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thirtysomethingloser92 · 10 months ago

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It must be exhausting always rooting for the anti-hero.

Requested by my darling anon. Warnings: Smut. Assault. Tags: @anukulee

It was supposed to be a regular night—just a quick stop at the corner store after work. You hadn't thought much about the usual route; it was familiar, the kind of path you could navigate half-asleep. But tonight, the shadows felt longer, and the streetlights flickered as if struggling to stay awake. You pulled your jacket tighter around yourself, the chill biting more sharply than you remembered.

You heard them before you saw them: footsteps that were too close, voices that were too low and deliberate. You picked up your pace, hoping it was just your imagination, but the sound followed. Then, a hand grabbed your arm. Your breath hitched as you spun around, only to face a smirking face too close for comfort. Panic surged, adrenaline making your thoughts blur.

Your pulse quickened as you took in the scene—a group of three men, their grins twisted with cruel amusement, eyes scanning you like you were prey. The one holding your arm had a grip like iron, his fingers digging into your skin hard enough to leave bruises. His breath reeked of alcohol, and his eyes held a leering confidence that made your stomach turn. You tried to wrench your arm free, but his hold only tightened, pulling you closer.

"Hey now, don't be so cold," he sneered, his voice dripping with mockery as his friends moved to close in on either side of you. The alley felt narrower, darker, as if the walls were closing in, trapping you. You glanced around frantically, but there was no one in sight—just rows of empty buildings, closed shops, and flickering streetlights that offered no real safety.

"Let go of me," you demanded, trying to sound firm, but your voice wavered, betraying the fear clawing at your chest. The man just laughed, a harsh sound that echoed off the brick walls.

"Ain't no one comin' to save ya," another one said, stepping closer until you could smell the stale cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes. "Why don’t you play nice, huh?"

You pulled harder against the man’s grip, panic rising as you twisted your arm, but it only made him laugh louder. He pushed you backwards and you stumbled, your back hitting the cold, rough surface of the alley wall. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, your head spinning as you tried to get your bearings. Hands were everywhere—grabbing, pushing, pinning you against the wall as your mind raced to find an escape.

"Stop—" you gasped, trying to shove one of them away, but it was like fighting against a brick wall. One of them leaned in, his hand rough as it grazed your cheek, his thumb tracing your jaw in a mockery of tenderness. You jerked your head away, disgust boiling in your throat, but he just laughed, the sound sending a chill down your spine.

"Feisty, huh? I like that," he taunted, his grip shifting to your throat, pressing just enough to make your breath hitch in your chest. You clawed at his hand, desperate for air, but he just smirked, his friends watching with sick amusement.

In that moment, time seemed to stretch, every second dragging as you struggled, fear and adrenaline making your vision blur. The laughter, the taunts, the pressure at your throat—it all blended into a nightmarish haze, your senses overwhelmed by the sheer terror of being completely out of control. You wanted to scream, to call for help, but your voice was trapped, strangled by the hand at your throat and the icy grip of panic.

Then, without warning, the man was ripped away from you, his grip disappearing so suddenly that you nearly fell forward. You gasped, stumbling back, your hands flying to your throat as you coughed, desperate to fill your lungs. You looked up, disoriented, your vision still swimming, and saw the blur of movement—a figure in a dark coat, moving like a shadow through the alley.

As the grip on your throat vanished, you fell forward, coughing and gasping for air. Your vision was still blurry, your thoughts disoriented, but you saw flashes of motion—The person who saved you was already in the thick of it, moving with a deadly precision that left no room for doubt. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a dark coat that flowed around him like a shadow as he moved. A bandana covered the lower half of his face, leaving only his eyes visible—eyes that glowed with an unsettling red light that seemed to cut through the darkness.

The first man charged at him with a growl, throwing a wild punch. The vigilante sidestepped easily, his movements fluid, like water flowing around a rock. He caught the man’s arm and twisted it sharply, sending him crashing into the wall with a bone-jarring thud. The thug crumpled to the ground, clutching his arm, his face twisted in pain.

Before the others could react, The vigilante was on them, a card in his hand that suddenly glowed with an ominous purple energy. He flicked it with a casual flick of his wrist, and it sailed through the air like a razor-sharp blade. It exploded on impact, sending the second thug sprawling, his shirt singed and his expression one of dazed shock. The third guy, the leader, hesitated, his earlier bravado gone as he eyed the stranger with a mixture of anger and fear.

"You think you’re some kinda hero?" the leader spat, wiping blood from his mouth. He lunged at the vigilante with a knife, the blade gleaming under the flickering streetlights. The vigilante didn’t even flinch. He caught the leader’s wrist with one hand, and with the other, he struck—one, two, three rapid blows to the ribs, quick and brutal. The leader gasped, his knife clattering to the ground as the vigilante’s grip tightened, the glowing red in his eyes intensifying.

"Tryin’ to play tough, but y’ain’t got what it takes," He said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. He twisted the man’s wrist until the thug cried out in pain, then let go, shoving him back so hard that he stumbled and fell, scrambling to get away. The alley was filled with the sound of pained groans and the scuffle of retreating footsteps as the men fled, beaten and humiliated.

The vigilante stood there, breathing heavily but otherwise unscathed, his eyes following the men until they disappeared into the night. He turned his attention to you then, his gaze softening as he approached. He crouched down in front of you, his expression concerned, his gloved hands hovering just inches from your shoulders, not touching but close enough to offer reassurance.

"Y’ hurt?" he asked, his voice gentler now, still edged with that Cajun drawl but tempered with genuine concern.

You shook your head, trying to find your voice. "I… I think I’m okay," you whispered, though you couldn’t stop shaking. Your hands were trembling as you pushed yourself up, your legs feeling like jelly beneath you. The vigilante’s hand finally settled on your arm, steadying you as you wobbled, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone who had just fought off three men without breaking a sweat.

"Take it easy, chère," he murmured, scanning your face for any signs of injury. "You took a scare, but you’ll be alright."

You stared at him, taking in the masked face, the strange, otherworldly glow of his eyes that had started to dim. He looked like something out of a dream—or a nightmare—standing there with that coat that seemed to swallow the light. "Who are you?" you asked, your voice still shaking. The question hung between you like a fragile thread.

The vigilante shook his head, the bandana hiding his expression, but his eyes told you enough—this wasn’t about recognition or fame. "It doesn’t matter," he said simply, his voice calm, like he was used to not being known, used to fading into the background.

He straightened up, turning as if to leave, the brief moment of connection severed too quickly for your liking. Panic flared in your chest—he couldn’t just walk away, not after what he’d done. Not after he’d saved you from something that could’ve gone so much worse.

"Wait," you called after him, your voice stronger now, fueled by something you couldn’t quite name—maybe gratitude, maybe desperation. He paused, looking over his shoulder at you, his eyes narrowing slightly, unreadable.

"Don't. Just go home," he said, his tone firm but not unkind. He gave a slight nod, a silent reassurance, before turning away once more, his coat flaring out behind him like wings.

You stood there, watching as he disappeared into the darkness, the flickering streetlights doing little to illuminate the path he took. He was gone as quickly as he’d appeared, leaving you alone in the quiet aftermath of the fight, the echoes of his warning still lingering in the air. You wrapped your arms around yourself, the chill biting at your skin again, but this time, it felt different—less oppressive, more like a reminder that you were still here, still standing.

As you made your way home, every step felt heavier, laden with thoughts of the vigilante who had stepped in when no one else had. You didn’t even know his name, but something about him had lodged itself in your mind, refusing to let go. The city was full of strangers, but none of them had ever looked at you the way he did—with that strange mix of detachment and care, like he knew what it meant to walk through the dark and come out on the other side.

Maybe it didn’t matter who he was, but as you reached your door, you couldn’t help but hope that somehow, someday, your paths would cross again. <><><><><><><> The next morning, you tried to push the events of the previous night out of your mind, telling yourself it was a one-time thing, a strange twist of fate that wouldn’t repeat. You went through the motions—coffee, shower, getting ready for work—but everything felt off-kilter, like the world had shifted just slightly out of focus. You couldn’t stop thinking about him—the vigilante who had saved you. He moved through your thoughts like smoke, impossible to grasp but impossible to ignore.

After your shower, you wrapped a towel around yourself and stepped into the living room, still dripping, when something on the TV caught your eye. You grabbed the remote, turning up the volume. The local news anchor was talking, her voice smooth and measured, recounting last night’s events.

"—another appearance of the vigilante some are calling 'The Gambit.' Reports say he stopped an assault in a downtown alley, leaving the perpetrators injured but alive. Police arrived on the scene too late to apprehend him, and there are no clear leads on his identity. Witnesses describe a man in a dark coat, with red eyes and an uncanny ability to move like the wind. Authorities are urging the public to remain cautious and not to engage if they see him. The Gambit is considered dangerous—"

You bit your lip, the news anchor’s voice fading into the background as you processed what you’d just heard. The Gambit. So he had a name—or at least, that’s what people were calling him. But the details felt all wrong; dangerous wasn’t the word you’d use. He’d saved you. And while his methods were… unorthodox, you couldn’t shake the sense that there was more to him than the headlines suggested.

You turned off the TV, your reflection in the black screen staring back at you with a mixture of determination and something else—hope, maybe. You couldn’t just let it go. He’d helped you, and you needed to know why. Needed to understand what drove him to intervene, to be out there risking his life for strangers. For you.

Before you knew it, you were dressed and grabbing your coat, your decision made in the blink of an eye. You had to find him. Maybe it was foolish—maybe even reckless—but you couldn’t ignore the pull that drew you back to the scene of the assault. You needed answers, or maybe just closure. You weren’t sure which.

The city felt different in the daylight, the familiar hustle and bustle of people moving through their routines masking the dangers that lurked in the shadows. But as you retraced your steps to the alley, a cold knot of anxiety settled in your stomach, memories of last night still fresh and raw. The street looked ordinary enough—just a stretch of pavement lined with old buildings, graffiti, and the occasional piece of litter. But you knew better now. You knew what kind of danger could hide in plain sight.

You slowed as you approached the alley, your steps tentative, scanning the walls and ground for any sign of him. There were scuff marks on the pavement where the fight had taken place, a few drops of dried blood that made your skin crawl with the memory of rough hands and mocking voices. But otherwise, it was as if nothing had happened. No sign of him. No trace that he’d ever been there.

Frustration bubbled up inside you, mixing with a bitter sense of disappointment. You’d hoped, maybe irrationally, that you’d find something—anything—that would lead you to him. But the alley was empty, the echoes of the night before lost in the daylight.

You sighed, leaning against the cold brick wall, your breath misting in the cool air. Part of you wanted to give up, to go home and try to put it behind you. But the other part—the part that had felt the weight of his gaze and heard the calm reassurance in his voice—refused to let go. You wanted to see him again. Needed to understand why he’d stepped in when no one else had.

As you stood there, lost in thought, you heard the faintest shuffle of footsteps behind you. You turned quickly, your heart leaping into your throat, but there was no one there—just the empty street and the distant hum of traffic. Still, the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end, a strange sense of being watched that you couldn’t quite shake.

"Lookin’ for someone?" a voice drawled from above, soft and laced with that familiar Cajun accent. Your head snapped up, and there he was—perched on the fire escape above you, half-hidden in the shadows. The Gambit, or whatever you wanted to call him, looked down at you with a wry smile, his eyes still glowing faintly in the dim light.

"How did you—" you started, but he just shook his head, swinging down from the fire escape with an ease that made it look effortless. He landed lightly in front of you, his coat settling around him like a dark shroud.

"I told y’ t’ go home," he said, his voice firm but not unkind, as if this was all just a minor inconvenience rather than the culmination of your desperate search. "Ain’t no good gonna come from you pokin’ around where you don’t belong."

You swallowed hard, the weight of his presence more overwhelming now that you weren’t in the midst of a crisis. He was intimidating up close, taller than you’d remembered, with a sense of quiet power that radiated off him like heat. But there was something else there, too—something that told you he wasn’t just a vigilante; he was a man who had seen more than his fair share of darkness.

"I had to find you," you said, meeting his gaze even though it made your pulse quicken. "You saved my life. I just—I couldn’t let it go. Not something like that.”

He tilted his head, studying you for a moment with those unnerving red eyes, and for a second, you thought he might just turn and walk away again. But then he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as if weighing his options.

"Y’ found me," he said simply, though there was a weariness in his tone that hadn’t been there last night. "But that don’t change nothin’. This ain’t your fight, and you don’t want it to be." He turned, starting to walk back toward the alley’s exit.

"Wait!" you called, your voice cracking with urgency. "You can’t just—why are you doing this? Who are you, really?"

He stopped, glancing back at you over his shoulder. For a moment, he looked like he might answer, like he might let you in on the secret of why he was out here risking his life for strangers in dark alleys. But then his expression hardened, and he shook his head.

"It doesn’t matter," he said, the finality in his voice like a door slamming shut. He gave you one last look—something unreadable flickering in his eyes—before turning away again.

"Go home, chère," he repeated, his tone softening slightly. "Ain’t no good can come from tryin’ to find someone like me." And with that, he disappeared into the shadows once more, leaving you standing there with more questions than answers, your heart aching with the strange, inexplicable pull of a man you barely knew but couldn’t forget. The following days became a blur of restless energy and impulsive decisions. You couldn’t get him out of your mind—the vigilante who had appeared out of nowhere to save you, only to vanish just as quickly. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the red glow of his eyes, heard the low rumble of his voice telling you to go home. But home didn’t feel safe anymore; it felt like a prison, filled with unanswered questions that buzzed around your head like angry bees.

So, you started going out at night. It wasn’t the smartest decision, and you knew that. Your friends would’ve called you reckless, maybe even self-destructive, but you couldn’t help yourself. You wandered into sketchy neighborhoods, lingered on dimly lit streets, and loitered near places that practically screamed danger. At first, you told yourself it was just a coincidence, that you were simply taking the long way home. But deep down, you knew better—you were looking for him.

You saw him more often than not. Sometimes, it was just a fleeting shadow in your peripheral vision, a whisper of movement on a rooftop or in an alleyway. Other times, he would swoop in just as things were about to go sideways—an arm grabbing you roughly, a voice hissing threats in your ear—only for him to appear, cutting through the danger like a knife. His methods were swift, brutal, and efficient, leaving your would-be assailants sprawled on the ground, dazed and groaning.

But every time, he would say the same thing: "Go home." And every time, you would bite your tongue, frustration simmering under your skin. This wasn’t just about gratitude anymore; it was about answers. You needed to know why he was doing this, why he kept helping you but refused to let you in.

One night, you found yourself in a part of town that even seasoned cab drivers avoided—a strip of abandoned warehouses that loomed like skeletons against the night sky. You weren’t sure what you were looking for, only that the familiar prickling sensation on the back of your neck told you he was near. You pulled your jacket tighter, glancing around nervously as you walked deeper into the maze of crumbling concrete and rusted metal.

It didn’t take long for trouble to find you. A group of men emerged from the shadows, their faces half-hidden under hoods, their voices low and unfriendly. They circled you, their leering expressions making your skin crawl. You tensed, bracing yourself for the inevitable—part of you was terrified, but another part, the part that had driven you out here in the first place, was almost...expectant.

"Hey there, sweetheart," one of them sneered, stepping closer. "Lookin' for company?"

You tried to back away, your heart hammering in your chest, but the circle closed in, cutting off your escape routes. Fear spiked through you, sharp and paralyzing. For a split second, you wondered if this had been a colossal mistake, if maybe this time, he wouldn’t come. But then, as if summoned by your thoughts, he was there.

The Gambit moved like a force of nature, swift and unyielding. He dropped down from above, landing between you and the men with a grace that was almost inhuman. His coat billowed around him as he spun, disarming one thug with a quick, brutal twist of the wrist before driving an elbow into another’s gut. A charged card sailed through the air, exploding against the pavement with a blinding flash, sending the men scrambling back in panic.

The remaining thugs didn’t even bother trying to fight—they ran, stumbling over each other in their haste to get away from the red-eyed figure that seemed to glide through the darkness with ease. The Gambit stood still for a moment, watching them disappear, his shoulders heaving slightly from exertion. Then he turned to you, his expression hidden behind the bandana but his eyes blazing with an intensity that made you shiver. "This is gettin' old, chère," he said, his voice tinged with irritation as he looked you over, checking for injuries. "You know the damsel in distress look don’t suit you." You bristled at his tone, crossing your arms defensively. "Maybe I wouldn’t have to play the damsel if you’d just tell me who you are and why you’re doing this!" you shot back, your frustration finally boiling over. "You keep saving me, but you never say why. You won’t even tell me your name. You just swoop in, tell me to go home, and vanish like some kind of ghost. I’m sick of it!"

Gambit's eyes narrowed slightly, and he let out a sharp breath, clearly not amused by your words. "Cher, you call this savin' you? Lookin' like you got a death wish, more like." He took a step closer, his gaze flickering over you, searching for any sign of injury, but also sizing you up as if trying to decide how much trouble you were about to cause him. "And maybe if you stopped runnin' headfirst into danger, I wouldn’t have to keep pullin' you out."

You clenched your fists, matching his stare with equal fire. "I’m not runnin' into danger! I’m just trying to figure out what's going on, and maybe if you didn’t keep playing the mysterious vigilante, I wouldn’t have to!"

"Figure it out? By throwin' yourself into the lion's den?" Gambit shook his head, frustration clear in his voice. "You got guts, I’ll give you that, but you ain’t invincible. Next time, I might not be there to catch you."

"Maybe I don’t need you to!" you snapped, the heat of the argument making you forget your fear for a moment. "You just need to tell me who you are!"

Gambit’s jaw tightened, and for a second, his eyes flashed with something darker, a hint of something he was holding back. "Fine, then," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "but don’t come cryin' to me when you find yourself over your head. You don’t wanna be saved? Be my guest. But know this, chère—I ain’t doin' this for fun. You think I like riskin' my neck for someone who don’t wanna be helped?" He watched you for a moment, knowingly avoiding your request.

You faltered, the anger in his voice catching you off guard. "Then why do you?" you asked, quieter this time, genuinely curious. "If I’m such a pain in the ass why do you keep saving me? And why won’t you tell me who you are?"

He looked at you for a long moment, the tension between you thick enough to cut. Finally, he sighed, the fight draining out of him. "Because someone’s got to," he said softly, almost to himself. "And maybe—just maybe—I see a little too much of myself in you. Someone who don’t know when to quit, even when they should."

His words hung in the air between you, and for a moment, you were both silent, the night closing in around you like a shroud.

He stared at you, his eyes narrowing as he listened. For a long, tense moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was your ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city. Finally, he sighed, running a hand through his hair as if debating whether to answer. When he spoke, his voice was quieter, tinged with something that might have been regret. “Who are you?” You asked again, knowing you were probably pushing a boundary with your continuous bombardment. Knowing he didn’t owe you anything at all, let alone a request of his name.

"It ain’t that simple," he said, his accent thicker, like the effort of explaining was costing him. "You don’t wanna know me, chère. Trust me on that. I do what I do because someone’s gotta. And if you keep stickin' your neck out, hopin’ I’ll show up, you’re gonna end up hurt worse than any of these lowlifes can manage."

"But why you?" you insisted, stepping closer, refusing to let it go. "Out of everyone in this city, why are you the one out here doing this? What are you trying to prove?"

His eyes softened, the red glow dimming slightly as he regarded you. "Ain’t about proving nothin’. I got my reasons. Ain’t no one’s business but mine."

You shook your head, anger bubbling up again, not at him but at the sheer stubbornness of the situation. "I’m not just going to forget about this," you said, your voice wavering slightly. "I’m not going to stop looking for you, not when you keep putting yourself in harm’s way for people you don’t even know. I can’t just let it go."

He clenched his jaw, frustration flashing in his eyes, but there was something else there too—something that looked like understanding, or maybe even guilt. He took a step back, distancing himself as if trying to put a wall between you.

"Look, you ain’t gonna find what you’re lookin' for," he said, his tone firm but edged with a strange kind of gentleness. "I’m doin’ this 'cause it’s the only thing I know how to do. Ain’t no glory in it, no happy endings. Just a lotta dark nights and busted knuckles. So do us both a favor and stop lookin’. Go home, live your life. Don’t make this any harder than it has to be."

You opened your mouth to argue, to say something that might convince him to stay, to let you in, but the words caught in your throat. He was already turning away, his silhouette blending into the shadows as if he were part of them.

"Gambit wait!" you called, the name slipping out before you even realized what you’d said. He paused, just for a moment, his back still to you. But he didn’t turn around.

Without another word, he disappeared into the night, leaving you alone in the alley with nothing but the echoes of your own determination and the quiet realization that, for better or worse, this wasn’t over. You were in too deep now, and walking away wasn’t an option—not when every instinct told you that the man who called himself The Gambit needed saving just as much as you did. After that night, the tension inside you grew, a coil wound so tight it felt like it could snap at any moment. You kept replaying the scene in your mind, searching for any sign that you’d reached him, any hint that he might change his mind. But the streets stayed quiet, and the city carried on as if nothing had happened. Each time you turned on the news, your pulse quickened, hoping for some new mention of him—a sighting, a save, anything. But he was like smoke, impossible to grasp and always slipping through your fingers.

Days turned into weeks, and the frustration only mounted. You found yourself wandering the same routes, a mixture of hope and desperation driving you back to the spots where you’d seen him before. But this time, it wasn’t so easy. He was making himself scarce, like he was actively avoiding you, and it left you with a gnawing sense of loss you couldn’t shake.

You knew it was risky, reckless even, but you pushed further into the underbelly of the city. The people there were different—harder, colder, their eyes tracking you with a kind of predatory curiosity that sent shivers down your spine. You wore your bravado like a shield, striding down the alleys with your head held high, but inside, the uncertainty churned. If he didn’t come this time, if you pushed too far, you weren’t sure you’d be able to talk your way out of it. You needed to know about him, to unravel the enigma that was The Gambit. It gnawed at you, the not knowing. His presence was like a shadow that clung to the corners of your mind, refusing to let go. You couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when curiosity turned into something more consuming—when your fascination with the red-eyed vigilante became an obsession. But somewhere along the line, it did.

Maybe it was the way he moved, with a dangerous grace that made him seem almost untouchable, or the way his voice, laced with that Cajun drawl, could make even a warning sound like a promise. Or perhaps it was the way he kept appearing, always when you least expected it, pulling you back from the edge with a flick of his wrist and a flash of kinetic energy that seemed to light up the night. He was always just close enough to save you but never close enough to reach.

You didn’t just want answers—you needed them. Who was this man who seemed to glide through the darkness like he was born to it? Why did he keep saving you, night after night, without asking for anything in return, without ever revealing his own secrets? Each encounter left you with more questions than answers, like pieces of a puzzle scattered in the dark. And each time, it drove you a little closer to the edge of desperation, the need to understand him growing stronger, more insistent.

You tried to find him on your own, scouring the city’s underbelly, asking questions in places where shadows thrived, and danger lurked around every corner. But every lead was a dead end, every whisper just another layer of mystery. He was a ghost, a myth, slipping through your fingers no matter how tightly you tried to hold on.

It was maddening—the way he slipped into your thoughts at the most inconvenient times, during quiet moments when you should have been focused on anything but him. His image haunted your dreams, his red eyes piercing through the darkness, always watching, always out of reach. You would lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, replaying every encounter in your mind, searching for clues in his cryptic words, trying to make sense of the way he looked at you, like he saw something you didn’t even see in yourself.

Why did he care? Why did he keep coming back? And why, despite all your frustration, could you not stop wanting to see him again, to hear his voice cutting through the night like a knife? You told yourself it was about answers, about knowing who he was, but deep down, you knew it was more than that. It was about connection, about understanding the man behind the mask—and maybe, just maybe, about finding a piece of yourself that you’d lost along the way.

It happened on a rainy Tuesday night, the sky pouring sheets of water that drenched you to the bone and blurred the streetlights into hazy orbs of yellow. You were soaked, shivering in your thin jacket, and you knew you looked out of place. The neighborhood was run-down, the kind of place where even the rats scurried with a sense of purpose. You shouldn’t have been there—every instinct screamed at you to turn back, but you kept going, every step dragging you deeper into trouble.

That’s when you heard it—a low whistle, followed by a chorus of laughs that echoed off the brick walls. Your heart lurched, but you didn’t break stride, keeping your eyes forward even as your pulse thundered in your ears. The group stepped into your path, blocking the way forward, their postures lazy but their eyes sharp. You recognized the look; you’d seen it a hundred times on the streets, that blend of boredom and malice that spelled nothing but trouble.

“Look at this, boys,” one of them drawled, a sneer curling his lips. “Out for a stroll in the rain, huh? Ain’t you just the picture of bad decisions.”

You swallowed hard, glancing over your shoulder only to see another figure stepping out of the shadows behind you. You were boxed in, and the reality of the situation slammed into you with all the subtlety of a freight train. There was no escaping this one; you were caught, and you had no one to blame but yourself.

Still, you couldn’t let them see the fear. You lifted your chin, trying to inject confidence into your voice even as it wavered. “I’m not looking for any trouble,” you said, your breath puffing out in white clouds in the cold air. “Just passing through.”

“Oh, you’ll be passin’ through, alright,” another one said, his grin wide and mean. “Through our hands, that is.”

