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xayneimagines · 7 months

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Mihawk “Fucking and Fighting are a bit different.”

Fandom: One Piece

Pairing: Mihawk x MC(She/her)

Genre: smut

Content tags: “little girl/good girl/rabbit” pet name. Discussion of a scene that I wanted to include cause idk I like it. Mihawk so nice so he can be mean later. AFAB and pussy eating. Part 1?!

MC was trying to catch her breath as she stared at the swordsman before her. She had challenged him to a duel and, while he declined, she had still persisted. Each slash of her blade was deflected, and that damn bastard Mihawk wasn’t even sweating.

“Do you plan to do this all day? I could cut you down, you know.” On the surface he was unamused with her persistence, but truly he was impressed with how hard she was pushing herself. The sweat glistening off of her skin and the heaving of her chest was quite a sight for the war lord.

“Shut up! I’ll kill you!” At this point MC was no longer thinking. Frustration was approaching a boiling point and as she ran along the cobblestone corridor for another attack she tried to plunge the sword into him.

He was gone. In her eyes, it looked like he had just vanished, but the sudden gruff voice in her ear showed otherwise.

“Your form is sloppy and your speed is lacking. Try a wider stance.”

Before MC could turn around, she felt him kick slightly at one of her legs, spreading them further. With her new found position she was able to swing the sword a little harder, but he easily blocked it with the small knife he carried.

“Your eyes need to be on your target before you point your blade.” Another critique before he pushed her back, causing her to fumble.

She let out a low growl and went for him again.

“Stop fucking with me!”

Mihawk pinned her body between him and the wall, his rough calloused hands grabbing hold of her wrist and pinning them above her. She had barely registered the movement until the sword she was wielding fell from her hand and caused a loud clang to ring out through the stone halls. The sound was, however, drowned out by her heartbeat.

As her eyes peered into his she almost choked on her own breath. His eyes didn’t have their usual cold and calculating glint to them. Instead there was a look that MC had never seen. A dark, lustful gaze that should not have been sending shivers up her spine and causing her to clench her thighs.

“Fighting is a bit different than fucking, little girl.”

MC couldn’t respond. She wanted to have some witty comeback or maybe even just tell him to back off, but all her words seemed to fail. Instead what fell out was-

“Uh…um…uh…”

He raised an eyebrow as she seemed to struggle with her words, taking it as a confirmation that she didn’t mind feeling his body pressed tightly against hers. He shifted his grip on her wrists so that he could hold them tightly with one hand, his other sliding down her arm, her sides, landing on her hip.

“Would you like me to show you?” His own arousal had his voice deepening, the gruff growls attached to each word almost surprising himself. It was rare for him to feel this way, wanting to ravish and spoil. When they had first met he had found her annoying yet cute. And each time she found him afterwards, and picked a fight, annoyance quickly turned into a desire to undo her. He wanted to have her panting and sweating underneath him, begging him to fuck her untill she forgot this damn one sided rivalry.

“N…no.” She had meant that to sound a little more…well…sure?

His lip turned up slightly, a smirk on his face as he glanced over hers slowly before letting his eyes linger further down her body. He could see the goosebumps forming as he mapped her out. His free hand then moved from her sides up to her neck, fingers gripping only enough for her to feel the pressure.

She shivered.

“Are you sure about that? A swordsman must be sure of everything they decide.”

Who knew how long they stood there in silence. All MC could register was how close he was, each touch, each lustful glance. Time no longer mattered.

“I’ll ask again. Would you like me to fuck you?”

“Yes.”

~~~~~~~~

The only reason he didn’t take her on the cold floor right then and there was because he wanted to make sure their time together would span the entire night. And, while he did have a tremendous amount of self restraint, his selfishness drove him to make sure that any marks left on her would be caused by him, and not a side effect of location.

His arms circled her rather fast after she gave her consent, tossing her onto his shoulder and beginning the walk to his room. One arm held her in place by being draped over her back while the other had his hand nestled against her right thigh, resting right under the curve of her ass. Her squeal at being picked up so quickly rang between his ears like a sweet melody he couldn’t wait to listen to again.

To others he may have looked calm and collected as he trudged through the hallways to find his room, but the growing discomfort in his pants made him thankful for his long strides. He had thought about fucking her on more than one occasion, many nights plagued by images of her panting during a fight and sweat dripping from her brow. The only reason he hadn’t acted ‘till now was a matter of convenience. He doubted she would have agreed during the other fights, them having been in much more open and public places. He had no qualms over being an exhibitionist, but he wouldn’t risk discomfort on her part.

Meanwhile, MC could hardly think as the warlord seemed to glide through the halls. The feeling of his fingers pushing into the meat of her thigh, and resting so dangerously close to her cunt already had her wet. It was almost embarrassing how she had squeaked out that earlier ‘yes’, but at least she was confident in his desire for her, considering his brisk pace.

Hearing the door slam open as they entered his bedroom also provided extra proof.

She gasped as he tossed her onto the edge of the bed, the mattress bouncing her a few times before her feet settled on the floor and she could sit up. Mihawk had turned as soon as he dropped her to shut the door, the sound of a click ensuring her he was locking it.

“Limits?” His voice reverberated in his throat with a gruff tone that had her pressing her thighs together in anticipation for what was to come. She almost hasn’t even registered the questions proper context, prepared to spit back that she could take anything in a fight. Thankfully, and with an embarrassed look, she caught herself.

“Oh…uh…I don’t know…I guess…no like…gross stuff?” She hadn’t done this before. What little experience she had didn’t come with any discussion of limits, nor had the experience even come close to being with a man like him. He was powerful, imposing, and as his hungry eyes locked onto hers she had to catch her breath.

Was that look really for her?

Mihawk chuckled as he walked over to her, unclasping his belt and removing his hat before he had even reached her. His hands sunk down on the mattress beside her legs, face now inches from hers as his eyes seemed to study her.

He couldn’t wait to break her. His mouth was almost dry from the thought, though she wouldn’t know that. Not with the confidence he radiated.

“Gross stuff?” He repeated with a raised eyebrow and a playful smirk, one she usually only saw when he was taunting her in battle. Normally it would have had rage pumping through her, but this time all it did was make her feel shy.

“Yeah like… ya know…” Her eyes drifted away from him as she found the eye contact too intense.

“You’ve never negotiated before, have you?”

“….That obvious?” She said with an embarrassed groan, hoping this wasn’t gonna be the end of this interaction. What if he didn’t care to spend that kind of time on figuring things out with her?

She felt like she could crumble under his gaze until a familiar hand was on her chin, lightly moving her face so that he could peer into her gorgeous eyes once again.

“It’s quite alright. While I don’t go easy on you for our fights. I’ll be sure to take proper care of you, love. I don’t mind taking my time with you.” His voice was low, almost a whisper, and the tone of it sent shivers along her body.

She gulped a little, and nodded.

“I’m afraid I’ll need vocal confirmation. I need you to be able to tell me exactly how I’m making you feel for this to work.”

“I….okay…”

“See if the name sir feels good on your tongue.” He suggested, standing up straight now and peering down at her. She was so beautiful, with her slightly parted lips and nervous glances. Fuck, he couldn’t wait to feel her.

“Yes…sir…” She tested it, trying to not let the embarrassment get to her. It felt…good. Normally authority over her was something that made her skin crawl, but calling him ‘sir’ had her quivering.

“Did that feel good? Whatever happens or is said in this room, you’re in control of. I’ll only push if you request it and, of course, if it’s one of my limits I won’t indulge.”

She stared up at him with those nervous, intoxicating eyes. His breath nearly caught in his throat.

“Okay…it uh…it felt good…” MC stuttered out nervously, her hands down in her lap as she tried to keep them occupied with each other.

“Felt good…what?” He tested it, wanting to clarify that she did actually enjoy calling him sir. His thumb pulled slightly at her lower lip, enticing her to speak.

“It felt good…sir.” The words came out with a shudder as she felt the rough pad of his thumb glide over her lip. She wanted to stick her tongue out and lick at it, but kept herself from doing so. Shame was such an annoying wall to try and tear down.

“Good girl. We’ll need safe words. And if I check in on you, I expect an answer or everything will stop.” To her shock, he now knelt down in front of her, taking one of her feet and placing it on his pants leg. Slowly he undid the shoe, his eyes focusing on her legs in order to give her a break from eye contact.

“Safe words? Like what?”

He rewarded her question with a soft kiss to her clothed knee.

“Well, some people use colors. Red means stop, yellow means slow down, and green means go. It has to be words you wouldn’t normally say in a scene and they need to be easy to remember.” He gave her a brief breakdown of the general idea.

“Scene?”

“A scene is what you call the actual act. It’s in reference to role playing, but it also helps in mentally dividing up sexual play from the rest of life. For instance, during a scene I could be mean if you wished for it, but once the scene ends I would cater to you and take care of you as you come down, just like you would be for me.” He slid the shoe off finally before his hands began to massage at her feet, hoping to help her relax.

“How…how do I help take care of you after?”

Her question had a smile on his face as he looked back up at her. “Different people need different things. I like…being of service. And while I’m well aware of my abilities, it can be nice to hear from time to time.”

She felt the heat all the way to her ears now as she stared down at him. He seemed beautiful, which was odd considering how she had just tried to skewer him. Granted, it wasn’t as though she had been unaware of his beauty this entire time…she just…had been more focused on other things.

“Okay…I…I think I can do that. And umm…how would you take care of me after?” Mc didn’t want to mess this up. She didn’t know how she could fuck it up, but if there was a way to do it she was confident she’d find it and everything would be ruined.

“Well, since it’ll be your first time in this way, I’ll probably annoy you by pestering you into telling me what you want. I could give you a bath after, massage whatever part of you I left sore. And, if you just need to be held, I can oblige that. Since I’m the more experienced one, I’m leaving the reins in your hands and simply guiding you.” He then slowly moved to take her sock off, continuing the massage. As his thumb pressed into the middle of her foot and worked out the tense muscle, she found herself wincing from a slight discomfort.

Damn, she should get a massage more often.

“So…we do the colors then…and if I want you to stop I’ll say red…” She repeated the rules and watched him nod as he now placed her foot down and moved onto the next, taking the same careful time to remove the shoe.

“Correct. And I'll be asking you to tell me your color throughout the scene.” He commented as he began to massage her other foot, avoiding eye contact for her sake.

She watched as his fingers seemed to dig into the tender muscles and found it amusing that hands that brought her so much frustration in the past were currently relaxing her. If she didn’t know him well enough, she’d wonder if this was all a trick.

But Mihawk doesn't do things unless he wants to do them.

“Okay then…should…we go over anything else?” Mc asked, hands now behind her as she leaned back, watching him work away.

“Well, typically we would talk about what we want. Since you don’t seem to know, how about we discuss what you’d like to try.” His eyes cut up at her again, gaze alone stating she would have to be comfortable enough to discuss it if they were to try anything out of normal intimacy.

“I…don’t even know what I’d like to try honestly…”

“What do you think about when you touch yourself at night?”

~~~~~

In her thoughts there was a weird blur between telling him what she wanted and now. She knew they talked about it, her nerves still turning her stomach, but her mind was only focused on the hot open mouthed kisses they were sharing. Clothes still clung tightly to their bodies as he had pushed her gently to the bed, mumbling something about ensuring she would enjoy every moment of this.

For some reason, despite the long conversation they had, she didn’t expect him to kiss her. In her mind she wasn’t sure if he’d see her as worthy of such an affection, but sure enough his warm lips met her own and all of her coherent thoughts left the building.

The weight of him on top of her was all encompassing and her skin seemed to burn and tingle with each movement he made. A knee sat firmly against her clothed crotch while he held himself up by one of his forearms. A ghost of a touch down her side had her shivering and she wondered if it was a sign of weakness in herself, or a strength in him.

Everything about the man was burning and confident. The way his mouth moved against hers as their tongues intertwined was taking her breath away. Even more so when one of his cool hands slid up her shirt slowly, palming gently at her breast. The skilled and calloused fingers massaged her tit gently and she could no longer keep her mouth on his.

She had to pull away with a slight gasp, not sure how he got such a reaction from just touching her like this. Heat surrounded her outside of his cool touch and when she opened her blurry eyes to look at him, more heat rushed through her.

He seemed so…hungry.

His mouth quickly moved to her neck, needing to have his lips against her someway or another. He didn’t know if she knew of her power. That right now he would kneel and worship the ground she walked on for but a taste of her, and that through his feverish open kisses he hoped to consume whatever he could. All the scenes that had been planned and discussed ahead of time would allow for more carnal desires later, though he decided this first round would be…softer. While he wanted to ravish her, he also wanted to ensure she would feel safe and comfortable in their arrangement. A goddess such as this needed to be pulled apart slowly at first. Broken until she had no choice but to understand just what her place was. His equal, above him? He hoped to bring her to the realization that no matter the role they chose he would serve her.

Fuck, she was already whimpering and he hadn’t even done anything. He wondered if he could get her so wet that she would soak through his pants, teasing the idea of it by rubbing his knee gently against her.

Between his thumb and index finger he rolled her nipple gently, only pinching at it enough to add pressure and not cause pain. Her mewls edge him on to continue as her arms wrapped around his head. He was glad she was already getting confident enough to touch him. He smirked against her skin as he gave her a much firmer pinch that caused her body to arch from the bed, a little yelp coming out of her cute mouth.

“Color?” If he was a self conscious man he would feel nervous about the fact he was already growling his words out like an animal. Luckily, the squirming of her pressing down on his leg assured him she loved it.

“We just started!”

Another rough pinch to remind her of the rules had her gasping.

“Green!!! Fuck, green!” She whined, causing him to chuckle. He lifted himself to lock his eyes with hers again.

“Next time you fail to answer, I stop. Understood?” He let his smirk fall before addressing her, not wanting her to think he was joking.

“Y..yes.”

“Yes, what?” A stern voice responded and he could have sworn her nipples hardened against the pad of his thumb. Seemed she really enjoyed the power play.

“Yes, sir. Won’t happen again. Just…please…touch me more…sir.” Mc’s eyes held a shyness that he wanted to replace with bliss.

“I’ll do what I want to you and if it’s something you really desire, you’ll beg better than that.” As if to punctuate his words, he rolled his knee against her again. The friction shot electricity through her, clit feeling the familiar buzz of desire that she thought only a vibrator could achieve.

“Ye…yes sir.”

He groaned at that, eyes relaxing before his head ducked down to now kiss at the middle of her chest, thankful she wasn’t wearing some sort of turtle neck or plain shirt. The taste of her salty skin was something he felt he wouldn’t get enough of.

His hand that was under her shirt removed itself from her breast, a small whimper escaping as she watched his hand now play with the top of the offending cloth. He pulled the neckline down slowly to the side until one of her tits could spring free. Then his mouth quickly moved from the middle of her chest to her tit, the wet heat causing her to arch once again.

Mc couldn’t believe she was this receptive to such actions. Maybe it was just the built up anticipation or the promise of what was to come, but fuck was she starting to drip with desire. His mouth around her nipple while he sucked playfully on her boob, tongue flicking and rolling around the bud as his piercing eyes were glancing up to watch her reactions.

Mihawk made a note to really test how sensitive the buds could be later. For now he was content sucking and licking at it like an animal, his other hand now returning to its original position under her shirt to pinch and grope. He could feel his cock already straining against the front of his pants and pressing against her leg.

He was huge…and all Mc could think of was how he would be buried inside her soon enough.

With an exaggerated pop he let the tit fall from his mouth before sitting up, grabbing the bottom of her shirt and making her sit up just enough to peel it off.

Her back flopped back down against the bed, one arm going to cover her chest while the other hand covered her embarrassed face. He ‘tsked’ before grabbing both wrists, pinning them to the side despite her resistance.

“And if you try to keep me from taking in this work of art that is your body, I’ll tie your hands to your ankles and use your cunt as my cocksleeve.”

Was that a threat? It sounded more like a good time if she was being honest, but she knew the real threat was not actually fucking her and instead just letting himself sit deep inside without moving. That sounded…infuriating.

“S..sorry sir! Yes, sir!” She whimpered as she looked up at him with those same bashful eyes as earlier, lower lip being worked between her teeth.

“Color?”

“Still green.”

Without another word he let go of her wrist to sit up, eyes taking in the full sight of her. He gently ran a hand down her chest, fingers grazing across her nipple before ending at her hips as his eyes drug back to her face.

“Beautiful. I can’t wait to see you broken.”

Mc thought that was amusing since she already felt a little mentally broken, face burning and a small pant on her lips as she looked up at him. Evidently he enjoyed the sight thoroughly, tongue peeking out to lick at his lower lip while a hand adjusted himself in his pants to try and get a little more comfortable.

Her eyes followed his hands and she felt thirsty, wanting to see what was in store for her.

“You’ll have to beg for that. I plan on making you cum in other ways first.”

At his words his head ducked back down to start trailing kisses down her stomach, making sure every inch would be covered while his hands began to undo her pants. She wasn’t sure how he got them off so nimbly without moving, but soon enough cool air was around her legs and his hot mouth was kissing at her thigh.

His eyes fell on her panties and she realized just how much her pussy might have been soaking them. Embarrassed at his gaze she almost tried to close her legs or shift away, but one of his arms snaked under her thigh and tossed it over his shoulder while he settled between her legs.

His hungry eyes were now back on hers.

“Color?”

“Green.” There was no hesitation this time, having learned her lesson from earlier. And, while she was embarrassed, she craved him.

He smirked and rested his cheek against her leg, his facial hair tickling the skin lightly.

“Good girl. Maybe you can be taught…”

She would have responded with a snarky comment if his mouth wasn’t suddenly over her cunt, a long lick through the fabric causing her to yelp and shiver. On instinct her fingers dived into his hair, but the low groan that came from the man showed it didn’t bother him. His yellow eyes peered up at her from between her thighs that rested on his shoulders and she was torn between making eye contact and throwing her head back as his tongue pressed firmly against her clit before wiggling against it.

Maybe it was how drawn out everything seemed to be or the fact she hadn’t gotten any in a while, but each touch from him was setting her on fire and he knew it. Long laps through her panties had her shifting down, wanting to feel more pressure against her cunt then what he was giving. He enjoyed the feeling of her plush thighs starting to shift and squeeze around his head, one hand moving just so he could grip the soft thigh while his eyes closed. Currently all he could taste was the damp fabric, but just the scent alone had his cock throbbing.

Slowly he then used his tongue to hook under the side of her panties, shifting them slightly just so he could get a small taste. The wetness on her lips touched his tongue and he realized just how desperate he was starting to become. It took all of his restraint to not rip the undies off for being in his way.

His other hand snaked its way up to help pull the cloth to the side and he opened his eyes to see the prettiest glistening cunt he ever saw. The way the skin and hair shined with her juices under the faint light of the room felt like an invitation.

“M…Mihawk. Stop staring.” Her voice snapped him from his thoughts. He hadn’t realized just how enraptured he was with her pussy. He smirked, glancing up at her to see a flushed panting face, one hand folded in front of her mouth while the other was still buried in his hair.

MC felt so exposed to him that it was embarrassing. The air around them felt so heavy now that she struggled to breathe, chest heaving up and down.

“Sorry there, little rabbit. I can’t help myself when it comes to works of art.” His words sent shivers up her spine, though she tried to act tough and pout.

“That’s so corny.” She commented, just wanting to feel a little more in control. The deep chuckle that reverberated through his chest showed he took no offense to her words.

“Perhaps. But it’s true. I’ll have to thank you for this meal.” It was odd seeing him with this level of playfulness. During their fights she always assumed his tone was a serious one, but the more she thought back on it she realized just how much he was toying with her and others.

“Well, you’re letting it get cold!” Another quip with a pout had him smirking up at her. He’d let her get away with being a little demanding. It was cute to see her embarrassment trying to shift to confidence and he wanted to encourage her telling him what she wanted.

So, without missing a beat, his head lowered again and he kept his eyes trained on her while his lips wrapped around the hooded clit, gently sucking and giving kitten licks to it.

She gasped and yelped, not expecting to feel that much attention directly on the bundle of nerves. A heel dug into his back while her body arched from the bed.

“Fuck! Too much!” It was almost painful to feel his tongue push past the hood and directly tease her. His facial hair scraped against the rest of her cunt and thighs and it felt just so fucking good.

He backed off from the bundle then, tongue pulling away from inside the hood and moving to circle it before another thick, long swipe ran up her lips. He found the sticky juices to be delicious and couldn’t resist letting his tongue dive into her a few times. He kept his eyes trained on her as the hand gripping his black locks pulled and guided him closer to her cunt. His hand that kept her undies neatly out of the way moved so he could rub his thumb over her clit, circling it much like his tongue had been doing before he decided to eat up more of his meal.

She felt him groan into her cunt, but no longer could she have her eyes open to watch. The pleasure was building and it was building quickly. It felt too much. Overwhelming. Perfect. She couldn’t help the string of curses falling from her lips as his tongue continued to dive into her pussy, curling and searching for that sweet textured spot that would make her see stars.

When he felt part of it, he smirked, his mouth shifting back to her clit while his hand moved to plunge two fingers into her sweet cunt, fingers curling to add pressure to her g-spot so he could milk it for all it was worth. He sucked and licked at the bundle of nerves as her body started to thrash a little, though he noticed in all her panting and “waits” not once did she say red or yellow.

A chord snapped within her and a gush all but drenched him and the bed. Her body was shaking, eyes hazy, and chest heaving for air. Her eyes drifted to see him sitting in between her thighs again, looming over her while a tongue swiped at his lip to gather more of the cum and squirt that now decorated his face.

“Good girl. Ready for more?”

#reader insert #one piece imagine #one piece reader insert #one piece x reader #mihawk smut #mihawk imagine #mihawk x reader #sorry this took so damn long but life got hands

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shesjustanothergeek · 1 year

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His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part Seven

Master List of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author's Note: Oh my goodness, an early update from me?? How crazy! I never update early the world must be ending. I know it's only like a day, but still, it's a day early! For someone reason, it was super easy to write. I don't know what that says about me. xD I want to thank y'all sooooo much for constantly supporting me. When I first started this fic, I honestly thought nobody would read it and that those who did would hate bomb me. Everyone who has commented has been super nice to me, and I honestly can't thank you enough for it. I do want to warn you, though, that there's going to be a chapter in the distant future where were discuss Aegon's not-so-consensual activities. That's all I'm going to say about that. I hope you enjoy this chapter! It's a steamy one toward the end. ;)

Chapter Warnings: Flash Back, Somnophilia

Prince Daemon opened the door to Madam's brothel like a dark cloud, slowly traveling with the threat of a storm, Dark Sister tapping the frame. Rage was his presence as he entered, though his outward appearance seemed as if he was unbothered. He was on a mission, and he had only one question.

