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syluses · 17 days ago

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HEART WANTS WHAT IT WANTS

𓍯𓂃 PART TWO (2) of the stepdad! sylus x reader series

(2) THE DEATH OF PEACE OF MIND

𓍯𓂃 CONTENT: stepdad! sylus therefore step/pseudocest, eventual smut, nsfw, dubcon, slowburn, yandere undertones, all characters are 18+ (mc is presently 23; sylus is in early forties), possessive & yandere behaviors, age difference, daddy kink, unreliable narrator, drinking, non-evol au, modern au, lowkey enemies to lovers, lots of (sexual) tension, loss of virginity, emotional breakdowns, some angst, some fluff, a lil bit of everything; tags will be added as story progresses— but know the story is relatively triggering

𓍯𓂃 SIDENOTE: ayyy finally got chapter 2 out ✨ apologies for the wait!! but i hope u enjoy this one my friends :] 💕 also sorry for any typos PLEASE overlook them i beg :,) i hate the edit/revise process it took SO long but i hope my sleep-addled brain did me decent as i went thru to correct stuff. oh also i made a teeny mistake in part one, but i fixed it and its very inconsequential (used wrong number: 6 changed to 7). but anyway just letting u know if ur very observant & noticed a difference lol!! [art credit: @/chimmyming on twitter/X]

It’s hard to be secretive, tiptoeing down the hallway toward the stairs, when halfway through it opens up into the living room’s overhang.

If someone were sitting on the couch, and they heard so much as a creak from above, all it’d take is a glance thrown over their shoulder to spot you with a hand hesitantly placed on the banister, leery of stepping down to the first floor.

Nervewracking.

Perhaps it’s a bit dramatic to compare it to walking into the lion’s den- but you’re not the most talkative of persons, especially not with him, and it does seem daunting in your head to be cornered into conversation. Like prey meeting predator. Small meeting big. One delicate discussion could do you in, but you won’t bet on your demise being brought along so… easily.

To your immense relief, when you you peek around the stone column and survey the area below (mainly the L-shaped sofa, facing the massive wall-mounted TV above the fireplace), you find it empty.

At that, you let out a quiet breath. Some of your courage returns.

If you had spotted the twins, it would’ve been manageable, more so than if it was their dad, anyway.

It was only an hour ago (well, an hour and ten minutes, but you hope they won’t hold that against you— and considering all their tardy slips in highschool, they wouldn’t have the right) that you’d held conversation with them, and it went alright.

It’s a bit harder for you to admit that it was actually pretty nice to see them again.

Cathartic, even.

There’s a part of you that’s vulnerable and girlish- carefully stowed beneath the tough skin you lay on in front of most of everyone else- locked somewhere safe- and yes, it did miss them.

But you’re meant to dislike the three of them. Your meddling stepfamily who slipped into the cracks of your home, your mother’s heart, no different than an invasive species would. Stuck a foot into the door of your life and pressed until the hinge gave.

Once, it was easy. As effortless as breathing.

You didn’t have to think about it, or deliberate on it, or make all the justifications in your head- no, you hated them and that was it.

That feeling was meant to be final. Set in stone.

You thought it was.

For a time you even likened Sylus to Cinderella’s evil stepmother and his two conniving sons to the insufferable stepsisters. Oh, it’s childish, you know; looking back on those moments, you don’t know whether you want to hug the teenage girl you’d been or laugh in the face of her.

As it stands, though, Anastasia and Drizella aren’t half the monsters you’d once liked to believe. Awfully enough, you’ve warmed up to them, maybe even came to love them.

You’re stubborn, not stupid: Luke and Kieran have a special place in your heart and you recognize that.

You’re sure that they do, too. It’s what makes them bolder during every confrontation; brings out the smiles where they once paled. Scared you’d yell or shriek for your mom to just—

Get these two idiots out of my room!

That was then, though.

Things are different now. Changed.

…The ‘Lady Tremaine’ in this picture is still a work in progress. If you’re being honest, you wouldn’t be too terribly upset if it stayed that way—

No. But no, because…

Your mother would’ve been happy if you got along with him. Made amends. It’s a truth as sour as it is undebatable.

“Baby, please- he’s a good man, really. Can you just try, for me? I know you miss your dad, I know you do, I do, too-“

‘Does she?’ To save your hide, you bite that remark down, but listen on just as grumpily.

“-but I think that this can be a good thing if you just-“

Her words echo in the walls of your head. Plangent, bouncing. Like a gunshot ringing out through a canyon, it’s still loud in your conscience, even more so now that she won’t be around to nag you on the matter any further.

—“Smiled.”

If you don’t like Sylus, you’re the bad guy, right? And damn it all if that doesn’t dredge up an ounce of bitterness in you, but—

…For the sake of this trip, for the sake of her no longer being here (and oh, what you wouldn’t give so she could be here), you’ll do your best to swallow down your misgivings about your stepfather.

And you’ll be good.

Two weeks.

Reminding yourself of that for what must be the millionth time, you push off the truffle-wrap pillar to continue into the lofty hall. Starting down the wide, marble staircase in silence.

You’re not so sure where their father is. You definitely have your guesses— A fancy-shmancy meeting or outing that’s called him outside of the estate, or perhaps he’s simply in his study working, running an errand— All of which you hope are correct for the sake of avoiding him.

This late lunch of yours and the twins’ should be just that.

Yours and the twins’.

✦

The further you press into the first floor, the more you smell whatever the private chef is cooking.

Delicious, whatever it is. And no surprise there- the man who hired him demands only the best of the best. He’ll brook nothing less.

As you get closer, the aromas (some too faint to label, others almost dominating your senses: garlic, a pinch of ginger, the mouthwatering scent of meat) blend into a savory potpourri. A cohesive, expertly-made dish, you’re sure.

It’s true that in the past five years since your moving out that your visits have become more sporadic, far and few in between, but meals gathered around a tabletop brimming with tasty sides and entrées will always be a distinct memory you hold of this place.

I mean, you were all but forced by your mother to endure them. Thus, dinner became a special time for you and your stepfamily to bond.

Even Sylus, the endlessly busy CEO of some lucrative company you pretend not to know the name of, made room within his schedule where he could.

However, bonding is not what generally happened.

Teenage you always thought those dinners were stupid. Awkward at the best of times. Smiles too tight to be polite, hands passing around bowls you’d stick your nose up to. Not out of disgust, no, the platters never failed to make you drool- but because you’d take your dad’s homemade roast chicken over your stepfather’s insincere, gourmet trays any day of the week.

To be honest? you’d been mean to them, you’ll admit that much. Cruel even. A big brat with an even bigger bone to pick. You and your family didn’t come from rags, but your origins were infinitely more humble than the twin’s, than what Sylus had— yet you were prissy and rude in a way that they somehow weren’t... Presumptuous.

So upset with the new arrangement you couldn’t think straight.

“Y/n, pick up the fork for God’s sake- can’t you see your father went through all this just to have a meal with us tonight?”

Placatingly, “Honey. It’s alright.”

It’s not quite a snarl that you throw her way, but it’s close. With no one here to spank you, you’re allowed to mouth off a little, be unruly. No one’s here to stop you— your mother’s never had the arm for the paddle and regardless of that, she clearly shouldn’t be responsible over you if she can’t even make good decisions for herself.

To date, her worst decision yet is bringing that asshole around…

Pointedly ignoring the attention that’s gravitated to you, you scowl.

Maybe you are pushing the part of brat a touch too far- a shock, taking your past obedience into play- but how else will you get her to see you? Your hurt? I mean, the twins misbehave endlessly at school and at best, they get a slap on the wrist, no doubt because of their mogul of a father, but you don’t miss the laughs or rueful glances tossed their way.

The positive feedback.

“…Father?” You snip, eyes laser-focused on the woman at the far end of the table. The twins juggle between watching you and their dad with bated breath, half grinning in mischievous delight.

For several moments, the latter doesn’t move.

Sure enough, though, that cardinal gaze finds its roost on you. Not that you’re paying it any mind.

The air shifts when you open your mouth again, rising from the table with a start. The finely-placed cutlery jumps as you do.

“I don’t care if you’ve married him, made him your ‘quote on quote’ husband, that’s not my father and never will be. And these stupid boys that trail me all damn day long aren’t my family, either!”

“Whoa-ho! We caught a stray, bro!”

A beat of stunned silence.

Galileo crosses your mind; mainly what he did when the spotlight fell to him. The point is that there’s still time to recant, the rational part of your brain whispers. To backtrack.

Your cheeks warm. Heart pounding in your chest at the embarrassment of voicing your emotions, making a literal stand. But you can’t stop now. It’s too late to.

“A-And…” A tremble. You’re- You’re trembling, comes the small revelation. Ignoring it, you barely repress a wince, standing there uncertainly.

Finally, your mother- finding her bearings- angrily sputters out your government name.

You almost cow to it.

But you can’t be weak, not now, not in front of them, and-

In a frantic moment, your eyes dart over opposite the table to collide with his, your voice shaking wildly as the twins, at either side of you, snicker.

You swallow down the dregs of your self-consciousness to uncivilly pick up your fork and wave it at him.

“And you! Don’t even get me started on how awful you are! What you’ve done to me!”

All along you’ve done your damnedest to ignore him, only adding in your two cents where it was absolutely necessary. The last month or two you’ve spent under the same roof as him has been nothing less than an excellent demonstration of the cold shoulder on your part. You want the credit for that.

So when you point a literal finger, staring him down like you would prey through a muzzle and furrow your brow as unbidden tears wet your lash-line, his eyes actually double in size. Your stepfather, having forgotten to breathe by the looks of it (albeit, you have too), straightens by a fraction.

Good. That’s...

That’s good, you think.

Something in the back of your mind says ‘heel,’ says ‘don’t poke the bear,’ warns in every possible language you can think of that this is NOT a good idea. He’s rich enough to fill whole swimming pools with cash and powerful enough to move people like chess pieces— probably nudge them out of the game and off the board, too.

But he’ll never be the man of your house. You won’t allow it. So call it sheer stupidity on your end or just a death wish but—

“Y-You’ve stolen everything from me!”

On your right, Luke blinks with hesitant awe, his amusement petering out. Kieran’s jaw shuts. The foot he’d been kicking you with under the table draws away from yours. He exchanges a brief, suddenly sobered look with his brother as everything you’ve been holding back on these past several weeks looses to the surface.

“Y/n-!”

“You took it all! My mother, my dad’s honor, even my fucking house-!”

For the second time, your government name flies across the panel of demurred faces, but you’ve reached your melting point. The watershed where fear and politeness, all the conventional little things you’re supposed to respect and operate by, warps into hot unbridled anger.

This is a cut that originated from your father’s death, one exacerbated awfully by Sylus and his two sly, obnoxious sons- so you think it’s due time to let it bleed.

Bleed, it does.

But then- “You ruined my life, you-“

A breath. Stuttering and shallow and tender. It’s horrifying to realize it came from you.

“Y-You….”

Through the blur is a low, gentle murmur.

Rich and thick. You think even if your ears ceased to work, something in your chest could still recognize it; the bass moves through your ribs and rattles them.

In your periphery, for as fogged as it’s become what with the tears that suddenly speckle the room- the ones you vaguely acknowledge but do all you can to hold, even if just for a few more moments- the silver-haired man sets down his utensil. Nonchalant per usual. With unrivaled class.

It pisses you off.

Without looking at your frazzled mother, he raises a hand to calm her. “Shh, it’s alright, it’s alright. Let her speak.”

Speak…?

Oh- Is that what he fucking thinks this is? That you’ve stood, clinking the side of your glass with a spoon to humbly direct the diners’ attention from the plates spread tastefully before them to you as you prepare a fancy speech of sorts-?

This isn’t an announcement you’re making. This is not even a conversation. It’s just-

It’s just-

The epiphany that every set of eyes is on you including the chef’s (still tucked in the kitchen, as poor as any man could be as he hurriedly cleans up)— and that you are being treated no different than a dangerous animal that needs patience and slow movement to be handled, corralled back into a fucking cage—

It’s so infuriating you go quiet.

Your brain reaches a lapse and you shut up. Lips flattening into a pursed line immediately, you ball your fists and scamper back off to where it’s safest.

Your room.

“Sis, wait, Kieran said he’s sorry for kicking you under the table-“

You’d ignored it all and then you’d cried.

“Kieran,” an unexpected growl. “A word.”

…You suppose time has a funny way of soothing, though, because right now when you recollect the moment, you find the humor in it and scoff quietly.

“Dad, wait, I-I was just kidding around with her!”

Yeah okay, it was a bit embarrassing- you were a bit embarrassing- but you won’t hold that against sixteen year old you. She knew fuck all else how to navigate.

The big house is familiar and airy as you walk through the lower floor, as quiet as you left it.

Even if you’d forgotten the layout, whatever fragrance wafting from the kitchen would be enough to guide you there.

You wonder if it’s some kind of stirfry. A far cry from the humble PB&J’s you’ve been making yourself at home with chips sometimes as a side, but your tummy growls for it all the same.

You haven’t ate since sometime yesterday. As your tongue wets itself in anticipation, you’re made very aware of that now.

You spot the rice cooker on the side counter when you finally walk in and the blurred figures of the twins as they turn to look at you.

Luke, perched on a bar stool to eagerly watch the chef work his magic, hops off just to pull out another one at its right. The look in his eye, glittering, full of anticipation, tells you verbatim to ‘sit right here’. You don’t bother protesting- you’re already some minutes late after all- and climb up onto the seat between them.

Kieran, at your left, scoots closer to sling his arm over your shoulder. You let it happen with a small wince. The chair supporting the other twin gives a short screech when he, too, inches closer to fold his arms on the counter, lean his head on them, and angle his cheek to look at you.

“So, sis, how do you like Linkon so far?”

Not paying them much attention, you quirk an eyebrow.

Between watching the chef as he deftly tosses the pan back and forth (broccoli, you see now, with meat cubes he folds in) and glancing at the archways connecting the rest of the house into the kitchen- eyes peeled for someone- the twins are not your priority right now.

At the top, that list looks something like this: Eat a nice midday meal without any incident involving their dad.

