miss event of the year,” Jimin singsongs. “And Kook and I are bringing the party!” He reaches over so he and Jungkook can share a short but excessively elaborate handshake.

Sunny looks on, amused. “Speaking of, do you two know if you’re bringing dates? We don’t have to finalize headcount quite yet, but knowing sooner rather than later would be appreciated.”

“I will definitely be going stag, but I think Kook might have one, yeah?” Jimin’s voice is teasing, but Jungkook doesn’t catch on, throwing him a quizzical look and causing Jimin to clarify with a smirk. “Maya.”

Jungkook scoffs, muttering, “Not a chance,” while Hoseok’s and Sunny’s eyebrows shoot up in sync.

“You and Maya are dating now?” Sunny asks, eyes wide.

Jungkook tosses Jimin a glare. “No, he’s being an ass.”

When Sunny and Hoseok continue to look confused, glancing back and forth between Jungkook and Jimin, Jimin explains, "We found out recently—and unpleasantly for me, might I add—that Maya and Kook here have been engaging in some activities with, ah, no strings?"

Hoseok's eyebrows go impossibly higher, threatening to meld with his hairline, as his mouth pops open in surprise. "Uhh...congrats?"

Jungkook shakes his head, bottom lip jutting out like a child. "Chim's just jealous because he's in a drought."

"Hey!"

"I, for one, don't see an issue," Sunny says, hopping in to play peacemaker before Jimin and Jungkook devolve into one of their notorious bickering sessions. "You're both adults. And don't sweat it, Jimin, any girl would be lucky to have you."

"What's that supposed to mea—" Hoseok starts to ask before Sunny shuts him up with a finger to his lips, subtly nodding her head at the clearly placated men.

"I just can't believe you two are finally getting married." You change the subject, snatching up a flute of champagne off a tray as a waiter walks by. "Been a long time coming."

Sunny hums. "To be honest, I'm surprised we're beating you and Jace to the alter," she says, and now it's your turn to cough on your drink. "When is that happening?"

"Oh, I, um—" you stutter, as you weigh how much you should say. You should keep what you saw earlier a secret, right? After all, what if you're wrong and you come out looking like a fool?

But four pairs of eyes are now fixed on you expectantly, and these are your friends so you cave.

"Okay, I am swearing all of you to secrecy," you say, making deliberate eye contact with each of them in turn to emphasize your point, "but I literally found a ring box in his desk earlier when I was getting ready to come here."

The table erupts in your friends' squeals and cheers, Jimin and Jungkook coming around to playfully shake your shoulders.

"Oh my gosh, I knew it!"

"That's amazing news!"

"I want to be man of honor!"

"I already called dibs!"

"What are we calling dibs on?"

Your heart skips as Taehyung joins your table, smiling at the five of you but obviously perplexed as to what the ruckus is about. And maybe you're imagining it, but your friends all seem to quiet down at his appearance as well, causing Maya's words to once again echo in your mind. The guy is crazy about you, and you're the only one who doesn't see it.

An awkward silence drapes itself over the table, Jimin being the one to pipe up when Taehyung's expression begins to morph from curious to concerned. "Y/N, tell him the good news!"

At that, Taehyung's brown eyes settle on you, and so you take a deep breath and spill. "I found a ring box in Jace's desk."

You're looking at him intently, and it's only the tiniest sliver of a second, but you see it. Unmistakably.

His face drops.

If Maya's photo captured stars in his eyes, you watch each go out one-by-one, his lips pressing together like he's trying not to be sick. A heaviness hits his shoulders that has his chest curling inwards and you almost reaching out to him...

And just like that—all at once—he's gathered his features into a smile and beams at you.

"That's fantastic, Y/N. I'm so incredibly happy for you."

His voice sounds genuine, dripping in the baritone honey that is so warm and so him, but you know what you saw—you're sure of it—and it has your mind spinning.

Shit, shit, shit, she was right.

You down your champagne in one gulp, oblivious to the shocked faces around you as you throw it back and thump the glass harshly on the table. "I'm going for a drink. Anyone want anything?"

You barely give them time to shake their heads before you're scurrying away to the bar and ordering a cosmopolitan—strong. Thoughts whirring, you try to make sense of Taehyung’s crestfallen expression as the bartender mixes your drink. There surely must be an alternate explanation, right? Until now, Taehyung has never, ever given any indication that he has feelings for you. This must be a mistake; you must be seeing things…

But just as the bartender slides your glass across the countertop, you glance back at the table, blood running cold as you find Taehyung already looking at you. He gives you a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t quite make it to his eyes before turning back to listen to whatever Jimin is currently saying.