"Where is she?" He asked the first woman he saw, a client on her arm. She smiled at him sweetly.

"Give me one moment Ser, so I can escort this handsome patron out, and I will be right with you." She buttered the man up, her words a purr in his ear as she stroked his cheek.

Daemon rolled his eyes, taking three long strides to the girl and grabbing her by the arm. "You will listen to me and listen well. Forget this fool." She whimpered, letting go of the man's arm as she went to shield her face.

"I am Prince Daemon Targaryen, the man who created the very Gold Cloaks that will burn this establishment to the ground should I snap my fingers." She nodded, eyes teary and lips quivering. The girl was confused and caught unaware by the Prince's presence. He had not been here in quite some time, ever the loyal husband to Princess Rhaenyra.

"Where is Madam?" He seethed through gritted teeth at her prolonged silence. The whore took a shaking breath, hesitating momentarily as she glanced at Dark Sister, deciding the truth would be better than Valyrian steel through her stomach.

She leads Daemon to a back room, hidden and out of the way so no simple-minded customers could mistakenly enter. A small fire was lit, and a cast iron cauldron hung over it as Madam stood hunched, her shoulders shaking.

"Madam," the girl spoke softly, and she straightened her posture, wiping at her face as she turned to scold the worker, but stopped short, seeing a former star patron.

"Prince Daemon," she curtsied, sniffling to clear her nose, "to what do I owe the pleasure?" Madam knew she was playing a dangerous game.

"You know exactly why I am here," he replied firmly. Madam tilted her head at her worker, silently telling her working girl to leave.

"I am not sure I do. You know better than anyone that there is no need to come directly to me in order to schedule a session," she said dismissively.

Of course, Madam knew precisely why he was here. It was the exact reason why she was crying.

"Do not play dumb, Babette. Where is Elaina?" He asked, losing patience.

"I already told you this many years ago when you first asked. My answer has not changed. She went back home to the North." Daemon scoffed, rolling his eyes again as he stepped closer.

"I may have believed that lie once, but not anymore. She has no ties to her family." Madam sighed, shaking her head and raising her arms as if talking to a belligerent child.

"I am not sure what you want me to say, Your Grace. That was all the explanation she gave me before disappearing."

Daemon growled, charging at the poor woman and pushing her against the fireplace by her neck. Madam could not react, nearly falling into the simmering stew pot as she grappled for purchase.

"Stop protecting her, Babette; I have no intention to harm. I need answers," he spat.

"I have none to give," she relented, ever the strong woman from years prior.

"Stop lying to me!" He yelled, shoving her into the hearth, her head smacking the stone. "Where is Elaina? Where is my child?"

Madam was a force to be reckoned with herself, but when put against the Rogue Prince, the man crowned King of the Step Stones, she had no choice but to yield. Her years of hardening were not meant to withstand the flames of a dragon.

"Elaina is dead, thanks to the babe you put in her belly, and that child-- my child," Daemon's grip loosened, a lump beginning to form in his throat, "that I have raised into a beautiful young woman has been taken by your eldest nephew for reasons unknown to me,"

Sadness replaced his rage, a dark, depressing feeling shadowing in the pit of his stomach.

Yet another woman in his life has died from childbirth—his mother, sister-in-law, wife, and now a former mistress. Did the cycle of maternal loss ever end? The water wheel that was the Targaryen's customs was spun by endless blood and loss. Daemon's face was stone, though his heart was not. A twitch of his lip indicated he was upset by the news of Elaina's death.

Finally, he stepped away from Madam. Was he destined to lose every woman he had cared for on the birthing bed? What would become of Rhaenyra? She had just given birth to Joffrey not nearly two years ago, and she was already filled with the starts of another. She had been lucky, but the Gods' favor only lasted so long. What would become of you once put in that same spot?

"She is with Aegon, yes?" He questioned Babette, sniffing once as he rested his hand on Dark Sister. She nodded, cradling her wounded head, blood painting her fingers. "The Gods only know what that drunkard has done to her," Daemon said as he swiftly left the brothel, a new mission on his mind.

Lyra ducked into an alcove. Her grey cloak covered most of her recognizable face, the shadows of the secret entrance aiding her efforts. The layout of the many secret passages into the Red Keep was slowly becoming etched in her memory. She needed to know them like the back of her hand.

Her little apple, she thought somberly, her heart aching in the palms of gluttonous high-borns. Left to be eaten until there is nothing.

Madam had sheltered you too much from the reality of the world. You were too kind to bare the Targaryen name, too innocent to become a part of their "holier than thou" culture. You were not stupid, Lyra knew that, but your ignorance was simply due to a purposeful lack of knowledge on Madam's part. Unlike most girls your age, you knew about sex, the pleasures a man could receive, but you still had the inexperience as them, and without some trustworthy to guide you... there was no telling what path you might follow.

Lyra stopped at an almost invisible door, the wood untreated and dark within the shadows. She used her knuckles to knock a rhythm into the door, short and legato sounding. She waited, her anxiety boiling inside her stomach as she bounced on her feet. The passing time seemed too long. By now, someone would've opened the door.

"Lyra, you must leave. The castle is in a tizzy with the arrival of-"

Lyra didn't wait for the servant dressed in red to finish, shoving her way into the bustling kitchen of the Red Keep.

"Lyra, I cannot help you right now," Sara chased, tugging her friend's arm. "They are preparing a feast for the royal family!"

Lyra ignored her, running to another hidden servant's passage, her leather shoes tapping on the worn stone floors.

"Where is she," Lyra asked, sprinting up multiple steps. "I must see her. I need to tell her to wait." Sara tripped up the stairs, catching her skirt as Lyra gained more distance.

"If you would take a moment, Lyra, I could tell you," she huffed, catching up to her old friend at the top of the passage. "They are at dinner," Sara finally answered, her breathing ragged. "She met Daemon. I observed through the walls. He was kind to her. I believe there is no ill-will between them."

"That is a relief to hear; truly, it is Sara, but the things I have listened to since she left..." Lyra trailed off, "a girl of her age should not be partaking in such activities. She is far too young to comprehend the consequences fully."

"That is hypocritical, Lyra," Sara scolded, crossing her arms. "I remember us during girlhood. We were not much better."

"That was different," Lyra said. She dismissed any more attempts of scolding from Sara, opening the door as the sounds of music seeped through the crack.

She could see you dancing, hopping back and forth like a rabbit with Princess Halaena. Lyra could not help but smile. Seeing the joy on your face was infectious. It had become a rare sight over the past moons. Partly, because you had just gotten your cycle, your body readying itself to fill its biological purpose. A part of her almost felt guilty for trying to ruin your night with the plans of your escape.

Your laughter carried into Lyra's hiding place as you lifted the Princess. Lyra slowly shut the door, a wan smile covering her face. It might do you good to extend your stay at the Red Keep. You could live as a girl, make friends and play as you never could. It would give Madam a sense of ease to know you were well and to gather the needed supplies for your trip across the Narrow Sea.

Sara gave Lyra a confused look as she retraced her steps. She still needed to memorize them. You would be safe for now, and that was all that mattered as Lyra slinked back to Flea Bottom.

Daemon had escorted you to your room after dinner, silent the entire way. You were thankful for that; if he had sparked conversation, you could not have held back your grin.

Of course, you were still upset with Aegon for stealing you away and keeping his real reason for wanting you at the castle, but how he looked at you... He made you feel like you were the only person worth looking at in a room full of royalty... It made your heart feel full.

Perhaps you were too harsh in judging him? He is still a person growing into an adult, the same as you. You acted immaturely with Ma, and he acted stupidly with you. You would forgive him, just as Ma forgave you.

You thought of Daemon, wondering what was running through his head during that silence. You understood that people believed you were his daughter, but your mother was not alive to claim it as such.

Sara calmly unbraided your hair as Caldia fluffed your pillows, and one of the other girls you had come to find out was named Izola laid a thin buttoned nightgown on the bed. It was nice to be dotted on, feeling more important than you were as your eyes became heavy.

It reminded you of the nights you and Aunt Lyra would pamper each other. She would use extra wages on the day off to gather pastries, flowers, and sweets. You would sit and listen to her odd stories of patrons for that week about how one man wanted her to call him "brother" and cried after he came. You would laugh and laugh as you both stuffed your mouths full.

Suddenly, your chest hurt, your heart skipping a beat, fluttering rapidly to regain its set pace. You clenched your fist, placing it over your heaving breasts as you tried to steady your breathing. It felt like you had fallen from a great distance and landed on your back. Tears swelled in your eyes as your body panicked, unsure of how to respond as it betrayed itself.

"My Lady," Sara spoke with concern in her voice. She had stopped unbraiding your hair, her hands on your shoulders as they heaved up and down. "Are you alright?" She asked, turning to see your frightened expression.

The other girls came rushing over, like swans landing on a pond, as they all gathered around you with concerned looks.

"My Lady, what has upset you?" Izola questioned as she put the back of her hand to your temple.

"My..." You stuttered, clutching your beating chest. "My... Heart," you gasped, confused and scared about what was happening. "I want Auntie Lyra. I want Ma. Where is she?"

You couldn't think straight. Your mind attempted to grasp what was happening, reverting to a terrified child after a nightmare.

"Ma is not here. You are in the Red Keep," Sara attempted to soothe you, unsure whether she should reveal what she knew.

"I-I want to go home," your voice was thick with shedding tears.

"You..." Sara glanced around, unsure, her voice becoming soft and pointed, trying to convey a message with her tone. "You are home."

"No," you cried, yanking at the collar of your dress. "I want to go home! I want to be with my family!"

The gown no longer held beauty when you gazed upon it. All you saw were hands.

You were screaming, your eyes blinded by tears as you stumbled into the vanity, falling to the stone floor. Dozens of pale jeweled fingers become your skin, trying to penetrate your flesh. They consumed you, curling inside as you attempted to pry them away. You pulled and swatted at them, but nothing worked. A never-ending cycle would appear as soon as you broke free of one another.

"Get off," you shrieked, "get away from me!"

You couldn't think. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't see. All you could do was feel their burrowing digits wiggling into you.

"Ma!" You screamed again, though you knew she wasn't coming. "Ma! Ma!" Your voice cracked, sounding thick with saliva.

You heard a loud crashing noise in the background, and you turned to look, but one of the hands gripped your face, forcing you to look back at them. You could see them gnawing like rats through your flesh and bone. Before you realized it, you were being lifted, the bejeweled fingers still all over your skin as someone shoved you into a chair.

Suddenly, they all vanished under a curtain of water, and you finally regained all your senses, looking at staring faces.

Caldia stood panting, a silver bucket in her grip. The other two maids were there, along with the Guard who was stationed outside your room. Sara and Izola were holding each other, their faces red and tears brimming their eyes. They must have seen them too... the hands.

"I came as swiftly as the Gods allowed," an older gentleman in pious brown robes said, bursting into your chambers with another man dressed similarly with a leather bag.

"Maester Mellos," Sara greeted in relief. She released Izola and thanked him with a squeeze. "I do not know what happened. One moment I was readying her for bed; the next..." She trailed off, looking at you with concern.

The Maester turned, seeing a girl who looked like she had run from one end of the Keep to the other, then averted his eyes swiftly.

"For God's sake. Give this girl some clothes."

You lowered your head. While in your fit, you had split the gown down to the waist; you only tore your small clothes a little higher. You covered yourself in shame, and embarrassment biting your ears. Caldia dropped the pale and grabbed your night dress from the beautifully patterned silk bed while Sara and Izola went to pull the tattered slit to keep your modesty.

Maester Mellows continued his examination, listening to your heart and touching your neck and underarms for anything abnormal. His companion took notes, a leather-bound book and feather quill in hand as the Maester whispered his findings. Your handmaids stood in the background, each with worried expressions.

One with a hand over their pursed lips, the middle looking between you and the stone floor, the other with arms crossed tightly around their chest, swaying slightly.

"She seems to be in good health," Maester Mellos declared. All three women sighed in relief, whispering thanks to the Seven. "Though her heart beats like a wild stallion, even when resting." As he continued, their faces dropped, fear rising to replace their short-lived relief. "I recommend deep breathing exercises to steady the pulse, but if something like this were to occur again..."

He motioned to his assistant, taking his bag and rummaging through it until he found what he was searching for. "Take a spoonful of this. Not a drop more."

He handed you an amber-colored glass bottle, a cork keeping it tightly sealed as you accepted it with trembling hands, letting him know you understood.

"Child, do you think you will be able to sleep tonight?" You lowered your gaze as your pride made your tongue feel like lead.

Maester Mellos sighed through his nose, kneeling to your height and placing a hand in your shaking ones.

"Tis alright, my girl. All women suffer hysteria from time to time. A punishment that all suffer in this time. Just do as I ask and all will be well." His tone was soft and kind, as a grandfather would speak to their grandchild, but the contents made you feel insulted.

He uncorked the bottle with a pop, getting a spoon from his bag as he poured the liquid into the bowl. You opened your mouth as he raised it, wrapping your dry lips around the cold silver. It was tan, almost the same color as molasses, and you began to feel skeptical of the powers this magic potion was implied to have.

You nearly spat it out from the taste. It was a bitter flavor worse than the absinthe Aegon gave you and burned your throat just the same. You didn't think to ask what it was, too focused on not spitting up as you forced yourself to swallow, taking a gulp of air with you and burping afterward.

"Rest now, child; the Seven smile down upon you. Thank the Maiden for this being your only ailment, and pray to the others for your continued health. You will be well in no time if you devote yourself to that." You nodded again, pushing yourself out of the chair wordlessly as you climbed into your bed, your handmaid hurrying to help you.

The Maester and his companion took their leave with a swift bow, the Guard escorting them out of your chambers and leaving the four of you alone. You had been nothing but a calm, albeit stubborn, guest in the Red Keep, and they were more concerned than anything. You could sense that they had questions, wanting to know where this sudden outburst came from.

The day had taken too much from you, and you had no more energy to speak as they pulled the silk sheets to your chest, tucking you in as Ma or Lyra would. You had begun to feel the effects of whatever Maester Mellos had given you as the girls left. Your limbs were heavy, and you felt your body and mind relax, sinking deeper and deeper onto a bed of clouds.

Aegon had drowned himself in his cups as always, but he did not desire to explore the Streets of Silk as he usually would at this hour. He sat on the stairwell leading down to your bed chamber hallway, waiting patiently until he saw everyone leave. Seeing the Maester as one of them did startle him a bit. What had happened in the time he was not with you?

He realized then that his little dragon could not be left unattended. He must be with you at all times lest something happen. It would be a difficult task for Aegon, yes, but he would do it. He would do it for you. You were his hatchling, after all. His and only his.

The eldest Prince waited a few more moments until he was sure your ladies would not return. He pulled himself up onto wobbly legs as he descended the stairs, dragging his fingers along the corridor until he felt a familiar little divot.

Aegon opened the wall into a hidden passageway connected to the many others that led out of the castle, but he didn't intend to leave tonight. Everything that he desired was right here in these very Redstone walls.

He traveled until he saw the familiar patch of stone that signified your room, making sure his drunk legs did not make a sound in case you had fallen asleep. Aegon pushed the wall slowly, careful not to have the stone scrape the ground as he peered through the crack.

Aside from lit candles on your bedside tables, there was no light in your chambers. He pushed the door partly open so that he could slink through, still as quiet as a mouse as he went to the lump on the side of the bed. He called out softly to not scare you, but as you did not move, he continued and sat on your mattress. Still, you did not stir. Your lips parted slightly as drool leaked onto your cheek. He leaned over, gently swiping away the spit, and finally, you roused, only moving from your side to your back, the covers below your chest.

Your nightgown had come unbuttoned, exposing the glistening valley between your breasts. It stopped short of fully revealing what he longed to see to Aegon, much to his disappointment. He traced his finger over your skin, sticky from the summer night's heat, and you, once again, did not move. He was mildly concerned you did not wake from his touch, but it did not stop him, his cock growing hard in his trousers.

He knew in his mind that if you had been awake, you would not let him touch you as he did, moving the fabric over to free one of your breasts. And the fact that you were not conscious right now, your body unable to reject or accept his advances, made him groan.

Aegon moved, swinging a leg over so you were in between his. Surely this would be when you would wake, kick, and scream at him until he left. But no, you laid beneath him like a log, and he grinned. Indeed this was a sign from the Gods you wanted him. In sleep, your body did not see him as a threat, which meant you truly desired him; your conscious mind did not know it yet.

His needy cock became too much, and he freed it from the confines of his pants. The head was a ruddy pink from his rushing blood, his thick shaft pulsing in time with the hammering of his heart.

He removed your other breast from your nightgown, the nipples taught and ready for him to pinch. One hand found the base of his member, the other groping and massaging the sensitive flesh. It only made him go faster, his hand pumping in shorter and quicker strokes. To his luck, you were still sound asleep, with no expression as to whether you felt him.

Aegon wanted to shove his needy cock down your throat and continue what you had started from a moment that now felt ages ago. When you asked him, drunk on the little death he had just given you, to teach you how to pleasure him. Perhaps your subconscious could learn instead.

"I like it sloppy," he said in a strained voice, spitting on his prick as he mimicked the squeeze of your womanhood with his fist, "but for you, little one, we will go slow. I'll have you dripping first, your little cunt begging to be stuffed by me. You will do better that way," Aegon grunted at the thought as he continued. "Then, I'll have you spit on me and use your tongue to spread it before I sink into your mouth. Do not worry. I shan't shove it in all at once. I'll ease it in. I'll guide your head to find the pace I like, and you'll use your hand to make up for the lost space."

He felt a jolt of pleasure, picturing the scenario in his mind, your big doe eyes staring up at him, looking for reassurance.

"Of course, you will be unsure if you are doing it right, but not to worry, I will tell you." The stroking of his cock went faster, making the pace that you would set for him. "Good girl, I would say. You're taking me so well. I know you would just clench at my praise and try to take more of me. I know what you are, even if you do not. A good little girl that would take whatever I gave her with a smile; you just don't realize it yet." Aegon could feel his high mounting quickly, grunts and moans spewing from his chest as he moved his free hand to squeeze your throat.

"You will do that for me, won't you, little one? You'll take my cock down your fucking throat and thank your Prince when you are done?"

Your eyelids fluttered open at the lack of air, sleep still clouding your vision and mind. You could only make out a face—shoulder-length hair of white, pouting pink lips wet with spit, and flushed cheeks.

"Aegon," you whispered groggily, suddenly pulled back under the sleep waves.

He came quickly and suddenly at the sound of his name from your lips. It was such a force that his seed shot to your chin.

"Yes, it is me, little one. I am here," he answered as more spurts of his manhood fell onto your bare chest. "I am here." You did not hear his words. Already back in a deep slumber as you squirmed slightly, wiping his labor off your chin.

Aegon cursed the Gods for such an insurmountable and sudden pleasure, stroking his cock slowly as he came down, almost collapsing on top of you. He wanted to watch you clean yourself, forcing you to wipe his spend off your body with your fingers, sucking it off before swiping for more, but alas, his little dragon was sleeping and knew better than to wake you. He needed now, more than ever, for you to be awake.

Aegon tucked himself back into his trousers and left the bed, searching for a rag to wipe you but could find none, only seeing your peasant clothes draped over a chair. The maids must've forgotten them, and he grabbed the dirty outfit stained with sweat and alcohol to clean his sin of your flesh. He looked out the window once he was done, throwing the clothes in a random spot for later.

At this point in the night, he realized where his highs would cease, and his thoughts would finally reign free. His chest felt empty, a horrid feeling of shame and guilt gnawing at his gut. No one would ever love him, he realized, not in the way he sought for. His mother was ashamed and disgusted at the mere thought of him. His brother filled all the criteria his Mother wanted him to, and his youngest sister, his... wife, stuck in a marriage she nor he wanted, forced to carry his heirs. His father often forgot he even existed in favor of Rhaenyra and her bastard children.

How would he ruin your life, Aegon wondered. It was inevitable. You, too, would surely follow the same pattern. You would hate him, be repulsed by his heinous actions, and become like everyone else. He heard you stir in bed behind him but did not care; you were still fast asleep. He felt the sting of tears in his eyes, sniffing and willing himself not to let them shed as he crossed his arms for comfort.

"Aegon," he heard a soft voice behind him call. "What are you doing here?" He quickly wiped the tears from his face, rushing over to kneel on the opposite side of your bed.

You saw the wet streaks, his eyes bloodshot. "Are your alright?" You asked, sitting up as you grew more concerned.

"Yes, yes, little one. I am pretty alright. I was just stopping by to see how you faired after tonights events," he lied. You didn't believe him. Your mind slows as you think of what to say.

Though you were still angry at him for what he had done, you felt your heart soften at his broken face as you opened the covers on the other side of you. "Would you lay with me," you quietly spoke, doubling down as you saw his surprised expression. "Just for a little while until I fall back to sleep." Aegon did not hesitate to kick off his boots, shedding his wine-stained shirt as he climbed in. He, too, was desperate for companionship, as he always was.

You knew this was considered improper in royal customs, and you would most defiantly get into trouble if Daemon found out, but you didn't care. You could tell you, and Aegon needed some, if just for the night.

Aegon climbed into bed wordlessly. From the moment you met him, he was always the one to lead, and you were blank on how to proceed. He was afraid to say the wrong thing and have you refute your offer. You both lay there awkwardly, staring a the black ceiling in silence. You were still trying to figure out what to do.

You recalled childhood moments when you would crawl into Aunt Lyra's bed after Ma had scored you. It was almost second nature for her. She always knew how to help you and make you feel better.

You scooted closer to Aegon's stiff form, wrapping your arms around him as he turned. You did not speak. There was nothing to say as you squeezed him closer to you. Each other's presence was enough as you slowly drifted back to sleep. Eventually, his arms wrapped around yours as something akin to water slid down your skin.