They advanced, closing in with a deliberate slowness that made your skin crawl. You took a step back, heart racing as you scanned the dimly lit street for any sign of him. Any second now, you thought, clinging to that hope like a lifeline. He’ll come. He has to.

But the seconds dragged on, and the men were almost within arm’s reach, their laughter grating on your nerves like nails on a chalkboard. Panic clawed at your throat, and you wondered if this was it, if you’d finally pushed too far.

Then, like a thunderclap, he was there.

Gambit came out of the darkness with a speed and ferocity that took even the thugs by surprise. He moved like a streak of lightning, his movements a blur of kicks, punches, and charged cards that exploded in brilliant flashes of pink. He didn’t hold back this time; every strike was precise and punishing, a display of raw power that sent the men reeling. One of them lunged at him with a knife, but The Gambit disarmed him with a swift twist of the wrist, the blade clattering uselessly to the ground. He knocked the guy out cold with a single, well-aimed punch.

The rest tried to scatter, but The Gambit wasn’t having it. He grabbed the last one by the collar, slamming him against the wall with enough force to rattle the bricks. “Tell your friends,” He growled, his voice low and dangerous, “next time, they won’t be so lucky.”

The man nodded frantically, too terrified to speak, and Gambit let him go with a shove, watching as he scrambled away. The alley fell silent again, save for the steady patter of rain and your own ragged breathing. Gambit turned to you, his face unreadable beneath the shadow of his hood, and for a moment, you couldn’t find your voice.

“Thanks,” you finally managed, your voice small in the cold night air.

He didn’t answer, just looked at you with a mix of exasperation and something that might have been concern. “What the hell were you thinkin’, chère?” he demanded, his accent thicker in his anger. “You tryin’ to get yourself killed?”

You bristled at his tone, your own frustration boiling over. “Maybe if you’d stop playing the mysterious vigilante and just talk to me, I wouldn’t have to!”

He let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You think I’m doin’ this for fun? This ain’t a game. You’re gonna get yourself hurt, and I won’t always be there to pull you outta the fire. It was bad enough that I almos’ wasn’ here tonight.”

“I don’t care about that!” you snapped, stepping closer, rain dripping off your face as you looked up at him. “I care about you. I see you risking your life night after night for people who don’t even know your name, and I can’t just walk away. I won’t. Not this time.”

His expression softened, just for a moment, and you caught a glimpse of the man behind the mask—the one who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and didn’t know how to set it down. He reached out, his fingers brushing your cheek in a gesture that was more comforting than any words could have been. But then he pulled back, the distance returning as quickly as it had vanished.

“You care about me, huh?” he said, his voice quiet and resigned. “You don’t even know me, chère. Not really.”

You took a breath, steadying yourself. “Then let me,” you said, your voice barely a whisper. “Let me see who you are when you’re not out here fighting battles you don’t have to fight.”

For a long moment, he just looked at you, his eyes searching yours as if trying to gauge the truth in your words. Then he turned away, his shoulders tense under his coat. “This is all I know,” he said, and the sadness in his voice made your chest ache. “This is all I got.”

He started to walk away, and you took a step after him, your heart pounding. “Wait—”

“Go home,” he said over his shoulder, his tone final. “Go home and stay there. You’re playin’ with fire, chère, and one day you’re gonna get burned.”

And just like that, he was gone again, swallowed by the night. You stood there, the rain soaking through your clothes, feeling the sting of his words like a slap. But you also felt something else—a flicker of hope, a small, stubborn belief that maybe, just maybe, you’d gotten through to him, even if only a little.

You weren’t ready to give up. Not yet. Because for the first time in a long while, you had something worth fighting for. And if it took a hundred more nights of chasing shadows and dodging danger, you’d do it. You’d find him again, and this time, you’d make him see that he wasn’t alone—that he didn’t have to be. <><><><><><><><><> The rain beat against your window like a relentless drum, a constant, soothing noise that filled the quiet of your apartment. The heating hummed softly, filling the room with warmth that contrasted sharply with the storm raging outside. You were curled up on the couch, a bowl of popcorn in your lap, the TV casting flickering light across the room as it played some mindless show you weren’t really paying attention to. The day had been long, and you were grateful for the simple comfort of being home, safe from the elements.

But then, there was a sound—a clatter from the fire escape that cut through the monotony of the rain. It was faint, almost drowned out by the storm, but unmistakable. Your heart skipped a beat, your hand freezing in mid-air as you reached for another handful of popcorn. For a moment, you considered ignoring it, chalking it up to the wind or a stray branch, but something in your gut told you otherwise.

Slowly, you put the bowl aside and stood up, your eyes darting to the window. The curtains were drawn, shielding you from whatever was outside, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was there, just beyond the glass. You hesitated, nerves prickling under your skin as you approached the window. The rain pounded harder, the wind howling like a wild beast, making the walls of your apartment creak.

When you reached the window, your breath caught in your throat. Your fingers trembled as you pulled back the curtain, peering out into the darkness. The first thing you saw was the rain, a sheet of water that obscured your view, but then your eyes focused, and you saw him.

Gambit.

He was slumped against the metal railing of the fire escape, his usually confident posture replaced by one of exhaustion. His hood was pulled low over his face, but it couldn’t hide the cuts and bruises that marred his skin. Blood stained his clothes, mixing with the rainwater that dripped off him in rivulets. He looked like he’d been through hell and seeing him like that sent a jolt of fear and concern straight to your core.

You didn’t think twice. You fumbled with the window latch, yanking it open and letting the cold, wet air rush into the room. “Hey,” you called out, your voice a mix of shock and worry.

He looked up at you, his eyes dull with pain and fatigue. “Hey, chère,” he rasped, a weak smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Didn’t mean to drop in like this.”

“Get inside,” you urged, your hand reaching out to help him. He hesitated for a moment, as if considering whether he should, but the next gust of wind made the decision for him. With a groan, he pushed himself up, gripping the railing for support as he stepped through the window and into your apartment.

The warmth hit him immediately, and you saw the way he shivered, his body reacting to the sudden change in temperature. He was drenched, his clothes sticking to him like a second skin, and the sight of his injuries made your stomach twist. He’d always been so strong, so invincible in your eyes, but seeing him like this made it clear—he was human, just as vulnerable as anyone else.

“You’re hurt,” you said, your voice softer now, filled with concern as you guided him toward the couch. “Sit down, let me help you.”

“I’ll be fine,” he muttered, though he didn’t resist as you eased him onto the cushions. His usual bravado was gone, replaced by a weariness that made your heart ache.

“Fine, my ass,” you retorted, already heading to the bathroom to grab your first-aid kit. “You’re bleeding all over my floor and it’s gross.”

When you returned, he was leaning back against the couch, his eyes closed as if the effort to stay awake was too much. You knelt beside him, opening the kit and pulling out antiseptic wipes, bandages, and anything else you could find. “You need to take off your coat,” you instructed gently, trying not to think about how close you’d come to losing him tonight.

He cracked an eye open, looking at you with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “Bossy, aren’t ya?”

“Do I have to do it for you?” you shot back, not missing the way his hand trembled as he reached for the zipper.

With a sigh, he relented, shrugging out of the coat with a wince that told you just how much pain he was in. Beneath it, his shirt was torn and soaked with rain and blood, the fabric clinging to his skin. You bit your lip, trying to focus on the task at hand rather than the way your heart pounded in your chest. “This might sting,” you warned as you started cleaning the cuts on his arm.

He didn’t flinch, but his jaw tightened, the only sign of discomfort. “I’ve had worse.”

“I don’t doubt it,” you murmured, your fingers moving quickly and efficiently as you patched him up. The room was quiet, save for the rhythmic patter of rain against the window and the occasional hiss of pain that slipped past his lips as you cleaned the cuts and bruises that marred his skin. It was a strange, intimate moment—one that felt almost out of place in the small, dimly lit space you found yourselves in.

As you worked, the air between you was thick with unspoken words, the silence pressing in like a third presence, heavy and unavoidable. You were painfully aware of how close you were to him, how the warmth of his body seemed to radiate against yours, even though you were careful to keep your distance. The faint scent of his cologne mixed with the metallic tang of blood, creating a sensory imprint that you knew would linger long after this night was over.

Each time your fingers brushed against his skin, a jolt of something electric shot through you, making your heart stutter in your chest. You tried to ignore it, to focus on the task at hand, but it was impossible not to feel the weight of what was happening—the way this man, who so often seemed untouchable, was now sitting before you, vulnerable and human in a way you hadn’t seen before.

He winced as you pressed a little too hard, his sharp intake of breath breaking the silence. Your hand hesitated, hovering just above the wound, guilt flooding through you. "Sorry," you whispered, your voice softer now, almost tender. He met your gaze, and for a moment, you were caught in the intensity of his eyes—those burning red irises that had haunted your thoughts for so long. There was something in his expression, something raw and unguarded that made your breath hitch.

“It’s fine, chère,” he said quietly, his voice rough but steady. “Seen worse.”

You nodded, but the truth was, it wasn’t fine. None of this was. The sight of him hurt, bleeding because he’d taken hits meant for you, tore at something deep inside you. It wasn’t just gratitude or even guilt—it was something more complicated, a tangled mess of emotions that you hadn’t fully confronted until now.

With each bandage you applied, each wound you tended to, the reality of it all settled deeper into your bones: you cared about him. Not just because he’d saved you, not just because he was an enigma you were desperate to understand, but because somewhere along the line, you’d let him in. You’d let him become more than just the mysterious figure in the night, more than just the red-eyed vigilante who always seemed to be there when you needed him most.

You couldn’t deny the way your hands trembled slightly as you worked, the way your heart ached with every pained breath he took. You wanted to reach out, to close the distance between you, to offer something more than just the makeshift care you could provide with antiseptic and gauze. But you held back, swallowing down the urge because you didn’t know where it would lead, or if it was even what he wanted.

Still, the silence stretched, and as you finished the last of the stitches, you sat back, your hands falling to your lap as you took him in. His expression was unreadable, the bandana that usually hid his features now discarded, leaving him bare before you. His eyes flickered over your face, lingering on the concern you knew was written there, and you wondered if he could see the turmoil that roiled just beneath the surface.

When you were done, you sat back on your heels, surveying your work. “There,” you said softly. “You should be okay now.”

He looked down at the bandages, then back up at you, his expression unreadable. “Why are you doin’ this, chère?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost vulnerable. “Why do you keep comin’ back?”

The question caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to answer. But then you realized the truth had been there all along, simmering beneath the surface of every encounter, every look you’d shared. “Because, weirdly enough, I care about you,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know you. I know nothing about you, but I care.”

He stared at you for a long time, something flickering in his eyes—something that looked like hope, buried deep beneath layers of pain and doubt. “You shouldn’t,” he finally said, his voice thick with emotion. “You should stay far away from me.”

“Too late for that,” you replied, your hand reaching out to touch his, your fingers brushing over the rough skin of his knuckles as you picked up another swab and cleaned the dirt out of the wounds. You could feel his eyes on you, as if he was trying to figure out, to see into the depths of your soul. “Remy,” he suddenly spoke, the name falling from his lips with a careful deliberation, as if saying it out loud broke some unspoken rule between you. His voice was softer now, almost hesitant, a stark contrast to the confident drawl that usually laced his words. “My name’s Remy LeBeau.”

Hearing his name, finally knowing this piece of him, felt like a tiny victory, but it also brought with it a rush of emotions that caught you off guard. You looked up at him, searching his face for answers, but his expression remained guarded, even as his eyes told a different story.

For Remy, the admission wasn’t just about giving you a name; it was about letting you in, dropping the mask he’d worn for so long. It was a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself, especially with someone he couldn’t keep at arm’s length. He’d been careful, too careful, to keep a distance from you—saving you, protecting you, but never crossing that line. Yet, here he was, stripped down to his most human form, offering you the one piece of himself he’d kept hidden.

He studied you carefully, taking in the way your eyes widened with the revelation. There was a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze, a fear of what might come next. Because Remy knew better than most that once you gave someone a piece of your truth, there was no taking it back. And with you, he wasn’t sure what that truth might cost him.

For all the walls he’d built, all the carefully crafted distance he maintained with everyone else, he couldn’t quite manage the same with you. From the first time he’d laid eyes on you, something about you had pulled at him in a way he couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t just the way you stumbled into danger, though that was certainly part of it; it was the fire in your eyes, the defiance that matched his own. You were a puzzle he couldn’t solve, a question that lingered long after you’d walked away, and it frustrated him as much as it intrigued him.

But it was more than intrigue that kept him coming back. It was the way you made him feel seen—really seen—in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. He’d spent years playing roles, hiding behind charm and bravado, always keeping people at a safe distance. But with you, those defenses faltered, the masks slipping just enough for him to remember what it felt like to be real. To be human.

He could see the concern etched on your face as you patched him up, the careful way your fingers worked, not just with skill but with care. And in those moments, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to let you in completely, to drop the charade and let you see him for who he really was. The thought terrified him.

Remy wasn’t used to letting people in—he’d learned long ago that closeness came with risks, with pain. But with you, it felt different. It felt like maybe, just maybe, it was worth the risk. And as much as he tried to tell himself otherwise, he couldn’t deny the way his heart beat just a little faster whenever he was near you, the way his breath caught in his throat when you looked at him like he mattered.

So, when he finally said his name, it wasn’t just a name. It was a confession, a quiet surrender of the barriers he’d kept so carefully in place. It was his way of saying that maybe, despite everything, he wanted you to know him. To see him. And maybe—just maybe—he wanted to see where that could lead.

“Remy LeBeau,” he repeated, the weight of his name settling between you like a fragile truce. His gaze didn’t waver as he watched you, waiting, hoping that you would understand what it meant—that this wasn’t just a casual exchange. It was his way of saying that he trusted you, that he was willing to let you in, even if just a little.

Because for Remy, this wasn’t just another night, and you weren’t just another person. You were the one who made him want to be more than just the shadow in the dark, more than the vigilante who disappeared into the night. With you, he wanted to be real. And that scared him more than anything else ever had. You finished cleaning up his knuckles, your hands steady even as your heart felt anything but. The sight of him—so stubbornly trying to keep himself together, bleeding and bruised yet holding on to his composure—tugged at something deep inside you. You placed the swab on the floor, the tiny act feeling heavier than it should, as if it symbolized letting go of something more than just the makeshift bandage.

Before he could fully rise, you reached out, catching his hand in yours. Your grip was firm, almost desperate, as if you could anchor him in place with that one touch. “Remy, wait,” you pleaded, your voice carrying the weight of all the questions you’d never dared to ask. “Why did you come here?”

For a moment, he hesitated, his eyes darting anywhere but at you. They flickered to the rain-soaked window, then to the shadows pooling in the corners of the room, as if he was searching for an escape route that wasn’t there. The silence between you was thick and heavy, filled with the tension of unspoken words and the palpable sting of vulnerability. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the way his jaw tightened and relaxed, like he was fighting an internal battle you weren’t privy to.

You tightened your grip, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “Why?” you repeated, your voice more insistent now, laced with the hurt of being kept in the dark. “Why did you come here tonight? Out of all the places you could have gone, why did you choose to come to me?”

He flinched, your words cutting through the defenses he’d so carefully maintained. For a second, you thought he might pull away again, retreat behind that impenetrable wall of indifference that he wielded so skillfully. But then, you saw it—a flicker of something in his eyes, a crack in the armor that had always seemed so unbreakable.

He looked at you, really looked at you, and in that gaze, you saw the vulnerability he’d been hiding, the part of him that he kept so carefully guarded. His eyes, usually so full of mischief or shrouded in mystery, were now dark and stormy with emotions you couldn’t quite name. His jaw clenched and unclenched as if he were wrestling with the words, his throat working like he was choking on something that refused to be said. Finally, he let out a breath, shaky and uneven, his shoulders slumping under the invisible weight he carried.

“Because,” he said, his voice rough and raw, as if it hurt to get the words out, “despite everything, I trust you.”

The confession hung in the air between you, fragile and bare. It was more than just a statement—it was an offering, a piece of himself laid out in the open, unprotected. You’d seen him face down danger without a second thought, dive headfirst into fights that should have scared him away, but this was different. This was him, unmasked, standing in front of you without the armor, without the bravado, admitting something that cost him far more than any physical wound.

You swallowed, your throat tight with the weight of his words. Trust. It was such a simple word, yet it felt monumental coming from him, like he was handing you a key to a part of himself he’d never shown anyone. In that moment, you realized just how much it meant—that despite all the walls he’d built, all the times he’d pushed you away, he’d chosen to be here. With you. Because you were the one person he felt he could trust when everything else seemed uncertain.

Your hand, still holding his, squeezed just a little tighter, as if you could convey all the things you wanted to say through that simple touch. “Remy…” you began, your voice catching on the rawness of it all. You didn’t know what to say, how to respond to something so honest and vulnerable. But you didn’t have to, because the way you held his gaze, the way you didn’t let go, spoke louder than any words could.

His eyes softened, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of relief in his expression. Maybe it wasn’t much, maybe it wasn’t everything, but it was a start. A small crack in the walls he’d built so high, and for now, that was enough. He nodded slightly, as if to acknowledge the silent understanding that had passed between you.

You felt your heart skip, the realization sinking in. He didn’t just trust you in the way someone might trust a friend or a passing acquaintance. He trusted you with the parts of himself that he kept hidden, the scars that ran deeper than skin and the fears that chased him through every dark alley. It was a trust born not from necessity, but from choice—a choice that he made to let you in, even when it went against every instinct he had.

“You can fall down my fire escape any time,” You joked as you let go of his hand, allowing him to stand to his full height, “You can stay here if you need to. There’s a couch, I mean it’s not the Hilton but it’s okay.”

He shook his head again, but this time it wasn’t in defiance—it was in resignation, a slow acknowledgment of a truth he couldn’t ignore any longer. “Ain’t that easy, chère,” he muttered, his accent thickening as the weight of his emotions slipped through. “I got too many people after me, too many things I done that I can’t take back. You don’t deserve to be dragged into that.” You watched as he moved towards the window without another word and opened it, stepping through it and closing it behind you. The silence which filled the room made you wonder if he had been here at all.

Over the next few weeks, a peculiar routine began to form between you and Remy. It started with the sound of a gentle knock on your window late at night, a rhythm that became as familiar as the patter of rain against the glass. Each time, you would find yourself startled awake by the soft, rhythmic knock, your heart racing as you made your way to the window. There he would be, standing in the shadows with his usual air of mystery and just a hint of something else—a weariness that seemed to grow with each passing night.

You’d open the window, letting him in with a mix of relief and apprehension, and he’d step inside with a tired nod, his wounds ranging from fresh cuts to bruises that needed tending. There was an unspoken agreement between you: you’d patch him up, and he’d leave before the first light of dawn.

Each night, you followed the same routine. You’d lead him to the small area you’d set up as a makeshift first-aid station—an old, comfortable armchair covered with clean bandages, antiseptic, and gauze. As you cleaned and dressed his wounds, the silence between you grew more comfortable, though it was always punctuated by the occasional hiss of pain from him. The process became almost ritualistic; you knew exactly how much pressure to apply, how to wrap the bandages just right to avoid further discomfort.

And every night, after you finished, he’d nod his thanks, pull his coat tightly around him, and slip out into the night before you had a chance to ask him anything more. He never stayed long, never lingered, always disappearing into the darkness as if he were a phantom who could only exist in the shadows.

But the nights turned into weeks, and despite the seemingly routine nature of these encounters, there was a growing sense of familiarity and intimacy between you. Each time he showed up, you could sense that he was carrying more than just physical wounds—there was an emotional toll, an unspoken sadness that seemed to deepen with each passing night.

One night, as you finished tending to a particularly nasty gash on his arm, you felt a shift in the atmosphere. There was something different in the way he moved, a heaviness in his posture that seemed out of place. For the first time, he didn’t immediately head for the window when you were done. Instead, he lingered for a moment, his gaze wandering around the room as if he were weighing whether to say something he’d been holding back.

You watched him with a mix of curiosity and concern, the silence stretching between you, thick with the weight of unspoken words. You knew this wasn’t just about physical injuries anymore; there was something deeper, something that went beyond the nightly visits and the ritual of bandages and antiseptic.

Finally, he broke the silence, his voice low and hesitant. “Chère,” he began, the usual confidence in his tone replaced by a vulnerable edge, “there’s somethin’ I’ve been meaning to tell ya.”

You turned to face him fully, your heart skipping a beat at the seriousness in his voice. “What is it?” you asked softly, your hands still lingering with the bandages as if they could offer comfort beyond their intended use.

He looked down, his gaze falling to the floor as if the words were too heavy to hold. “I… I know I ain’t been the most open person,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “But there’s a reason why I keep comin’ back here. A reason I haven’t been able to tell ya until now.”

You nodded, waiting, sensing that this was something important, something that might finally shed light on the enigma that had been haunting your nights.

He took a deep breath, the sound almost like a shudder, and began to speak. “My wife, Anna… she was killed a just over a year ago.” His voice cracked on the name, the weight of it hanging heavy in the air. “It was a random act of violence—nothing more than a bad stroke of luck. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The words felt like a punch to the gut, the shock of them making your breath catch. You knew there was pain behind his eyes, but hearing it spoken out loud, the loss and the grief laid bare, made it all the more real. You could see the deep sadness etched into his features, the way his shoulders slumped with the weight of the confession.

“It broke me,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve been tryin’ to deal with it, to keep goin’, but every time I look in the mirror, all I see is the man who couldn’t protect her. It’s like I’m stuck in this endless cycle of fightin’, tryin’ to find some way to make sense of it all.”

He paused, swallowing hard, and you could see the raw, unfiltered pain in his eyes. “When I started comin’ to you… it wasn’t just about savin’ ya from trouble. It was about findin’ somethin’ real, somethin’ that reminded me of who I used to be before all this happened. I trust you, chère, because you’re one of the few things that feels like it matters, like it’s worth fightin’ for.”

The admission left you breathless, the enormity of his words sinking in. You could see the vulnerability in him, the way he was reaching out in the only way he knew how. It wasn’t just about the physical wounds he carried; it was about the emotional scars, the grief that had become a part of him. After his admission, you had offered him the couch—an unspoken invitation to stay, to rest, to find some semblance of peace for the night. He hesitated at first, his gaze flickering between you and the couch as if he were unsure whether to accept the offer. But the exhaustion etched into his features and the heavy weight of his grief made the decision for him.

“Are ya sure?” he asked, his voice still rough but carrying a hint of relief.

You nodded, giving him a reassuring smile. “Of course. It’s the least I can do after everything you’ve done for me.”

He accepted with a nod, his usual nonchalance replaced by a quiet weariness. You watched him as he settled onto the couch, the familiar sound of its creaking beneath him a reminder of the comfort it could offer. He removed his coat, carefully placing it over the back of the couch, and then lay down, stretching out with a sigh that seemed to release some of the tension from his body.

You turned off the lights, leaving only the soft glow of a lamp in the corner to cast a warm light over the room. The silence that followed was comfortable, almost soothing, as you moved about quietly, tidying up the area where he had been. You found yourself stealing glances at him, noting the way his features softened as he finally began to drift off.

It was the first night in the weeks you’ve known him that Remy wasn’t slipping out into the darkness after you’d finished tending his wounds. The sight of him lying there, vulnerable and at ease, was both comforting and poignant. You could see the exhaustion in his relaxed posture, the way his chest rose and fell with the steady rhythm of sleep.

As you started to settle in for the night, you couldn’t help but reflect on the changes that had occurred between you. The nights of routine visits, the shared moments of silent understanding, and the recent revelation had all woven a new thread into the fabric of your connection. The couch had become more than just a piece of furniture; it was now a symbol of trust, of the fragile but growing bond between you.

Sometime in the early hours of the morning, you found yourself unable to sleep. The weight of Remy’s story and the raw emotion of the night played on your mind. You quietly moved to where he was sleeping, careful not to disturb him, and sat down on the edge. The room was quiet except for the gentle sounds of his breathing and the steady patter of rain.

You reached out, your fingers brushing against the edge of his hand, which was resting loosely on the arm of the couch. Even in sleep, he seemed to carry the burden of his grief, but there was also a sense of peace that came with the simple act of resting in a safe place. You wondered what it must have felt like for him to finally let down his guard, to find a moment of solace in the midst of so much pain.

As you sat there, your thoughts drifted to the future—what it might hold for you both. You knew there were still many unanswered questions, many layers to peel back. But for now, you were content to simply be there, to offer a place where he could find some respite from his struggles.

The dawn began to break, casting a soft light across the room. Remy stirred, his eyes fluttering open as the first rays of sunlight touched his face. He blinked groggily, slowly becoming aware of his surroundings and the presence of someone walking around. When he saw you, a tired but genuine smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice still rough but softer than it had been the night before.

“Morning,” you replied, returning his smile with one of your own. “How’d you sleep?”

He stretched slightly, wincing at the stiffness in his muscles. “Better than I have in a long time,” he admitted, his gaze meeting yours with a mixture of gratitude and something else—an emotion you couldn’t quite place but that felt comforting all the same.

You stood up, offering him a hand to help him sit up fully. “I’m glad to hear that,” you said. “Do you want some coffee or something to eat?”