“I’ve lived in Linkon almost all my life, don’t act like this is my first time here,” you poke back, albeit in a somewhat hushed tone. The walls might as well have ears.

Kieran reaches out to run an idle finger down the jut of your shoulder, his chin lazily propped up by his hand.

He looks at you.

“Sis, do you even realize for how long you were gone?”

His voice is light. Conversational. You’re not so deluded, though, by their indifferent, laidback act. You’ve known them not for a decade but not far off from that either, and you’ve learned to catch the whiff of trouble in the air before it blows its wind your way.

When you finally throw them each a gander, hesitantly prying your gaze from the open entries, the delight masked behind each placid set of eyes is absolutely there— just hiding well.

They’re getting much more amusement out of this than they’re letting on.

You’ll give them credit here: they’ve gotten better at pretending they’re not up to no good,… but there’s no bamboozling you.

You think about it for a few seconds before quipping back. “Almost seven months,… right?”

“Right,” Luke chirps beside you, “Seven whole months!” You turn your head to focus on him now.

(Ah, that’s right- you inwardly alert yourself upon notice- no matter who you’re facing, the other will inevitably be in your blindspot… Have to keep on your toes these upcoming weeks if you don’t want them pulling a trick on you.)

He pouts his lips, ever dramatic, to play up the kicked expression and make it all the more impactful as they guilt trip you. “Seven whole months where Kieran and I were left alllllll on our lonesome. Left to fend for ourselves.”

“Oh, you big babies.” With a huff, half-smiling, you lean out to flick his forehead. His hood slips off when he tries to nod away from your attack, laughing softly as wild, red tufts come loose.

“You’re plenty old enough now to care for yourselves. You can’t always rely on me for everything. Besides,” you start, thoughtful, and this is when your already quiet voice slinks into a whisper, one the boys draw in to hear.

Luke’s attention drifting past your shoulder, “you already have the big boss man covering your asses in every sense of the word.”

From the archway, a sonorous voice rings out.

“She’s right, you know.”

You and Kieran snap your heads over to look. The chef (and you don’t why you’re suddenly staring at him, or the ground, for that matter, nervous) gives a little glance his way, dipping his chin respectfully, but doesn’t note him beyond that. A big grin blooms across the lower half of Luke’s face. You’d smack it off if you could.

Beside you, Kieran suddenly lets out a chuckle, both of the twins once more very interested in you- particularly the reaction you’re trying to hide- as you swallow and look away.

Under the broad arch, their stepfather adjusts his sleeves before casually propping himself against the wall, arms folded.

You risk a glance over and instantly regret it when you catch his eyes on yours, a brow quirked teasingly.

…Directed at the boys, you realize when he speaks again. Of course. “You two lean on your sister far too much, don’t you think? I’d say you’re lucky she’s been so patient with you both.”

A huff from one of them. But they’re so similar it might as well come from the other. “Hah, I have the patience of a saint, especially when it comes to her! Don’t forget, dad, how long it took for me to get her to even talk to me-“

Frowning, you open your mouth to argue against that, to defend your past-self’s choices (because she had every reason to ignore the obnoxious pair), but to your suprise Luke beats you to the punch.

“Bro, you have to admit,” he starts with a sheepish laugh, “we were kind of annoying kids… I mean, we were pretty much always trying to find a new way to bother her…”

Curtly, you close your mouth. That deep, rumbling voice sounds out again- light in tone- and your heart skips a beat.

“Honesty’s not a bad start... Kieran, you might benefit from taking notes from your brother.”

“Eh…”

From behind the island, tucked in front of the stove- you swear you hear the cuisiner chuckle.

The pan sizzles. Your mouth waters and you’re reminded of how hungry you are, but the longer the silver-haired man lingers in the entryway the more you’re afraid he’s there to stay.

It was supposed to be just the three of you eating together. Not- Not him. And yeah, sure, this is his house at the end of the day— you wouldn’t be you if you weren’t already painfully aware of that- a fact that’s more obvious than ever now that your only real tether to this place, your mother, is gone— but why did he have to show up now of all times?

As every gripe starts to form in your head-

Two weeks. And then, and then it’ll be over for the last time.

-you silence them.

A moment passes and Luke, still studying you with the ghost of a grin, asks what you all really want to know.

“So, dad, are you staying for lunch?”

A beat. You furtively glance up in time to watch him check his expensive wristwatch, his brow furrowed.

“Lunch, you say?” He chuckles, ruby-red eyes practically sparkling when he lifts his chin, one corner of his mouth curved- though you can tell he’s trying to mask it. “And I guess this is the early bird special?”

“Sleepyhead Y/n here rolled out of bed late.”

You huff, crossing your arms, distracting yourself with the busy chef. “And these two all but barged in while I was still busy unpacking.”

Like clockwork, much of the mirth in his expression wanes. He frowns expectantly, voice neither stern nor flat but something in between. “Boys. What did I tell you about not pestering our guest while she’s still here?”

Luke and Kieran snicker. You bite down on a grin.

“Yeah, boys,” you murmur to be annoying, just loud enough for them to hear. That’s the hope, at least.

Sylus’s little smirk returns with a vengeance. He refolds his arms, adjusting.

“…Anyway, though. I can’t stay. I have a meeting I need to sit in at the main office, unfortunately. I would’ve…” A raking of his eyes between the three of you, interested, and a brief pause, “Enjoyed that, though.”

He hums, saying more to himself now than to any of you, “another time.”

For a number of moments, the air seems oddly tense. A miasma of something unsaid hangs between the four of you, thickening the air between, and in the split second before someone breaks the silence, you’re struggling to pinpoint the root cause.

It’s just the ice from last night, you decide quietly, the bits of it that didn’t break. The friction left over.

You’re still settling in, after all.

…And yet when his gaze finds yours again, something not to be uttered in it as cherry hues zero in on you, his lashes fluttering ever so slightly—

The pulse in your chest trips and picks itself back up again.

You blink, looking down to his chest. When your stare sweeps up again to his face, almost hesitant to find what may be waiting there, he’s addressing the twins and it’s already gone.

“Well. I’m out, then. Boys: don’t drive your sister crazy. And… Kitten…”

Your brow pinches unwittingly. There, again, is that strange yet patient twinkle in his eye and it steals all the breath from your lungs in one fell swoop.

Either side of you, Luke and Kieran trade off between appearing uncertain and then appearing just as eager. Behind the steaming stove, even the chef, cottoning onto the shift in atmosphere, tosses the briefest of looks over his shoulder to assess the situation.

You nervously wet your lip. “Y-Yeah?”

Promptly, your stepfather’s countenance smooths out into an easy, pellucid smile. A whit challenging; a whit encouraging— but not at all reluctant, no, the mite of intimidation in his gaze is a simple result of your clouded thinking these past few days. Nothing more.

“Don’t pull your punches if they do.”

A swallow. “Alright.”

The twins, no different than conspiring, bothersome little rats, slap a hand over their mouths to hide a laugh, and then their dad is skimming between all three of you in your row at the counter. Albeit, his tone is too gentle for them—

“Call if you need something,” he suggests.

And then he’s gone.

A tumbleweed blows through. Kieran turns to you afterward, Luke’s hand idly dangling off your shoulder, the pair far too comfortable with taking up your space- but for now, obedient enough.

“Well, chef, how’s it looking?”

Lunch is served on a silver platter.

Swallowing down your reservations, your typical discomfort with their casual, sumptuous lifestyle, you fold to your hunger and dig in.

Kieran, ever the pest, laughs when you finish before them, shoveling a share of his saucy broccoli onto your plate. His grin is shit-eating, but you can appreciate the generosity laced under his teasing remark for what it is.

“Wow, someone’s hungry, huh? Bet you’re wishing you ate during your flight!”

✦

In the hours after, you trampoline between idling through the massive home, revisiting various memories you hold of each room and long corridor, and sitting down with a hand over your full belly. Thinking.

Maybe all the reflection isn’t for the better, though, as much as you try to keep optimistic by playing dumb to your circumstances.

You don’t blame the boys for being so energetic, even amidst the doom and gloom that’s reared its head in just the past few days— it’s a lot to handle, everything with your mother, sure it is, but they’re known for their mischief, for being nothing but happy-go-lucky. Besides… sometimes grief manifests itself in strange ways. Whether it be through inconvenient fits of laughter or a stone-faced apathy, it’s all of the same brood: an interesting yet no less instinctual coping mechanism.

Considering you’ve been forcefully naive surrounding your reasons for being flown out, you know plenty about those mechanisms yourself.

It’s not impossible that they’re mourning her in their own way, the twins. Behind all the admittedly strange, insouciant remarks and the carelessness around such a delicate situation- tasteless at the best of times- you think you see it, the cracks.

The fleeting blips of unease in Luke’s eyes. The moments where the room goes quiet after a good joke makes its round through and he has to blink something away from his conscience. Or the gelidity of his brother, for that matter. The wide-eyed stare into nothingness before he, too, shakes it away like whatever it is is no more than an intrusive thought to be tossed aside and disregarded.

Not to mention they’re gentler with you. More… chivalrous, almost.

Exhibit A:

The boys approach you closer to sunset in your bedroom, their polite, small smiles and knocks before coming in pleasant surprises each.

Perched on your bedroom’s dormer window, you boredly flip through a book you’ve read at least thrice as they ask if you’ve found a dress yet for the funeral, as respectful as they ever could be.

On cue, your world weathers at the edges. Like paper thinning through after its corner is put to a lighter.

Right, right. A dress. The- The funeral….

You’ve not even been in the Qin estate for 24 hours but you’re already letting these things- these very paramount things- slip from your mind. They should be in the forefront of it, but the more you dwell on them (your priorities: using these two weeks to prepare for the ceremony, finding suitable attire, hopefully going through her belongings once you’re ready enough), the more it hurts, so you just shut it out.

See, all of this— the dreadful knowing that your veritable mother is gone and in terms of blood and bone family, you’re now left utterly alone (that maybe if you’d just- fucking hung around a bit more you somehow could’ve reversed her fate)— has obviously affected you as much as it has your stepfamily if not more- considering they were the ones who found her and all. But the twins, and even their father, are demonstrating a master class in composure, and you don’t know whether to find gratitude in their lack of flying off the handle (in this hell, someone needs to remain coolheaded) or be offended by it.

It almost feels like she was never here.

Like nothing went wrong... But you can’t really blame them for their cool and collected behaviors, because you’re putting up a strong front yourself.

Maybe your mother wasn’t the twins’ given at birth, sure... But they operated as a true family. Even when you were bitter and stuck-up and rude, the four of them were tight-knit, so much so that eventually you felt like the fucking interloper in it all, the outlying number in the equation.

So you quietly understand that there’s hurt involved on their side around her death- whether they’re being loud about it or not- and choose not to tally it against them.

…Perhaps, you think, it’s high time for you to retire your childhood grudges, anyway.

You close the book, smoothing over the cover.

If the five-second rule applies— you use four and a half to pick up your pieces off the floor and formulate a reply, not hiding how crestfallen you are.

“No. I… I haven’t even went shopping yet. I mean, I figured-“

A thick swallow on your end- and an exhale that sounds more like the stirrings of a panic attack and the boys are at your side in a moment. Their softer facets coming through as they join you on the loft window.

Luke takes the worn stuffed animal he almost crushes, dutifully ignoring its matted fur, and places it in your lap to distract you as you struggle to articulate your emotions. Kieran does his best to not scrutinize you too much, knowing you typically don’t like the attention, while you fidget with the plushie and give them an odd show of vulnerability.

I mean, fuck it. They see you as their sister, and you’re tired of pretending to be too tough to rely on them as your brothers, so—

“I- I figured we had two whole weeks, you know? And… And that’s plenty of time to just get a dress later. Have- Have you two gotten everything ready for it?”

“Yeah,” Luke murmurs back, taking your hand in his to swallow it up in warmth. It surprises you but you don’t make a comment. As if wanting to be included as well, or maybe he’s just mad his brother beat him to the punch, Kieran quietly nudges the plushie from your other hand and intwines his fingers with yours.

Your cheeks warm.

Your heart, ricocheting in your chest, whispers something you don’t quite catch as one of them sluggishly props his chin on your shoulder, mumbling a hey, it’s alright as you furiously blink, and you’re inundated with a foreign sense of- of—

Security? …Is that it?

“We went with dad yesterday to buy the suits.”

“Before he picked you up at the airport,” Luke clarifies in a light tone.

At your back, the sun glares over a chilly courtyard, lighting the fountain and iron-wrought gates with liquid, reflective gold. It only makes the near identical visages either side of you look all the more daring and impish— boyishly handsome— as dusk washes its hues over the three of you.

It’s just a little jarring.

A set of knuckles, almost experimentally, caresses your toasty cheek.

…For perhaps the first documented time in history, you don’t bite.

“We can take you, if you want? There’s a place in town that can tailor something perfectly for you. We can go tonight to get your measurements, sis, what do you think? Just get it done?”

It’s… not a bad idea. Far from it, actually.

You’d be able to quiet the restless part of your mind. Accomplish this seemingly easy task that’s become gargantuan in your head all within the span of just one night. To top it all off, it’d be with the added bonus of the twins’ brotherly support.

“A-Actually,” you start, lifting your chin to look at Luke, and then Kieran, voice thin, “I was, um, wondering if you two could take me somewhere else.”

They wait, owlish.

You meekly continue, “I’ve already read all the books I have here. I was thinking if you could drive me to that store downtown, just so I can pick up a few. Something to, um, fill in the time while I’m here, you know?“

Kieran blinks at you, dark eyes examining your face carefully, like he’s taking it in in a new light. You’re sure they don’t know what to make of you right now: for most if not all of your teen years, you played the part of distant stepsister very well, never wore your emotions on your sleeve and hesitated to be open with any of the members of your stepfamily.

Perhaps they think you’re taking a page from their book— setting them up for some grandiose joke so you can cackle in their faces.

Luke, smiling faintly, nudges your shoulder with his and leans in. “Sure, sis. Me and Kieran will take you. I guess you haven’t changed too much while you’ve been gone, huh? You’re still a big bookworm.”

“A big nerd.”