Master List of Series

Aegon is a mentally ill and emotionally stunted individual who does terrible things. Instead of mommy issues, he has "everyone in his family issues." I just wanna stroke that baby prince's cock and tell him what a good boy he is as he makes a mess of himself with his cum.

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Tagged Peeps: @zeennnnnnn, @malfoytargaryen, @targaryencore, @justasmallbean, @alexandra-001, @buckysmainhxe, @omgsuperstarg, @sommornyte, @silverslive, @unclecrunkle, @prettykinkysoul, @duesobabe, @djlexi, @ynbutbetter, @honestlykat, @graykageyama, @legolas017, @iiamthehybrid, @brezzybfan, @ladybug0095, @millies0bsimp, @kalfilit, @sheislonelyalways, @tempt-ress, @bellameshipper, @minttea07, @trikigirl271, @esposadomd, @buckylahey, @partypoison00, @please-buckme, @pastelorangeskies, @joliettes, @existential-echo, @priyajoyyy, @valaenatargaryensdragon, @merovingianprincess

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hail-brod · 11 months

Text

Put Your Head On My Shoulder

Masterlist

Loki Laufeyson x FReader

How can a single song bring so much memories? A tune it may only be, but a moment from it bore deeper than it should.

Loki Laufeyson hadn't thought how magical it would be to have someone dear so close to him.

From the melting touch of your palm on his own to the enclosing warmth between your bodies, both swaying amidst the quiet night—an unheard song played in your head, a mellow and dreamy rhythm. The lightness of it's notes carried you both like the wind, even if Loki himself didn't know what were you dancing to, he followed your movements. His other hand laid on your hip. Yours almost hanging on his shoulder blades.

And to him, your resting head on his shoulder was more than enough of a reason to enjoy this moment.

"Mind sharing your thoughts, my Queen?" Loki hummed.

Feeling your breath close to his neck made him shiver, until you sigh out beneath him. "Just a song." You say.

"Oh?" Loki raised a brow. "Tell me, how does it go?" He asks, earning a soft chuckle from you. Loki lets out a satisfied grin.

"Should I just hum it? I don't particularly know the words that well anymore."

"I'd love that." The man says, pulling you gently to his chest. "And do hum it well."

Loki gives out a light ring of laughter when you playfully huffed. Not a moment after, he proceeds to soothe your hip with his thumb, his laughter long gone.

The brief silence enshrouded you both; you start to hum.

Just like the night's calm voidness and the moon's gleam seeping through the curtains and windows of your shared room, serenity circled around you. You hum a song that he had never heard before though he must admit, it sounded lulling.

Not a lull that he finds only for slumber, but a lull that felt right. So right. As if your voice echoed across the room, which actually was, and it sounded like dream. Like the voices in a vast hall, invading his mind with only adoration and the fleeting moments of a rush.

Skin to skin, he felt it. Your fingers intertwining between the gaps of his hand, squeezing it as if to reassure—to reassure that he was still there, and that you still collided on his chest.

Not long, Loki followed your humming. Now at least, quite familiar with the rhythm.

"Did I hum it well, then?" You ask in a hushed tone.

"No." Loki replied. You then slowly turned your gaze up to him, squinting. "That's why I'm humming it myself." He teasingly smirks down on you. But his eyes shows otherwise; genuine gleamed in them. Before you could spat back with an offended joke, Loki gently pushed your head back on his shoulder. "Now, is this song of yours a Midgardian one?"

You hummed a reply. "Yes. You seem to like it."

"I do." He says, a smile tugging up on his lips. Once he said that, he felt you lean closer on the nook of his neck—snuggling the coldness of the night away.

With a muffled voice, you remarked. "Old man."

A confused frown reformed Loki's expression. "I beg your pardon?"

You boom out a little giggle. The said man sensed the way you inhaled his scent before replying, to which he amusedly bathed in. "My grandparents love that song. Though, I can't disregard the fact that it is pretty much a lovely piece. Old record or not," You pressed your forehead on his own with closed eyes, hand grazing the nape of his neck. "it's captivating as it is."

Loki takes a second to relish the moment as he closed his own lids. But one thought occured to him as he opened it again and made the quick action to land his lips on your own.

"I hope you're aware that you've captivated me, little one." He leans back.

You fluttered your eyes open. The smallest hint of catching you off guard lingered in your eyes. "You've done more than that to me, my King." You stretch out a smile.

"Yeah?" Loki began. He leans in close to your ear and whispers, "I'm very aware of that, dear wife." A satisfied smile grew on his lips once he took notice of your flushed cheeks. But he didn't stop. "Even more aware that I've made you carry our child now."

"You're insufferable." You muttered, leaning back on his shoulder. Though, Loki didn't miss the redness of the tips of your ears.

Loki chuckles. "That I am." He says, resting his cheek right above your head.

And again, he hums back the song. This time, he alone rode the tune. The twist and melody from his voice seemed to bring you rapture as you sighed beneath him.

Such a serene and lovely night that almost seemed to last for years, decades, centuries or whatnot. To Loki, all of it was his prized moments. No treasure or power could measure his love for you. Even when he ruled a realm, you were his great solice. Even when he found himself lost in decisions, you were his inspiration. And then becoming a father to your children had proven him many things. Even he had realized more that raising children was no easy task. Still, you stood beside him.

You still stood tall, even you were growing older day by day. Years cut shorter than he would've liked, and Loki dreaded it. His children dreaded it.

But Loki knew very well that he had spent enough time with you. He had made you happy, and so did you. He carved every memory he had with you deep within his mind, never intending to brush it all for the sake of reducing his pain.

Because he would happily feel it than not.

Even when those dear memories spring up to him like an old record, he would never cease to keep loving it.

Then he heard it again. That familiar tune that he knew very well. That rhythm that kept his mind awake in the gleaming moonlight in his room.

You've always said you didn't remember the words to the song, but now he knows what those were.

"Put your head on my shoulder

Hold me in your arms, baby

Squeeze me oh-so-tight

Show me that you love me too..."

He got lost in it, reminiscing your humming voice. As does the old radio played in his room that one of his children had brought home, he stood right where you swayed that night.

He smiled fondly as he listened. So long he started to hum along to the song just like the olden days.

And so he let the tears fall.

sorry its already 2:30am, i hope this was angsty enough idk ಥ⁠_⁠ಥ

Ko-fi?

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definitelynotshouting · 9 months

Text

so a while ago i had planned to rewrite my fic everything i loved and feared for stylistic purposes, but ended up deciding to leave it as is and never went through with that beyond the first scene. Since i dont plan on doing anything else with this, here is the scene i did rewrite!! Hope you guys like it :]

CWs: graphic violence, graphic injury, suicide, temporary major character death

Love, Scar finds, is the exact shade of blood in the water.

A thin line of it beads from his shoulder down to his wrist, clouding as it sluices past the surface tension of the pond he stands in. Inky ribbons trail from each drop; they ripple outward to form a slinking barrier between him and the honed edge of Grian's sword, coiling thin and wispy around their ankles. Love is what saturates the smears of that diamond blade, the tattered edges of Grian's sweater, the final life pulsing bright and sacred in Scar's chest; love is the heady fog billowing through his veins as he kneels, one bare knee sinking into the silt, and bows his head to the oncoming storm.

But Grian's scarlet eyes, scorching and incensed, eclipse it all.

They pulse with the brazen fire of a solar prominence; the color has molded to his irises, slotting into place with such clean precision that it hemorrhages over Scar's memories, staining the echo-impression of Grian's gaze. Gorgeous is too pale a word to raise against the righteous, trembling fury he vibrates with now. The urge to reach past that diamond line, reel Grian in by the collar, and kiss him until nothing remains of them except one tangled corpse is a siren's song that howls inside Scar's chest.

Here, lying in the fractures of his calculated betrayal, the die is cast, and Scar comes out smiling.

"You can kill me," he says. The syllables tangle in his throat, too disjointed with the rolling, frothing tension boiling inside him. "Grian. You can kill me.”

Above him, an avenging angel falters. Grian's sword, still streaked with the proof of Scar's adoration, lowers by a single fraction. "What? No—"

“For everything you did to me,” Scar continues past him, lungs shivering with the cost of this victory, “to keep me alive this long— you may slay me, and take the enchanter.”

Gold flakes splay across the surface of the pond, scintillating outward as Scar bends at the waist; water brushes his forehead in cool benediction, in cruel, unrelenting curse. This baptism is Scar's holy scourge: Grian will win. It is both the most and least Scar can do for him.

When Grian speaks, his voice is small. “No— no, I can’t. I literally can’t. Scar—”

"Do it," Scar urges into the water. Between scattered refractions his own face peers back at him, a wavering mirror to manic triumph— all the love in the world has led to this crescendoing melody in his gut: the braying war horns, the bark of crashing cymbals, the bellow of ancient pipes. Strung at the seams within this orchestra, he teeters with bated breath on the edge of one final encore.

Instead, all that reigns around them is miserable silence.

A sharp inhale, cracking through the clearing with firework-precision. "I'm not—" Grian starts, and chokes on it, the words stumbling to an abrupt halt in his throat. Scar's neck snaps up; Grian's sword-grip has loosened, fingers lax around the hilt as his free hand flinches to one temple. It hovers there, pale and trembling, his eyes trained on the middle-distance.

A beat. Clarity is a stark, cold glow unspooling in Grian's pupils. “The spectators want a fight,” he says. His voice rings hollow.

Scar gentles his in turn, snaking it around Grian's shoulders with careful, insistent pressure. “It’s okay, G," he breathes. "You can kill me. You can be the winner.”

Grian's expression is a severed nerve, flayed open to the rising sun. Around them, liquid honey dribbles between boughs, landing dizzy and sincere at their feet. They brush the tips of Grian's hair, set fire to the thin, damp strands curling around his ears. Checkmate is the process of capturing your opponent's king with no hope of escape; shadowed in Grian's glowing silhouette, Scar bows, and offers his defeat with both hands self-shackled.

Check, and mate.

Slow— so slow he can track each individual movement— Grian shakes his head. A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Scar, they want blood." New waves bloom out from his shaking stance; adrenaline has retracted its claws, leaving nothing but the thin garrote between passion, violence, and mourning.

Scar is shaking as well. Even in this, they are together.

Grian's lips twist in an abrupt, fragile smile. "Scar," he says, sword once again rising in its clean, prismatic arc. Scar tracks the way light sparkles off it, throwing pale blue echoes against the trunks of nearby trees. "No matter what happens, we can claim this as a double victory. Right?”

The words are a cool balm against fevered skin. Scar sinks into them, eyes drifting shut; even now, through the mounting, cacophonic thrum in his veins, past the shivering gooseflesh of soaked skin, to look Grian in the eyes when he kills him would be blasphemy. "Yeah," he breathes, bracing for the blow, the diamond cut against his carotid. "We're good."

Air whistles with the surge of a starving blade—

— and the sharp, heavy schlck of pierced flesh not his own reverberates through the clearing instead. Grian's choked-off cry ends in an ugly, gurgling yelp; Scar's eyes fly open just in time for Grian's knees to meet the water, scattering a thousand, dazzling droplets in every direction.

Between Grian's hands is the glittering diamond of his own sword, buried inches at an upward angle into the soft meat above his belly. Rivulets of blood bubble from cuts in his palms where they clench halfway up that razor edge; even as dark stains spread to saturate his sweater, Grian's lips peel back in a feral snarl, and he shoves the wobbling blade in deeper.

"You—" Grian's gasps are ragged, hands slipping along the edges as the sword sinks another wet, squelching inch— "win, Scar. You win."

And with the same, ponderous sway of a toppling tower, Grian collapses into the bloody water.

Hazy exultation cleaves itself from Scar's mind in one savage swoop, submerging his entire body in ice. If he screams, the sound fails to breach his ears– one moment he's kneeling, dumb and shell-shocked, and the next he's scrabbling forward on hands and knees through the shallows between them, catching Grian by the arm before his head can plunge below water.

Scar hauls him sideways into his arms. A strangled noise punches out of Grian in response— the high, staticked whine of a wounded animal, shivering through Scar's chest. The blade buried in his gut jars with the motion, carving another, ragged line into the pallid flesh beneath. Fresh copper blooms in a cloud around them, swelling in Scar's nose.

“Grian— Grian, no." Scar's hand stretches of its own volition, hovering over the keen edges of Grian's sword. Halts just shy of ripping it back out— that will only kill him faster. "Wait, wait, wait— no. No, no, no, no, no. Grian.”

This isn't right— the bright, earnest rays of the sun have missed their mark, slipping past Scar's death to gild Grian in stunning, flagrant gold. “What are you doing?” he chokes, heart a helpless stutter in the back of his throat.

Grian was meant to win. Not this.

Never this.

“They never said what kind of blood,” Grian rasps, lips wobbling. Each breath is a bubbling wheeze as he struggles for air. “I can’t— I couldn’t, Scar. I couldn’t kill you.” When he coughs, his stomach convulses; Grian's voice cuts off into a breathless scream before falling back into muted pants. Eyes squeezed shut, Grian grits out: "Sorry."

Scar's fingers catch in the soaked strands of Grian's hair, petting it down with clumsy, panicked motions. “No you’re not,” he whispers. Beneath his chest an abscessed, answering wound unravels, howling in tune to Grian's shallow gasps. “You did that on purpose. Grian, you were supposed to win.”

Every card had been folded for this. Each die weighed in the well of his palm, every trick tugged out from beneath his sleeve; a barren world with no one in it isn't a world Scar can survive, and he'd pieced that together between sheets and shared pulses, windswept sky and sunburnt sand. Maybe it had been selfish… but Scar is selfish— with the last, grasping selfishness of a man devoted, his loyalty a warm, gushing sacrifice caught between grit teeth.

“You weren’t supposed to die,” Scar wails, shifting until his spine bows, forehead brushing Grian's. Stocky fingers spasm under his own; Grian's short breaths puff against the chapped skin of his lips, fanning over his cheeks. “Grian— how could you?”

Beneath him, Grian's lips twist in a wry grin. This close, Scar can make out the faded remnants of freckles marching across his face; counting them had always been a fantasy. Now he'll never have the chance. “Guess I’m just not cut out to be a winner,” Grian murmurs, winces, and drags one bloodied hand up to rest against Scar's jaw.

He doesn't bother saying I love you. Instead, he guides Scar to close the gap between them, fingers fumbling at the nape of Scar's neck. Grian's lips are bitten raw, trembling as he capture Scar's own, and for a moment they are two jagged breaths; the slide of salt on Scar's tongue; copper-stained fingers falling limp–

Scar bolts upright, choking on his own anguished scream.

#scarian #goodtimeswithscar #grian #3rd life #trafficshipping #traffic series #mcyt #shouting speaks #WEEEE ALL 1.5K OF IT #gods. fun fact grian was aiming for his inferior vena cava here and missed #fuckin. christ <- has medical adjacent work background #hope u guys enjoy this. i should write more death scenes i think it would fix me (make me worse)#txt

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aldryrththerainbowheart · 10 months

Text

Serendipitous Meeting

Fandom: Bayonetta

Tags: Male!Cereza x reader

Note: I've finally done the unthinkable! I've turned my and @cerezzzita 's chaotic conversations into sort of a headcanon ficlet. This is for people with very specific wants and needs, so basically for me and maybe three other people.

Might add part two, we'll see.

You were just putting some flowers on your gradmothers grave for her anniversary when you heard a ruckus not far away. Understandably curious, you headed in direction of the strange noise.

When you came closer, a stray bullet almost hit your forehead, instead it landed in the stone pillar next to you. Quickly, you dove behind one the tombstones. There, behind the tombstone next to yours, you found pudgy stout man spitting profanities in italian.

Amidst the chaos, you saw as a roof of a mausoleum suddenly burst open, as if someone, or something fell on it. But you didn’t saw anything. Your puzzlement grew as you heard mettalic ringing of a blade sqinging right above you.

With a terrified yelp, you scrambled away on all fours. Even as you looked around in your hasty escape, you didn’t saw anything, but you felt it, this otherworldy presence.

„Look out!“ You heard the mens voice, but you had no chance to react. There, in the sliver between realities, you saw a horrifing monster. And you were too stunned to even be afraid.

Luckily for you, there was a guardian angel watching after you that day. Bullets wheezed past you as a man in black laid waste to the terrifying creatures. You were so confused and helpless that all you could do was cover your head with your arms and cover in the midst of battle.

Gunshots, inhuman screeches and dying gurgles were switches for deathly silence. When you finally braved yourself to unfurl yours arms from your eyes you saw him.

Precariously perched a tone of the tombstones, impressively long legs clad entirely in black, as your eyes travelled up and up, you saw a golden medallion with moon incrested on it, which rested on even more impressive chest, you almost darted your eyes away in embarassment. When you finally rested your vision on his face, the first thing you noticed was an elegant sleek glasses perched upon perfect thin nose. You weren’t used to seeing these types of glasses on men, they usually opted for something for angular, big, and masculine, but as your eyes glided over his beautiful countenance, you must admit they suited him well. You were too ensnared by the mans appearance that it took you some time to notice that his brows were cinched in annoyance.

„Ugh, Rodin has truly outdone himself this time. To think I had to cancel afternoon sermon for this handful of low-ranked vermin…“ the mysterious man stopped dusting himself off when he saw one of the creatures under next to him on the ground, trying to crawl away. He looked at it in disdain and without another thought raised on his legs high above his head, then slammed it right over creatures head. „…how tacky.“

The man’s deep, smooth voice curled around your ear like a whisp of perfumed smoke. You almost missed the wet crunch of the skull underneath his boot.

With a flick of his wrist, as if benevolently dismissing this whole affair, he turned to the italian, which looked even shorter standing next to him.

„Honestly, finding a real challenge in these parts would be…what’s that word again? When you find something good without looking for it?“

„Serendipity.“ You heard yourself say.

You saw the man’s shoulders tense, then slowly, he turned to you and you were once again helpless victim to that smokey grey gaze.

„You…you can see me?“ He took one step towards you, head tilting to the side like a cat, eyeing its next prey.

You haven’t got the chance to answer. A shadow appeared above you and you saw a stone boulder hurling towards you. You had your breath nocked out of you as much larger body knocked your over and thrown you to safety.

The last thing you remember before passing out was a feeling of two generous pectorals mushed against your face.

#bayonetta #bayonetta x reader #bayonetta x you #male!cereza #inspired by the art i posted #male!reader x reader

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ussgallifrey · 1 year

Text

Home for the Holidays | Part 2

✦ Summary: Never let it be said that you weren’t willing to do just about anything for your squadron. As you find yourself roped into an elaborate ruse to help fool Hangman’s mother for Christmas all seems to be going according to plan. But when that plan spirals out of control, the line between real and pretend begins to blur.

✦ Pairing: Jake “Hangman” Seresin x Female Reader

✦ Warnings: Anxiety, fake dating, hurt/comfort, Jake’s family being fake and generally awful towards him, mentions of divorce, minor angst.

✦ Word Count: 9.6k

✦ Author’s Note: Did I envision People Magazine’s 2022 Sexiest Man Alive in the role of Jake’s older brother? Perhaps. Also, to the lovely @top-hhun and @andrewrussgarfield, thank you for your constant Glen Powell spams - never stop <3

✦ Tags: @callsignbarb

[Master List]

The moment you blearily pull yourself up from the pleasant hum of intermittent sleep, it takes you far longer than you'd like to admit to realize that you are no longer aboard the carrier. That the rattling of pipes and the pelting sound of rain is nothing more than your companion starting the shower in the adjacent room.

Your eyes blink against the darkness, face snuggled into the too-soft pillow. Only the faintest ray of early morning light is visible through the black-out curtains.

It's late, about fifteen minutes past your usual wake-up time. With the glowing green digital alarm clock informing you that it's currently 8:16 am - make that over two hours local time past your usual wake-up.

But you and Seresin clearly were well-oiled military machines who had long passed the use of actual alarms to arise. It also meant that the man's shower would be short and to the point. So you pull yourself free from the tangle of sheets - stretching your arms out wide with a satisfying crack between your shoulder blades. You yank the sheets back in place, stifling a yawn as you brush the wrinkles out of the pillowcase.

Sleeping in a real bed, with a mattress and sheets, would be considered a luxury by most. For you, however, sleep had been a distant dream last night. Between the usual lullaby of the constant thrum of the flight deck and the ship itself, you were unaccustomed to the stock silence of a hotel room.

You distantly wondered if your roommate had fared any better.

Rounding the bed, you draw aside the curtains. The city of Austin is bathed in a muddied gray and purple this time of day. Dark clouds on the horizon are the harbinger of rain.

You had meant to ask him what the dress code was for the day, having thrown in a few viable outfits for the occasion - and your own family's get-together in two days, obviously. After hefting your bag onto the bed, you pull them out, unrolling the shirts in a nice even row on the remade bed.

The shower shuts off, the metal rings of the curtain scraping against the rod. A minute later, Hangman emerges in a puff of steam, a towel wrapped around his waist that he currently holds in a death grip with his right hand.

He sputters, using his free hand to push his wet hair away from his face.

You stare at him for a long, silent moment. Trying your best not to focus on the water currently soaking the carpet beneath his bare feet or the roll of droplets down his prominently toned abdominals. He seems equally frozen near the bathroom door.

Straightening out the shirt in your hands, you let your brows raise marginally as you ask a clipped, “Yes?”

He blinks, seemingly remembering himself, “Forgot my damn pants.”

“That jet lag really took a toll on you, huh?” you scoff, turning back to the task at hand as he pads across the floor to retrieve his bag. “What are you wearing for this, by the way?”

He hurries back into the bathroom and you hear the sound of clothes hitting the tile floor.

“Slacks and a shirt, why?”

You shrug, even though he can't see it, “Trying to figure out what to wear. I didn't exactly pack an evening gown.”

“Sure whatever you come up with - ” he pauses for a moment. There’s a clinking of what you believe to be a belt buckle and then he lets out a soft grunt, “ - will be fine.”

Looking over your shoulder at the golden glow spilling out of the bathroom, the faint shadow of Jake on the floor, “You're not instilling a lot of confidence right now, you know that right?”

There's a beat of silence before he pokes his head straight out of the door, “Didn't realize I needed to boost your ego any further there, Pits.”

You chuck the first shirt within reach at his head at the use of that awful nickname, but he easily avoids it. Grinning as he reemerges, straightening out his Henley and picking a loose piece of fuzz off the sleeve. He swoops down to grab your thrown shirt at least, offering it back to you with a soft chuckle.

