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papiliotao · 9 months ago

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INDEBTED — kinich x gn!reader

content: 11.6k words, cw: mentions of abuse and alcoholism, kinich backstory spoilers + natlan 5.0 archon quest spoilers, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, everyone is bad with emotions, death, near-death experiences

summary: kinich has never been one to trust easily, but fate has other plans. throughout the years, he slowly comes to terms with his love for you.

a/n: i'm so normal... so normal... SO NORMAL. this was an attempt at gaining an understanding of kinich's character, so it might not be perfect, but i tried my very best to ensure the characterization wasn't too questionable. i love him dearly.

ACT I.

As someone raised by the lonesome mountains of Natlan, you have long grown used to an atmosphere of tranquil quietude, a serene symphony composed purely of nature’s music. The gentle flow of zephyrs running through seas of viridescent grass coupled with the occasional sounds of birdcall have become the soundtrack of your life. For you, an ever-enduring hush has always been synonymous with normalcy, but you are perfectly content with the status quo.

So when the sound of a choked scream shatters the flawlessly-crystalline silence of a hazy morning into a thousand shards of dissonance, you feel yourself tense. In all your six years of life, you have never had the displeasure of hearing anything so horrific.

It’s funny. The noise is fleeting, ephemeral, but it holds infinitely more weight than anything else you’ve witnessed during your short time in this world. You’re sure that it will be a long time before anything else disturbs the peace in such a profound manner, and it is for that exact reason that you resolve to investigate.

Deep down, you know it’s a stupid idea. You’re only a kid, and if it turns out there’s some grave danger, it’s more or less over for you. Curiosity alone isn’t reason enough to risk your own safety but the thought of another person facing peril is.

With hurried steps, you rush through your house, lightly scurrying through the corridors to see if anyone else is awake yet. When you’re sure that everyone is still and not a creature stirs, you grab the simple pouch of medical supplies your family always insists you take with you and exit the house in a rush.

The moment you step outside, blinding threads of aureate light twist in elaborate patterns, weaving themselves across a divine tapestry dyed cornflower and tinged marigold.

It’s way too bright, and even more concerningly, it’s way too quiet.

You feel your shoulders tense, and a shiver runs down your spine. The rapid coalescence of chaos and pandemonium is unnerving, and the ambiance makes you uneasy. However, you know you have to press on.

With as much fervor as you can muster, you run around the perimeter of your house, scouring every nook and cranny for signs of life. It’s not a large place, yet you can’t seem to find anything. Whatever it was that made that noise seems to have vanished without a trace.

Just as you’re about to give up, something on the ground catches your attention. A footprint. It’s a light imprint, barely visible, etched with the utmost precision into the dusty earth below. The size of the footprint is unfamiliar, and based on the weight distribution, it seems that the person it belongs to tried to tread lightly.

But not lightly enough.

It’s clear that the track points directly towards the stack of crates and barrels sitting behind your home, so with caution in your step, you gradually inch towards the area. As you do, the sound of shuffling permeates your ears, confirming that there is indeed something lurking behind the stacked wooden storage units. You take a deep breath before daring to peek.

The sight you’re met with shocks you to your core.

A young boy around your age is huddled between the boxes, nestled securely within a small gap. His knees are tucked all the way up to his chest, his short arms wrapped around them. The boy doesn’t dare move an inch. He simply looks up at you with eyes of molten amber, their depths bedazzled with emerald starglitter. As he moves, strands of hair spun of midnight essence shift to frame his face.

A part of your young mind thinks that he looks unreal — ethereal, but your train of thought is quickly disrupted when you notice his scraped knees.

“Are you okay?” you ask, extending a hand towards the boy. Despite your attempt at being gentle, the boy flinches, flecks of opulent gold swirling within his irises, mistrust dispersing in their wake. “I won’t hurt you.”

Your gazes lock, and you hope he can sense the sincerity in your actions. Hesitantly, the boy takes your hand, his knees wobbling slightly as he stands. He’s unsteady, but you make sure he doesn’t fall. Carefully, you lead him over to the front porch of your house, slowly sitting him down on the wooden planks. Once you’re sure he’s fine, you let go of his hand and begin taking bandages and cleaning supplies out of your medicinal pouch.

As you turn towards him, preparing to patch him up, you see him tense slightly.

He’s still scared.

“It might sting a little.”

Your comment doesn’t alleviate his face of its downcast expression — in fact, it just makes things worse.

“But it won’t last for long,” you insist. “Plus, all the adults always tell me it’s for the best.”

The boy is still deeply suspicious of you. It’s strange. You’ve never met someone so on edge.

“Would it make you feel better if I let you do it yourself?” You offer the supplies to the boy, and he curtly nods, snatching the bandages and swabs before you have a chance to process what’s going on.

He examines them closely, sunbeam-speckled eyes roaming every inch of the objects, as if shedding monochromatic tones of dandelion across their surfaces to detect any obscure dangers. After what feels like an eternity, he finally starts cleaning his wounds, barely even wincing as he brushes over them. As he moves on to bandaging his knees, you watch intently. He does everything with such ease and efficiency that you wonder if he’s used to it all.

Yet the longer he continues to work on treating himself, the more you realize that the awkward angle is causing him to wince slightly. Perhaps his wounds run deeper than you think. Slowly, you draw your hand closer to his, tapping him with a finger to catch his attention.

“Can I do the rest of the bandages?” you inquire. It seems he feels more at ease now, and you want to take this opportunity to further gain his trust. Besides, the last thing you want is for him to make his injuries worse.

The boy pauses for a few seconds, tilting his head as he regards you with apprehension. Locks of navy and seafoam mingle in the caress of the breeze, transitory weightlessness engulfing the atmosphere for only a single moment. Stillness becomes nearly tangible as equanimity envelops you. The tension only builds up once more as the boy dips his head in a gentle nod, loosening his fingers around the gauze to allow you to take it instead.

Meticulously, you continue wrapping the boy’s knees in fibres of pristine white, concealing the nasty wounds marring his skin. Despite not trusting you earlier, he’s very compliant, and he remains both calm and unmoving as you aid him.

And when you finally finish, you hear him speak for the first time.

“Thank you,” he whispers quietly, traces of hoarseness lacing his voice. It doesn’t sound like he speaks often. “You’re very kind.”

Before you can respond, the boy gets up, trying his best to hobble a few steps before staggering again. He manages to catch himself on a tree, and as he does, you race over to him. Obviously he’s not in any condition to be walking around.

“Be careful,” you reprimand him. “You can’t leave just yet.”

The boy shakes his head frantically.

“I’m supposed to be home right now,” he states gently. Although he tries his best to keep his tone flat and neutral, you notice the way his gaze becomes downcast, sullen with ashen rain clouds that dull anything and everything luminous.

“Just stay for a few more minutes?”

Perhaps it’s the concern entangled in your tone or your wide-eyed look of pure desperation that convinces the boy to give in. With a cautious sort of reluctance, he allows you to drag him back over to your old spot.

“So how did you end up here, and more importantly, how did you end up so hurt?”

It’s already very apparent that the boy isn’t big on words, yet the fleeting silence that floods your surroundings in waves of unspoken wariness unsettles you.

“I ran too fast and fell down here,” the boy states simply.

No normal person would run so fast that they dive headfirst off a small ledge without noticing, and what kind of kid goes outside without someone else along to supervise them if they get hurt?

His answer doesn’t seem insincere, yet something feels off. Doubt begins to blossom in your conscience, taking root in the form of fragmented bits of reason. Thus, you decide to try your luck and press just a little further.

“Why were you running,” you question. “Were you chased by a monster?”

“I guess you could say so…”

For a while, you continue to try to interrogate him, but you’re unable to get much more information out of him. The strange boy keeps all his secrets under lock and key, all his truths hidden within labyrinths of perplexing misdirection and nonchalant responses. Despite the frustration you feel when he refuses to comply, you understand. You’ve already pushed him far enough, but when it comes time for him to go, you try to get one last piece of information out of him.

“I never quite caught your name,” you remark as the boy steadies himself. He’s still a little wobbly but far better than before.

“Kinich,” he replies. “What about you?”

“[Name],” you say as you hand him your remaining medical supplies for later use.

Gratefully, Kinich takes the pouch, a ghost of a smile gracing his face.

“[Name], huh?” he whispers. “I’ll remember it.”

ACT II.

Nothing in the world is free. Every cost must be carefully weighed and then remunerated sufficiently.

This has been Kinich’s philosophy for as long as he can remember. No matter how desperately the sands of time and winds of fate try to erode his beliefs, they’re never successful, for his ideals have been ingrained in him since the moment he could make sense of natural order.

Ever since that fateful day where the ever-fragile threads of destiny pulled the two of you together, Kinich has been trying to think of a way to repay you, but with all the responsibilities and burdens weighing on his young shoulders, he finds it nearly impossible. When he’s not preoccupied with tending to the crops, he’s out and about in areas where only the wilderness reigns, carefully setting lethal traps to ensnare his next meal. Survival is tough, and with the ever-present threat of starvation looming over him, waiting for any opportune moment to snatch him from the gentle embrace of life, he allocates a large majority of his energy to feeding his father and himself.

It’s not like his father is much help anyway. These days, he seems to be drinking away his sorrow more than ever, losing himself as tides of despair ebb and flow, pulling him away from lucidity and into the frozen grips of oceanic melancholia. He’s been worse than ever since the disappearance of Kinich’s mother, and the one who feels the effects most potently is Kinich himself.

But everything changes on Kinich’s seventh birthday.

It’s his special day, and for once, he hopes that his father will allow him some clemency. For the first time in a long time, Kinich gathers up the courage to ask his father a question.

He asks if there has been any news of his mother.

At first, his father remains eerily silent. An ominous sense of uncertainty settles in the surrounding air, evoking Kinich to shudder as frostbite gnaws at him in a thousandfold. Bloodshot eyes pierce through Kinich’s defences, exposing him for the person he truly is beneath it all: a scared child, anxiously awaiting an answer from a man he no longer trusts.

He waits.

And waits.

Until his father rushes forwards in a sudden juxtaposition of mood. The apathy that masked his inner turmoil just seconds before is now gone, replaced by a look of pure rage. That’s Kinich’s cue to run. He’s done this enough times to know.

So he takes off. His legs, although far shorter than his father’s, carry him far more swiftly. Reflexes and strength built up through countless similar instances take over, and everything becomes muscle memory for Kinich. On the other hand, his father does not fare quite as well. He stumbles, and at times, he even trips over the creeping roots of archaic trees. It’s as if the alcohol is weighing him down, but despite it all, he never loses sight of his son.

Kinich is an elusive breeze, weightless and elegant, never once losing his foothold as he springs from one place to another. His father is more akin to the ancient petra underfoot — uncouth, clumsy, yet destructive and powerful. Even as he staggers, his resolve remains steadfast and resolute. He will stop at nothing until he’s able to give his young son a piece of his mind.

And yet fate has a strange way of intervening at the least convenient moments, ensuring its heavenly ordainment is heeded. In the eyes of the universe, Kinich’s story is not ready to end — but his father’s is.

As Kinich rushes by the side of a cliff, this becomes apparent. The sound of heavy footfalls behind him disappears before he hears a thud. Gathering his courage, Kinich gazes behind him, only to be met with the sight of emptiness where his father should have been.

Then, he makes the fateful decision to peer below.

There, lying between thickets of dense foliage lies the body of the man he once lived with — a man full of life mere seconds ago, now motionless and despondent. It feels unreal. A shiver runs down Kinich’s spine as a creeping sense of despair begins to stab at his heart. He blinks rapidly, taking deep breaths in order to calm himself, before making his way down the cliff.

Emotions are strange, and Kinich has never been good with them. He had always believed that everything would begin to look up once his father was out of the picture, but now that his father is gone for good, Kinich can’t help but grieve. No matter how horrible he was, he was still Kinich’s only remaining parent. There were better times too — times where his father would bring home a box of sweets for him and a bouquet of flowers for his mother. It almost felt like they were a real family. In Kinich’s mind, these instances pale in comparison to all the torment his father had put him through, yet he can’t completely erase his pleasant memories either.

So as one last act of respect, Kinich decides to bring his father’s body home with him.

The journey home is long and arduous. As Kinich navigates the surrounding wildlands and his newfound freedom, swinging from treetop to treetop with his father’s grappling hook, he wordlessly says goodbye to the man who had caused him so much pain throughout the former years of his life.

On his seventh birthday, Kinich becomes an orphan. He tucks himself into bed, and while other children would have had their loving mothers to lull them off to sleep in an aria of oneiric delights, he has nothing but the harsh, transient gale that rocks the thin walls of his home.

On his seventh birthday, Kinich ends up completely alone.

ACT III.

Kinich has dealt with nightmares before, but the ones that plague him after the death of his father are particularly horrific. Every night, as watercolour fuchsia and muted lilac begin to bleed into periwinkle skies, Kinich finds himself mentally preparing for the duress that lays ahead — for each time he closes his eyes, he is whisked back to the past, forced to relive events he’d much rather forget.

Sometimes he actively resists sleep, fearing the mirages that may appear in his dreams. It is on one such night that he finally recalls his debt to you. As he lays awake, trying to ward off all-consuming thoughts of eternal solitude and grief, he remembers the one other person he’s interacted with in recent times, and an idea comes to mind. He’s going to start paying his price tonight.

Kinich is usually one to take caution, but right now, he would do anything to keep his mind from lingering on his harsh reality. As such, he climbs out of bed, making his way outside to gather some of the crops he’s grown in a rugged patch of land behind his house.

It feels good to be outside again. The fresh air is a welcome change compared to the stifling atmosphere within a house that holds far too many memories for Kinich’s liking. His recollections range from saccharine-sweet to fear-evoking, yet one thing that remains constant is the fact that Kinich can’t stop recalling a past that seems oh-so-distant.

As Kinich picks up a tool, plowing through the dirt to unearth some of the grainfruit he had planted earlier that year, his thoughts drift back to his mother. She used to wrap her delicate fingers around his when he was younger, carefully guiding him as he learned to cultivate and take care of the crops. Back then, Kinich had felt a special type of fragile warmth, but now, all that remains is the chill of the evening air.

Kinich wonders if he’ll ever feel that warmth again.

He finishes gathering a respectable amount of food in no time, having had years of practice in the past. The young boy tosses the grainfruit into a sack, preparing to set off on a journey with phantasmagoric darkness as his only companion and the luminous constellations overhead as his only guide.

The sights and sounds of an enigmatic midnight distract him from the thoughts that have been running through his head on a daily basis. Kinich is sure to watch his step, although he’s nearly certain he knows the area well enough to walk through it blindfolded by now.

Finally, after around ten minutes of wandering through veils of silken achromatic, he sees the silhouette of a building in the distance, a rough outline against a backdrop of night. To his surprise, he spots a lantern emitting a gilded glow as he approaches, its incandescent light breaking through layers of obsidian obscurity, flooding it with a golden radiance instead. As he draws closer, he begins to make out the faint shape of a figure in the distance.

Strange. What normal person would be out at this hour?

As the features of the mysterious person become more defined, Kinich realizes it’s you again. Subconsciously, a soft smile begins to grace his features at the thought of getting to speak to you once more. It’s the first time he’s been genuinely happy in a while.

When Kinich steps into the dim firelight of the lantern, his features illuminated by the ember-forged halo of light, you eagerly approach him and wave. Something about the fact that you still recognize makes his heart grow just a little softer.

“It’s you,” you remark, your face lighting up excitedly.

Kinich nods, awkwardly shuffling under the weight of your gaze. It’s been a long time since someone was so interested in him. He isn’t quite used to having people regard him with such attentiveness.

“What are you doing out at this time?” Curiosity flares in your eyes, dancing in asterisms of wonder that glimmer with the brilliance of the stars above. Normally Kinich doesn’t like it when others pry into his affairs, but he thinks the look of inquisitiveness is endearing on you.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Kinich bluntly responds, “and I had a debt to repay.” He gestures at the sack of grainfruit beside him, silently weighing out the costs in his mind. It isn’t enough to pay you back for helping a stranger unconditionally, but Kinich thinks it’s a start. At the very least, it’s enough to reimburse the material costs of tending to his wounds, and he’ll deal with reciprocating your actual actions later.

“Debt?” Your face contorts into a puzzled frown. Kinich decides that he appreciates this expression far less when it adorns your visage. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“You treated my injuries the other day,” Kinich begins to explain, but you cut him off.

“And there’s really no need to repay me for that,” you interrupt. “Trust me. I wanted to help you.”

Somewhere in the depths of his heart, Kinich feels a flurry of opalescent butterflies spread their wings and take flight. Iridescent sparks of a newfound fuzzy feeling burst to life within his chest.

It’s… new. Everything is new with you.

“At least take the grainfruit,” he mutters, trying to remain nonchalant. As a young child, he still doesn’t quite understand what he’s feeling, but he’d rather not make his emotions apparent. “It’ll save me the trouble of having to drag it back home.”

You hesitate for a few seconds before agreeing, hauling the large bag inside with great difficulty before rushing back out to Kinich. By the time you return, he recalls that you shouldn’t be up at this hour either.

��If you don’t mind me asking, why are you awake right now?” Kinich asks you as you close the front door behind you.

Deep down, a part of him wants to know if there’s something troubling you so he can help you. It’s strange. It’s been a while since he last cared for someone this deeply, but he blames it all on his desire to reimburse you for your kindness, nothing more. Conveniently, he ignores the nascent emotions blooming within, repressing flourishes that take shape in frantic flickers of ruby and rose.

“It was a little too cold tonight,” you sigh, staring down at the ground. “I just couldn’t fall asleep comfortably.”

Kinich lets out a small hum of acknowledgement as the gears in his brain begin to turn, rotating in cycles of contemplation. Perhaps he’ll bring you an extra blanket next time he visits.

“Then why don’t we keep each other company for a while?” Kinich suggests. “It definitely beats being alone.” Kinich is not usually one to actively seek the company of other people, but you’re intriguing to him.

You nod, silently offering your hand to Kinich. It feels like the day you first met all over again, except under much better circumstances. This time, he laces your fingers without hesitation, allowing you to guide him through darkness fragmented only by rays of piercing starlight. He’s not quite sure where you’re leading him, but he knows he’s beginning to trust you a little.

Slowly, your destination becomes clear to Kinich. The two of you draw closer and closer to the cliffside — a spot where pure moonbeams grace the earth with their elegant touch. Kinich tenses slightly, haunting memories from a few weeks prior threatening to resurface above the murky waters of a wounded heart. However, he quells every spark of fear threatening to blaze alight.

He’s safe. Things aren’t the same as they were on that day, and the only other person around is you.

To Kinich’s relief, you settle down a safe distance from the cliff’s edge and pat the spot beside yourself, gesturing for Kinich to follow suit. He wordlessly obliges, simply relishing in the serenity that permeates the atmosphere, nearly tangible as he feels lingering traces of your body heat in the night air.

“Look up,” you whisper, laying a gentle hand on Kinich’s shoulder.

He does as he’s told, and the panoramic sight that greets him is enough to take his breath away. The skies above are the same as ever, yet this is the first time he has truly been able to appreciate their beauty. Kinich studies the constellations that burn with unrivalled luminosity, in awe of their brilliance. Diamond lights burn bright against a backdrop of deep sapphire, each shade of an abyssal ocean waltzing in a whimsical show of wonders.

Before today, he’d always been too busy caring for his mother, too preoccupied with his father’s hysteria, or too melancholy within his own solitude to enjoy anything with an unburdened heart.

But now everything has changed. He’s free, and he has you now. Yet again, he feels an involuntary smile tug at the corners of his lips, and before he has the chance to think about what all of this means, a shout breaks through the silence.

“A shooting star! Make a wish, Kinich!”

Kinich is more than familiar with wishing. He’s wished for plenty of things in his seven years of life. He’s wished for his father to stop gambling, he’s wished for his mother to come back, and he’s wished for his family to be happy together. Permanently. None of his wishes have ever come true.

But as he looks over at you, he notices hope and a childish innocence glittering in your eyes, manifesting in prismatic tones reflected from the skies above. A sense of warmth washes over him. Kinich sees a kind of purity in you that he wishes he could have clung onto for longer, so he makes a wish, if only to protect and humour you.

“I wish to be able to repay your kindness someday, even if it takes me a lifetime.”

ACT IV.

Throughout the years, Kinich’s debt to you only accumulates.

Word spreads like wildfire after the first few members of the tribe find out about Kinich’s living situation, and unsurprisingly, the news reaches your family as well. Strangers begin to graciously offer Kinich help, yet he always holds them at a distance. Nothing in the world is free, and he knows full well that there are people who conceal ulterior motives behind masks of charity.

There is, however, one exception.

You.