You quickly down your second drink of the night and order a third.

NEXT

a/n: and we’re off! likes, reblogs, comments, asks, feedback, constructive criticism, and carrier pigeons are all appreciated! this started off as a story with all OCs, and the first drafts of some of these scenes were originally written in third person omniscient so please forgive me if the POVs are a little all over the place in this chapter. it’ll be rectified moving forward!

taglist open: just message or reply 😊

[dizzyjaden]

❝ I heard a cry. ❞

Kaedehara Kazuha x gn! Reader

♤ Summary: The reader reflects on their losses from the vision hunt decree that is active in Inazuma and meets someone they did not expect.

♤ Warnings: Suicide, death of family members, maternal mortality, depression, isolation, Stab wound, burnt skin, overall disheartening tone, angst

♤ A/N: Take care of yourself today <3 Kazuha loves you

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March 15th...

Days always blurred together living rurally off the land. Time passed slowly but life moved quick. There was a certain beauty in the black ink markings scrawled along your calendar. You mark off another day with a brush. Forever the beginning of your daily routine. Check off the previous day you pulled yourself through. Acknowledge that time is still passing, no matter how slow. Then, get your chores done. Everyday is the same.

You have to keep yourself alive. Therefore, you have to keep the animals on your farm alive. You can't help but feel envious of those who live without trying to live, those who are cared for. You debate each morning between rotting in your bed or feeding the chickens because honestly, rotting seems easier than most things as of late.

Trudging down the stairs, you glance over the railing at the dining table made of wood crafted by your father. He was usually stationed there in the mornings when you woke up, preparing breakfast for the two of you. Occasionally, he'd get to work earlier than you would if there was something that needed to be repaired or urgent tasks that needed to be hurried. No matter, he'd always ensure there was a plate of food on the table by the time you came down.

You haven't been greeted by those plates of food in many mornings, by now you feel you should be accustomed to it, but you simply can't help expecting him to be there, or that plated signal of his presence. Rather, You can't help but hope. Of course, neither are there and you are once again served with the reminder that he is not coming back.

Food, you need food.

When your father passed, he didn't go without previously teaching you how to take care of yourself. You didn't grow up spoiled by any means. He had you working the moment you could walk. It's what you attribute to your optimism. There is no way you can give up when he worked so hard to keep you alive.

So with that, you are cracking an egg over a pan heated by the stove in your kitchen. You really don't need much. You find yourself entranced in the feeling of heat that the stove radiates. Inazuma is cold and wet. It's easy to forget you are shivering. You close your eyes, focusing on it as it calms your body. You love the feeling of warmth. It makes you recall the first time you used your pyro vision.

It was an enthralling experience, and you found yourself shocked at how even though the flames emitted from your hands were unpredictable and violent, the heat felt no different than the heat of a sunny day. It was a typical sensation. It always unnerved you how natural the feeling of heat from open fire was, coming from a dangerous source, you expected it to be different. Now, you consider how if your house caught ablaze while you were asleep, it would only be a comfortable sensation until it was too late.

Sometimes, you did hope your house caught on fire. You hoped every single horrific event that happened within these walls became ashes and singed every painful memory from your head.

Catching the scent of smoke, you clench your fists. The ability to produce flames given to you by your vision, you practiced your elemental skills so often you can almost feel it in your palms, the fire, the heat, the smell of smoke, it's all so close to you.

Then when you open your eyes, you realize it isn't close at all. You simply got so lost in thought you burnt your egg. Your eyes widen at the sight of your ruined breakfast. Then, something completely unexpected happens.

Tears roll down your face, but no sob leaves your throat. You discard the egg as you silently cry, the reality of your situation always hurls itself upon you in moments where you almost feel comforted. It was simply too fast, everything happened too fast. And now you are left with an aching heart, and a wasted egg.

You wipe away the inconvenient tears on your cheeks and sigh. Crying does nothing to bring back your parents, or your vision. Sometimes, you wonder if this dread weighing on your back is due to the loss of your vision, or merely grief. Likely both. You wonder if there are people out there who relate, people out there who fought to keep what was bestowed upon them by Celestia. You know your father would have if he had any time to prepare. Instead of receiving word of the vision hunt decree as soon as possible like the city folk did, Shogunate soldiers appeared on your doorstep one day completely out of the blue.