“Why, what d'ya got?” he asks, a softer tone to go with the playful gleam in his eyes as he makes his way to you, peering at the layout over your shoulder.

“I don't know, sweetheart. I just wanna make a good impression,” your voice is sickeningly sweet, almost sing-song.

Hangman scrunches up his nose at the over-the-top act, his hands fixed on his hips.

“You're the first person I've brought home in over a decade. Unless you insult her cooking or the state of Texas, you should be fine.”

Glancing back at him, you're surprised to see him standing that close to you. You push a hand at his chest to reset the bubble of personal space you were usually afforded. He allows you to move him, though he's basically a living, breathing granite statute with a seemingly permanent shit-eating grin fixed on his face.

His eyes glint in amusement before he finally settles on, “Lose the jeans for this one and pick something that's not this color - ” he tugs at his own burnt umber-colored sweater, “I don't wanna make her think we're that kind of couple.”

“What? You don't want to color coordinate with your girl-friend?”

He grunts in lieu of actual words.

You turn up the shrillness of your voice, “So, I guess that's a no on the matching Christmas pajamas?”

He gives a soft chuckle, running his hand through his still damp hair. And then he's out of your way, snagging up his boots from the closet and sitting down on the edge of the bed to lace them up.

You think you have an outfit in mind now, as you gently pull it to the side and begin rolling the other options back up.

“What time do we need to head out again?”

He drops his hands on his knees with a heavy pat, “Probably close to 13:00?”

You nod in understanding - that would be plenty of time - as he situates himself more comfortably on the bed. Your hand pauses on the bathroom doorway as you watch Hangman pull out his phone and seemingly settle in.

“What, you're not gonna run down to the complimentary breakfast spread?”

His eyes pull away from the screen for a moment to meet your gaze, “Well, not without you. Be fairly rude of me, sweetheart.”

You sigh with realization - he had said practice makes perfect - as you lean against the doorway, “And so it begins.”

Jake laughs, waving you on dismissively, “Hurry your ass up, Pita. I can only be patient for so long.”

Raising the bird in return, you call out from the bathroom, “Better not've used up all the hot water, Bagman.”

“Beat me to the shower next time, sleeping beauty,” he hollers back.

With an amused shake of your head, you close the door and start up the water - relieved to find it to be a perfect scalding temperature. Jake had left the bathroom immaculate, of course. With only a singular used towel hanging on the back of the door to indicate that he had been in there at all.

You step into the tub and let the hot water engulf you as you try to mentally prepare yourself for the day ahead.

Jake slides into the chair across from you at the hotel’s dining area, his plate heaped with the typical continental breakfast servings: pancakes and scrambled eggs, strips of bacon, and a rogue apple that you wonder if he has any actual intention of eating.

Your own plate reflects the nerves that were surprisingly wracking your system. Plain oatmeal with just a drizzle of honey on top and a white mug of bitter-smelling coffee.

It was a bit ridiculous, you realize, to feel the way you were.

You had done this act before - but never on this scale, your mind supplements. And you had agreed to come along for this, of course. But now that you were only a few hours out from go-time, you were genuinely starting to feel like the typical partner would when meeting the parents for the first time.

With only the barest tingling of guilt starting to ease its way in too.

Only a few other patrons are currently dining with the two of you - fairly spread out too. The mounted flatscreen has the Weather Channel playing at a sort of unreasonably loud volume; probably for the benefit of the older couples who were up earlier in the morning.

There's strands of looped garland with twinkling lights throughout the sparsely-decorated room. The little snowmen and thin Christmas trees on the counter are a reminder of the jolly season. Even some of the hotel staff at the front desk had Santa hats on.

But right now, you were feeling just about anything but the pleasant thrum of yuletide cheer.

After stirring your bowl for another long minute without so much as lifting the utensil up to actually eat anything, you finally let the spoon settle to the side as you eye your companion.

“Okay, Seresin,” you sigh, “Play it out for me again.”

He lets a slow smirk grace his lips as he finishes off the last of his bacon.

“Nerves, Pita?” he mocks, wiping his hands clean on a napkin.

You avoid his gaze as you take a sip of your cooling brew, “Just trying to sell this act.”

He has to bite his lip to keep from outright laughing at the obvious lie, “Right, right. Well, let’s see. We scoot out of here at 12:30, avoid the major roads and show up a few minutes early to contemplate our existence - ”

His eyes gleam as you snort into your drink.

“My momma flits and fawns over us on the doorstep. She’ll wanna show you around the place, but don’t touch anything. Just compliment her stylistic design choices for a bit. Then food and pleasant small talk. Followed by us trying - and probably failing - to get out of there before nightfall.”

With an accompanying nod, “Sounds easy enough.”

He grins, going back in for his eggs, “Should be a breeze if you use that sweet I just love my boyfriend Jake so damn much charm.”

You scoff, nearly choking on your oatmeal.

He grimaces, “Really selling it, Pits.”

Coughing into your arm, you manage out a gruff, “Fuck off, Hangman.”

He turns his head, waiting for your throat to clear up, slowly working away at his own meal.

“Hmm, okay. You only mentioned your mom. What about your brother…s…?”

There’s a downturn of his lips as his eyes meet yours - annoyed that you had apparently forgotten. As though you weren't constantly bombarded by the stories of thirty-seven other people's families over the course of your deployment.

“Brothers. As in two of them, and a sister 's well. But it’s just gonna be you and me today.”

Before you can stop yourself from prying, you ask a very pointed, “Why?”

Hangman pauses mid-bite. Leaning back in his chair, his spoon clattering to his plate, he stares at your face for a long silent moment. You almost think he’s going to ignore it entirely, but after a full minute, he finally offers up the semblance of an answer.

“I’m the youngest of the bunch. They were out of the house by the time everything with the divorce happened. We all remember things… differently,” he lets out a sigh, settling forward with his arms on the table. “The three of them get on with my old man, me with my momma. Simple as that.”

Not having a proper reply to that, you merely nod, “Okay.”

He waves his hand, as if clearing the air itself of the moment, “Makes our job a hell of a lot easier, that’s for sure.”

You don't ask anything too deep after that, just reassuring the finite details of the visit. He at least helps settle your nerves down to a reasonable level where you don't feel like you're vibrating out of your own skin. And then you're finishing up your breakfast at last and Hangman's collecting your dishes into a careful stack on the table.

Back in the room, the two of you set about relaxing and preparing in your own way. Your companion, for his part, seems too strung now to do much more than doomscroll through his phone from the edge of the bed. You can’t entirely blame him as the minutes tick by and the reality truly sinks in.

Fooling an interested girl or a pushy guy every once in a blue moon was one thing. But putting on the act, for more than an hour, for one of your parents, while sober, well… that was the biggest form of uncharted territory there was.

You try to hype yourself up in the bathroom mirror as you apply some makeup.

Unfortunately, your typical day-to-day life didn’t involve this level of self-care, and you almost regretted bringing it along to begin with, but you were trying to play a certain role. So, you monkey with the blender sponge and hope to god the foundation in your bag matches your actual skin tone.

I agreed to do this.

As strange as it seems, it’s really for his benefit in the long run.

It’s just a few hours of this and then we’re done.

Though you try to remind yourself of the facts - the basic parameters of this strange mission the two of you were on - your own mind seems to want to play against you with every turn of positivity.

No one will buy the act.

You’re fooling an innocent woman.

This is crossing some serious moral boundaries.

And while the rest of your squadron was off enjoying the first real day of their short leave, you were about to do this. You could be back home, taking it slow and easy with the people who mattered; the people who loved you. Instead, you were trying to look like a presentable girlfriend for your wingman.

You’re grateful that your stealth companion waits for you to finish the final coat of mascara before he gives a low whistle from the open doorway. It’s also a good thing that your reflexes are as steady as they are because you have to suppress the startled jump your body wants to take, gripping the counter and uttering a dammit, Seresin instead.

Offering him a tight grimace as you pack away your supplies, Jake steps forward - uncrossing his arms - until he’s standing just behind you.

“You clean up good, Pits.”

If you didn’t think your mascara would smear, you probably would have rolled your eyes. Instead, you meet his gaze in the reflection of the mirror. The two of you looked good together. In fact, if you were an unsuspecting passerby, you could almost say you looked like a typical couple.

“You say that to all the girls, Jake.”

“Ooh,” he recoils, smiling wide. “That’s honestly weird.”

Brushing past him to get back to your bag in the main room, you ask over your shoulder, “What, me calling you by your real name?”

“Yes!”

You just shake your head, sitting down on your bed to zip your makeup kit back into your travel bag, and fix him with a long look.

“Well, that’s what you wanted me to do, right?”

He seems conflicted, challenged by the situation in a way he can’t quite gain control of as he twists the watch on his wrist over and over again.

“So used to you calling me Hangman,” the smile he shoots your way is soft and genuine, “But I can’t exactly have you doing that in front of my momma, now can I?”

You shrug in understanding, settling your arms on your knees as you seem to contemplate your options, “I guess I could pull out one of those cute little pet names you love so much?”

Mulling it over for a second, he ultimately nods, returning to pacing a small circle in front of the dresser.

“Nothing too… gooey, for my sake, please. I won’t be able to keep a straight face.”

Crossing your heart and holding up your hand like you were swearing an oath, “I’ll keep it simple for your poor conservative heart, promise.”

Hangman grins, going to grab his phone off the charger, “You’re a saint, Pita.”

Giving a half-hearted thumbs up for him, you go searching through the inner pocket of your bag for the small metal case you had brought along from home. Flicking open the switch lock, you pull out the small gold chain. Having to dip your chin down to lay the necklace around your neck and work the clasp into place.

Only when you lift your head back up do you notice your companion’s very pointed gaze. Almost self-consciously, you grab hold of the golden heart dangling from the chain - resting just above your sternum.

“Thought it’d be a good touch,” you mumble, dropping your hands to your lap once again.

When you do meet his eyes, his gaze is easy and his lips are quirked into a playful smirk, “What, did I buy that for you?”

Glancing down at the chain once more, you merely lift your hands in a vague if that’s what you want kind of gesture.

“Well, all right then,” he grins.

In truth, it had been a gift from your parents before you left for the Academy. A familiar reminder of the family you had waiting for you across the country and, eventually, across the ocean.

But, for today only, it could serve as the supposed token of loving affection from your fake boyfriend.

Anything to sell the act, right?

The rental car comes to a stop in the driveway. Jake’s knuckles are nearly paper white from where they’re gripping the steering wheel.

You don’t want to say anything, for fear of making the situation worse.

While things had been fine leading up to leaving the room, everything seemed to change the moment you were actually sitting in the car. The entire ride had been traveled in near silence with the tension so palpable it was almost strangulating. At one point, three stop signs back, he had made the fraught suggestion of just turning around and going back to the hotel.

But here you were.

In the cookie-cutter model home neighborhood of peak upper-class Austin suburbia.

The house you’re parked outside of is practically identical to every other one on the street. A newer two-story, gray-sided building with white windows and doors, black accents, and fake-stone columns. The only difference seems to be that the main walkway is lined with two perfect rows of immaculate pink begonia flowers.

You glance back over at Hangman and find that he’s not moved from his position of looking like he’s seconds from reversing the car and driving all the way back to Lemoore.

“So…” your voice is disturbingly loud in the cabin of the car and you wince at the unintentional volume, “Are we doing this?”

He grips the wheel tighter, breathing out through his nose.

Raindrops lazily make their journey down the windshield. While the weather had offered you nothing more than a late-season drizzle, the real storm seems to be brewing in the driver’s seat next to you. The air tenses for a final assault, the formation of thunder clouds before the initial clap of lightning.

“Yeah,” he grits out through a drawn breath, “Fuck it.”

Jake pulls the keys from the ignition and props open his door, urging you to do the same. You wait for him, dutifully, as he rounds the front of the rental car before the two of you head up the path to the house.

It feels a lot less like a companionable holiday visit and much more like the final walk up to the executioner’s block. Even the ornate blow-mold snowman on the front stoop does nothing to change the mood.

When faced with the white and gold ribboned wreath on the front door, he pauses, angling his head down toward your ear to say, “I owe you so much.”

You crane your neck to meet his eyes, his face is so close to your own that the scent of his aftershave lingers in your senses.

“Thank me when it’s over.”

With a curt nod, he reaches out to knock three times on the door before recoiling his hand and immediately placing it on your lower back. You’re barely able to force a smile onto your face before the door is opening up.

It almost begs to question just how long she had been standing on the other side, waiting for that signaling knock.

“Oh! Look at you.”

Patricia Seresin is a thin-faced woman with honey-colored eyes and sharp dimples, much like her son’s. Her hair is more of the boxed-dyed blonde variety than natural and her tanned complexion stands out against the collar of her white turtleneck.

She spreads her arms wide open, almost as though going in for a hug, her hands coming so close to touching both yours and Jake’s faces before ultimately stopping a good inch short. Her lips form a tight smile as she brings her hands back close to her chest, gripped tightly together.

“Hi, Momma,” he smiles from beside you, his fingers digging in further against your back. “This is - ”

Jake introduces you by rank and name, though you’re a little more distracted by the rogue Yorkie in a miniature Christmas sweater that comes barrelling through the doorway to yap at you.

Patty swoops the pup into her arms, flicking it on the nose, “That’s downright rude and you know it.”

Hangman coughs into his fist as the tiny dog begins to snarl at the two of you.

You quickly step forward, “It’s nice to finally meet you!”

Her eyes light up, clearly delighted, “Well, it was a bit of a shock to me, dear. He talks about you often enough that I thought something might be going on but I never expected - oh, gosh. Look at me! Come in, come in!”

She moves ahead into the foyer while you glance back at Hangman who gives you an approving nod. So far, so good.

As the two of you kick off your shoes and boots, he says, “Momma, I didn’t think that thing was still kicking after all this time.”

“Jacob Daniel!”

You snort at the use of his full name and he merely smirks at you.

“Peppi has been in this family for fourteen years now, he’s far from death’s door, thank you very much.”

While the dog in question has seemingly had his fill of you both, his tiny little nails clacking against the wood-grain linoleum, Patty watches the two of you from just across the entryway.

“Where were you two staying again?”

“The, uh, Hilton. On Burnet,” Jake carefully places your boots next to his on the designated rug by the door. All the shoes are in a perfect line, actually - without so much as a speck or scuff on them.

She hums, glancing over at the large black ornate clock on the wall that reads just five minutes after the hour. Her eyes appraise the two of you for another second before she heads into the kitchen.

“I have two perfectly good guest rooms, Jacob. You know that. I would have been more than happy to have you and your beautiful girlfriend spend the night here.”

While you mouth the word beautiful at him in a moment of surprise, he just sighs and throws a forlorn look your way. The two of you follow after her into the kitchen at the rear of the house.

“I know that, Momma.”

You can’t help but stare at the bare gray walls, the few metallic gold pieces of decor on the entry table, a single glass Christmas tree mold on the island counter. You were almost afraid to breathe, let alone touch anything of hers. It was just so minimalistic.

Grabbing hold of Jake’s arm instead, with both of your hands, you smile, “I think what Jake means to say is that he didn’t want to intrude. We’re both still stuck on ship time right now.”

She pauses what she’s doing near the stove, turning back to properly look at you. It takes a second but she smiles and nods.

“I don’t know how you put up with it,” she laughs, incredulous, “He was such an awful guest whenever he came back home. If he bothered to come back at all.”

“Momma,” he sighs, all too good-naturedly.

But the last part had been said so abruptly, so coolly, that you barely have the chance to school your features. Even though he seems to deflect the comment with a roll of his eyes and a can you believe this jokester sort of attitude.

Jake merely squeezes your arm and walks across the room to his mother’s side, with a hey, anything I can help with, while you’re still trying to process the words.

As a naval officer, you prided yourself in maintaining a certain composure under pressure. From day one at the Academy, you knew what the expectations were when it came to inspections and standing at stock-still attention. Upperclassmen screaming instructions in your face during Plebe Summer had you trained to be as cool as a cucumber. Infallible.

But right now, for the first time since that initial intake day, you were genuinely struggling. And it wasn’t even your family, let alone your drama. Hell, it was barely even one comment of ill contempt. And yet…

Remember the act, you remind yourself. Schooling it in, forcing that oblivious and sweet smile to grace your lips once again as you move to join Jake and his mother.

Each stovetop burner is in use, with different pots of food steaming away. It all smells delicious, of course - a classic holiday spread. The counter along the window is covered in foil-wrapped platters and serving trays. From the looks of it, it's far more food than what three people and a senior dog could possibly eat.

She bats his hand away from one of the pans with her wooden spoon, a warm smile on his face as he leans down to kiss the top of her head.

“It’s good to see you outside of those grainy video calls,” she admits, turning around to wipe her hands on an ornate dish towel. “Now, this’ll just take another hour to finish up, so what can I get you in the meantime?”

While Jake seems more than comfortable going straight to the fridge in search of his own drink, you glance down at the array of trays on the island - already uncovered and waiting. There’s so much food.

“Oh, honey, please grab a plate and help yourself. Those deviled eggs are my specialty!”

Jake’s suddenly at your side, “She’s gonna have to pass on those, Momma. Thought I told you?”

Patricia scrunches her brows as you try to ease your way out of your fake boyfriend’s grasp to get a plate for yourself, “It’s okay, really.”

He sidesteps you again, leveling you with a playfully stern expression.

“Baby.”

The way he drawls out the pet name is such a good touch, you almost want to high-five him for it.

“We don’t need you sick in the bathroom before the main course even comes out.”

You’re a little surprised that he remembered your egg intolerance. Not that it was a closely guarded secret or anything. But yeah, probably a good call on his part. Considering there was a rather large tray of them too.

“Oh,” she sighs, a hand to her chest, “Honestly, would one little egg really do that much damage, Jacob? See - ” she reaches out to guide you along the island, “Just about everyone uses paprika in their recipe. But me? I use chipotle. You taste this and tell me it’s not the best deviled egg you’ve ever had.”

Suddenly faced with the aforementioned appetizer, you gulp down a reflexive gag and try to smile a polite apology.

“Nope, not happening - ” Jake immediately swipes the morsel from his mother’s hand and shoves it into his own mouth.

Patricia, for her part, seems to give up the argument after glancing over at you. Instead, eyeing her son with a tired sort of look that spoke of dealing with several years of similar antics growing up.

“Honestly, Jacob.”

He just grins, licking his fingers clean.

“Just looking out for my girl, Momma.”

Your heart does swell a little bit at that. He was selling this part so well. You would have to up your own game to match his level - just like when you were flying together. There was a reason Manning always paired you two up for training: you were always pushing each other to do better.

“Sorry, they do look delicious,” you lightly schmooze, moving to wrap your hand around his left arm, leaning your head just slightly so towards his shoulder.

She sighs reluctantly, “Well, if they would be that much of an inconvenience to you…” with another shake of her head, she moves back to the stove, “Jacob, why don't you show her around while I finish this up?”

After nabbing another egg for himself, he gives a little nod and gestures with his chin further into the room. Feeling bold, you drag your hand down his arm until you’re able to clasp your palm with his. His soft green eyes gleam as he tugs you along into the adjoining seating area.

“So,” you keep your voice low, “I’m guessing this isn’t where you grew up?”

Jake glances down at you, “Uh, yeah. She got this place right after they, you know - ” he makes a general slashing motion with his right hand.

“Well, it’s very pretty,” you say, a little louder for her hopeful benefit.

He seems to disagree, stopping in front of the corner fireplace where a light draping of sparkly white garland rests.

“It’s plain and sterile, I'll give it that.”

While you didn’t necessarily disagree with his sentiment, you certainly wouldn’t say it out loud.

There’s three picture frames on the mantle. A black and white portrait of two blonde boys holding a baby wrapped in a blanket. The middle frame holds another baby, a newborn photoshoot from the looks of it - also in black and white. And on the far side is an outdoor shot of three little blonde girls and a boy, also in a monochromatic scale.

“Are these the - ”

“Grandkids,” he nods.

You let out a low whistle, “Could probably form a baseball team in a few years.”

That makes him laugh, slipping his hand from yours to rub at his chin.

“God, I think we’re missing one in here,” he squints at the picture on the far right, “Yeah, yeah. This was before June was born - my niece. Sister’s youngest.”

He lets out a soft hum as he stares at the frames for another moment more - almost like he was preparing to comment further on it. But then he finally jerks his head towards the front of the house.

“Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour.”

As he leads you toward the dining room, you glance back to see Patricia watching the two of you with an unreadable kind of expression on her face. You can only hope that you’re selling the act as well as you thought you were.

In the privacy of the adjoining room, he admitted that he thought the two of you were being pretty convincing. Promising that you just had to make it through dinner and then you would be in the home stretch.

You ended up back in the kitchen, not that long after the short tour of the downstairs area. Hovering next to the island counter, not willing to touch it after you spotted Patty with a bottle of disinfectant shortly after you returned. If Jake’s earlier words hadn’t given it away, then the bare-bones and precision-made state of her home made it pretty apparent that the woman was very much concerned with cleanliness.

In truth though, it doesn’t take long at all for her to finish the final touches of prep. With the two of you helping to at least bring the food to the table - though she ultimately directs where everything is put down and how it’s placed. But, you figure she made all of this food so she deserves to have it done her way.

The long dining table is set for three, though it’s obvious the space was made for a much larger crowd. Gentle instrumental Christmas covers play from a CD player in the corner of the room. Jake makes easy enough conversation with her at first. Asking after her gardening and her weekly aerobics class.

But, fairly soon, the conversation turns over to you.

“So, do you have one of those pilot nicknames too?”

“Callsign, Momma,” Jake sighs with a gentle smile, shaking his head like it was a common mistake he dealt with.

You grab a second piece of cornbread from the plate in front of you. Almost sheepish to explain it out loud to someone outside of your squadron, “Uh, yeah. They call me Pita.”

She pauses, her fork halfway to her mouth as she glances from you to Jake.

“You’re- you’re not one of those vegetarian types, are you, dear?”

“Uhm - ” you balk, looking towards your wingman.

“Ma - ” Jake runs his hand down his jaw, “P-I-T-A, like the bread. Not the animal rights group.”

She gulps, then smiles - a little uneasily - “Well, all right then.”

“It’s, uhm, it’s an acronym, actually,” you smile awkwardly gently pulling apart the roll, “It’s not because I just really love pita pockets or anything.”