“Alright, you two,” you chuckle lightly, jabbing them both playfully- to which they both offer up a fake, dramatic grunt of pain to- before wiping the tear that almost beads at your eye. You hope they don’t notice. But if they do, they don’t make any sly remark about it. For that you’re thankful.

It seems you’ve all matured quite a bit since pre-adulthood, but it’s somehow more obvious this time around.

This visit is different from the last in more ways than one.

Looking between them both, hardly able to hold their respective gazes as your pulse swings in your throat— “Thank you”— you murmur, gentle.

For as embarrassing as it is to be vulnerable, you let yourself be just a little sweet with them... Considering your mother is gone, and the unsteady grounds you stand on with Sylus especially- the veritable owner of this home- you think you’re less of an inhabitant here and more of a… guest.

Once these two weeks are up and the funeral concludes, you’ll be going away again. Probably for the last time. Nothing will call you back.

(You’d been such a brat. What would want to?)

The twins, unable to hide the little, genuine smirks rippling across their faces, regard you inquisitively when something like sadness flashes across your gaze.

You clear your throat. That thought of finally escaping your stepfamily- your stepfather and all he represented- for good shouldn’t make something in your heart tremble. But oh, it does.

Politely, you brush off their hands and rise to your feet. You’re not sure what’s gotten into you, but you plaster on an awkward yet no less friendly smile and cross your arms.

“So, boys? You ready to go now? Or��?”

Kieran, the utter moron he is, comments something about how he was born ready, jumping up, and then they’re ushering you out the door and into the hall, towards the stairs, in a two-person stampede.

✦

You buy a book.

Three, for good measure, each thicker than the one before. Just something to occupy your mind in the windows of silence you’ll no doubt spend idling around the mansion before the ceremony.

On the way back, the sky is black underneath a cladding of clouds. Ash as far as the eye can see. The stars are hiding, but you lean your cheek against the car window and look up as if trying to spot them, anyway.

Lost in your mind, your own musings holding you close as the bag sits atop your lap, you don’t pay much attention to the boys when they ask if you wanna stop somewhere to eat because they’re getting munchy.

Without looking, though, you do tell them ‘no thanks, you’re getting kind of sleepy’ and Kieran makes the turn home— albeit not without a dramatic sigh.

It’s… pleasant though, surprisingly. Being with them.

It’s like luck is finally shuffling over to your side. Like things are finally looking up- no matter how trife or trivial they seem. For as shitty of a week it’s turned out to be, you need all the silver linings you can get. So (although with some reluctance, some… confusion) you’ll count this time with them as a small blessing.

Maybe, just maybe, this impromptu trip to Linkon is finally taking a turn for the better. Maybe each and every one of your efforts to remain patient and open-minded and mature with your stepfamily have actually begun to pay off. Maybe you won’t be tearfully pulling hair from your scalp after all, driven mad.

The twins’ harmless griping is a backdrop you smile at as the gates of the estate come into view through the woody road.

In the warmer seasons, it’s a monolithic modern thing erected atop rolling lawns striped green. As it stands now, though, the courtyard is a dull, frosted sage, quiet and cold. The fountain will need to be turned off soon before everything freezes, before the snow comes. You vaguely wonder if one of the workers or bush trimmers that come along every week or two will remember before Sylus even gives them the order. It’s likely.

A thud. “Are you sure, sis?” Your door closes behind you.

Hand still on the wheel, Kieran waggles his eyebrows as his sibling hollers from the passenger seat, thinking you’ll take his lilts as an invitation to get back into the vehicle.

“I’m sure,” you murmur fondly, actually stopping at the driver’s window for a moment to hear them out. You adjust the plastic bag in your grasp and throw a look down the rest of the driveway, towards the house.

“You want us to bring something back, at least? We found this cool new place that opened up that has the best—“

A chuckle. “I’m alright, really. We had lunch and dinner together, ‘member?” Then, you give your throat a soft, innocuous clear, scuffing your shoes over the pavement. “By the way, uh… Do you think your dad’s home yet?”

With the garage closed, the path empty and only the lights you left on in the house warmly shining through, it’s hard to tell if anybody else has come by.

Kieran actually snickers at your hesitance, the little bastard.

You reach forward to flick his forehead and he reels away with an excited shout. “Calm down, sis, I didn’t even say anything!”

“Yeah, but I see you laughing you dummy-“

“It’s just cute, is all. You’re always so worried about our old man and what he’s up to.”

You huff at that, maybe even visibly fluster. But before you can say anything, hop to your own defense, a puckish voice overlaps yours. “If you were in a cartoon, you’d have steam coming out of your ears right now.”

“Ugh! You two are unbearable-!”

“Hey, Kieran said it, not me-“

“But you thought it, didn’t you? You two share the same handful of braincells after all!!”

They both laugh, more endeared by your insults than offended- much to your dismay- and you put your tongue in your cheek. Your narrowed eyes drift back to the titanic of a home. Maybe it’s your imagination, but you almost swear you see a shadow flutter by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows on the bottom level and—

“Did you see that?” You untuck your arms from their weave at your chest and squint. The boys, still sniggering, follow your gaze. “I think he is home.”

A beat of silence passes.

You turn over. Luke faces ahead in his seat, wetting his lip wordlessly, but Kieran dangles his arm out the side of the fancy, sleek car (that his father surely bought for him as a toy) with his eyes set on you.

Holding your gaze with a shake of his head, his smirk is a tenuous thing, but it’s there. “Nah, I’m pretty sure he’s gone, sis.”

If you ever write a guide on surviving the Qin family, the first page would say: step one, do not believe the twins if they utter anything even a stone’s throw from the two words—

“Don’t worry.”

You frown, uncertain.

He laughs at your pouting. “Kieran- just tell me the truth-“

“I’m serious! He’ll be back later tonight, probably midnight. You know how it is. His schedule is spotty.”

A wind sweeps through and you shiver ever so slightly, clasping either of your arms as you hug them close to your body. Your lips are getting that uncomfortable dry feeling but you know it’ll only worsen if you run your tongue over them. So you don’t.

You eye the lavish, yet unassuming front of the home, ruminating. “Kieran-“

“Now go back in before you catch a cold. Dad will really kill me and Luke if he finds out you were standing out in the dark just to bicker with us.”

“I’m innocent in this,” his brother murmurs before exaggerating a yawn.

You analyze the crafty duo one more time before sensing no dupe on their end and sighing, marching up towards the house.

“Fine,” you call over your shoulder, just a little testy. You don’t want to be fooled, but there isn’t a big reason for them to lie about whether their dad’s returned or not- and even if he did make it back already, it’s no major thorn in your side. There’s a fat chance you’ll just casually, quietly, pass him by as you head to your room- and that’s even if you bump into him in the first place. The place isn’t exactly small or conducive to chance meetings.

“But if you’re lying,” you start, before blushing because you can’t quite think of a good threat. “You’ll- you’ll regret it.”

The engine purrs and the car pulls off- thank God- carrying the harmless yet bothersome mocking words of your stepbrothers with it. “Ohhhh so scary! See you later!”

You cluck your tongue, shaking your head at no annoyance of theirs in particular as you hop up the steps and fish for the key in your pocket.

Giggling under your breath. Idiots.

✦

You’re not giggling when you enter the open foyer, locking the door behind you, and spot a figure in the living room, splayed out on the large L-shaped sofa.

No, you’re not even thinking about the boys anymore, just the dilemma laid out before you as you press your lips together in a thin line and turn your feet into feathers to begin making your way through.

God’s hand must be over your life though, because upon closer, very furtive inspection, tiptoeing towards the archway, he’s…

Asleep.

You let out a soundless sigh of relief at that, shoulders slumping.

…And you should take the opportunity- glad it’s even come to you- and go, you know. It’s as good a moment as any to slip off, undetected, and retreat into the privacy of your bedroom.

It’s all but waiting for you.

What you told the twins was as much of a truth as it was a good excuse— you’re tired and it’s encroaching on that time where you want to plop into bed and curl up under the covers.

Not because it’s past your curfew or anything, no- honestly, you usually have a penchant to stay up late- but because you’re still a little jet-lagged from the flight and you’d prefer to sleep instead of loaf the evening through with the unwanted company of whatever thoughts that might creep in.

You’re not… incredibly close with Sylus. Unbidden feelings of safety and peace in his presence nudged aside, you’re not chummy with the guy and you really have no reason to stick around especially when you’re growing tired but—

Approaching the archway, you slowly reach a hand to rest on it, and you watch.

A half-touched mug of coffee sits on the table before the couch. Strewn beside it is his laptop, mousepad and mouse, and one of those yellow, lined notebooks that you quirk a brow at only because it’s deceptively cheap for a man so expensive.

It’s closer to something your own father- your real, now deceased one- would use to mark out measurements for his woodworking projects, or keep on the fridge under a magnet as a note to himself.

…Huh.

A mite amused by the sight of your generally very awake, proactive stepfather, you fight off a grudging smile- all too entertained by the languid display- and rest your shoulder against the wall.

Dim, golden lights fall over him in a gentle haze, but the shadow cut by his bumped nose is sharp.

You know they’re not related, Sylus and his unruly sons. The twins are splitting images of each other, but they mirror nothing of Sylus’s face— so when you heard the casual murmurs between him and your mother behind closed doors one evening about their ‘adoption’ long ago, you shouldn’t have been surprised. Yet you were.

For as much as you disliked him, it was never because he was a bad father.

The opposite, if you’re completely honest.

He’s always been good to the boys. Nothing short of nurturing (in his own indirect way, of course), paternal, and teacherly. Offering a hand of guidance where it was needed but never ironlike or suffocating with how he used it. If anything, he was even a smidgen lax with them- which you’d quietly admire but only in absolute secret.

Every parent has their faults, that’s a given.

Sylus had very little.

A head full of silver (and some grey, albeit it’s hard to notice his age just because he handles it so gracefully, so boldly) tipped against the back of the couch with an arm resting on the side of it- the shaggy throw blanket on his lap with the wintry chill kept in mind— he’s more than just peaceful. He’s…

Domestic. Relaxed.

This is his territory, you’re reminded again.

You’re just passing through it.

A five o’clock shadow dots the slant of his jaw. His lashes don’t even flutter in his sleep; you reckon he’s deep into it. A pen hangs between his fingers, limp.

Interest dashes through you as you quietly observe him.

You’re not… spying, per se, it’s just- You’re just curious, alright? And to be fair, he wouldn’t have any right to call you out on your observation even if he wanted to, because the number of times you’ve felt and ignored his patient, hopeful, or outright (for whatever reason) amazed stare is too high to be logged.

A pair of glasses rests on the tip of his nose, sloping off. There’s no way to tell just when he got home, but it’s obvious he had been hard at work with something on his computer.

Humming thoughtfully, you pull your gaze away before sluggishly pushing off the threshold.

You shake your head at yourself, readjusting your bag as you find the trace of humor in your desultory actions. Why you let your curiosity get the better of you, you don’t know. It’s very possible at this point that something’s possessed you. Either that, or your cold, guarded heart is thawing out at rates National Geographic needs to get an angle on ASAP.

In any case- you really ought to head up for bed now.

Quiet as a mouse, careful lest you wake and alert him to your presence, you pad behind the couch and across the width of the massive living room to the just as opulent stairs.

You look up to them—

Looming. Dark.

In your mind’s eye, so unrealistically steep- so dangerous—

Breath suddenly hitching, you glance down to your feet, planted firmly beneath you- unmoving- and remind yourself of good things. Other, things.

Puppies. Kittens. Rainbows with pots of gold waiting at the other end with leprechauns to greedily guard them- varying flights of fancy.

Awfully enough, in all your attempts to distract and soothe yourself, four portraits pop up into your brain and three of them belong to none other than your stepfamily.

You want to be callous. But it’s not working this time around.

This wound of yours that your mother’s death left behind is too open, too fleshy, for you to pretend that your skin is so hardened.

Reopening your eyes, you swallow down the bad gut feeling that twists like a knife- the inexplicable unease disappearing as quickly as it came- and reach a hand for the railing.

Bed. Bed. Clearly, you need the rest—

“Kitten?”

A groggy voice. That, and a shuffle.

You flip around.

You’re too shocked to even remember you’re meant to dislike him, hand flying over your heart in a trice. “Y-Yeah?”

Your stepfather, looking sideward over the couch at you, blinks away sleep casually.

Oh, God. It’s just him…

“Oh,” he mumbles, “Sorry, Sweetie. I didn’t mean to scare you…” lazily tossing a glance to the unoccupied space around him, even the banister overhead; checking for something, you realize as your heart slowly takes its foot out from your throat.

You sigh out, visibly deflating.

You think you see his gaze drop to the bag in your hand, giving you a once-over, but his ruby eyes are catching the light in a way that makes it near impossible to discern. You can only tell he’s looking at you because he’s facing you.

“Where’s the boys? You left with them, didn’t you?”

Your lashes bounce against your cheekbone, rapid as you collect your bearings. “Oh, they…”

His tone gets a little stern, then, his eyes a little clearer now as he dips his chin and quirks a searching brow. Incredulous, very. “Is… everything alright? They behaved themselves, didn’t they?”

“Yeah, no- the boys were fine,” you shake your head, rubbing nothing from your eye. Fatigue, maybe, as it drapes itself over you. It takes a second for you to remember the events that led you here before opening your mouth to speak on them. “Um, they just wanted to get a snack and I wanted to be dropped off, so…”

He takes a moment to ponder that.

Unconvinced, “But everything went well?” His attention skims over you hastily. You see that, now. The intense glitter in his eye, wholly transfixed, as the dregs of his slumber wear off- however, the gravel in his voice is more stubborn to go.

He sighs, long-suffering. “You can tell me. I won’t let them know it was you.”

You struggle to imagine how that would go, but shake your head in the next moment anyway.

“Really, it was fine. Everything went well.”

“Good.” He hums, then, seemingly satisfied.

He pores over you, curious all over again as a tiny bunch forms between his brow, wrinkling it slightly. “You’re… heading up for the night now, I guess?”

Oh, yes actually, you think to yourself in time with his reminding you of it- but you go to reply and hold off on it when he glances down at what you correctly assume to be his wristwatch, pausing thoughtfully.