After you and your father had your visions revoked... He changed. You both changed. Your father became depressed, anyone could see that. His ambition and livelihood disappeared. He became unmotivated, cold, and quiet. It was as if taking his vision took a piece of him out, and you suddenly couldn't focus on your own pain anymore, you had to take care of him. You had to make sure the two of you survived, there was just no other choice.

Your efforts made no difference. Eventually, his despair swallowed him and he just could not take it anymore. He gave up. That night, you buried your own father. You buried him right next to the spot on the ground where long ago he buried your mother, who was not strong enough to keep you both alive when she gave birth to you. Now you fight to hold yourself together, and it makes you angry. Everything about it makes you angry.

What you witnessed in your father made you lose hope. The loss of a vision is something he couldn't bounce back from, so why would you be able to? However, you are still here, trying. You know that's worth something.

You have spent too much time this morning reminiscing. You must pull yourself through this day too, just like all the others and all the ones to come. You give up on the idea of breakfast, your appetite is gone.

Back up the stairs to dress yourself, you throw together your outfit and pull on a haori that once belonged to your father. Larger, to bear the cold chill in the air while the season neared winter. Down the stairs once more, and you place the sugegasa you keep by the door upon your head, finally heading out to tend to your chores.

You walk down the steps your father built down the hill your humble home rests on. It is difficult to find joy atop your isolated little mound on the earth, but the birds still chirp and the breeze still blows. The leaves on the trees tightly encasing the pathway down the hill brush your arms. It is serene, and worth maintaining. First, you'll care for the animals, then tend to the agriculture, then you will-

Cough

You stop descending the hill in an instant, and all the muscles in your body stiffen. You slowly turn your head and peer into the trees to your right where the noise was sourced with a wide-eyed gaze. Your farm was a part of no village or community, it was in the middle of nowhere, built by your family. You had only seen maybe two different people who knew your father visit the farm in the last two decades.

The voice sounded male. You rack your brain for absolutely anything you have on hand to defend yourself with. The best choice seemed to be your shoe, but even then you'd have to pack powerful force behind that attack to do any real damage, force you weren't sure if you were capable of. You consider running back to the house.

Cough

He is not visible where you are standing, but he sounds close. You can pinpoint where he is. You're completely aware of which tree he is behind. The one with the widest trunk, hiding him completely from sight. Something holds you in place, keeping you from attacking or fleeing.

He sounds pained.

Quietly, you approach, hoping to catch a glimpse of him from an angle. You walk into the woods, focused on keeping your steps silent. Slowly, he comes into view, as you tip-toe around the tree he is propped against. He has pure white hair, that is what catches your eye first. The next thing is his sword. Lying dormant next to him on the ground. You pause.

He is armed. Even if he is injured you won't win in a fight with him using your shoe and it would be idiotic to attempt that. Caught in a debate with yourself, you remain under the belief he does not know you are there, until he speaks.

"H-Hello?" He murmurs, looking around as if he somehow sensed your presence. As his gaze finally locks on you, you freeze in fear, but you are quick to the realization that he is just as scared, if not more.

You were correct in your suspicions. He is injured. He clutches his side which you can only assume has been wounded. Unless of course, this is all some kind of act to draw you closer.

"I am... No threat." He forces out as if reading your mind. "I'm sorry for intruding. I had to stop running somewhere... Please allow me a few more moments to compose myself... I will be gone by evening, I promise."

You are at a loss for what to do. He's hurt, obviously hurt. There is no more doubt in your mind about it. The strain in his voice is something difficult to fake. Naturally, you wish to help him. However, he mentioned running just now. Running from what, you do not know. But whatever it is might still be chasing him, and that means trouble for you if he remains in the vicinity.

All the same, if he leaves there is absolutely no guarantee he'll survive. There's no telling how bad his wound is and civilization is far away from where you are now. The odds are against him. So, you need to make a decision on whether or not you care now.

You sigh shakily, still tense.

"Who are you running from?" You ask quietly. He appears nervous at your question which instantly raises your guard again as he restates what he already said.

"I will be gone by evening-"

"Who are you running from?!" You demand, cutting him off. He flinches.

"Shogunates." He speaks shakily. "But I swear to you I have done no wrong."

"Then what have you done?" You inquire. "Where are you even coming from? You must've run a long way."

He lowers his head and entrusts you with a sight that genuinely shocks you. He holds up a crudely bandaged hand, loosened around the wrist and practically falling off which allows you to see the deep burns in his skin. That isn't what takes you by surprise, what really leaves you speechless is the glowing anemo vision he holds in between his fingers. Just like that, you understand and sympathize with him in a single moment.