The moment it leaves your mouth though, you realize you might have made a grave mistake after looking over at Jake. It wasn’t, exactly, the most appropriate of words. And maybe, based on how sweet bless your heart southern Patricia was, you should have known better.

You watch the way that his Adam’s apple bobs for a moment before he reaches over to squeeze your hand on the table.

“Yeah, it stands for Pretty Terrific in the Air. Can you believe that?”

You’re fast to nod in agreement - like he didn’t just pull that out of nowhere. But, to be fair, he did know the woman better than you and probably knew what she could reasonably handle.

He kicks your foot under the table.

“Oh, now that is sweet,” she fawns, “I know this boy here was given his little nickname because he’s just so good at that hangman game.”

Your brows raise in surprise because that was definitely not why he was given that callsign. You thump his foot with your own and he immediately traps the toe of your sock with his own, shooting you a pointed don’t you dare look.

“Yup, that’s it, Momma.”

You have to bite down on your tongue to keep from smiling too wide. Man, if only the rest of the squadron could hear this crap. They would have a fucking field day with Ms. Pretty Terrific in the Air and the apparent reigning kids' word-game champion.

Another minute passes as you work at the food on your plate. It was good, pretty filling, very heavy on the butter content, and definitely not as good as the stuff your own family made - not that you would ever say that to your hostess, of course.

“Mmm,” she sets her water glass back down on its designated coaster. “So, are you two going up to see your family too?”

Ah, this was one moment the two of you had discussed, luckily.

“Yup,” Jake grins. “We head out Wednesday. Figure we’ll have an extra night here to recover from all the traveling.”

In actuality, you were both going to the airport on Wednesday. With you traveling to Detroit Metro and Jake heading off to Fresno once again. While you would be spending the last few days of your leave in the company of your own family, he had plans to relax and unwind back in California.

But she certainly didn’t need to know that.

Patricia nods, “And where is home again? Jacob didn’t mention, I don’t believe.”

The man in question seems very focused on his plate, refusing to meet your eyes.

While some of the squadron were vocal about home, or it was apparent in their regional accents and - in Jake’s case - his football team of choice. The topic of home more often than not was focused on the family and people you left behind. And, much like how you hadn’t been able to recall the number of siblings he had, you doubt Hangman had been able to remember that little tidbit about you.

“Michigan.”

“Oh, quite a ways up there then!” she exclaims with a laugh. But then she places her cutlery down on the sides of her plate and fixes you with a focused stare. “And what exactly do your parents do, dear?”

Swallowing the food in your mouth before responding, feeling a little bit like you were on the receiving end of a subtle interrogation.

“They, uh, they own a bed and breakfast. That’s where we’ll be staying actually,” you glance over at your companion, “They always decorate it so pretty this time of year too. Though I just love your decor here, it's really quite beautiful, Patty.”

She holds a hand to her heart, “Why, thank you! No one quite knows the amount of work that goes into making this house look the way it does.”

And then she’s off on another tangent about the places she shops and the amount that every little thing costs. Jake seems very resigned from the conversation at that point, tiredly glancing out the front window, while you try to appear interested and excited at her words.

It’s only when she teasingly chastises you for not taking a second helping of her famous mashed potatoes, that things take a rather interesting turn.

“What the - ” Jake murmurs around a mouthful of turkey.

He wipes his lips clean with the white cloth napkin and cranes his head towards the window at the end of the table, nearly leaning into the contents of his plate.

“Uh, Ma. Were you expecting company?”

One glance over at her and you can see the obvious brewing of excited anticipation, like a kid trying to hide the gift they made for their parents for Christmas.

A sudden rush of dread hits you, seeping into your stomach and turning the otherwise delicious meal into a sloshing upheaval of disagreeable mush. Patricia stands up, not even bothering to fold her napkin as she strides out of the room on near-tiptoe.

“Momma?” Jake calls after her, sending you a distressed look as he rises to follow after her.

“What do you think - ” you go to ask.

He just shakes his head, halfway out of the room, “Don’t know.”

Since you didn’t want to be the last one out of the loop, you’re quick to follow after the two of them. Rounding the hallway just as the front door opens and a happy scream from your hostess rings out.

“Oh! Look at you! My handsome boy.”

You’re just a step behind Jake. He’s sagged against the wall - holding his arm out to stop you from moving any further.

“Shit,” he mutters, stress and agitation vibrating off of him as he runs a hasty hand through his hair.

The object of his frustration comes into view the moment Patty shuts the door, guiding the man into the foyer with a proud sort of look on her face.

Your stomach drops. Quickly looking towards Jake for support in the matter but he’s already long gone as he clenches the hand blocking your path, dropping it to his side.

“Hey, Jackie,” the man grins, his dimples eerily similar to the two other blondes in the room.

Straightening his back, Jake gestures from you to the other man, “Honey. Meet my brother. Josh.”

It wouldn’t take a forensic investigator to notice the obvious tension between Jake and his older brother. As he grips his cutlery with newfound aggression, barely speaking with more than single-word answers.

The man - Joshua, but call me Josh - is very obviously a Seresin child.

He’s got the signature dimples, of course. But he’s taller than your date, by about five or six inches. His hair is a shade darker too, speckled with bits of gray and amber - and with a well-groomed beard to match. He’s got the playful gleam in his eyes that Hangman often has, but his are of an ocean blue variety - not the familiar meadow green you were used to seeing.

And he seems far more comfortable in the environment than the two of you. Sitting next to Patricia, directly across from his younger brother. Piling a plate high with food.

“So, you got yourself a girl? Didn’t mention that the last time we talked,” he smirks, biting into a roll.

“Nope,” comes the clipped reply.

You grip your own fork tighter, nervously glancing between the two of them. It makes you wonder just how long it had been since these two had last spoken. Half a year, if not more, would be your guess.

Josh chuckles, looking over at you instead.

“And you are the poor unfortunate person who has to share a room with this guy? My condolences.”

You force out a small laugh, though every instinct makes you want to chuck your water in the guy’s face.

“I assure you, compared to some of the people I’ve had to share berthing with, this man is the best roommate anyone could ask for.”

Green eyes meet yours and you carefully squeeze his hand. You could get through this - the two of you. Just grin and bear this unexpected encounter and make an early excuse to leave. You’d certainly faced far worse situations than this before.

The older Seresin brother huffs in consideration, leaning back in his chair as he starts to work into the rest of his meal.

“So,” Patricia’s voice is an octave too high, having keenly noticed the shift in conversation, “How’s my grandson?”

He smiles, digging into his pants pocket for a moment to retrieve his phone, “Getting into trouble. Kid’s climbing just about everything now.”

Patty coos as he hands the phone over to her, clearly looking at a picture of the boy in question, “He’s got your nose, Joshy. Gosh, what a looker. How’s Angie holding up?”

With a shrug, he takes the phone and passes it over to Jake who merely stares at it with an unreadable expression.

“Eight months last week, she’s about as big as a balloon now and barely gets off the couch - says her feet are swelling up.”

Jake pushes the phone along to you and you glance down at the picture of the, admittedly, cute-looking baby. With wisps of blonde hair and rosy cheeks. Your companion snorts, indignantly.

“You left your pregnant wife at home, alone, with a baby?”

Looking up from the phone, you turn to see the seething look on Jake's face.

Josh waves dismissively, “Yeah, she can’t fly now. And like hell I’m bringing DJ along on his own - sorry, Ma. The kid’s a handful right now. Figured everyone will come over to Houston after this one’s born anyway. Give the girl a break from the usual rodeo show of a family Christmas.”

“A break?” Jake shakes his head, gritting his teeth with a hollow laugh, "I'm sure trying to wrangle your kid all day long is what she considers a break."

"Jacob -"

"Nah, it's okay, Momma," Josh had an almost wolfish grin as he holds out a hand to seemingly settle her.

"This one wouldn't know anything about that life. I mean, this is the first time since, what - high school - that he's had someone around? No offense, Jackie."

Jake, for his extreme benefit, forces a tight grin - something far more similar to Hangman than anything you had seen yet today.

"And yet…"

The slamming of silverware on porcelain makes you startle, eyes widening as you stare at the stern-looking matriarch.

“Jacob,” she nearly hisses, “This was a perfectly lovely meal up until five minutes ago. Could you put aside your unnecessary opinions for the sake of not only Christmas but for the sake of your girlfriend? Who, in case you failed to notice, is probably receiving an absolutely terrible impression of us right now.”

“I don’t - ” you try to soften the blow.

Hangman clenches his jaw, rolling his neck - the tension falling to his shoulders and back. Snatching his half-empty glass from the table, he rises and all but stalks out of the room.

You stare after his retreating form for a moment, compelled to follow after him but also equally frozen by the situation.

And then a low whistle from just across the table rings out.

Glancing over at the older Seresin brother, you meet his clearly amused eyes.

“See? He’s still throwing fits after all this time. Maybe that’s why they haven’t promoted him yet.”

“Honestly, Joshua,” Patty sighs, carefully resuming her meal with dainty bites.

If you weren’t more concerned with your friend’s image today, perhaps you would have said something. Not held back your punches. But you were still in the middle of the chess game, even if there was an unexpected player on the board. So, with all the decorum you can manage, you grab your own glass and slide out of your chair.

“I’m gonna go check on him.”

Just out of earshot and out of sight from the dining room, you find your wingman stock still in the middle of the kitchen, staring out the back window.

You clear your throat, knowing better than to startle him. His shoulders immediately sag as you come up alongside him.

“We good? Jake?”

It takes a second, but his soft green eyes meet yours.

“I’m sorry for draggin’ you into this whole thing, Pita.”

With a smirk and a slight shake of your head, you slap his arm gently.

“You think I give a damn about your hotshot brother over there? Please, we eat guys like him for breakfast and you know it.”

You’re grateful that the stupid line manages to make him chuckle, dropping his head down before he meets your gaze again.

“Still, didn’t exactly prepare you for this.”

“Eh,” you shrug. “What’s one more family member? And hey, I can fake a migraine or something and get us out of here before she brings out the desserts, you know?”

Jake sighs, wrapping his arm around your shoulders - tucking your head in just below his chin, “You’re a fucking saint, Pits.”

You smile into the fabric of his sweater, hands finding purchase on his waist, “And don’t you forget it when we’re back on base, Seresin.”

The faintest touch of his lips on the top of your head makes you flush with warmth, but the moment quickly dissipates when you hear a teasing awww from the other side of the room.

The two of you turn - Jake’s arm still around your shoulders - only to find Josh, with his phone in hand.

“I’m sorry,” he smiles. “I know I came in a little hot back there. But this right here?” he points at the two of you, “That was too sweet. And Jess was begging me for proof anyway.”

Jake clears his throat, his hand tightening from where it rests on your bicep.

“What?”

Josh’s brow bunches together for a moment as he begins to walk towards the two of you.

“Well, I mean the fact that you actually are dating - bringing someone home, I might add. That’s kind of big news, buddy. Jess didn’t believe me at first. So, I sent her this and - ”

He holds up his phone and turns the screen to face you. You’re met with the image of Jake’s face on the top of your head, your own arms around his middle. If you didn’t know better, you would assume the two of you were a couple.

“Hell, Dad is gonna be ecstatic when he meets you - ” he smiles at you.

But Jake almost seems to push you back, his arm becoming a barrier between you and own his brother.

“Dad?”

Another furrowed brow crosses his face as he swipes up the bottle of red on the countertop, “Well, yeah? Ma said you guys were in town until Wednesday, so I figured you were coming to their thing tomorrow.”

Hangman rubs a hand down his face.

“I never fucking said that, man.”

“Jesus,” Josh chuckles, holding his hand up in mock surrender. “Need to get over that shit, Jackie. It was a long ass time ago and everyone’s gonna be there anyway. Shit, Kensie hasn’t seen you in almost five years - she starts middle school next fall.”

He groans in annoyance and you quickly step out of his line of fire as he begins to pace along the island.

“Yeah, well maybe I wasn’t ready to go visiting him yet. Maybe I didn’t want to involve her in this whole thing. God, would you just fucking think about something other than yourself for once?”

Jake seems about ready to hit his second wind, going in for the kill shot, when the phone in his pocket starts pinging: one notification after the other. He sighs, yanking the device out to stare at the incoming hailstorm of messages from the family group chat.

“Just… had to go runnin’ your mouth to Jess of all people.”

Josh, by now, has opened the bottle and pulled down three glasses. He swishes the wine in his for a moment, offering a half-hearted, “Sorry, man.”

In return, Jake just scoffs, firing off a text before finally looking over at you.

“They want me - us, to come over tomorrow.”

You stare at your friend, your companion, your wingman.

He’s the epitome of anxiety-ridden and stressed out. Clenching his hands into fists, chewing a sore spot onto his bottom lip.

You think about Patricia and Josh, how they’ve treated him while here in your presence. Then you consider the obvious hold-up he seemed to have about anything to do with his own father. If today was the test run, then tomorrow was nearly guaranteed to be the real shitshow.

In good conscience, you knew you couldn’t let him face that alone.

Not many people outside of your squadron would willingly give Hangman the time of day. He appeared cocky, a little too smart-alec for his own good. But you could see right through that act - right through the bullshit. And this man was terrified at the prospect of having to show up to a family get-together with almost no real way out.

Patty had already dropped the little fact that the two of you were already going to be in Austin an extra day. His sister was seemingly excited to meet you, his totally not fake girlfriend.

And, when you consider all the things the two of you had been through together. The missions you had flown when life and death were truly on the line, well… this didn’t seem all that bad, now did it?

With a calming breath, you smile gently up at Jake.

“Okay.”

He blinks, seemingly resetting his brain back a few seconds as he repeats, “O-okay?”

“Yeah, honey. I’m with you,” you reach for his hand, and like a personal life preserver, he latches on and squeezes tightly.

The two of you make it through the rest of the meal with tight-lipped and less-than-genuine smiles. You bite your tongue at the overly rude comments and try your best to shed Jake in good light. At one point, Patty disappears into the kitchen for a solid fifteen minutes when things become a little too heated between the brothers again.

She comes back with the slightest sway to her step and an all-together more pleasant attitude.

You make it through dessert and offer to help clean up. Jake and his brother share a very intense conversation on the couch as you pack up leftovers for Patricia. His eyes meet yours several times, but he just shakes his head and gets drawn back into the discussion again.

By the time the sky is falling dark and the porch lights across the street are turning on in near-perfect synchronicity, the two of you had clearly had your fill.

With Jake promising to call her more often, or at the very least try to write more often. And, with a stoic face, he slaps his brother on the shoulder and says that the two of you will see him tomorrow afternoon.

The drive back to the hotel is silent once again. Though you can’t particularly blame the guy. If he was anywhere near as exhausted as you felt, then the silence was a fucking reprieve from the day.

Once inside the sanctuary of your room, you both go about stripping the masks you had worn, with Jake allowing you first go at the bathroom to wipe off your makeup and properly clean your face. He’s sat on the edge of his bed when you do emerge in your pajama pants and sleep shirt. His boots are still on, his hands in an entwined fist between his spread legs, and his eyes fixed on a place far away from the hotel carpet in front of him.

With a gentle sigh, you carefully place your toiletry bag back on the dresser and make your way over to him, dropping down to your knees in front of him.

“Talk to me, Seresin.”

It takes a second, but his eyes flash up to meet your own. He settles his hands on his knees and takes a long breath.

“Thank you, for all of that today.”

You offer him the slightest quirk of your lips.

“I told you; I keep my promises.”

“Yeah,” he breathes out, “But you didn’t originally agree to a repeat show.”

Your hand pushes at his leg, trying to ease him out of his tense shell, “Come on, missions change all the time. The rules of engagement stay the same, but sometimes a single target turns into two or more. I agreed to do this for you and I’m gonna see it through.”

He tilts his head back, his throat bobbing as he gulps with the slightest hitch in his voice, “I know.”

“Then will you let the fact that we absolutely rocked it out of the fucking park today sink in for a moment?”

It was true. Patty had almost hugged you at the end - the closest form of real affection that she seemed willing to give. Had eagerly complimented Jake on how wonderful, accomplished, and pretty his girlfriend was. She had even pressed about seeing you again next year, with him wrapping his arm around your waist and smiling wide with a teasing, well, we’ll see about that, Momma.

There was no chance in hell Jake would get another leave over the Christmas holiday again. Even less likely was the chance of the two of you traveling down to Austin to perform this stunt ever again. The fact of the matter was, the two of you were going to “break up” sometime in the next few weeks. And maybe then, she would lay off the relationship talk for a little while longer.

That or Jake just had to stop replying to her emails.

“Admit it,” you grab his knee and gently rock his leg back and forth, “We make a hell of a team, Seresin.”

“Aww,” he coos, “You say that to all the boys, Pits.”

“Fuck off, Hangman,” you chuckle, rising to your feet and making your way over to your bed. Happy to find that the tone between you had remained unchanged by the day.

He finally relents, kicking off his shoes and placing them over by the closet once again, before he reclines back on his bed. You’re already snuggled under the covers when he flicks off the beside light - though the TV is still on mute in the background. The brightness of the screen casts his face in obscure shadows as he rolls onto his side to face you.

Propping your head up on your hand, you begin, “Okay, play it out for me, Bagman.”

You can make out the faintest shimmer of a smirk on his lips as he starts, “So, we’re looking at a full house tomorrow. There’s gonna be my brothers, Josh and Justin - ”

By the time he’s fully exhausted himself of the makeshift, seat-of-his-pants plan, you’re struggling to keep your own eyes open. With your eyelids growing heavier as you try to focus on his garbled words.

And then he stops.

“You still with me, honey?” he teases softly.

“Barely,” you mumble, face pressed into the pillow.

He sighs, and then the light disappears from the room as he turns off the TV. You can hear the faint groaning of the air conditioner coming back on.

“Get your sleep, Pita. You’re gonna need it.”

You smile, already feeling the pleasant tug of unconscious oblivion as you stretch your legs out, “You too, Bagman.”

His warm, throaty chuckle is the last thing you hear as you finally slip under

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#jake hangman seresin x reader #jake seresin x reader #hangman x reader #top gun fan fic #series: home for the holidays #my fic

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whumpasaurus101 · 8 months

Text

Chapter 3

This is shorter than I would've liked and has not been read over so excuse like all the typos JHUIDKHJDIDJ ENJOY

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“I- I swear… I’m not who you think I am…”

Martyn raised an eyebrow, holding up a pocket knife as he studied Niko’s face, “This look familiar?”

Niko’s eyes darted around the room, his vision spinning as he swayed slightly. Marcus grabbed a fistful of Niko’s hair, yanking his head back so Niko met Martyn’s eyes. He squinted, blinking a few times before his eyes finally focused on the object Martyn was holding.

His eyes widened slightly but he quickly tried to cover it up, clearing his throat as he gulped, “I… it doesn't ring a bell…”

Martyn hummed in curiosity, walking up beside Niko as he placed the blade under the other’s chin. He slowly tilted Niko’s head up, relishing how the other’s breath picked up. “You know,” Martyn hummed, “I really don't like when people lie to me, buttercup.” His voice was a growl now, “This is your last and final chance, do you recognise this weapon, yes or no?”

“You have the wrong-”

Martyn slashed the blade across Niko’s chest, making the other cry out but he was held in place by Marcus’ heavy hand in his hair. “Yes or no, Buttercup.”

Nikos clenched his jaw, before slowly shaking his head. Silence then followed, making Niko’s heartbeat pick up as his eyes quickly dropped down away from Martyn’s. He gulped hard, feeling the blade bob over his throat.

“I thought I told you that I don't like liars…”

Niko tensed, blinking hard before finally opening his mouth, “A-alright, it’s mine… but- but I wasn't intending on using it or anything-”

“Bullshit.” Martyn growled, slamming his fist against the desk. Niko jumped, cringing back into the chair as he chewed on the inside of his cheek. “I am warning you, buttercup, if you don't start talking, you and I are going to have serious problems.”

Niko jutted out his chin in defiance, his eyes hardening as he looked up at the target.

“Suit yourself,” Martyn muttered before walking out of the room. Niko was dumb for thinking it was over. He tried to get out of Marcus’ grip but it only tightened. Niko winced but held in any sound.

Martyn then returned with a bright smile on his face, carrying a basin of water. He slammed it onto the table in front of Niko, some of the water splashing against the metal table’s surface. “Just remember,” Martyn cooed, cupping the other’s cheek, “This all can end once you tell me what I want to hear.” He nodded at Marcus before looking down on his new possession.

Before Niko could even open his mouth to ask what was going on, Marcus forced the other’s head underneath the water. Niko’s eyes widen as his chest let out a heave, his body beginning to thrash as he realized what was going on. His hands desperately fought against the tight rope, burning a mark around his wrists as his attempts didn't give up. His chest burnt as he couldn't get a breath in. Just before he saw black spots, Marcus heaved Niko’s head up.

Niko gasped as he was brought up, coughing up the water as he shook his head, trying to get any water from his face and eyes. He watched with blurry vision as the man leaned down so they were face to face.

“Ready to talk?”

Niko didn't even spare him with a look, bursting into coughs as he tried to calm his breathing. Martyn simply sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before nodding once more to Marcus who slammed Niko’s face back into the water.

Niko’s lungs burnt by the fifth go, his head was spinning and his vision was a complete mess of black spots. He squeezed his eyes shut tight as he tried to think of his past training.

“Drip feeding information is crucial,” Aaron had told the team, “You give a little information so you won’t get your brains blown out of your skull for being useless…”

Niko felt Marcus start pushing his head down and Niko gasped, “Wai-wait-” He yelped. Martyn’s eyebrow raised he looked to Marcus who was waiting for his instruction. Martyn tilted his head up and Marcus stopped Niko’s head just before the water.

Niko took in deep shaky breaths as he tried to calm himself, clenching his jaw tight. He tried to ignore the footsteps that drew closer, stopping just before him. “I’m waiting,” Martyn cooed against the other’s ear.

Niko took one more deep breath before daring to speak, “My name is Ni-Niko…” He let out a breath as Marcus’ grip in his hair, pulled his head up before leaving his hair.

“Nikooooo, Niiiiiikooooooo,” Martyn hummed, testing the new word as he smirked, “It's cute!” He giggled, pinching Niko’s cheek. Niko grimaced, forcing himself not to glare at the target who loomed over him.