“Oh, my. It’s gotten pretty late out now,” he drawls. “Hm. I must’ve drifted off while I was waiting for-”

You quirk a brow. “Ah. Waiting for this spreadsheet to get interesting,” he smoothly chuckles, looking at the screen of his computer and the low battery sign that pops up as a window on it.

Before you can think to respond- “Goodnight then, Kitten,” he lilts as high as his sleep-addled voice will allow, “I’ll see you in the morning. Should I,” a pause again, “wake you for breakfast?”

You swallow, momentarily glancing at the top landing of the stairs. “No thanks.”

“Are you sure?” He breathes.

Persistence is needed in business, you know that; it’s why you don’t hold it against him when his first instinct is to push rather than pull away. His realm is different than yours. And anyway, he’s just being polite— playing the part of the concerned, doting, yet nonetheless hesitant stepfather who is terribly uncertain with how to best handle his grouchy stepdaughter. He does it well.

“You’re not afraid of missing out?”

You offer a mildly amused huff, choosing to indulge him just this once- just for these two weeks. “On my sleep, maybe.”

He chuckles. It’s a full and rich sound. There’ll come a day where Luke and Kieran will coax more of the same out of him, and you’ll give them genuine, congratulatory claps on the back each for the achievement.

For now, though, that feat is yours and yours alone. Not that you’re… exactly proud of it.

“Alright, alright, I get the hint, little miss night owl… I won’t disturb you tomorrow. You have my word.” He smirks just barely. Just safe enough.

“Sleep tight, Sweetie.”

The ice is melting between you both, yes- a phenomenon you both curiously, warily observe— but he will watch his step.

You set your foot on the first stair, “T-Thanks. You too.”

…As will you.

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ruinix · 26 days ago

Note

The think fast I'm a random girl tik tok with Will Smith or Quinn Hughes?

Hello, lovely. With Quinn, yes, yes. (Sorry, I don't write for Will 😞 he's my child). I doomscrolled for this and another challenge in my inbox. I tried, of course. I always do. I hope you’ll like this. My bad for taking so long! You asked this back in April. I hope you’re still there. We thank @mrshelenhoran for sending me the picture on the left (of the banner). It visually screams QUINN—the facial hair, the nose, the plump lower lip.

Outfits & Evasions

TW/CW: 18+, Fluff, lots of kisses, Tiktok Challenge: Think fast, I'm a random girl. Slight suggestive tones.

Count: 1907 words | Masterlist | Taglist

You are blasting songs in your shared walk-in closet. Hearing you sing along in some verses perfectly eases Quinn while he prepares for your date.

He combs through his hair with his fingers. When his hair keeps poking out by his ears in an uncomfortable way, he puts the tiniest bit of hair wax to tame his waves, tucking them behind his ears. After doing his hair, he washes his hand, drying them soon after.

He stares at himself, examining his beard. He runs his hand over it, tilting his head from side to side, his fingers feeling its length along his jaw, his chin. He squints at his moustache which is the same length as his beard. It is more than a stubble now but still tamed in his opinion. He wonders if he should’ve shaved it earlier.

You did tell him that you liked his beard, but that was two days ago. What if you don’t like his beard for your date? What if you prefer him to be clean shaven? Or maybe a shorter beard? Maybe he should trim it. Will you hate him for his facial hair? Why the fuck is he getting antsy right now?

He should stop.

So he does.

Sighing, he exits the bathroom, still hearing you rummage through your things behind the slightly ajar door beyond music. He wants to peek in and ask about his beard, but he also doesn’t want to interrupt whatever you’re doing. He knows that you take your preparations seriously, especially for dates.

However, he is curious if he is matching you. He likes it when his outfit matches yours, or at least, compliments it. He holds himself back because he also wants to be surprised if you are, so he doesn’t peek. Besides, despite being so proud of his fit—a safe combination of white linen-shirt with sleeves rolled up and khaki colored dress pants—he is open to change when he finally sees you. He doesn’t want you to change because of his clothes. He can do it himself. It will take him less than a minute to put on a new outfit. It will be easy. Well, he hopes it will be.

After he put on his dress shoes, ignoring the call of his sneakers, he sits down on the couch, throwing a slight glance to where he hid a bouquet of flowers he got delivered an hour ago. He lets the minutes pass, patiently waiting for you.

He scrolls through the messages from his family and replying to them while ignoring the “important” mails from Canucks management. At some point, he is humming a tune of one of your songs as he goes to Instagram. He instantly goes to your profile, staring hard into your posts like it’s his first time seeing them. He undoes the second button of his shirt after his body heats at the simple sight of your beauty. What can he do? You’re marvelous. While he is a simple man who easily gets turned on by you.

He hears your footsteps, halting his horny thoughts. He looks up, his jaw dropping instantly. You’re wearing a cream-colored dress with light brown ribbons crisscrossing down your sides, cinching the waist before it comes down to a flowy skirt that ends just a couple inches from your knees. Your neckline is low enough to hint your cleavage, giving ample space for your well-coordinated necklaces—some he had gifted you throughout the length of your relationship. You wear a particular flower-shaped earring with tiny diamonds on their centers and a few bracelets. . You looked amazing, so comfortable and pretty.

The shoulder bag that is perfectly the same shade as his pants is brimming with keychain trinkets, loudly blinking against each other. Quinn bets those trinkets weigh heavier than your bag and its contents. He will, for sure, carry it by the end of the night and he won't mind that. He’ll be delighted to carry your stuff for you.

You are matching him. The colors of your outfits fit and compliment one another. It makes him feel giddy, a slight blush coloring the tops of his cheeks the more he looks at you. He wants to say that you’re beautiful, but his words keep getting stuck on his throat as he stares while you set up your phone against the window. He’s utterly mesmerized by the way your skirt moved with your steps. You look ethereal.

"Quinny. Come." You grin, beckoning him with your hand and especially with your sweet smile.

That smile distracts him. He doesn't notice that you have this devious look in your eyes. That your phone is already recording, red circle blinking as time increases. That you are giggling, not just because of him following you without protest, but also because you are clearly concocting something. Quinn usually can see when you are planning something, but not now.

All he can think about is that you are calling him, so he needs to come to you.

He’s so lost in your smile, in the sparkle in your eyes, in you.

"You look handsome," you praise him the moment his hand touches yours.

Now, Quinn is full-on blushing. Your compliments truly hit him down to his core. There was something about compliments when they came from you. They mean so much more, because he knows that you mean your words. You are pure like that. The light of his life.

"You're beautiful," he throws back, grabbing your waist, pulling you flush against him, sighing when you wrap your arms around his nape. It emphasizes how perfectly you fit against him, in his arms. “We match., my Love.”

“Yes,” you murmur.

Quinn gazes at your lips that shine with your tinted lip gloss. He’s getting too focused on them, his mouth watering. His need to kiss you grows by the second, so he does. Just a soft peck. Then another, his tongue darting out to lick your glossed lips, groaning at its taste mixed with you. Again, another, slipping his tongue past your pretty lips, meeting your tongue. Perfect. You taste perfect.

He cups the back of your head. He feels absolutely greedy as he kisses your lip gloss off your lips, as he keeps on deepening the kiss when you want to take pictures with him. He can’t help it. He needs to kiss you. All the time.

"Quinn," you murmur, smiling into the kiss.

You giggle when he groans a whimper, because you’re torturing him now. You pull away just enough to not allow him to slip his tongue into your lips again, to make him be at ease with small desperate kisses. He needs to kiss you as deep, so he tries to beg his way with those kisses, panting as you reciprocate some kisses but not all. His brows furrow together as confusion settles in his gut.

Your hand presses on his chest, pushing him away, so he backs off. Hesitantly. Tears almost burn their way out of his tear ducts. He finally notes the evil glint in your eyes. What the fuck is happening—

"Think fast, I’m a random girl,” you say in a raspy tone that almost draws him in.

No, it does draw him in. He almost kisses you again, your words not sinking into his hazed mind until they do. They sink in a snap. The hair at the back of his nape stands. Sharp shivers ran down his spine as you lean in, luring him in like a siren singing to lure weak-willed men who don’t know they are walking to their deaths.

He instantly recoils from you, instantly six feet away. Maybe even more. Especially when you try to chase after him.

“No,” he grits out.

The word almost doesn’t come out because he never likes saying no to you, but he has to right now, because you’re a…random girl? Honestly, he’s confused as fuck. He only wants to kiss you and you’re not you? This is fucked. He doesn’t like this. Is this a test? He doesn’t like this test.

“Come on, let’s kiss, Quinn.” You manage to grip his arm. Your nails graze his skin. “Just one kiss.”

Quinn nearly folds. How can he not? You are looking at him with such wide eyes. Your touch electrifies his whole body down to his soul. You’re telling him to kiss you, the one thing he wants to do right now. Your tongue licks your lip before you bite down on it. You blink up at him, your hand running up and down his arm. He’s so close to doing what you ask.

Instead, he grips your hand, firmly pushing it away, then he turns away. His heart pounds in his chest from the adrenaline, from the sting of the mere act of putting his back on you. His body tenses. His whole being is protesting. He hates this.

When you try to touch him, he moves away, refusing to look at you directly. He side-eyes you, but even then, he is only looking at your hands to avoid them. He can’t look at your face. He knows he’ll lose it. He tries to be mad at you for trying this test on him, but he can’t. He is only upset that he wants your hands to touch him again. The sound of your giggle is making him cave.

“So this is what you’ll do when you have a persistent girl on you?” You ask, stepping back, holding your hands behind you. “Saying no and not letting them touch you?”

Quinn finally looks at your face. He’s refusing to speak, his lips pursing together. He’s getting annoyed by the distance between you two more than he should be annoyed that you are laughing at him doing his best because this is literally unfair. You are never going to be a random girl. Not when you’re you. He will easily just walk away if there is an actual random girl trying to kiss him. Fuck, he might even just call security, wherever he is. He should say that, but he is really upset that you’re too fucking far.

He knows you can see him being upset, because your laughter dies down, your lips pouting. “It’s a TikTok challenge, you know.”

He grunts, his hands twitching from the need to pull you in his arms.

“Aww, come on, Quinny.” You spread your arms for him to which he squints at. “I’m no longer a random—”

He rushes to you, hugging you tightly.

“Kiss me,” he demands. He melts when you kiss him, appeasing him. Your proximity pushes his upset out of his system. “If you’re going to test me, don’t do it when I’m desperate for you. Is that clear?”

“Okay.” You shiver, nodding, gripping and crumpling his shirt.

Quinn doesn’t care about his fucking shirt. He only cares that he gets his point across. It’s clear that it is. So, he punishes you with a deeper kiss, holding you to him with a hand on your lower back and on your nape.

He doesn’t stop.

He kisses and tastes you for minutes, until he feels you rubbing your legs together, until he hears your tiny whines and moans.

It's his turn to tease you. Not with a challenge. Just with a promise of more.

He stops kissing you, grinning when you groan.

“Time for our date, my Love.”

#sorry for the wrong grammars #no BETA yet #quinn hughes #qh43 #qhughes #quinn hughes x you #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes fic #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes drabble #quinn hughes fluff #ruinix answers #ruinix drabbles #nhl x reader #nhl imagine #sweet #sweet quinn

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pr1nceofg0tham · 7 days ago

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little bird 𖥔 jason loves you, he just can’t say the words…

𖥔 pairing jason todd x gn!reader

𖥔 tw/genre hurt comfort kinda, fluff, est. relationship, sick fic, jason being sweet and self deprecating as per usual, reader is sick and in love, nods to a hallmark movie, inescapable longing and love for jason todd. unedited.

𖥔 w/c 1614

𖥔 a/n this is my first ever jason todd fic!! i've been wanting to start writing for him for a while now, and now that it's summer there is no excuse, i hope you like this fic as much as i liked writing it!

please please tell me how you felt about this one and if you have any ideas for future fics, i'm all ears!!! mwah mwah mwah!!

“I’m sorry you don’t feel good, little bird,” he tells you—voice gruff and unsure in its sweetness.

Jason never feels right giving comfort; more at ease with violence and anger, but you’re too precious for anything but soft words and softer touches. He loves you, that much he’s sure of, but he lacks the confidence.

You’re everything to him, the only thing that matters as much as his rage, and how can that be? You’re nothing but love, nothing but soft smiles and golden hour laughs. He feels as though he’s loved you forever, even though it’s only been a few months–He’s still keeping you hidden away, placed inside his chest cavity and locked up safe from his family… more than a secret, less than a lie.

So far the relationship has been clumsy and quiet; Friday night movies and diner dates–it’s fragile in its newness, but the love is bright. Jason knows he loves you, has told you in his own awkward way, but the words won’t come.

You’ve said them, out loud and honest, yet for some reason he can’t get them out of his mind; they’re in his head, in his hands, even in his eyes, but his tongue is a stubborn bastard. Instead of saying it he ties your shoes for you and makes you breakfast, reminds you to take your meds and drives the speed limit. Every action he takes is in service to you, every time he steps out for patrol it's to make the city safer for you, yet still he can’t get himself to confess.

He wishes he could say it as easy as you do, they way your lips curl around the vowels and snap out the consonants. It’s so simple to you, you love him so you tell him, but Jason is a stranger in the realm of love, and the language still fits clunky in his mouth.

This morning he cursed himself for not being able to say it, it was impossible to see you in your work clothes–done up and lovely–and have to say goodbye. The emotion flooded over him, sweeping him away in a sneaker wave of pure unadulterated poison. He’d been familiar with pain, knew the shape of it in his bones, yet the violence of the moment–of saying goodbye to you when he wasn’t ready–had been horrid. Still the words couldn’t come.

And now you’re here in his apartment, bundled up in his shoddy sheets, sick as a dog and crying about nothing.

You got caught in the rain, (unexpected in the Summer Gotham heat) and you were drenched before you made it around the block. Jason’s apartment was closer, and while it might not have been the best option on account of the broken thermostat and generally bad insulation, the thought of being soaked through and tired was better if your boyfriend was around.