"They are difficult people to lose..." He sighs, dropping his arm back into his lap. "I'm not sure how long I've been running, honestly."

You cannot let the poor man bleed a moment longer, you finally allow your guard to drop and you approach him, he eyes you carefully as you do, still unsure of how you took that information he just gave you.

"I have bandages and disinfectant back in my house." You say, offering your hand when you are in front of him. He stares up at you quietly, then a grateful smile stretches across his cheeks. He pockets his vision, picks up his sword, then takes your hand before you help him off the ground, supporting his weight while you begin to help him up the hill.

"T-Thank you for this." He says, his voice growing more and more hoarse by the moment.

"Save your energy." You advise. "You're clearly exhausted. There is no need to thank me."

He is quiet for the rest of the time it takes the two of you to reach your house. Thankfully, you didn't get far down the steps before you noticed him. When you are inside, you bring him to the living area and help him onto the ground against the wall.

He cranes his head to watch you as you disappear into a different room, then offers you another grateful smile when you return moments later carrying in your arms a bottle of clear liquid, a cloth, and four rolls of bandages.

You kneel in front of him, laying out your supplies. You finally take a closer look at the wound on his side, which seems to be a stab wound from a sword. You sigh.

"So, you are... On the run? How long has that been going on?" You ask curiously, eyes wide as his extravagant upper body attire intimidates you. You decide to start by removing the black and red scarf adorning his neck.

"Well..." The white-haired boy begins. "Recently, actually. I do not make a show with my elemental abilities, so I likely could have flown under the radar when the vision hunt decree struck. However... I won't go into detail, but let's just say I was spotted with my vision. I fled. Ever since then, it's been constantly battling each and every day. I couldn't tell you exactly how many days it's been... They seem to... Blur together."

You gasp at his choice of words, staring at him in stunned silence for a few moments before you move on to unbuckle the strap around his torso.

"I... Completely understand." You nod. "It seems you are struggling to survive."

He shakes his head and wraps a tender hand around your wrist where you were fidgeting with his clothing.

"I am struggling to live..." He corrects you. "There is a difference between surviving and living. I'd rather die than just... Survive."

He removes his hand from your wrist and sighs sadly.

"Losing a vision changes a vision wielder. They lose their ambition and drive. It is... Terrifying."

You hum in agreement as you take off the armor on his shoulder, inspecting it curiously for a brief moment before setting it down. You pull the edges of his kimono out where they are tucked in at his waist and begin untying the knots keeping it nearly folded across his chest.

"I have seen it... And experienced it." You tell him. His eyes widen as he processes your words, while you narrow yours. "Do not feel sorry for me. I have not given up."

"What is your name...?" He asks in a hushed voice. "I'd like to remember it, if that's alright with you."

You are finally able to remove the cloth covering his upper body, you take care to fold it neatly and place it to the side. His entire torso is already covered in scars, some older, some newer. The wound in his side seems to have already stopped bleeding from how long he must have been clutching it, but it is still gruesome.

"(Name)." You supply, loading your solution onto the cloth you brought. "This might sting."

"(Name)..." He whispers. He sucks air in through his teeth when the solution makes contact with his injury.

"And you?" You ask, trying your hardest to be gentle as you brush the small towel over his punctured skin.

"Kaedehara Kazuha." He strains a smile. "Kazuha, If you please."

His name is a pleasant song on your ears, so surprisingly fitting for someone of his kind personality.

"Kazuha... The sound reminds me of autumn." You muse. "When leaves fall."

You begin to wrap bandages around his midsection, he appears to be growing more and more tired. His head tilts lazily to the side and his eyes fall half-lidded.

"When I'm done, you can rest." You tell him. "There's two bedrooms in this house, one is unoccupied. You should stay until you are recovered."

His eyes immediately widen in surprise again.

"No... You've already done so much." He shakes his head. "I will not overstep by taking up your space."

It has been a long time since you've spoken to another human being, you don't really want to voice it to him but you are lonely. Now that you've chosen to believe he is trustworthy, his presence is comforting. You almost want him to stay.

"That's how you will repay me for helping you." You say sharply. "It's not like I want to give you shelter, I just could use some help around the house and farm."

You tie the bandage you wrapped around him off and meet his eyes, he seems to be working your request through his head.

"I see... So you want me to help you, then." He contemplates. "Well... There is no way I can refuse. I shall stay as long as you need me to, then... Thank you."

You hum in satisfaction and then you take his horribly bandaged hand to hold it up on display in front of him.