“Alright, put him in isolation,” Martyn ordered Marcus, “I think he needs some time to think about where not telling me what I want to hear will get him.”

Niko was untied, hauled from the chair before his hands were roughly pulled behind him and he was led out of the room. He only tried once to pull out of Marcus’ grip but he knew it was no use.

After a short walk down a dark corridor, Niko was shoved into a cold, dark room. The door slammed behind Marcus and Niko was left in utter silence. He had to stay strong. He was a weak link enough to the team, he didn't want the team to trust him even less if he sold them out.

Stay strong… for the team…

---

Taglist: @blood-enthusiast @deckofaces @whumpifi @sleepy-dog-boy @whumpatize-me-captain @a-n-i-a-fan @sparrowsage @theelvishcowgirl @sorry-i-spaced @juniperspring @cherrychupachup @morning-star-whump (let me know if you wanna be added or removed!!! <3)

#RAAAAA IM SO TIREDDD #IMMA SLEEEEP #SO SLEEPY EEEEEEPPYYYYY #whump #whumpee #whump drabble #whumper #whumpblr #whump writing #whump community #whump story #whump series #niko #martyn #marcus #interrogation #interrogation whump

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asquared-ohgodnotthehorrors · 2 months

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I wanna make a Lancer storyboard about the Mourning Cloak. Actually, lemme write up what I would do in it real quick:

A battlefield, shrouded in darkness and flame. The fight was finished not too long ago. A scout team walks through the ruins.

Suddenly, they recoil in fear, backing away, guns raised. All are terrified… except one.

Within moments, it’s obvious why. A specter he alone could not see cuts his head off, not even behind him, but in front of him. The blade microns thick, the only hint of its existence a glint of red across the length of it, and the slight shimmer as its broad side was slightly bent. The blood is everywhere.

The scouts open fire, spreading out to surround the wraith. Shots stay clear as the mourner dashes, an ivory streak dodging stream after stream of bullets. One hits clear, punching into an arm. The one who landed is greeted by the thing behind it, sliding the crimson blade across his throat. Blink. Another lies dead with the thing beside it, arm cradling the body gently while blade of folded metal slides through him, long as his body.

As a grenade fires upon it, the impact lands, the horrible crunching of metal almost louder than the explosion as it silently whips around, clawing at the air. The lone heavy who fired it learned too late that it wasn’t a claw. It was a throw. The arm holding the rocket launcher is exploded to bits. A cavity in his chest soon followers as he is launched back, unceremoniously dead on the ground.

The last of the group, huddled together, hold their guns shaking at the haunting. It stares at them… and vanishes. They panic, shooting short bursts at where it was, where it might be, where it could be approaching. Nothing lands. Any traces. it could be making were nowhere to be seen. Yet it’s gaze… it was still boring into them.

Three of the final four couldn’t handle the pressure. They break off in separate directions, to the protests of their comrades. All that is heard when they vanish from sight are the gunfire, then silence.

Now there is only one, panic overtaking him as he darts around, looking to where his allies, his one saving grace could be.

The Specter, like the wind, grasps his neck, slams him into the ground. The long, distorted image of what man had wrought was choking him. The other hand follows, and in these final moments the soldier can see. This thing. It is not invulnerable. It has been wounded. Yet it still acts, despite the pain, any injury, because it is not a beast. Not a monster, not a god, not even a man. Simply a machine with a task to fulfill. A Hornet in a Hive.

The beauty is lost on him as it snaps his neck with a sickening crunch. It stands still, its body in full view as it hunched over the field of corpses. It is not a visceral sight, each of the bodies were killed with only blood spilling, dying with beautifully clean efficiency. It stood over its masterpiece, balls of the feet and tips of the fingers the only contact with the ground. A dancer of death. Poised as to resolve, but ready to leap into its act yet again.

A gun raises to our view, the sights aiming at it. The frightened breathing of the soldier being the first voice we have heard in this massacre, loud over the absence of gunfire and the ring of death in our ears.

It looks at the soldier, down the sights. We get close to its face… something has gone wrong. The camera does not move. The scene begins to distort. A whisper of a scream, distorted a thousand times over begins to rise to a forte. The hand of the specter rises to its face, smearing blood across it. It scratches it. It crunches it. The scream is so loud we can barely hear the soldier joining it, static and abstract distortion overtaking the face.

Then… silence. The camera hasn’t moved. But we have. It backs away. Slowly. The Mourning Cloak in a showroom, filled with other weapons like it. Its injuries only visible to us, contrasting the pristine unblemishnent of its brethren. Yet it is still the most beautiful one in the room.

Everything is silent as we pan back. Pure silence. Recording studio silence. Like a memory that isn’t his own. His hand enters the periphery, and it’s holding a clipboard. A requisition for a Mourning Cloak License. We linger for but a moment. All still.

In an instant, we are back at the battlefield. The camera has not shifted. The specter is gone. All we hear is the soldier’s panicked breathing. And cut to black on his last exhale.

#lancer #lancer rpg #lancer ttrpg #lancer game #lancer mourning cloak #mourning cloak #fiction #writing #the horrors #I’d make it a full animation but I don’t have the artistic will or capability to make that a reality #in fact now I’m probably happy with this and just this #lancerrpg

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avengersfantasies · 10 months

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The Captain's Daughter - 1

Summary: You run into someone who has been chosen to watch out for you while you're on the run.

Taglist: @frickin-bats @pattiemac1 @justsebstan @winterslove1917 @crist1216 @lady-loki-barnes-djarin @kandis-mom @vonalyn @mavrellover91 @natashasilverfox @gojoismysensei @itsafamilyshow @casa-boiardi

Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist!

This was it. You’d been caught. You were given the biggest mission of your entire career, and it was the one where you were going to die. You could only stare at the ceiling – your arms, neck, and legs having been tied down to the table you found yourself on. You had to admit that he was the most formidable target you’d been assigned to assassinate. You had excepted your fate at this point, and if he didn’t kill you with his own two hands, you’d surely die of starvation – you were almost at that point anyway. Breaking the silence, you heard footsteps approach, the echo ringing in your ears.

“Privet, soldat,” the man’s voice spoke lowly – his face just out of view from yours with a smug smile on his lips.

You raised an eyebrow. “I’m not from HYDRA.”

He spun a blade in his hand. “Yeah? Then who’re you here for?”

“Your mom,” you chuckled and closed your eyes. “Yeah, like I’d tell you that.”

“Very mature.” The man’s voice was flat, and he was clearly unamused. “Anything to say before you die?”

You exhaled. “Not to you.”

There was something familiar about you, and he couldn’t quite place his finger on it, but when he finally got a good look at you, it hit him.

“What’s your name?” he asked – his tone dropping into one with more concern.

“Why do you like to ask questions you know I won’t answer?”

“Answer the question,” he ordered softly. “It may save your life.” You told him your name, but that wasn’t what was familiar about you. It was something else. “Do you know who I am?”

You sighed. “All I know is you’re my target.”

He put the blade down and sat in a chair next to the table. “Don’t feel so relieved,” he warned. “I’m only trying to figure out where I know you from.”

“You don’t,” you told him. “May as well go ahead and kill me.”

“What’re your parent’s names?” he continued with his questioning.

“Again with the questions I’m not gonna ans—”

“Is your father’s name Steve?”

Your heart skipped a beat at hearing him say your father’s name, and your breath escaped your lungs. This reaction didn’t go unnoticed by the man. A tear began to escape your eye. “How do you know that?”

“I grew up with him…fought in World War II together,” the man told you. “Name’s Bucky.”

“Cool,” you replied flatly. “Nice to meet you, Bucky, we’re gonna die in about –,” your words were cut off by the sound of a loud explosion, “now.” As if on cue, you bust out of the restraints he had tied you down in. “Nice meetin’ you!”

You took off like a shot, running through the maze-like halls of the abandoned church as you tried to escape the explosion. Easily, Bucky kept up with you.

“Did you do this?!” He yelled out over the loud bangs and running beside you. You rolled your eyes in response. “What the hell’s wrong with you?!”

“Do you always talk this much during an escape?!” you questioned him back – the two of you jumping over a fallen beam.

Bucky scoffed. “Do you always cause explosions?!” You ignored him. He may have been more focused on his questioning of you, but you were more concerned about escaping the imminent death. After what felt like an eternity, but could’ve only been about five minutes, both of you finally made it outside the church and ran through the large field it was sitting on. It was night, but the fire that engulfed the place lit up the sky like the sun. Once you were far enough away, you and Bucky began to walk through the dense forest that surrounded the church. “Where’re you going?” he asked with annoyance.

You stopped in your tracks. “Why’re you following me?”

“Because,” he argued, “I wanna know what in the hell you’re doing here.”

You chuckled incredulously and shook your head – continuing on your way. “Why does it matter?”

“It matters because you’re my best friend’s daughter,” Bucky insisted. “How’d you find me?”

You groaned. Honestly at this point you were more annoyed with your father than Bucky. “I was given intel that a HYDRA agent was hiding out in an old, abandoned church,” you started to explain. “Now, I’m starting to think it was my dad who sent me that way.” You took your phone out and sent a text to your father.

You realized what he had done. “How’d you catch me so easily?” you asked the man walking next to you.

“I was given a head’s up that an assassin was comin’ my way,” Bucky told you. “Now, I’m starting to think that was Steve, too.”

You scoffed and shook your head. “He told me that a HYDRA agent was hiding in the church – knowing that I need to take them out before they discover me…he sent me to you.”

“And he gave me a head’s up so that I’d stop you from actually killing me,” Bucky concluded.

You chuckled at the ridiculousness of the situation. This had become your life. Ever since finding your father and finding out that you were a super soldier, your life had been nonstop fighting and running from the people who wanted to experiment on you like an animal.

You and Bucky walked for a little over an hour before reaching your hideout. It wasn’t much in the way of comfort, but there was a roof over your head, walls, a floor, and some basic yet old and dilapidated furniture.

Bucky looked around the decaying living room. “This place is just as dangerous as the church when you exploded it.”

You rolled your eyes. “We have to move,” you told him – gathering up the few items you had. You grabbed a pillow, small blanket, and a change of clothes and put them in a large backpack. You tossed him a backpack. “Grab anything necessary.”

Bucky did as instructed and started to pack some non-perishable foods and bottles of water. “We should stop in a town,” he suggested. “Crash for the night.”

“We have to keep moving,” you insisted – walking out of the cabin and making your way into the forest.

“Hey!” Bucky called out after you – catching up easily. “If we’re not going to at least try to survive, then we might as well turn ourselves over to HYDRA,” he said with a scoff.

“What do you think I’ve been doing?”

“Running.”

“Surviving.”

“Yeah?” he chuckled. “Guess what you need to survive?” his question was clearly rhetorical. “Sleep, rest, food.”

“Well, you’ve got the food and water,” you reminded him. “And we can sleep anywhere.”

Bucky decided it was best to not argue anymore with you for now. Instead, he did was he told his best friend he would do – take care of you.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #james bucky barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #the winter soldier #the winter soldier fanfiction #bucky barnes smut #steve rogers fanfiction #captain steve rogers #steve rogers x you #dad!steve rogers #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky x female reader

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reds-skull · 3 months

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BLOOD||HUNGER

[PREV PART] [AO3]

I was like, 'damn, it's been a while since I updated this fic...' [it's been 6 days, but it's a while for me] so I started writing yesterday.

Woke up today and went 'damn this is trash lmao'. Rewrote everything. Much happier with this chapter, I've been waiting to write the final scene for the entire fic >:)

This chapter is called "Accursed Among Weapons". Hope you like it!

Page 23 of the “Blooede Starvatfōre-dēde”, parable 10:

May I know your face, the Blind Man asks, The Beast regards eyes unseeing, I thought you blind, Indeed they are, though my hands have yet to fail, The Beast nears, eyes shine beguiled, Hands pass over mounds and hills, shell damaged, Yet the man determines, you are no Beast, Your hands find mine fitting, your nose twisted like mine, Your eyes close, when brushed upon like mine, The Beast retreats, hands leave paths, Then perhaps, O fallen knight, You are like me, Perhaps, you too are a beast.

The communicator knew.

(You’ve always been a disappointment, son. Just like your mother-)

The Hunter must know as well.

(You need anything, you let me know, Simon. We don’t go through things alone. We are a team-)

(Don’t you want it to stop, Riley? You can end this. Just break. Let go-)

And…

(Ah wanted to be like him, back then-)

Now…

(now Ah want to be better)

Johnny knows.

He can see it in the tense line of his spine, in the way he stepped back from the gleeful man. As if the distance will make his words ring any less true.

The communicator’s face contorts, smile stretching and stretching, and suddenly he’s not the Hunter’s soldier anymore. He’s his father, cruel and heartless, he’s Roba, sickeningly sweet as he rips away at flesh methodically.

He’s Simon, rotting in a grave, maggots and dirt burrowing into his eyes, teeth exposed by decaying cheeks. A permanent grin.

The knife slides down his sleeve faster than Ghost can think, the beating of his heart silencing all other sounds. He doesn’t shake as he draws his arm back, and throws. The blade whistles through the air, a shrill cry, and a thunk as it lands in the communicator’s eye.

Simon’s vile smile lasts for a moment longer, before the dead man slumps and the vision fades.

Yet it’s not over, the memories keep flooding Ghost’s mind, an incessant swarm muddling his senses. He can’t kill him, the dead man in his mind, the corpse he dragged out of the grave.

Soap turns around, slowly, eyes dragging from Ghost’s still raised hand to his mask.

He’s only snapped out of thoughts when Johnny’s voice mutters, “what… the fuck… did you do?”

Ghost looks at the Sergeant, frozen in shock. He looks at the corpse he created, and he realizes.

He just killed the communicator. The Hunter’s right hand.

His way to revenge.

Soap stomps to him, pulling Ghost up by his tacvest only to slam him to the wall, “WHAT THE FUCK DID YE JUST DO?!”

“I didn’t- He wasn’t-” Ghost fumbles through the words, mind still reeling.

Soap winds his fist back to hit him, a snarl hidden under the black face mask, right as the door to the room is slammed open. Everyone halts for a charged moment.

The soldier snaps out first, shouting and raising his rifle to shoot. Soap is faster, though, and he takes Ghost’s pistol out of his holster, and takes the hostile down with a perfect headshot. It wasn’t fast enough. Every other soldier is alerted now.

Soap takes the soldier’s rifle and throws it at Ghost’s direction, taking his from the table. He glances at him, and Ghost’s heart shrivels at the pure hatred in his eyes.

(All you know to do is hurt, Simon. You should’ve stayed dead)

“Ah’m not done with ye, jus’ so ye know. Get up.”

Ghost uses the wall to lift himself on shaky legs, “Soap-”

The Sergeant leaves the room, not sparing another second to talk. It leaves a bitter weight sinking in his guts.

(How much more can he hurt Johnny?)

Ghost takes the rifle, inhaling deeply. He fucked Soap over enough as it is, he can’t leave him to fight alone. He leaves the room, and the slumped corpse, behind.

Outside, Soap is taking cover behind a stack of crates, bullets splintering the wooden boxes. A group of soldiers is trying to push up the staircase, currently stuck due to Soap’s bullets. It won’t stay like that long, the cover quickly becoming ineffective and the sheer amount of hostiles overwhelming.

He sidled by Soap, “you got any more gas bottles?”

“If I had any, I would’ve thrown them already, ye feckin’ overgrown bastard.”

A bullet hits the wall right next to Soap’s head, far too close for comfort, and the Sergeant leans out to shoot back. Ghost pulls him back to cover, ignoring his answering curses, “let me go, Ghost!”

(He can’t watch Johnny die today)

“You’re going to get yourself killed.” He grunts, challenging Soap with a glare. The Sergeant clenches his jaw, “ye got a better idea?!”

His gaze drifts to the labels on the boxes behind them. Soap follows it, and Ghost can tell something on the manifest catches his attention, “think you can craft another trap for ‘em?”

Ghost watches Soap’s bright blue eyes skim through the items listed, a small grin growing on his face.

(He wishes he could keep it there)

“Aye…” Soap pulls out a knife, cutting the tape off one of the smaller boxes, and taking off his backpack. Ghost shoots a few soldiers that dared to come closer, paying half attention to the Sergeant’s work. The box was apparently full of batteries.

Soap is silent as he works, unlike the other times…

(Simon hates it)

“What’s the batteries for?” he chances a question.

Soap’s grin widens, “not just any kind, lithium batteries. Nastiest fire starter a ten-year-old has access to in a typical kitchen. Ye stab it just a wee bit, it ignites beautifully. I swear mah pa was about teh kill me when I-” he cuts himself off, seemingly remembering who he’s talking to, smile dropping. “Just need something to ignite this.” he points to a bottle he grabbed from his pack, and when Ghost takes a closer look between fights he finds it’s… Bourbon.

“You like Kentucky, Johnny?”

The Sergeant scoffs, “the only thing this shite is good fer is molotovs. Ye couldn’t pay me to drink it.”

Ghost empties his clip on a particularly brave soldier. He searches for a new one before realizing he ran out. Soap wordlessly throws him a new one.

“What would be your drink of choice then, Sergeant?”

Soap portions the Bourbon among a few empty beer bottles, “don’t see why ye should fuckin’ care.” he grunts harshly.

Right. Conversation over.

When he finishes his little “gift”, Soap shoves a bottle towards Ghost, explaining, “I punctured the coating, so any small disturbance should light that lithium right up. The alcohol is jus’ gonna make it a little more…fun.”

“Copy.” Ghost’s fingers tingle when they brush Soap’s as he passes him a bottle. The battery inside is clanking dangerously.

(If only he didn’t always wear gloves…)

Soap doesn’t waste any time, and without coordinating with Ghost, throws his bottle to the middle of the hostile group. Ghost waits for a few seconds of nothing before asking, “how long does it take to work, Sergeant?”

Turning to look at him, Ghost sees the gears turning in Johnny’s head, eyes wide before he frowns. The Sergeant grabs the now empty bottle of Bourbon and mutters to himself. Whatever he found made him furious, and he threw the bottle to the side, “it was fuckin’ bottle proof!”

“What’s that got to do with-” “means there’s not enough alcohol in that garbage to fucking ignite!” Soap cuts him off, lifting his gun to shoot down some drenched, but clearly not-on-fire, soldiers, “I can’t read this goddamn language, how should Ah know that shite is only 40%!”.

The group seemed to recognize their panic, as they start pushing forward with rising aggression. Ghost looks around, trying to find a way out, any way out-

(If it comes down to one or the other, he rather Johnny got out)

Ghost hauls a dead soldier up, springing ahead and using the corpse as a shield. “What the fuck- Ghost!” Soap shouts behind him. He ignores it.

(Not like he’ll mourn, should Simon die)

He reaches the first step, and shoves the corpse down the stairs, knocking several soldiers off their feet in a domino effect, swiftly taking them out. He glances down, finding more soldiers rushing up, as well as a few attempting to shoot from the ground.

Ghost snarls, feeling the blood rush in his ears, brandishing bullets like fangs and blades as claws.

He runs forward. When his mags ran out, he used his knives.

And when the knives were buried far too deep to pull back out, he used his hands.

Ghost is a weapon, to be picked up and discarded as needed.

And he is needed - to get Johnny out alive.

Red encircles his vision. The world reduces to the fight, to the crunch of bone under his palms, and the slick of blood beneath his boot. Ghost was born of hate and violence, yet it was always in the hands of someone else.

Always on a leash. Always controlled by foreign hands.

No more. He decides what to ravage, he decides who to tear apart.

(Simon has been buried for long enough)

Pain bursts through Ghost, the source undetermined. Could it be the poison, eating its way to his heart? Perhaps it was a frightful soldier, fruitlessly trying to survive the unsurvivable?

Or was it something deep inside him, a little boy crying while his father swings once more, no one to hear his pleas?

(Was it Simon, tearfully begging?)

(What could he be begging for?)

(What could Simon want…?)

The red fades, his surroundings returning into focus. The makeshift base is unnervingly quiet.

Ghost’s legs shake, a warning the poison is about to wreck through his system soon. Soap runs up to him, his blue eyes wide.

(Are you afraid, Johnny?)

(Please don’t be)

“Yer… what the fuck is wrong with ye?!” he asks, not with as much hate as pure surprise.

Ghost winces as his muscles start to lock up. He spots their truck, relatively undamaged in the scuffle, and starts towards him. Johnny sputters behind him, quickly shaking from his stupor to take the driver’s sit.

They sit in silence for a moment, Soap openly staring at his bloody form.

“Drive.” Ghost orders, voice softer than he intended.

Johnny follows with no complaint. Simon lets his head lean on the window, and prepares for the poison to take its course with him.

He wonders whether it’s lethal. If eventually, it will stop his cold, dead heart. He could’ve asked the communicator…

(Yet another thing Simon has fucked over)

“Why did ye kill him?” Johnny asks for the hundredth time.

Ghost answers with silence. What could he say? That he has lost his mind?

(Answering would only reveal the once dead man)

It’s starting to get on Soap’s nerves, he can tell. By the whitening knuckles, by the speeding tapping of a foot.

“Ye don’t get to sit and ignore me now, ye bawbag…”

He knows. He doesn’t deserve to sit here at all.

(No better than the Hunter, no better than Roba)

(No better than his father)

Simon was destined to be violent. A weapon, sharpened by his father. Just like his father before him. A bloodline of monsters.

He thought, if he could give away his leash, if he could get someone else to wield him-

(Ghost may be a weapon)

(Simon likes to pretend he’s the same)

Soap growls in frustration. The truck speeds up for a moment, likely an attempt from Johnny to calm down. Ghost curiously watches the emotions contort his features, glad that Soap chose to take off the mask once he started driving.

(He looks so… alive)

The Sergeant notices him from the corner of his eyes, and sharply turns his head to stare at him.

What do you see, Ghost wants to ask.

(The hero that was?)

(Or the monster that is?)

Whatever answer Johnny finds makes him wrench the breaks, the vehicle creaking loudly. Soap forcibly opens the door, slamming it shut so hard the whole truck shakes. Not a moment later, he opens the door to Ghost’s side, snarling, “out.”

He obeys.

(He’d give Johnny his leash, if he only wanted)

Ghost’s legs still shake when he walks out, but he holds himself up. Johnny is seething in front of him. He pushes at Ghost’s shoulders, “fuckin’ talk to me! Or punch me, or do something!”