The cold came on fast, hitting you before he was even home from the library, a gnarly inescapable thing that riddled you unable to breathe. Jason found you with a red nose and glassy eyes, and suddenly all of Alfred’s lessons came barreling into focus. Before you could kiss him hello he had you in bed, wrapped in his silken sheets and a thermometer under your tongue. He’d been so sweet, making you soup and turning on the cheesiest movie he could find–one about a young girl moving back home and falling in love with a cowboy or something.

You love him so much, this sweet man… You know it’s hard for him– to show affection without worrying it will be used against him or torn away–but still he tries, venturing into life with you with the bravery of a wounded soldier. Seeing him fuss over you… the way he pouts as he brings his lips to your forehead to feel if you have a fever, and his bright smile when he discovers you don’t… You love him, maybe that’s what brings the tears–the fact that you love this sweet boy, and he loves you even if he can’t say it.

“Are you sure you’re okay? Why are you crying?”

“I don’t know, Jay,” you tell him, “I think I just love you, y’know”

“And that’s making you this sad?!” He doesn’t understand… Love’s supposed to be transcendent and happy, at least that's what people say. Yet, if you’re this sad when you think of him, he must be doing something wrong… He remembers that poisonous feeling of saying goodbye to you, is that what love is? Poison and tears and insecurity?

He thinks back to the first time he saw you: frostbitten and chilly from the winter air, you looked a little like you do now–red nosed and shivering–he fell into love like a skydive, terrified and gasping, but there you were: lovely and honest and everything he never knew he needed. He feels like that now, adrenaline filled and anxious. He just wants you to be okay, it kills him that you’re sick, that you’re crying over him instead of eating your soup.

“No, baby, it’s making me happy…” you say, laughing through your gasping sobs. “I mean look at you, you’re so handsome and you’re taking care of me.”

Jason laughs, sighing out a great gasp of relief. All he ever wants is to take care of you, to make sure you’re safe and happy. Still crying, you let him lead the spoon into your mouth, swallowing the broth slowly so as to not choke through your tears. He’s as patient as ever, using your hand to shovel more onto your utensil, feeding you bite after bite until the bowl is clean.

You know he loves you.

You can see it in how he looks at you, how his calloused hands graze softly against your skin, and the way his voice never raises. You know he loves you, and truthfully you don’t need him to say the words, just as long as he continues looking at you the way he is now–like you’re some lost treasure he just happened across. You hope he won’t be scared to say the words forever, but if he is you’ll take the looks and the soft touches… you’ll love him forever if it means he keeps looking at you the way he is now.

“You sure, sweetheart?” He asks, still a little nervous. “I don’t want you to be lying to me just cause I’m tender hearted” The quick of his brow makes you giggle, nuzzling closer to the hand that wipes away your tears.

“Of course, honey, I would never lie to you.” You tell him, and you mean it as sure as sunrise.

His heart swells, stuttering in his chest as he watches your crumpled form, God he loves you. As if to prove it, he moves closer–moving your empty bowl to the side table and wrapping you in his arms. You’re close enough you can hear his heart, the familiar song lulling you with its quick rhythm. Jason feels bad, but he loves you like this: sweet and helpless, finding comfort in his hold when you could find it anywhere else.

For a while you just lay there, chest to chest, neither of you truly paying attention to the movie but laughing at the corny parts all the same. Every once in a while he pulls away to give you a tissue or take your temperature, completing a list of steps that are only really obvious to him. He finally breaks the silence to say again,

“I’m sorry you don’t feel good, little bird.” He says it is sweeter this time and quieter too, always earnest, your Jason.

“It’s okay, Jay, I’ve gone through worse.” You can feel him wince at your words, always sensitive to hearing about you hurting. He hates it, hates knowing that you’ve ever had any struggle–that there were moments where he couldn’t keep you safe, even if it's just because he didn’t know you yet.

“I just hate to think of you in pain, baby,” He says, “Should only ever wear a smile.”He squeezes you tighter as he says this, and his accent gets looser, devolving back into that Gotham street kid he always was.

You love him like this, cozy in his sweater and warm from your shared body heat. You love him, and you’d tell him everyday if it made him get closer to believing he deserves it.

“Ah well, in sickness and in health and all that.”

“Oh I didn’t know we took any vows,” He says, but his heart jumps and his hold on you gets tighter.

“I love you honey,” you say. Honest and true, matter of fact. It’s a little out of place disjointed to the current conversation–there is no humor in your voice or in your eyes when they meet him– but it's true, and you promised him you’d always be honest. You love him, you would never joke about that.

Jason thinks about all the times he wanted to say it back… All the times the words almost emerged and enveloped you, he wishes he could say it. Wish he could wrap you up in the phrase and not be afraid, but it’s still too harrowing. It doesn’t have anything to do with you, yet you’re the one that’s paying–that breaks his heart. He loves you so much, even if he can’t say the words… even if all he can do is make you soup and tuck you in at night, and make sure the world is safer for you. He loves you, and he tells you the best way he can.

“Me too, little bird, me too.”

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onlyswan · 2 years ago

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summary: in which jungkook is one of your greatest fears and you’re his achilles’ heel.

idol!jungkook x reader, est. relationship / fluff, angst / word count: 4.1k

content/warnings: i love you i want us both to eat well T_T sigh. oc has abandonment issues pls protect at all costs + oc is worried bc jk is working so hard :( + a worm (???) cameo. ily protective and hopeless romantic iw!jk <3 the ending 🥲💔 this drabble literally goes 📈📉

> in which masterlist!

note: *insert my melody mugshot scene* me if planting puzzle pieces in my drabbles + making oc cry (IM SORRY) were a crime. this was sm fun writing <3 i cried and laughed they’re so precious </3

—

“jungkook, baby?”

your silky voice fills the quiet apartment as you pad across the floor. you’re carrying your heeled mary janes by its straps, leaving you only in your white socks.

“babe?”

you frown as the seconds pass and you receive no response from your lover. there’s no music playing, no rustling somewhere in the kitchen or the living room. the lights are dim like they usually are, but the vivid colors are absent.

him? asleep at 9pm? jeon jungkook? it can’t be, but you’d be delighted to finally see him resting early if it was real.

and so, spurred by that tiny glimmer of hope, you carefully crack the bedroom door open, as if you’re fifteen again and you just came back from sneaking out of the house.

but you’re grown now; you live in a building with complete strangers for neighbors. you just got home from work, and you’re no longer used to sleeping alone because you share the bed with another person.

you find it empty. devoid of any creases, sign of life. as neat as a hotel room’s make believe that no one lived there until two hours prior.

the disappointment weighs down on your shoulders, causing them to drop.

he didn’t tell you he was going somewhere else after practice, you think to yourself as your lips permanently shape into a pout. what happened to going out with you for dinner?

agreeing, your empty stomach grumbles angrily.

maybe he got caught up at work. maybe he’s on his way home. maybe he’s on his way to the restaurant and he’s about to text you to come over. maybe he forgot about your plans and he’s having dinner with somebody else.

whatever the reason is, you’re too lazy and tired to whip up something edible on your own. with or without him, you’re going out and you’re stuffing your mouth full with rice and meat. after all, autumn is here, your dear old friend.

in search for a coat that will accompany you in your late-night stroll, you enter the walk-in closet and flip on the lightswitch.

you can count them with just your fingers— the amount of times you’ve felt this type of fear. absent eyes, melting spine, chills running to the top of your head down to your fingertips, mind racing with an overload of thoughts (it appears as a blank page, the same way that white is the presence of all colors of visible light). this fear… you associate it with impulsive mistakes, fire, police and ambulance sirens, and… empty closets.

jungkook’s side of the closet is empty.

clothes. shoes. bucket hats. beanies. belts. everything. gone.

but the floor is scattered with random pieces of clothing that look like they accidentally fell while someone was in a rush to pack them all in a bag. so in a rush that they didn’t even bother to pick them up.

your weak knees almost give way, but you force yourself to stumble backwards until your back hits the doorframe— you refuse to let yourself look like you’ve been carelessly discarded too.

not again. not again. not this goddamn vicious curse you thought you’ve already broken out of. not. again.

you blink away the tears threatening to spill as you scramble to open the zipper of your bag, but they spill anyway when your shoes clatter to the floor. you flinch at the thunderous sound, clutching your phone tightly against your chest. you keep your eyes closed throughout the defeaning silence that comes after.

the empty space mocks you. it knows your intricate design was not meant to live in an empty home.

you guess nothing much has changed. you’re still afraid of jungkook and his power to take away the sun, just as he did before, and you deeply despise being afraid. you don’t like it when the walls are closing in on you, poisoning your mind into believing that you’re small when the heart inside your chest burns with a fire brighter than that of the damn sun.

anyone would be foolish to leave you; it’s only jungkook who could have you mourning the death of the garden you’ve given the past five years of your life to.

—

jungkook returns to the apartment half an hour later. despite the long, grueling hours of dance practice he nearly didn’t survive, the excitement vibrating through his body is manifested through the lightness of his movements. he’s finally seeing his lover for the first time today… awake.

when he brought his natural body warmth along with him to the bathroom this morning, you sunk yourself further into mattress, beneath the thick blankets and against the soft pillows. by the time he had to give you your obligatory goodbye kiss before he leaves for work (or else you’d sulk about it for the rest of the week), half of your face has been hidden from sight. he was only able to press a loving kiss on your forehead, and then your eyelids that were fluttering as you dreamt.

night time comes and he is still deprived of the sight of your beautiful face? he somberly wonders as he finds you slumped over the dining table; he swears that there is a dark rain cloud hovering above you. your arms are thrown over the hardwood as they serve as a makeshift pillow for your vessel— his little firefly curiously bleak.

“baby? are you sick?” he asks, voice dripping with concern as he tenderly rubs your back.

the legs of the chair screeches against the tiled floor, neglectedly pushed behind.

“kook?” you manage to choke out, frantically sitting up once your muddled brain registered the familiarity of his touch on your bare skin.

his heart drops to his stomach as your tear-stained face comes into view. this isn’t how he envisioned your greeting; it usually came in the form of a bright light not harsh as the sunlight, a softness that begs to be held.

“are you crying?!”

your reply only comes out as a pitiful whimper. he stumbles a step backwards when you unceremoniously jump into his embrace, wrapping your arms over his shoulders. he gets a whiff of your sweet perfume, and then it becomes the air that he breathes, but he doesn’t have much time to revel in it.

“baby!”

he squeezes your waist taut against his body, affectionately nosing at your cheek before giving you a kiss. “did something happen? tell me- tell me.”

“jungkook,” your voice cracks as you utter his name, sounding almost like a plea, and then an endless string of heartbreaking sobs comes out muffled against his shirt. “where have you been?”

this sends him into a state of panic. seeing you in pain— it’s his biggest weakness. after all, you are his achilles’ heel.

“why? why, why, why?” you’re weak and pliant as he pulls your arms down, collapsing against his chest when he envelopes you in his embrace. he cradles your head in his palm, soothing you with gentle pats and shushes. “shh, shhh- it’s okay, i’m here now. everything’s okay, you hear me?”

his efforts prove to be fruitless, because you only seem to cry harder as he slowly rocks your bodies back and forth.

you shake your head, hands attempting to hold on to the back of his shirt to regain sensation in your limbs, but they miserably fail and fall on the sides of his hips.

“talk to me… please, mhmm?“ he hums quietly, pressing his soft lips to your temple. “tell me what’s wrong and your boyfriend will take care of it.”

from your sniffles to your hiccups, you remain unable to form any coherent response, and it leads his imagination to construct the worst possible scenarios. he feels his stomach turn with uneasiness, jaw clenching as he carefully pulls away to meet you eye-to-eye.

“did someone touch you? hurt you?” he spits out with urgency, and the unparalleled care he displays puts you in a daze, simply dumbfounded as he strokes your face. “huh, baby? just tell me and i’ll take care of the rest.”

now that you’re being reminded that jungkook could quite literally kill a person with his bare hands if they ever inflict harm on you, the fog is clearing up and you feel so incredibly… stupid.

but that’s more the reason why it’s difficult not to be sensitive when it comes to him; his absence proves to be lethal.

“shit, you’re scaring me.” he breathes out shakily as he taps your cheek lightly to bring you back to him, the distant look in your eyes triggering the emergency alarms in his head.

he unconsciously licks his lips and he tastes your tears; he doesn’t want anybody else to ever come this close.

“okay, okay- let’s put that aside for now. what do you need? should we go to bed and rest instead?”

“i thought you left,” you whisper as you hang your head in shame.

he blinks at you in confusion. “to where? my flight isn’t until next week, baby.”

fantastic! now you sound like the most dramatic, clingiest bitch to ever grace the planet. you bury your face in your hands to hide the battle zone between your heart and mind, but your boyfriend seizes your wrists because he can’t bear another second of it.

“is-is that why you’re upset…?” he asks with not a trace of malice or ridicule. he is only filled with guilt as it dawns on him then— how you’ve only gotten used to always having him around four years into your relationship, when he was taking a break from work.

the changes in his life are also changes in yours, but they still affect you in many different ways.

“then just come with me. i’ll make it work. maybe we can extend for a bit, spend an entire day by ourselves- there’s a lot of museu-”

“i thought you left,” you repeat yourself, exposed and vulnerable, vision swallowed by the darkness because you can’t make yourself look at him. “your clothes… they’re gone, and i was calling but you… you weren’t answering my calls so i thought…”

“my clothes?” he exclaims, eyes going wide as he realizes that they’ve accidentally slipped from his mind. “ahh, i thought about cleaning the closet while waiting for you so i moved everything to the other room!”

you open your mouth to speak, but much to your chagrin, no words come out. you purse your lips as your chin wobbles— the new wave of tears in your eyes mimic shiny crystals.

“____!”

and at the stern mention of your name, you know that you’re about to receive a (loving) scolding from your boyfriend. your lips curve into a frown before a sob inevitably escapes past them.

“why would you think that? why would i leave you? that doesn’t make sense at all, does it…?”

you shake your head, hugging him so tight, possibly tighter than you’ve ever done before. between your bodies, his heart is being unbearably wrung.