"Did you do this yourself?" You ask humorously. He smiles bashfully.

"Suppose I'll have to indebt you further, then." You say with an air of confidence, unwrapping the bandages. "How did you get a burn like this?"

"Ah um... Perhaps that's a story for a later date..." He says regrettably. You worry you might have crossed a line with that question, but you shrug it off.

"Alright then... Sorry."

"No worries." He says quickly. "It is only natural to be curious about things like this. I am also curious about you."

You urge him on with a nod, he looks slightly saddened.

"Well... When I sat to rest by that tree you found me at... The wind carried such a tragic sound to my ears. I heard a cry."

You pause and stare at him in surprise.

"A cry? It couldn't have come from here." You say quietly.

He shakes his head.

"I did not actually hear someone crying... Nature has a way of communicating certain things to me that others will not pick up on." He explains. You are positively confused by his statement.

He smiles.

"Forget it. I suppose what I am really trying to ask is... Are you alright?" He asks sympathetically.

You bite your lip, which causes his smile to drop. You practically jump out of your skin when his free hand grazes the side of your face, then moves to brush your hair behind your ear.

"I'm sorry..." He whispers.

A subtle blush spreads across your cheeks at his affection, unused to the feeling of someone else's hand.

"It's um... It's not your fault." You say, turning away from the contact. "I'd rather not talk about it... Let's just get you fixed up."

To your relief, he seems completely okay with remaining quiet as you fix the bandages on his hand. His silence carries through you helping him up the stairs and into your father's abandoned bedroom.

"I feel... Useless right now." He expresses when you assist him down onto the futon. "I hope I am not burdening you. I will do whatever I can to help as soon as I'm capable."

You blink in surprise, having forgotten you made that demand.

"Oh... Yes, of course." You nod. "For now though... You should focus on resting."

He smiles and nods.

"Right... Goodnight then, (name)."

Something about the way your name sounds in someone else's voice never stops taking you by surprise, the idea that you could be perceived by others is so foreign, when you are mostly the only one who knows yourself.

You smile, the pitch black darkness of isolation that once kept you blinded felt more dim than dark now.

"Goodnight, Kazuha."

You believed that in your lonesome void with nothing for sound to bounce off of, any cry you let out would go unheard. But you aren't sure now as you think back to his previous claim. Someone might have been listening after all...

[who-knew-a-sheep-can-write]

Right At Your Doorstep: Bigby Wolf x Reader

Bigby hissed at the burn of the rubbing alcohol, flinching away from your gentle touch. You moved the cotton ball away and grasped at the tweezers just a bit harder, going in for another try only to be met by the same response.

“Bigby, you need to be still,” you tutted.

“It burns like hell,” he groaned back, rolling his tense shoulders, and sighed.

“Do I need to call Swineheart?” Bigby shot you a look at the question, looking as unimpressed as he ever could at the question. It was almost like he was daring you not to. “Then you need to be still.”

Bigby took in a deep breath and clenched his jaw, his hands digging into your dining room table so hard that the wood was creaking with threats of breaking. You knew he was being as kind to your furniture as he could be, but the pain he was experiencing was something awful you were sure.

You had managed to pull out one of the remaining pieces of shrapnel lodged inside of his chest, adding them to the small glass beside him. The shiny silvery coat had blue tints to them as you added another in, they looked almost like scales in a cup. You had plucked another and then another, earning yourself another deep groan coming from Bigby’s throat. His nose scrunched up and he winced, hissing between his teeth as you suddenly pulled out a big and nasty piece of shrapnel this time.

“How many more are there?” he tensed.

You gave him a look, almost like a mother giving a stern look to a disobeying child.

“It’s done when it’s done. You’re lucky that it’s mythril and not silver, you know.” You plucked another piece from his chest and dropped it in the glass. “Besides, I’m almost done I think. Just a few more.”

He had come to you in the middle of the night, showing up at your front door knocking, all bloody and in pain. His clothes distressed and torn up, you knew he had turned to deal with whatever the problem was, hell, that was probably the only reason he was still awake at the moment in front of you. You couldn’t help the blush heating up your face as you were looking at his body. He was brawny and tan, with just enough hair in all of the right places. God, he was broad as well, arms all muscley, you wanted him to take you in his arms like it was some silly mundy romance novel.

Sure, you and Bigby had a little relationship going, but you both were still testing out the waters. You just couldn’t help yourself but stare at the merchandise you now found yourself dating.

If Bigby noticed you staring, he didn’t say anything. He was more worried about breaking your table from his killer grip than you looking at his chest and abdomen.