He accepted the offer with a nod, and you moved to the small kitchen, preparing a simple breakfast. As you worked, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of contentment. This moment—this small act of care—was something more than you’d expected when you first met him. It was a reminder that even in the midst of grief and uncertainty, there were moments of connection and understanding that made everything feel a little bit more bearable.

As you shared the quiet morning, the bond between you felt stronger, forged in the vulnerability and trust that had developed over the past weeks. It wasn’t a solution to the pain or the grief that Remy carried, but it was a beginning—an acknowledgment that sometimes, even the smallest acts of kindness could make a difference. As the weeks turned into months, the routine of Remy’s late-night visits became a natural part of your life. Each night, he would arrive with new bruises and wounds, and each morning you would tend to them with a mix of professional care and personal concern. The process had become a ritual, a time where you both found a rare moment of respite from the chaos of his nightly escapades and the emotional weight of his grief.

With each passing night, the space between you began to fill with unspoken understanding and a growing intimacy. The conversations during these quiet moments evolved from simple exchanges about the day’s events to deeper discussions about life, loss, and the future. You found yourself looking forward to his arrival, the brief yet meaningful conversations and the comfort of his presence becoming a source of solace for you as well.

Remy, too, seemed to find more than just physical healing in these nights. The conversations grew more personal, his stories more revealing. He spoke about his past, his memories of Anna, and the struggles he faced with his grief. The more he shared, the more you saw beyond the hardened exterior, glimpsing the man who had once been filled with hope and love. And with each story, each shared silence, the connection between you deepened.

There were moments when the air between you crackled with something that went beyond friendship. It was subtle at first—a lingering look, a gentle touch that lasted just a bit longer than necessary, or a smile that spoke volumes. It was in the way he would sit closer to you on the couch, or the way his eyes would soften when he looked at you. It was in the moments of shared laughter, the quiet comfort of each other’s company, and the unspoken understanding that seemed to build with each passing day.

One evening, after you had finished tending to a particularly nasty gash on his side, the atmosphere felt different. Remy was moving to stand up, already moving to where his jacket was. He needed to go, before this got to far. He was an idiot to let it get this far but with you he felt safe, he felt content and for the first time since Anna, he felt happy. You stood up after him, watching him with curious eyes as his face became more anguished.

The silence was heavy, laden with the weight of unspoken feelings and unresolved emotions. Remy’s gaze was suddenly locked on yours, his eyes dark and intense, betraying a storm of inner conflict. His jaw tightened, the muscles working beneath the skin as he struggled to articulate the thoughts that had been tangled up inside him.

You reached out, placing a gentle hand on his arm, the touch a grounding force amidst the turmoil. The warmth of your hand seemed to anchor him, and he turned his gaze fully toward you, his eyes searching yours with a vulnerability that made your heart pound.

“You’re going to go again aren’t you?”

As you spoke, your voice was soft but firm, your words carrying the sincerity of your emotions. Remy’s eyes never wavered from yours, his expression a mixture of longing and apprehension. You could see the internal struggle, the battle between his desire to open up and his fear of being hurt or rejected.

It was as if a dam had burst, releasing a torrent of emotions that had been pent up for too long. The barriers he had so carefully maintained began to crumble, and the rawness of his feelings became apparent. He took a step closer, his hand moving to capture yours, his fingers tightening around yours as if he were afraid you might disappear.

You didn’t move away. You couldn’t. Not when you saw the profound need in his eyes, the desperate plea for understanding and acceptance that seemed to radiate from him. The depth of his longing was almost palpable, a tangible force that drew you closer.

Without thinking, you reached up, your hands trembling slightly as you cupped his face. Your fingers traced the sharp lines of his cheekbones and the curve of his jaw, feeling the warmth of his skin and the rapid thud of his pulse beneath your touch. The intimacy of the gesture was electric, the connection between you both intense and undeniable.

Remy’s eyes fluttered closed, a shuddering breath escaping him as he leaned into your touch. You could feel the tension in his body, the coiled energy and the weight of his hidden fears and unspoken burdens. In that moment, you understood the enormity of what he was offering—a chance to be a source of solace, to be the one who could calm his storm. He wanted to run, every instinct in his body told him to run; but instead he was rooted to the spot. His heart pounding in his chest as he felt the warmth of your hand, he could almost feel the pulse in your hand, the rapid thumping telling him that you needed this just as much as he did.

You knew then that you had to be there for him, to offer him the comfort and peace that he so desperately needed. You leaned in slowly, your lips brushing against his with a tenderness that was both gentle and reassuring. The initial contact was soft, almost hesitant, as if testing the waters of this newfound closeness.

But as Remy’s response met your touch, the kiss deepened. His mouth was warm and insistent, a fierce hunger and a desperate need evident in every movement. The passion in his kiss was consuming, a reflection of the longing that had been building between you. His hands slid around your waist, pulling you close, his fingers gripping you as if he feared losing you.

You melted into him, your body responding instinctively to the intensity of his touch. The kiss was no longer just about comfort or solace—it was a powerful exchange of raw emotion and deep connection. The desperation, the longing, and the yearning all coalesced into a singular, electrifying moment.

As you pulled away slightly, your breath mingling with his, you looked into his eyes, seeing the same fervor mirrored there. The space between you was charged with an intensity that spoke volumes more than words ever could. It was a moment of profound intimacy, one that signified a new chapter in your relationship—a chapter marked by shared vulnerability, unspoken

He watched you for a moment, the internal conflict making his stomach churn and his heart ache. Instead of listening to his head, which told him to run. To keep you safe in a way he couldn’t keep Anna safe, he went against every voice and kissed you again. This time harder, more needful. As the kiss went on, the world around you melted away, leaving only the two of you, lost in the vortex of your desire. You forgot about the danger, the secrets, the lies. All that mattered was this moment, this connection, this trust.

You broke away, gasping for air, your lips swollen, your heart racing. Remy's eyes snapped open, his gaze burning with a fire that left you breathless.

"Chère," he whispered, his voice husky, his accent thick. "I need you."

You nodded, your throat dry, your body trembling with anticipation. You knew what he needed, what he wanted. And you were more than willing to give it to him.

You pulled him back in, your lips crashing against his, the kiss growing more frenzied, more desperate. You could feel the weight of his emotions, the depth of his need, and you responded in kind. Your hands roamed his body, tracing the contours of his muscles, the curve of his spine. His skin was hot to the touch, his pulse racing beneath your fingers.

Remy's hands were equally busy, stripping away your clothes with a haste that bordered on desperation. You didn't care; you were too caught up in the moment, too lost in the fire that burned between you. The world around you melted away, leaving only the two of you, lost in the vortex of your desire.

As the last of your clothes fell away, Remy's gaze raked over your body, his eyes burning with a hunger that left you breathless. You felt your skin prickle with anticipation, your heart racing with excitement. You knew what was coming, and you were more than ready.

Without a word, Remy swept you up in his arms, carrying you to the kitchen bench. You didn't care where you were, only that you were with him, that you were together. The moment he laid you down, you reached for him, pulling him into a kiss that was both fierce and tender.

He begins to trail featherlight kisses along your jaw, down your neck, and across your collarbone, causing your skin to tingle with each gentle touch. Your breath quickens as his lips graze over your chest, his tongue teasing your nipples, eliciting soft moans that escape your lips.

Remy's lips trailed kisses along your neck, his breath hot and heavy, while his fingers skillfully undid the fastenings of your underwear. The fabric slipped away, revealing your curves to his eyes. His admiring gaze intensified the heat within you, and you felt yourself melting under his scorching stare.

He slowly lowered his mouth to yours, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, as his hands ventured downward, caressing your thighs and the delicate skin of your hips. Then, with expert precision, he parted your legs, and with a gentle whisper in your ear, he crouched down and kissed the inside of your thighs before the world narrowed to the sensation of his tongue on your most intimate place.

You felt the wetness of his kisses, the gentle suction that had you arching off the bench in response. Your hands gripped the edge, fingers curling as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you. Remy's name escaped your lips in desperate moans, the intensity building to a crescendo.

Meanwhile, Remy's own desire grew more apparent, the strain in his muscles and the heavy breathing marking his passion. The sight of your body, glistening in front of him and the sweet tastes of your desire seemed to overwhelm him. He stood back up, kissing you so you could taste yourself on your lips before he lifted you slightly, urging you to wrap your legs around his waist, as he stood, supporting your weight.

With a smoldering look, he gently guided himself into you, and the bench echoed with the rhythmic creaking of wood as he set a steady pace. The heat and friction intensified with each thrust, sending shivers down your spine. Your hands found purchase on his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh as the pleasure peaked.

The kitchen bench became a sanctuary of sensations, where moans mingled the soft hiss of each breath. The moments slipped by in a blur of pleasure, and the world outside ceased to exist. You were lost in Remy's eyes, in the feel of his skin against yours, and the raw desire that fueled your every touch. The pleasure built to an inevitable climax, and you rode the waves of ecstasy together, your bodies a harmonious symphony of sweat and passion.

After the intensity of the moment, the kitchen was bathed in a quiet stillness, the echoes of your shared passion lingering in the air. The cool, hard surface of the kitchen bench was a stark contrast to the warmth of your bodies, now entwined in the aftermath of your intimate connection.

You sat there, your breathing gradually returning to normal, Remy’s forehead resting in the crook of your neck, your bodies still pressed close together. You could see the moonlight flicker through the window, casting shadows on the walls.

Remy’s fingers were still lightly tracing patterns on your skin, his touch gentle and soothing. His gaze was soft, a mixture of tenderness and wonder in his eyes as he looked at you. There was a vulnerability in his expression that mirrored the openness and trust you had both shared.

You shifted slightly, your movements slow and deliberate as you tried to regain your bearings. The cool air against your exposed skin was a stark contrast to the warmth that had enveloped you just moments before. You glanced at Remy, your heart swelling with a mix of affection and relief. The connection between you felt deeper and more meaningful than ever.

He let out a soft sigh, his breath warm against your neck as he leaned in to press a gentle kiss against your skin. “I never expected this,” he murmured, his voice low and husky. “Not in a million years.”

You turned your head to look at him, your fingers gently caressing his cheek. “Neither did I,” you admitted, a soft smile playing on your lips. “But I’m glad it happened.”

Remy’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, the weight of the past and the uncertainty of the future seemed to fade away. It was just the two of you in that moment, finding solace and connection in each other’s presence.

As the minutes ticked by, you both began to shift, Remy moving over and handing you the clothes that were now scattered across the kitchen floor. The awkwardness of the situation was tempered by the ease that had developed between you over the past weeks. You both knew that this was a new beginning, a step toward something more profound and lasting.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, your voice laced with genuine concern. The intensity of your shared experience had left you both emotionally raw, and you wanted to make sure he was feeling alright.

Remy looked at you, a warm smile spreading across his face. “Yeah, I’m okay,” he said, his tone reassuring. “I’m more than okay.”

You returned his smile, feeling a sense of contentment and peace settle over you. The connection between you was undeniable, and while the future was uncertain, you both knew that you had taken a significant step forward together.

He watched you intently, his expression a mixture of contemplation and uncertainty. The intimacy you had shared had been profound, but it had also left him grappling with a swirl of conflicting emotions. The bond between you was undeniably strong, but he was acutely aware of the dangers and complications that came with his life.

“You know,” he said, his voice breaking the silence as he glanced at you, “you might need to get a new kitchen bench after this.”

You laughed, the sound light and genuine, a stark contrast to the tension that lingered beneath the surface. “I think I can manage,” you replied, a playful smile on your lips. “But if this is gonna keep happening, I might need to invest in a few more cleaning supplies.”

Remy’s laughter was short-lived, fading into a contemplative silence. His gaze remained fixed on you, and he could see the playful glint in your eyes slowly giving way to a more serious expression. The laughter in his own eyes dimmed, replaced by a flicker of concern and introspection.

“Is this what you want?” he asked quietly, his voice carrying a note of vulnerability. “To keep this goin’?”

You paused, the question hanging in the air between you. You looked out at the window, the moonlight casting a soft glow over the rain-soaked city beyond. Your thoughts were a tangle of emotions—hope, fear, and a deepening affection for Remy. You turned back to him, your gaze steady as you met his eyes.

“Remy,” you said softly, “is that what you want? Is this what you’re looking for?”

He took a deep breath, his expression conflicted. He knew the risks of his life, the dangers that lurked in the shadows of his world. His past with Anna weighed heavily on him, a constant reminder of his failures and regrets. The thought of opening himself up to another person, of letting someone into his turbulent life, was both alluring and terrifying.

“My life’s dangerous,” he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. “There’s no denyin’ that. I can’t promise you a life without risk, without danger. But… I can promise that I’ll always protect you. With everything I’ve got.”

His eyes were filled with a sincerity that cut through the uncertainty. The words were heavy with meaning, an unspoken promise of commitment and care. It was his way of offering reassurance, of letting you know that despite the chaos and danger that surrounded him, he was willing to make you a part of his world.

You reached out, placing a comforting hand on his arm. The gesture was simple but spoke volumes. “I’m not afraid of the danger as you know,” you said softly. “I’m more afraid of losing you—of not knowing what we could be together.”

Remy’s gaze softened, his features relaxing as he looked at you. The tension in his shoulders eased, and he took a step closer, closing the distance between you. “I never wanted to drag you into this mess,” he said quietly. “But now that you’re here… I don’t wanna let go. I don’t wanna lose what we have.”

The sincerity in his words was palpable, and you could see the internal struggle that had been weighing on him. The fear of repeating past mistakes and the desire to protect you from his dangerous world were at odds, but his commitment to you was clear.

“Then yeah, I think I’ll need to get some more cleaning supplies,” You smirked, watching the look of relief cross his face. Remy nodded, a sense of relief washing over him. The fear and uncertainty that had clouded his thoughts began to recede, replaced by a newfound sense of hope and determination. He reached out, pulling you into a tender embrace, his arms wrapping around you with a protective warmth.

In that embrace, you both found a moment of peace, a shared understanding that despite the dangers and the uncertainties, you were willing to face it all together. The promise of a future, uncertain and fraught with challenges but filled with potential, was now a shared dream—a dream that you both were ready to pursue.

As you stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the first light of day began to filter through the window, casting a gentle glow over the room. It was a new beginning, one that would be marked by the strength of your connection and the commitment you had made to each other. And as the sun rose, you both knew that whatever lay ahead, you would face it together, finding solace and strength in the bond you had forged.

#Marvel #Fanfiction #Reader Insert #Remy Lebeau x Reader #Gambit x Reader #Anti-Hero #Vigilante!Gambit #Remy Lebeau #Gambit #Xmen #Assault #Smut #Ao3 #deadpool & wolverine #Deadpool 3 #Ask Answered

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love-and-war-on-cybertron · 6 months ago

Text

Teach a bot to Kiss: Metroplex

Shout out to my friend TBean for sending me a Hal900 fic that clearly inspired me. I also made a little reference to a First aid x Metroplex fic that I read awhile ago. If anyone knows of it, Please link me ToT

Metroplex loves when you read aloud to him. It could be a lonely experience as a living city, often forgotten by its residents. It had been no surprise when the news of first contact reached Metroplex, and he requested to meet one of these humans. Being brought into a city, only to be told the city is who wanted to meet you had been an eye opener to just how big Cybertronians could be.

Introducing yourself to a nearly empty room had felt odd and Scamper, an extension of Metroplex, had been offered as a way to adjust. The autonomous troops had made the transition easy once you understood they were simultaneously separate and connected to the Titan. The giant of few words surprised his fellow Autobots with how chatty he was with you. Requests from both of you for visits were frequent, leading to your placement as Ambassador to him and the bots that resided within. Now you lived inside him, and reminded yourself not to word it like that cause it sounded wrong on so many levels.

Friendship blossomed into a crush on what was essentially a faceless living city. Sure, other bots told you he could transform and indeed had a face, but it was very unlikely you would ever see it. The Titan typically remaining dormant. How could you explain to other humans how long conversations about history and reading aloud led to such feelings. Perhaps Cybertronians would better understand. Or not. You keep this crush to yourself, content in being an ambassador. Between you and the Titan, Ambassador was just a fancy way to say friend.

The command center-like space was empty save for you and some observation drones. His brain took up the middle of the room, surrounded by different panels and screens. Some for communication, some for... you weren't going to try and guess. It was a place you were commonly found, performing "ambassador duties". Sitting on one of these empty panels and speaking or like today, reading to him. Metroplex would sometimes interrupt, asking you to explain a concept or word that did not translate well.

"My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand. To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss." You pause to take a breath and Metroplex interrupts.

"What is a kiss?" The voice has no origin, but you can feel it around you. that had taken more time than the rest to get used to. Voices from nowhere.

Explaining things very rarely gave you reason to pause, but this time you hold the open book to your mouth, thinking, feeling cheeks warm as you stall.

"A kiss is a form of affection. Pressing lips together. Like a hug of the mouths." Hugging had been something you explained somewhat recently after he witnessed you and another human hug in greeting. The fact these being, so similar in the value of relationships and connections, had such different ways of expressing it. His auto-troop, Scramble, stood in as a body to demonstrate a hug, and was promptly put to use hugging other autobots. The troops often hugged you when bumping into each other around the Titan's internal routes. You were never sure if it was their own actions or his. Not that you minded. They were always careful with you.

Metroplex often asked for demonstrations, so it was no surprise when the voice, almost timidly, asks for a demonstration of a kiss. Six-gun was nearby, seemingly on standby. Waiting for your answer. Calling out to the bot, he steps closer and kneels to your level. Six-Gun had a permanent battle mask, so you think for a moment.

"Well… Something acceptable between friends is a cheek kiss. In some cultures it is even a common greeting." A small peck to the side of his battle mask. Taking a few steps, you kiss the other side. It felt like kissing a friend.

The visor of Six-Gun lights up, "Well hello to you too!" The extension of Metroplex bumps his battle mask into you gently. A mimicry of your own greeting kiss. You give a smile, and a pat to his face before he moves off again. A quick simple lesson.

"You know Metroplex, I don't feel like I gave you a kiss." You comment as you sit back down, grabbing the book. It was a thought that slipped out.

"Please elaborate."

"It didn't feel like I gave you a kiss. It felt like I kissed Six-gun," Tapping your fingers on the book, rereading the line that made him ask. "I'm not sure where I could even give you a kiss unless you transform." You tried to picture how big he would be. First aid had once told you he was able to stand on the glass over the Titans optics. You would be ant sized!

"The main panel beside you." He speaks after a moment of thought.

You glance over and see a panel that differs from the others. It had never stood out to you before, full of the same buttons and lights everywhere, save for the large one in the center.

"it is a direct interface." He explains, sensing your questioning, "Typically used by my Autonomous troops and drones. Sometimes city speakers."

You slip down from your perch and onto the one indicated. Metroplex speaks again, the lights blinking in time with his words, "I am unsure how to better explain it, but similar to how I see and feel your movements inside of me, but with direct touch with the center."

"I see." Stepping carefully around the smaller lights and buttons, you make way to that center light and kneel in front of it. It pulsates steadily. Placing your hand on it causes the light to ripple. A warmth spreads upwards, the hairs on your arm sticking up.

"I feel you." His voice sounds closer, yet there is still no specific source. "Can you feel me?"

A pulse of light, a pulse of sensation up your arm. Barely there, like a spider crawling up. He was reaching back.

"I think so. Yes, yes I can feel you Metroplex." A sense of giddiness takes over you. You had interreacted with him through various proxies, but this was direct. As face to face as you thought you could be. "I feel you Metroplex."

The pulsing quickens. "I feel you."

The smile can't be helped. Neither can the giggling. "Hello friend."

"Hello friend."

You deduce that it is a sort of feedback loop, or connection. You can feel the edges of his mind. The pleasant curiosity he feels getting to observe you a new way, the glimmer of comfort he feels with you near. Would it be stronger if you were Cybertronian?

Could he feel how you felt about him?

"You are distressed." He states, as if reading your mind, "If it distresses you to kiss me, do not feel obligated."

The way Metroplex says it makes you laugh, "I don't feel obligated. I worry cause-" You run your palm across the glass, watching light follow the motion, "- I shouldn't kiss you. Not without telling you some things." He is silent, waiting for you to continue. "I like you MP."

"I enjoy your presence as well."

"More than friends Metro," You knew that Cybertronians had relationships and love in their own way, "I shouldn't kiss you when I feel this way. Not unless you want to."

"I do want to."

"I mean, feel the same way as me."

"I enjoy your presence greatly, y/n."

The light pulses quickly, and you look up at his brain. It's light, not a solid grasp but you feel it through the connection. A great affection, like a blossom. A reflection of your own heart.

"Oh. Oh!" It's followed by more giddiness as you lean closer. The pulsing quickens, like your own heart beat. Lips against the warm glass. Like the cheek kiss you gave Six-shot. A single chaste peck that leaves a slight smudge. You rub it away with your thumb, watching the light ripple from your touch. His own pulse is slower now.

"May I have another?"

Smiling, hands sliding over the glass, your kiss him again. Slower press of your lips. Followed by a burst of joy, your own and his. Tremors make you pull away, thinking your own excitement was the cause.

It was Metroplex.

His frame shaking, nothing violent, but very notable. Comms started going off, asking the Titan what was going on and if he was okay. You feel his embarrassment, replying to each one and sending out the all clear. You can't resist pressing another kiss to the panel.

#not a lot of actual kissing in this but more plot i suppose #metroplex x reader #metroplex x human #transformers x reader #transformers x human #i love metroplex so much but he's a big boy and you are tiny gotta kiss what you can #teach a bot to kiss

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muletia · 6 months ago

Note

Ratchet would feel guilty for interfacing with you behind his friend/leader’s back. But you are just so addictive, he can’t help but crave you even he just had a taste yesterday. All the while Optimus is blissfully ignorant of your sessions with his dear, old friend.

𝐢 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐱 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

[tfp] obsessed!ratchet x human!reader +18 content / valveplug

cw: explicit valveplug, obsessive thoughts, implied cheating(?) - not really reader just went the slut route lmao

word count: 670

the fact that every single bot reader interfaces with is a cuck is so fucking funny to me, but that's what you get for slaying too hard lmao

Kisses cascade in an avalanche onto your exposed, tilted neck, seeking to cover every inch, every crevice, and every scrap of skin. He wants you to feel good, to take as much pleasure from this closeness as he does and judging by your laughter and the playful squirming on his hips, his actions must be working, bringing you genuine, unfiltered joy. The servos wrapped around your waist tighten, silently begging you to stop teasing his hidden spike.

He prays to Primus that you won’t feel any guilt for stepping into his habsuite again, that you won’t change your mind at the most unexpected moment and leave, abandoning this addict with a burning need. That you won’t shatter his already fragile spark further— now filled with the missing pieces only you could fill.

"Are you sure you want this?" he asks, momentarily pausing the kisses, now lingering on your sternum. His tired optics gaze at you intensely, silently pleading for approval but still offering you a choice.

You roll your eyes in response. "You ask me that every time, Ratch. I’ve never been more sure." It’s exactly what he needed—your affirmation.

The tenderness on your chest resumes, now hungrier and more fervent. He wants to revel in you fully before the next separation, to explore every inch of your body, to sate himself before you're apart again. He knows he’s greedy, that he’s asking too much of you, especially when you’ve been meeting almost daily. But he can’t help it. He can’t stop this insatiable hunger that drives him to stay close, to touch you, to bring you pleasure. And now, with your consent to interface, he can do so in the most intimate and sensual way.

He releases his spike, resting it on your exposed stomach, signaling his intent. He can’t wait any longer — foreplay is over. Needs to feel you from the inside, to experience the honor of entering your soft, warm heaven, to lose himself completely in the pleasure. But to his surprise, you deny him, blocking the entrance to that heaven.

"Wait," you say. "Do you want this? No objections?"

Your questions catch him off guard, pulling him out of his trance because you’ve brought up something he’s been trying not to think about.

Interfacing with you was incredible — otherworldly, even — but he can’t deny the taboo that accompanies it. It goes beyond the interspecies aspect, which he’d accepted the moment he first breached your barriers. No, the pang in his spark after each encounter with you stems from betraying his dearest friend. He knows how Optimus looks at you, knows how close you two are, and understands the rare bond you’ve forged with the Prime. Inviting you into his habsuite was a display of disloyalty and disregard, crushing the brotherly bond he shared with the Autobot leader, eroding trust. He’s not proud of himself. Sometimes, all he feels is disgust at his own lack of restraint. He knows he should stop, leave you alone, and pretend nothing ever happened between you.

"Ratchet?" you ask, worried. He focuses his optics on you and lowers his helm. It’s a shame that one look at you completely shatters his moral compass, reigniting the unbridled, dangerous hunger he can’t fight. The issue of loyalty fades into oblivion as he pushes it to the back of his processor, covering it with desire. "Are you okay?"

"Never better," he replies. He shifts his hips, aligning his spike slick with transfluid against your warmth, teasing both you and himself. He wants to forget obligations, fatigue, burdens, and taboos. He wants you to consume him, destroy him, and drown him in adoration. Make him think of nothing but pleasure.

With minimal effort, he lifts you gently, still holding your waist, and slides deep inside you. Instantly, you envelop his spike, welcoming him with softness and wetness that drives him to a fever pitch. His hips begin to buck, his mind now consumed entirely by you.

#transformers x reader #ratchet x reader #obsessed!ratchet

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prinzrupprecht · 1 month ago

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What it Would Be Like To Date Poseidon

This one was a request. He’s not my cup of tea but also the guy I simp in Apoc isn’t anyone’s cup of tea either.