Deep down, Kinich knows that if the universe hadn’t entangled him within its delicate web of fate the day you first met, he would have never trusted you. It was only when he was left with no other options that he allowed you to aid him. He felt your sincerity that day, and although he’s still hesitant at the prospect of placing his wholehearted faith in anyone just yet, he lets you help him with his daily tasks. Kinich enjoys being around you, and a small part of him knows that he wants to be able to believe in you unconditionally.

You always show up early in the mornings, returning time and time again as the first traces of golden brilliance begin to graze the horizon. Kinich begins to find himself looking forward to the sunrise for the first time in his life.

In the past, Kinich would watch the last embers of twilight die out each day, violet enigma enveloped by vivid strokes of peach. He would always dread the day to come. Back then, nearly every waking hour of his life had been tedious and stressful, and thus he could only find respite in the land of the oneiric where dreams and absurdism erased the sorrow of real life.

But nowadays, each new dawn means spending more time with you.

You accompany him on various tasks. From farming to foraging to trading at the market, you’ve almost done it all.

Today’s task, however, requires slightly more precision.

As you set off towards a stretch of open plains with Kinich, you speak jovially, sharing stories from the past without a care in the world. Kinich himself doesn’t speak much. Instead, he listens, trying his best to piece together fragments of a childhood he never got to experience. Seeing your face light up with joy as you recall amusing escapades or confounding situations causes Kinich’s heart to swell slightly.

You only begin to quiet down when you draw near your destination. Kinich already made it abundantly clear that in order to get anything worthwhile from this trip, you need to proceed with the utmost caution.

Although you try your hardest to keep stealth in your step, you find that you’re not nearly as adept as Kinich, who has had years of experience traversing this territory. Occasionally, the sound of leaves crackling and twigs snapping will reach Kinich’s ear, and he’ll catch a glimpse of you stumbling. After a few minutes of painstaking silence interrupted only by the uneven rhythm of clumsy footfalls, Kinich decides to take your hand to steady you.

He tells himself he’s doing it to ensure you don’t scare away his next meal — that he doesn’t want you to mess up and feel guilty. However, behind his icy demeanour woven from years of hardship lies a small part of him that secretly enjoys the feeling of your fingers intertwined with his, the warmth of his palms mingling with yours.

Meticulously, Kinich leads you to a towering bush, its fragile emerald leaves dense enough to conceal an entire person. Its branches sprout out in piercing patterns of disorderly pandemonium, reflecting the true ruggedness of nature in its visage.

“Hide here, and don’t make a noise until I get back,” he whispers, his soft breath tickling the shell of your ear. Your proximity nearly causes shivers to run down Kinich’s spine, but years of practice have taught him to effortlessly conceal all his sentiments. “Watch closely.”

With those parting words, Kinich makes his way into the foliage, clutching a boar trap within his hand. He scans the ground for an optimal spot to place the contraption, finally settling on an area after around a minute of contemplation. As soon as he sets the device down, he leaves as quickly as he entered the area, gracefully making his way back to you without making so much as a noise.

Huddled behind the bush, the two of you watch in anticipation. Now that Kinich has left, wild boars have begun to make their ways out into the open, blissfully grazing, unaware of the peril that lies before them. An unsuspecting boar inches closer and closer to the trap, and Kinich’s breath hitches in anticipation, waiting for it to foolishly take the bait.

However, just as the boar begins to sniff the food laid within cold metallic jaws, you lean forward to get a better look. Kinich doesn’t react fast enough to stop you. Your movement is slight, yet it causes a large disturbance. The leaves of the bush you’re hidden behind rustle, and the boar looks up, its idyllic haze seemingly perturbed.

Without a moment’s hesitation, it turns tail and runs, conveniently kicking fallen debris into the mouth of the trap, snapping it closed with a sharp click. The other wildlife in the area take off as well. A rush of polychromatic wings create shadows overhead as birds fly away, leaving only tufts of delicate feathers behind. Their dissonant cries echo in an ominous ode of precaution, alerting any other living beings in the area that there is danger lurking nearby.

So much for hunting.

Kinich sighs. Looks like it’ll be another few days before he’ll be able to get his hands on some meat. He just lost out on a sizable sum of mora. Now he’ll have to spend more on keeping himself fed over the next few days, he won’t have anything of worth to sell for extra money — and all that goes without even considering the time and resources he just wasted.

“Kinich, I’m so so sorry,” you start, shrinking back a little as your gaze meets his — an unreadable galaxy of jade and peridot, accentuated by intricate borders of copper and gold.

His heart clenches when he realizes that the look you’re regarding him with is one of fear and uncertainty. He doesn’t want you to feel that way, so with an uncharacteristic haste, he reaches out to pat your shoulder.

“No need to apologize,” Kinich reassures you, his words and tone soothing like a marine zephyr on a scorching summer day. “You were just curious.”

Kinich knows he has every right to be angry, but overreacting and directing his rage towards another person is the last thing he’d want to do. He knows better than anyone else the damage of misplaced blame and unwarranted rage.

He knows that normally under such circumstances, it would be most appropriate to calmly ask the other party to pay a sufficient price, but since it’s you, Kinich thinks he can let you off the hook. Just this once.

Mentally, he notes never to take you hunting again.

ACT V.

The flow of time is paradoxical, morphing and bending as seasons change and circumstances shift. In Kinich’s case, the former years of his life seemed to drag on, each harrowing second stretching into eons and millenia, but recently, he has begun to resent the evanescent essence of his days.

It feels like just yesterday, he was that fearful seven-year-old, all alone in the world without a soul to offer him solace. Now he’s sixteen — a little older and a lot wiser. Although the hardships he’s faced have been far from delightful, Kinich has had you by his side throughout it all.

The situation is no different in the present. Another hard day of labour passes as usual, and after hours upon hours of exerting yourselves under the blazing radiance of the sun, Kinich is ready to walk you home with a bag of today’s spoils.

However, as the two of you prepare for the journey ahead, ashen clouds begin to roll in, overtaking the pristine azure that once painted the sky. The light overhead starts to die out, fading at an agonizing swift pace. Although Kinich has safely escorted you home during minor storms before, he has a feeling today will be different. Something about the petrichor that floods his senses feels like a premonition, a warning of disasters to come, and the atmosphere is electrifying.

“We’d better get going if we want to make it before it starts pouring,” you chuckle lightheartedly, seemingly unperturbed. You only begin to look concerned when Kinich doesn’t respond, his mind clouded with a daze of rumination. Upon seeing your features morph into an expression of concern, Kinich finally snaps out of his trance.

“You should stay the night instead.” The confused look you shoot his way causes a wave of awkwardness to wash over the ambience, yet Kinich continues to elaborate. “I have a bad feeling about the incoming storm. It feels different.”

“I wouldn’t want to burden you though,” you protest. “If we leave quickly, everything will probably be okay.”

Kinich shakes his head.

“You’re not a burden at all,” he whispers. “You’ve spent your precious time helping me. The least I could do is ensure your safety and offer my home as a refuge.”

Despite Kinich’s reassurances, you continue to refute his statements.

“But I really don’t think staying over is necessary. If you’re worried about walking back alone in a storm, you don’t need to accompany me. I’ll be okay. Promise.”

You turn away from Kinich, ready to set off. A rush of panic sends daggers of serrated trepidation to his soul. It’s unlike Kinich to lose his cool, and although he maintains a serene facade, the unsettling feeling that has been permeating his senses this entire time begins bubbling to the surface, each potential tragedy rushing through his mind in a frenzied series of what-ifs.

Without thinking, Kinich catches your wrist in his fingers, maintaining a loose grip.

“Don’t go,” he utters. He despises the vulnerability that laces his tone, but he’s more desperate than ever.

Kinich has already lost both his parents. The mere notion of losing you too is unbearable. If the storm really ends up being as intense as he predicts, he knows that muddy cliffsides, discombobulating spirals of sharp crystalline raindrops, and blinding flashes of lightning will all make for an incredibly disadvantageous situation. For a brief second, his mind flashes back to the way his father had passed, but he swiftly represses those thoughts, pushing them back into a seldom-visited corner of his mind.

When Kinich’s gaze meets yours, your expression softens. He can feel your resolve fading.

“Alright, fine,” you sigh. “You’re lucky my family has full confidence in your ability to protect me, otherwise they’d go ballistic if I didn’t come home.”

Just as you finally agree to Kinich’s proposition, the sensation of frosted drops of water prickles at his skin. The storm has begun. With haste, he pulls you indoors, quickly shutting the door to keep all the unwanted rain out.

The two of you wait it out, speaking leisurely as if nature isn’t erupting into chaos all around you. When you’re together, it feels like nothing else exists. Without a clear view of the sun in the sky, Kinich is unsure of how much time passes, but after a while, he notices that a haze of exhaustion begins to elicit yawns from you.

“Tired? You should get some sleep,” Kinich hums nonchalantly. The ambience feels tranquil, and despite the peril just outside the walls of his home, Kinich feels at ease.

You move to lie down on a dilapidated couch in the middle of the cramped living room, but Kinich immediately protests. He knows you’ll inevitably start to feel cold or uncomfortable, and that’s the last thing he wants you to experience as an honoured guest within his abode.

“Don’t sleep out here. You’ll freeze.”

Kinich takes your hand, and you allow him to pull you up. He leads you to another room — his room. For the most part, it’s barren, but Kinich watches as your eyes land on a small collection of items sitting atop an aged drawer beside his bed. Memorabilia from your various years together line the edges of dull wood — birthday gifts, trinkets that reminded you of him, and short notes of appreciation. He watches as a subtle grin etches itself into your features as embarrassment and admiration wash over him.

“You kept all this?” Slight surprise lines your tone as you pose your rhetorical question.

Kinich nods, unsure of how to elaborate. Even he’s not completely sure as to why he stores all the keepsakes you’ve ever presented him so meticulously. All he knows is that they’re important to him. You’re important to him.

“That’s sweet,” you mumble, leaning over to examine everything more closely. Your eyes linger on each object, memories flashing in their depths.

Kinich feels his heart flutter.

You spend a few minutes poring over the items and recollections of the past before finally retiring to bed. Kinich watches as you pull the covers over yourself, and he ensures you’re comfortable before turning to leave.

This time, however, it’s your turn to encircle your fingers around his arm, prompting him to stay.

“Where are you going?” you inquire, gazing up at Kinich curiously.

“Back to the living room,” he replies, gently twisting his wrist, loosening your grip.

“You said it was cold though.”

Kinich shrugs. “I don’t mind as long as you’re comfortable.”

“What if I think I’d be more comfortable with you by my side?”

Kinich tenses, and for a second, his brain malfunctions, barely processing the intent of your words. He comes to the realization that he’s not opposed to the idea. Besides, it was logical; it would help the two of you stay warm for the night.

“As long as you’re happy,” he mumbles, looking anywhere but into your eyes. Slowly, he begins to climb into bed beside you, cramming his limbs to one side in order to ensure you have enough personal space. Kinich feels unusually tense, and his heartbeat starts to spike in a melody of frantic sentiments as he begins to sense your body heat radiating from the other side of the bed.

Although Kinich tries to calm himself, it’s to no avail, especially when you shift over slightly, entangling your fingers with his. Your eyes flutter shut, and sleep pulls you under, lulling you into a whimsical land of nonsensical wonders. As frantic as the contact makes Kinich feel, he can’t bring himself to pry his hand from your grasp. The feeling of your fingers laced together is not an unpleasant sensation.

So with his hand in yours, Kinich falls asleep, and for the first night in his life, he experiences a truly restful slumber. His last thought before the tides of exhaustion drag him off to an ocean of reverie is how despite his unusual nerves, he wouldn’t mind doing this again.

And when Kinich comes to the next morning, he’s met with the most ethereal sight of his life. Early morning light blooms through the windows, tinting every corner of the room an aureate shade. The brilliance of the sun is utopia compared to the tumultuous conditions of last night, and as Kinich looks over at you, he notices the peace and content instilled within every dip and curve of your face.

You’re angelic, and the feeling of you by his side is just so right.

When Kinich comes to terms with the fact that he wants to wake up to the sight of your soft smile every single day, he finally realizes the true significance of the emotions he’s harboured towards you for years.

He’s in love.

ACT VI.

It isn’t often that you go to the market without Kinich by your side. The two of you are more or less a package deal, so when you show up alone, equipped with a small pouch of mora and without your most trusted companion, you immediately notice the whispers that follow.

“Do you think something happened to Kinich?”

“Maybe he got offered a commission that he deemed more worthy of his time.”

“Are you kidding me? Nothing is more important to Kinich than [name] — not even mora!”

The speculations range from reasonable to absolutely implausible, and in all honesty, you have no idea what Kinich is doing at the moment. All you can do is tune everything out and focus on your objective: finding a suitable friendship anniversary gift for Kinich.

Ever since Kinich became a saurian hunter and started taking commissions, you’ve been spending less and less time together. However, he’s always accompanied you to the market, helping you weigh each cost with the utmost precision. Although you’re rarely thrilled by the fact that he’s busier with his own affairs now, today is one of the few times where it works to your advantage. You want to surprise him with something special, and the absence of his presence will ensure that nothing is spoiled before the right time comes.

As you browse the goods sold by an elderly vendor, you feel a tug on the hem of your clothing. Upon looking down, you find yourself greeted by two familiar faces — Huni and Toba.

“Hey, little ones,” you say, grinning at the two children gazing at you with wide eyes. “Is something the matter?”

Huni nods furiously, Toba mimicking her actions just seconds later. You stifle a giggle. In a way, the two remind you of you and Kinich when you were younger — virtually conjoined.

“We were wondering if Kinich was okay,” Toba responds, nervously clasping his hands together.

“Ah,” you breathe out, finding yourself faced with expectant stares from all around. You can tell that prying eyes and ears have been trained on you, eager for any semblance of gossip. “Why does everyone seem to think something’s up with Kinich today?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Huni giggles, barely able to conceal her glee. “Everyone knows he follows you everywhere because the two of you are together.”

Toba nudges Huni lightly, his gaze becoming the slightest bit pointed as he reprimands her in a hushed tone. “Huni! You weren’t supposed to say that.”

You pause for a few seconds, thinking over the implications of Huni’s statement. Surely you misheard. Surely you’re just misinterpreting the girl’s words. Surely no one actually thinks you and Kinich are a couple, right?

“Excuse me, what?” you blurt out. No other words come to mind at the moment, as you’re too shocked to muster any coherent thought. “Kinich and I are what?”

“Together,” Huni states simply. “A couple. Totally head-over-heels for each other.”

A frown clouds your features as your muscles tense. You and Kinich are nothing more than friends, and although you’re extremely close — nearly abnormally so — you’ve never even discussed the possibility of being anything more. Why does everyone around you suddenly seem to think you’re in love?

Perhaps your confusion is evident because Huni continues to elaborate in excruciating detail.

“You should see the way he looks at you when he thinks no one is watching — it’s like his eyes fill with the light of a thousand stars. Oh, he also always asks the shopkeepers if anything’s caught your eye recently whenever you’re distracted, and…”

You tune out Huni’s tangent about you and Kinich, the thoughts in your mind coming to a halt temporarily to protect yourself from the onslaught of confounding claims being made. It feels like complete blankness engulfs your mind as you remain frozen in place, each fleeting moment feeling more comparable to an eternity. The more you dwell on Huni’s assumption, the more you realize you don’t mind envisioning yourself with Kinich.

You’re only pulled out of your mental retreat when a familiar voice rings out through the discord of marketplace conversations.

“[Name],” Kinich greets you. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here today.”

To your relief, Toba drags Huni off as Kinich approaches, frantically trying to ensure that she doesn’t say anything more in front of the saurian hunter himself. You feel a sense of momentary relief, but now that Kinich is here, what are you going to do about his present?

“Yeah, I had some free time today and wanted to check out some of the new goods. It’s been about a week since I’ve come by.”

Unsurprisingly Kinich doesn’t look convinced. Doubt swirls in a faint starlight glimmer within irises of fern and honeyed sunbeams. He knows you like the back of his own hand.

“What’s really going on?” he asks, a hint of concern entangled in his tone. He watches you intently, awaiting your answer. His eyes narrow ever-so-slightly.

Busted. Although you would have much preferred keeping your gift to Kinich a surprise, you figure it’s still better to ensure he doesn’t worry that you’ve been roped into doing suspicious business. You know from experience that Kinich tends to take drastic measures when he thinks you’re in danger, and you’d rather not have him go to such lengths over nothing.

“You know how our friendship anniversary is coming up?” you explain.

A look of realization flashes across Kinich’s features. Before he can speak, a grating voice that you’ve been hearing more often in recent times interrupts.

“So my lowly servant and his pesky idiot of a companion had the same idea,” Ajaw cackles, appearing from behind Kinich. You try your best to stifle an exasperated groan. “Maybe you really are meant to be — after all, you share one collective brain cell!”

You glare at Ajaw, and Kinich sighs, nonchalantly raising an arm to send Ajaw off to solitary confinement.

“Sorry about that. Ajaw’s been acting up more than usual since the last time I put him in timeout,” Kinich says.

You chuckle before a realization suddenly hits you.

“Wait, Ajaw said you were here for the same reason as me,” you speak hesitantly. “Were you getting me a gift too?” The way Kinich averts his gaze as you ask your question nearly elicits more giggles from you.

“Looks like we caught each other at the worst time,” Kinich sighs.

You nod in agreement, and although you’re slightly disappointed you couldn’t have kept your secret mission inconspicuous, you find the corners of your lips turning up in a smile. There’s a strange sort of comfortable humour in the situation that you only experience around Kinich.

“Since we’re both here anyway, we might as well go shopping together,” you hum, taking Kinich’s hand and dragging him off. Maybe people will stop bothering you now that Kinich is by your side again.

You wander with Kinich, gaze flitting over various items on display. However, despite all your searching, nothing quite piques your interests. It’s not until rose and clematis scatter themselves across the sky in a brilliant display of mosaic-esque shards that something finally catches your eye.

On a small table tucked within an obscure corner of the marketplace sits two matching bracelets, delicate stars engraved into opulent charms hanging from each one. The woven threads of each accessory look intricately-crafted to the point where even the finer details appear flawless.

They’re beautiful, but more importantly, they remind you of that night more than a decade ago where Kinich had wished upon a star for the first time in years. They remind you of the night where Kinich found hope once more. That’s what seals the deal for you.

“Excuse me, Ms. Vendor. I’ll take the two bracelets.”

ACT VII.

No one takes death seriously until it comes knocking at their door.

Kinich comes to the realization as he trembles on the battlefield of the Night Warden Wars, his bones aching and his joints ready to give up on him. He’s exhausted, and all he wants to do is close his eyes and allow the frigid touch of death to kiss away the last remnants of warmth from his soul. However, relenting would mean admitting defeat.

Relenting would mean never seeing you again.

(And that’s the last thing he wants.)

Everyone lives as if their time is unlimited — as if tomorrow is guaranteed to come. Humans tend to assume the future is a never-ending tale, a novel with no finale, so they continuously delay, waiting and waiting and waiting because they believe they still have many years ahead of them to wrap up their affairs.

Kinich realizes all too late that he has been ensnared within the same folly. As he remains slumped on the ground, clutching at his bleeding chest, a sense of deep regret washes over him.

He never got to tell you that he loved you.

Even after all these years, Kinich has never been able to bring himself to utter those words — not even once — and now, he’ll pay the price for his hesitation. A small part of him has always been too cowardly to cross the line from friendship into the uncharted territory of something more.

Kinich hardly knows much pertaining to love, but from what little he’s seen in his former years of life, he knows it’s a double-edged sword — a smoldering flame of passion that burns with unparalleled brilliance. But when a roaring blaze grows too intense, it consumes all, leaving nothing but ashes and tears.

His parents had been in love at some point. Kinich recalls the times where his father would embrace his mother after handing her a breathtaking bouquet of flowers, his lips brushing across her bruised cheek with a rare sweetness. In those moments, Kinich’s father would whisper words of affirmation to his mother — promises and saccharine reassurances that would always remain unfulfilled.

Yet more often than not, their “love” consisted of domestic quarrels, the shattering of glassware against the walls of a derelict house or the slap of a hand across blemished skin. Love had destroyed them, and Kinich’s worst fear is the thought of your relationship falling apart.

So he’s maintained an ample distance throughout the years, keeping you at arm’s length to ensure nothing goes wrong. He’s always been by your side, close enough to share embers of his love yet not close enough to burn you, and now his caution is returning to haunt him.

Kinich is going to die before he has the chance to confess his true feelings.

As much as he wills himself to stay conscious, his eyelids begin to grow heavy, threatening to flutter shut for the last time. The sweet sensation of death threatens to lull Kinich into an eternal slumber, luring him in with a deceptively-tantalizing siren song, filled with promises of peace and an end to his suffering. A sense of fear grips Kinich as his life begins slipping away. He’s not ready to die. There’s so much he still wants to experience with you.