“i’m sorry, baby. seeing you cry like this breaks my heart…” he closes his eyes with a heavy sigh, resting his cheek on the side of your head. “but why would that be the first thing you think of…? i must be doing something wrong, right? have i been too busy with work? am i neglecting you?”

you’re breathless, a little dizzy— bloodshot eyes meeting his that are now gleaming with sadness. “no, it’s not like that! i just panicked, i couldn’t think straight.”

“are you sure?”

he looks at you skeptically, scanning your face.

“baby-” his voice breaks, then he pauses with his gaze still trained on you. “okay, i’m sorry. i… should’ve thought about what cleaning the closet would look like.”

“i was just being stupid.” you give him a small smile, rubbing your eyes to chase away the burning sensation. “sorry for scaring you.”

“stop, you’ll hurt yourself.” he tuts, pushing your wrists aside to cup your face in his hands, much gentler in comparison to your own self. his thumbs draw shapes on your soft skin, and then out of the blue, he curiously squeezes one of the space buns on top of your head. “wow, this is so pretty?”

“huh…? oh, thanks.” you mumble, still feeling out of it.

“this, too.” the white silk ribbon wrapped prettily around your neck, he means, which he hooks a finger on to tug lightly. it matches the lace straps on your shoulders that falls across the underbust of your dress, tied together to form a ribbon in the middle of it. that makes two, so clasically you.

and while it may be partly true that he’s trying to lighten the atmosphere, he just can’t defy the urge to express his admiration for you, even in a situation like this. he’s perpetually love-drunk.

“thank you.” you nod, shyly looking away to sniffle. “but you’re the reason why my makeup is ruined… need to wash it off before we go.”

“you’re beautiful either way, baby.”

“i know.” you scoff. “would you date me for five years if i wasn’t?”

he releases a throaty chuckle, capturing your lips in his with a smile of endearment that he fails to subdue.

“you’re so fucking cute. i love you-” he says with merely an inch of distance between you.

he grunts in melodramatic anguish, overcome by the insensity of his affections overflowing past the brim of his very being, leaning so close that the edge of the table digs into your lower back, surely to leave a temporary mark.

and he carries on to kiss you so many times that you lose count; you can only melt as you collect them in that bottomless pocket located somewhere in your soul, where all the love you’ve received across lifetimes is recorded to prove i was once here.

“i love you, i love you, i love you, i love you, i love you. i’m never leaving. you’re stuck with me and bam forever.”

if the time comes that the two of you break up, who would bam come home to? jungkook stubbornly refuses to have that conversation.

however, you still can’t let go of something, and you pout as you shove him lightly. unsurprisingly, his strong build doesn’t budge at all.

“but why didn’t you answer my calls?” at last, you gain enough energy to complain, but your face grows hot as the urge to cry returns. “i mean, what else was i supposed to think?!”

jungkook is struck by yet another lightning.

may the heavens have mercy, he’s been making you angry more than usual lately.

“shit, i forgot. i turned off my phone.” he mutters under his breath, feeling extremely regretful that he was not reachable when you needed him most to be. “i wanted to focus only on you tonight. what do they call it again…? leaving work at work?”

he winces guiltily.

“i’m sorry. maybe it wasn’t a smart idea.”

“no, i like that.” you almost interrupt him from talking because of how fast you are to brush off his apology.

he makes a mental note of it— the way you’re gripping at his shirt in small fists. you’re tense and overwhelmed; you need him to stay close.

“leave work at work. focus on me, and let me be your rest.”

unbeknownst to you, jungkook bites back his tears then. after all this time, he still gets mesmerized by the tenderness that naturally governs your every word and action; he thinks that he needs you more than you need him.

—

“just eat, baby. i’ll cook the meat for us.” jungkook coos at you as he cuts more meat into bite-sized pieces using a pair of kitchen shears.

“okay, then i’ll make sure that you eat.” you grin excitedly, dragging your chair closer to his.

you set down the tongs, grabbing your chopsticks to pick up a cooked piece of pork belly from the grill. you don’t forget to blow on it, mindful of burning his tongue.

of course, you don’t want to hurt him, but it would be especially painful for him as a singer.

“ahhh-” still busy with cooking, jungkook opens wide at your cue, catching the meat in between his teeth.

“rice,” he demands as he chews.

you scoop up rice from your bowl, and he devours it happily as he continues to flip the strips of pork belly lined up across the grill.

“mmhmm, it’s so delicious!” he dramatically says out loud. his eyebrows are knitted together and his legs are bouncing under the table, tell-tale signs of him enjoying the food.

witnessing this kind of reaction, any chef would be happy to slave away in the kitchen to serve him a meal. you recognize it in the smile of the owner after jungkook ordered more side dishes, and the way he dashed through the door to reduce the waiting time.

“yah, feed yourself, too!” jungkook chides you after you feed him meat three times in a row, but with an open palm that catches the juice that drips from the kimchi, you still tap your chopsticks against his lips. he spares it a glance before catching it using his tongue.

“i am!” you then rush to wrap a piece of pork belly in lettuce, dipping it into ssamjang before stuffing it into your mouth.

“good job, baby.” he grins in satisfaction, rubbing your back as praise. this makes you preen. “make sure to eat lots, got it?”

but then you’re back to spoiling him rotten, this time with an egg roll. so far, he has only touched his own chopsticks twice.

“i just told you to eat first!”

you glare at him, pouting. “but you worked so hard practicing today and you haven’t even eaten properly yet.”

he is too busy with work, and it’s not news that you’ve been worried sick about his health. it’s difficult to watch him work himself to the bone, but no one truly has the power to stop jungkook from doing what he wants, sometimes not even himself. and you find it impossible to fault him for it when you know that everything he does is done out of love. from the vigorous vocal and dance lessons, and to the deep cleaning of the apartment because his baby has been developing an allergy to dust.

“you need to make it up to your body. here, please?”

he loves being loved, jungkook thinks to himself as he eats the egg roll whole.

—

you were already prepared to go home after dinner, but your night owl for a boyfriend insisted on going on a walk at the park because he wanted to, and you quote, ‘see you awake for a little while longer,’ or whatever the hell he meant by that.

with his tattooed arm protectively swung over your shoulder, you’re engulfed in a wave of nostalgia. for the first two years of your relationship, before you started living together, you only met with each other at night, save for the very rare day-offs that he got. the only places that are still open after midnight are nightclubs, fastfood chains, convenience stores… and well, parks.

and he would always hold you close like this to make you feel safe, and the rest of you melts away while the side of your ribcage that he is pressed against remains to shelter your heart. on the contrary, you also remember how your bodies used to be so tense. you wanted to sacrifice more sleep and to walk to the other side of the park, of the street, to that other convenience store five blocks away because this one didn’t have the flavor of ice cream you wanted, anything… just… anything so you could be with each other ten minutes more.

and it was cold. it was always cold.

“what do you mean ‘it exploded’?”

“it seriously exploded! it was on fire! that’s why i went out to buy a new extension cord!”

“jungkook, it’s because you plug in too many things at once!” you cry out in frustration, your steps becoming heavy stomps. “i told you to stop doing that!”

“what do you mean? if it has six slots, doesn’t that mean six devices is the maximum?” he continues to stubbornly defend himself, and you can only hang your head in defeat. “otherwise, it’s a scam!”

“it is a scam! see…? they made you buy a ne-”

your sentence is cut short as your tongue gets paralyzed.

a dark and striped, long figure approaching ahead, slithering its across the grass.

your mind immediately registers it as the animal you fear most.

oh, no. no, no, no, no, no.

“jungkook,” you utter his name with a tremble.

the same fear you experienced only two hours ago holds you hostage once more, add all the hair in your body standing up and you’re as frightened as a cat.

“what’s wrong? yah! what are you doing?! baby, ba- fuck!” he sputters out as you forcefully pull him back along with you, displaying a type of strength and agility he doesn’t normally see.

the two of you continue to stumble backwards as you struggle to maintain balance, and somehow jungkook manages to switch your positions so that you’re the one who lands on top him instead of the other way around when you eventually end up as a heap on the soft earth.

he begins to feel his throat closing up at the sight of pure, genuine fear in your eyes.

“jungkook, snake- it’s small bu-”

you interrupt your own sentence with a high-pitched squeal, garnering looks from strangers moving and unmoving. in the blink of an eye, your boyfriend has swept you off your feet as if you’re light as a feather, driven by the instinct to protect the love of his life.

you cover your mouth in shock, your other arm coming up around his neck to keep yourself from falling.

you think you may have fallen for jungkook all over again.

“are you spiderman?”

he was too busy searching for the subject of your fear under dim lights, and so he looks at you in bewilderment to ask, “what was that?”

you shake your head with your wide eyes shining with faux innocence. you squeak. “nothing.”

he releases a sigh, followed by a chuckle of obvious relief and amusement as he squeezes your body closer to plant a kiss on your forehead. “aigoo, my ____! why are you so scared today? what am i going to do with you…? it’s just a worm.”

“are you sure? i swear i saw it raise its head!“

“i’m sure,” he lulls you. “i think worms can do that, too?”

your face twists in an expression of mixed bewilderment and distrust.

“that i’m not sure about, but it’s really just a worm! would i still be standing here if it wasn’t?” he clicks his tongue sharply. “we need to get your eyes rechecked.”

you roll your eyes with a huff. you’ve have had enough of his teasing before it even starts.

“uh?! i’m serious over here!”

this is new— you mean bickering with jungkook in a public place isn’t, but being carried by him like a bride while it happens definitely is.

“fine, i’ll go this weekend. happy?” you fake an obedient smile. “you can put me down now.”

he blinks, and then he adjusts the way he’s holding you to ensure that your dress won’t show what’s for his eyes only— for a split second, you were flying.

“i’ll go with you,”

“okay. now put me down.“ you tap his shoulder repeatedly to prompt him to heed your words. “babe, this is embarrassing!”

“nope,” he ignores your protest with nonchalance as he resumes to walk the path you’re on, evidently enjoying the attention he’s stealing and the way you’re curling yourself smaller to hide.

“oh my god! weren’t you just complaining about your body hurting?!”

“you were scared of me leaving,” he smiles, glancing down at you. “so now i’m gluing you to myself.”

that made you quiet for a while. inside your tote, the container of kimchi, wrapped in a plastic bag, rattles with his every stride. you noticed that jungkook loved it so much, so you ordered it to go when he went to the bathroom before you were to leave the restaurant.

“you know, we used to just hold hands,” you mumble with a childish pout. “like normal people?”

“this is very normal,” he argues.

the scenery becomes more familiar as he takes the long way home.

“some would even say romantic.”

a wave of nostalgia hits, and you visibly shiver.

you don’t know if he would remember, but he has said the same exact words once before.

you scrunch your nose, supposedly to give him a look of disgust, but a giddy smile betrays you. you are five years younger again, and the night ends with the moon bidding you an adieu.

—

taglist in the reblogs! send an ask/dm if you want to be added (or removed) :D

—

#jungkook #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook drabble #jungkook one shot #jungkook scenario #jungkook imagine #jungkook fic #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #bts fluff #bts reaction #jungkook smut

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creatingblackcharacters · 2 months ago

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My Notes of Concern: Week 1

Yes, these will feel most directed at white folk. That is because y'all participated the most and were easiest to observe. But it's notes on and perspective for everyone 👍🏾

-For some of these characters where their Blackness was genuinely questionable (where we thought "this is a white man but grey", some I let slide to see how people would respond. What it suggested to me is that some of y'all often know what features you will consider "not Black" in your media. Which means you know when these Black characters are being drawn with eurocentric features. So you can SEE when it's happening... So then how often do you willingly let it slide in your media? It makes me wonder if participation in the Ambiguously Brown character design is more of a conscious act than I'd originally believed. Now again, this is likely bias of my userbase, but I did find that worrisome.

-But THEN, there were far more comments made and votes chosen that made me wonder... What do y'all think Black people look like? Because there would be characters that I could immediately see, that people would say were ambiguous. But then characters who were actually ambiguous would get peak. What went into that decision? I know I keep bringing it up, but it genuinely baffled me how Rene was deemed peak, but Iosef started off as mid, when Rene's design only covered half of his face.

-I think what I realized is that people are treating the things we say are offensive as... A checklist, and not really things that are applied in context. Which means we're not really understanding WHY things are offensive, just that we "should know" they are! Peeping and avoiding participating in racism will never be as easy as "these things bad!" It's not. We live day to day like a constant game (the Great American game, ha! Oh Kendrick.) of quick time events. You never know who's gonna say what and how they're gonna react, you only have context clues. If it were as easy as a list, life wouldn't be this hard and breaking this system would be easy 😭 Sorry.

-For example, characters with straightened hair. I felt like the concept of straightened hair is confusing to white voters. I say that because straightened hair is not inherently bad Black character design. We have styles with straight hair! This is just where intent comes into play. Does it look like this character's Blackness was taken into consideration on the style, or did they just plop on the Brazilian bussdown on their head? Did it do that little stupid hook shape on the ends that indicates waves, or did it actually look like "this is a Black character with flat ironed hair, or a wig, or sew in (etc.)"?

-For another example, skin that isn't perfectly brown, maybe even greyish. Okay. That can be an issue! What we then ask ourselves is: is that art style consistent with everything else, or is everyone else well lit and the Black character is not? Is this character grey because the artist clearly doesn't know how to work with deeper brown skin tones, or is it grey on purpose? So when you go forth in the future, remember that it's about the entirety of it. Can you tell from the art that this is purposeful, or a bias? Intent, or not?