When you had gotten rid of his ruined shirt, he tried to tell you what happened. Some Fables were planning on dealing drugs to mundies with whatever horrible magic they could concoct when Bigby put a stop to it the only way he knew how: By getting shot at with mythril bullets as he wolfed out on the assailants.

Your tweezers grabbed onto another really big shard of broken mythril casing and yanked it out, Bigby gritting his teeth that you just now noticed were sharp and his eyes starting to become yellow. You dropped your tweezers into the glass and stood up straight.

“All done,” you hummed.

Bigby’s shoulders slumped with exhaustion, allowing himself a moment to breathe and regain himself in your presence - which was a very rare occasion since you’ve known him. His eyes opened to watch you as you went to the sink and grabbed a rag to soak in cold water. You turned back to him with the rag in hand and observed the wounds. They were already clotting, barely sealing themselves. They wouldn’t heal fully for about a day or two, maybe three for the deeper gashes the shrapnel had caused. It always was odd to see how Bigby healed compared to most other Fables, granted the werewolf blood coursing through him did help speed up the process.

You started to work on cleaning his chest in silence, gently scrubbing away the blood from his skin and body hair. He smelled like tobacco and sweat, he was in desperate need of a shower as soon as you were done with him. You know he’ll deny your offer of using your shower in his own little awkward yet polite way, instead opting to walk home in his ruined shirt and pants (and no shoes now that you’re noticing) and shower there.

You had worked from the top down, wiping away the blood that had splattered on to his neck to his broad chest you wanted to just lay your head against and fall asleep to the rhythm of his heart beating. You moved down to his abdomen, noting the slight growling coming from his stomach. Just as you were running out of clean space on your rag, Bigby stopped you.

He placed his hand over yours and pushed the rag away slightly, his fingers gently grasping at your wrist. He was looking straight at you this time, his chocolate brown eyes still all yellow.

He carefully pulled you in close, standing up as he did so. You were nearly pulled into his chest which was still wet, but he was giving off such comforting warmth before you.

He slowly lowered his head, your noses brushing against one another until your lips pressed firmly together. It was a moment in bliss, a moment that made you forget you were stuck in crummy New York City and not back in the Homelands where you’ve met the end of your fairytale.

Bigby pulled away for a moment to look you in the eyes, his eyes still holding yellow.

“Thank you,” he said softly in the comfortable space between the two of you.

He slowly leaned back in for another kiss.

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note:

Chapter 10: Spool of green, spool of black.

Helaena did not tell you why your uncle had asked after you, and you spent the rest of your day pondering his intentions. You knew that if he truly wished to know of your wellbeing, there was nothing stopping him from breaking into your chambers again.

Your feet, although for the most part healed, were still sensitive to walk upon, though it was now a more manageable pain rather than the excruciating agony before.

The large gashes were now shallow wounds that no longer split with every step, or seeped blood into your bandages. The smaller cuts were now shiny pink scars, raised on the delicate flesh of your soles when your brushed you hands against them.

Your day was spent like most others, lounging in your chambers, reading, pacing and imagining the sweet images of the Hightowers demise. You found that the days spent in your chambers had made you grown more bitter and resentful of them.

How much longer would you hide away in your chambers? How much longer would you cower? Are you not the blood of the mighty House Targaryen? Are not not the blood of Old Valyria? You paced as you worked yourself up.

Approaching your door, you asked the Knight of the Kings Guard stationed outside to summon the maids to prepare for you for dinner. No more hiding, you chastised yourself.

Once Aella arrived first, you asked her to send word to your mother and father that you would be joining them to sup for the evening and not soon after, Saria arrived to tidy your appearance, re-braiding your hair and helping you to put your shoes on. 

The sun's last rays shone through your window, casting a soft warmth into your chambers. The fire was lit and crackled softly into the room. The air felt cool on your skin, and you were thankful for the long sleeved gown.

As Saria and Aella began to tidy your room, you dismissed them, asking for them to be back in your chambers later in the evening to ready you for bed.

Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon's chambers were not far from yours, sitting in the same wing of the Red Keep as you. As you walked you thought of the chambers. You had grown up in them and spent much of your time there. You wondered if Alicent had changed them to spite your mother or if it would be untouched like yours.

Once you arrived, your mothers knight announced your arrival to the room as you entered. As you looked about, you noticed the room was the same as before, unchanged by time or petty grievances, and was still how you remembered it as a child.