A million thoughts race through his mind before his imminent demise.

He thinks of Ajaw, who would be free to catalyze the implosion of the seven nations without Kinich around. As cruel as fate has been to him, Kinich doesn’t want the world to burn.

He thinks of his comrades — fallen warriors who had fought valiantly until they no longer had the strength to go on. They deserve to be revered and honoured, not lost to the sands of time.

And he thinks of you. His everything.

The weight of the star bracelet you had gifted him starts feeling a lot heavier. When you purchased it, you had told him it brought back recollections from one of the best days of your life, adding that you hoped you’d make many more precious memories in the future.

Kinich can’t let you down now.

A wish flickers to life within the depths of his soul, desperately manifesting in shades of emerald and rich forest green. Resplendent viridescent tourmaline glints by his chest where there had once been a gaping wound, fueling Kinich with revived vigor. Kinich feels rejuvenated, and with his newfound strength, he stands, preparing to face another onslaught of abyssal attacks.

This time he’s ready, and he’ll stop at nothing until he purges every last enemy.

Kinich is determined to fight — for Natlan, for his comrades, and most importantly, for you.

ACT VIII.

When a hero returns from war, they are typically met with the relieved faces of their loved ones and an outpouring of affection. However, Kinich finds that neither of these things welcome him upon his arrival home. Instead, he is greeted by the sight of an exasperated frown on your face and vitreous tears welling up in the corners of your eyes.

“You’re so stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid! I can’t believe you almost got yourself killed!” You continue to ramble on, your words amalgamating in a panicked jumble of incoherence as Kinich wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you in for a warm embrace. Ever since Kinich told you what happened during the Night Warden Wars, you’ve been distraught.

To his relief, he feels the tension within your body dissipate as the proximity between the two of you gradually dwindles. With your face finally hidden from view, you allow your teardrops to flow freely down your cheeks in bittersweet rivulets; Kinich can tell from the way his clothing seems to dampen. Absent-mindedly, Kinich traces circles on your back, calmly running through cycles upon cycles to ground you.

“Sorry,” is all Kinich can muster, his throat feeling parched under the scrutiny of your glare as you pull away to shoot him a nasty look. There’s so much more he wants to say to you, but he can’t find the strength to put any of it into words. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

You scoff, your tone nearly sardonic in nature, yet beneath it all, Kinich can sense how much you missed him —- how terrified you were that you would never see him again.

“Is that all you have to say?” you ask. “You nearly died, Kinich. I nearly lost you.”

The lines of your facial features, once creased in irritation, soften, giving way to vulnerability.

“I know,” he sighs, shivering as resignation chills him to the bone. He hates the fact that you’re right. Kinich reaches out to caress your cheek, gently wiping a tear in the process. “I’m still here though.”

“That doesn’t guarantee the same thing won’t happen in the future,” you choke out between hushed sobs. “What if next time you actually…”

Before you can go on, Kinich presses a finger to your lips, effectively silencing you. For a few seconds, he simply allows you to lose yourself within the comfort of his arms. He needs you to process the fact that he’s tangible, breathing, alive, before he says anything more. Kinich waits for your ragged gasps to even out before speaking.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, moving a hand to lace your fingers together.

You nod furiously, eyeing Kinich suspiciously through your sorrowful display of emotions.

“Then believe me when I say I’ll always return to you,” Kinich whispers softly.

Moments go by before you hesitantly respond.

“Fine.”

Kinich isn’t one to break promises. Ending a contract unceremoniously leads to mounting costs and debt, so he tends to avoid obliging to tasks he considers impossible. Perhaps that’s why you relent so easily. You know Kinich would never go back on his word — especially not if it has anything to do with you.

“I’m still expecting you to make it up to me though. I was unbelievably worried.”

“Sure thing,” Kinich replies, his voice breezy and nonchalant once more.

Just let me hold you for a little while longer first.

ACT IX.

Adrenaline courses through Kinich’s veins, fueling him with an urgent sort of determination. He races the wind, desperately trying to transcend nature itself. He’s always been quick, but right now, he’s not sure he’ll be quick enough.

You could be in danger.

If Kinich had known that there had been a surge in abyssal activity within the territory of the People of the Springs, he would have never let you accompany Mualani and the Traveler on their excursion; he wouldn’t have sent Ajaw away on a special mission in the dead of night in an attempt to seek some peace and quiet either. However, Kinich only found out a mere hour ago, and now he’s scrambling to reach you without the aid of his flying companion.

Kinich knows very well that he could arrive just to find that nothing serious is going on, but the thought of not being by your side to protect you in the case that something actually does happen glazes his soul over into a thousand fractals of crystalline fear.

That’s why he runs with as much haste as he can muster, guided by gilded lights reflected in untamed waters, their glow casting a luminous sheen across the wavering ocean surface. As Kinich draws closer, he senses a feeling of foreboding in the air, charging his surroundings with the essence of an ominous premonition.

And then he hears it — an ear-shattering scream.

No matter how much Kinich’s legs scream for respite, he rushes on. With every step, his pace only accelerates. The sole thought on his mind is getting to you in time.

When he finally reaches the village, pandemonium is the first thing to make his acquaintance. Warriors from the tribe fiercely attempt to fend off the incoming assault on their homeland, parrying the attacks of each monstrous entity with precision developed throughout years of rigorous training. Kinich knows they’re skilled at fighting. He trusts them, so instead of delaying, he rushes to more secluded corners of the town, fending off any monsters lurking around the outskirts in the hopes that he’ll run into you on the way.

He swings his claymore as if it's instinct, warding off all peril as he desperately searches the din of discombobulating havoc for any sign of you. His first potential lead comes in the form of a cerulean blur, followed closely by a flash of gold — two of Kinich’s few friends. Before Kinich can call their names, they’re already out of earshot. However, as he turns away to continue his search, a small fairy-esque creature barrels into him, swaying slightly as a ferocious gale attempts to send her flying into disarray.

Kinich reacts quickly, his body working faster than his brain. With ease, he snatches the entity from the sky, effectively pulling her out of harm’s way.

“Hello, Paimon,” Kinich says, fighting to keep his tone neutral. With great difficulty, he suppresses all the anxiety, facing Paimon without betraying so much as a hint of emotion. Truthfully, he’s a wreck on the inside.

“Kinich!” Paimon exclaims, her high-pitched voice cutting through the cacophony of noise ringing out in the turbulent night. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for [name]. Have you seen them around?”

Kinich doesn’t realize he’s holding in his breath until he hears Paimon’s response. A small gasp slips past his lips.

“Um, last Paimon heard, they were heading to the east part of the village. There were some kids playing there earlier without supervision.”

Of course. Kinich should have known you were off helping others. You had always been willing to lend a hand to those in need, even when you first met Kinich. It was one of your many traits that charmed him all those years ago.

“Thank you, Paimon,” Kinich says, trying his best to keep a building sense of dread at bay. “You should catch up with the Traveler now.”

“See you soon, Kinich,” Paimon chirps before zipping away.

Now that he’s alone, Kinich finally allows the panic to set in. With even more fervour than before, he speeds off in your direction, grasping at various ledges with his grappling hook to move quicker. Kinich is all but weightless, akin to a delicate feather drifting through the breeze. However, it’s still not enough.

You’re cornered and alone when he finally spots you, backed to a wall as two beastly hounds eye you hungrily, sparks of violet electricity igniting in their irises. Just as Kinich figures that the kids have been brought to safety, one of the creatures lets out a guttural roar, a horrific sound unlike anything from this world. You cower in response. Time seems to slow as Kinich watches the abomination extend its claws, ready to rip into you without mercy.

Before he can spare another thought, Kinich’s body reacts. He flings himself through the air, landing precariously fast and skidding along the grass. As he starts slowing to a stop in front of you, he swings his claymore, countering the abyssal wolf’s attack.

Kinich shields you. No matter how perilous the situation becomes, he knows he will need to remain steadfast and resolute.

As the dust settles, you finally catch a glimpse of Kinich. He hears you call his name, feels your hand brush against his shoulder, and senses you shuffling next to him.

However, danger still lurks before you, so with one hand, Kinich lightly shoves you back, taking caution to ensure you won’t end up injured.

“Let me handle this,” he says, extending an arm to prevent you from taking another step forward. He changes his stance and faces the hounds head-on.

The monsters prepare to attack again, and Kinich takes it as a sign to charge forth, swinging his claymore with as much force as he can manage. Although the beasts are fearsome, Kinich lands blow after blow, gradually weakening them with each hit. The only thing on his mind right now is his desire to protect — to save you like you saved him all those years ago.

Kinich allows his instincts to take over, relying on the battle experience he’s accumulated to guide him through the abyssal skirmish. Suddenly he feels as though he’s back in the Night Warden Wars, fighting with all his heart to ensure he’d see you again. His resolve steels, and with one final strike of his weapon, he dispels all danger, banishing the hounds before him to the precarious realm from whence they came.

As soon as Kinich has ensured that the situation has settled, he turns back to inquire about your wellbeing. However, before a single word can slip past his lips, you run up to him and collapse in his arms, trembling like a leaf within a harrowing autumn squall.

“You’re safe now,” he whispers, his breath tickling your ear. Kinich holds you tighter, his grip so secure that even death wouldn’t be able to pry you from his grasp. “I’ve got you.”

“I was so scared… that I’d never see you again,” you gasp between shaky breaths, your panic slowly beginning to dissipate.

Kinich feels a lump in his throat and a pang in his chest. He knows better than anyone how you must have felt, what you were thinking as you lived out what you thought were your last moments. He was in your exact situation once, and all he can recall is his final plea to Celestia — his wish to return home to the welcoming sight of your radiant visage at least once more.

“I couldn’t die before I told you that,” you hesitate, your words catching in your throat, “before I told you that I loved you.”

Kinich’s breath hitches. His body freezes, and his surroundings become all but null. Maybe you really are telepathically linked because that had been his exact thought as he felt his life ebbing away during the Night Warden Wars, ascending to a divine plane in chapters of fragile mortality.

“You love me?” Kinich breathes out. In the mayhem, all is momentarily forgotten as blissful euphoria overtakes his heart, sending zephyrs of rose-tinted elation through his mind. After an eternity of waiting, Kinich finally realizes his feelings are reciprocated. “I love you too.”

The look on your face softens as sensibility and coherency begin to overtake you once more, but before you can return Kinich’s affections, dissonant screams and crashes shatter your transient utopia.

Right. You’re still in the midst of chaos.

“Do you know where the Traveler and Mualani were headed?” Kinich questions you urgently, recoiling slightly as he ruins the moment. He hates the fact that he’ll have to push aside the implications of your confession for now, but at the moment, people’s lives are still in danger.

You nod vigorously.

“I’ll take you over to them and then head back to the village to assist in resolving the crisis. We can talk more tonight.”

ACT X.

The festivities of the People of the Springs stretch well past midnight that evening, celebrating the triumph of their heroes and the recovery of the esteemed warrior Atea. Lively melodies ring out in the refreshing night air, filling the evening with songs of invigorating joy and glorious victory. Even from atop a cliff overlooking everything, the warm atmosphere still engulfs you. Although you had stayed for the commencement of the party, you and Kinich eventually decided to retire to a slightly more secluded area to pick up your conversation from earlier.

“So,” you start, your nerves beginning to flare up in a culmination of resplendent flames, “where do we start?” Subconsciously, you begin to toy with your fingers, and you don’t notice until Kinich stops you, taking your hand in his.

“Well first things first, we know we love each other,” he states, looking into your eyes. Ardor dances within his gaze, making itself at home between brilliant murals of malachite and topaz. The way moonlight catches in his irises, illuminating his features with a certain softness, makes your heart melt.

Now that Kinich no longer has to hold back, his immense love for you becomes tremendously apparent. As he traces circles into the back of your hand with his thumb, you realize that even the silences are adorned with gentle reminders of his feelings for you.

“It seems so obvious now,” you laugh lightly. “I wonder why we didn’t end up confessing sooner.”

Kinich hums nonchalantly, averting his eyes for just a second before turning back to you.

“Would you believe me if I told you that I was scared?” Kinich asks.

Amusement graces his features as you shake your head. Nowadays, Kinich is usually so calm — so composed — never allowing his demeanour to betray even the slightest hint of distress. From hunting saurians to extreme sports to tolerating Ajaw’s creative threats all the time, Kinich has endured everything with a brave face, but now you’re starting to realize that perhaps he isn’t quite as fearless as he appears.

“What were you scared of?” you inquire, tilting your head slightly to examine Kinich.

A pause ensues as Kinich mulls over his response, mentally preparing himself to pour out his heart. He’s not used to it, but he’s ready to start trying for you.

“Ruining the best thing life has ever given me,” he whispers. “You know you’re everything to me, right?”

You’re breathless as you stare at Kinich. The pure emotion behind his words is enough to widen your grin. Your heart feels like it’s ready to pulse out of your chest, speeding up in a grand accelerando and growing louder in a magnificent crescendo.

Everything is perfect.

Everything is as it should be when you’re with him.

This is your flawless elysium.

“May I?” You cup Kinich’s face with one hand, leaning towards him. Your gaze falls on his lips, and you hear him breath in softly.

Kinich nods, reciprocating your actions as he bridges the gap between you.

Time seems to slow as your lips meet in an incandescent flash of effulgent sparks. The night gleams in shades of starlight and utopia, illuminating the moment with a brilliance that encapsulates nothing less than pure love. Perhaps your souls have been intertwined since the beginning, or perhaps destiny pulled some strings to bring the two of you together, but you’re absolutely certain that from this moment on, you would only part in death.

As you pull away from Kinich, a strange smile adorns his features. Before you can question him, he speaks.

“I finally repaid you,” he says, “after all this time.”

You laugh. He’s still worrying about that?

“Thank you, love, but it doesn’t matter to me anymore,” you respond. A part of you finds it endearing that he’s still trying to make things even after your countless seasons together, yet you feel obligated to reassure him he never has to reimburse you again.

Kinich gazes at you inquisitively.

“There’s no debt between lovers, silly — only pure adoration and happiness.”

FIN. tysm for taking the time to read this fic <3

#r.archives *ೃ༄#kinich x reader #kinich x you #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin imagines #genshin headcanons #genshin impact #genshin #genshin fanfic #genshin kinich

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edenspoem · 5 months ago

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𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥!𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐞: 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐠𝐮𝐧𝐬.

note: just had this thought. this half-pure and mundane—but intimate thought about cowgirl!ellie again. what did we expect. mdni. suggestive themes. meant to be pictured in the wild west. discord. kofi.

trouble is found rearing godless heads in your pastures—as usual. be it animal, heretic or a trespassing posse, the homestead you search for solace in happens to be in an unfortunate area. men are the worst of them; with a saloon right in town vicinal to it, roisterers who stumble out this far do so with affected intentions, none of them good, lord-ridden ones.

now, what confounds you is the neglect to prepare you for these trespassers. it should be taught as a standard, right? wrong, you guess; father is the one neglecting this option. instead, he hires someone else. a girl-else. real beautiful one, too. nothin' wants a bargaining with her—their life, sidled against her gun in slim, muscled arms that tan in the neat, whiskey sun. hell, you wouldn't either. she spits on the metal barrel to wipe it down.

her total occupation is to ensure your solace, security—and happiness. however the last is achieved, is a secret kissed and not told.

she is awful sweet. an emobidment of rot-in-the-tooth, but it eases inside with small ligatures of addiction, following without a cause. she inhales sharp and long after pulling the rim of a glass from her heart-drawn lips, muttering, “damn, that time already?” and with squinted eyes in the shade of her hat—she looks too fuckin' cute. the chair she sits in groans under her shifting. “mhh—gotta hunt the perimeters. can't let no hounds claim a sheep-sized snack tonight, right?”

nothing but the words 'hunt' and 'hounds' trails into your ears. nothing other than the illicit escape to adventure unravels your knees to straighten and flips your head in her gunpowder-scented direction—the scent that lives in this house. she connects sights with you when your seat shifts, too: smug-faced. as though ms. williams expects a question to slip from that ever-quiet mouth. well, you part your lips for breath, and she beats you to it.

“wanna come?” that shotgun you wore intrigued eyes for—minus the cowgirl offerin' it—gets slinged over her shoulder. it fits the shape like a damn sleeve. “can't sit there playin' pretty all 'yer life—and i know you don't want to.” fuck, her salve-warm tone enraptures you.

the weald outside is grand in-person compared to what a window provides. chirps ring, but a growl can drag through the hollows and one can never be honest as to where it originates from. she states this in an earnest manner: with the pressure of her hand imprinting warmth to your chemise, onto your waist. “aim it down a little more. right.. there.” she pushes her voice so low in her chest, it turns her careful speech into intoxicating rasps. you get so lost, so distracted, she has to calibrate you herself—three of those fingers touching your arm. “there you go.” you can feel the shape of her vowels dust against your nape.

then, her leather-rough finger is guiding yours into the trigger loop, resting on top of it. “'n this part, i don't gotta explain. but you be mindful of it, yeah?” she turns, and the point of her nose respositions behind your ear. her lips—intentional. all she is, is redolent intention; not whispering into it, but along it. the little grin against your pulse suggests it. the slowing breath, aware of her closeness, proves it. “doin' so good..” then, her teeth bite down for a giggle.

guns aren't the special and lone thing she spits on to clean up, though; that mouth can—and was—used for more than it. and, perhaps, you adopt her strange methods too. do with that information as you will.

#i restrained myself from rambling my head off ngl #ellie williams #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams smut #♱ | “blurbs.”#ellie tlou #lesbian #sapphic #ellie x reader #ellie williams x fem!reader #ellie williams fic #ellie williams blurb #ellie williams the last of us #ellie williams tlou #cowgirl!ellie #western!ellie #southern!ellie #elliewilliams #dom!ellie

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wisteria--thegirlinpurple · 8 days ago

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The one where Sam finds out why you don't mess with Bucky's cats

Bucky x Shapeshifter!Reader Feat. Alpine

Summary: Sam Wilson has fought alien armies-- surely this little prank he's pulling at Bucky's house can't go wrong. Uh-- why is Bucky's cat looking at him like that? This is a sequel to Paws, Claws and Hands; but you can read it separately.

Minor Thunderbolts* and Brave New World spoilers! Read at your own risk!

Samuel Thomas Wilson was a tough man. He served two tours, took down HYDRA bases, fought and won against an alien invasion. Most importantly, he survived growing up with Sarah Wilson.

All in all, it made no sense why this cat was making all the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

It began as a little prank, as things often do. Joaquin and him were joking about Bucky getting elected in as Congressman. Joaquin had that little twinkle in his eyes when he mentioned that Bucky apparently had two cats, which he kept in his apartment in DC.

It was going to be a fun, little harmless prank.

Sneaking into Bucky’s apartment was not a small feat, man had perimeters and security systems set up that could rival a Middle-Eastern warlord (trust Sam, he’s fought them). Still, once you knew what you were looking for and a casual two weeks of planning, you could circumvent most of it.

Funnily enough all the security was only on the outside of the house. The interior was clear of any surveillance. Sam chalked it up to Bucky being paranoid about privacy.

Red Wing’s scan confirmed that Bucky was not home. The two cats were lounging around in the living room. Easy-peasy. Sam would sneak in, put up the photoshopped images of Bucky as George Washington in that stupid portrait where he was on a boat with the other founding fathers. Kidnap (catnap?) the two cats, and send the pictures of the two cats with him once he was in the wind.

(Not actually in the wind, of course. He doubts his friendship with the cyborg would survive if he accidentally dropped one of his cats four thousand feet from the air. He had a nice little van parked outside.)

That’s why it made no sense that the white one was nice and tucked under his right arm (after a bit of bribing with some cat treats), but the other one is staring down at him defiantly from the kitchen counter. The cat’s eyes narrowed, and a growl emanated from the pits of her throat.

Sam was Captain America for god’s sake! He’s faced down aliens ten times his size! He fought Thanos’ army!

Sam took a deep breath, and reached out slowly with his left hand.

The cat tilted her head, and Sam swears to god he saw her do a Chesire cat grin that shouldn’t have been possible with a cat’s physiology. Cats don’t actually smile from ear to ear like that.

It was creepy as hell. Give it to Bucky to have the creepiest and weirdest freakin’ cat in the world.

His outreached arm gently lowered, cursing under his breath.

Maybe just the one will have to do.

Sam began to retreat, one foot stepping behind the other and never letting the weird cat out of his sight. She seemed displeased at his retreat, another growl slipping from her sharp-toothed jaw. Then, to Sam’s disbelief, she began to follow him. Step by step. He took another stepped backwards, she leapt from the counter and lowered herself.