Ghost just tilts his head. If the Sergeant is looking for a place to let frustrations out, so be it.

(Metal must be hit thousands of times to be made into a weapon. Simon is well acquainted with the process)

“Are ye just gonna stand there?! Say something!”

Ghost hums, “do whatever you’d like, Johnny. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Soap falters, “wha-”

“I killed him. No matter what any of us do, we won’t be able to kill the Hunter. We lost.”

He watches the anger rise within Soap, “shut up!”

(Fury looks good on him, Simon muses. Even if it is directed at him)

“Do you want to fight me, Johnny?”

The Sergeant snarls, “shut up!”

“Hit me.”

“Why do ye want-?!”

“Just do it.” Ghost takes a shaky step towards him, “punch me, kick me. Let it out. It’s my fault after all.”

“Stop-!”

“It’s my fault this city went to hell. My fault all these civilians are dead.” he stands almost chest to chest with Johnny, “it’s all my fault.”

“JUST SHUT UP!” Soap shoves him, and Ghost’s legs finally give out. He crushes to the ground with a huff. Soap is on him in seconds, taking hold of his clothes and shaking him, “WHAT DO YE WANT FROM ME?!”

It strikes Ghost, that they have not lost. There is still one way, for one of them to win.

(It should scare Simon, but he lost the fear of death a long time ago. Forgot it behind, somewhere in a shallow grave, the innate dread of the reaper)

He should be angry, that once again he’s giving away control over his fate. But for Johnny, a man that despite being betrayed over and over, that still found enough mercy not to desert him. To the man that felt the need to save others, even if it goes against all reason.

To the true hero in this city’s unfortunate tale, to a kind heart and kinder eyes?

Simon is willing to give everything.

Ghost slides a knife out, flipping it and offering the hilt to Soap. The Sergeant hesitates for a moment, eyes flickering between the weapon and his.

“You want to stop this, Johnny?” Ghost thrusts the knife into his hands, “Tell the Hunter I’m dead. That’s all they wanted, right?”

Johnny’s movements are unsure, his breath coming out in puffs.

Sitting above him, the setting sun painting his features in gold, a radiant helo peaking through his hair…

(He looks beautiful)

“All you need to do is kill me, Soap.” Ghost guides Johnny’s armed hand to his throat, lifting the dark fabric of his mask to reveal scarred skin.

“I- I don’t-” Johnny almost whispers, and Ghost wishes he could take away all doubts in his mind. Wishes he could show Johnny what he really is.

(You’re not looking at a person, love)

(I’m just a weapon)

“Kill me.” he repeats, the feeling of the cool blade soothing, for once in his life. Simon looks over Johnny one last time, swallowing all the words he yearns to speak.

(All the regrets he can’t even whisper)

Simon smiles, something small and private, when he watches Johnny raise his arm slowly, aiming to strike him down. It will be a quick death.

(Far more than he truly deserves)

And he closes his eyes, finding himself content. That for once, he chose right. He may die, but Johnny will get out of here, a hero. The man that saved an entire city. The man that took down half an army.

The man that killed the Ghost.

The knife swings down.

(Simon prays for a last time)

(That this apology was enough)

#call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mw2 #cod ghost #cod soap #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #BLOOD||HUNGER #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghoap #call of duty fic #call of duty fanfic #call of duty modern warfare #cod fic #cod fanfic #Ive been waiting to write this scene for the entire fic yall dont even know how excited i am :D #also i cant make them normal im sorry #also also the ao3 upload might take a little longer but it will be today

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harlequin-hangout · 1 year

Text

Incapable

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Mob violence, violence against reader (Not Bucky), mature themes, Brock Rumlow just as a person, guns, general mob fuckery, light alcohol use, slutty themes ( Minors DNI), Kidnapping, torture

Contains: Arranged marriage, fluff, some angst, femme fatale/boss bitch energy, strangers to lovers maybe? Happy ending

Word Count: 4.7k

Dividers are made by me! Want some for yourself? Send me an ask!

Summary: Bucky Barnes is the only person to treat you as human, despite your marriage being transactional. How will you react when he's kidnapped?

I do not nor will I ever give permission for my writing to be copied, pasted, reposted to other sites, or edited in any way shape or form. Seriously, just don’t.

A/N: I did not make the gif, and @vbecker10 inspired me to use it. Just look at him! Adorable, and so, so done with people's bullshit. If this progressed kind of fast, I'm sorry! I really didn't want to start another series, and I didn't want to publish something that was INSANELY long either. I love writing our Reader as someone who can handle herself, it makes me so happy. I hope you all can enjoy another Badass Reader fic!! (There will be a super slutty epilogue but I'm so ready for this to be out so the smut will appear in the next bit, but both pieces can be read on their own)

The door to your house was broken. Someone had kicked it in. You step over broken glass, finding every drawer ripped apart.

“James?” You called out to your husband. Silence was the only answer you received.

“Bucky??” Your voice was more desperate. You ran from room to room, only finding more destruction. Making your way into Bucky’s office last, you found his sitting corner smashed, with blood staining the carpet and upholstery. A broken cell lay on the ground – Bucky’s work phone. The picture of you and Bucky on your wedding day had been ripped out of its frame, the blade of a hunting knife stuck in the side table through the photo of Bucky, while your face had been scratched beyond recognition. There was no mistaking the message that the sender was intending. Though your marriage wasn’t traditional, James Buchanan Barnes had never made you feel like property. Your husband was the only person in your life that hadn’t treated you like a means to an end, like a bargaining chip or a high-ticket item, and he was missing. You pick up the cracked phone on the ground, managing to turn it on enough to get Steve’s number out of it. You dial, hang up after one ring, then call right back.

“Hey, Buck, what’s up?” You hear Steve’s jovial voice on the line.

“He’s made his move. Get Wilson and be here in 20.” Your voice was calm, but Steve could hear the icy bite.

“Y/N, sweetheart, I know this is tough but–”

“But nothing, Rogers.” You cut him off. “I know that I haven’t been involved in the business, but this is personal. 20 minutes. Wilson. Bring however many weapons you can carry.” You hung up, not waiting for a response.

Your marriage was transactional, you’d known that from the start. You’d been adopted by Rumlow Senior when your mother had passed, and been raised alongside his son, Brock. At least, that’s the story the Public knew. You had been part of your mother’s efforts to pay off her debts to the Rumlow Mafia family. Your father had passed from massive medical complications – you didn’t know a lot of the details, you had been too young to understand and no one had ever given you much to go on past that – and your mother had borrowed money from the Rumlows to help pay for his treatments. There wasn’t money to pay back her loans, so she paid them back the only way she could. Your mother had become the infamous Mafia fixer known as Lady Death, and you had been sent to live with the Rumlow family at age five as insurance. She had been legally dead since you were adopted by the Rumlows, but your mother had been killed for real on an assignment when you were seventeen. After over a decade with the family, Rumlow Senior had made you a deal. Keep playing the role of his adoptive daughter, and you would be kept safe. When you were twenty one, you were given a choice. Rumlow Senior would be stepping down as head of the Rumlow Family that year.

“But why would you pick me?” The question hung heavy in the air of Rumlow Senior’s office.

“You have been raised in the Family just as Brock has, Y/N. You are every bit as ruthless as my biological son, and I have complete faith that you would make the right decision for the future of the family whenever the need arose. Unlike my son, however, you have a cool head on your shoulders. You do not jump at the chance for violence. You take the diplomatic route whenever possible, and leave none in your path when it is not.” You sat there in silence. This wasn’t a life that you had wanted. True, you had grown up learning alongside Brock in order to maintain the role of Rumlow’s Little Princess, but you hadn’t ever expected to be offered anything, much less control of the family.

“I . . . I don’t mean any disrespect, but what’s the other option?” Rumlow Senior crossed his arms. You knew that wasn’t the answer he was hoping for, but still, he responded.

“If you don’t step into the role of Matriarch, there will be a target on you. Your safest choice would be to marry the head of another family. Your husband’s power would both protect you and benefit our family.” You chew on your lower lip and nod slowly. There was no leaving this life behind for you, not if you wanted to live past the age of 25.

“If I really do get a choice . . . I would rather the marriage.” You took a deep breath, collecting your thoughts. Rumlow Senior watches you, a pensive expression on his face. “You’ve been an amazing father to me, both before and after my mother’s . . . Passing . . . but this life. . . it isn’t for me. I don’t want any hand in the lifestyle that killed my mother.” You couldn’t stop the bite from sneaking into your voice during your last sentence. Rumlow Senior nodded slowly.

“As much as it pains me to admit, this life has not been kind to you. I’ll put out the notification to other families and see who we may ally ourselves with. You’ll always be a part of this family, Princess, even if you weren’t born into it.” He gave you a gentle smile. The old man had always treated you carefully and stated that your mother’s debt wasn’t yours to carry, but you’d overheard conversations behind closed doors. An arranged marriage had been in the cards for almost a decade now. You weren’t a part of the family, you were a business asset that he wanted to keep compliant. If nothing else, at least the marriage would get you out.

Several offers had been made. It seems the Romanoff Matriarch liked women, and the Pierce empire also put in a bid for his youngest son. The one that surprised you the most, however, was James Buchanan Barnes. His was a family made of people who didn’t have a home, jokingly called The Lost Boys by Brock and his lackeys. While he had no family power, he was indisputably powerful.

“So which one do you think, Princess? Any of these would make great allies for our family. That Romanoff girl is quite a catch, she’s got fire in her.” You put on your best business mask, looking over the files.

“Yeah . . . She is pretty great, but the Romanoffs only control most of the upper East side. We have the South, which is almost double the size of the upper East. The smartest choice is Barnes. His White Wolf family controls the North and the parts of the East that the Romanoffs don’t.” You close the folders and lay them on the desk. “First choice is Barnes, second choice is Romanoff, and third choice is Pierce. He’s always given me the creeps though.” Rumlow Senior smirked, impressed with your choices.

“Spoken like a true businesswoman. Let’s have a wedding!”

Within the next two months, you and Barnes were married.

“Please sit still?” You kept dabbing the medical wipe on his bloodied knuckles despite the mobster’s squirming. “I know it stings, but you did this to yourself. Besides, are you gonna sit here and tell me that you can punch a man multiple times, but you turn into a toddler when I have to clean a cut?” Barnes kept looking down, his face forever brooding. He didn’t answer, but did still his hand. “There. Was that so hard?” You busied yourself putting away the first aid kit.

“You aren’t comfortable around me, are you?” His statement caught you off guard and your head snapped up to look at him. His expression was relaxed. This wasn’t the kingpin that had just beat information out of a Pierce Empire lackey. He sighed, rolling his shoulders. “I don’t think a lot of people would be, especially witnessing what you just did . . . I’m sorry you had to see that.” You chew on your lip and Barnes continued. “I know you were raised with the Rumlows, and I guess I just assumed that you’d be used to seeing that sort of thing.” He paused, waiting for your response, but seemed genuinely taken aback when you started to giggle.

“You think I’ve been distant because of a little violence? James–”

“Bucky,” he interrupted. “Please, call me Bucky.” A soft smile breaks through your mask.

“Bucky,” you corrected. “I’ve done worse than that to Rumlow thugs when they failed to follow my father’s orders. I wasn’t shielded from any of it. In fact, I was even offered control of the Rumlow family. I turned it down. Given the choice, I’d rather not be the cause of violence, but violence doesn't bother me ”

“Then what does?” His eyebrows knit together in confusion, and you sit across from him on the tile floor

“About the beating or the relationship?”

“Uuhh . . . both, I guess?” You’d never heard Barnes sound so unsure. It was refreshing, even endearing to a degree.

“I’ve been treated like a bargaining chip since I was little. First, my mother, then my adoptive father on multiple occasions. Our marriage was just another business deal to him, and I didn’t think you’d want a clingy business deal. You get alliance with the Rumlows, and I get to keep my protection. I don’t see a reason to complicate things.” Bucky was quiet for a few moments.

“And the beating?”

“Oh, that one’s easy. It’s really hard for someone to give you information if you don’t give them a break in between blows to answer your questions. Seriously, that’s basically mafia 101.” Bucky burst out laughing at your cheeky response. People didn’t usually talk to him like that, they were all too afraid.

“I’ll give you that one, Doll,” he stated as he regained control of himself. He stared at you, taking in your every feature. After a few moments, you broke the silence.

“You’re thinking something, Bucky. What’s on your mind?”

“I’m thinking that I’d like to make this relationship a little more complicated . . . what about you?”

You had kept your own room, but from then on things with your new husband just seemed . . . easier. You spent most of that night talking about how you really came to be a part of the Rumlow family, and how you had opted for marriage because it was the closest thing to your own life that you’d ever have. In turn, Bucky began to open up about his past. How working for other groups had landed him with a metal left arm and a distrust of most people. How his time as a fixer had caused most people to fear him, and therefore avoid him. He didn’t really have friends outside of Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson, and they both worked for him. You got the sense that he chose to have his marriage arranged because he thought it was easier than the alternative for someone like him.

“You know . . . you don’t have to be alone.” You had told him one night.

“And what do you mean by that, Doll?” He had questioned you, raising an eyebrow as he set down his bourbon glass.

“You say you’re alone because people are afraid, but that’s not completely true. You can’t fool me, Buck. I was raised with the potential to do the job you do. You aren’t alone because people are afraid, but because you don’t give them the opportunity to not be.” Bucky was quiet, but watched you with a fascination. You place your drink on the side table and lean forward. You’d come to enjoy the nights that you and Bucky would just sit and talk. It was a welcome escape from the monotony of everyday life and the drain of keeping up social appearances. Both of you were relieved when you could drop the masks and the roles that you were each expected to play and just exist with another person who didn’t judge you. Who didn’t hold any expectations apart from honesty. Your husband takes another sip, trying to hide the smile that played across his face.

“And what would you suggest I do instead, Sweetheart?” God you loved the intensity of his gaze, and as he ran his tongue over his lower lip, you decided that you were feeling brave. You stood, sauntering over to him. Bucky leaned back in his seat, setting his drink down and allowing you to lean over him, your lips brushing his neck.

“Ask.” That singular word whispered in his ear broke Bucky’s self control. His right hand flew to your neck, pulling your lips to his. You felt the cool metal of his left hand pressing into your thigh as he slid your skirt up, allowing you the mobility to straddle his lap. You press yourself against him as you whine, desperate for his touch. You didn’t sleep much that night, being pushed to the edge over and over and over, only to be brought back without release. Bucky loved watching you struggle. He loved your willingness to fight, and he wanted to watch as the fight drained from you and you submitted to his will. He knew you had been playing the roles expected of you your whole life so here, behind closed doors, he would earn your submission, not demand it. You would choose when you broke, but once you did? Bucky was going to ruin you, and he was going to savor every moment

After that night, you rarely slept in your own room. Your marriage was transactional, no one could deny that. Through the years, however, it had become so much more. You became one of the most powerful couples in the city, though you still kept your distance from the world of crime. Your diplomacy was unrivaled, but one night, that all came crashing down.

Your brother, Brock, had taken the role of Rumlow Patriarch when your father stepped down. For years, Brock’s temper had been controlled by your father’s background guidance. That all changed the night Rumlow Senior passed away. You attended the funeral, of course, but he passed suddenly. Bucky was out of town on a business trip and unable to make it back in time for the event. You passed along his condolences to Brock, but Brock took your husband’s absence extremely personally. Without the watchful eye of Rumlow Senior, Brock Rumlow’s true nature shone through. Brock was a loose cannon. His temper was unmatched, and his ego caused him to completely disregard the rules that every other family played by. For months after the funeral, the street thugs under your brother’s command ran rampant. They overstepped boundaries and lines of control held by other families as well as started fights wherever the opportunity arose. One night, they went too far. Three of Bucky’s new recruits had been carried back to the office after your brother’s thugs beat them almost to death. All they had done was refuse to leave the bar that they were already drinking at when the Rumlow thugs showed up, stating that the two groups could co-exist. These were just kids, barely old enough to even be IN the bar, and with six men versus the three kids, it was a massacre. Adding insult to injury? That bar was on White Wolf property and owned by Steve Rogers, one of Bucky’s right hands. Bucky had come home fuming that night. You talked him down from murdering your brother on the spot. You had no love for your brother, but murder would result in an all-out war. You spent the better part of the night with Bucky, Sam, and Steve readying yourselves for several outcomes. The following night, Bucky went to have a civil meeting with Brock, Mob Boss to Mob Boss about the behavior of his subordinates. Steve and Sam went on patrol hoping to stop another encounter, and you went to meet with Natasha Romanoff, the Matriarch of the Romanoff family. If this all went south, you would need an ally in order to take your brother in an all out war.

So that’s how you got here. Standing in your husband’s office surrounded by the aftermath of a ransacking. Your shoulders fell back and your chin lifted. If Brock wanted a fight, you’d give it to him. Brock may be the head of the Rumlow Family, but with Bucky currently indisposed, you were the head of White Wolf. Time to show him what his Little Sister was capable of when someone threatened her family. You headed straight to your room. If you were going to be acting as the White Wolf Matriarch, then you should look the part. You slide into your black business leggings. They look like skinny cut pants, but provide enough flexibility for you to move. A flowy black blouse pairs nicely, accompanied by several gold accessories. You favored rings and necklaces, but added a couple cuff bracelets for good measure. Your knee high riding boots with the steel toe inserts were pulled from your closet. Your winged liner was sharp enough to stab a man was accompanied by a dark lip and perfect brows. Finally, you swept your hair up into a sleek high ponytail. You take one look in the mirror, and your appearance plus the cold hearted look in your eyes made you smirk.

“The bitch is back,” you thought to yourself. You pulled a duffel bag out from under your bed. You hadn’t much from your mother, but you did keep her favorite set of knives. They were well known as the choice weapons for Lady Death, and that fear could serve your purposes. Strapping the wrist holsters to each wrist, you frowned. This blouse was nice, but it didn’t hide the knives well enough for your liking. . . You slipped several more into your boots as you heard Steve’s car pull up. You turned to rush out the door when you paused. One of Bucky’s black suit jackets was draped over the chair by your door. It was far too big for you to wear, but if you draped it over your shoulders . . . You tried it out in the mirror. It worked, hanging off your shoulders like a cape. The extra fabric also provided the cover to your wrists needed to conceal your wrist sheaths better. You grab your phone and head down the stairs to meet Steve.

“Sweetheart, I don’t think this is a good–”

“Well, then it’s a good thing your job isn’t thinking right now, Rogers.” The blatant interruption caught both men off guard. “You’re going to listen carefully because I’m only explaining this once. The story you’ve been fed about the Rumlows taking me in out of the goodness of their hearts is complete and utter bullshit. My mother worked off her debt to them, and I was kept as collateral. She taught me a lot of what she knew. I was raised as a Rumlow and was offered control of the Family because of my brother’s inability to control his temper or play by the rules. You can either do what I tell you, or you can explain to Mr. Barnes when we return why you didn’t accompany me. Are there any questions?” Whether it be the lack of emotion in your eyes or the ice in your voice, you didn’t know, but neither man argued. Wilson was the first one to speak up.

“ . . . Who’s your mom?” You look Sam dead in the eye, smirk, and with a flick of your wrist you impale one of the knives in your wrist sheath in the ground between his feet. Both Sam and Steve go pale with recognition.

“My mother was Lady Death.”

The Door to the interrogation room blew inward. C4 was such an amazing toy, you were so happy that Sam kept a stash. Hands in your pockets, you step over the twisted remains of the door, the dust settling at your feet. Immediately you hear the click of guns, but that only pulls a sadistic smirk to your face.

“Hello, boys. For those of you who don’t know who I am: look to your elders. For those of you who do: Run.” It was your brother's right hand and childhood friend, Justin, who spoke first.

“Y/N, didn’t expect to see you join the party.” He swaggered up to you, full of confidence that only an upper class white man could possess. He loomed over you, and you weren’t sure if he was trying to be sexy or intimidating. Neither was a good look on him. “What’s your problem, princess? Did we break up your little game of house?” You look up at the taller man, not budging an inch.

“Oh not at all, champ, I just thought I’d give you and your little friends a chance to play in the big leagues. Only three of them? Shouldn’t be much work.”

“Hey, Lady, I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, but –” Justin interrupts him before you have the chance.

“That’s Barnes’s wife, dumbass. She’s the Boss’s adopted sister, and the last person you wanna piss off.”

“She don’t seem so scary, all of her power comes from other people! Why should I–”

“You’d be well to listen to your superiors, or haven’t you learned that yet?” The ice in your voice stopped the newbie dead in his tracks. You stalk towards him, eyes fixed. “Let’s give you a family history lesson, hmm?” You had the undivided attention of all four of the Rumlow thugs. You just needed to keep it that way long enough for Steve and Sam to work into position. You stopped in the dead center of the room “ Justin, how many years ago was Lady Death’s final kill?”

“Uuhh . . . five years? Just before you married Barnes.”

“Good Boy,” you purred, working as much condescension into your voice as you could manage. “And how many years ago did my mother die?” As he did the mental math, Justin began to shift uncomfortably.

“ . . . Seven . . . no, Nine? Nine years ago . . .” As the dots started to connect, the realization began to show on each man’s face. Your smirk grew to a full-on sadistic smile.

“Let’s try this again, gentlemen. Whether or not you know who I am, it’s too late. I’m Lady Death.” The tension is palpable in the air as the newbies eye you, then the door, as if evaluating their chances, but your backup was already in position. From the rafters of the building, four shots rang out. You’d ordered Steve and Sam to aim to kill, but you hadn’t bothered to check their handiwork, simply stepping over the bodies and making your way towards the last door that stood between you and your brother.

The door creaked open, and your rubber soles thudded against the concrete with each step you took. No matter how hardened to violence you were, you had never cared about any of the people on the receiving end of your violence. No matter how hard you tried, nothing could have prepared for the sight that met you on the other side of that godforsaken door. Bucky was sat in a metal chair. His arms were tied behind his back, and a gag was stuffed in his mouth. His white dress shirt had been discarded, and his undershirt was torn. The bridge of his nose was cut, and someone had busted open his left cheek. Dried blood still caked his skin. The moment he saw you, his eyes filled with fury. He fought against his restraints, almost toppling the chair.