The furnishings were worn, deep reds, yellows and oranges adorning the decor. A large fireplace sat in the front of the room, its fire crackling loudly into the space, flames licking at the wood inside.

The windows and balcony were all open, letting a cool breeze pass through the room, the white curtains blowing softly with each caress of the wind.

The chambers layout was similar to yours. Sitting room at the fire, chaise and armchairs with a small table sat in front of the heat, an intimate dining table further back into the space, then towards the very end of the room was the bed, large closets on each side and towering art upon all the walls.

Your mother was sitting on a chaise, Joffrey on her lap whilst young Aegon III and Viserys II silver hair shone on the floor. Both of your younger brothers seemed to have fallen asleep whilst your mother had been reading to them.

Looking up at you, Rhaenyra gave you a wide and warm smile. Gently she placed Joffrey next to her and stood, walking towards you to hold you in her arms.

“My sweet girl, how are you fairing?” She asked, holding you at arms length looking you up and down, gently leaning in to kiss your cheek thrice.

“Far better than I was before, I found I've spent most of my days sleeping.” You kissed her cheeks as she began to slowly walk you over to the chaise.

Two of your mothers maids walked into the chambers and Rhaenyra asked them to put your younger brothers to bed in the conjoined room.

Scooping the two sleeping babes, the maids quietly walked them to their bedroom, whilst Joffrey kissed your mother goodnight and gave you a rough hug. Joffrey had always been a little shy, but his love for his family was shown in his actions rather than words.

“Come sit, there is much to discuss.” You mother spoke, patting the spot beside her.

“Prince Daemon should be here soon. He has been hovering around the King all day.” She chuckled, sitting gently against the plush pillows pulling you to sit next to her.

“I know Grandsire has missed father, you could see his eyes light up when the Prince entered the room. For all their faults, their bond is unbreakable.” You spoke gently. You knew the tension between the King and the Rogue Prince has been a long one, but deep down, they both loved each other dearly.

You observed your mother. Her dress was a deep black this evening, with yellow embroidery on the sleeves and hems. Her hair was more relaxed today than her usual tight braids, instead opting to have it flow down her shoulder with two simple braids pulling some hair to the back.

“Yes, well, faults not of our own….” She trailed off, thinking before continuing, “It is strange to be home at the Red Keep," She paused, "I am not even sure I can call it that anymore. Everything has changed. A once warm Keep is now cold. Even the air around us has changed.”

“My chambers have not changed too much, it has been kept mostly the same. I was expecting to enter and have the entire walls and ceiling painted green for my enjoyment.” You sarcastically hummed.

“I would like to think that it was the Queen's kindness that left our little pieces of home the same, but I feel as though it was most likely done out of cowardice, or lack of care.” Shaking her head your mother looked at you a bit more seriously, deeply sighing at you.

“How are your feet?” She asked, voice unwavering and stern.

“My feet? Mother, th-" Your heart started to race in your chest. 

“Do you think I am stupid?” She interrupted gently, her head cocked to the side.

“Of course not mother, I am j-“

“I know my daughter, and I can see when she is hurt. Although the Greens may not have caught on at breakfast, I certainly did. Then to have Jacaerys come to me concerned...” She trailed off, shaking her head before she reached forward, placing a gentle hand on your knee looking at you.

“You cannot lie to me. I did not come to you sooner as Jacaerys swore to me it was not serious.” She gave a soft smile, “Tell me this, was it Aemond who harmed you?” Tone serious again.

“No, of course not mother.” You lied, “He is nothing but empty threats. I broke a glass, and cut my feet the evening of our dinner. I had far too much wine, and was likely in the same state as Aegon.” 

Your explanation was stiff and felt rehearsed, “I promise you mother, he did not touch a hair on my head, lest he feel the wrath of father.” You smiled.

“He should be more worried about me rather than his uncle Daemon. You however, would do best to avoid your uncle.”

“I have been in my room for days, mother, I am not seeking him out.” You argued, your patience waned.

“Yes, but much like your father, you do goad him. Do not poke the beast my sweet, lest you feel his fangs. I suspect Alicent is still holding onto some twisted notion of justice for his eye.”

“I thought I saw that you were both trying to make amends?” You steered the conversation away from Aemond.

“I will admit, I have missed how we used to be when we were younger, but she is not the same girl. I fear the Hightower’s carry blood that is easily tainted.” 

Clearly wishing to change the conversation, you steered away from talks of the Queen and her son. You asked her how your siblings have been without you, and if she had been on dragon back around the Red Keep. She insisted you take Lucerys out to fly with Sȳndor, and you swore that you would.