The issue was, of course, that she had four feet to move and he had two, so he was covering a lot more distance than she was. (Not to mention the fact that he was, after all, still a very well built and tall man.) Despite this, the feeling that she was closing in on him sneaked down his spine as a chill.

Then, as he turned into the hallway to the door, she sped up her steps.

With a yowl, she dashed towards him. On cue, Alpine bit his fingers, hard.

Sam let go of the white cat with a curse, watching as his only victorious capture run away into the darkness of Bucky’s room. His only option was now to try again, or retreat.

He looked down at the weird cat, her tail swishing back and forth as she sat at his feet. Sam didn’t even notice when she’d gotten there. Despite their height difference, their weight difference and their vast difference in intellect— Sam knew in this moment there was a hunter and a prey.

And he was most certainly not the one hunting.

—

Bucky opened the door to his apartment and froze.

At eye-level from the main door was a horribly photoshopped photo of his face on top of George Washington’s face as he crosses Delaware in the boat. The painting was printed grainy and blotchy. The picture the perpetrator chose was one of him looking far off with his jaw clenched. Instead of George Washington heroically crossing the Delaware, Bucky just looked pissed off that he was on the boat.

Bucky looked down at the hallway, where similar prints had been half-hazardly taped to his wall. He had a feeling he would find more of them.

Despite the fact that Sam has grown into the role of Captain America, it seemed his good friend’s intellect stayed at a kindergartener’s level.

Now that he thought about it, the house was weirdly quiet. Alpine would usually be sitting in front of the door, yelling at him for abandoning her as he stepped through the threshold. She was becoming more and more clingy. (Y/N) says it’s because he spoils her. (Which he does, to be fair.)

Although he understood that this was 99% likely a prank from Sam (and no doubt with Joaquin’s input), the absence of Alpine gnawed at him. He shut the door behind him softly, and retrieved the handgun he kept underneath the shoe rack. His muscle memory kicked in, hands slotting into position as he surveyed the hallway with the gun raised at eye level.

His footsteps were silent as he entered into the living room. He turned left, eyes darting over the decorations and growing plant collection. Nothing there.

He turned right, and froze.

(Y/N) sat on top of an unconscious Sam. The right side of the living room looked like it had a tornado swept through it. Paintings and prints were torn from the walls and strewn across the floors. His coffee table was kicked over, and all of its contents scattered across the floor. The pillows that decorated the couch was in all spots across the room, like it was thrown in a desperate attempt to escape a chase.

Bucky noticed that similar prints of Bucky Washington was taped across the living room too, although some had come off in what he could only assume was epic chase that occurred.

“… You wanna explain what happened?” Bucky sighed.

(Y/N) tilted her head, looked down at Sam, seeming to ask the question What more do you want?

“Where’s Alpine?” Bucky decided to focus on that instead.

(Y/N)’s gaze lifted and directed him to the couch. He lowered the gun and strolled over.

Alpine had broken into what must've been the can of cat treats that Sam had brought over, half of the can was gone, and Alpine curled around it with crumbs still on her face as she slept. She did not stir even when he approached, instead, her ears twitched in acknowledgement.

“Why did you let her eat so much? She’s going to get a stomach ache.” Bucky groaned, walking away from the slumbering glutton and back to where (Y/N) sat.

The shapeshifter growled, and patted a clawed paw at Sam. His unconscious form whimpered.

“Right.” Bucky’s eye twitched, “You were busy with him.”

Bucky lowered himself onto the floor, slapping Sam’s face with his metal hand a little harder than he needed to. The man groaned, but he didn’t wake.

“Dammit,” The former assassin started performing the usual health checks, “You couldn’t have gone easier on him?”

(Y/N)’s paw extended to Sam’s nose, eyes narrowing.

He’s alive, isn't he?

“Ugh—“ Bucky groaned, “Sam, seriously man, wake up.”

Captain America whimpered on his living room floor, defeated by his cat (?).

---

Link to my Masterlist if you want to see more in this series!

No Captain America was harmed permanently in the making of this fic...He might have a minor concussion... but that's it. I have to thank my commenter from the original fic for this idea! Honestly any room with Sam and Bucky in it is going to be like kindergarten boys on the playground, so this idea kind of came quite naturally.

Bucky doesn't bother installing a security system inside the house because he is paranoid, yes, but also because why would you need one when you have a literal bear guarding your home? Bucky's pretty sure his shapeshifter friend could turn into a T-rex if she wanted to.

For reference-- (Y/N) is well aware of who Sam is, and was fully prepared to let him trash Bucky's house but she's very very protective of Alpine. (And maybe if Sam tried to enter into Bucky's room, but give the man some credit, Sam knows where the lines are.)

(Y/N) lounges around the house as a cat because Bucky is vey weak to her demands when she does. Man literally thinks his cats are the most adorable things on earth and he would be correct.

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betweenstorms · 7 months ago

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Alright, hear me out, Simon Riley working for Sleep Token as their head of security.

Let me explain.

His life had always been defined by precision and control, by the kind of discipline that didn’t falter in the face of chaos. But retirement had come swiftly and unceremoniously, a necessity more than a choice. The regimented life of the SAS had ended, leaving him adrift in the civilian world, and that felt far more alien than any hostile territory he’d ever set foot in.

Somehow he found himself in the chaotic underbelly of the entertainment industry, a space filled with the metallic clatter of stagehands, the distant roar of soundchecks, and the pulse of a metal band steadily climbing the ladder to global fucking acclaim. And hell, the stage lights, the screaming crowds, the thrum of bass reverberating through his chest, none of it had ever factored into the life he’d imagined for himself.

But life had a funny way of taking plans and shredding them into something unrecognisable.

Simon still wasn’t sure how he’d ended up here.

When he left the military he thought he’d bury himself in some quiet corner of anonymity, far from the public eye. Civvy life was cruel to men like him, and for months, he drifted between meaningless gigs, his skill set too sharp for ordinary work, too lethal for the mundane.

Then came the call.

Sleep Token’s manager had been a contact of a contact, someone who knew someone who’d served with him, someone who’d heard about him through the strange network of ex-military types finding unconventional second careers. The irony hadn’t been lost on Simon when he was first approached. A band draped in anonymity, each member masked and named only by cryptic titles, needed security. And who better to protect them than a man who’d spent his life hiding behind his own mask?

Fucking unbelievable.

Somehow Simon had ticked every box without realising it, and before he knew it, he was standing in a smoky room, hands tucked into the pockets of his faded jeans as he sized up the bloody Muppet Show who would earn his salary.

He’d scoffed at the absurdity of it back then.

It wasn’t his scene. Far from it.

And yet, something in him, a combination of pragmatism and the faint flicker of intrigue, told him to give it a shot. He was financially screwed anyway. And the pay was good, much better than what he earned as a high-ranking officer, the anonymity suited him just fine, and the job, strangely enough, kind of aligned with his skill set. Therefore, after a few days of mulling it over, he said yes.

Simon had learned to adapt quickly. This job—head of security, an overqualified bodyguard as he liked to call it—had its own rhythm, distinct but no less intense than the one he’d lived before.

Venues became his battlefields, and he mapped them with a soldier’s precision. Potential threats were assessed the way he’d once scoped out enemy positions. His vigilance rarely wavered, whether he was walking the perimeter of a festival or standing stoic in a dim corridor as Vessel rehearsed another one of his verses. To Simon, these kinds of threats were laughable compared to the ones he’d faced during his service, however, it wasn’t without its challenges. Crowds could be unpredictable, and fame had a way of drawing out the unhinged.

He took to his duties with the same precision and discipline he’d honed in the SAS. The members trusted him implicitly, and that trust was something Simon didn’t take lightly. They called him Riley and treated him like a constant, the way you’d treat the sun rising or the tide coming in.

Reliable, steady, unshakable.

At first, the job was simple enough. The usual security gig, albeit with a touch of bloody theatricality. However, fame has a way of turning everything upside down, even for someone like Simon.

It started subtly.

Fans started to notice him too. At first, it was just a handful of comments on social media, like “Who’s the guy in the black balaclava?”, but it grew from there. They were fascinated by him, by the idea of a masked man guarding a masked band. He was an enigma within an enigma, and the internet just loved enigmas. It wasn’t until Lynsey Ward, one of the backup vocalists, shoved her phone in his face one day that he realised how far it had gone.

The backstage in Paris hummed with a peculiar kind of energy and anticipation that Simon had grown accustomed to since taking the job. It was a strange but one of a kind lifestyle, this one, filled with hurried footsteps, clinking equipment, and the muffled roar of soundchecks vibrating through walls. Simon lingered near the members as they cycled through their usual pre-show rituals.

IV sat in a corner, his mask tilted upward as if in contemplation, while Vessel sprawled on a battered sofa, his makeup halfway done, face a patchwork of metallic hues. II drummed his fingers idly on his thighs, the rhythmic taps almost lost beneath the din, while III sat near the makeup station, enjoying the rare moment of downtime between soundcheck, preparations and the main show, reading something on his phone.

Simon leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, his black balaclava masking his expression but not the faint lines of tension in his shoulders.

His sharp eyes swept over the room, mentally running through his usual checklist again that concerned necessary security measures. Entry points, exits, personnel movements, everything was accounted for, everything secure. The monotony of the job had become second nature to him, though he still approached each night like it might unravel at any moment.

Lynsey sat nearby, waiting for her turn in the makeup chair. She was scrolling on her phone, just like almost everyone in the room, one leg crossed over the other, her posture relaxed but her smile mischievous. Simon didn’t notice her at first, he had his priorities, but her voice cut through the quiet hum of activity like a knife.

“Riley,” she called out, her tone playful. “You’ve got to see this.”

Simon didn’t move.

“Busy,” he muttered, his voice low and even.

Lynsey ignored him entirely, already rising from her seat and crossing the room with her phone in hand. “Come on, just watch,” she insisted, shoving the screen toward him. The glow of the phone illuminated her face, her grin widening as she anticipated his reaction.

Simon sighed, an irritated, tired sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest.

“What now?”

Reluctantly, Simon uncrossed his toned arms and stepped forward, his towering frame casting a shadow over her. The screen showed a video, a quick montage of him, no less. Snippets of him walking through crowds, standing by the stage, his balaclava catching the light just so as if he were a character in some fucking noir film. The background music swelled dramatically, and captions popped up over the footage, saying “If I ever get kicked out of a venue, it better be by HIM. Imagine getting manhandled by those arms.”

Simon blinked, his frown deepening beneath the mask.

“The hell’s this?” he asked, his tone flat but tinged with suspicion.

“It’s a thirst trap,” Lynsey said, as if that explained everything, her laughter barely contained.

Simon stared at her blankly. “The fuck's a thirst trap?”

Lynsey cackled, delighted. “Oh, you’re a relic, aren’t you? It’s a thing on TikTok. People post these little edits when they fancy someone. And let me tell you, mate, there are loads of these floating about. Like, ‘look at this mysterious bloke, isn’t he fit?’ That sort of thing.”

Simon’s eyes narrowed. “TikTok?”

From across the room, III chimed in, his grin wicked as he leaned back in his seat. “Nowhere to hide, Riley,” he said, his tone teasing. “You’re a proper celebrity now.”

Simon huffed through his nose, a sound that carried more weight than words. He glanced at the phone again, now firmly lodged in Lynsey’s outstretched hand, the screen flashing more of his edited movements cut and spliced into dramatic slow-motion. He stepped back slightly, folding his arms across his broad chest once more, muttering something about “kids and their bollocks” under his breath as he did.

Lynsey quipped, her grin only widening. “Face it, the internet’s gone mad for you. They’ve even got a hashtag—‘#SecurityDaddy.’”

Simon flinched, his head snapping back toward her like she’d just admitted to committing a war crime.

This made IV join the fray, a water bottle in hand as he ambled over. “Oi, show us the goods. I wanna see what’s got good ol’ Riley in a strop.”

Lynsey eagerly turned her phone to IV, who leaned over her shoulder, squinting at the screen with a wide grin already forming on his painted face. The video played again, the dramatic slow-motion edits of Simon walking through a crowd, his balaclava catching the stage lights as though he’d been directed by a Hollywood cinematographer.

IV let out a sharp laugh, nearly choking on his water.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a trail of black paint on them. “‘Security Daddy,’ they’re callin’ you? That’s golden.”

Lynsey snorted and held up another video. “Oh, you’ve got no idea. Look at this one, ‘If he told me to leave the venue, I’d say thank you.’ And here’s another, ‘Is it weird to want to be tackled by him?’ You’ve got your own bloody fanbase, Riley.”

Simon’s gloved hand scrubbed down his masked face as if he could physically push away the madness unfolding around him. “You lot are takin’ the piss.”

“This one’s my favourite,” Lynsey said, clicking on yet another video. The screen lit up with a heavily edited montage of Simon in action—his eyes scanning a crowd, his broad shoulders cutting through a sea of fans, the flash of his gloved hand directing someone to stand back. The video was captioned with “I don’t know his name, but he can ruin my life anytime.”

Vessel, who’d been silent for most of the exchange, finally sat up, resting his elbows on his knees as he regarded their head of security with an amused expression. “It’s the mask, mate,” he stated. “It's like catnip. People project onto what they can’t see. You could lean into it, y’know. Like us. Give the people what they want. Maybe throw in a wink next time you’re standin’ by the stage.”

Simon sent Vessel a look so sharp it could have peeled paint off the walls.

II, who had been leaning casually against the wall next to them, joined in with a huge grin. “Yeah, might as well embrace it. You’re part of the act now.”

Simon’s glare intensified. “You wanna end up wearin’ your fuckin’ drumsticks where the sun don’t shine?”

II raised his hands in mock surrender, though the grin never left his face. “Don’t tempt me.”

The banter escalated quickly after that.

The room practically buzzed with the gleeful chaos that Simon’s presence had unwittingly unleashed. IV was now scrolling through the comments on one of the fan edits, reading them aloud to the room with unbridled glee, each of them taking the piss out of him in the way only people comfortable with each other could.

Strangely enough, it reminded him of Johnny, a familiar mix of camaraderie and mischief that tugged at a memory he hadn’t expected to surface. It stirred an unexpected pang of nostalgia in Simon, a faint echo of Johnny’s effortless knack for turning every moment into a laugh at someone else’s expense—usually his.

“He could snap me like a glow stick and I’d thank him for the privilege,’” II read out loud, barely containing his laughter. “Oh, this one’s pure gold—‘Not to be dramatic, but I would sell my soul just to hear him say ‘move along’ in person.’”

That did it.

Simon unfolded from the wall with a deliberate grace, his imposing presence rippling through the room like a cold wind sweeping across still water. The breadth of his shoulders, the unyielding lines of his form clad in black, cast him less as a mere bodyguard and more as some silent, vengeful sentinel. His shadow stretched across the room, swallowing the laughter as it reached II and IV, Lynsey’s phone still clutched between them.

“You’ve had your fun,” he rumbled, his voice steeped in the kind of authority honed through years of barking orders in the SAS. “Now knock it off, before I confiscate that phone.”

“Go on, Riley,” IV shot back with a grin, entirely unafraid. “Confiscate me next.”

Simon didn’t dignify that with a response.

He turned away from them, a quiet dismissal, and walked toward the door. His hand reached for the handle, his gloved fingers brushing against the cool metal. But just as he was about to leave, a voice cut through the air again, the familiar, teasing tone of III echoing in the now-muted chaos of the room.

“Don’t forget to give us a little twirl on your way out, Security Daddy.”

Bloody hell.

If this gig didn’t kill him, these muppets just might.

betweenstorms (next) (masterlist)

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vnards · 1 year ago

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Mafia141 p.4

The boys react quickly, like they’re trained to do. You don't.

Ghost is able to tackle you to the ground before bullets start flying through the windows.

The sound of gunfire and glass shatters the peace, a familiar ringing to everyone but you. One moment you're focused on not spilling anything, now, with the mugs shattered on the floor, a heavy weight on top of you, and loud shots piercing in the air, you felt like you couldn't breathe.

The bullets seemed endless, embedding themselves in the walls and booths. Another body covered you, keeping your face pressed to the floor. There was crying. It’s coming from you.

After what felt like minutes, the shooting stopped.

Silence followed.

“Sit rep.”

The body above you finally lets you lift your head. You look around to see the diner in carnage. The plush in the booths were torn and shredded, some of the stuffing still hovering in the air. Everything glass on the counter were shattered. The cold wind came in through the broken windows.

“Good here.” A voice broke through the ringing in your ears.

“Johnny?”

“A'm right here.” He grumbled. There was a string of words that sounded like cursing.

Your heart is still pounding like a mallet as the boys around you began to get up.

You were being moved before you could even realize it. Being lifted in the air and back on your feet like you weighed nothing before you could get your bearings. Simon’s eyes scanned you over as you were finally able to start moving your tongue again “W-what-“

“Gaz, secure the perimeter.” Movement followed, one of your “customers” move to Simon's order. Your confusion is hard to hide. “Go get your stuff. We’re leaving.” You look around at the two remaining men left in the diner; Simon, his hand on your back, keeping you steady and Johnny, the Scottish man with a Mohawk and his white dress shirt bleeding across his peck.

“You’re hurt.”

Both men looked to where you pointed, Johnny grumbled under his breath, “Fuckers ruined my new shirt.” He poked at the blood, some coming off his hand as he examined it.

Something about seeing him bleeding shocks you back to life, “T-the first aid kit is in the back. I can-" you move to go retrieve it.

Johnny caresses your shoulder “It’s alright, little bird, it’s just a scratch. I’ll be fine.” The vibrant blue in his eyes holds a boyish joy to them. “But I’ll never say no to you.” He winks.

The sudden flirtatious attitude from Johnny was whiplash compared to the carnage that surrounded you. “Not now, Johnny.” Simon scolded. It didn’t look like Johnny was sorry, “I gotta tell Price the meeting’s a bust.” He slides his phone out, trying how to not pissed the boss of about this. “Keep an eye on her. And grab her things” He was at least going to grant you that before bringing you into the mess that is tonight.

Johnny salutes, trying to break under the primal fear of the past few minutes that consumes you into being paralyzed in the moment. With Ghost and Gaz gone, it’s up to Johnny to keep you calm enough to not go into shock. His chest puffs up a bit, being given the opportunity to keep you safe and calm, but it’s not the time. “Alright, birdie. Ye want to go grab yer stuff?” Your eyes wouldn’t leave the bleeding bullet graze across his chest. “And maybe that first aid kit.”

A task. Something to help you move forward. You nod soundlessly and gave yourself a moment to calm your shaking hands and your barely controlled breathing.

First aid kit.

You enter the back of the room and head to the office where your stuff is. You’re mind is still a blank with static before you have a chance to realize you’re not alone.

Another weight, this time less gentle, slams you against the frozen storage and pins you there. The wind is knocked out of you as a body twice the size of you covers you. Your head knocks back and you immediately feel dizzy. “No one mentioned there would be a reward.” The stranger leered.

You try to scream again, but there’s a third body knocked into you. Your shoulder is slammed against the door and you hear a snap. Everything hurts. You fall to the floor, no longer pinned against the cold door. Regardless, the world still spins.

You hear a struggle and the few moments of clarity you can get shows that Johnny is grappling on the floor outside the office, his opponent in a headlock. The other man throws an elbow that connects and his grip falters slightly, allowing him to get the upper hand.

The strange man swings again, this time an elbow to Johnny’s nose knocks off his balance, “You fucker!” He growls.

The larger man is able to tower over Johnny, taunting. You are so paralyzed in fear that you don’t spot the shine of a barrel.

A shot rings out. There’s yelling

When you open your eyes again, the body that was towering over Soap was toppling over, dead weight. The blood pouring out of the hole in his skull a shocking horror to you. You finally start to scream.

The darker skinned man came forward in your field of view, placating “You’re okay, princess, you don’t need to be scared.” Too late.

You slip out of consciousness.

next part -> <-previous part masterlist

#simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #john price #kyle gaz garrick #cod #mafia!au #mafia!141 #poly 141 #mafia x reader

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shiyorin · 4 months ago

Text

Slice of life with Rogal Dorn (and Imperial Fists)

It's a sequel to this one. Of course I'm too lazy to write it seriously, but here's basically what happens next if you're curious.

Somehow, three days later, you found yourself at Home Depot, pushing a cart while Rogal filled it with lumber, cement mix, and various tools. You'd called in sick to work, using vacation days you'd been saving for a trip to Florida.

Instead, you were funding the fortification of your modest suburban home by a giant amnesiac with one hand who worked with frightening efficiency.

"The perimeter will be secure by nightfall." Rogal informed you as you loaded supplies into your hatchback. Despite his size, he'd proven surprisingly inconspicuous in public, people seemed to glance at him, then immediately find something else to focus on, as if their brains refused to process his existence.

You nodded, hoping your neighbors wouldn't notice the construction.