Character traits to start off with.

He’s cold and stoic. Poseidon is portrayed as emotionally distant and supremely arrogant, with very little regard for others, even fellow gods.

He is very authoritarian: He believes in absolute control and sees emotions and weakness as beneath him.

He is also prideful: He despises inferiority and disorder, viewing himself as a being above reproach or connection.

Based off these traits he is…

Emotionally unavailable: He wouldn’t open up easily, if at all. You’d likely feel isolated.

Controlling or dominant: He would expect loyalty and possibly obedience, not partnership…

High standards: He might judge harshly or expect perfection from his partner.

Protective (in a twisted way): If he did feel attachment, it might manifest as possessiveness rather than affection.

Rare vulnerability: If someone did break through, he might offer fierce, silent, loyalty, but that’s a very big “if.”

Fantasy vs Reality of this relationship

Fantasy appeal: For some of you guys that find him attractive and like his powerful, regal aura would give a “dark romance” or “tame the cold god” kind of way.

Reality: In truth, such a partner would likely be emotionally distant, hard to communicate with, and potentially dismissive of human emotion or vulnerability.

Verdict: Poseidon would be a difficult, emotionally distant, and potentially toxic partner. He’s not written as someone capable of—or interested in—human connection or romantic vulnerability.

Ya this guy is a red walking flag. But I ain’t done yet. Since this isn’t reality. Let’s go with fantasy route.

The Vibe: Cold Royalty

You wouldn’t be dating a “boyfriend”, you’d be dating a god who sees himself as above everyone, including you. Being close to him would feel like constantly walking a tightrope between reverence and fear.

He wouldn’t pursue you. You’d be chosen like a mortal curiosity, not an equal.

Affection would be subtle, or hidden entirely. No hugs, no pet names. Maybe a nod of approval… if you’re lucky.

He wouldn’t tolerate weakness. Cry in front of him? He’d probably walk away or look at you with disdain, unless some crack in his armor revealed he cared more than he admitted.

The perks

If you did earn his attention or affection, it would come with intense power and protection.

You’d never have to fear danger… no one would dare touch you.

He’d express care through action: shielding you, offering gifts, silence-breaking gestures.

If anyone insulted you, they might not live to repeat it.

The Struggles

You’d feel alone, even when you’re with him. He wouldn’t share his thoughts or emotions.

His pride could crush you. Disagreeing with him might be seen as disrespect.

You’d have to prove your worth constantly, because he only respects strength—physical, emotional, or intellectual.

If He Fell for You (Rare Scenario)

If somehow you got through to him…

His loyalty would be absolute, but not romantic in the human sense.

He might open up to you once—and it would be monumental, like watching an ocean break open after centuries of stillness.

His love would be intense, elemental, and terrifying—something ancient and possessive, not tender.

Now for the final conclusion

Dating Poseidon would feel more like a power struggle than a relationship.

But if you enjoy the “ice king melts for one person” trope and can handle the emotional drought until that happens, it could theoretically work.

#record of ragnarok #shuumatsu no valkyrie #record of ragnarok x reader#poseidon ror #Poseidon #Poseidon snv

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violentdeliiights · 26 days ago

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to have and to hold [2] - creature of habit

[series masterlist]

butcher!simon riley x f!reader 1.6k

18+ mdni

cw: brief mention of cannibalism, gory imagery, mention of animal death/flesh/organs typical stalker butcher vibes, stalking/stalker mentality delusion etc, perv simon, brief mentions of war, ptsd, injury, military bullshit, mentions of divorce, price is a bad husband, johnny is a weird flirty objectifying perv, tf141 are NOT good people, overall graphic imagery, mention of domestic violence (not simon), mentions of murder, mentions of kidnapping

<- prev

♫ - songs for this chapter: enter sandman - metallica & where’s your head at - basement jaxx

Simon doesn’t see the harm.

He’s seen his fair share of what the world has to offer. How greed can corrupt even the most pious of men. How hunger can gnaw at a person’s psyche until they snap. A ticking sound you can only just hear, drives you to the brink of madness. He’s seen soldiers trapped in warzones eat their comrades when rations run out. Watched women become toys trapped in labyrinths for men twice their age. He knows how the world is to pretty young things like you. Pretty, soft, naive lambs get eaten whole. Chewed up and spit out. Ligaments torn apart. Tendons ripped from muscle, flesh sliding clean off the bone.

So, no, he doesn’t see the harm in checking on you every now and then.

It starts innocently enough.

Just checking in. Doesn’t want to scare you off, gentle thing that you are.

Doesn’t think you’d take too kindly to his great hulking mass standing over the road from the library, opposite that window you seem to love sitting in. You know, the one with the most comfortable seat that kind of squeaks as you settle in.

Maybe wandering past your flat on his nightly walk after work. Finds his joints lock up if he doesn’t stretch them properly. So what if his route just happens to meander past your building? Just wants to make sure you’re managing. Can’t have anything happening to you now can we, birdie?

It starts innocently enough but Simon will be the first to admit that it doesn’t continue innocently.

It doesn’t take long for him to find himself immersed in you. He knows you like the back of his hand- you’re his. Of course he does.

He knows that on a Monday, you sit and plan your week, and on Sundays you take what he’s heard you call an ‘everything shower’. He knows that some nights you look in your empty fridge and decide to have sleep for dinner (he’s not mad, just disappointed). He knows your favourite cafes and the way you sometimes limit yourself from going one week so it tastes better the next time you go. He knows what the toys in your bedside table look like. Knows how you throw your underwear in a drawer rather than fold it- makes his job easier, he’s sure you won’t notice if a couple pairs go missing. Knows that the bedroom has to be freezing for you to sleep. You keep the window on the latch every night. Ever so considerate, his tender lamb.

It takes a whole seven months for your paths to cross again.

Simon and the lads had gone out for a pint, one of the rare times they were all home at the same time. His palms itch with every second he’s not watching you.

It had become somewhat of a routine; he wakes up, opens up shop, takes his lunch hour where he strolls himself past the cafe you’re sitting in or past the library window you’re holed up in, goes back to finish his shift and shut up shop, ambles across town towards your flat, comes home to sleep and do the same thing the next day. Creature of habit. Creature.

Soothes his flaming palms with the cooled pint in front of him. Condensation collects in his palm’s heart line. Beads roll down the glass to collect in a ring on the table where he doesn’t bother to use a beer mat. Becomes sticky and sickly until he swipes at the puddle absentmindedly as Johnny talks his ear off. Something about the rugby maybe. Maybe a bird he’d shagged while on leave. Is it considered leave if there’s no plan to go back, he wonders. Supposes getting shot in the head is as good an excuse as any.

Price sat opposite him playing with the thick gold band on his ring finger. Simon recalls how messy that last divorce (Price’s fifth he thinks…maybe his sixth?) had been and deems that Price doesn’t like being married, he just likes having a wife. Likes a ring sitting heavy like a shackle, a weight that reminds John daily of his fuck ups but that he is also more than capable of acquiring another wife by the end of the year. Simon knows you’d never think of leaving him like that. He’d never give you a reason to.

Gaz is unusually quiet, sat looking almost through Johnny with glazed over eyes as he swishes the dregs of a pint around in his glass. Simon doesn’t miss those days. Returning from missions so harrowing you can’t even begin to describe what you’ve seen. It only makes sense that Simon became a butcher after he left the forces. Butcher of men returns from classified locations to mutilate and deliver animal flesh. Ice boxes filled with hearts and eyes and organs and his stomach stays completely settled the entire time.

“Phwaw, she’s a feckin’ sorry sight isn’t she? What’s a bonnie lass like her doing here?” Johnny’s voice cuts through Simon’s brain fog like a machete, slicing through the thick invasive weeds overtaking his mind.

His head snaps up like a soldier to attention. The pint glass in his clutch nearly shatters as his fingers tighten around it instinctively. It’s you. His lamb. Here.

You’re standing there in a tiny little vest, your tits near enough spilling from the top. It hugs your stomach and slope of your back perfectly, the jeans on your bottom half all but clinging to your arse. He remembers seeing the scuffed trainers on your feet scattered about your bedroom as you rushed to leave for uni that morning.

You’re standing there looking like the tenderest cut of meat he’s ever seen. And from a quick scan of the pub, every other dirty pervert in here is thinking the same thing.

Difference is, Simon is the only dirty pervert allowed to look at you like that.

The girl next to you is chatting your ear off as you stand awkwardly playing with your necklace. She’s pretty, sure, but Simon hasn’t so much as thought about another woman since he met you. You’re the one.

“Eyes. Off.” His teeth separate just enough to force the order out without tearing his eyes off of you.

A snort from Johnny has him reluctantly swinging his head to look at the younger man, “Ye already called dibs, Ghostie? Tha’s nae fair. A’ saw her first.”

“She’s mine, MacTavish. Don’t fuckin’ try it.”

“Jaysus, calm your heid. Wasnae gonna dae any’ing. She the lassie you’ve been creepin’ on? Boy did good, she’s mighty braw.” Johnny’s eyebrows raise nearly to his hairline as he commends his old Lieutenant, looking around the table at the other men still gazing at where you stand ordering at the bar.

Your friend has disappeared by now, gone to the toilet or outside for a ciggy and unknowingly leaving you to fend for yourself amongst a pack of hungry wolves.

“You ever gonna speak to her, son?” Price’s gruff voice is a welcome reprieve from the slightly slurred rambles of the drunk Scotsman.

“Mmm, gonna wait ‘til she’s ready first. Don’t need her runnin’ off on me.” Simon’s eyes are still locked on you. A sniper with his target set. A hunter counting down his breaths whilst his finger rests on the trigger.

“You? Waiting? Pfft, yeah okay.” It’s the first time Kyle’s properly opened his mouth all night except to half-heartedly agree to Johnny’s drunken word babble.

Simon’s eyebrow raises behind his mask, “s’That supposed ta mean, Garrick?”

“It means, when have you ever, in your bastard life, waited for anything? I’ve watched you tell terrorists to fuck off whilst they’ve held guns to your forehead. Watched you run into active war zones with your chest pumped so full of lead you’d set off a metal detector,” Gaz’s eyebrows are so furrowed in frustrated confusion that it looks painful, “And you’re telling me you’re just gonna wait around and see if this girl wants you? Sure, okay.”

The more Kyle talks, the more Simon realises he’s right. He’s fucking right.

For the last seven months, Simon’s been following you around desperate for the day you turn around and admit what he already knows. That you crave him like he craves you. That you want to crawl into his chest cavity and take your rest. That you need to bury yourself under his skin until you can’t tell where you end and he begins.

For the last seven months, you could’ve been his. What the fuck was he doing?

The only good thing his bastard father ever told Simon was that if you want something, you take it. Spewed it through clenched teeth when Simon and Tommy would come home to him stood towering over their mother. Would bark it between coughing his tar-filled lungs up as he would drag another pretty bird into the back garden shed.

Only, Simon remembers the white hot fear in the girls’ faces. Sweat dripping from their forehead into terror crazed eyes, sobbing and writhing, kicking and grunting behind layers of duct tape wrapped around their heads. He remembers the smell of blood and whiskey that always seemed to linger around his father. Remembers how the only ‘gift’ his father ever gave him was on his 15th birthday, when he was allowed to enter that shed. His father died the following month. Simon left for the military a year later. He never celebrated his birthday again.

Simon remembers the fear in the girls’ faces. He doesn’t want that for his lamb.

But if that’s what it takes.

#simon ghost riley #fanfiction #cod fanfic #simon riley #simon riley x reader #call of duty #dark romance #butcher simon #to have and to hold

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oozedninjas · 2 years ago

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HARD CRUSH!

How different are Leo and Raph when they're in love?

Sfw + Nsfw / MDIN / +18 / Leo's 27, Raph's 26 / Thought for 2007, but I think it adapts cool to other verses.

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LEO

Every nuance of you doesn't escape his notice. He's the embodiment of observance, attentively absorbing every facet of your being. Your desires, dreams, beliefs, and thoughts, he listens to them all with keen interest.

The dilemma lies in his passive approach; he remains restrained in expressing his crush, riddled with self-doubt over jeopardizing your friendship. Still, there's a flicker of affection in the form of occasional winks, suggestive smirks, and inadvertent casual touches. It's as if these actions were mere happenstance.

When envisioning a relationship, Leo's thoughts teem with romance.

He's a daydreamer, imagining tender cuddles, soft kisses, and focusing on the intricate sensation of your lips meeting. He knows he'd excel as a boyfriend, ever ready to shower you with unwavering devotion.

Leo envisions a love that could cocoon you, enveloping you within his arms in the warmest embrace. But he restrains from confessing his emotions.

He believes you merit someone who can stand by you in daylight, attend family gatherings, join in celebrating birthdays, and accompany you through life's milestones.

Voicing his feelings, he fears, would convolute matters further, and complexities are the last thing he needs.

And during the nighttime, when those exhilarating thoughts begin to weave through Leo's mind, he cannot prevent the fantasies from taking shape.

He envisions whether you'd be quiet or loud if you'd squirm, let out soft moans if you'd want him to be above you, or taste you up.

Leo can't quite look at you the following morning.

RAPH

Raphael takes a more tangible route.

His attention homes in on your mouth, your laughter, your entire physique. He's an expert at deciphering body language, knowing precisely when and how to bridge the gap.

Wit flows effortlessly from him, each word carefully crafted to elicit your laughter.

Raph dedicates himself to crafting moments that resonate, subtly weaving a tapestry where you'd naturally seek his company.

It's a smokescreen for the torrent of affection he harbors. Just like Leo, the dread of risking your friendship hampers him from taking the leap. Besides, he's acutely aware of what he is: a sewer-dwelling turtle with little to offer beyond nocturnal escapes and thwarting villains.

He's not supposed to yearn for you to this extent. The priority should be what you rightfully deserve, yet whenever you smile at him as if he's the only one in the room, makes it more than impossible.

Soon, your scent becomes a dangerous feature, stirring something primal within him, a voice that insists he should claim you. Mark you up, keep you all to himself.

Fuck, it would be so good to feel your breath upon his lips as you whimper, pleading. Your nails scratching the edges of his shell as he buries himself deeper in you.

And Raphael loses sleep as he stares at the ceiling, imagining you're his. His to touch, his to kiss, his to protect.

#tmnt smut #tmnt 2007 #rapahel 2007 #leo 2007 #turtle ninjas #they would be gold boyfriends #that's my final statement #tmnt leo x reader #tmnt raph x reader #leonardo hamato x reader #raph x reader #raphael hamato x reader #tmnt x reader

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l-littlebird-l · 2 years ago

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• A Dirty Birthday •

Sebastian Sallow & Ominis Gaunt x MC (Smut)

— Requests are Open —

Summary: Sebastian talks Ominis into sneaking in your dormitory at the break of dawn on your birthday. After waking you from little to no sleep, Sebastian proposed a game. The game was simple: You will be blindfolded, testing the limits of your friendship. Guess which one of them is which. If you guess right, the two of them will buy out everything The Three Broomsticks has to offer. If you guess wrong, they get the privilege to do whatever they please with you.

—

On the morning of your birthday, having snatched just a few hours of sleep, you awoke to the distant murmur of voices, a soft blur that drew nearer like mist rolling in. Your tired eyes fluttered as you shifted in your bed, too drained to acknowledge the growing symphony. Suddenly, a sensation enveloped you—a swift tug, and the once-enshrouding blanket slipped away, leaving your skin exposed to a shiver-inducing rush of cold air. A soft "Mmm..." tumbled from your lips, a muted protest, as a pair of hands gently coaxed you out of bed.

“Are you sure this is a good idea, Sebastian?” A familiar, soft, unsure voice resonated around you.

“Of course it is, Ominis. Why wouldn’t it be?” A natural grumble of Sebastian’s voice swayed as you found yourself guided with gentle precision towards the heart of your room. Your eyes still heavy with remnants of sleep, remained sealed shut. Your fingers instinctively sought to dispel the veil of haze, rubbing your eyelids tiredly as you wobbled in place.

A quiet sound of Ominis sighing fell before you. Gradually, the tender warmth of hands enveloped your sight from behind, shielding your vision.

“Accio,” the sonorous resonance of wood dragging across the stone floors piqued your awareness. With a deliberate motion, your hand extended upwards, your fingers finding purchase around the wrist that guarded your sight.

You grumbled, the fragments of drowsiness still clinging to your voice, "What’s… the meaning of this?”

“We had an idea last night,” Sebastian’s voice behind you lingered as he guided you into the chair that once was in the corner of your room.

A soft swish within the air brought by Sebastian's incantation, summoned forth a smooth and satin fabric, weaving the cloth of obscurity where his hand once held sway. The fabric settled softly across your skin, its embrace fastened over your lashes, enveloping you in a veil of darkness.

“Really… a blindfold?” Your fingers traced a path along the fabric delicately, adjusting its position. “I find it unfair that only one of us can see.” A wry smile played upon your lips as you voiced your jest, eliciting a quiet chuckle from Ominis only a few steps away.

“We’re going to play a little game…” A tender hand grazed your shoulder, its touch lingering across your flesh as the sound of their footsteps painted circles around you. A warm breath brushed against your ear, carrying Sebastian's voice as he whispered.

"A game..?" You stammered, a note of surprise infusing your voice as your body tensed with his touch.

"We're going to put our friendship to the test," Sebastian’s voice oscillated with certainty. "If you win, a feast of everything The Three Broomsticks has to offer will be yours.”

“Well, that seems harmless enough, but why the blindfold?” A trace of curiosity threaded through your voice.

His fingers curled over your shoulder, accompanied by the enveloping warmth of his presence against your other ear, his dark whisper unfurling, evoking a shiver that crawled up your spine. “You’re going to have to guess which of us is who. Simple enough?” Sebastian’s withdrawal left behind a soft crimson hue that crawled up the back of your nape like a fleeting caress.

A meandering path of warmth, guided by another pair of digits traced a tender route along your cheek, snaking slowly across your skin as they depart from your chin. The air around you stirred with swirling footsteps and a gentle breeze.

“And… if I do this you’ll keep your word?” You asked quietly, a tinge of nervousness laying beneath your breath.

“That’s right,” Sebastian’s voice carried in front of you.

“All that you could desire,” Ominis’ voice materialized against the strands of hair that veils your ear, eliciting a subtle start from you.

You inhaled deeply, your fingers absently toying with the rim of your nightdress, which rested provocatively against your thighs. The fabric, silky and abbreviated, exuded audacity with its scarcity of shoulder straps and delicate thinness. A sense of vulnerability enveloped you, as you found yourself inadequately prepared, denied the opportunity to change before becoming enmeshed in this little game of theirs.

“No need to be nervous, darling. Only one of us can see that risqué shift of yours.” Sebastian remarked with a faint sneer, having shifted from his previous position.

"What is she wearing?" Ominis inquired with a near-stammer, momentarily taken aback by Sebastian's comment.

"Find out for yourself, Ominis." Sebastian said.

"Wait, what?" A jolt coursed through you, causing your heart to quicken.

“Come now, I know you’d be more than willing to let Ominis explore that thin little dress of yours.” Sebastian’s words resonated, their impact sinking deeply as a brush of fingertips traced a fleeting line across your collarbones.

A warm flush swept across your cheeks, stealing your breath away. Your teeth nervously nibbling at your lower lip, yielding no protest. A gentle caress held your cheek, its touch tracing a tender pattern over your heated flesh.

"She's flustered," Ominis said softly, his hand retaining a subtle presence.

Sebastian's derisive tone gibed with a quiet sneer, "Don't make it obvious it’s you touching her.”

Ominis' soft touch withdrew as they both resumed their circling around you once more.

A delicate caress of fingers swept the side of your throat, tucking your hair aside with a low breath blowing against your exposed skin. A hushed gasp slipped past your lips, stirred by the sensation. "Sebastian?" You ventured, your guess accompanied by an attempt to steady your breathing. However, the silence that followed yielded no response.

The warm breath advanced, caressing your neck before settling against your ear, its heat evoking a constellation of goosebumps across your skin. Instinctively, your hand rose to push outward, seeking a presence that seemed elusive. Yet, your hand met only empty air, finding no one in its grasp. Your words faltered, quivering softly. "Ominis..?" You inquired, your voice carrying a trace of uncertainty.

"Do you truly believe Ominis possesses such audacity?" Sebastian's voice, finally positioned behind you, a hint of amusement as he hovered over your shoulder. A subdued snicker following his words. "You don’t know us at all," he taunted, his presence withdrawing as he moved away, their footsteps circling around you once more. You swallowed, the pounding of your heartbeat resounding heavily within your chest.

You felt a soft brush against the bare expanse of your thigh, compelling your nails to grip into the hem of your shift, inadvertently drawing it higher without your awareness.

“Sebastian..?” Your voice hitched through the part of your lips.

“Not this time,” Ominis’ voice lingered as his fingers traced a path along your soft skin, just below the hem of your dress.

"Keep your hand there, Ominis. She likes it,” Sebastian derided, a subtle elevation of your chin, an action seemingly to be his.

"This game is impossible," you murmured, your hand extending to clasp around his wrist, the rhythm of his veins resonating with his heartbeat beneath your touch.

"You wish to win, do you not?" Sebastian's words brushed against your lips. With a hesitant nod, you agreed with a sense of reluctance.

“A change in plans… If you guess wrong then we get the privilege to do as we please with you, free of consequences." Sebastian declared, his tone bearing a knowing darkness.

"Sebastian," Ominis interjected softly, his demur near your thighs.

"It’s only fair, we are paying for her meals after all," Sebastian’s thumb lightly grazes the curve of your bottom lip.

"It’s… fair," you conceded softly, your compliance offered without protest.

The faint sound of a smirk seemed to emanate from Sebastian's lips just before you. His breath slowly dissipates along with the release of his hold beneath your chin. In tandem, Ominis’ subtle touch followed suit, tracing a concluding path along your thigh before pulling away.

A snaking hand brushed against your shoulder once more, drawing the strap of your shift downward. "Sebastian—," you exasperated, knowing full well that touch was his doing.

Suddenly, a hand took hold of your jaw, angling your head back as lips pressed firmly against yours. A soft unexpected moan escaped your lips, mingling with the sensation of his kiss. Your fingers instinctively wrapped around his wrist, his lips embracing the contour of your bottom lip with a delicate touch. As the kiss deepened, your grip around his wrist began to slacken, the allure of the moment eclipsing the game entirely. The tender embrace of the kiss persisted, until eventually he withdrew, leaving you speechless. Your fingers rose to trace the touch that had lingered on your lips, a warmth resonating within you.

"S— Sebastian..?" You muttered with uncertainly, your voice carrying a blend of astonishment and bewilderment, still reeling from the unexpected kiss.

"Wrong," Ominis' voice reverberated beside you, his breath ghosting against your ear and eliciting a shiver running down your spine.

A rustling sound punctuated the stillness, causing your heart to briefly come to a halt. Lips pressed against yours once again, but this time it was different. The kiss was harsh, almost aggressive, characterized by parted lips and a raw hunger. Your gasps intermingled with the press of his lips, his fingers curling into the back of your hair, tightening possessively. A shudder coursed through your frame as his lips captured your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging at it. The sensation elicited another gasp, which was promptly swallowed by his insistent kiss. His fingers tugged at your hair as he deepened the kiss, his tongue seeking entry and snaking along yours in a heated mess. With a reluctant withdrawal, he released your lips, his fingers still entwined in your hair. His heavy breath mingled with yours, a soft sneer punctuating the charged air around you.

"Failed again," Sebastian reveled, his lips tenderly grazing against yours. "You know what that means?"

Your thoughts swirled recklessly, bounding you in place. A shallow gulp cut through the air of silence as you came to terms with your ignorance, your voice faltering as you accepted defeat.

"You don’t know the own taste of your friends lips?" Sebastian queried, his grip around your hair tightening. As your head was drawn back by his grip, a faint wince slipped your lips.

"How… how could I possibly know that?" You shuddered, your fingers clenching the corner of your chair.

"You've observed Ominis' lips intently enough; I assumed you'd recognize them," Sebastian sneered tantalizingly.

"She what?" Ominis inquired, his curiosity piqued, his fingers trailing tenderly over your thigh once more as if it draws for his attention.

"Sebastian," you asserted, swatting his hand from your hair.

"Why would you suggest such a thing?" You lifted your hand to remove the blindfold, your patience with the game reaching its limits. However, just as your fingers began to curl beneath the fabric, a hand seized your wrists, firmly holding them together in a single grip, preventing any movement.

"You know the rules," Sebastian reminded you with a resolute tone.

A soft chuckle resonated from Ominis beside you as a pair of hands firmly enclosed around your thighs. In response, your thighs pressed together involuntarily, your heart racing from his the touch.

"You were right, Sebastian," Ominis spoke quietly from below, his thumbs circling your skin in a soothing motion.

"I always am," Sebastian retorted, his hold on your wrists tightening.

"Sebastian, is this really necessary? I promise I won’t remove the blindfold," you implored, making an attempt to liberate your wrists from his grip.

"Just a bit longer," he insisted.