Your father joined you shortly after, not announcing himself as he snuck into the room through the back of a painting near your mothers bed. You nearly shrieked when you heard him behind you.

People would often say that your father moved like smoke, quietly, quickly and then gone without a trace.

Prince Daemon placed a soft kiss atop your head, murmuring 'daughter', before coming to kiss your mothers face. The Rogue Prince continued on, walking to the dining table where he poured himself a large goblet of wine, gazing at you both as he sipped deeply before pouring another, handing it to you. 

“Prince Jacaerys has been hysterical these past days without you y/n.” He drawled, gracefully sitting in a large red armchair opposite the chaise you and your mother sat.

“With the way he behaved, one would think that something terrible had happened.” He raised one brow at you and sipped at his goblet, “Dont tell me my drunken cunt of a nephew has been harassing your chambers?” 

Your mother snorted. Shaking your head he continued, 

“No? Then what about the one eyed wretch?” 

Shaking your head once more you spoke “Neither father, Jacaerys is just overly protective.” 

He hummed, speaking as though he was almost uninterested, “Regardless of what your uncles did or didn't do, my brother has been complacent, letting them grow into whining cunts like their mother. Aegon is a coward, but Aemond is emboldened in his treason knowing he has that green cunt of a whore standing behind him, whilst she feeds my brother full of milk of the poppy."

You stiffen. Daemon paused, took an angry sip of his wine, then continued, "Put that boy in his place, or take his other eye.” 

“Daemon.” Your mother growled.

Your father held one hand up in surrender, changing the subject to tell you both of how the King's health continued to deteriorate.

“I would not be surprised if the Hightower cunts are slowly poisoning him.”

“That would be treason.” You suggested.

“Indeed, but never have I witnessed my brother so weak of mind and body. They keep him complacent on the Milk of the Poppy, making decisions for him, ruling the Kingdoms in his name.” 

You sniffed. You had been given milk of the poppy every evening. Did the Hightower's know? Were they keeping you complacent? Was this Aemond showing his hand? You knew from that moment on, you would refuse milk of the poppy, lest you become like the King.

“Have you been rotting in your chambers all this time Princess?”

You give your father a dirty look, “I have been ill.” 

He huffs out a small laugh. He sees straight through you.

“So you say, but Sȳndor has missed you greatly. His temper has been almost unmanageable,” A beat, “quite like yours.” He added teasing you. 

“Oh, and I am sure it is not from seeing your great, ugly face, hovering around him daily, father.” You teased back.

You knew the Prince had a deep love for Sȳndor, much like his love for you. Your father would have been checking him daily whilst you were healing. 

Putting a hand on his chest, “You wound me daughter, after all I have done for you. Perhaps I will marry you off.” 

“You two are insufferable.” Your mother added.

Maids began to bring in your dinner and you all went to be seated. You three sat and ate, speaking lazily of the day's events, your parents catching you up on the days passed.

Your father asked you to join him in the future to read in the library. There were many books you had no access to read for years, and you both planned to do some revision. Your father asked about your mother and Alicent spending time together.

“And what of Alicent? You two have been cozy as of late.” Your father mocked, swirling his cup, and brushing silver strands behind his ears. “Anyone would think that you have made amends.”

“We have not made amends,” She spoke in exacerbation, “but I can see that she is trying… In her own way. Only a fool would continue to irk her and her kin,” she sharply looked to you, then back to your father, 

“She has my father wrapped around her finger.” 

“Yes well, it’s unfortunate that it’s not the finger on the arm that he lost.” Daemon replied, his sarcasm ever present, despite all knowing the grief he has seeing his brother so ill. 

“Do not jest. We all know that the whispers at court come from her. That she is not so secretive of her disdain for us. They all still question our sons' blood. She still declares war on us daily! Do you not see the castle is donned in Hightower Greens instead of Targaryen Red?” And for the first time in your life, your mother looked nervous. 

“I fear she may question Jace, Luc and Joffrey's legitimacy. Even yours y/n. Aegon and Aemond openly call them bastards because their Dowager Queen mother does. This is something we should all be concerned about.”

“My Lady Wife, as long as there is still air in my lungs, and blood in my veins, no harm will come to you or our children. As useless as he is now, my brother will not allow those righteous cunts to question anything. We are safe.” 

“For now.” Your mother says grimly. “That is why I must stay close to the Queen, attempt to mend what has been broken. I see no other way.”

“Then it must be done, by any means.”  Your father added, eyes sliding over to you.

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