By sunset, your backyard had been transformed. What had been a sagging chain-link fence was now a sturdy wooden barrier, reinforced with metal bracing at strategic points. Despite having only one hand, Rogal worked with astonishing speed and precision.

"I appear to possess construction knowledge." he noted, studying his handiwork. "Perhaps I was a builder or engineer before."

"Maybe." you agreed, genuinely impressed. "You built this faster than the contractors who redid my bathroom, and they had two hands each."

For the first time, you caught what might have been the ghost of a smile on Rogal's stern face.

*****

Two weeks into your unexpected roommate situation, you were adapting to the strangeness with surprising ease. Rogal had proven to be a model houseguest, if one ignored his constant structural critiques and predilection for reinforcing random elements of your home.

Your bathroom plumbing now worked better than it ever had. Your kitchen cabinets were reinforced to withstand what Rogal called "orbital bombardment", whatever that meant. Your home security system had been upgraded with parts he'd somehow fashioned from your old DVD player.

You'd settled into an odd routine. You went to work at the graphic design firm while Rogal stayed home, building and planning. You'd stop at Home Depot on your way back, bringing him modest supplies that he somehow stretched into impressive constructions.

"This is my life now," you told your reflection while brushing your teeth one morning. "I have a giant amnesiac handyman living in my spare room. Could be worse, I guess."

That evening, you came home to find Rogal standing in your backyard, staring intently at a man in black armor kneeling on your lawn.

Not a man in black armor, you realized as you approached cautiously. A man who seemed to be black armor, as if it were grafted to his body. His head was shaved, his face severe, and a massive sword was strapped to his back.

"Um, Rogal?" you called. "Who's this?"

Rogal turned to you, his expression thoughtful. "I believe this is Sigismund. Though I cannot explain how I know this."

The armored man rose, towering nearly as tall as Rogal. "Father" he said to Rogal, then looked confused at his own words.

"Oh fuck." you whispered. "There's more of you?"

"I awakened in a field approximately seven kilometers from this position," Sigismund stated. "I was drawn here by… something I cannot explain."

You looked between the two giants, noting the similar stern expressions and military bearing. "Fantastic. Now I have two of you."

Sigismund surveyed the yard, his gaze lingering on Rogal's fortifications. "The perimeter is well-constructed, but lacks depth. A determined assault would breach it within minutes."

"That's what I said" Rogal agreed. "But we have limited materials."

"I have a more pressing question," you interrupted. "Where is he going to sleep? I don't have another spare room."

Both men turned to you with identical blank expressions.

"Sleep is optional." Sigismund stated.

Your headache returned with a vengeance.

*****

One month and three more arrivals later, your modest home had become something unrecognizable. Your backyard now featured what could only be described as a miniature fortress, constructed with materials that should have been insufficient for the task.

Alexis Polux, another giant man, had appeared next, followed by two others who identified themselves as Vladimir Pugh and Halbrecht. All wore the same confused expression upon arrival, all knew Rogal somehow, and all immediately set to improving your home's defenses.

None could explain their presence or past, though they occasionally used terms like "Astartes," "Imperial Fists," "Black Templars" and "Crimson Fists" in their conversations.

You had given up questioning it. Your house now had the most sophisticated security system on the block, plumbing that would survive a nuclear winter, and structural reinforcement that made you wonder if your property taxes would go up.

Your neighbors had started avoiding eye contact when you collected your mail.

"The garage conversion is complete." Alexis reported one evening as you returned from work. "It will accommodate our increased numbers."

You nodded, long past being surprised by anything. "Anyone else show up today?"

"Negative." Rogal answered from where he was modifying your kitchen island. "Though I sense others may yet arrive."

"Of course they will." you sighed, setting down your grocery bags. "Because why wouldn't they?"

You'd taken to buying food in bulk, as your houseguests consumed calories at an alarming rate. Somehow, your grocery bill was offset by the fact that your utility costs had plummeted, Sigismund had reconfigured your HVAC system for "optimal efficiency."

"Your dwelling is becoming more defensible," Rogal noted with what, for him, amounted to enthusiasm. "Though the neighboring structures remain vulnerable."

"Just focus on our place, okay?" you said, unpacking groceries.

Our place. When had you started thinking of it that way?

When you sat on your reinforced back deck, watching Halbrecht and Vladimir construct what appeared to be a guard tower in the corner of your yard, Rogal joined you.

"You have accommodated us without question." he observed, lowering himself carefully onto a bench he'd built. "This is… unexpected."

You shrugged. "What was I supposed to do? Call the authorities? That would have gone well."

"Nevertheless. You have shown remarkable adaptability."

You glanced at him, surprised by what sounded almost like a compliment. "Thanks. You guys aren't so bad yourselves. Apart from the constant construction noise and eating me out of house and home."

"We contribute what we can." Rogal said solemnly. "Though I recognize it is… unconventional."

You nodded, a small smile forming. "But hey, my house has never been in better shape."

Rogal nodded. "The fortress will stand."

"It's a suburban ranch house, Rogal."

"It is whatever we make of it." he replied simply.

Vladimir, who was now visible on your roof positioning what appeared to be gargoyles shaped like eagles, gave you a solemn thumbs up.

"This isn't happening," you muttered. "And why does my ranch house suddenly have castle turrets?"

"Improved sightlines for defensive operations," Sigismund answered, appearing beside you in full black armor. "Also, Vladimir insisted the aesthetic was important."

Alexis approached with blueprints for what appeared to be a moat system that would encircle your entire property.

"We require your approval for the next phase." he said solemnly.

"Is that a moat?" you asked weakly.

"With optional crocodiles." Halbrecht added, nodding seriously. "I have located a supplier."

You looked at your once-normal house, now a bizarre hybrid of suburban ranch and medieval stronghold, surrounded by giant men with amnesia and apparent fortification compulsions.

"No crocodiles." you said firmly. "But I suppose the moat is fine."

"A wise decision." Rogal approved. "Water barriers are highly effective deterrents."

You sank down onto a nearby bench (reinforced, naturally) and started laughing uncontrollably. The giants paused their work, watching you with identical expressions of mild concern.

"Are you experiencing a malfunction?" Rogal inquired.

You wiped tears from your eyes. "No, I'm fine. Just processing that I now live in the most defensible split-level ranch in Ohio history."

"Not yet." Rogal corrected seriously. "But we are making progress."

As if on cue, a large delivery truck appeared at the end of your driveway. The driver stepped out, consulting his clipboard.

"Got a delivery of… sixteen tons of granite and a medieval trebuchet kit for this address?" he called uncertainly.

Vladimir and Halbrecht exchanged what could only be described as excited glances.

"That would be for us." Rogal confirmed, striding toward the truck.

"I didn't order a trebuchet!" you hissed after him.

"Of course not." Rogal replied calmly. "I used your Amazon account. The reviews were quite positive."

#wh40crack #reader insert #Warhammer in real life au #If you squint you can see x reader #lol

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kaileyrose28 · 22 days ago

Text

Sapphire Night's Lounge

Note.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ: Sapphire Night's Lounge is about a you as stripper and Red Hood, obviously. Might be a little OOC, I think. Idk. Jason's probably a whore in secret, who knows.

18+ (I have to say this), this has sexual content, like seriously.

Content: Daddy kink, size kink if you squint, quick fuck, strangers, rough fucking, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it, please), possessive Jason, he's obsessed and untouched tbh.

8,097 words. Female centered sex and pronouns, second person POV oriented.

Jason pulls his red helmet over his head, the familiar hum of the internal systems activating giving him a sense of readiness. The Red Hood was back in action.

Gotham’s underbelly had been rumbling, whispers of illicit activities centered around a seedy strip club in the East End. It was time to pay a visit.

He’s perched on the edge of a rooftop across from the club, the neon sign flickering “Sapphire Night’s Lounge” in garnish pinks and purples. The place was a front, he was sure of it. Drugs, trafficking, maybe even weapons—something big was going down here, and he intended to find out what.

Scanning the perimeter, he noted the bouncers at the entrance. They were big, sure, but not subtle. Typical muscle, probably packing heat but lacking in brains. Easy enough to get past, but he needed to be smarter. He opted for a back entrance, the alleyway dimly lit and reeking of garbage. He moved silently, a shadow in the night, avoiding the drunks and junkies slumped against the walls.

The back door was locked, but a quick pick of the lock and he was inside, slipping into the dark, narrow corridor behind the main rooms. Music thumped through the walls, the heavy bass reverberating in his chest. He moved forward, every sense on high alert. He could hear muffled conversations, laughter, and the clink of glasses.

You, or known in the club as Crimson, is an exotic dancer for the club and you were getting ready for your routine when you spotted the large—seriously large—man entering through the back door of the hallway that usually led up to the main floor. You only noticed because the changing room for the dancers is in the same area.

You were fixing her red, lacy—slightly sheen—bralette that was tied together at the crevice of your breast, when he nearly bumped into you doing all his sneaking around.

To keep from falling you grabbed onto his thick forearms, your hands squeezing the leather of his jacket, something solid and hard beneath.

Her stilettos nearly gave beneath you at the sudden unbalance that came with bumping into a person. You didn’t know who this guy was, why he was wearing a concealing, red helmet, or why he was coming in through the back.

Jason was expecting a lot of things, but being grabbed suddenly by a scantily clad woman was definitely not one of them. His muscles tensed reflexively as the woman clutched onto him for balance, your hands on his forearms sending a surprising jolt through his body.

He was caught off guard for a moment, frozen by the unexpected encounter.

Maybe he was new security? You and the girls were having some issues with some too-handsy patrons, so maybe that's why he was here. He was giant, burly, and rather intimidating, so maybe that was it.

Gotham had its freaks, the helmet was honestly the least of your worries.

“Security doesn’t usually loiter back here, are you lost? It’s alright if you are, I still get lost sometimes.” You step back after stabilizing your feet again, smoothing out the leather of his jacket that you accidentally creased when you grabbed onto him to keep from falling.

You placed your hands on your basically bare hips not a moment after and looked up at him—literally had to crane your head back some to look up at him—with an understanding smile on your crimson lips.

As soon as you stabilized yourself, he looked down at you, and his breath caught in his throat. You were almost comically small compared to him, your stiletto heels bringing you to about mid-chest.

He could feel the heat coming off you, and the scent of your perfume, something spicy and exotic, invaded his senses. Your eyes were framed with a hint of makeup, and your skin was dusted with a smattering of freckles.

He thought you were beautiful. In a sense. One he’d never admit to.

He mentally shook himself, regaining his focus. He couldn't let himself get distracted by a pretty face, no matter how much his libido might appreciate it.

He was here for business, not pleasure.

"I’m not security,” he finally replied, his voice gruff and deep. “I’m not lost either. I'm looking for someone."

You crossed your arms comfortably across your breasts as you tilted your head, thinking about what he said. Nothing could really stand out in a strip club, you’ve got naked or half naked women dancing on stages and drunk or high men throwing bills at them.

Who knows what got on in the private rooms, well you did but you didn’t take shady sounding offers.

So, if he wasn’t security he was probably just a patron.

“Baby, you’re in a strip club, there's plenty of people as far as you can see.” You said with a slight shrug of your bare shoulders, freckles dotting your skin, visible along your body and face under the LED light.

You looked over your shoulder, down the hall where it opens up to the main area where you’re meant to be.

“How about you stick around if you can’t find your person, I’ve got a routine comin’ up.” You said, cracking a small grin as you looked back at, and up, at him.

Most men that came here were older, sometimes even married, and often did it to ogle the naked dancers.

Maybe make themselves feel superior to the girls because they had all the money, but this guy—he sounded younger, and was definitely a lot more of an eyeful than the old men you routinely danced for. And taller; so much taller.

Could be fun to have someone possibly near your age watching, sue a girl for wanting a change.

Jason's lips almost curled in a smile under his helmet at the dancer's suggestion. You weren’t wrong, there were plenty of people here, but none that he was looking for.

But then you offered him an invitation to stay and watch, and he felt a pang of interest despite himself.

He looked down at you, taking in the way your bare arms crossed over your chest, the freckles that dusted your skin like confetti. You weren’t much like the women he'd encountered before that are often tied to these kinds of professions, and that intrigued him.

"I could stick around." He agreed, his voice still gruff but with a hint of something else.

He followed you out of the hallway, emerging into the main area of the club. The music was thundering, and the scent of alcohol and sweat hung heavy in the air. He stood near the edge of the stage in the shadows, watching as you prepared for your routine.

He could feel the eyes of other men on you, but he blocked them out, focusing solely on you. There was something captivating about you, something that made it impossible to look away.

You often did stage routines that were more of a sexual art then just a dance, or at least people told you that.

You stepped up the stage steps with a huff. You didn’t particularly like your routine, but you weren’t in charge of changing it or making that decision. So, you walked onto the stage, looking up at the seated sleazy men who held wolfish grins and whistled at you.

You got into position to start your routine, your bare leg wrapped partially around the pole in the middle of the stage, back arched enough to barely press the barest hint of belly against the cold metal, and you tilted your head back; the arch of your neck on display as you waited for the song to start.

You could hear the whistles and calls of the men watching, like a bunch of untouched virgins seeing their first woman.

The song starts, it was I See Red by Everybody Loves An Outlaw, her personal favorite. Your dance started slow with the beginning of the song, gradually growing more explicit as it went into the chorus.

You’ve worked in the club for nearly 6 years with basically the same routine, it was muscle memory at this point.

Near the minute mark of the song, you dropped down onto your knees near the front end of the stage, thighs spreading as your back arches to the lyrics.

The men sitting closest to where you were poised on the stage whistled and tossed bills at you, one very confident man leaned against the stage to slide a bill into the strap of your small bottoms.

You slid back against the stage, your legs closing as you laid down on your back, posing yourself in a slightly obscene position. Your heels sliding up until your knees were bent and you spread your thighs, your hands slid down your chest all the way down your stomach to your thighs before your legs shut again as the song fades out.

She posed in a final position, a sharp intake of breath escaped his lips. He wasn't used to losing control like this, to being completely consumed by a woman's presence.

Holy shit.

He swallowed hard, you’d gone from one seductive pose to another. The guys around the stage were throwing money like crazy. It didn’t escape his notice of one overeager man slipping a bill into your bottoms.

Jesus. He couldn’t tell if he was turned on or offended. This was full-on pornographic.

His eyes were glued to the stage. His usual cool, controlled demeanor was completely shattered by the hypnotizing sight of this minx’s routine. Somehow.

He felt a heat rise in his chest, the contortion of your body looked sinful and divine all at once. The way you moved was like a snake, slithery and seductive, but also filled with a certain grace and power.

He could feel the eyes of the other men around him, but for once, he didn't try to fight their gaze or hide his own. He just stood there, enthralled by the woman on stage.

His hands clenched into fists at his side, the leather of his gloves creaking softly. He should have been focused on the mission, on why he was here, but instead, all he could think about was you.

You sat up, giving the men sitting closest a seductive grin, all apart of your act, as you collected bills held out to you before you came back to your feet. Starting to pick up the fallen bills off the stage floor so you can leave before you start to finally walk away towards the stage stairs so the next girl can ready her routine.

After placing your earnings safely away with the other girls, you headed back out onto the main floor, watching the other girls' routines as you walked the floor like you’re required to do after a dance.

Some men liked to pay for lap dances, or private room dances, and those definitely paid a lot more than routine dances on stage.

You stopped by the bar to talk to the female barkeeper that also dances sometimes, but she mostly just mixed drinks. Said she liked it better than the pole, which you can’t exactly fault her for.

You’d find that hunk of a man after you were finished with your rounds, you were sure of it.

He was… interesting. And you liked interesting things.

You went back to prowling the floor, sometimes stopping to talk to men that propositioned you for private dances, which you declined mostly.

You didn’t do private dances because they always seemed shady to you, you weren’t the ‘happy ending’ kind of stripper and that’s usually what happens in the private rooms. Not much dancing occurred back there.

He watched you move through the floor, declining most offers you got. Good girl. You had standards, and he respected that.

He leaned against the wall, still out of sight of most of the room. Part of him wanted to walk up to you, talk to you, learn more about you.

But the more logical part of his mind reminded him that he was working, that he was here for a reason... Not to flirt with a pretty stripper. But as the night wore on, he found himself getting more and more interested in you.

You accepted money held out to you, a crisp 100 dollar bill, as the owner of it asked for a ‘pretty little lap dance’ and you gave him a wink and grin. All a part of the act the job required.

You walked around his chair until you stood between his legs, your hands poised on his shoulders—he was on the older side, perhaps in his 40s, and not that you minded; he just wasn’t your particular audience.

You began the lap dance, sliding your hand down his arms, down his chest, leaning into his space before you turned sharply, dancing your ass and hips against his before you slid your hands down your legs, bending forward slowly before straightening back up and turning to face him.

You slid your hands down his thighs as you slid down to your knees, essentially creating the illusion of crawling up his body as you straightened back up slowly.

As You finished, you gave the man a sensual wave before walking away with a near silent sigh, rolling your eyes once your backs turned to him.

You weren’t keen on lap dances, most of the time the guys got handy when they weren't supposed to. You strolled the floor for another few minutes, just in case.

Jason had a front-row seat to the spectacle, and it took every ounce of his self-control not to react. He just stood there, clenching his hands into fists, when you’d done your dance against that older man.

His thoughts were a mess of conflicting feelings. Part of him was aroused, but another part was resentful, hating seeing you touch that man the way you should be touching him.

He felt oddly possessive, which was honestly completely unlike him. There has got to be something going on, it can’t be him. No way.

He couldn’t look away, though. He followed your every move, his eyes fixated on you like a predator tracking its prey.

You had another scheduled routine coming up, though this one was a bit different. You didn’t often do ‘naked’ dances, you wouldn’t really be naked just the illusion of it, but the girl that was meant to do it called in sick and it fell onto your shoulders.

You didn’t particularly mind, it just wasn’t your usual routine and two consecutive routines were tiring. But you weren’t going to be caught screwing over a girl in need.

But nonetheless, you walked off to the backroom to change outfits, you still had bottoms on, they were just a lot more skimpy then yours usually are. And you didn’t wear a top but put pasties over your peaks to conceal at least some of your body.

Too much exposure could lead to the male patrons to think they had some right to reach out and touch the dancers, which isn’t allowed.

You walked back out onto the floor after switching heels to shorter ones, and they were a dark purple instead of your signature red. You passed the girl that just finished her routine as you walked up the stage steps.

It was a bit new to you—to have your breasts basically on display despite the pasties covering you but you didn’t really mind it as much as you thought you might’ve.

Jason's gaze darkened as he watched you walk back out onto the stage in your new outfit. The sight of your nearly bare body sent a chill through him, and he felt a wave of possessiveness wash over him again.

He pushed down the feeling, reminding himself that he was supposed to be here on business, not to lust after a woman he just met. But it was hard, damn hard, to keep his thoughts under control.

He could feel the stares of the other men in the room, all of whom were shamelessly ogling the curves of your body.

You stopped at the pole in the middle of the stage, positioning yourself against it, hands raised above your head holding onto the pole sensually, sliding down some so your ass was arched outward and your breasts pushed against the cold metal as you waited for the routine song to come on after introductions.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we know how much you loved her first routine—clap for her return, the mysterious Crimson!”

As the song starts, you moved slowly with the beat of it, your body slid down the pole until you were on your knees and your head tilted back, arms above your head holding the pole before you pulled yourself up.

You lifted your body high enough off the ground, using the pole to wrap your thighs around, sliding up until you were high enough to let your upper body fall back, your legs keeping you from sliding down the pole.

You slid your hands down your bare breasts, fingers brushing over the pasties concealing your nipples, and down the expanse of your stomach.

You lifted back up and grabbed the pole with your hands, dropping one leg off and keeping your other hooked as you spun around the pole.

You came back down to your feet and slid down to your knees, facing the audience of men, you walked on your hands and knees with a seductive look on your face towards the front of the stage, your eyes drift up and towards where Jason was by accident, but your eyes remain on him as you continued.

Ass arched in the air as you slowly slid down into a ‘doggy style’ position, palms flat against the stage as you pressed your chest down against the stage.

Your hips wiggle slowly with the beat of the song before you slowly slide up again and sit back on your ass and you spread your thighs and lay down on your back as the song comes to an end.

Holy fuck. His jaw was tight, hands clenched into fists. The way you moved… the way you fucking teased… he was grateful for the tinted visor of his helmet, because your expression had to be obvious. He shifted in his stance, glad he stayed mostly hidden because he’s suddenly very aware of how tight his tactical pants were feeling.

As you walked off the stage with your extra earnings you couldn’t help but subconsciously look about the room for him, the behemoth with the helmet concealing his face.

You don’t know why you're so interested in him. He was watching your routine and that made you want to perform for more than just the crowd. It was a weird sensation.