-For yet another example: there seemed to be strong push about biracial characters and why their designs seem ambiguous (which is simply not always true), but that same understanding and grace did not seem extended to visibly light-skinned Black people. Why? And I was genuinely confused by this one. Because there are light-skinned Black people! And you can often tell when they're Black! My theory is that y'all found it easier to peep whiteness and therefore defend its features, but did not know how to recognize it in "full" (ick) Blackness. Like, regardless of how The Proud Family's colorism affects its character design, Trudy Proud is visibly just a light-skinned Black woman with flatironed hair. I don't see how that's not visible unless you've just... Never seen one before. 😅

-Just an aside- and this is just a passion of mine- I feel like there is an overrepresentation of what we expect Black biracial people to look like, which is light-skinned with fluffy yet loose textured hair. I don't understand how we get "white passing" people that are Black biracial, but the idea on the other end of the spectrum- Black biracial children with darker skin tones- is not a concept that occurs more often in media. Like, there has to be Black biracial children that don't "look like" whiteness, the same way there are Black biracial children that don't look Black at all! So I really think we ought to loosen our grip on what and how we deem "this person is mixed". Maybe they're just light-skinned. Maybe they're brown-skinned and biracial! But that's me. 🙌🏾

-The "I didn't know they were supposed to be Black" well, if you don't know a character is even supposed to be Black, how would you even know to look for narrative relevance, or even stereotypes? How would you even understand what's going on if you don't even know what I look like enough to even recognize that this is the story being told? This is another one of those "character design affects the writing" moments, but it's also a "I need to expand how I recognize Blackness" moments. Let's do better on that.

#creatingblackcharacters #black character design

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hcneymooners · 4 months ago

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⋆ do wolves mourn? ( i leave that up to you. )

winter soldier!sevika x red room!fem!reader. men & minors dni.

cw: age gap, older woman/younger woman, girl she's the winter soldier lmao, alternate universe, heavy discussions of trauma, angst, moral ambiguity, unhealthy coping mechanisms, unhealthy relationships, power imbalance, power play, dom/sub undertones, sexual tension, unresolved sexual tension, neither one of you are good people, non-sexual intimacy, non-sexual submission, emotional hurt/comfort, mutual pining, voyeurism but not in the way you think, stalking, strangulation, unreliable narrators, psychological trauma, mommy issues, copious mentions of ballet, dubious consent because of the nature of sevi's mind, mental health, grief, this is very psychosexual, minor violence, enemies to lovers, open (but positive) ending.

wc: 10.8k

notes: this is very loosely based on marvel's winter soldier/red room concept. i provided my own spin on things. also i am so sorry to my russian/polish girlies ahead of time. i used a combination of a translator and what i could remember from my language courses that i took in high school. same to my desi girls. i deeply apologize if it's terrible!. hope you enjoy. love you.

I: ANASTASIA.

and you are not allowed to die.

it's strange to be mythologized in the beginning years of your life. the words are said to you by your mother when you are first born and then again upon her deathbed. she looks relentlessly beautiful, as people always do just before they die. it's as if her body rallied one last time to rage against the machine, push tirelessly against the disease before all the health bled out and she could barely rise to pee.

your legs are tucked beneath you, your hair still long and almost trailing the floor. you're said to look like her: same face shape, same eyes, same wide boxy smile. it relieves you that she will still haunt you whenever you glance into a mirror. it helps console you although you are watching her die.

you thought your mother would be more vibrant in death, given how cruel she could be. you're slightly disappointed that the fight has abated in the final moments. the two of you were good at being cruel to one another, screaming in scraps of your native language. your mother tongue burned whenever you spoke it through anger, but it was the only way she seemed to understand that she really had hurt you. she spat back and swore at you until you cried, and she felt you were as clean as bone.

you'd miss your mother. it was a surprising thought, though not one you'd had before. you thought a lot in this house, filled with a thousand beautiful things and many people who deluded themselves with the notion that they were gods. well, it used to be. now it was shot into ruin, but your mother never wanted to leave.

you don't remember much of this "golden era" she never stops speaking of. you only remember the wail of the missile warning and the hot, white heat. it could have killed you, but it hadn't. you had only lain under what used to be the ceiling of the dining room, choking through the dust caking your six-year-old lungs.

do you hear me? your mother asks, and you turn back to look at her. it's hard to look at her.

yes, you say, but you say it in your mother tongue.

yes, you will try very hard to be good for your mother. yes, you will never die. but the world will try its hardest to kill you.

your mother seems to glow, and suddenly, you have so many things you want to ask her. you open and close your mouth like a fish and then finally settle. where were you from? you ask her.

you do not know the old language that you speak, only that it was yours and your mother's and that its country is gone.

nowhere, your mother answers as she always does. it's gone. you are from me. that's all you get. be happy with it.

mmm, you nod. i will be happy.

she laughs because she knows you've lied. halfway through the sound, she just…stops breathing. but still—she is looking you in the eye, mouth open the same way it was shaped when she spoke to hurt you.

girl-soldier 𓃠: the operation that surrounds you is called cassandra. get it? the soldier's handler said, snorting a laugh. his russian is thick and phlegmy. because she's a vision. it is written in all caps like CASSANDRA. it blinks in the soldier's mind in the same manner. CASSANDRA. CASSANDRA. CASSANDRA. CASS—

you are it now. you are the only one.

the soldier remembers the first time she sees you. she stared at the black and white photograph held captive beneath the silver paper clip for days, ran through the simulation of what you could be if you changed the color of your hair, the color of your eyes, the shape of your teeth, the curve of your smile. she knows you in all ways and learns to recognize the basis of you so that you are incapable of escape. she knows the matching curves of your hips.

she sketches you, decorates the dark of the cell with charcoal lines that roughly capture the look of vicious determination in your eyes. you are cruel and important. she knows that. your father was a crime lord masquerading as a scientist, and your mother was just like you, so you know nothing of who you are and, therefore, you move uneasily through your habitats.

but you make an impression, teeth bared into a box when you smile, and the light always catches on your face. your face…this face that is not compelling upon first glance, but, upon seeing it a second time, you realize that you have always wanted to see it again. the girl-soldier is methodical in every way a human could be, so her thoughts are patterned and observant.

she closes her eyes and sees the protuberance of your collar bones, the way there were twin saundary chihn (सौंदर्य चिह्न) at the junctions of your shoulders. what did they call them outside of here? beauty marks.

her eyes open, and she makes a mental note of how odd it is that you keep them on display when you dress. once, when she felt more like herself, a woman whose husband she would kill told her of how she had hidden hers the first chance she could get. would have carved them out of her stomach herself if she could. she thought they were horribly ugly. malignant.

though the soldier knew that was an exaggeration. most would have kept the marks in place of fear of the gore that would follow marring a body, let alone their own. the soldier licks her lips and bends over, till the cold of the floor hits her cheek. she flexes her arm—the metal one. she closes her eyes again.

your face is waiting there, like a dog that comes at a beckon. your lips are full, and so are your eyes. there is a large portion of life stored inside of you. she has to take it out. that is the mission. if she had the time, she would stare until she reaped your full story from inside of you. but she has a feeling you wouldn't give over so easily.

your eyes are fox-like and dark when you realize you are being watched, like the night had bled into them and then stopped just shy of filling them. your parents had created a perfect amalgamation of themselves upon you, as if you were achilles and they were both thetis, holding on to your ankle as they dipped you into the river of their memory.

the soldier is feeling—maybe feels?—charged at the thought of seeing you in the flesh instead of print. she wants, something she is not programmed for. maybe it is because you are younger and she has seen you ornamented in a tulle dress as red as blood at your first ballet, unknowing that you were a limb in the tree of your bloodline's well-planned extinction. or maybe it's the sudden feeling that if she doesn't shoot when she sees you, you will take her throat out with your bare hands, rip her up, and dispose of her. she does not know. she never knows.

the soldier imagines you in the cell with her, in the lab, eyes watching her unreadably as she writhes against the table. watching as her mind covers itself in dark water.

the soldier's teeth click together. she switches her head to the other side, lets the cool of the stone calm the neglected skin of this cheek. but she keeps her eyes closed, imagines you with her, without her, around her.

she knows you: [name.]

she pictures you in your simplest form and has the thought that your mind is just as beautiful and fractured as hers feels. maybe you understand, but will you extend the understanding?

the soldier tastes blood and realizes that she's bitten through her lip. she opens her eyes, and you are not there. she must focus. she closes them again and sleeps.

𓃦

the cell opens. the soldier looks up into the light.

the handler tilts his head and mutters something in russian as if she cannot understand. then, in english, he says: go hunt, wolf.

to kill you is the operation. of course.

but the soldier has yet to decide whether or not you will suffer.

II: OLGA.

“fuck!”

you shout as you fall, and your instructor scoffs, rolling your eyes. your instructor’s name is ima,n and she knew your mother. she comes to you and rolls out your ankle, which makes you scream. your pointe shoes are ribboned around your calves and sheltered by your thick, black leg warmers.

“sorry,” she says, short and light. you glare at her, but your mouth twitches as if to smile.

she's taught you for several years now. the only constant in your life after your mother died. after the new bombs. she was what you had left of the old. she was a lithe woman, so worn down by hardship that she seemed to rattle when she moved. sometimes, you swore you saw her bones sinking inside of her blood, calling your name through their skin.

the studio is cold. always cold, with its high windows and concrete floors. you like it that way. the chill keeps you alert, keeps your muscles taut and ready. iman says you dance like you're trying to escape something. she has never been wrong—at least, not about you.

“again,” iman commands, stepping back.

you rise, ignoring the throb in your ankle. it’s less of a rise and more of a spiral. your body warps and spins as you sail upward, pushing through the white heat of the pain so that you can glance into the mirror. your expression hardens into something your mother would recognize—that cocktail of stubbornness and grace she cultivated in you. behind that expression is something else. a sense that's been growing stronger for days now.

you are being watched.

not by iman, who watches you professionally, clinically. this is different. it prickles at the base of your neck when you walk home alone. it follows you into dreams where you're running through corridors that never end. you've started taking different routes home, doubling back unexpectedly, waiting in shop doorways to see if anyone follows.

you’ve only ever felt this way one other time. it was in your early life, when you were a child. you had maybe seen only five summers, one summer shy of your estate’s total annihilation. you had been at the lake, dipping your feet in but too afraid to dive without the reassurance of shallow waters or a return point.

it was getting dark, and you could hear your mother calling for you, could almost smell your father somewhere behind you. you looked at the water, and then you turned, marching toward home. all the while, you looked back and back and back. over and over. you were so sure of something hunting you, of something evaluating you.

it was only when you went home that you turned fast enough, with a bumbling child’s grace, to catch what was behind you. there it was: a lone, white wolf with startling blue eyes. you had stumbled through her cubs’ nest sometime in the week and were now streaked with the scent of her womb. she thought you were either a danger or her child. you were four, so you hoped for her to see herself as your true mother.

this was the same, though you felt less curious and more afraid. you thought of the proverb on your mother’s wrist: fear is pain arising from the anticipation of evil. you hated being afraid, but then again, who would be calm in the knowledge of your possible death? it may have sounded dramatic to anyone that did not have your blood, but instictively you knew that whatever watched you only aimed to kill and maim you.

no one ever appears. but the feeling remains.

“focus,” iman snaps. “your mind is everywhere but here.”

you nod, forcing yourself to concentrate. your body moves into first position. then second. then across the floor in a series of fouettés that leave you breathless but steady.

“better, but not good,” iman says, her lips thin and mottled in odd places. “you dance like your mother.”

she says it with disgust, but you keep eye contact with her as you respond.

“she was your best. never forget that.”

she seems pleased and irritated that you’ve spoken back.

you don't tell her that you never forget anything, that your mind catalogues every slip of sun, every unexpected sound and shadow, every unfamiliar face. your father taught you that before he left. trust no one completely. not even me.

you remembered that as you watched him trek across that white tundra, disappearing into the white. so, you don’t tell her. you just pack up and leave.

after practice—what are you practicing for? you will never dance on a stage—you shower in the cramped bathroom. the water pressure is weak, but the heat is scalding, which soothes your muscles. it is different from the biting cold. another extreme. you dress quickly in dark jeans and a loose black sweater that slips off one shoulder, revealing one of your moles. you never hide them. you check them constantly, terrified of them growing larger while you sleep. it didn’t matter, really. if they changed in size, you wouldn’t go to a doctor. that would mean a record.

things like this upset you. it was the most aggravating thing to know your family had done something bad, even evil, but to still not be clear. you only knew that you were not allowed to conduct a normal life or else the time you were allotted would shrink in quantity.

outside, the evening is settling over the city. the streets are busy enough that you should feel safe, but that crawling sensation returns immediately. you pause, pretending to check your phone while your eyes scan the crowd.

nothing unusual. a couple arguing quietly. a man walking his dog. a woman in a coat too heavy for the weather, her face half-hidden by a scarf, standing motionless across the street.

you notice her because she doesn't move like everyone else. she is perfectly still. and there's something about the way she holds herself—rigid yet somehow coiled, like a spring waiting to be released.

your eyes meet briefly across the distance, and something electric passes between you. recognition, though you've never seen her before. danger, though she's made no threatening move. your heartbeat quickens.

then, a bus passes, and it makes a thunderous sound as it collides with a semi-truck. it’s a terrifying, colossal explosion that sends you to your knees. metal grates across metal, and your ears are ringing as your mind splits. you forget you are on the sidewalk for a moment, believe you are back in that house, and then you are present again.

people are running, shouting. they pass, desperate to get to the accident, and when they are gone, so is she.

woman-soldier 𓃠: the soldier watches from the rooftop as you drag yourself up and continue down the street. her position gives her a perfect vantage point of your route home. she watches you slink over the cobblestone, your shoulders flexing as you try to avoid looking back at the crash.

she should have stayed hidden. it was a mistake to let you see her. but something had compelled her to test you—to see if you were as aware as she suspected.

you were.

here is a little of what she understands. she is both an executioner and a cautionary tale. she is the creation returning to destroy its creator, only to find the creator's child, who represents both threat and salvation.

you are not aware yet of your true inheritance. you operate as if you are in possession of nothing, but according to the file, your parents have been the ones to create her. to fracture and rebuild her, or at least provide the framework for breaking her in. for breaking the others in.

you are nothing but your bloodline. she had seen the instant calculation in your eyes. the way your posture had shifted subtly into something more defensive. the slight tensing of your jaw told her you were ready to run if needed.

you are not as naive as the scientists had suggested. there is cunning there, beneath the graceful exterior. she wonders if you inherited it from your father or if it's something you taught yourself after they killed him. she recalls that you still believe he just left. mmm.

through her scope, she watches you turn down an alley—a shortcut you've never taken before. clever. you're trying to draw out anyone following you, forcing them to reveal themselves or lose you.

the soldier smiles. this hunt will be more interesting than she anticipated.

her orders are clear: observe for three days. learn your patterns. then eliminate. clean and simple.

but nothing about you seems simple. even from a distance, even through a lens, your movements are complex. you carry yourself like someone who knows the weight of a target on their back but without the shame.

she lowers her scope and moves silently across the rooftops, keeping pace with you below. tonight, she will only watch. tomorrow, perhaps, she will let you glimpse her again. she wants to see what you'll do—whether you'll run or fight.

suddenly, you stop. carefully, you look to the sides of you and then up. she pulls back, blinks, then looks through the scope again. you are looking directly at her.

you do not run or fight.

she realizes you consider there to be a third option.