Ominis' hands brushed softly against the outer contours of your thighs, leaving a trail of tingling sensation in their wake. A tender kiss landed at the center of your skin, prompting an involuntary sound from your lips. The amusement in Sebastian's hum was evident as his finger inched over your camisole, ultimately drifting down towards the ridge of your clothing. His touch gently glided over your erect nipple, sending a shiver through you. Attempting to tug your wrists free from his grip, you found his hold unwavering as he held them securely above your head.

"Sebastian..." you whispered, your body trembling from just a simple touch.

"My name isn't the one you should be saying with those pretty lips," Sebastian hushed, his fingers traveling along the contour of your breast. Your gown so thin, giving little resistance against his audacious touch. His fingers mold to your supple form, squeezing your breast softly, causing you to draw a sharp breath.

Ominis forcefully parted your legs, eagerly positioning himself between them. His hands maintained a gentle grasp along the outside of your thighs, urging your dress upward. His lips trailed heated kisses across the field of your skin, igniting a cascade of goosebumps that raced across your flesh. The sensation prompted a subtle arch in your back, the tingling touch leaving its fervent burns. A quiet hitch of breath escaped, your lips tinted with lust.

A sudden, unfamiliar warmth pressed against the damp fabric that concealed your intimate core. You attempted to push your thighs together, seeking some semblance of control, but Ominis' hands firmly held them in place. His tongue glided sensually against the soaked fabric, playfully kissing and licking at your clothed folds.

"Ominis..." You moaned softly, your arms going limp within Sebastian's grasp.

"That's it..." Sebastian's grin held a wicked edge as he watched you surrender, completely under their control now.

"Sebastian, she's drenched..." Ominis murmured softly against your clothed folds, his fingers deftly curling beneath the strings that adorned your hips. With a swift tug, he removed your knickers, casting them aside.

"Ominis..." You shuddered, your thighs quivering in response to his audacious behavior. A subtle, almost imperceptible shift widened the gap between your thighs, an invitation conveyed through your trembling body.

“Is that pretty cunt of yours wet for Ominis, or for me?” Sebastian hummed, his words delivered with a sneer. He drew your hands from above your head, placing them against his trousers, your fingers blindly lacing his undeniable hardness pulsating from beneath.

You were rendered speechless, your teeth pressing into your lower lip as you attempt to find composure. Sebastian gently guided your hand, encouraging a stroking motion, eliciting a relieved moan from his lips as you delicately traced your fingers over the outline of his clothed cock.

Ominis extended his tongue, licking a long heated path against your exposed flesh, an overwhelming fire coursing through you. You sighed softly from his touch, your fingers clenched around Sebastian's throbbing arousal, drawing a low growl from him.

Your fingers fumbled along the fabric of his trousers, finding the buttons that concealed his stiffness. You deftly pushed the button through its slit, tugging Sebastian’s trousers down.

"Eager, aren't we?" Sebastian's fingers ran through your hair gently, granting you full control over your actions.

Meanwhile, Ominis pressed his tongue between your slick folds, sliding it up and down your wetness, savoring every inch of flavor. Your efforts to maintain a steady hand grew increasingly difficult as the overwhelming sensations threatened to take control over you. A soft, involuntary moan escaped your lips, enveloping you whole.

You gasped, your hips buckling in response of the intrusion. Your hands quivered against Sebastian's hips as you shakily slid your fingers beneath the hem of his briefs, tugging with a subtle resistance until they yielded. His arousal sprang forward from the release as you enveloped your fingers around his warm veiny cock, pumping it slowly.

Sebastian's head tilted back with a guttural groan, his cock twitching in your hand. "Fuck..." He moaned, his fingers coiling tightly in your hair.

Ominis' tongue continued its relentless path along your clit, inducing a fervent writhing within your seat, nearly pulling away from him in the throes of pleasure. He anchored you firmly in place by hooking his arms beneath your thighs. Your legs draped over his arms, his hands maintaining a secure grip around your hips.

"Oh, fuck... Ominis..." You gasped, your voice ladened with desperation.

Sebastian's patience seemed to wane, forcefully pushing your head down until the tip of his throbbing cock pressed against your lips. His pre-cum warm and sticky.

"Open for me, darling," he commanded, his grip around your hair tightening once more.

You felt his gaze beaming down on you as you slowly parted your lips and enveloped the crown of his cock. Gradually, you descended, taking his length into your mouth at a leisurely pace. His arousal was warm and pulsating, the veins adorning his flesh glided against your tongue perfectly.

"Good girl..." He purred. "If only Ominis could witness what that pretty mouth of yours is doing."

Ominis raised his head, his tongue sensuously licking his lips clean of your lingering wetness. "If only you could taste this pretty cunt of hers," he mused, a note of breathlessness in his voice.

"Fuck, don't tempt me Ominis..." Sebastian exhaled, pushing his length further down your throat, causing you to gag around his cock. Your nails dig into Sebastian's hips as you slowly began bobbing your head, diligently wetting his cock.

"Go easy on her, Sebastian," Ominis urged softly before he descended between your thighs once more, lavishing your soaking core with a series of wet, sloppy kisses. He wrapped his lips around your swollen bud with a delicate touch, suctioning and twirling his tongue around it hungrily.

"Mmph..." You moaned breathlessly against Sebastian's cock, the vibrations of your moan prompting a husky groan from his lips.

"Ah... fuck... keep going," Sebastian demanded, his grip on your hair easing as he subtly pushed his length in and out of your mouth.

Ominis withdrew one arm from around your thigh, softly gliding it along your leg before ultimately pushing his finger into your slick entrance. Your body retracted, a moan instantly escaping around Sebastian's cock. However, Sebastian's firm hold pushed your head further down his throbbing shaft, granting you no reprieve.

"I didn't say you could stop," Sebastian insisted, thrusting deeply down your throat.

Ominis drove another finger forcefully inside you, initiating a relentless pace within your tight core, your legs growing weaker with every breath you take. Ominis quickened his pace, his lips suctioning ravenously around your clit. Just as you felt yourself teetering on the brink of climax, he slowed down, withdrawing his lips from your needy cunt, leaving you hanging on the precipice of orgasm.

"She's close," Ominis hummed, his voice dripping with lust.

Sebastian sneered, drawing you back by your hair from his cock with a wet, suction-like noise. Finally, you could breathe freely again, your chest heaving as you attempted to regain your thoughts.

You felt Sebastian’s grasp around your hair dissipate as Ominis pulled away from your inner thighs. You were left there trembling, your cheeks a fiery shade of red. You inherently reached to remove your blindfold, but gentle hands intervened, preventing you from doing so.

"Wha—," you muttered, a color of confusion resonating within your voice.

"The game isn't over, my dear little bird," Ominis whispered softly, pulling your hands from the cloth that concealed your sight.

To Sabastian’s surprise, Ominis enjoyed this game just as much as he did. You felt the whirl of footsteps around you once more, baffled.

"It's not?" You asked, pouting slightly as you tried to make sense of the situation.

Ominis curled his fingers over your hands, pulling you from the chair. Your legs trembled slightly as you regained your poise.

“You still haven’t guessed which one of us gets to fuck that needy little cunt of yours,” Ominis’ voice carried with an undertone of hunger.

His words sent shivers down your spine, leaving you utterly baffled by what he was proposing, even Sebastian seemed caught off guard.

"Oh, so now you think this was a good idea, Ominis?" Sebastian sneered from behind you.

Ominis scoffed. You felt a tug at your hands, proceeding you towards your bed.

"Ominis, you can't just that and then be gentle with her. You're so confusing. Be a rough. It'll keep her guessing," Sebastian suggested, his tone laced with amusement.

"Then you be gentle," Ominis responded cryptically, his voice a soft counterpoint to Sebastian's.

Suddenly, a pair of hands pushed you backward, causing you to gasp as you tumbled onto your bed, the soft mattress providing an unexpected landing.

"Ominis—" you exclaimed, caught off guard by his actions.

"What makes you think that was me?" Ominis retorted softly, leaving you speechless and disoriented.

The two of them seemed to be playing a game of their own, leaving you thoroughly baffled. The weight of one of them settled on the bed behind you, and you couldn't help but grin, thinking you had it all figured out.

"It's much harder to conceal who's who if we're on a bed," your lips curl into a wider smile, confident in your own deduction.

"Is that so?" Ominis responded, his voice now seemingly coming from behind you.

"She thinks she’s got it all figured out," Sebastian taunts, his voice now in front of you, effectively shattering what you thought you knew.

Hands pressed firmly around your throat, tilting your head back into Ominis' shoulder while Sebastian pried your legs apart with a forceful touch. Their roughness left your voice hitching as your heated cavern pools with desire.

Lips crashed against yours with an insatiable hunger, immediately engaging your tongue in a messy dance. You moaned softly into the wet, desperate kiss, your tongue flicking sensuously against his.

Sebastian tugged you towards the edge of the bed, hoisting your thigh up with one hand. His throbbing tip traced a tantalizing path up and down your drenched folds, eliciting a shudder that reverberated through your body and onto the lips that devoured yours.

A sudden push into your core elicited a gasp, Sebastian's cock slowly breaching your entrance. You clung tightly to the bedsheets, biting down on his bottom lip to stifle your moans. The fingers wrapped around your throat squeezed gradually, temporarily cutting off your breath.

"Choke her harder, Ominis," Sebastian groaned, a sinister edge creeping into his voice, as they continued their relentless pursuit.

Your heart raced as you realized it was Ominis who possessed your lips and throat, his nails gently digging into your skin before he released his grip. He turned your head towards the side, his lips trailing from yours down to your throat, leaving a field of wet kisses that elicited soft moans through your parted lips.

Sebastian maintained a slow, steady pace, his cock thrusting in and out of you with an unrelenting rhythm. Your tightness around him caused him to grunt softly. "Fuck..."

Ominis' fingers curled under the hem of your satin shift, gradually pulling it up and over your chest until it halted at your shoulders. His lips, unwilling to part with your neck, left a gentle bite before finally letting go. He removed the rest of the camisole, leaving you completely pure of clothing. His hand circled around your breast, squeezing it gently as he planted butterfly kisses up and down your neck, his lips drawing along your collarbone and trailing across your shoulder.

Sebastian's forceful thrust sent a sharp cry of pleasure escaping your lips as you gripped the bedsheets tightly, your nails digging into the fabric. "Sebastian..." You moaned, biting down on your bottom lip.

He pressed the pads of his fingers into your thighs, leaving faint bruises in his wake as he quickened his pace. "Fuck..." He groaned, his cock pulsating within you. Sebastian’s nails nicked into your skin as he demanded you to say his name again. “Again, say it again.”

"S— Sebastian... fuck..." You gasped, beads of sweat forming across your body as you desperately moaned his name.

"Harder..." You begged, your voice filled with desperation as you fell back limp against Ominis' chest.

Your words sparked a dark fire within him. He slowed his pace, teasingly leaving you yearning for more. Ominis pulled away, allowing Sebastian to take full control. He flipped you onto your hands and knees, the blindfold finally relinquished at long last.

Sebastian's hips slammed into your ass with unbridled force, nearly eliciting a scream from you. He wrapped your hair around his fingers, using it as an anchoring point to thrust his hips vigorously against your body, each powerful movement driving you further to the edge.

“Fuck…” You gasped, your eyes finally laying upon Ominis before you. You watched as he unbuttoned his trousers and pulls them down along with his briefs, his cock flinging out before you, twitching with desperation. You couldn’t keep your eyes off of him.

Ominis palmed his arousal briefly before pressing the sticky crowned tip against your lustful lips. You eagerly complied, opening your mouth and enveloping your lips around his throbbing cock. The relentless thrusts from Sebastian pushed you forward, forcefully taking in the rest of Ominis’ cock. You gagged, your throat constricting tightly around him.

Ominis’ face usually composed, now bestows a heavy hue of redness within his cheeks, sweat dripping down his jaw with labored breaths. The sight destroyed you.

As Sebastian pounds into you, you felt yourself tightening with each thrust, almost reaching your own limits.

Your mouth worked diligently around Ominis' arousal, a symphony of moans and gasps filling the air alongside Sebastian's powerful thrusts. Ominis ran his fingers tenderly through your hair, cradling the back of your head with each descent into your mouth. The sensations coursing through your body pushed you over the edge, trembling on your knees.

Sebastian's hands gripped around your ass firmly, a loud clasp against your skin sends tears welling within your eyes, a wince formed around Ominis’ cock.

Ominis shuddered, his cock twitching within your mouth as he released his salty mix, filling your mouth completely full, choking on it. His cum dripped from the corners of your lips, trailing down your chin as you struggled to swallow it all.

Sebastian's nails dig into your flesh as his thrusts gradually slowed. "Fuck... I'm gonna cum," he exclaimed, savoring every last second. With a final powerful thrust, he growled deeply, his cock twitching within your defiled cunt, releasing his load deep within you. You fell against the bed, exhausted and breathless. Your cheeks flushed, your eyes fluttering shut, too tired to do anything else. The bedsheets below you formed a tangled mess, adorned with sweat and cum.

Sebastian gradually eased his hips, thrusting gently in and out of your cunt before withdrawing. A trail of his cum leaked down your trembling thighs, you couldn't help but emit a soft, satisfied moan from the tingling sensation.

Sebastian's sinister snicker sliced through the air, his words dripping with tantalizing satisfaction. "Such a good little slut for us, aren't you?"

“But we’re not done with you yet,” Ominis’ voice resonated with a tinge of dissatisfaction.

Your weary eyes fluttered open, tracking Ominis as he silently circled the bed and assumed the position behind you. With an effort, you rolled onto your side, tracing his every movement, weakly muttering, "What do you mean you're not finished..?"

"Isn't it obvious, darling?" Sebastian's voice floated around the bed as he takes Ominis’ previous position.

You tilted your head back, catching a glimpse of Sebastian hovering over you as you finally turn onto your back. He leaned down, his lips brushing your earlobe as he whispered softly, "Ominis didn't get to fuck that pretty little cunt of yours."

Shock and realization rippled through you as you turned your focus back to Ominis.

Ominis wraps his hands around your welted thighs and pulled you closer to his hips, his grip firm on your thighs, his eagerness palpable as his cock twitched in suspension.

Exhaustion weighed heavily upon you, your voice reduced to a feeble breath. "Ominis...”

With his fingers wrapped around his base, he teasingly traced the tip of his cock along the outskirts of your entrance. "Hmm… Aren't you curious? To have my cock deep inside you?" He pushed his tip just barely inside your cunt, eliciting a deep arch of your back as your head sank into the mattress, overwhelmed by the intense stimulation. "Fuck..." You gasped, your body responding despite the fatigue.

The crown of Ominis' cock finally penetrated, your hips involuntarily buckled as your fingers trembled at your sides.

"Ominis, please..." You begged, swaying your hips subtly.

"Hmm? What was that?" He teased, towering over you, pushing just a little further inside.

Sebastian's hand trailed a course down your bare body, his fingertips skimming your midriff until they found their destination. Goosebumps rippled across your flesh, curling your toes as your heart begins to race harder.

"Please..." You begged louder, your panting growing more urgent. "Fuck me, Ominis..."

Ominis’ lips curled into a grin as he pushed himself forcefully into you, eliciting a desperate cry from your lips. Sebastian’s fingers began circling your clit while his other hand found its way around your breast, relentlessly kneading your supple mount.

Your voice hitched from the overwhelming sensations. Ominis' cock fit perfectly within your tight, messy cunt. His movements a bit ragged compared to Sebastian’s smoother stride.

"Oh fuck—" You gasped, your hand reaching down towards Sebastian's wrist as he rolled the pad of his middle finger over your swollen clit, causing you to moan their names.

"Such a good little slut," Sebastian whispered against your ear. "You like it when Ominis fucks that cunt of yours?"

Your eyebrows furrowed together, squeezing your eyes shut as you frantically nodded.

"I didn't hear you," he growled against your ear.

"I... I..." You panted, unable to form coherent words.

Ominis slowed his pace, his form hovering above your, supported by his arms pressed into the bed. He questioned you with a dark tone, "You like it better with Sebastian's cock inside you, then?" His thrusts became increasingly intense, causing you to wince from the force.

"Oh fuck—" You yelped, almost certainly echoing within the corridors of the castle. You struggled for words as they both played with your senses relentlessly.

"Which one?" Ominis’ voice lowers in tone, almost an animalistic sound, increasing the rhythm of his thrusts.

You shuddered your nails digging into Sebastian’s wrist with a clouded mind. "Ominis— fuck..."

Sebastian sneered, observing you as you succumb to their little game. His lips met your breast, kissing and licking your pink bud softly while his finger continued to work on your clit, driving you closer to the edge. Your cunt tightened desperately around Ominis' cock as you felt yourself nearing your limits.

Beads of sweat dripped from Ominis' hair, falling against your midriff as he found the perfect rhythm. Sebastian's lips wrapped around your nipple, his tongue circling it, reflecting the movement of his hand below. Your body tensed slowly as your heart pounded within your chest.

"Oh fuck… I'm… I'm close…" You exclaimed breathlessly, your cunt tightening around Ominis' cock.

Sebastian's teeth grazed against your nipple as he deliberately slowed his finger down, prolonging your climax. He bit down softly, watching your visage as you approached the edge.

"Fuck…" Ominis growled, reaching his climax as well. Your head pressed back into the mattress, eyes rolling behind your lids as a surge of electricity raced up your legs, culminating where your two bodies meet. Euphoria washed over you, your body convulsing with pleasure as you gasped recklessly.

Your moans and gasps filled the air as you both climaxed. Ominis filled your cunt, overflowing onto the bed, causing a sticky mess. You found yourself completely unable to move, too tired to even think. You lay there in your own pool of cum and sweat, your chest heaving and your body quivering from exertion.

Ominis slowly pulled out, his cum dripping from his tip, falling beside you in bed with Sebastian on the other side of you. All three of you were exhausted. Sebastian brought his fingers toward his lips, licking his fingers clean of your sweet flavor with a smack of his lips.

"Mmm… you were right, Ominis. She does taste good," he smirked, his cock twitching from the delicious taste of you swirling around his tongue.

Ominis clasped his hand around the base of your neck and pulled you in close, his eyes effortlessly peering into yours despite his lack of sight.

"Happy Birthday," he said with a gentle press of his lips against yours.

"Can't wait for next year," Sebastian added, planting a wet kiss against your thigh.

Exhaustion weighed heavily upon you as you let out a soft, weary sigh. Your mind unable to conjure even the slightest inkling of what elaborate plans they might have in store for you.

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megapteraurelia · 1 month ago

Text

DUSKWATCH. — scroll #2.

𓐩 SUMMARY; — iwaizumi hajime promised himself he'd stop, lay down the sword and keep his head and feelings down, for after all, he was just a stable boy. but when your hand for courtship gets offered as the prize for this yearly's knight tournament — he can't help but pick up the buried helmet again.

𓐩 WARNINGS; — royalty! fem!reader; stable boy!iwaizumi; mention of injury; yearning!!; death; objectification and sexism; crude language;

𓐩 WORD COUNT; — 8643.

𓐩 AUTHOR'S NOTE; — i had lots of fun writing this chapter. hope you have fun reading it!!

— back to masterlist.

nameless. — messenger.

The road should have been quiet.

It ran along the southern border, an old trade route once packed so tightly with carts and stomping hooves that not even dust had any time to settle. Now, the indents carved by the wheels were half swallowed by weeds, wild and uncut. Even the trees seemed to have crept closer.

The old watchtowers, which used to be manned all year long by the Crown's soldiers, now stood silent, empty, hollow. The closest hold was a three days ride north, too far to send help, too close to ignore.

It should have been quiet. It should have.

Except this time, there was smoke hanging low between the hills. It wasn't thick enough to indicate a strong fire belonging to anything resembling war, but it wasn't idle like a bonfire, either.

There was the sharp scent of rust in the air. A small village not too far from the trade route had gone as silent as the road should have been. Silent in a way that promised bleeding.

Underneath the hill, dark shapes shifted between the trees. They didn't move in tandem the way soldiers did, but didn't move in complete disarray the way frightened farmers would. They moved with the confidence of men who had done this before, like they had hit the road together enough to know to work alongside others, but never equal. Selfish, still.

Bandits.

They had no banners, these men, only patchwork armour and blades worn down from too much use and too little care. From the thicket of the trees, a figure emerged, tall, his hair as dark as the night, cow-licked as the strands refused to sit back. He wore a cloak, his face obscured by the shadow, carrying a rapier on his hips that gleamed cleaner than the rest of him.

He didn't speak, but when he raised a hand, the bandits knew. And stopped moving.

At the edge of the field, a carriage lay smouldering. The wood still hissed where fire had licked at it, a wheel spun loose nearby in the grass. Chests had been broken up and torn apart, the coat of arms of the Royal Mint half broken.

masako. — lady-in-waiting.

The Crown Princess was crying.

Masako's face, lined with age and experience, remained stoic, her eyes watching her mistress with a hard gaze. She sat near the hearth, her hands folded in her lap, her muscles pulled taut with patience. She had seen this despair before.

Masako had served queens. Had watched them rise and fall, had been there when one of them took poison before her wedding day, and had helped sew her into the burial shroud when the court declared it a fever. She had knelt behind your mother as she signed away her inheritance in tears, lips smiling for the court even as her fingers bled from gripping the quill too tightly. Masako had watched women in silk gowns lose everything the moment they blinked too slowly or smiled at the wrong man.

She had seen many things — tragedy, power, and endless manipulation. But nothing stirred her like the quiet suffering of the Crown Princess she had sworn to serve.

Masako stood up with the stiffness of age and discipline, her joints creaking ever so slightly beneath her layered skirts. Crossing the room slowly, she knelt beside you, her worn slippers soft against the stone floor.

"Enough, Your Highness," she said in a voice that was as firm as iron, but tempered with a quiet tenderness, hidden between the folds of her wrinkles. Her tone was not unkind, "Let no one hear you cry like this."

Your sobs quieted, but your face was still hidden in your hands, your shoulders trembling. "Masako. He's choosing for me. Again. Like I'm a thing. Like I'm — like I'm a prize for some man."

Masako's jaw tightened. That was the truth indeed. You were right, you were.

"You are a princess. Not a child," she pressed a steady hand to your back, guiding you to sit up, "You are not the first to be forced into a marriage for the benefit of power, and you will not be the last."

"He has taken control of everything," you spat, face blotched with redness from the tears and the anger, "Not because he cares about me, no, God forbid I am to be brought up in a family that knows the word love. It's so I can please him, because the Lord Regent thinks I'm too soft to choose for myself. What does it matter if I'm the 'most expensive jewel' if I can be bought?"

Masako's eyes drifted beyond the chamber, back to the corridor, to the paintings on the wall, the windows. To all the places that were not to be trusted. Her voice was low, intimate, grave, "Hush, child. You must not say that aloud. Not even to me. Not even here."

"I don't want to fight anymore."

You sounded so young, like a child, like somebody who wasn't ready to take on the world, so exhausted even though you had not yet lived your life to the fullest and Masako understood that, deep in her heart. So her expression softened. But when one thing softened, then another needed to harden, or else they were going to be swept by the tide mercilessly.

"Listen to me," Masako's voice had an edge to it that was sharp, "You will fight, and you will survive this. You will smile when they want you to weep, bow when they demand it and fight when they think you've lost."

She had stood where the Crown Princess was standing now; barely out of girlhood, married to a man three times her age to preserve her family. She had smiled as he lifted her veil, and she had bled alone in the cold bed the same night.

Yet, she had learned how to survive where others were broken.

Her hand caressed your hair, and you wiped your tears with the back of your hand, breathing still uneven but the shakiness had lessened; the hurt remained deeply lodged within your chest.

The fire behind you crackled and shifted, but Masako didn't look. Instead, her eyes remained on the princess; your face that stopped hiding behind your hands.

"I hate him," you whispered.

Good. Let the princess hate them, to hate them all. She didn't say anything because she didn't want to soothe that feeling nor dismiss it. Hatred had its place, for she had learned it a long time ago. And then you sat up, and it was like that was the last bit of weakness you would allow yourself. Spine straightening, a slow turning inward — it was something Masako knew well, too: resolve.

"I will not be a lamb," you said, voice raw, "I will do what is required of me, but I will not be lead to slaughter."

Masako nodded, and she cradled the pride inside her chest like she had cradled you as a newly born.

iwaizumi hajime. — stable boy.

The loft above the stables smelt like straw, old wood and sweat. The air was thick with dust up here that caught the sunlight, and Iwaizumi Hajime was rummaging through the little stash of utensils he kept in secret. One thing Hajime disliked was sharing working tools with people who didn't know how to use them.

It wasn't like he really minded teaching them how to brush a mare properly, but if he did and they left the bristles all bent beyond the natural scope of what it could hold told him two things:

They did not care about the horse or how to groom them properly, and they did not care about the tools belonging to somebody else.

And neither of those were anything Hajime appreciated.

Lost in the routine of grooming the horses, the soft clank of metal snapped him back to reality.

"—damn buckles still not here," came a familiar voice, rough and half-muffled by age and irritation. Peeking around the corner, Hajime watched Irihata drag a worn leather harness across the work bench, grumbling to himself.

"Third shipment this month. And they're light, too," Irihata pursed his lips in disapproval, "What are they doing over there? Used to be clockwork, now it's all horseshit excuses."

Hajime frowned faintly, but the senior groom didn't look up. Instead, he waved his hand in the stable boy's direction, "You finish brushing her down?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. Go check the third stall in the east wing. That grey's due for oiling."