You stopped looking for him as you walked past two men, they were having an odd conversation ill-suited for a strip club. You slowed your steps, listening in as you walked past them slowly trying to be discrete about it all.

The two men spoke in hushed tones, unaware that you were eavesdropping. “...Need to find that shipment tonight. Boss said Red Hood might be sniffing around for it.”

You walked away as normal as you could, it sounded like something he could possibly be here for.

You’re not stupid, you put together he’s not exactly here for good reasons. And the helmet kind of made sense now, Red Hood. She’s not sure why it hadn’t clicked right away.

You’ve never actually come across much gossip about him, his territory is usually downtown, around Crime Alley. Midtown mostly saw the action of Robin and Red Robin.

Blurry pictures were the most you’ve ever honestly been exposed to surrounding the elusive and dangerous Red Hood.

You quickly secure your earnings in a safe place with the other girls’ earnings and you slide your red bralette back on before exiting back onto the floor to look for him, you felt like you had to find him and tell him.

When you spotted him, watching the floor and its patrons from the hall you approached quickly but not too quickly to turn eyes.

You paused for a moment beside him, facing the hall rather than the room. “Meet me in a private dancing room.” You said it quickly and quietly.

You looked over your shoulder, playing it off like he’s just a client paying for a private room with you as you walked past him to find an empty private room. Most are in use at this time of night, dancers with high-paying clients.

He raises an eyebrow under his helmet at your sudden appearance, and even more sudden demand and walk off. But something about the way your acting, the urgency and the secrecy, catches his attention.

Why were you suddenly so eager to talk to him? What did you overhear that made you want to speak with him in private?

He tried to push away the thoughts that came unbidden in his mind, the image of your body pressed up against his own for one.

You slipped into an empty one after scouring the PR hall and looks around, spotting the usual camera that’s in all the private rooms for the dancer's safety.

Alright, that's easy enough. You’d just have to dance like you would with any other private payer. You go over to the music panel, picking a quiet song to drown out anything you might say.

When he entered a few moments later you peeked at the camera in the corner one more time before you guided him to the couch, making him sit down as you slid her heels off. Private dances usually took up to an hour, so the girls never usually wore their heels.

You looked at the helmet concealing his face from you for a brief moment before you started your normal routine.

Your hands rested on his shoulders as the song started and slid down his arms, then his chest as it continued. You leaned into his space, a bit harder to do considering his helmet but you managed.

“I overheard two men talking,” you started off quietly, turned around and slid your hands down your legs as you bent your upper body sensually, like you usually do.

He watches your movements, a flicker of confusion in his eyes—not that you can see, anyway. You’re acting like you’re giving a private dance, but your words suggested something way more serious.

He leaned back against the couch, hand resting on your hip as you bent over—almost instinct to reach out. “About what?

You turned back around, feeling his gloved hand on your hip. You looked up at his concealed face as your hands slid to his thighs and you bent forward, sliding down to your knees and moving upward, giving the illusion of crawling up his body.

Your bralette covered breasts brushing against the fabric of his tactical pants. “Something about a ‘shipment’,” you said once you were close enough to his helmet.

Your head tilted as you slid one hand up his thigh towards his stomach and you dropped your head down his body before leaning back on your ass, both hands moving down his thighs again.

His jaw tenses. “And?” He asks softly, trying not to get distracted by your body pressed against his legs. Your small hands sliding down his thighs like that… Jesus. “What else did they say?” He asks again, his voice deeper this time.

You were making it really damn hard to concentrate.

You stood up to your feet, moving in and straddling his lap to keep the dance going, your eyes moving up to the camera in the corner before looking back down at him as you rolled your hips, leaning towards his helmet to continue speaking.

“They spoke about needing to find the shipment because of some ‘Red Hood’, which I assume is you considering the red helmet.” You slid your hands up his sides, the armor-plates of his suit beneath the leather jacket odd against your palms but it wasn’t bad.

“Smart girl,” he murmurs, caught somewhere between impressed and distracted. Fuck, you felt good in his lap. He slid his hands to your waist, more out of instinct than anything else. You’re damn good at this dance thing—a little too good. “When did they say this shipment would arrive?”

His murmured compliment makes your lips twitch with a smile slightly. You turned in his lap as his gloved hands slid to your waist, your thighs spreading open to accommodate the wide berth of his own toned thighs.

You arched your back against him, head laying on his shoulder as you rolled your ass against him. Usually you didn’t let patrons touch you, but he wasn’t exactly that was he? And you enjoyed it.

“They didn’t, just a shipment, you, and their boss growin’ annoyed with you.” You said quietly, lifting one hand up to rest it against the side of his covered neck, the fabric felt thick.

Rolling your ass against him a few more times before you’re leaning forward, hands positioned against his armored knees, back arched as you slowly undulate your hips.

The feeling of you grinding against him is driving him crazy, especially since he can tell you’re enjoying yourself—the minx.

Your words are music to his ears though, and the fact you’re helping him get information is even better. “Boss’ name.” He growls softly, his hands tightening slightly against your hips.

He really had that dominant thing going for him, naturally almost. Most guys you danced for are sleazy and would probably do anything you asked. This big boy wasn’t like that, you can tell that much.

You turned back around, settling on the spread of his thighs as you slid your hands up his upper thighs, close to his dick, and up his stomach and chest before you leaned into his space again—breasts against his sternum.

“Just between you and me, check in on a guy named Domino, runs this place.” You said quietly, by where you assumed his ear would be beneath that helmet.

The name Domino is seared into his memory instantly. He files it away for later, his focus snapping back to the present when you leaned in close. Fuck, you smelled good. Like spice and something else… something uniquely you. “You’re a good girl, anything else?”

You slid off his lap, slightly reluctant to leave the feel of his gloved hands on your skin. Kneeling on the ground again as your hands slowly trail down his body, inches from his dick again as they slide down the expanse of his thighs and down to his calves as you leaned in between his legs.

You looked up at him, sliding up his body, staying on the ground though. You get as high as his sternum before you’re leaning back and running your hands down his chest and armor.

“No, they were pretty vague and I didn’t want to linger.” You said quietly, knowing you’re helping whatever he’s seeking and that made you feel proud of finding what you did.

He nods, satisfied with the information given. You’re incredibly helpful, and he finds himself wanting to reward you for it. His gaze drops to your kneeling form, taking in the way you looked up at him with those pretty eyes.

“You’ve been very helpful,” He praises gruffly. “Stay out of trouble, pretty girl.”

A small smile growing on your lips at his praise for your help, leaving you feeling a little tingly. And his reactions to your touch were enticing and definitely a change from the usual type that comes through here.

You kept your hands on his calves, the material of his tactical pants rough against your palms. With him so close, you wondered briefly about the face that lays beneath that helmet. You brushed it away as quickly as it came.

You stood to your feet. “Will do, big boy.” You hummed as you pressed a finger against the cold and sleek helmet concealing his face, you pushed it back so his head titles up to look at you.

“Come watch me again sometime, year? You looked like you enjoyed it.” You teased a little, giving a grin.

He smirks beneath the helmet, surprised and honestly a little pleased by your boldness. Nobody’s ever touched his helmet like that before, especially not while giving him something like you were.

He lets himself imagine for a second what you might look like without all this makeup and bright lights, in normal clothes—probably fucking gorgeous.

“Maybe I will.”

You leaned down, still slightly between his spread legs, and pressed a kiss to the top-half of the red helmet, your crimson lipstick leaving a slightly visible imprint of your lips against the shiny helmet.

You pulled back, taking a few steps away from him as you picked your heels up off the floor. He was something else, something different to your usual and you liked it. You savored it.

“I’ll keep my eyes on them for the rest of my shift, for you.” You said as you leaned back against the wall to slide your heels back on, tightening the strap before you stood back up properly and blew him a cheeky kiss.

“See you later, Daddy.” You crooned loud enough for the camera in the corner to hear before opening the door to the private room and leaving to go back to the main floor.

The room is instantly colder without your body pressed against his. Jesus, you’re a damn vixen. “See you later, baby girl.” He mutters softly to the empty room. You’re smart, hot as sin, and helped him out without asking questions.

Fuck, he’s interested. Too interested.

You smiled to yourself as you walked down the dimly lit hallway, stomach fluttering and fuzzy with some new feeling you can’t really name. It’s not just attraction, or interest, it’s something else too. Something she wants to explore, to ravish.

You did keep your word, you kept your eyes on the two men the whole rest of your shift. Even when you was giving short lap dances to paying patrons or walking the floor—you did get one complaint for not paying attention to the guy you were giving a dance to—they didn’t do anything suspicious, but that felt more suspicious.

They didn’t even ask for any dances. Just sat and drank while watching the main stage routines.

As the night wore on, he kept a close eye on the two men you’d brought to his attention. They were acting suspiciously normal, even to him—It’s like a sixth sense, reading people. Their behavior only serves to make him more suspicious.

He decided to hang around the club until closing, sitting in a curtained booth, helmet still on, watching.

You didn’t know how to feel about it, they didn’t seem inherently bad or criminal, but they also felt off. The vibe they gave off was murky and made you want to keep your distance. You knew your big guy was watching from somewhere as well, which made you feel a bit safer.

But they were still a strange duo.

You had to give some old guy a lap dance and he kept trying to grope up on your breasts; something the old ones try. You took the money and walked away right after, security approaching the old guy to lecture him on the rules.

You approached the bar, leaning against it to slip your heels off as you talked to the bartender.

Jason watched from where he was as you approached the bar, you looked relieved to be taking a break. The bartender seemed to know you well, chatting with you and handing you a drink. It wasn’t hard to notice the way he looked at you, with a mix of admiration and something else.

It irritated the hell out of him.

You’ve known the bartender for a few months, he’s still a newbie but he’s nice. A young guy, probably nineteen. You thanked him for the drink, taking it in your free hand as you stepped away from the bar.

Your eyes scan the floor before landing on a booth with the privacy curtain closed—inside the booth you can see out, but no one can see inside. You could guess who’s behind it.

You walked over, slipping around the curtain and settling your drink on the table. “You know, you’re kind of predictable.” You said with a playful smile, setting your heels on the floor under the table.

He smirks beneath the helmet when his gaze lands on you sneaking into the booth, closing the curtain behind you. “Is that so?” He asks, his voice low and rough. He pats his lap invitingly. “Come here, baby girl. Let me hold you for a bit.”

You hadn’t taken him for the touchy type, with the body armor, helmet, and sexy deep voice. But hey, you’re not complaining.

You slid into the booth, settling on his lap easily. He’s a stranger you’re helping—a really tall, hot stranger that you can’t see the face of. You’re going absolutely insane.

You leaned back against him, pulling a wad of wrinkled bills out of your bralette. He’s a perfect perch to sit on while you count your lap dance tips.

“Haven’t heard much from your two guys, nothing about that shipment anymore.” You said idly as you counted your bills.

He wraps an arm around you possessively, watching you count money earned from nearly naked lap dances. Jesus Christ. “They haven’t done anything suspicious?” He asks softly, keeping his voice low. His free hand finds your bare thigh, playing with the tiny lace shorts you’re wearing.

You could get used to this, and somehow that feels dangerous. A stripper and a vigilante? Sounds like a goddamn book. You don't even know who he is by anything other than Red Hood and he doesn’t know you outside your stage name.

Two personas that shouldn’t go together but he’s gravitational.

“Not being suspicious here is basically a red flag.” You said, your lips twitching with a smile as you felt his gloved hand on your bare thigh, toying with your bottoms. You organized your bills by amount on the tabletop.

His gloved fingers trace the lace edge of your shorts, teasingly close to where he knows you have nothing underneath. “You think they’re planning something?” He asks, trying to focus on the conversation despite the distracting urge to slip his hand under your shorts.

You bite your bottom lip slightly, your lips curled in a smile despite it. He’s a bold, bold man. You already knew that, with the way he spoke and held himself, but he’s damn confident.

The way his gloved fingers traced along the edge of your bottoms teasingly, all while keeping the tone of seriousness. A man of variety, it seems.

“Probably, they looked it. Could be waiting for Domino.” You said quietly, your thighs shifting on his lap slightly as you folded your organized money up after counting it properly.

He grunts softly at your shifting thighs, the friction making his cock stir uncomfortably beneath your ass. Focus, asshole. He taps your thigh lightly before pulling his hand away. “Domino’s a busy guy. Could be a while.” His eyes narrow slightly.

You can feel the subtle bulge beneath your ass, although it’s just a subtle thing right now you know what a slowly growing dick feels like. You focused back on the topic when you felt his hand tap your thigh before being pulled away from you, unfortunately.

You hummed agreeingly at his assessment, but it’s not like either of them have anything better to do. This is his job and you’ve got nothing planned after your shift but to go home, get in a hot bath, and drink wine.

You shifted on his lap, putting the folded money in your bralette for safe keeping, of course.

He watched as you shifted on his lap, the movement causing his dick to harden further. Fuck. He clears his throat and adjusts you slightly, trying to get more comfortable. “You gonna stay here with me, baby girl? Keep an eye on those two until Domino shows up?”

You can feel him adjust your body slightly, your lips twitching with a stifled smile, although with how your sitting on him—back to chest—it’s not like he can see it.

You hummed contemplatively at his question, just for show really because of course you’re going to stay here with him and keep an eye on his targets.

His hardening dick in his tactical pants beneath your ass is much too fun to walk away now, messing with him when he’s trying to do vigilante work seems too good to pass up.

“Don’t see why not. You like my company, daddy.” You use the name you’d used earlier, mostly to be cheeky.

He lets out a low chuckle at your use of ‘daddy’, the sound rumbling in his chest against your back. “Baby girl, if you keep teasing me like that, you’re gonna find yourself bent over this table soon.”

His chuckle made your stomach flutter a little, it’s a nice sound you wouldn’t mind hearing him make again. The way he tries to warn you off your teasing like it’d work is cute, but he’s threatening you with a damn good time, really.

You leaned forward, planting your elbows on the table as you rubbed your ass side to side on him, glancing over your shoulder at him—technically his helmet, really.

“Maybe that’s what I want.” You said playfully with a small shrug of your shoulders, grinning a little.

He groans at your grinding, the teasing little brat. You’re purposefully trying to distract him now, he’s not stupid but he’s also not moving to stop you. Quite the opposite, really.

“Look at that perfect fucking ass grinding on me…” He mutters to himself, one gauntleted hand moving to grab your hip, squeezing tightly. Your flesh indenting with the shape of his fingers.

He just makes it too easy to get such good responses out of him, the sound of his ground made your skin tingle. His muttered words to himself about your ass making you smile slightly.

You do have a great ass, rounded and fatty—the kind you can grab and squeeze handfuls of. (for the sake of the story, I’m sorry my no booty bitches)

It’s perfect for the stripper thing, really. Most men love assed. You took his hand grabbing at your hip and squeezing it as encouragement to keep going. You ground your ass down against his bulge, the rough material of his tactical pants rubbing your skin.

He grunts as you ground against him, squeezing your hip harder as he pulls you back a little further, making you arch your back. His other hand moves to your other hip, holding you in place as he humps you slowly, the thick outline of his dick obvious against the thin fabric of your shorts.

The one good thing about being an exotic dancer is the flexibility, your body moves easily when he pulls you back further. Your back arches and your stomach presses against the table slightly. You let out a soft noise when he starts to hump you slowly, you can feel the thick outline of his dick against you through your bottoms.

It’s as delicious as it is arousing as fuck.

You rocked your ass back into him to meet his humping movements. Never in a million years did you think you’d ever have a vigilante rub his hard dick against your ass while he’s supposed to be working.

"Jesus Christ," He mutters softly, watching your full ass bounce back against him. His hips snap forward harder, giving you deeper thrusts. The helmet hides his expression, thank god, because you’ve got him wound up like a teen boy watching his first porno.

You groaned quietly when he starts to snap his hips harder, your ass jiggling with the rough movement. The deep thrusts he’s trying to imitate almost give an illusion that he’s fucking you without actually fucking you.

Dry humping in a curtained booth like two teenagers wasn’t something you saw yourself doing tonight but god he makes it feel so good.

One of your hands slid off the table and moved behind you to rest on top of his gloved hand on your hip. The front of your hips hitting the edge of the table slightly with each of his thrusts against your ass.

He grunts as you rested your hand on top of his. The heat of your touch burns through the glove he’s wearing. He pulls his hands back slightly, releasing your hips. You exhale quietly when he’s suddenly stopping, but jump a little when your shorts are pushed down, bunching around your knees, letting his dick grind directly against your bare flesh.

"Fuck these stupid shorts." He doesn’t give you time to react or say anything before his dick is grinding directly against bare flesh, the rough material of his tactical pants a mix between bordering uncomfortable and god damn arousing as fuck.

You dropped your head down on the table, biting your bottom lip to keep quiet. You spread your thighs open a little wider almost instinctively at the sensation.

He groans as your bare skin meets his pants, the feeling overwhelming. He grabs your hips again, lifting you slightly to press his dick against your wetness, grinding up and down against your bare pussy. He can feel how fucking wet you are through his pants, making them damp. "Fuck..."

He manhandles you like you weigh absolutely nothing, it’s surprising and unsurprising at the same time. He’s a large man, a vigilante, of course he can lift your body weight but you’re so unused to the ease of which he does it.

Your eyes roll back when he presses his clothed dick against your wet cunt, grinding up and down against you. Your hands curl into fists on the table as your hips jerk, it was almost impossible to keep quiet. You bite your lip harder, stifling any noise that wants to come out.

He grinds against you harder, his hips slapping against your ass with each thrust. He reaches down and unbuckles his belt, unzipping his pants and pushing them down just enough to free his dick. He presses the head of his dick against your entrance, slowly pushing inside of you.

Your body tenses when he suddenly presses the head of his cock against you, pushing inside. Your knuckles are white with how tight you’ve fisted them, your cunt clenching around his dick as he bullies his way inside your soaking pussy.

Unprepped it’s a tedious process, and he doesn’t seem like the kind of man to be patient. But your not exactly patient either.

The pain is almost good. Tingly all the way up from the base of her spine to the top of her head.

You can’t help it, a moan left your throat despite your attempts to keep it down. You might be a stripper but you haven’t been properly laid in a while, and he feels so fucking good.

Stretching you deliciously, inching his way inside slowly. Your hands unfurl and move behind you, you grab your ass, spreading your cheeks slightly to help him slide inside better.

"Fuck," he hisses as you spread your ass, allowing him in deeper. He grips your hips tightly, holding you in place as he starts thrusting slowly, savoring every tight inch of your slick pussy gripping his cock. The helmet hides how hard his eyes roll back at the incredible sensation.

You panted slightly, your head pressed to the table as you muffled your moans by keeping your lips closed. Breaths fanning the smooth wood of the table audibly as he thrusts slowly, letting you feel every drag of his cock against your velvety walls.

Your fingers dig into the fatty flesh of your ass, keeping yourself spread for him. You groaned softly, your mind almost going blank at the deliciously agonizing pace he’s set. Able to savor him fucking you but god, it’s almost unbearable.

He feels so good and he’s barely done anything but sink inside and slowly thrust.

He picks up the pace gradually, his hips slapping against your ass harder and faster with each thrust. The sound of flesh meeting flesh fills the small booth, mixing with your muffled moans. He leans forward, placing a gloved hand on the table next to your head, the other gripping your hip tightly.

Each thrust of his hips slapping against your ass harder and faster forces a moan out of your throat despite yourself. You groaned and whimpered, your ass bouncing each time he slapped his hips against it.

One of your hands left your ass and moved up to hold onto the wrist of his hand next to your head on the table. Using it as some kind of stability as he jerked your body against the smooth wood of the table with his thrusts.

Your eyes roll back and you moaned more consistently, your free hand grabbed his other gloved hand on her hip. “Fuck… f.. fuck.” His hard pace has your voice choking off.

"Shh, quiet," he whispers harshly, though he knows his own breathing has gotten heavier beneath the helmet. His thrusts become more forceful, hitting deeper and faster against your tight walls. He tightens his grip on your hip hard enough to leave marks, knowing you probably won't mind.

“Mmhf,” you tried to muffle your noises by bringing your hand around to your mouth, covering it.

Your eyes are squeezed shut, stomach muscles tightening as he fucks you deep and fast. His grip on your hip is almost bruising, but fuck if it isn’t hot.

Your hips hit the edge of the table with each of his rough inward thrusts, sweaty skin making your skin stick. The coil in your stomach tightens, building fast until it snaps.

You moaned against your hand brokenly, your eyes rolled under your lids as you came hard and fast—seeing stars for a second. He felt the way your pussy tightened and pulsed around his dick, the sensation forced him to grit his teeth to keep from following.

Your silent orgasm makes your body tense and jerk slightly, pushing your ass back against him harder. He growls softly, picking up the pace again to make those tight walls milk his dick.