“Aaaah, Y/N, nice of you to join us! Can’t have a party without Daddy’s favorite kid,” Brock spat at you. You study your brother, willing your face back to neutrality.

“You know just as well as I do that that isn’t true, Brother mine.” If your calm demeanor threw Brock off guard, he didn’t show it.

“Well, Sister mine, your husband here had the audacity to tell me how to run my people, after refusing to even honor our father. Our father who spoke of him like the Golden Son just for marrying the whore who wormed her way into my life!” By the end of his statement, Brock was screaming. He took a moment and regained his composure.

“Do you really think that was a good move?” As you questioned Brock, you walked over to a spare folding chair. You let the jacket fall from your shoulders, draping it over the back of the chair.

“I can make whatever move I want. Dad may have taught you everything you know, but he taught me everything he knew. That’s the difference here, Wendy. That is what you are, aren’t you? The Wendy to his pathetic troupe of Lost Boys.” Locking eyes with him, your smirk returns.

“See, that’s where you’re wrong, Brock. Dad isn’t the only one who taught me things. My mother lived here too, remember?” Brock’s eyes narrow, tracking you as you slowly close the distance between you and him. “How do you explain the kills on Lady Death’s roster after my mother passed, hmm? Think about it.” You could see the gears turning in Brock’s thick skull before he shook his head.

“You lying bitch, you’re trying to play on my nerves. You turned down this job because you weren’t capable” You interrupt, starting to slide one of your knives from the wrist sheath into your hand.

“I turned that job down because I wasn’t interested. Never mistake my disinterest for being incapable.” You flick your wrist, your knife landing squarely in the meat of Brock’s shoulder.

He lunged at you, and the only thing you could focus on was the exchange of blows. He was a lot faster than you’d anticipated, and you were fairly evenly matched. You registered the pain of his blows connecting multiple times, but you pushed it down and attempted to return the favor. Suddenly, you felt his fist connect with the side of your face, then an arm wrapped around your waist. Brock spun, throwing you across the room. You hit the wall with a sickening smack, the wind being knocked from your lungs. Your brother slowly started stalking towards you. He was breathing heavily and wiped the blood from his upper lip as he walked, never taking his eyes off you. Brock grabbed your jaw, dragging you upwards, and you did the only thing you could think of. You slipped a knife out of your boot, and jammed it into him on your way up. Both you and him fell, Brock’s head hitting the ground with a sickening smack. You hauled yourself up, steadying yourself against the wall. You grabbed your brother by his hair, yanking his head up.

“You’re a fucking disgrace to this family and all that Dad stood for.” You paused, spitting out the blood that was pooling in your mouth.

“What the fuck happened??” You heard Sam shout as he and Steve finally caught up. You looked from your brother to Sam, steeling your gaze.

“Change in management,” you stated. “Send out a notice. Due to extremely reckless behavior that nearly started a war, Brock Rumlow has been removed as Patriarch of the Rumlow family. Its territories and personnel will be merged into White Wolf. Any concerns can be taken up with Lady Death.”

You turn your attention to Bucky, picking up one of your discarded knives to cut the ropes and gag off of him.

“Doll, that has got to be one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen.” Your satisfaction definitely showed on your face. After taking a moment to catch your breath, you pick the discarded suit jacket off the back of the folding chair and hand it to Bucky, leaning on him for support. Bucky pauses, glancing between Steve and Rumlow.

“Bring him back to the office. We’re not going to be done talking for a very long time.”

Tags: @vbecker10 @soubi001 @brattymum96 @vicmc624 @caritobbg @winterslove1917 @xonickibaby @youngblood199456 @thehumanistsdiary @ozymdias @thomase1

295 notes · View notes

icallhimjoey · 2 years

Text

Only Temporary

♥ ♥ Joseph Quinn x Fem!Reader

Summary: Joe needs a temporary living space, and you happen to have a spare room to let. One plus one equals two, baby.

CW / disclaimer: rpf (don’t read if this makes you uncomfy), fem!reader, swearing (lots), fluff only

Author’s note: this is the first part out of five. I'll maybe add onto the summary as the story grows. It's looking to be another slow burn (because I love those the most). We'll see! (rewrittern 14 nov 2023)

Wordcount: 3.8K

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five

Shit.

Life was shit.

Utter shit. You’d come to accept it now. Had no other choice, really, had you?

After losing your job, having two credit cards that desperately needed paying off, a neighbour who you’d been crushing on who didn’t even really know of your existence, and an outstanding ad for a roommate that no one seemed interested in... life wasn’t really convincing you it wasn’t shit.

Accepting it didn’t make it hurt less, but, you knew exactly what would make it hurt less.

This is why you’d decided on a Friday evening that instead of pretending you had a normal social life, your night would exist of a hot bath and a fat glass of red.

You balanced your glass of wine on the side of the bath to grab a loofah and a bar of soap. Raising one shiny thigh out of the bubbles, you lathered it like a war veteran would proudly shine up his medals.

Round and round in little circles, clockwise, then anti-clockwise, sloughing off dead skin, pounding cellulite and kneading dimples.

Something a little hypnotising about it. Soothingly so.

Discarding the loofah, you reached for the razor and inspected the blade. It was dull and stuffed full of bristles from the last time you used it.

And it was your last one.

See?

“Shit.”

Life was shit.

You gave the blade a quick rinse under the tap and got to work, cutting through the lather with well-practised strokes, even though the blades were dull.

Shin, calf, ankle, knee.

Ouch.

You watched a spot of blood appear like a red bubble on your leg.

“Shit.”

You were quick to grab a flannel, folding it into a makeshift bandage and pressing it to your knee when suddenly, your phone rang. You listened to it echo from your bedroom and wondered who it could be.

Your dad, maybe. To ask if there was any news on the front.

There wasn’t.

You decided against answering, because that wasn’t a conversation you wanted to have right now, and you submerged yourself further into the duvet of scented bubbles, waiting for your phone to stop ringing.

Whoever it was could wait.

It did stop, eventually. But it only took a few seconds for it to start again.

You hesitated.

Should you make a dash for it?

Your mind quickly went over why someone would call you again instead of leaving a voicemail, and with every scenario worse than the previous one your brain could think up, you ended up vaulting out of the bath and dashing into your living room completely naked, dripping soapy water onto the floor.

Uknown number.

It was an unknown number calling you.

Did you get out of the bath for a stranger?

Or worse, telemarketing?

“Hello?”

“Hey, hi, I’m calling about the ad? For a room?”

A prospective flatmate.

Oh no.

Suddenly you were very aware that you were a prospective landlady, and you should probably also sound like one. But you were stood naked in the middle of your living room and...

“Shit!”

You noticed that your blinds weren’t closed all the way.

“Do I... I’m sorry, do I have the right number?” he asked but was met by a loud yelp from you that escaped your throat as you nearly slipped in the puddle you’d created on your laminate flooring.

“Sorry, yes. Hello. You, um... I’m sorry, you caught me in the bath,” you broke off, silently wincing and pausing.

Why did you tell him that?

You didn't need to tell him that.

“Yes, the ad! That’s me. I’ve got a room to let.”

“Great,” he said, followed by an awkward silence.

He was probably deciding whether or not to hang up on you, you thought, assuming you had blown it with your bath comment.

“I’m Joe,”

“Cool,” you blurted, immediately closing your eyes in shame.

What kind of reaction was that to someone introducing themselves? You quickly gave him your name in return.

“Erm, so I was wondering… about the room?”

“The room!” you snapped back.

Fuck, you were all over the place. And naked still. In front of your open blinds still.

“Is it still available?”

“Well, there has been a lot of interest,” you fibbed, sneaking over to the window in an attempt to properly close the blinds all the way.

“Oh, well, in that case, don’t worry about it. I was only looking for something temporary.”

“Temporary?” your ears pricked up.

“Yes, it would only be a month, maybe five weeks. Six at most.”

You liked the sound of a month. It was nice and short-term. You could charge him by the week which would be enough to pay off at least one credit card.

And if you got your ass in gear, it might just be long enough for you to find a new job that would hopefully pay enough so you wouldn’t have to share a toilet-seat with a total stranger for ages.

“I’ve not made a decision yet, I’m still interviewing people,” you added, accidentally jerking the blinds for them to shoot up, leaving your windows bare and exposed.

Not to mention, yourself.

At that exact moment, your neighbour was drawing his curtain in his apartment across the street from you and got an eyeful.

You shrieked in horror.

“Shit!”

There was a silence at the other end of the line as you repeatedly muttered silent shits under your breath, and then, a few seconds later, “Hi, sorry, I dropped the phone. Are you still there?”

“Are you, um... are you all right?”

Having jumped away from the window into the corner by the mirror, you glanced sideways at your reflection.

“Yes, I’m fine,” you replied in a strangled voice.

My God.

So, this is what your neighbour had just seen. Shiny boobs, streaky mascara, wet hair, naked thighs.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” You replied firmly, edging forward to peer around the corner like a sniper.

You glanced back across the street. Your neighbour was still at the window, no doubt frozen with shock. You instantly threw yourself to the ground in an army dive.

“Perhaps this isn’t a good time,”

“No, now’s a great time!” you panted, inching forward on your elbows as if you were on an assault course. You winced as your jute rug gave your nipples a nasty case of carpet burn.

“In fact,” you reached for the coat rack and stood upright, grabbing a jacket from a hook, and quickly wrapping it around yourself protectively. “Why don’t you come along and take a look at the room. See how you like it. See how you like me.” You laughed nervously. Were sure he was going to turn the offer down, because what the fuck must all of this even sound like?

Not one second of this phone call had been normal.

“Sure. When?”

Oh.

Shit.

“Next week?” you were playing for time, and sole usage of your bathroom.

“What about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” you squeaked, panicked.

“Sorry, I forgot tomorrow’s Saturday, you’ve probably got plans.”

“Well, actually…” your voice trailed off as you remembered the truth.

You had no plans.

You were single.

Staying in alone.

On a Saturday.

“Am I being pushy? Sorry, I don’t mean to be,” his voice interrupted your awkwardness, and he sounded kind. Friendly. Almost like he was making fun of himself a little, and his own joke had made himself laugh.

“Yes, I mean, no. No, not at all, actually, no.” you were babbling.

For fuck’s sake, stop being such an idiot.

Think of your credit card bills, your mortgage, the fact that you’ve been advertising your spare room for weeks and this being the first reply you’d had.

“Tomorrow’s fine.”

“Great! I’ll um, I’ll need your address. The ad’s a bit vague...”

And for good reason. You didn’t need the exact address out there. People were weirdos and you didn’t know weirdos looking for a spare room knowing where to ring the doorbell.

You proceeded to gabble your address so quickly, Joe had to ask you to repeat it twice.

“Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow? Around seven?”

“PM?”

“Yea,” Joe spoke on a laugh.

Of course PM, you fucking idiot.

“That’s fine, yes. See you then.”

You hadn’t thought much about what you were going to say to your prospective flatmate. In fact, since you’d put down the phone after your conversation last night, you hadn’t given the stranger a second thought.

Your mind had been reeling at the unexpected speed of events that involved your neighbour, and his huge bulging eyes as he’d seen your naked tits through his window last night.

It wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world if you didn’t have the biggest crush on him.

But you did.

And so it was the worst thing in the world.

But now it was six o’clock and Joe was due to turn up in an hour. You were wondering what on earth you were going to say, what you’d ask him, what rules you were going to be laying down. And, most importantly, as you stood in front of your wardrobe in your bobbly old dressing-gown with a towel wrapped around your sopping wet hair: what the hell were you going to wear?

You were no closer to answering this question thirty minutes later when every inch of your bedroom floor was covered with clothes.

Perched on the edge of the bed, you stared at the empty wire hangers clanging dolefully inside your wardrobe. Usually in a moment of crisis you’d ring your best friend for advice, but her job as a flight attendant meant she wouldn’t be able to answer her phone right now.

You picked at your cuticles for a few minutes, and then, in desperation, called her anyways.

It went straight to voicemail.

Shit.

Life was shit.

At five past seven, there was no sign of Joe and you realised the way you’d rushed into your current outfit had been futile.

Joe was late.

You puffed nervously at a cigarette, which as a non-smoker made you dart up and down the living room nervously.

You were a social smoker, but nerves had gotten the better of you, and when piling all your discarded clothes onto your bed, a packet that had a couple remaining had fallen out of a pocket. Excellent timing.

You tried to peer out of the window without anyone seeing you.

Nothing.

You fiddled absentmindedly with your hair as you blew smoke against the glass pane.

You caught yourself.

Jesus.

You thought back to the list of house rules you’d come up with when you had put the ad online.

Rule number one: no smoking indoors.

You hauled open a window and wafted your arms around manically in a bid to get rid of the smoke, before realising that you were still holding the cigarette which obviously didn’t help. You were quick to stub it out in an empty coffee cup on the mantelpiece.

Oh, shit.

Rule number two: no using the crockery as ashtrays.

At twelve past seven, you thought Joe had probably gotten lost. Standing by the back door that opened out onto the tiny patch of grass and honeysuckle that you liked to call your garden, you sipped your drink.

You’d moved on to gin and tonic.

Less smelly than a fag.

And, you were a social smoker, remember? Not a social drinker. An issue for another day.

Twenty-three past seven.

Where the fuck was he?!

You had downed two gin and tonics by now and were starting to get antsy.

“Don’t tell me I’m being stood up,” you huffed at yourself as you decided to peek through the window one last time, and if there was no sign of him, you’d abandon the whole thing and would defrost a pizza.

Climbing up onto the sofa to peer out, the plan hadn’t been to have your face squashed up against the glass when someone knocked on your front door, but, here you were.

Shit.

Startled you peeled your face off the glass and eyed the man at your front step. He was checking his reflection in the bass door knocker – brushing his slightly shaggy curls up out of his face, lifting his chin, and rubbing a rogue patch of his bristles, turning his head from one side to the other.

Then suddenly the stranger was staring right at you, his large brown eyes filled with curiosity. It threw you off balance, giving a muffled squeak and promptly falling down the back of the sofa.

“I’m Joe,”

Opening the door after having him look at you scramble up from behind a sofa was embarrassing.

It felt like you'd already been on quite the journey together. Yesterday’s terrible phonecall. Now this.

With the two of you standing by your front step, the first thing you noticed were his eyes.

Those eyes.

They were brown, and big, and beautiful, and usually it was blue eyes that could really mesmerize you, but there was something about these big brown orbs staring straight back at you.

You introduced yourself, rubbing your elbow nervously which you’d hurt in your fall down the back of the sofa, and showed him into your flat.

“I was, er… just doing a spot of housework. Cleaning the windows,” you laughed awkwardly. “A tidy flat makes for a tidy mind and all that,” you cringed inwardly.

Shut up.

Just, shut up.

“I’m a complete pig.”

“You are?”

“No. I was joking,” Joe grinned at you and then laughed.

“Hard to believe, I know,” Joe held out both arms and looked down at his outfit. It was a wrinkled mess, definitely ill-fitting. The jacket, the shirt, the trousers - all slightly too large for his frame, and it had coffee stains all down the front.

“I thought I could go for a quick coffee before coming over. Hence why I’m late,”

“Oh, right,”

His attempt to break the ice failed and a toe-curling silence followed in which you smiled uncomfortably.

“So, can I see the room?”

“Of course,” you said hastily and lead him down the hallway.

“This is it.” Pushing open the door, you stood back.

“It’s not very big, I’m afraid. But it’s got everything. Double bed, cupboard, chest of drawers, a desk…”

As you were listing off everything you could see in the L-shaped room, Joe walked in and regarded the beige walls and the polished mahogany wardrobe with its delicate inlay and curved doors that the man at the market who sold it to you said was from the 1930s. Probably wasn’t, but it looked nice anyway.

Earlier you had opened the window wide to give a full view of your garden, and Joe walked over to it. With his back to you, he leant against its sill but didn’t speak.

Obviously not much of a talker, you thought, tracing the silhouette of his shoulders.

He was tall. Sort of. Taller than you, and much broader than you’d first thought.

“I’ll take it.”

His voice zoned you back in.

Huh?

“Oh,” you weren’t prepared for this.

You’d expected lots of questions, and had rehearsed lots of answers for them. But now, faced with this situation, you were suddenly unsure.

Did you really want a stranger living in your flat?

You don’t even know each other, piped up a little voice inside of you.

“Okay, so what do you want to know about me?”

As Joe turned, you realised you’d spoken aloud and you blushed hotly.

“Sorry, I think we should get to know each other a bit first, you know, talk about our… hobbies?”

Hobbies?!

As soon as the word popped out of your mouth, the flush on your cheeks deepend. You sounded like a twelve-year-old.

It amused Joe, who smiled mischievously. “Like we’re on a date?”

“No, I…” you faltered. You knew you were being ridiculous, so you tried your best to relax.

“Sorry, I’m not used to this,” you confessed. “I’ve never let a room before and it just feels... I don’t know, a little weird, I guess.”

“That’s alright, I understand,” Joe sat on the windowsill, pushed a lone curl from his face and fixed you with a steady gaze.

“Fire away. Ask me anything you'd like.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Well, in that case…

You disappeared out of the room for a few moments and when you returned with a notebook, Joe was on the windowsill still. Only now he had company in the shape of a large orange tomcat, curled up on his knee like a croissant, head tucked in one end, tail in the other, purring loudly.

“Oh, you’ve met Eddie,” you said, surprised to see your cat snuggled up in his crotch.

“Eddie?” Joe’s eyes found yours and he grinned.

You nodded, not entirely reading his expression right, and then Joe's grin grew wider.

“What?” you asked for clarification.

“It's... it's nothing,” Joe tickled Eddie between the ears, and he was rewarded by loud purring.

This was the same cat that hissed and dug claws into anyone he didn’t know who tried so much as to stroke him gently.

“He normally doesn’t really like strangers.”

Eddie gazed at you languidly without any sign of recognition before closing his eyes again.

Traitor, you hissed silently.

“Animals usually like me. It’s people I have more of a problem with.” Joe’s face was serious, but this time you recognized the joke and smiled.

Despite your reservations, you were warming up to him.

That didn’t let Eddie off the hook though, and as you glared at your cat, he gave you a yawn and used his tail to wrap himself up like a parcel, turning his back to you.

Plopping down on the bed, you turned over to the first page of your spiral notebook and looked up at Joe, like a secretary about to do a spot of shorthand.

“I jotted down a few things I needed to ask you, in case I forgot,” you began.

Actually, that was a lie, you didn’t jot.

Jot gave the impression that you casually scribbled down a few reminders. You wrote three pages of a list that took nearly a week of countless revisions and a wastepaper bin full of scrunched-up bits of paper before it was finished. You even typed it up on your laptop at work and were going to print it out and give it to prospective flatmates as a questionnaire, but your best friend had advised you that that might be a bit much.

“All right, let’s go,” Joe said, ready for his interview.

You cleared your throat.

“Do you smoke?”

“I’m trying to take it up,” he grinned.

You weren’t sure if he was making fun of you, but you took a note of it anyway.

“Well, there’s no smoking indoors. By all means, smoke in the garden and don’t use crockery, plant pots of my flowerbeds as ashtrays.”

“Yes ma’am,”

“Drugs?”

“Only prescription.” He answered solemnly.

You scribbled in your notebook and moved onto the next rule.

“No leaving teabags in the sink.”

“But… but that’s where they go,” a smirk played on Joe’s face. Teasing.

“Not in my flat.” you answered flatly.

If you were being honest, you’d been secretly hoping your rules would deter him from wanting the room. Joe answering all of your rules with humour wasn’t how you’d expected this to go. From under your eyelashes, you watched him stroke your cat. He seemed very pleasant and everything – if you’d bumped into him in a bar.

But, outside your bathroom?

At seven in the morning?

In his underwear?

Panic grabbed you.

This was never going to work.

You needed to put him off wanting to move in here with you.

“Moving onto the kitchen,” you stood up hastily. “No leaving the dishes. I don’t have a dishwasher, so you’ll have to wash up after every meal. And no filling a dirty pan with water and leaving it in the sink for days. Soaking is not washing-up.” You barked bossily.

Joe gave you a mock-salute and then laughed.

You didn’t.

“As for the fridge. You can have the top shelf and if you want to put meat in there, make sure it’s covered. I’m not a vegetarian, but I hate the smell of meat in the fridge.”

“All right.”

He was accepting this too easily.

Shit.

You marched into the bathroom.

“I only have one bathroom, so we’ll have to share.”

You pushed open the door and let Joe peer inside. Your bathroom was only small, and inherently girly. Everything pink. Everything floral scented.

“See that toilet seat? How it’s down?” you could be an expert nagger if you had to be. “It’s going to remain like that. No taking your socks off and leaving them in little balls on the floor. And no shaving and leaving your... your bristles all over the basin,” you paused, only to draw a breath.

Now you were in full swing, there was no stopping you.

“And please use the air freshener. It’s there for a reason.”

“Right. Yes, of course,” he nodded with a furrowed brow and rubbed the end of his nose.

You took a moment to look at him, standing in your bathroom, holding your cat in his arms, as his eyes panned around the room.

“Rule number ten?”

“Ten?”

“I’ve been counting.”

“Oh, right… yes.” Your eyes darted back to the notebook still in your hands.

“The TV.” You strode past him into the living room. “I have Sky, but no hogging the sports channels and watching football every night. Football’s boring.”

Right.

That must’ve done it.

You had called football boring.

He should’ve been out of that door in less than five seconds.

“Don’t worry, I won’t have the time,” he ran his fingers along Eddie’s spine.

And... hang on a minute.

Joe wasn’t moving.

You watched him tickle Eddie’s ears like a pro.

Perhaps having a flatmate wouldn’t be as bad as you’d imagined. Look at how much your cat was enjoying this.

Shit.

There was a pause, which Joe broke first.

“So, do I pass?”

You consulted your notebook. Admittedly, he had ticked most of the boxes. But, you hesitated.

You still weren’t sure.

Joe seemed nice, but maybe you should wait. Interview more applicants. Not that there actually were any more applicants, but there might be if you gave it a few more weeks. Wait for a non-smoking, female, tidy Japanese student who would disinfect the house every day when she’d come back from lectures.

But looking at Eddie, it was actually quite the miracle someone stepped into your flat who was so readily accepted by him.

And so fine.

You let Eddie decide for you.

You smiled at Joe for a second and raised your eyebrows in question.

“When do you want to move in?” -----

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