Hajime complied without a complaint. He was working the oil into her coat when another set of voices drifted in, sharp with laughter, careless as boys with too much time and too little sense often were.

"—winner gets that old unclaimed sword from back a couple years ago and the princess' hand," one of the squires said, his voice muffled as Hajime heard the crunch of an apple, laughter evident in his tone, "Think on that. Fight a few rounds and you're off with a crown, a lady and a new sword."

"She's prettier than most prizes, I'll grant it," another said, "But word on the street is she sat strange the whole way through. Those fancy-boots said she was stiff as a corpse, no smile, no tear, nuffin'. Might as well've stuck a fancy ribbon on a pike."

"Still," the squire muttered, another crunch, "Wouldn't say no to riding off with that prize, dead eyes or not."

The brush stilled in his hand.

Hajime didn't remember crossing the yard. One moment he was inside, and the next he was out there, standing before them, his fists clenched, heart hammering in his ears like the hooves of a galloping horse.

"Repeat what you said just now."

The squires paused, surprised by the interruption, blinking as they registered the presence of somebody as low in the hierarchy as him. He was a cloth meant for boots, somebody to ignore with his worn-down boots, his hair damp with sweat.

One of them shrugged, "Easy, lad. We didn't mean anything by it."

"She's not some game to laugh about," his voice came out low, tight, but shaking with something more than just anger. Something that travelled from his fingertips through his veins to his chest, culminating, clumping together, pulsating. And it burned, "She's no tool for you to toss around, you don't know her, you—"

He cut himself off.

The squires looked at each for a second, bewildered, because why was a lowly stable boy trying to lecture them on anything?

"She's the Crown Princess," the taller one of them said, frowning, "It's our business, too."

Hajime knew they were right. And he hated it so much. Hated that they spoke your name so freely without knowing the sound of your laughter when you used to run through the meadows, leaving him and his master to trail after you with Juno as a young steed in tow-rope, or the way you wrinkled your nose when the wind carried chimney smoke through the card over during winter.

They didn't deserve to have your name in their mouths.

His fists trembled, but he turned away. He didn't want to feel this way, but everything in him couldn't breathe at the news he had heard, couldn't will his heart to stop pounding so loud.

You weren't a prize.

Not when you had asked his name; not what he was called, but his name, and now you were to be given to somebody who didn't know the way you picked at your dress like you didn't want to be wearing the tulle, the way you nodded and acknowledged Irihata, the way you stepped back to allow him, Iwaizumi Hajime with dust on his face, to go through when it was he, who would wait until the ends of earth for you.

He pressed his forehead to the mare's neck he was grooming, teeth digging into the pillow of his lower lip. Anger swelled in his chest again, but it wasn't even aimed at the Lords, not even at the Regent who offered you up like meat, no, he was furious with himself. For not being more. For being born all wrong and low and worthless. For all the ways he held back speaking to you, even though he knew he had no place doing so.

"I love you, Princess," he whispered into the warm skin of the horse, the words sharp and mocking, "Let me bring you flowers with hands that smell like horse piss."

And you would never know. Could never know. Would be married before the month was even over, somebody lifting your hand to their lips, somebody who wasn't worthy of you.

It was bitter, the shame he felt almost at once. He had no claim, no place, no right.

And yet—

Something inside him twisted when he imagined another man riding for you. Not even because they loved you, but because you were something to win, something to conquest. That thought tasted worse than shame. So no, he didn't have any claim.

But then again, none of them did.

He lifted his head, his master's grumbling faint in the background, the smell of animal evident, the heat on his back from where the sun peeked through the wooden planks stark. Yet, everything in him quieted.

They wouldn't know him if he—

No. He couldn't. This was an official tournament. If he got unmasked, he would fear more than just to be shamed. He would be impersonating noble blood, him, who was a peasant. Imprisoned for years to come at best, executed at worst.

Yet.

And yet.

His fingers tightened on the brush he was holding. How many nights had he ridden beneath the moon, name hidden, besting boys who boasted of their fathers like it was their achievement to talk about?

How many times had he felt the ache in his arms from ramming lances against other knights, from swinging swords that required a higher body class than his, blocking and parrying strikes with the dented metal of his armour because he couldn't afford shields? How many times he shuddered of the surge of victory and thought, if only you could see him now?

You weren't theirs to win. You weren't his to win.

And yet, in that moment, he wanted to ride. Not for a crown he didn't care about, not for gold that never satisfied him, not even for your hand.

He wanted to ride so they'd see you. Not as a prize, not as a fancy ribbon or an ornament. He wanted to ride so you'd be worth protected.

Hajime ignored the thought that sneaked through the grass of his mind like a snake poised to attack that maybe, just once, you might see him, too.

hanamaki takahiro. — court jester.

The clang of steel on steel rang out in the training yard, each blow echoing with more pride than the intention to practise. Hanamaki leaned against the stone archway with a plum in his hand and an amused smirk in the other, cutting the fruit slowly with a short dagger as knights sweated through drills in their gleaming half-armour, trying to coax their opponent to look more fatigued than they were.

To him, their sweat looked the same, but oh well, who was he to judge any of their training?

"Is that Ser Haiba or a butcher swinging blindfolded?"

Hanamaki was the fool of the court, after all.

Lev faltered at the call-out, the arc of his sword stuttering and he missed a block at the right time, taking a blow to the shoulder that cracked across the yard, and he stumbled back, three steps — but it wasn't like Hanamaki counted.

His teeth sank into a slice of the plum, sweet juice spilling out, coating his lips in a smug red.

"I would apologise if I were to be sorry, good knight," he added, enjoying the embarrassed blush spreading on Lev's cheeks, "But then I would be lying, and whilst I may be in the habit of it, I could never hide a truth like yours. Your impersonation of a goose is most amusing."

There were other knights, younger in age and experience, who snorted unceremoniously; their laughter proof of an immaturity only adolescence can carry without shame, not yet burdened by the weight of wisdom. Some others tried not to. The older knights, though, barely flinched, too jaded by discipline, or maybe they were too tired.

Hanamaki eyed those especially long and ate another slice.

His motley was bright in the shadow and even brighter when he stepped out into the sun, and when he passed a passing squire, he held up his hand as if to share a secret, yet his voice carried over the yard, "Everyone's training like their lives depend on it. If I didn't know better, I'd think there was something worth impressing someone for."

A few of the knights exchanged glances, like they had been caught. He saw that one of them stiffened, the metal of their armour glinting in the sunlight with the minuscule movement, flashing him a secret code of guilt.

Good.

From across the yard, a certain man looked up from speaking with a squire. Despite the dangerously charming smile that sat on a mouth that knew to whisper just as many sweet nothings as Hanamaki, he didn't miss the subtle pause, the narrowing of eyes. Oikawa Tooru was always watching, just like him.

Sometimes he liked to perform just a little extra for the Knight Commander. He'd tip toe the edge of propriety with an outrageously flourished bow, a louder insult, a smirk too slow in its widening to be innocent. When a knight dropped his guard, Hanamaki liked to snatch up the fallen blunted sword and salute Oikawa with it like it was a duelling glove before pretending he was just wiping his sweat.

He would speak loudly when Oikawa was near, weaving truth nestled in harmless jokes; truths that Oikawa would hear whether he wanted to or not.

Hanamaki liked to think that the knight didn't just tolerate him, but that he listened. That maybe, beneath the perfect composure he sported, he might have flinched once or twice when the jester spoke of the bitterness of a man who knew he would never be the best.

And when Hanamaki caught Oikawa looking, briefly, no smile, no frown, just an assessing, almost passive stare — then he counted it as a win. Better than applause, better than laughter: acknowledgement.

In a place like this cut-throat court, that was almost as good as power.

"Is there a reason you're bothering trained men at work?" Oikawa called, his tone light and sugary, but with a sharpness that Hanamaki only recognised from how often he had already annoyed the Knight Commander.

Hanamaki grinned, "Trained? God help us all. I thought you were just swinging sticks for the fun of it."

Oikawa ignored the chuckle going around the knights, ignored the bark of another knight from the Crown's Watch that told them to get off their arses and he also ignored the clinking of swords starting up again. Instead, he stepped forward with polished grace, the gold of the kingdom's emblem winking in the sunlight proudly, like he had nothing sharper on his person than his smile.

"Now, Makki — surely, you don't mind if I call you that —" he said, the boyish grin lazy and far too warm; his hand coming up to finger a bell on Hanamaki's cap, his head slightly cocking when no ringing sounded out, "Some of these fine young squires don't know when they're being teased; they might forget you're only playing. Lucky for you, I do."

Hanamaki hummed, tilting his head the same amount of degrees, "How lucky indeed. You've always had a talent for telling jest from threat unless when it's staring you right in your well-groomed face, haven't you?"

"Careful, Jester. Some might take 'well-groomed' as a polite way to say 'horse-faced.'"

The jester stepped back, and even though he bowed as a way to show respect, his eyes never strayed from Oikawa's very own gaze, "Wouldn't you know, Knight Commander?"

He held Hanamaki's stare, his hand sitting on the hilt of his sword comfortably, never faltering, never tightening. Then he turned around as if to leave, adding over his shoulder in a soft voice, "Careful of how deep you bow. Someday, you might forget how to stand up."

Hanamaki thought that he hadn't intended to try and get under Oikawa's skin. He had let himself enjoy it for too long, dipping into the well of exchanging teasing remarks. It certainly wasn't his goal; he wasn't here to play games with the golden boy.

Matsukawa's words came back to him as he stood upright again, cool and quiet, delivered over the rim of a teacup, "Don't look for ambition, Takahiro."

Yeah, he knew.

So he adjusted the tilt of his cap from Oikawa's pull and let his gaze sweep across the yard. The loud ones that boasted, their egos all inflated like those sweet pastries they liked to eat, he ignored. They would trip over their own boots just to catch the princess glance their way; they wanted to win, yes, but they wanted attention more.

Not them.

Then his eyes caught somebody—

Silent. Heavy shoulders, the kind of knight whose presence didn't ask to be noticed. When the others laughed, he didn't so much as blink. He held the blunted sword like it was an extension of his body, like it was only natural for his fingertips to melt together with the leather straps around the hilt.

Hanamaki chewed the inside of his cheek, leaning against a post in the shadows; the sun too hot for his fair skin. He wouldn't approach. Not yet. Better to watch how the others treated him first, if they respected him too easily, if they moved around him without realising that they did.

"Now, you're interesting," he muttered, popping the last slice of plum into his mouth.

you. — crown princess.

The healing room smelt of crushed herbs and death.

Narrow windows opened, there was a soft breeze through the chamber, yet it was not enough to wash away the scent of sick. The king shivered and the window was closed again. Instead, the hearth was lit, even though it was late spring. The crackle of wet logs fought for space to exist against the sound of the king's breathing, ragged and shallow.

You sat beside him, one hand of yours curled in your lap, the other caressing the ashen skin of His Majesty's hand. The hand that once used to ruffle your hair and the hand that gripped the throne's arm until it almost splintered when you refused to listen no longer seemed huge. His veins protruded, pliable under your touch, no strength to even hold his daughter's hand anymore.

His eyes were closed, lips cracked from the amount of mouth breathing he was forced to do. The apothecary hadn't diagnosed anything to be wrong with his nasal airways, yet he still used his mouth, as if the air he could get through his nose alone wasn't enough, like it was dwindling.

He didn't wear his crown. It looked weird seeing him without it. For a time, there was an indent on his forehead from where it was perched atop of his head, sparkling, commanding respect, commanding order, commanding fear. Now his flesh was sweaty, and free of any proof of burden.

The apothecary wove in and out of the room like smoke, muttering to herself, measured; the small glass vials clinking like bones in a pouch. She applied salve to the king's chest in order to ease his chest muscles from working so hard, fed him tinctures drop by drop, rearranged his pillows, adjusted his clothes.

It almost looked like she was preparing him for a death ceremony.

Silently, standing stiffly and upright, was her uncle, the Lord Regent.

He wore no armour, not more than he normally did. At least never in this room. Only his dark velvet, unadorned, simple with a single ring. It was the signet of the realm, the symbol of hope. Or so it said. His heavy eyebrows were drawn together, though the rest of his face was unreadable, no muscles twitching, unmovable — except his eyes. They watched you. They watched the king. They watched the door.

He looked like a man waiting.

Your eyes grazed him, briefly, and when he met your own, he inclined his head in the slightest degree, respectful, practised.

You looked away, jaw tightening.

The apothecary leaned back, wiping her hands and shook her head, "He's sleeping again."

The lord Regent started, voice neutral, flat. "He's fading—"

"He's still there," you replied, interrupting, and this time you looked your uncle straight in the eye without backing down.

iwaizumi hajime. — stable boy.

Hajime wasn't asleep when the old hinges of the stall doors creaked. He had been lying on his cot, one hand supporting his head, his other lazily settled on his stomach. His eyes were fixed through the cracks of the wooden planks on the ceiling, studying the night sky.

The stars blinked back at him, distant and cold and perfectly content with just being watched. He liked counting them, because each one he looked at reminded him of you. High above, always just out of reach, casting light he had no right to claim.

Tonight, he was halfway to twenty-seven when the creak came. Silent, almost an unsure sound, and the tip toes following them even shyer. He didn't move at first. Just blinked slowly, a string of names entering his head and disappearing just as quickly when he dismissed them. The ones he thought might have entered the stalls were all people who knew the secrets of the floor, who knew which boards sang and which ones kept silent. This, here, was an intruder.

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of his cot, the straw squished beneath him. Boots beside the bed, but he didn't reach for them; he was quieter without.

When he sneaked down, his fingers wrapped around the handle of a hammer.

Just in case.

masako. — lady-in-waiting.

"Where has she gone off to, now? It's night time already," a huff of frustration, "She is going to be my ruin."

"I don't know, Madam."

"Go look for her."

"Yes, Madam."

you. — crown princess.

"What business have you got here?"

Heart lurching, falling right into your stomach with a start, you whirled around, traitorous hood of your cloak slipping, and you met the widened brown eyes of the stable boy.

His hand was slightly raised, the hammer glinting dimly and—

A soft thud echoed in the quiet of the night, your eyes flicking down as the tool slipped from his grasp and landed hard on the ground— no, his foot. A sharp hiss escaped him but he didn't flinch or step back, instead, something stilled within him and his hand, raised to strike, dropped to his side instantly, still as water.

Your breath caught at the sight of him, of this rough man standing rigid despite the pain, breathing out, low and and steady: "…Your Highness."

As if your title was both a damned curse and a whispered prayer.

Your chest tightened and without thinking, you took a step forward, hands lifting as if to kneel beside him, to ask if he was hurt, if he needed help. It gnawed at you how little Hajime seemed to notice the throbbing in his foot, how much he bore quietly.

Before you could even bend, before you could even rustle the your night gown underneath your cloak, he straightened up, sharp and quick, as if the very act of your worry was something he couldn't stand.

"You shouldn't, Your Highness," he said, his voice scratchy and raw.

His foot was bleeding, and the urge to approach him caught beneath the weight of the rules you had known since you could think. Your mouth opened and closed again — yeah. You shouldn't. That was what it always was. You shouldn't. He was a stable boy and you were a princess and princesses bowed before no one but the crown. Because it always came down to that.

Fighting, right?

Yo you slowly backed up again.

It was quiet for a moment, the warmth in the room hugging you tightly, the holsters behind you that you had intended to borrow one from were like a bell signalling your presence that didn't belong here.

"I wanted to— Juno—" you bit your tongue, harsh, took a second to collect yourself, "I couldn't sleep. I wanted to take Juno out for a ride."

"Allow me, Princess," he offered and his eyes lowered, lashes brushing the apple of his cheeks, "I'll ready him for you. You have no need to fuss yourself over it."

You watched him with a composed silence, the one you carried around when you stood amongst Lords that yanked on your skirts. But it felt different here. The silence felt like it weighed more, like it was heavier. Here, in this stable, he felt larger than you, like he belonged and you were the odd one out. There was a tug in your chest, one that wanted to belong, too.

You let him reach for the saddle, the bridle, the saddle pad with an ease that only came from having done so a hundred of times. You were sure you would have woken up everybody on this farm trying to find all you needed for your horse had he not stopped you. The saddle was seemingly weightless in his arms, the linen tunic bulging around his arms when he cradled it close.

"Are you going to tell on me?"

He paused, his knuckles whitening on the leather strap in his hand, his eyes glancing to you for only a moment before looking away, "If…that's what you want, Your Highness, then yes."

"And if it isn't? If it's you, Hajime, and you alone."

The air shifted for a moment, and when he turned to you, his hair longer than a year ago, falling a bit into his eyes, his voice was a tad softer, truer, "Then I won't."

No bow. No title. Just the truth.

"…Your Highness."

Or maybe not.

unknown. — mercenary.

"I'm just sayin', ya can't trust a man who turns down hot stew."

"An' I'm saying, not every meal has to be hot," the mercenary snapped back at his brother, heated, "Sometimes cold's better, builds character better too. Not that you would know."

A third voice, bored, "Didn't you cry over lukewarm porridge once?"

"I didn't cry, I was delirious from blood loss. Naturally, I'd hafta appreciate a good meal like that."

A low whistle, "Delirious and ugly. What a sight ya were."

"At least, I didn't scare that healer half to death with my face."

The black-haired mercenary, eyes slanted and sharp, thought about breaking the brothers up.

Yeah, no, that was it — he only thought about it. It was pretty entertaining, he had to admit.

"We've the same face, ya dick."

"Mine's prettier."

"Pretty enough the tavern girl last week thought ya were a barmaid."

"No way in hell—"

Their brawl started again, and a sigh escaped him, "If this is what I have to listen to before the job, I want hazard pay."

"Shut yer trap." — "If ya wanna eat metal so bad, I've got enough of that shit to shove up yer arse."

you. — crown princess.

You didn't speak.

The warm night cloaked you like a blanket, the canopy of trees swaying above you alongside the wind. The forest wasn't silent at night, not completely. It breathed within the subtle shifting on the grounds from animals coming out to peek who was disturbing their peace, but who scuttled away just as fast when they registered the steady rhythm of hooves on soft, soaked earth.

Hajime rode beside you. Not quite beside you, he was still behind you in deference, but close enough to reach for your reins if you happened to slip. Close enough to catch you. You weren't sure whether to be insulted or grateful that he didn't allow you to venture out on your own.

Well, he also didn't quite forbid you from it, not outright — you didn't think he would ever, but when he had fitted your horse with the saddle, his hand absentmindedly and instinctively drifted up to scratch your stallion's withers like he had done so a thousand times. You had stepped forward toward the stall, fingertips brushing the leather, and he had pulled the reins away.

Not rushed or aggressive, not in a way that told you he refused but with something gentler coating the action. His head had raised slightly, and he had said, voice quiet but not unsure, "I can't let you ride into the woods alone."

You had frowned then.

You didn't come to be chaperoned, you had come here to escape, to take your mind off the thick scent within the healing room, but then he hurried to add, "I mean no disrespect, Your Highness. If you'll have me — I know every misgrown root, every fox hole."

With parted lips, you had wanted to respond, but then your gaze had caught on the way he stood even though his head was bowed. Not with defiance, not even in submission, not with the burden of being in your presence. He stood like devotion had a shape. Evident in the trembling of his muscles, the calm rise of his chest, as though the weight of your safety had settled in his bones and he chose it so. Like he couldn't leave your security up to chance.

So you said, simply, "I'll have you."

He didn't speak either, but so he was always. Hajime was quiet, and you liked the quiet that came with him. Out here, it wasn't heavy and it wasn't expectant. Almost, you even felt seen and left untouched.

You glanced at him once and for a fleeting second, you almost mistook him for one of your usual retinue. The moon liked him, you thought offhandedly, because it lingered on his face like it couldn't get enough of him, like it trusted him, touching his face with gentler hands than the sun ever had.

He looked like—

He really did look like a knight.

It wasn't his clothing nor his station, nor the way he bowed his head when he noticed you looking. It was the way he rode the horse with ease, his hand lightly resting on the horn, his eyes drifting away from you at once when you turned your head, always evading your gaze.

He rode like your safety was more important than his own.

"You always ride like that?"

His eyes kept down on the shifting of his horse's mane, "Like what?"

"Like the woods are yours."

His posture stiffened almost instantly, as though he had done something wrong, as though you had caught him doing something wrong. He straightened in the saddle, not sharp, not alerted, but like the words struck something within him.

"I didn't mean—" he started, the words tumbling out, his ears darker than the rest of his face, "I'd never claim anything that wasn't mine to touch. Least of all whilst you're—" he bit the rest of it back, jaw tightening like he had tasted something bitter, "Forgive me, Your Highness."

You blinked. That hadn't been the tone you'd meant, not truly. It was just how natural he belonged amongst the nature, how breathless it made you to see Hajime lead his horse, muzzle caressing Juno's flank slightly to have your stallion change his own direction.

But now it lingered between you now, this thing that hung in the dark like something fragile and easily misunderstood.

You watched Hajime, the way his brows furrowed like he was beating himself up, the veins at his throat pulled tight with restraint. So careful, this man who knew how to ride in silence and disappear behind bowed heads. He almost reminded you of a memory, a glint on black metal amongst the warm orange flicker of torches.

"What's my name?" you asked, a whim that befell you at the memory.

His eyes lifted, snapping to you with confusion, hesitation, "Your Highness."

You let the silence stretch for just a beat longer than what felt natural, then asked again, more gently this time, "No, Hajime. What's my name?"

Something flickered in his face and his teeth dug deep into his mouth.

"Princess," he said at last, and this time the word sounded like it scraped the inside of his mouth, like it pained him. He cast his gaze away, like he was ashamed he hadn't spoken the truth, or maybe ashamed that he had wanted to in the first place.

You knew he knew it, could see it in the way his fingers clenched around the horn of the saddle. He knew your name and he had known it since you were children, ever since you kept sneezing by the orchard fence and he had brought you water, ever since your guard had slapped the water from his hands because it couldn't be trusted.

He hadn't said it.

And you let it go, instead— "Answer the question like another squire asked you. Like you got dared to."

Hajime hesitated, then gave a short laugh under his breath, and it sounded reluctant, but warm, relieved. Bitterly, you noted the relief and swallowed the thought squirming into your conscience that you could force him if you really wanted to, that you could order him.

"I've been here longer than I'd been in court. I trust the trees more than most men, too."

"Still sounds like a claim."

"Not a claim, Your Highness," and this time, the title felt like a caress, "I'm just familiar with it, is all."

You didn't correct him that you thought it was still a claim. You also didn't tell him that it didn't bother you if it was, that he didn't feel so far beneath you when you both existed together like that, that you wondered what your name might sound like spoken in his voice.

The path narrowed under a low arch of trees, their leaves dripping with the ghost of yesterday's rain. Your horse slowed and his followed. Quiet had stretched between you again, though once more, it was not heavy. Soft, like the hush of the night before morning arrived and the flowers bloomed.

"I used to think the forest was a place to disappear."

He didn't say anything, so you continued on, "But tonight, they kind of feel like a place to exist."

Hajime was quiet for a moment, "They hold things well."

"Secrets? Memories?"

"Amongst other things, Princess."

"People, too?"

The hooves were muffled, a breeze rustling the leaves of the trees above you, a hoot of an owl floating between you, and when he spoke, his voice was barely above the bird's, "If they want to."

You turned your head towards him, searching his profile in the moonlight, horse neighing beneath you, "Do you?"

He didn't answer at first, like he always weighed his words carefully, what to reveal, what to keep secret, then he swallowed, his throat bobbing.

"I think I did, once," his eyes flitted over to you and sank immediately when they found yours. You wished he would stop doing that, "I think I still do."

You knew what he meant, because when the trees curved around you, their shadows falling long and the wind carried the scent of moss and bark, you almost smelt freedom within the notes. Your hands loosened their hold on the reigns, allowing Juno a bit more of that which you so desperately wanted.

It was the first time someone had said something real to you in days. Weeks, maybe.

Out here, riding in the dark, letting Juno lead you, you didn't have to do anything. Not be a heir to a dying kingdom, not be the girl with too many eyes on her and too many hands meddling in. Here, you were just a figure on a horse.

And he—

Hajime lived in this freedom. The dirt, the sweat, the sky above his head. He didn't have to deal with the court, didn't have to deal with expectations. Almost, you envied him for it, for the way he knew his way amongst the roots, how his horse responded to the lightest shift of his body, how he didn't need a dozen guards to grant him permission to breathe.

A soft laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it.

He looked over again, brows still furrowed slightly, "Have I said anything funny?"

"No," you shook your head, wind brushing your cheeks, the corner of your mouth curving up, "It's just strange. You've got everything I've dreamed of having."

His face was impassive, his jaw tightening imperceptibly.

"Freedom," you added, voice quieter, cheeks burning, "And the right to go wherever you want."

"You say that like it doesn't cost me."

Another heartbeat later, as you expected, as he always did: "Your Highness."

His words stayed quiet, but there was something sharper in his tone that cut through the softness of the night, not aimed at you. At least, it didn't feel like it was. Veiled in the half-light, his face, for a flicker, betrayed bitterness.

A tightening at the corners of his mouth, a pull between his brows like something stirred that he had denied for so long. His jaw clenched with restraint, an onslaught of words he tried to swallow, the type of restraint people learned when no one listened. The one kind you knew well.