You don’t have a moment of recovery from your orgasm, his cock continuing to drag in and out of you hard and fast. Your hand drops from your mouth to the table, your breaths being pushed out of your lungs with his thrusts, mixed with broken off moaning.

The sensitivity feels like it went up almost unbearably, your stomach tightening and relaxing with your quick breaths and his brutal pace. “Fuck— oh, my god.” You choked the words out barely coherently, your cunt pulsing in time with your heartbeat.

"That's it, take it," He pants, his hips snapping forward to bury himself balls deep inside you. He can feel his own orgasm building, the pressure in his gut growing more intense with each thrust. His hands grip you tighter, fingers digging into soft flesh as he chases his release.

Your lips parted in a silent moan, the sound getting caught in your throat, with the snap of his hips. You do take it, and fuck if you’re ever going to even think of doing anything else.

Your mind blank, cunt throbbing with sensitivity. His tightening grip on your hips is almost too much, his fingers digging into the soft flesh like nothing.

“Oh, god. Fuck, fuck— m’gonna come—“ You don’t even know if the words strung together coherently before your second orgasm hits you harder than the first. Your body shaking, moaning choked off, your cunt convulsing around him.

His own body stiffens and jerks violently as he follows you into another climax. His dick pumps stream after stream of hot, sticky cum inside you, filling you up completely.

He bites back a loud groan, his body shuddering as he drains his balls into your tight little cunt. "Fuck…”

He’s not sure how he’s going to explain how he let a lead get away from him to Tim. Cause he’s sure as hell not sharing this part with him.

#dc comics #jason todd #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd x you #jason todd smut #dc jason todd #dc smut #dc imagine #oneshot #dc x reader

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miguelhugger2099 · 1 year ago

Text

Here, Kitty Kitty

Summary: Miguel O'Hara is your world's Black Cat. A/N: me when there's no fanfic of miguel as black cat: fine, ill do it myself Art: Marbipa on twt

Miguel x Reader, No warnings, a little suggestive but that's it, Word Count: 2,535

Swinging on your webs, you hopped from building to building and made sure to to keep an eye out for any more crime during your patrol. You hoped that tonight would be a breeze but unfortunately, the life of a superhero will never rest. You landed by one of the police antennas and heard a call coming through their radios. Tilting your head, you focused on the frequencies to get a better signal. "All units be advised. We've got a call for a robbery in Lower Manhattan. Heading there now, requesting backup." You glanced up at the sky seeing the moon illuminate brightly. "I guess I could help the boys in blue." You shrug and thwip your web shooters, the silk spinning and sticking to another building before jumping off to gain momentum. You hauled yourself up after swinging, diving down between apartments and just barely slipping through a couple fire exits. You thought about who it might be this time. Maybe it was the Shocker again. Oh, he was always so easy to make fun of. No, that wasn't possible: you put him in prison. You just hoped it wasn't another one of Tombstone's men--they were always a little too cocky. Maybe just a couple of randoms trying to make extra cash the wrong way–a boring way to end the night but at least it'd be easy. You swung faster after hearing the sirens of police cars echoing throughout the night of New York. You saw a few police cars behind you and you giggled to yourself, playing a one sided game of who would get there faster. Always the competitive one you were, you stuck your webs onto two poles and pulled back so hard that they bent slightly. Your forearms burned until you let go, slingshotting yourself in the sky and allowing yourself to glide above the city. You wished to take off your mask and feel the breeze properly but you settled for the ripples flapping on your suit. "Robbery, robbery, robbery..." You murmured, swiveling your head around to see where the robbery could've been. You blinked as you spotted the familiar colors of blue and red flashing in the distance. "Robbery!" You grinned.

Zipping through the wind, you landed above what you now see is a jewelry store. You crawl into the shadows, making sure none of the policemen could see you. "Hm. I guess they win this time." You mutter to yourself about your little game. Perching on the ledge, you listened in on their conversation. "Any security footage?" One policewoman asks. "We're checking them now but so far after entering the perimeter, all cameras have been damaged." "Did you see what was stolen?" "A few rings and bracelets. But the owner is more concerned with a diamond necklace. Says it was going to be auctioned off later this weekend." You tilt your head in thought. And they got away? Definitely not some regular citizens. You began to feel a headache creep on you. You couldn't handle another big bad to fight this weekend. You stepped down from the ledge carefully and walked around the top of the building to find a vent. Once you did, you ripped it open and crawled inside, your body sticking to the ceiling. You looked around and saw various cases filled with glittering jewels, ranging in size and colors. You crawled through another room and hopped off the ceiling with a small thud. Looking behind you, you made sure no one had seen you and you began rummaging through the room to find any evidence lying around to catch the perpetrator.

You found yourself in front of the glowing case in the middle. You circled around it, the eyes of your mask squinting at the empty sloth that would've fit a giant diamond necklace inside. The glass was perfectly intact instead of ruthlessly shattered. This was no common thief. No fingerprints, everything was spotless and clean. You took a closer look. "Looking for this, arañita?" You hear a smooth voice behind you. You spin around, shooting your webs to trap the wrist of the stranger behind you to the wall. The familiar tall man you've had a complicated relationship with, Miguel O'Hara a.k.a. Black Cat. His skin tight black suit hugged his built body, white fur fluffed at his forearms and around his shoulders. His suit was opened at his chest, a long slit that gave everyone a nice view of his tanned skin littered with little black and graying hairs. His dark brown eyes were decorated with a thin diamond shaped mask that did little to hide his ‘secret identity’. His dark brown hair was in its usual slick back, gray strands curling in his locks and a pretty black collar around his neck. He tilted his head at you and lifted his other hand to cut your webs off him with an extracted claw. “Eso es como se trata un amigo? I thought your whole thing was being friendly, arañita.” Miguel says light-heartedly, unphased at the way your mask narrowed at him. You noticed that the hand you had webbed up was holding onto a pouch. Miguel slips open the pouch by its strings, lifting out the diamond necklace. He clips it around his neck and it shines in the moonlight that seeps through the ceiling window. He admires his reflection in the cases, his gloved hand caresses the jewels, his nail being gentle with grazing over it. “Isn’t she just a beauty? She’s not my style, personally, but I can appreciate her.” His eyes meet yours and he grins. “I think you would make it look even more beautiful.” You ignore his blatant flirting, your hands itching at your sides, wanting to snatch the pouch from him and return it to the police so the owner could have a good night’s rest–so you could have a good night’s rest. Now knowing the one behind this was Black Cat, your headache had gotten worse and you knew it’d be a long night. Miguel stalks up to you after taking the necklace off and placing it back in his pouch.

“What’s wrong, arañita? Cat got your tongue?” He smirked, his claw grazing under your chin and making you look up at him. You bit down on your tongue. This cat always had a way of pissing you off. “I thought we agreed you’d put this behind you. You’re rich. What more could you possibly want?” You grab his wrist and take his hand off from your chin. “Would you believe me if I said I just wanted your attention?” His lips curl up, showing off his fangs. “No.” “Ouch. I’m hurt. I thought we had something.” His smile doesn't falter. “Give back the jewels, Miguel.” ‘Hmm. No. These could go for a lot of money. Way more than whatever that auction it is they’re doing.”

“Miguel, you promised me you would be good.”

His eyes soften for a split second. The memory of your last encounter months ago where you two had spent the night together in the city up on the Empire State building. Your relationship was a confusing one. There had been nights where you were on opposite sides and other nights where he answered your call for help.

Miguel began to trust you. Despite his tendencies to slip between your fingers, you always spoke to him kindly when he wasn’t pushing your buttons–even then he knew you never harbored any actual hatred for him. So after a long night, he confided in you that this was his new life and it wouldn’t change–he’d always come back to a life of crime, it’s who he was. You believed he was better than that.

That night before he disappeared for months, he pulled up your mask just enough to see your lips and he kissed you, leaving with a promise to do better. But cats were known to do whatever they wanted. “You know I’m not good like you, arañita.” His smile turns melancholy. “But you could be.” You insisted. “Give me the pouch.” “I can’t do that, amor.”

You huffed through your nose, jaw clenching, and you tried to snatch the bag from his hand as quickly as you could. Miguel was faster, his clawed hand grabbing you and forcing you to bend over the glass display of jewelry with your arm behind your back.

You grunted when your cheek met the hard glass and attempted to worm your way out of his hold. You feel Miguel lean over your body, his warm breath whispering next to your ear.

“I've thought about you like this. Maybe with a little less clothing.” He teases and chuckles when you stiffen.

“Miguel.” You warn lowly.

“It's been nice seeing you again, arañita, but I've got to run.” You hear a dull clanking sound along with a small whizz.

You felt rope like strings wrap around your body and arms and suction themselves to the glass he slammed you on, trapping you.

Shit.

You crane your head as much as you could to see Miguel take a step back away from you. Just for shits and giggles, he plucks a pair of earrings from a stand and places it inside his bag before raising his hand up at the ceiling window.

Miguel gives you a wink and a charming smile and his grappling hook zips out from his wrist, denting itself in the wall. It pulls him up and he pops the window open, successfully escaping without leaving a trace.

You groan and knock your forehead on the cold glass. With your strength, you pop the rope off you, stretching your arm and wrist out.

Police began to enter inside the building, their commotion and their comms going off and getting closer to you.

Collecting the ropes, you webbed yourself out through the same window Miguel used and closed it behind you. You tossed the ropes away and began swinging around, trying to sense any trace of Miguel.

“Dammit, kitty.” You mutter under your breath. You ignored the way your heart pounded as you scanned every nearby corner. The sight of him after so long sent flutters in your stomach. You ignored the lingering hot touch of his fingers around you, the weight of his body towering over yours. His hips that gently bucked up against–

You tumbled on the roof of a brick building. This was not how you wanted your night to go. You let out deep breaths, your arms and legs spread out as you lay on your back.

After a couple of minutes, you sat up. You ripped your mask off and rubbed the sleep out of your eyes. You felt a turmoil of emotions.

When Miguel had kissed you that night, it broke your heart. He felt so sure of himself to give you affection but at the cost of his disappearance right after. It hurt but you thought if he could turn his life around for the better, it'd be worth all the heartbreak and what ifs.

You stood up and placed your mask back on your head, your arm raising up to shoot a web when your spider senses alerted you of someone.

You turn around to see Miguel, half of his body in the shadows.

“I don't have the pouch so don't shoot.” He raises his hands in a mock surrender.

“Didn't you say you needed to run?” Your voice spits and Miguel nods.

“I also said it was nice to see you again.” He walks up to you, his hands gently placing themselves on your hips. You stand tall, not wanting him to know his effect on you. “So forgive me, I'm a little selfish. I wanted to see you one more time.”

“Why are you back?” You mumble. Why are you back in New York?

“I'm sorry, corazón. You know me. It's what I do.”

“So you lied to me.”

Miguel winces. “No. No, I didn't. I tried, believe me.” His hands squeeze your hips. “I tried for you but…it's not for me. This,” He gestures to himself, clad in black spandex and white fur. “This is who I am now. It's how I have to live.”

He cups your cheek, his thumb caressing your mask-covered face. He wonders what you looked like underneath. Were you as beautiful as your body? Your heart? He dreamed so. He knew so.

“I still don't believe that.” You whisper, leaning into his touch, hands slowly going around the back of his neck and he takes it as an invite to bring you closer.

“You're still so naive.” He murmurs.

“You said you liked that about me.” You quipped. Miguel chuckles.

“I did say that.”

You feel a smile creep up on your face, your heart feeling lighter at the sound of his laugh.

“Hopefully we'll cross paths more often now that I'm back in New York.” Miguel grins. “Te extrañe.”

“I missed you too.” You whisper. With your chest pressed up against his, you could faintly feel the rumble of him purring. Miguel's claws run under your throat, flicking up the fabric of your mask to expose just a bit of your neck as if wanting to lift it off. “But you know I have to turn you in for robbing.” You add.

“Hm. A shame.” He mumbles dismissively. He continues to ride up your mask and you let him. He stops at your nose and leaves it there, eyes focused on the way your lips parted. “Kiss for good luck?” He asks. His eyes glint when you licks your lips subconsciously.

“You’re pushing it, kitty.” You mumble back but your arms tighten around him. Miguel purrs at the pet name.

“Just one kiss.” He insists, leaning down to brush his lips against your mask where your forehead was. You tilt his head further down with your hand at the back of his head and he follows. With your guidance, his lips find yours and your heart skips a beat. Miguel tugs you closer by the waist, pressing your chest and hips together. His hands crawl up your spine while he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. You match his pace with your eyes closed while you feel his soft lump lips caressing yours. You didn’t know how long the kiss lasted–not when his hands roamed your body, squeezing you and devouring as much of your tiny moans as he could. Your hands curled up at the base of his neck while he swiped his tongue across your bottom lip. Gasping, you allowed him access but he pulled away. “I’ll see you next time, arañita.” Miguel whispers against your lips,the fangs of his teeth gently nibble on your top lip before he pulls away. He squeezes your waist, his touch lingering and aching to keep you near but he lets go. He takes a step back from you and jumps back into the night, the sound of his grappling hook zipping through the air faintly. You sigh, trying to slow down your heartbeat with a hand over your chest when suddenly you pause. “Dammit…” You huff and kick a pebble away from you.

a/n: black cat miguel o'hara if you can hear me, please save me, save me black cat miguel o'hara

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara x you #atsv miguel #miguel o'hara #miguel spiderman #miguel spiderverse #miguel ohara #spiderman 2099 #miguel x you #spiderman 2099 x reader #miguel o'hara imagine

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fanaticsnail · 30 days ago

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Jinbei for Kissing Booth please? If you're not comfortable with him, I would also enjoy Pedro or Zeff instead

The Kissing Booth - Jinbei for jinbeioyabun

Word count: 1,300+

Notes: Thank you so much for your ask, my wonderful friend. I had to get this one out for your birthday today because I love and appreciate you so much. Happy birthday, El. I hope you have a wonderful day.

The music lingered on in its large swell within the shrouded scenery. Laugher of children continued to melodically entwined with shrieks from a variety of rollercoasters bordering the perimeter of the large fete. Coastal waves rolled in with the tide, dancing within your vicinity with the scent of popcorn and candyfloss.

Tapping your thighs to the tune of the music, you began to hum its melody while awaiting for your approaching next guest: all remaining shrouded by the bandeau covering your vision, as per the rules of the 'kissing booth'. You halted your tapping as the familiar crunch of footsteps gathered at your booth. The paper scrunch of Beri pressed into your jar caused you to smile and ready yourself in your seat for a kiss gifted to you from your visitor.

As they sat down on the stool, you could almost feel an aura of calm cloak you both in its shadow. The air felt soothing, gentle, and more full than you had been breathing within for the few minutes prior. Curiosity nipped at your heels as you awaited a sound, a hint of a whisper, or a conversation to rise organically between you.

“Uh… Forgive me, I…” the rumble of a gentle baritone coaxed its way from their lips, “...I am unfamiliar with this practice. Would you mind explaining it to me?” A larger smile grew on your lips at his soft question.

“It is fairly simple, but I am more than happy to talk you through it,” you nod along while you felt a warmth bloom in your cheeks beneath the blindfold, “You place your Beri in the jar, honors system,” you clarified with a swipe of your hand in the air between you, “And you and I share a kiss.”

“A kiss,” the voice re-clarified, “A small amount of Beri for a kiss.”

“It is for charity,” you utter softly, careful of your words the longer you feel weighed down by them, “And it is my first time offering myself up at the hands of strangers. I am filling in for a friend.”

“Would you prefer I wait for your friend?” they asked as you felt a much larger hand place itself over your smaller one, “The last thing I desire is to make you feel uncomfortable. I cannot imagine the toll of anxiety placed on you to be beneath that shroud and at the mercy of others.”

You were taken aback by their comment, furrowing your brows in concern while truly thinking about it deeper. It was true, you were blind to the person sitting across from you, but the trust you had in your friends and the security staff to come to your aid outweighed any inhibitions you had far prior to their question. Gently giving their hand a squeeze, your smile returned to your lips.

“While I am thankful for your challenging my wisdom, and comforted by you suggesting to wait for my friend, I don’t think that would be fair or necessary,” you nodded sincerely, raising your other hand to cup over their knuckles, “Just you suggesting that has put me more at ease with you, uh…”

“...Am I to give you my name?” they ask softly, feeling ever nearer to your face by the soft warmth of their breath, “Or would that defeat the purpose of the shroud?” At the feeling of their lips’ approach, you felt hypnotised by their safe aura and tilted your head to welcome them in.

“It would defeat the purpose, yes,” you admitted, almost pressing your lips on theirs yet lingering in their nearness for a moment longer, “I am at your mercy, and you have me at a complete disadvantage.”

“A disadvantage?” they hummed as their smile was tangibly felt in their voice, “Would you please elaborate on that for me?” Their remaining hand moved to cup your cheek, informing you more on their size by the fact their palm and fingers almost engulfed your head within its gentleness. They controlled your every motion in this soft grip, yet neither led you in, nor held you back, only adding more to the depths of their respect for you.

“You have seen my smile,” you whispered against their lips, demonstrating your grin as you leaned in further, “Yet, I can tell yours is far more brilliant than mine would ever be.” They chuckled at your commentary, the warm velvet of their voice all but consuming your soul with its presence.

“You are quite the flatterer,” their charm only exceeded to woo you further. Their hand gently guided your lips to theirs, halting to add simply, “The best I can offer you at this stage, is to feel my smile meet with your own. There, you can best judge its ‘brilliance’, or so you so eloquently put it.”

The moment your lips met theirs, you felt the music slow, the laughter fade to a dull pulse, the shrieking subside from rollercoasters, and the scent of treats diminish from your nose. You were completely overtaken by your heart leaping into your throat from the gentlest pressure forged softly against your lips. Their lips were larger than yours, they, obviously, much taller than you from the feeling of their lips and hands alone. They completely outweighed your body in every way, and had absolute control over their actions, yet they allowed you to take the lead with this kiss.

Parting your lips, your tongue gently caressed their skin, earning a gasped moan from them at your boldness. From there, you felt the sharpened edges of triangular teeth expanding from their gums, akin to rows of knives or the tips of a razor’s edge.

This was a fishman.

A large fishman.

The moment you realised this, you felt two, large tusks frame your lips with their kiss. They could feel your hesitation at your realisation and began to pull away from the kiss, only to be dragged back in by your hands finding the material of their collar. A yukata, kimono, or jinbei of some kind was on their chest, only serving as an anchor for you to rein in the return of their gentle kiss.

The deep intensity of this kiss remained only for a moment longer before you almost had to tear yourself away from it. There was something so magnetic, so safe, so secure about their presence, you wanted to drown in it forever. Lingering with their forehead on yours for a moment longer, the atmosphere once again found your ears like a returning pulse after a moment of rapture.

“You are a fishfolk?” you asked with a small smile, already feeling the kiss-bruised skin of your lips begin to rise. They took a small breath in at your question, gently moving their hand from cupping your face to softly pinch your chin in their grip.

“Should I have informed you beforehand?” they asked you with sincerity expelling from every syllable, “Would it had made a difference in how I was to be received by you?”

“Not in the slightest,” you smile at them, gently leaning your head down to press a soft kiss to their thumb, “It is all part of the fun, and besides, I was right.” They retracted their hands from within the one on your lap and your chin, just as you released their collar from your grip. “You do have a brilliant smile.”

“And you,” they gasped out softly as you heard the rustle of readjusting their collar and attire, “Are still quite the flatterer. Thank you for the kiss, the company, and the trust you have given me in these small moments together. I will cherish the memory fondly.”

“As will I,” you nod in return, almost mourning each step they took to leave your booth.

Throughout the remainder of the venture with his crew, Jinbei couldn’t pull the smile from his face even if he wanted to. All that he felt was your lips on his, your smile in his minds eye, and the complete wonder in your company. He was hoping to catch your eyes after your shift ended, pleading that you felt the pull of magnetism as strongly as he did. Should you meet his eyes, he would be all the more grateful for your mirroring of his expression, as you matched his brilliant smile untainted by woven cloth.

#one piece #x reader #ask snail #snail answers #the kissing booth #follower milestone event #kissing booth event #jinbei #jinbei x reader #jinbei one piece #x gn!reader #one piece kisses #one piece fluff #happy birthday my wonderful friend

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real-thick · 1 month ago

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BULLS LOCK HORNS featuring 4 uniformed and giant S.W.A.T. brute lunks. Video reward now live on my site for members this week along with a second bonus video too hot for Tumblr! Gain access to these videos and more in the source link.