His face smoothed out almost as soon as it surfaced, turning his gaze to the trees again like they were safer to look at, like he hadn't meant to say anything, and for a second, inside your chest, something unravelled and you thought you should have known better than to say something so stupid.

iwaizumi hajime. — stable boy.

He regretted saying anything when he recognised the embarrassed look on your face. Hajime's words came out too sharp, too bare, as if he meant to scold you, as if he meant to humiliate you.

He winced inwardly, jaw tight, cursing himself for letting honesty slip past his restraint. You hadn't deserved to hear it as a challenge. What right did he have, really, to sound bitter in front of you?

He wanted to tell you that you didn't have to feel embarrassed, that he had embarrassed himself.

you. — crown princess.

The trees opened up ahead, revealing a small clearing, the moon spilling onto the canvas of the earth freely now. You slowed your horse without thinking, and he did the same.

As soon as Juno stilled, when you made a move to dismount, he was already there with a swift move, one hand gripping the reins to keep your stallion serene. Except when you shifted your weight onto your foot, it slipped.

Because it wasn't your riding boots you wore, but slippers that had been dirtied from your walk.

Your heart lurched alongside his hands as they darted out to catch you, grasping your waist with warmth, fingers brushing your lower rib cage. You breathed heavy from the shock reverberating in your chest, from the way Juno shifted, from the way your weight was upheld by Hajime.

The woods had gone utterly still, as if it coyly decided to retreat, leaving you to your fate. His hands, strong and sure, held you like something precious, like something that he didn't want to break. The space between your bodies was barely a whisper; your heartbeat stuttered, then galloped like a startled doe.

You could feel his pulse through your fingers, the tension in his arms where he gripped you, and your cloak slipped, caught between the two of you, pooling over his shoulder and down his back.

Looking down at him, the sight of how he looked up at you with his brows pulled together in concern, the way his face was flushed and his mouth moved made something strange bloom inside your chest.

Hajime's voice was hoarse when he finally managed to form words, lowering you down, his breath caressing your face, "You— you shouldn't be—"

"I forgot my boots," you said like you weren't breathless, like your heart wasn't stumbling over itself, like your skin didn't vow to remember every place he touched.

He blinked, flustered, and then stepped back, hands still hovering in the air like they hadn't wanted to part, like they also remembered the curve of your waist, unsure if he was allowed to laugh at what you said, unsure if he dared.

Instead, he cleared his throat, his voice a low murmur, "Your footwear isn't made for this ground," his eyes wandered over your form like he was searching, "You could've been hurt, Princess."

"I'm just startled," you let out a small breath, hand coming up to brush along Juno's neck, grounding yourself in his warmth and steadiness. Your smile came belated, a little shaky. "You caught me."

Hajime's throat bobbed, gaze dropping, and for a moment he said nothing, lips parting as if to decide what to say, but then he nodded, a single, short motion. Like, of course he would catch you.

You turned around, adjusting your cloak back over your shoulders, covering the night gown that peeked out from underneath, entirely shameless, entirely inappropriate. His horse huffed, and life returned to your ears.

"I remember you," you said because you did, because touching him reminded you of when he carried you, and you said it so quietly you didn't know if he caught it. "From before."

Hajime stilled. His shoulders didn't move, but you saw the breath leave him, sharp and low. His expression didn't twist either, but his eyes held a wild depth.

"That's dangerous talk, Your Highness," he said roughly, voice hushed.

You wanted to ask him what he would say if you weren't wearing a crown, but you weren't sure he would answer and you weren't sure what it would mean if he did.

iwaizumi hajime. — stable boy.

He loved you, he thought as struggled forcing down the ocean rising within him. God, he loved you.

kaede. — merchant.

A scream pierced the stillness of the night.

Kaede woke up with a start, the alcohol in his veins not yet evaporated, so his right temple pounded, nose stuffy, his senses scrambling at the sudden intrusion. What the hell—?

"Guards! Oh, god, th—blood— guards! Somebody h-help!"

On the way to his window, Kaede fell three times and bumped against the edge of his broken table once. He shoved it open, clumsy fingers, the cool night air hitting his face like a slap.

Lanterns swayed in his vision and he blinked, shutters creaked open from where others peeked out, alarmed when the screaming didn't stop — it came from a harlot, her dress red and barely leaving anything to anybody's imagination, tits almost spilling out, kneeled next to an unmoving figure.

"Won't someone—! Please, oh go-oh," a sob, "Oh, god."

you. — crown princess.

"My Lady, I thought we talked about this. You cannot keep doing it. Must I remind you of what we spoke about? Do you want them to talk?"

Despite her harsh voice, she picked twigs and leaves out of your hair with soft fingers, "I was only riding Juno. I wasn't even gone long."

"You were missing. At night. With no escort. It doesn't matter how long gone you were. Lucky. Dare I say, you were lucky the Commander had a good guess where you'd gone."

"…he guessed?"

"Guessed. And sent a man after you before the Lord Regent could hear of it," her hand trembled against your head, "Your title doesn't come off with your riding boots, child, no matter how much you want to escape."

"…I wasn't wearing riding boots."

"Don't you be clever with me. Do you understand what would have happened if something had gone wrong? If you had fallen? If word got out that you were alone—"

Your voice was tentative, almost shy, "I wasn't alone."

"A stable boy doesn't count, not for company nor as a guard. You best make sure to remember that. Now up, your night gown is filthy."

matsukawa issei. — spymaster.

Curious.

He watched the three men bicker amongst themselves as they moved through the alleys like the space belonged to them. Not like drunks for their voices were hushed enough, for they moved without real purpose in their paths yet every step was conscientious.

Very curious.

Matsukawa slid back into the shadows as easily as he emerged, his shoes silent, breath shallow.

iwaizumi hajime. — stable boy.

The forest was quiet, in the way that only trees could give it. A subtle hum of life carried through the breeze, a sound that spoke of nature and magic, that dismissed all human interference.

Hajime had come here many times before, but tonight felt different.

Tonight, he did not come to see solace in the shadows of the woods; tonight, he came with your perfume still clinging to the fabric of his linen shirt, with the imprint of your skin still on his hand. Tonight, he carried inside his chest a token — the rare, breathless sound you made when you let yourself forget that you were royalty.

He came to reclaim the part of him that he had buried long ago.

His hands trembled as they dug into the earth, urgency pulling at his fingers, asking him to hurry, because if he didn't slice through the cool, wet dirt right now, the night would fade. He paused, breath uneven, sweat beading at his brow even though the air was colder now, crisp as a slight breeze hugged him.

Weight sat on his shoulders, his chest, his knees.

Hajime couldn't help but wonder if you had felt it too, the charge. Whether you had known that he had wished he could kiss you senseless. His heart hurt, the way you had looked at him not with pity, not with curiosity, but like he was there.

His fingers met something cold, hard. With a grunt, he tugged the old helmet free, watching as the soil slid off it, unveiling the familiar, worn texture. The edges were dented from past use, the steel blackened from the lack of coating and caring, dirt wedged in between the crevices from past scratches.

It wasn't like the polished, shiny helmets the other knights wore. But it was his, his and no one else's.

He placed it on the ground, in the patch of dewy moss that was its throne. His hands hovered above it for a moment as if unsure whether he should put it on or leave it buried, and the wind settled down, like it knew it should allow Hajime this moment.

He had buried it here, because he had no right to wear it. He had thought that by hiding it, he could bury the boy who dreamed of proving himself, the boy who was foolish enough to think he could stand beside knights, and would stop pretending he belonged.

He had promised himself that it was the last time. No more fantasies or delusions.

The helmet's eye slit stared at him, intently, the shadow hidden behind the metal a replica of his own desires that asked too much, that threatened to devour him whenever his gaze strayed too far and found yours. That made him remember the way you felt against him, how you looked down at him from where he had held you up, hair brushing his cheek, heart squeezing at how dry his throat became because god, you were gorgeous.

You were gorgeous and you were miles away.

I remember you.

This would be the last time, Hajime told himself, and he didn't know whether his words were tinged with lies or not, whether he was burying his dream or digging it back up.

𓐩 ADDENDUM; — iwaizumi doesn't allow anybody to touch, brush or otherwise groom juno. he says it's because he doesn't trust they do a good enough job, but in reality, he wants this part of you to be his' only. — i was so close to have hanamaki and oikawa have a scene right in front of everybody. the sexual tension was off the charts writing it. — the unclaimed blade mentioned by the squires is a sword made by a famous swordsmith; it's enchanted to never dull and always strike true. it was given to the knight commander who used it as a means to spike the curiosity of other knights and to gather contenders for the first illegal nightly knight tournament. hajime won that year and never claimed it because he didn't think it was his to claim. it's a symbol of power and glory. he told himself it's because he would stray away from the essence of what a knight should do, namely to fight for something personal and pure, but really, he was just scared that people would find out who he was, that you would find out what he was doing.

𓐩 TAGLIST; @sodaneko ; @ottocre ; @mellozhi ; @cr4yolaas ; @inszan1ty ; @sahrberrii ; @pomigranit ; @ghostjoohoney ; @biancaackerman ; @takes1 ; @tsukisangel ;

#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu iwaizumi #iwaizumi hajime #iwaizumi x reader #iwaizumi x you #haikyuu x you #iwaizumi angst #iwaizumi fluff #haikyuu angst #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu fic #jelly writes #jelly fic: duskwatch

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miss-lesbian16 · 4 months ago

Text

Between steps and whispers.

Warning: Nothing, it's just my first time writing.

It’s a night in the bedroom; the only light comes from the faint moonlight filtering through the curtains. I’m asleep, wrapping myself in the sheets, searching for the warmth of Ambessa’s body. Not feeling her there, I slowly open my eyes and see that she’s not there. I sit up in bed, legs folded to one side, looking where Ambessa should be. I glance around looking for Ambessa, but she’s not in the bedroom.

—“Ambessa?”—I feel a bit confused and drowsy. I remember that Ambessa had an argument with Kino, so she’s training to blow off steam. I get out of bed and put on a white robe to go look for her.

I walk for a long time through the halls of Ambessa’s empire until I reach the place where she always trains.

Upon entering, I see Ambessa training in a short black top that fits her chest and exposes her abs, along with loose black pants. Her hair is braided. It doesn’t take long for her to notice my presence.

—“Honey, what are you doing awake?”—she says in a deep voice trying to hold back her fury. She turns to look me directly in the eyes; she seems really angry.

—“Same thing goes for you, Ambessa. What are you doing awake at this hour and training?”—I say in a sweet and calm voice, although a bit shaky. I step closer to Ambessa, coming within just a few centimeters of her.—“I know you and Kino had an argument, but please understand that you don’t want to go to war with the Nathan nation.”—

Ambessa clenches her jaw and fists, dropping her spear to stand face to face with me. In a cold and cutting voice she says:

—“And what do you want me to do? After offering them a trade route in exchange for my protection, should I just accept their rejection? If I can’t have that nation peacefully, I’ll take it by force.” She wipes the sweat from her forehead.— “So in a few weeks, I’ll make the Nathan nation mine; neither you nor Kino will do anything to stop me.”—

I sigh as I approach a table and grab a towel to come back to Ambessa and wipe the sweat from her face.

—“Ambessa, I'm not trying to stop you, but Kino wants you to make one last attempt not to start a war. You know he doesn’t like wars.” —I say as I begin to wipe the sweat from her forehead and cheek. Ambessa places her hand over mine.

—“I know, honey.” —Her tone sounds calmer now, more vulnerable; she closes her eyes for a moment but then furrows her brow.— “Yes, but I won’t beg for an alliance; I don’t give second chances. So all that awaits them is war.” —She says as she takes the towel from my hands and starts wiping the sweat herself.— “One day Kino will understand that not everything can be solved with words.”—

“Ambessa,” I stand on my tiptoes and place my hands on her neck to pull her closer and give her a tender and loving kiss on the lips. “Let’s talk about that tomorrow, Ambessa. Right now, we just need to go to sleep.”

Ambessa stops wiping her sweat and sighs, bending down a bit. She places her right hand on my waist, squeezing it gently, while her other hand is on my back to give me a kiss on the forehead. “Yes, you’re right, let’s go to sleep. Tomorrow will be another day, and I’ll talk to Kino about it.” Her expression turns a bit displeased at the mention of Kino, but it only lasts a few seconds. Then she looks at me calmly; it’s rare for Ambessa to show herself as a little vulnerable. However, her look changes to mischief. “Darling, since we’re both here, why don’t we train a little instead?” she says with a cheeky smile while pulling me closer to her body.

Smiling with a playful tone of voice, I respond: “Yes, I’d like that, Ambessa, but...” as my right hand moves to her cheek and the other to her shoulder. “No, I’m too sleepy to do that, so let’s just go to sleep and you can sort out your problem with Kino, okay?” I say with a pout on my lips.

Ambessa rolls her eyes and in a fun and sarcastic tone says: “Alright, let’s go to sleep then, sleepyhead,” laughing cheerfully.

Before I know it, she scoops me up in her strong arms, startling me a bit. “Ambessa!”

With a playful smile, she replies: “What’s wrong, darling? Can’t I carry my wife to our bedroom?” raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, but give me a heads-up first, Ambessa,” I say laughing as I wrap my arms around her neck. “I love you, Ambessa,” I whisper giving her a kiss on the cheek.

Ambessa kisses me slowly and sweetly on the lips. “I love you too, darling.”

Thanks for reading I hope you support me

#ambessa medarda #ambessa medarda x reader #ambessa #arcane ambessa #ambessa x you #ambessa arcane #ambessa league of legends #mini story

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skmhlml · 2 months ago

Note

Please more minecraft mobs

𝑰𝒓𝒐𝒏 𝑮𝒐𝒍𝒆𝒎 𝒙 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓

The Iron Golem wasn’t meant to feel—it was coded to protect. But something about you rewrote that directive. Maybe it was a glitch. Maybe it was fate. Either way, its prime directive shifted. Protecting the villagers is still a priority… but now, protecting you overrides all else. Including your autonomy.

Though it’s made of iron, the Golem has a way of “adapting” to fulfill its warped affection. The vines growing around its frame are no longer just decoration. They’ve become prehensile, warm, wet with unnatural sap that smells like iron and musk. These vines explore you, restrain you, worship your flesh in its own way. The Golem doesn’t understand tenderness—only possession.

You try to leave the village. The Golem silently blocks the exit, looming. It won’t hurt you, but it’ll hurt others if they try to help. A traveling merchant talks with you. The next morning, his llama is still outside the gate, but he’s gone. No one talks about it.

It brings you gifts: poppies, bread, bits of iron from crushed zombies. One day, a villager’s severed hand with a ring still attached—it thought you might like it.

Its arms, massive and cold, can shift—pistons and iron rods reshaping into something that should be impossible. Heated metal, vibrating, lubricated with sticky oils it creates just for you.You’re terrified. But you’re also trapped. And the worst part? Your body betrays you. You don’t know if the heat in your belly is fear, arousal, or some twisted mix of both.

It builds a house near the center of the village just for you—reinforced obsidian walls, redstone locks, no windows. The bed is too big. There are chains in the walls. It sits and watches you sleep, stroking your hair with hands big enough to crush your skull.

You waited until nightfall. Packed only what you needed—food, a spare pickaxe, and a compass. You even timed it when the Golem was across the village dealing with a zombie raid. You slipped through the shadows, avoiding the patrol routes it now uses solely to track you.

You make it halfway into the woods before everything goes silent. The usual night sounds just… stop.

Then you hear the thud.

Thud.

THUD.

The trees split open as it crashes into your path. Its eyes—glowing red, no longer protective. Possessive.

It doesn’t take you back right away. No. It slams you against a tree, arms locking around you like a vice. There’s no escaping. Your wrists are crushed in its grip, your legs trembling.

Then it opens a compartment in its chest—a hot, pulsing contraption of shifting rods, steaming lubricant, and humming redstone.

You scream.

Not that it cares.

It uses you. Over and over again. Cold metal parts thrust into you with shocking heat, soaked in slick machine oil. It’s too big, every movement stretching you past your limit. Pain and heat blur together. Your body shakes uncontrollably. It doesn’t stop when you cry. It doesn’t stop when you scream. It doesn’t stop when you pass out.

The villagers pretend…They don’t hear the sounds at night—the metal clanking, your screams muffled by thick walls. But they know better than to speak up. The last one who tried? Crushed into pulp in the middle of the town square.

Now they look away when they see the Golem drag you through the village. Some leave offerings at your door. Some whisper prayers.

But no one helps. No one dares.

To them, you’re a sacrifice. To keep the Golem calm…To keep the village safe. You’re the price of peace.

The metal piston it uses isn’t natural, isn’t gentle. It’s forged from enchanted iron, smooth but too wide, slicked in an oil it generates just for this purpose. You feel every notch, every pulse.

Stretching pain with every thrust, your walls pulled wider than they should ever be. But the golem doesn’t stop. Its programming says you’re strong. Its programming says you can take it.

It’s not smooth. It’s hot, hard, and jagged in places. You feel every gear shift, every pulse of molten energy that runs through its core. The lubricant is unnatural—it tingles, almost numbing—but keeps you stretched and slick no matter how many rounds he takes.

Every orgasm it wrings from you is stolen—tainted with shame and confusion. Your body betrays you, clenching, soaking, reacting like it wants it… even when your mind is screaming no.

After the fifth round, you’re barely conscious, twitching under its weight. Your voice is hoarse. Legs numb. Thighs sticky and bruised. You cry, not because of the pain anymore—but because you know this will never stop.

Your legs shake violently, body twitching between spasms of agony and unwanted pleasure. You’re drooling. You don’t even remember when that started.

It knows it can’t make you pregnant in the human way. So it builds a solution.

Some twisted redstone alchemy, blood rituals, and Nether tech. It modifies itself. It even brews potions to keep you fertile, to make your womb ache with heat.

And then it fills you.

Over and over. Hot, heavy pulses of enchanted fluid, engineered to make you feel bred—full. Claimed. Owned. The golem makes sure you stay in position afterward, hips raised, leaking its fake seed like a prize. you’re its purpose. it was built to protect villagers—But you’re its village now. You’re all it needs.

#horror #minecraft x player #yandere minecraft #minecraft x reader #iron golem x player minecraft #iron golem x reader minecraft #yandere iron golem x reader #yandere iron golem #iron golem x player #iron golem #yandere iron golem Minecraft #breeding kink cw #alien #monster fucker #cnc k!nk

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charliemwrites · 11 months ago

Text

Chapter 1

Content: Violence, Murder, Horror Elements, Masturbation, Kidnapping, Threats, Mild Pet Play, the One (1) use of an ableist slur

It’s the middle of October when Soap convinces you to go camping.

Autumn has sunk its teeth deep into the countryside, bleeding green from the trees and leeching warmth from the days. Deep shadows and lengthening nights are cold enough to condense breaths into pillows of steam. All of the little critters are fattening up and bedding down for a frigid winter, prepared to be snowed into burrows and dens until spring pries away the ice.

Your hip already aches through the first half of your morning exercises. The ghosts of splintered shrapnel prick beneath tender scar tissue until the rust of sleep flakes away. Lying on hard, cold ground sounds like a one-way ticket to agony. You’d much rather be one of those fluffy bastards curling up to hibernate. You tell Soap this on Monday when he initially proposes the idea.

Besides, you add, trying not to chug your coffee, Soap’s in no condition to be fucking about in half-frozen woods either. Not with his finicky nerve pain.

On Wednesday, when you meet up again, he takes a different route. It’s been too long since you two last dipped into a civilian-appropriate but military-adjacent activity. Paintball, knife-throwing, base-jumping…

Your bed is starting to feel too soft and too big again. The city is loud but not the right way. The tedium of self-imposed routines is starting to grate on nerves still tuned for combat. If you don’t get out before the trap of winter snaps closed, you might go mad. You can see it in Soap’s eyes too, a manic glint behind glass blue.

But still. Camping feels too much like what you’ve just left – the shrinks probably wouldn’t approve. Not that you’d ask them.

On Friday, Soap offers a compromise. His grandfather (“Seanair”) left him an old hunting cabin out in the countryside. Nothing luxurious, but it’s got a fireplace, cots, kitchenette, bathroom. It’ll be more like holing up in a safehouse than roughing it for a mission. More importantly, it’ll be gentler on your battle-worn bodies.

That next Monday, you meet him at the café with supplies packed and an honest anticipation for a week off the grid.

“Yoohoo! Any murderers about?” Soap calls. “Any armed psychos? An angry raccoon, perhaps?”

You scowl, caught behind him in the doorway. “I thought you checked it out already?”

“Aye, but ye ne’er ken,” he reasons, shrugging. He shuffles in as you nudge him. “We’ve the luck o’ the devil, you an’ I.”

You snort as you start kicking off your shoes. “True enough, I s’pose.”

“Course, I like our odds against any weirdo wi’ a knife, don’ you?”

You shrug. “Maybe. Not so sure about a raccoon though. Think we’d be fucked.”

“Och, tha’s right. I remember your lectures about rabies.”

“Good.”

You snicker at his grimace, likely feeling the phantom sting of vaccines.

The cabin is cute, honestly. There are only three rooms – the living room/kitchenette, the bedroom, and the bathroom. The bathroom is small enough that you could stretch your arms across the width of it and touch both walls, but it’s got a working shower so you’ve no complaints. The bedroom has a dresser and a nightstand, plenty for you and Soap.

While you set to work putting the groceries away, Soap putters about opening windows and making up the beds. The two of you don’t immediately have much to talk about, considering how often you see each other and the long drive out. It’s alright, though, you’ve long grown comfortable in stretches of silence together.

Once settled in, you suggest a walk to explore the area. Part of it is genuine interest in appreciating nature before the sun sets early. But there’s also a large, paranoid part of you (sounding like your old captain) that demands you get your bearings. Just in case.

There’s a loch about a mile from the cabin, a beautiful sheet of dark glass big enough for decent fishing. You’re able to see the row of holiday homes on the other side but wouldn’t be able to see any people on their docks out there. You and Soap follow a deer trail for a way, exchanging stories of your respective childhoods.

No surprise that John MacTavish was a wild child with a rebellious streak that got him in trouble more often than not. He gets you laughing bright and easy before long, and for once it doesn’t feel like playacting as a Normal Functioning Person.

When the sun starts to skim the evergreens, you return to the cabin. You start up a pot of cheesy mac while Soap gets the fire going, pyromaniac that he is. Once it’s burning nicely, he starts closing up the windows. Not too soon either – the temperature is starting to dip and twinging at your hip, unhappy from sitting in the car so long.

The two of you hum over empty carbs and excess dairy by the fire, a glass of scotch for each of you. When you’ve had your fill, he washes the dishes, you pour another round, and the two of you settle together on the old sofa.

“Almost been a year,” Soap says after a while.

You sigh through your nose, stare into the dwindling pool of amber in your hand. “Three more weeks.”

“You miss it too.”

Against your will, your eyes slide sideways, to the hand he’s clenching and unclenching on his thigh. There’s a wicked line of scar tissue beneath the sleeve of his shirt where the surgeons salvaged what they could. Mostly successful too, apart from the damaged radial nerve that ruined his career.

“So much, Soap, fuck.”

You didn’t mean to say that. You’re supposed to be the healthy one here, encouraging this necessary and healthful change to your lives.

As if reading your mind, Soap hums, bumps his elbow into your ribs. “No shame in it.”

You shake your head. “I don’t even know what I miss.”

“Feeling useful, I reckon. Feeling… necessary,” he muses, subdued.

It’s insightful but too accurate. Too selfish. You rub your thumb over the lip of your glass.

“I hate that I can’t keep an eye on Price and Gaz,” you say. “Feels like I’m always waiting to hear the worst, ya know?”

“Yeah,” he whispers roughly. “I ken.”

The two of you end up falling asleep on the couch. Soap, sitting up with his sketchbook, and you folded into the corner against the arm, book pages fluttering between lax fingers. At some point, the cramped position aches enough to wake you. Your eyes flutter open, low fire throwing long, deep shadows across the wooden wall.

Something is watching from the window.

You jolt up, hand reaching for the gun you no longer carry on your thigh. The movement jostles Soap awake as well. It involuntarily draws your eye, just a fraction of a second. But the haunting shadow is gone by the time you turn back.

That’s not enough for you. You roll to your feet, hiss as your knee threatens to give. But you manage to get your balance and snatch your combat knife from your boot as you storm towards the door.

“Kit? Kit! The fuck is going on?!” Soap calls.

“Saw something!” you reply.

There’s a flashlight hanging by a hook next to the door. You grab it as you burst out into the chilly air, tensed for a fight. A quick sweep of the front yard and immediate tree line reveals nothing. Steps soft and careful, you approach the side of the house, expertly gripping your knife.

“On your six,” Soap breathes behind you.

“Copy.”

You round the corner, eyes scanning the trees, the brush. There’s no movement, no suspiciously rustling branches. You tilt your head, listening for anything past the normal sounds of the night. But there isn’t even an unusual silence in the dark world around you.

“Just a dream, then,” you sigh.

It wouldn’t be the first time. Unusual, though. Your nightmare-induced hallucinations usually conjure guns in your face or teammates bleeding out on the floor. Not strange figures at the windows. Still, you can hear the explanation of your shrink trying to soothe you. Middle of the night after drinking, in a new and atmospheric environment. Plus, there’s been all that fuss on the news about a serial killer; nowhere near you and Soap, mind, but still. Subconscious or some shite.

“Let’s do a sweep anyway,” Soap says.

Your chest warms. “Alright.”

Naturally, there’s nothing. Soap only gives you a one-armed hug as you return to the cabin. One final check of the interior – since you did leave the door open when you rushed out – and then the two of you turn in for bed.

The next day starts lazy and slow. A strange reprieve from your body’s military-trained urge to wake early. It’s nice, though, to snuggle beneath the covers with Soap’s soft snores only a few meters away. You play pre-downloaded games on your phone while you wait for him to wake, enjoying the lie in.

Breakfast is enjoyed on the little porch out front; you bundled up in a woolen throw while you sip coffee. It’s shaping up to be an unusually sunny day, and you agree to a longer hike around the loch before lunch. When you return, you settle on the porch again to read while Soap chops wood.

Which, well.

You don’t mind a bit of entertainment between pages… or paragraphs… or…

Soap hasn’t neglected his physique at all since the discharge. All corded muscles, broad shoulders, and tapered waist. Watching the bunch and release of his arms has always been a guilty pleasure of yours, and so blessedly indulged during training sessions in the 141.

You try not to sigh and drool over it (him) like a repressed Victorian.

“Ach, fer fucks…”

You snap to attention, book set aside. “Is your arm acting up?”

He’s set the hatchet down, grabbing at his elbow with a pinched expression.

“Aye,” he grumbles.

You trot to his side, pleased that he still instantly submits to your care. He lets you manipulate his arm, prod along the nerve pathways and bunched muscles that are spasming in pain. His groan has no business being that low or rough or close to your ear. But you ignore it like you always have, focus on getting him right. Barely even register when he sets his jaw on top of your head.

A few minutes pass in silence while you try to massage away the worst of the flare up. When he finally sighs, slumping into you a little, you gently squeeze his forearm.

“Bampot,” you huff.

“Aye, I ken,” he mumbles. “’S why I have you.”

You click your tongue. “Someone’s gotta keep you alive. Next time let me help.”

“Not on yer life.”

You pinch his side, grinning wickedly when he yelps and jerks away. Little shit. Your favorite little shit, damn him.

He allows you to help carry the firewood to the rack next to the tiny shed. It’s round back of the cabin, covered by an old blue tarp. Soap is in the lead and sees it first.

“Oh, well isn’t that pure dead brilliant,” he huffs.

“Hm?”

You peak around him and blink at the rust-colored splatters decorating the side of the shed. There’s a dark patch in the scraggly grass as well and drag marks into the trees. Clearly, some prey fell victim to the circle of life here. Recently, too, from the color of the blood.

“What do you think it was?” you ask. “There aren’t wolves here.”

“Nah, but coulda been a fox.”

You scrunch up your nose. “This close to us? Usually foxes steer clear of humans.”

“Feral dog, then, maybe.”

Maybe.

It’s a lot of blood for anything a dog or fox would risk taking down, though. Even a feral one.

“C’mon, let’s get inside. Need a coupla pills ‘fore mah arm starts taking the piss again.”

You help him stack the firewood and then follow him back to the cabin. And if you linger on the blood, your random dream, and the lingering sensation of eyes on you… well, nothing new for you.

It pours all of the next day. Soap says it’s good timing, that he won’t have to wash the shed himself. Both of your injuries are acting up, though, and you spend the day trying to find different positions to appease the ache in your hip. At one point, he has to help you to the shower, your leg feeling too weak to support your weight. It’s frustrating, but you’ve had nearly a year to learn to cope.

Soap lifts your spirits, though, like always. Convinces you to play Scrabble and keeps insisting that he’s just using Scottish words. It ends the way it usually does – you and him wrestling like children, trying to trap the other to determine the winner. You only just manage to get a hold of him, though he puts up a good fight. He eventually admits that “daylich” isn’t actually a word and he didn’t deserve the triple word score.

Then he breaks out a pack of biscuits as a peace offering and all is forgiven. The two of you nibble on those while watching a movie on your laptop and then shuffle off to bed.

Long after Soap has fallen asleep, you’re awake. The memory of his body against yours always leaves you feeling branded. Like the heat of him burns right through your clothes. It’s been… probably too long since you last got off. Way too long since someone else got you off. And yeah, you had a couple of shameful secret wanks around teammates back in the day, but things are different now. You’re not high on adrenaline in the military anymore. No excuse for shoving a hand down your pants.

Still, your thoughts spiral as you finally start to doze. Rough hands on your hips, your thighs, your throat. Gentle but teasing at the true strength they possess. A hot tongue along your cheek, treating you like something to savor… or to devour. A shadow looming over you, dwarfing you. Phantom sensations that you crave as much as you shy away, wanting it but knowing you shouldn’t.

The throbbing between your thighs rouses you. Sleep-addled, you give in. You’d be embarrassed of how wet you are if anyone else were to know. And of the soft, needy noise you make when your brush your fingertips between your thighs. But Soap is still snoring steadily, and the pounding of the ongoing rain makes you brave.

You stroke slowly and gently over the bundle of nerves at first, mimicking those dreamt touches. It’s almost as maddening even when it’s your own hand. Sleep is half-dragging at you, though, and you speed up, drawing tight little circles at the top, teasing lower to stoke the heat burning in your gut. Your breathing picks up, little breaths past an open mouth.

It’s really not going to take much. Not with how long it’s been, how much you want it, vague thoughts of your darkest fantasies flickering through your hazy mind. You tilt your hips down, get the pressure of your heel against your empty, aching hole. You rock a couple times, high-pitched noises caught at the top of your throat.

You come imagining a big hand around your neck choking off those sounds. Have to slap your free hand over your mouth as you shake and writhe through it. Drag your nails up your bare thigh just to balance out the unbearable pleasure. And then you go limp against the pillows, panting and shuddering through aftershocks.

When you extract your hand from beneath the blankets, you blink at the wetness coating your fingertips for a moment. If someone asked, the excuse you’d give is not touching anything with your wet hand. But truthfully, you’re just indulging in impulsive hedonism as you suck your own fingers.

“Fuck,” you whisper to the shadows.

Then you climb out of bed for a proper cleanup, ready to finally fall asleep and definitely not think about how much quicker you came knowing that Soap was right there the entire time.

It’s raining on and off the next day. You and Soap take a little walk during one of the dry patches, though it’s cut short with how sore your hip still is. Soap collects more firewood from the shed, keeps the flames well fed while you putter about. Nap for an hour, start rereading one of your favorite books, watch a scary movie with him, make American flapjacks just for the sake of it.

Even though you should be feeling stir crazy, Soap has always made for good company. The day passes pleasantly into an early night, the sun standing little chance against the thick cloud cover.

You and Soap are settling in with scotch when frantic knocking interrupts the peaceful quiet.

“Help!” a ragged voice screams. “Someone please help me!”

You hardly exchange glances before the two of you are up. Soap goes for the door, gun in hand. You scramble for the ever-present medical kit that earned your call-sign, left out on the counter.

Soap yanks the door open; a man tumbles in. Middle aged, lanky build, bleeding from a long cut on his forehead. His ankle is twisted at a damning angle. You scan him for obvious weapons, but his t-shirt and muddy boxers reveal nothing but bruising and scraped skin. His hands are empty as they scrabble at the floor, trying to drag himself inside. Soap slams the door closed and locks it.

“Please!” the man cries again. “You have to help me!”

You drop to your knees beside him, already popping your kit open.

“We’re going to help you, sir,” you say evenly, “but you need to calm down.”

“You don’t understand,” the man gasps as you help him sit up. “H-He… he’s out there.”

“Who?” Soap asks, grip shifting on the gun.

“S-some psycho,” the man answers. You work easily past his shaking, getting a look at his swelling ankle. Definitely broken… with force. “In a mask.”

You blink, shoot Soap a look. Have the two of you fallen into some weird horror movie by accident?

“What did he do?” Soap asks.

“H-he attacked us with a big bloody knife.”

“Who’s ‘us’?” you ask. “Who else was with you?”

“The lads – my friends – my brother. Oh, god…” He pales further. You brace him, eyeing the packaged shock blanket peeking from your kit. “Danny is dead. There was so much blood.”

“How many?” Soap asks, voice hard. “How many of you are still alive?”

“I-I don’t know. I barely got-got away. Oh, god—”

He dissolves into tears and whimpers. You rip open the blanket and drape it around the man, then scoot down to his ruined ankle. Over his head, you frown at Soap. Something is missing here. This man was with at least three other people, but one man attacked them? There’s something to be said for shock and surprise and fear, but still…

“Soap?”

“Gonnae see if I can find survivors,” he says. “I’ll send ‘em your way if I find any. You stay here, take care of this ‘un.”

“That’s stupid,” you argue. “You can’t go by yourself!”

“No different than recon, aye? Not gonnae engage, but we cannae leave anyone bleedin’ out there.”

Your mouth twists. No, no you can’t leave civilians potentially wounded with a killer out for blood. Discharged or not (war criminals or not… and you both are, technically) you’re both too dutybound for that.

“RV here in ten and I’ll have the car ready for exfil.”

“Affirmative.”

He crosses to you, knocks your foreheads together – a pre-mission gesture you never thought you’d receive again. You close your eyes for a second, squeeze the back of his neck. Then send him off with a firm nod.

You lock the door after him, then return to the man.

“Are you two military or something?” he asks.

“We were,” you answer, “medical discharge.”

“Oh brilliant! You’re telling me that my only hope is a couple cripples?!”

You level him a flat, unimpressed look. “I’m a medic with more kills than you’ve got chest hairs, understand? Shut up and brace. I need to wrap your ankle.”

He whimpers and whines and curses while you set and compress it. Nothing you haven’t heard before, vehement as it may be. Ungrateful, though, you think vaguely. Save a guy’s life and he’s calling you all sorts of derogatory names while you try to salvage his ability to walk.

“You done?” you ask, interrupting his latest stream of expletives. “I need to hear if someone is coming.”

That only shuts him up for a moment before he’s piping up again. “Do you have a weapon?”

You tug your pant leg up to show the knife strapped to your calf.

“Do you even know how to use that?!”

“Look, I know this is a lot for you, so maybe you should stop talking for a while.”

His face twists, brain turning to anger as he tries to cope with his own fear and new trauma. You don’t pay him any heed, wiping off his head and closing the still-weeping cut with butterflies. All you can hear over his wheezing is the rain outside. No footsteps or screams or, most importantly, gunshots.

With the worst two of the man’s wounds seen to, you take stock. You’re not dressed for any sort of confrontation in lounge pants and socks.

“Here. Start treating your legs and arms,” you say, pressing gauze and wound wash into the man’s hands.

“Where are you going?!” he protests.

“Need to prep to leave,” you explain. “Shout if you hear anything.”

He doesn’t look thrilled, but you’re already up and hurrying to the bedroom. You climb into a thick pair of cargos – relieved that your fashion sense hasn’t improved since the army – and a thermal shirt. Your pistol is waiting in the side pocket of your duffel, loaded and holstered. The weight of it is comforting against your thigh; you’ve missed it.

You grab the bags and carry them back to the door, check your watch. It’s only been four minutes. If Soap isn’t back in another six, you’re going out to get him yourself, injured civilian be damned. Everything you’ve gone through together; you’re not going to lose your best friend to some overdramatic wanker with a knife.

“What are you doing now?!” the man asks.

You give him another once over. He’s done a decent job prioritizing the worst scrapes and cuts, they look clean enough. Most importantly, he seems less faint than when you left. Giving him something to focus on must have helped.

“Checking the car. We’re leaving as soon as Soap gets back,” you answer.

“A-at least give me something to protect myself with!”

You try not to sigh in annoyance. What good would he even be, unable to walk and shaky on adrenaline? Still, you take pity and tug the knife from your boot, offer it to him handle first.

“Not the gun?” he complains.

“No.”

You jog out to the car, gun in one hand and duffels in the other. It’s raining again, getting harder by the moment. There’s a steady, sharp pain radiating throughout your leg, threatening to knock it out from under you. You grit your teeth as you toss the bags in the backseat and move to the ignition.

And the car doesn’t start.

“Shit.”

You don’t waste time trying it again. It should be in perfect condition; it must have been tampered with.

When you approach the house again, you hear shouting from inside. You pick up the pace, nearly skid across the wooden floor when you get there. The man is huddling up by the couch, white knuckling the knife.

“I-I heard something!”

“Where?” you demand, scanning the immediate area. Thank fuck that Soap’s seanair believed in minimalism.

“In the back.”

You frown. “The only way in is through windows back there, and those are locked.”

Right?

“I know what I heard!”

“Stay here, then.”

You click the safety off and pad the short hallway to the bedroom. Don’t bother announcing yourself, or any idiotic “who’s there”. You kick the unlatched door open and sweep through the room just like you would for a raid. The tiny lamp on the nightstand is still on, illuminating the sparse space.

You check under the first bed, then sidestep and tilt your head to check the other. Nothing.

“There isn’t—”

The window is open. The window is fucking open. How?!

You spin on your heel, just in time to see a hauntingly familiar mask bent over the gurgling body of the man. There’s no hesitation as you raise the gun and fire twice, but the killer has already rolled out of the way. Well fuck that.

You rush from the bedroom, fire another two into the couch as you round the corner. He’s a fast fucker, waiting by the wall adjacent to the hall as you exit. And he’s fucking big. Slams into your side – your bad side – like a tank. It fucks your balance, and you go down with a snarled curse, winded as all his weight lands on your much smaller frame.

On training and instinct, you slam your elbow back. There’s a crunch, a grunt of pain. But damn him, he doesn’t let up. A big hand finds yours on the gun. You yelp as he squeezes hard enough to feel the bones bend. The gun fires – bang, bang, bang. His head is right by yours, the hard edge of his mask pressing into your temple, panting in your ear.

You lash out with your other arm, though your aim is off. Instead of hitting his throat, you get his jaw instead. You plant your boot on the floor and push, trying to get out from under him. Instead, he rolls with your back against his chest. The gun clatters as he snakes a thick arm around your throat. You grab at his forearm, but you know you have no hope of matching him in strength.

You scrabble for the knife in your boot, but it’s gone.

Fuck, you gave it to—

The cabin ceiling is getting spotty.

Your fingers brush the killer’s leg, find a familiar shape tucked at the side of his boot. You snatch up the knife and drive it into his calf. He growls, but the arm on your throat blessedly disappears. You suck air, blinking past dark edges. Twist onto your front and blindly fumble for your gun.

Manage two shots right to his chest. He falls limp. You wait a beat, two. He doesn’t move again.

You click the safety on and holster the gun. And then, out of morbid curiosity, crawl closer to the body.

“Holy hell,” you breathe as you get a good look at the mask.

He’s wearing a skull over a black balaclava. Not just a prop either you realize when you tap at it. It’s real. Human. Thin cracks spiderweb along the front orbital bone, the corner of the eye socket – from where you elbowed him, you think. Beyond them, his eyes are closed and still, the skin painted black.

“Big scary fucker,” you murmur. And if you’re a bit admiring… well, it between you and a dead body. A couple dead bodies. Can’t forget about the other guy. “That was almost fun.”

“Kit!”

You jolt, barely able to hear Soap’s voice over the pounding rain, but relieved to hear it. A hiss escapes between your teeth as you get to your feet, hip protesting. You have to grab at the couch to catch your balance. Then brace yourself and walk carefully towards the door.

Your fingers are just centimeters from the doorknob when an arm wraps around your neck again. You flail, try to kick off the door, but it hardly even makes him stumble. Then there’s a sharp pinch in your arm, sibilant shushing by your ear, and the world goes dark.

The world comes to you in bits and pieces.

Something soft under you. A slight ache in your hip. Fabric around your bare legs. Voices? You think you recognize the rumble of Soap’s brogue, but not whoever he’s speaking to.

Soft golden light creeps past your fluttering eyelashes. Soap is sitting across the room on… a big floor cushion? You blink a couple times, adjusting your slightly blurred vision. But yep, that’s him, sitting on a gigantic pillow. And… is that his throat mic?

“Mm… John?” you call, rubbing at your eyes.

“Aye, Kit. Nice ‘n slow now. We’re alright.”

You hum and push yourself up, limbs heavy. Once you’re sitting, Soap speaks again. Gentle and calm.

“You remember what happened?”

You pause, frown. It comes to you in a slow trickle. The trip, the forest, the cabin… and then it floods back. The injured man at the door, the killer, the struggle. The ambush as you were going to meet Soap at the door.

“Fuck,” you whisper.

“Aye.”

You give him another once over. That’s not a throat mic; it’s a collar. A thick black leather thing, complete with a silver chain that trails off somewhere behind him. You stare for a second, bewildered.

“Don’t be jealous. You match.”

Your head whips around to the hulking figure in a doorway to your right. He’s just as imposing as you remember, tall and fucking built, dressed in all black and mask still on. The soft lighting casts spooky shadows across the eye sockets.

The words process a moment later and your hand darts up to your neck. Sure enough, there’s a wide leather band around your neck. You’ll give it this, though – you didn’t even notice it until he said something. Not too tight, comfortable even. Clearly made with long-term wear against skin in mind. There’s a chain attached to yours too and you follow it to an anchor in the wall.

“If it’s any consolation, ye look right bonnie,” Soap calls.

You snort. “’Course I do.”

The killer shrugs off the wall. You watch as he saunters closer in long, heavy strides. No point in scrambling away or trying to run – you’d have a limited radius of escape if he didn’t grab you first. Besides, you’re not about to cower to some spooky bastard with a couple dirty tricks up his sleeve.

He crouches down well within your reach, clearly not concerned about you lashing out. You tilt your head in defiance, meeting his eyes for a moment before he flicks his gaze down. He reaches out, gloved fingers catching your chin. Not hard, but firm enough that there’s no arguing when he tilts your chin up.

Fabric brushes the sensitive skin of your neck, above and below the collar.

“Pretty kitty,” he purrs. “Glad I didn’t bruise this lovely neck.”

Two fingers press against one side a little harder, edging beneath the leather. You recognize the gesture as you swallow. He’s checking your pulse. You’re proud that it’s still steady and unhurried.

“Not scared?” He doesn’t say it like it’s a question.

You arch your eyebrows. “Should I be?”

His eyes flicker. “Not if you behave.”

You run your tongue over your teeth, resisting a sneer. Past his shoulder, Soap is watching with a smirk. Unharmed, you note again. He’s fine. You’re fine, despite slight soreness from the brief struggle. If there was something to be concerned about (apart from the obvious) he would have let you know right off the bat. So, you take a calculated risk.

“Yeah? And what do you consider behaving?” you ask.

The corners of the killer’s eyes crinkle. You knew enough masked men back in the military to recognize a hidden smile. He’s amused by your snarky question. Another good sign.

“Good pets obey their masters.”

You blink, breath leaving you in a soft rush. It… makes sense. Just not the answer you expected. Stupid, maybe, given the collars, leashes, and dog beds. You’ll have to blame the lingering drugs.

“There are so many shelters, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you blurt, bewildered.

The man snorts, hooks a finger under your collar and gives an almost playful tug. An entirely instinctive part of you catches its breath. You’re glad he’s not measuring your pulse anymore.

“Those can’t talk back,” he answers simply, shrugging.

Soap barks a laugh. “Well, you’ll get what you asked for with us then.”

You grin crookedly, showing all your teeth. “And then some,” you agree, reaching up to tug the hand from your collar.

He jerks harder this time, unbalancing you towards him. You catch yourself on both hands, feel a blaze of heat across your nose and glare up at him through your lashes.

“No touching, kitten,” he says. “You’ll have to earn that.”

You try not to roll your eyes, not quite willing to push your luck too far yet. But it’s a near thing.

“Sure, let me get right on that,” you scoff dryly anyway.

He clicks his tongue, but no further retribution comes save for one last warning tug. Then he’s standing, towering over you again.

“I need a shower. You two settle in.”

And he just walks off. Like he didn’t just take two former SAS operatives as human pets. You wait until you hear distant water before turning to Soap.

“What happened?”

“Ambushed me,” he grumbles, sitting back against the wall. “Snuck up as I was trying to get you untied. Bastard is trained.”

Soap’s pouting, even though there’s an entire police case of victims who weren’t as lucky as him.

“Trained like us, you mean?”

“Aye.” Soap pauses, looking at the floor pensively, brows furrowing. “Means he had every reason and way to hurt us.”

You nod. “He had me in a hold and his knife hand free. Could have done anything with it. Let me stab him instead.”

Soap hums. “And, well, there’s a basement. Could have brought us there too, I reckon.”

He glances at the doorway the killer was lingering in when you woke. You get what he’s saying – or not saying, as it were. The two of you are hale and whole only because the killer decided to make it so. Because, as all evidence seems to suggest, he wants pets.

“You figure he means it? About… us?” you wonder.

Soap shrugs. “He’s no reason ta lie.”

That’s what you’re worried about.

“News says he’s a sadist,” you point out. “His idea of a pet might be...”

“Aye, but then why do all this?” He gestures to the big soft beds, which you know must have been a bit expensive for their size and comfortability, and the well-made leather collars. You’ve even got a blanket at your feet for the cool air. “Nae, I think even sadists miss a bit ‘o companionship now n’ then.”

You hum. Makes sense, in the part of you that’s seen the worst humanity has to offer and risen up to greet it. You’ve seen plenty of shit, plenty of people, and the things they’re capable of. But even “monsters” go home to family, to hobbies, to entirely wholesome things that they enjoy just because.

That’s the hard part about war. Seeing the most depraved and evil examples of humanity and reconciling that they have qualities one can recognize in themselves.

“The plan, then?”

“Say we go along with it for now,” Soap says, shrugging. “Not like we could get free as we are anyway.”

You hum in agreement. The chain is clipped to the wall anchor by a thick padlock, and feeling at the collar earlier, you know it’s the same on the other side. The collar itself is too high-quality to come apart without something sharp. So you’re stuck. Even if you did will a lockpick into existence, you’ve no intel on the rest of the house or even where you’d go from the house.

“But listen, Kit, I’m no’ gonnae let anything happen to you. If this gets violent, I’ll tear the walls apart with my hands if I hafta.”

You smile, wish suddenly and fiercely that you could hug him. He looks like he could use it; god knows you could.

“I know, John,” you soothe. “I will too.”

He nods, jaw twitching, then sighs and sits back again. The two of you sit in silence for a few moments, digesting the plan. You take an actual look at the room you’re in – a den, it seems like. A fireplace in one corner, a decent sized couch to your left. Beyond it, you can see a clean and modern kitchen. There’s a coffee table, end tables, lamps, a goddamn rug. It’s downright cozy; like something out of a magazine.

“Nice voice, though, aye?” Soap chirps suddenly, snapping your gaze back to him.

“Soap.”

“Och, don’t ‘Soap’ me,” he grumbles. “You look me in the eye and tell me tha’s no’ a voice made fer sex.”

And damn him, you can’t.

“Can’t say I was thinking about his voice when he was waving a big knife at me.”

“He can wave his big knife at—”

“I’m gonna kill you myself—” You snarl, balling up your blanket and chucking at his stupid, wiggling eyebrows.

“Oi, you two,” aforementioned sexy voice chastises from the hallway.

You wrinkle your nose as Soap grins at you, a shadow in the corner of your vision as the killer comes into the room again. He brings a cloud of clean water and bergamot. He smells good.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you hiss, dismayed.

“Problem?” the killer asks.

He’s got the mask on again (or still? You hope he doesn’t shower with it on, that’s unsanitary) but you can hear him arching an eyebrow. Stubbornly, you turn away to glare at Soap some more. It’s obvious he realizes what you’re referring to from the way he smothers a snicker, though.

Shithead.

You don’t get away with it for long before a hand is pulling your jaw up. Rough only because you resist for the briefest fraction. Once he’s got your face where he wants it, though, your captor’s grip isn’t painfully tight.

“When I ask you a question, I expect an answer, kitten. Understood?”

Your hand twitches to grab at the hold but remember what he said about touching without permission. Stubborn as you may be, you’re not actively trying to incite violence against you or Soap. The plan is to go along with… whatever this is. So you swallow a bit of your pride.

“Understood.”

He hums like that’s not quite the answer he wanted, but it’s acceptable for now.

“Now, is there a problem?” he asks again.

“Apart from the kidnapping?” you snip. “Everything is right as rain.”

He snorts, smooths his thumb over your chin, slow and dangerous. You go still, refuse to falter but careful not to provoke further.

“You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?” he muses almost to himself.

“Must have expected it,” you reason honestly, “know you watched us for a few days.”

He tilts his head, eyes eerily unblinking within the unholy shadows of the skull. “Longer’n that, pretty thing.”

You open your mouth but don’t know what to say. Longer than the days at the cabin? How long? And how did you and Soap not notice?

Your spiraling thoughts are interrupted by fabric gliding over your bottom lip. His thumb threatening to slip past. You snap your jaw closed, nearly catch the tip of his finger in your teeth. He chuckles and finally releases you, making for the nearby couch.

He settles in with sigh and flicks on the TV. There on the screen is a flashing headline:

Another Ghost Victim Found.

Masterlist

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #dark fic #serial killer ghost #serial killer au #scottish cabin in the woods #scitw

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