A curious passerby is drawn to the leather and cigar smell of SGT. CARROLL's huge gloved hand. CARROLL blesses his face with the aroma as the passerby grabs his hand to take it all in. He takes his utility vest off and drops it heavily to the pavement so he can hit a massive front double bicep flex for his new fan. The fan grabs onto the giants arm to go on a ride, legs dangling below. CARROLL picks him up and shoves his tongue in his throat. The fan loves it and runs his hands past CARROLL's thick neck rolls on the back of his head.

SGT. BRZEZINSKI commandingly surveys the street he is to secure before a big raid on an outlaw biker stash house. The camera rotates showcasing his immense bulk and meatbutt just before he takes a perimeter walk through the street. Bullneck lovers will appreciate his appearance.

BIG RED flexes his big biceps while waiting for his super-chili-cheese-dog-deluxe-bacon-extra-cheese-melt melt. BIG RED tries his best to keep a straight face at the officer briefing him on a situation he wants help with, where a bunch of normie cops got their lunch stolen by a group of giant bikers. To keep from laughing and to shut the officer up, he picks him up and plants some wet kisses on him assuring him he'll take care of the situation for his cuteness.

SGT. CORTEZ loves flexing the beef after a successful S.W.A.T. raid. He knocks the perp to his knees, and grabs the back of his head to show him what will happen if he tries anything. It turns out they got the wrong guy, an innocent man used as a decoy. CORTEZ noticing the normie still shaken by the whole ordeal, gives him a big kiss and picks him up and cradles him in his massive arms to take him away from the commotion.

Hearing about this mistake, SGT. CARROLL heads over and starts to tease CORTEZ's belly and rubbing it. This pisses CORTEZ off and they start swinging hamfists at each other trying to overpower the other. Their immense size is immoveable as their strength is matched from pushing each other in the gym. They give in to the long time undercurrent of sexual tension in their once platonic friendship and start kissing. Now something more?

#uniform #swat police #police #cop #SWAT uniform #black boots #powerbull #powerbrute #powerbear #powerbears #musclechubs #size difference #giants #musclegainer #musclegainers #MASSTODONS #REAL THICK

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khanhannahlewis · 4 months ago

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Hannah watches the throttle of her 70 ton Guillotine as she looks over the briefing from the SLDF operations center.

“Blood Spirit actual to all points. An hour ago, perimeter scouts detected roughly a Level II worth of ragtag enemy forces pushing towards Clan occupied territory. Operations estimates their objective as an ammo dump 20km to the north of our camp. We managed to secure the bid for the defense due to our small force size and proximity. Enemy force is estimated at 3 Battlemechs medium or smaller, 3 combat vehicles, and several platoons of mechanized infantry. By default, assume zellbrigen is in place, though act at your own digression. Our secondary objective is to secure material for the Clan. Capture everything you can, take bondsmen, and secure the ammo dump for our own use. Terrain is grasslands and light woods, with the possibility of frozen marshes and ponds under the snow.”

@the-tired-merc @is-the-battlemech-cool-or-not

#operation touchdown

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codenamereaper · 3 months ago

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The Ghost & The Reaper

Summary: She’s the blade in the dark. He’s the shadow that never misses. Working side by side, they move like one—but keeping their distance is harder than staying alive.

Warnings & tags: Ghost x OFC, slow burn, friends (colleagues?) to lovers, mutual pining, angst, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, childhood trauma (& trauma bonding), multiple POV

Previous Chapter | Read on AO3

Chapter Two

Reaper

The flight back was quiet—debriefing handled mid-air, the weight of the mission already settling behind us.

At some point, Price radioed ahead and I caught one line:

"Have Soap on standby."

That made me glance between him and Ghost. Not because I cared much, but because I’ve learned to pay attention when men in charge start moving pieces around.

Ghost didn’t react. Just adjusted the strap on his gear absently and kept staring out the window like the clouds held secrets. But there was something under the surface that I couldn’t quite place.

There was a lot about him I couldn’t place, if we’re being honest. He sat still for most of the flight, arms crossed over his chest, eyes behind the mask completely impassive. If he had thoughts about me or the mission, he kept them to himself.

I wasn’t about to break the silence to ask.

When the transport finally touches down, the sky is already that slate-grey kind of miserable, typical for the Scottish Highlands. It’s just past 7am but it might as well be midnight for how exhausted I feel.

The second the doors open, the chill bites through my tac gear when a sharp, damp wind cuts across the landing pad. It’s the kind of cold that slips under your collar like it’s got a grudge.

I swing my rucksack over one shoulder as we descend the ramp of the helo. Price walks beside me. “Welcome to RAF Scáthach*. Looks can be deceiving.”

When my boots hit the ground, I take a look around. It appears to be an abandoned facility at first glance, but I see a watchtower on the other side that could be a perfect nest for a sniper. I bet if I looked harder I'd spot some cameras around the perimeter fencing and other security measures.

“Above ground, it's just crumbling hangars and old watchtowers. Officially, this place doesn’t exist,” Price explains. “The good stuff's buried underground, where no one can see.”

We make our way across the cracked tarmac and I clock a guy watching us in silence. Tall, mohawk, smaller than Ghost but still looks like he can rip someone’s head off with a well-placed roundhouse.

He stands off to the side, leaning against the outer wall of an old building, arms crossed, clearly waiting for us. He looks well-rested, casual, like he hasn’t just been pulled into something unexpected. Soap, then, I assume.

He straightens when Ghost and Price approach. Then, the moment his gaze lands on me, I see it—a flicker of surprise. His brows lift just slightly, then he blinks, masking it almost as fast. But not fast enough. I can practically hear whatever assumption he had about me shattering in real-time.

His eyes dart between Ghost and Price, questioning, like this is some kind of prank they’re trying to pull on him. I resist the urge to smirk.

He probably expected someone twice my size. A guy, maybe, built like a brick wall. Probably someone like Ghost. Anything but a girl barely brushing five-foot-four, blood under her fingernails and half a tired smile.

Price stops in front of him, and they clasp hands. “You’ll be sharing quarters with MacTavish,” he tells me over the shoulder. “Only spare bunk we’ve got at the moment. That okay?”

I don’t particularly care who I’m bunking with as long as they keep to themselves. So I shrug. “Fine by me, Captain.”

The last few days have been a series of missions, movements, and barely-there downtime, and the thought of finally having a place to drop my gear—even if just temporarily—is more appealing than it should be.

Soap coughs once, then turns to me properly. “Right then. You must be Reaper.”

“Last I checked,” I reply, adjusting my pack over my shoulder.

“Johnny MacTavish,” Soap says, offering a hand. “Everyone calls me Soap. You don’t have to, but you’ll hurt my feelings if you don’t.”

“Reaper,” I say, gripping his hand briefly. “I’m sure you’ll survive.”

That earns me a grin. “Oh, I like you already.”

Then his gaze flicks to Ghost and lingers, likely a silent check-in, an unspoken question.

Ghost tilts his head ever so slightly, voice low and dry. “She’ll do.”

I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms. “High praise, really. I’ll put that on my résumé.”

Soap blinks like he’s just been slapped and his brows twitch up. That pause says everything—it’s clearly not the answer he expected. Then he gives me a silent once-over, less judgment and more genuine curiosity this time.

“Soap will show you around.” Price claps a hand on my shoulder, effectively pulling my attention. “Get some rest, kid.”

I nod before he peels away without another word. Ghost follows, grunting low as he walks past us.

“Charming fella,” I mutter, as soon as he’s out of ear shot.

“Absolutely,” Soap chuckles, and gives me a quick head nod. “Didn’t picture you like this,” he admits. “Figured you’d be… scarier.”

“Most people do,” I say. “That’s usually their first mistake.”

He grins wider. Then jerks his thumb toward the underground entrance where the others disappeared into. “C’mon. I’ll show you where we’re holed up. Try not to judge our little underground bunker too hard. We’re very sensitive.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ve seen worse.”

I follow him inside, boots echoing off the concrete. He talks a mile a minute, tossing out nicknames, half-finished stories, and warnings about the quirks of the base as if he’s afraid silence might swallow us whole.

“Mind the third step down this hall—creaks loud enough to wake Price from a coma,” he says, pointing as we descend. “Training area’s on this floor, armory’s just past that. Medical bay’s next to it—don’t ask why, you’ll figure it out eventually.”

He takes a sharp left and slaps a big red button on the wall. A door groans open, revealing another underground stretch of the base—concrete walls, dim lights, and a chill that seeps into your bones. The air smells like metal, coffee and faint gun oil.

“Mess is closer to the barracks. You’ll probably get lost a few times, but if you smell burnt toast and shitty coffee, you’re close,” he continues. “And if the lights flicker twice in there, that’s not Morse code—it just means Gaz tried to microwave something he shouldn’t.”

I arch a brow. “Define ‘something he shouldn’t.’”

“Let’s just say the inside of the microwave still has some charred bits of melted plastic we never managed to get rid of.”

“Lovely.”

Soap grins. “You’ll get used to the chaos. Just keep your boots off Price’s table and don’t touch Ghost’s tea stash.”

That catches me off guard more than it should. “Ghost drinks tea?”

“Religiously. The man’s an enigma, but God forbid you mess with his Earl Grey. Had a bloke once who drank the last packet—swear Ghost’s hand twitched like he wanted to reach for his handgun right there.”

“Sounds about right.”

We move deeper into the base. It’s a mix of sterile corridors and old reinforced concrete, the kind of place that still hums with Cold War memories. The smell of disinfectant coming from the hallway leading to the medbay overpowers everything else before we go down another flight of stairs.

“Quarters are down this way,” he says, motioning me forward. Soap moves like he’s used to being in control of his space, comfortable but still easygoing. “You know, I’m pretty sure Price stuck you with me ‘cause I’m the most socially adjusted one around.”

“Uh, is that code for ‘loud enough to break the tension when Ghost’s being extra murdery’?”

Soap snorts. “You catch on quick.” He pushes open the door leading to a long hallway lined with evenly spaced doors. “So why’d you sign up? What made you wanna do this job?”

I exhale, reading the names on the doors as we walk by. “Didn’t sign up.”

Soap frowns slightly. “What do you mean?”

I glance at him, debating how much to say. “Price invited me.”

His expression shifts, curiosity deepening. “That so?”

I nod. “Maybe he thought you lot needed someone to keep your asses out of trouble.”

Soap lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, that’s rich. Price must’ve thought you were some miracle worker, then.”

“Something like that,” I say with a half smile.

“Think you’re up to the task?”

I shrug. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Soap watches me for a beat, then nods. “Fair enough.”

We pause in front of a reinforced door with two nameplates already slapped on it—Soap and now, underneath, Reaper.

“How official,” I mutter.

“Price likes to label things,” Soap says, pushing the door open and stepping aside with a mock bow. “After you.”

The room is basic—two bunks, two lockers, a small desk shoved against the far wall. The covers on the bed furthest from the door are slightly wrinkled, like someone was lying there not long ago. There’s a black notebook on the desk and a half-empty bottle of water on the same side.

I step inside and drop my bag beside the bed that doesn’t look lived-in. This is not much different from every other barracks I’ve ever stayed in. At least it’s not just an old mattress on the floor, so that’s something to be grateful for.

The adrenaline from the mission's long gone, and exhaustion is settling in like a weighted blanket. I need to sleep, I need food and a shower. Perhaps not in that order.

Soap watches me for a second, then nudges the door shut with his boot and leans against the wall. “So… what’s your deal?”

I glance at him. “That’s subtle.”

He grins, unrepentant. “C’mon. You’ve got the whole ‘mysterious loner’ thing going on. Ghost’s got it too, but you’ve got a different flavor. Less murdery, more… haunted.”

“Charming.”

“I mean that in the nicest possible way.”

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I unzip my rucksack and start unpacking—just the essentials. Extra ammo mags and spare knives go on my locker. A beat-up copy of Bravo Two Zero that’s survived five deployments and two IEDs on my side of the desk. My zippo lighter resting on top of it.

Soap sits on his bed, watching me like he’s trying to piece me together. His eyes follow me as I move around the room, tracking my every motion like I’m some cryptid he’s studying.

I can feel the weight of it—his curiosity. He’s waiting for me to drop some kind of hint, a clue that might tell him who the hell I am and where I came from.

Tough luck. I’m not going to make that an easy task.

Instead of giving him what he wants, I ask, “You always this chatty?”

“Nah,” he says with a mischievous smile. “Only when I’m bored. Or nervous.”

The scent of gunpowder and sweat clings to everything I’m wearing. I peel off my tac vest and toss it on the floor. Then tug my overshirt over my head, sleeves still stained with dried blood, and drop it onto the growing pile.

“Which one is it now, bored or nervous?”

Soap shifts on his bed and lies on his back, sprawled out like he’s got nowhere to be. One arm flung behind his head, the other resting on his chest.

He grins at me, unabashed. “You’re kinda scary so I’m a bit nervous, not gonna lie.”

I snort under my breath and tug off one of my boots, tossing it with a heavy thud onto the floor. “You have no idea” I mutter.

Soap just hums, amused. His gaze never wavers, even as I sit on the edge of the bed and start unlacing the other boot with slow movements

“So,” he says after a beat, “the op went well?”

I remove my hidden combat knife from inside my other boot before kicking it off as well, and lean forward, elbows on my knees. “I didn’t die. That’s usually my bar.”

Soap snorts. “C’mon lass, give me something.”

I roll my eyes, grab a towel from my duffel, and wipe some of the grime and dried blood off my hands before responding. “Well… Ghost didn’t slow me down.”

Soap barks out a laugh, shaking his head like I just told the world’s best joke. “Oh, he’s gonna love that.”

I glance at him, and without meaning to, the memory flickers—Ghost’s voice in the helo, low and dry as he muttered, “Soap’s gonna love this one.” Like he already knew how this conversation would play out.

“Funny,” I say, tossing the towel aside. “He said the same thing about you.”

Soap perks up instantly, sitting up straighter like I just activated some hidden command word. “He did?”

“Yeah.” I smirk as I unzip a side pocket and pull out a crumpled ration bar. “Said you were gonna love me.”

Soap blinks. “Ghost said that?”

I nod, tearing open the wrapper with my teeth. “Well, not in those exact words. More like… ‘Soap’s gonna love this one.’ Real heartfelt.”

He lets out a low whistle and leans back against the wall, eyes wide with mock awe. “Bloody hell. That’s practically poetry coming from him.”

I take a bite of the bar, chewing slowly, pretending not to enjoy how off-balance he looks. He’s still trying to figure me out—and now he knows Ghost might already have.

The room’s gone quiet, except for the hum of the ventilation and the occasional groan of pipes hidden somewhere deep in the walls.

Soap’s voice cuts through it, softer this time—thoughtful. “He doesn’t say things like that lightly, y’know.”

I pause halfway through a bite. “I figured.”

He’s sitting up now, legs crossed on his bunk, elbows resting on his knees as he watches me. There’s no teasing in his expression this time—just curiosity and something else. Caution, maybe.

“You get under his skin or something?”

I don’t say anything right away. Not because I don’t know how to answer—but because the question is too close to something I haven’t put into words yet.

“Not on purpose,” I say finally. “We didn’t exactly spend a lot of time talking.”

“Still…”

Soap squints at me, like he’s trying to see through fog. “You’ve got him clocked already, don’t you?”

I shrug one shoulder, turning back to my pack. “Enough to keep up. Tonight was just… easy.”

I drop into a seated position on the edge of the bed and stretch my arms behind me, rolling my shoulders until they pop. The tension still lingers in my spine, a phantom from the mission that hasn’t quite let go yet. I wince as one knot tightens, then breathe out slow.

Soap tilts his head. “Easy?”

“Yeah.”

“Never thought I’d hear someone say that about working with Ghost.” His brow furrows, like he’s been giving a piece of the puzzle that doesn’t quite fit. “He doesn’t always tolerate new people, let alone say anything close to a compliment.”

“He didn’t.”

“Oh, trust me—‘she’ll do’ is practically a love letter, coming from him. Means he’s already counting you as one of us.” He glances at me over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “And that’s honestly kinda freaky, not gonna lie.”

I let out a quiet huff, more amused than annoyed, and start undoing the velcro on one of my kneepads. “Why?”

“Ghost is picky about who he works with, and it takes him a while to get used to new people. Makes me wonder what the hell you did tonight.”

He says it like he expects a full report, eyes narrowed like he’s waiting for a confession. I debate brushing him off. But instead, I give him just enough.

“We didn’t even have to talk out there,” I say, tugging off the other kneepad. “We just did our job. No drama, no fuss.” I glance at him. “I mean, I thought I was the quiet one until I met him. We exchanged maybe… ten words.”

Soap straightens a little. “During the op?”

“Total. Since Price introduced us before the briefing.”

“That so?”

“Yeah.” I lean back on my hands, staring up at the ceiling, voice quieter now. “You ever work with someone and it just clicks? No uncertainty. No stumbling over each other. You move, they move. Go in, do what you gotta do, and get out.”

Soap goes still for a second. “Ghost’s not exactly the click-with-anyone type.”

“Guess we’re both weird, then.”

Soap just hums, his tone light but observant. “You’ve already cracked his surface, I can tell.”

I glance over at him, one eyebrow raised as I pull my legs up onto the bed, sitting cross-legged. “Yeah?”

He nods, stretching like a cat before slouching back against the headboard, arms folded behind his head. “Mm-hmm. He didn’t glare once on the landing pad. Coming from Ghost, that's the same as a hug.”

I snort, resting my forearms on my knees. “Maybe he was just too tired to be annoyed.”

“Doubt it,” Soap says, chuckling. “Man could be bleeding out and still judge you with a single look.”

That earns a quiet laugh from me, soft and unexpected. He's not wrong. Ghost has a stare that could strip paint off a wall—and I’m not sure whether I passed through it unscathed or he just didn’t bother trying.

He watches me, that same little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s filing this entire conversation away somewhere in his brain for future reference. “You’re not what I expected.”

I smirk as I pull my hair loose from its braid, fingers running through the tangled strands. “Most people say that right before they start running in the opposite direction screaming.”

He laughs, bright and genuine, like he didn’t expect me to have a sense of humor. “You’d have to do a lot worse than ‘efficient in combat and surprisingly sarcastic’ to scare me off.”

“Give it time,” I mutter, pulling my hair into a loose ponytail and flicking the tie around it.

Soap raises an eyebrow, grinning. “That a promise or a threat?”

I shoot him a look. “Depends on how loud you snore.”

“You’ve got attitude, I’ll give you that.”

I let out a soft snort, surprised I’m even still talking. I usually shut down after missions. Go silent. Vanish into my own head. But Soap makes it hard to stay closed off—he talks like the world hasn’t broken him yet.

That’s refreshing.

It’s strange—this ease. I’m not used to it. Not with strangers.

I shift on the bed, propping one knee up and leaning back on my hands. The mattress isn’t exactly comfortable—standard issue, stiff as hell—but it’ll do.

“Really, though. You snore?” I ask, tilting my head toward him.

He lifts an eyebrow, mock offense written all over his face. “You planning to smother me in my sleep if I do?”

I grin. “Just gathering intel.”

Soap huffs a laugh, ruffling a hand through his mohawk like he’s considering whether this is a trap. “Nah, not usually. Unless I’m sick. Or really, really drunk.” He pauses, then gestures vaguely in my direction. “You? Any weird sleeping habits I need to know about?”

I hum, pretending to think, dragging it out as I reach into my bag for a spare shirt to change into after a shower. “Well, I do this thing where I levitate six inches off the bed and speak in tongues around 3am.”

Soap snorts, loud and abrupt. “Ah, brilliant. Can’t wait. Should I keep holy water on standby?”

“You can try.”

I settle back against the wall, tucking one leg under the other. My body’s starting to calm, with that dull soreness that always creeps in after the action stops finally setting in. There’s a moment of quiet between us—not awkward, not tense. Just… still.

Then I speak, my voice low and even.

“I sleep light.”

Soap doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches me, expression unreadable now. Waiting. Listening.

I exhale through my nose, slowly, eyes fixed on the far wall.

“If you ever notice me slipping out for a stroll in the middle of the night,” I murmur, quieter this time, “just turn around and go back to sleep, yeah?”

The weight of the words hangs in the air like smoke. I don’t look at him. Don’t need to.

A beat passes. Then another.

Soap’s voice comes soft and steady, no hesitation.

“Aye.”

That’s it. No questions. No judgment. Just that simple word, like an unspoken agreement. Like he’s already accepting my quirks.

I nod once, just enough to feel it. Then I lie back and close my eyes, giving myself a moment to rest before crawling out again to take a shower.

It’s not trust. Not yet.

But it’s something.

*Scáthach is pronounced "Ska-ha" (IPA: /ˈskaːhax/).

The "Scá" sounds like "ska" (as in Skate or Scar). The "thach" is a softer "ha" sound with a slight guttural "ch" at the end (similar to the "ch" in the Scottish "loch" or German "Bach").

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