III: TATIANA.

you don't sleep.

after seeing her on the rooftop—after letting her know that you saw her—sleep feels more like a quiet surrender than something you need. instead, you sit by your window, curtains drawn back just enough to watch the street below. your apartment is small but strategically positioned: corner unit, second floor, fire escape access, two exit routes.

the night passes in silence. if she's still watching, she's moved beyond your line of sight. the thought of this makes you sicker than before. you twitch in place, a rabbit in her burrow.

morning comes with pale light filtering through the grimy windows. you move with precision through your routine. your hands don't shake. they never do.

today will be different. you've spent the night planning, considering variables. calculating. your head hurts, and your wrists ache. the watcher has broken the pattern by allowing herself to be seen. you have broken the pattern by forcing her to see you. for her, this means either carelessness—unlikely—or intention. for you, it is only intention. you want something more than simple surveillance. she seems willing to…

you are unsure. you feel ill again.

eventually, you unfold yourself and dress carefully: high-waisted cream trousers that fall just above your ankles, a fitted black turtleneck, and ballet flats. not trying to be noticed, nor trying to hide. your jewelry is minimal—small gold hoops, a thin asymmetrical garnet chain around your neck.

in your bathroom cabinet, behind the aspirin and bandages, is a small metal case. inside: three syringes, each filled with clear liquid, capped and sealed. you've never known what they contain—only that your mother pressed them into your hands the last time you saw her out of bed, her eyes uncharacteristically urgent.

she explained nothing and left you in the dark continuously, but you were intelligent enough to piece it together.

you take one, slip it into your purse. just in case.

𓃦

the café is busy enough to provide cover but quiet enough for a conversation. you've chosen a table against the wall, back to the corner, with a full view of both exits. the herbal tea you ordered sits untouched. you've been there forty-three minutes when she walks in.

she moves differently in daylight. less predatory, more human. her arms are concealed beneath a leather jacket, but you can see the faint outline of metal where one meets her shoulder. she orders at the counter, then turns as if scanning for a seat. her eyes find yours immediately—gray, two sharp disks of steel. stainless.

no pretense now. there is no use for it. she walks directly to your table and sits across from you.

“i thought you were smart,” she says. her voice is lower than you expected, rough at the edges like she doesn't use it often.

you don't respond immediately, holding her gaze instead. “i am,” you say. “i’m here.”

your heart hammers, but your face reveals nothing. stillness as strategy. she studies you, head tilted slightly.

“most would run.”

“would they?” the question is genuine. you've never known what most people would do, let alone a mark.

her eyes narrow, assessing. she's beautiful in a severe way—sharp cheekbones, that unnatural blank expression shared by predators and prey. there's a scar running from her temple to her jaw, partially obscured by her hair.

“why are you following me?” you ask.

“do not act stupid if you are not,” she says. then, “orders.” she shrugs, the motion fluid on her human side, slightly mechanical on the other.

you tilt your head, and your hair shifts.

“from whom?”

she doesn't answer, but her gaze intensifies, as if searching for something in your face.

“does it have to do with my parents?” you press.

something changes in her expression—a tightening around the eyes, a subtle shift in posture.

“what do you know about your parents?” her voice is careful now, measured.

“less than you. they had me and held me once. when they put me down, we were forever disconnected.” you take a sip of your tea. “but i observed enough to know they weren't just researchers. there is a reason people want me and killed them.”

she watches you drink the tea, follows the bob of your throat as you swallow.

“killed is a strong word to describe an ill woman and missing man.”

“i thought we were not stupid,” you respond. “my mother was abnormally healthy, even for a woman only in her fifties, and succumbed to her ‘cancer’ in under three days. my father gave me a warning before going on a rather long ‘walk.’ in a few days, you were probably going to arrange my evident ‘suicide.’”

“smart,” the woman rumbles, her mouth quirking for a moment.

“predictable,’ you counter, settling back in your chair.

“and? do you have what they want?”

you meet her gaze directly. “i don't know what they want.”

it's the truth, and she seems to recognize it. she sits back, something like disappointment crossing her features.

“what's your name?” you ask.

the question seems to startle her. "a designation."

“that wasn’t my question.”

you personalize, she notes. ‘my’ instead of ‘the’.

her eyes narrow. “why does that matter to you?”

“curiosity.” you blink, eyes large. “connection.”

she watches you for a long moment as if weighing something in her mind.

“sevika.”

you nod once, accepting this small truth. “is that what you choose to call yourself? or is it a cover?”

the question disturbs her. you can see it in the slight widening of her eyes, the way her metal hand flexes unconsciously.

“it's what i am,” she replies, but there's a flicker of uncertainty. “what i can remember.”

“is it? if your mind is not fully there, how can you be so sure?”

her reaction is immediate—chair scraping back, body tensing. for a moment, you think she might attack you right there in the café. instead, she stands, looming over you.

“you know nothing,” she says, voice tight.

“i know more than i did yesterday.” simple truth. no bluff needed. “sevika. ‘servant of god. ’”

sevika stares at you, conflict evident in her eyes. then, decision made, she leans down until her face is inches from yours.

“your parents created a program,” she tells you, the words barely audible. “they built it inside our heads. cast our true selves out. and now their employers want to make sure no one can rebuild it—especially not their child.”

you arc your head up, revealing your neck. “do you get tired of serving, sevika?”

she straightens and adjusts her jacket. “you have three days.”

before you can say more, she's walking away, disappearing into the morning crowd. you remain seated, expression neutral, despite the chaos rising in your mind. only when you're certain she's gone do you allow yourself to exhale.

your hand drifts to your purse, fingers brushing against the syringe. whatever your mother gave you suddenly feels more significant—not just protection, but possibly a key. to what, you don't yet know.

you bite your cheek until you taste blood. you resist the urge to scream.

sevika 𓃠: do you get tired of serving, sevika?

the soldier covers her face, pressing her metal fingers into her nose until the bone threatens to give. she pulls away and shakes her head like an agitated bull.

do you get tired of serving, sevika?

“you did this to me,” she hisses.

do you get tired of serving?

sevika?

𓃦

the storage unit is in the industrial district, rented under a name you've never used but recognize immediately.

your wet nurse had the same one. you are unsure whether it was hers or given to her by your mother to make remembering who she was much easier. knowing her, it was most likely the more callous option.

the key was where you thought it would be—hidden inside her most prized possession: a heavy, turquoise fabergé egg complete with a false bottom that would’ve taken a more reverent person three hours to discover but only took you five minutes to smash.

inside the unit: boxes. dozens of them, stacked to the ceiling, labeled in your mother's precise handwriting. research notes. prototypes. personnel files. you start with the one labeled “оперативник обсидиана; первая фаза.” obsidian operative; phase one.

inside, photographs and dossiers. men and women with empty eyes and metal limbs. modification specifications. psychological evaluations. you flip through them, looking for that silvery, vast gaze—for sevika.

you find her file near the bottom of the box. her full name has been blacked out, but if you hold it up to the light, you can see it faintly. sevika, it turns out, is her real name.

there's a photograph paper-clipped to the front page. she looks younger, hair longer, eyes clearer. no scar yet. the file details her "acquisition"—a clinical term for kidnapping—and subsequent "integration" into the program.

the technical language is dense, full of terms you don't understand. most of it is in russian, but there are haphazard notes in your mother tongue. phrases jump out: neural recalibration, memory suppression, compliance protocols. your stomach turns as you realize what your parents were doing—what they created.

and then you find the notes in your mother's handwriting: subject displays unusual resistance to compliance measures. recommend increased cognitive recalibration combined with focused tactile stimulus.

torture. your mother was recommending torture.

you close the file, expression unchanged. this is neither shock nor surprise—merely confirmation of suspicions long held about the woman who raised you. the distance between you suddenly makes more sense. you wonder if she would have changed you if she could, if she was able.

you continue sorting through the boxes with methodical precision, searching for anything related to "neural programming" or "compliance protocols." time slips away as you read, absorbing information, connecting dots your parents deliberately scattered.

hours later, you sit surrounded by yellowed papers, understanding ebbing and flowing through your mind. the syringes. you know what they contain now—two are filled with the counteragent to the compliance serum. one provides a coward’s way out. not redemption, then. strategy. always strategy with your mother.

a noise at the door makes you freeze. metal scraping against metal. the lock is turning.

you gather the most crucial papers, folding them crisply and depositing them into your bag. it’s too late to escape. the door slides open, and sevika stands silhouetted against the fading daylight.

“you found your way,” she says, stepping inside. her eyes take in the scattered files, the copies of testing. “are you happy with what you’ve found?”

you straighten, maintaining your composure. inside, your mind flicks through scenarios, seeking an advantage.

“no one is ever happy with the truth,” you answer. “the best you can do is be unafraid of it, better aware of it. i am aware, now, about what they did to you. about what they made.”

she moves closer, her eyes gleaming in the dim light. “and?”

you’re honest.

“they built you to be a weapon,” you say, meeting her gaze steadily. “and i am deeply sorry that they made it their life’s work to destroy and dismantle you.”

something shifts in her expression—a crack in the perfect soldier façade. confusion, perhaps. or the first tremors of recognition that you and your parents are not the same entity.

“and?” she asks a second time. “do you absolve yourself?”

you gather your bag, stepping around her toward the door. you make a decision. as you pass, you tell her,

“not fully. i am my blood.”

“and?” she sounds irate now, annoyed.

you turn one last time, look her right in the eye. your necklace gleams along your throat like a crooked trail of blood.

“well, i did not make you.”

you feel her watching as you walk away, the weight of her gaze settling right between your shoulder blades. you don't turn back. you don't have to. something has changed between you—an understanding reached without words.

she will come for you again. but next time, it will be different.

sevika 𓃠: she wants you with the view of the city behind your back, legs open to her mouth, her head resting satedly on your thigh as she presses kiss after kiss to the soft bits of your skin.

she wants you covered in jewels, writhing underneath her as she pleasures you, takes you somewhere close to heaven as the sun rises slowly.

wants you between her teeth, underneath the caress of her tongue. wants your jugular pumping jerkily against her lips.

she wants.

IV: MARIA.

the dance studio smells differently than you remember: rosin dust, sweat, and the faint trace of sandalwood incense that iman burns. maybe she has been burning it every morning for the past twenty years. you are unsure, shaken by your connection with sevika, and therefore fixated on the idea of an unreliable memory. you can no longer remember if the studio was cold or if you only felt that way because there was no warmth inside of you.

you stand in the doorway, watching her lead a class of young girls through a series of positions. her voice is melodic, patient—the same voice that once coaxed precision from your reluctant limbs.

“eyes up, miriam. the ceiling holds your dreams.” iman demonstrates, her neck elongating, spine straightening despite her sixty-plus years. she moves behind the girl, her fingers pressing sharply into the child's shoulders until she winces. you feel a phantom pain rise in your own.“pain is temporary. poor technique is forever.”

the casual cruelty feels familiar, almost comforting in its echo of your mother's methods. your body remembers what your mind forgets. you wonder if the same is true for sevika—if somewhere beneath the programming, her body remembers who she was before. you can’t stop thinking of her eyes, of how much emotion they contain for someone who was supposed to be drained of life.

iman notices you then, her eyes narrowing slightly. she doesn't break rhythm, continuing to guide her students through the combination, but you can feel her attention split between them and you—a presence she clearly could have gone without.

when class ends, the girls file past you in a flutter of black leotards and timid silence. in time, they will learn to become grateful for iman’s instruction. once you belonged to a larger company, you understood that she was kind. you remain still, a technique iman herself taught you. stillness draws less attention than movement and provides more importance.

“i thought perhaps you were a ghost,” she says finally, approaching with the measured grace that once made her famous across three continents. "it has been, what—a month?”

“it’s only been four days,” you correct, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

“well, missing a day sets you back for two.” iman pauses, studying your face. “you look so much like her now. around the eyes.” you know she speaks of your mother. she gestures toward her small office. “come. whatever has brought you back must be important.”

you follow her into the cramped space lined with photographs—iman in her prime, performing with the greats of her generation. among them, a small picture of you at thirteen, balanced in arabesque, face serious with concentration. you're surprised she kept it. she catches the twist of your face and smiles, a soft arch that lights up her face.

“despite my nature, i do like you.”

your throat tightens, and you turn away.

“tea?” she asks, already filling an electric kettle. “i still have the blue lotus you liked.”

“thank you.” you sit in the single chair opposite her desk. for the first time in days, you feel your shoulders loosen slightly. here, at least, is someone who knew you before.

iman prepares the tea with ritualistic precision, measuring by eye, adding just the right amount of milk. the familiar floral haze transports you momentarily to afternoons after practice, your muscles aching, iman's steady hands correcting your posture with firm, uncompromising pressure.

“so,” she says, placing a steaming cup before you. “what trouble has found you, kochanie?” the endearment sounds like an accusation in her clipped tone.

the familiar sharpness—dear, sweetheart—nearly undoes you. your mother made fun of your softness, your sensitivity. you don’t understand what she’d wanted you to be like. you stare into your cup, gathering yourself. “i need information.”

“speak up. what about?”

“a woman. south asian descent.” you speak louder, then hesitate. “she may have trained in dance, perhaps classical forms. there's a… precision to her movements.”

iman's eyebrows rise slightly. “that describes many women. including me.”

“she's in her forties, possibly. has a cybernetic arm. she’s called sevika.”

recognition flashes across iman's face, quickly suppressed. your heart rate increases.

“you know her.”

iman sips her tea, eyes distant. “not directly. but i know of her. there was talk, years ago.” she sets down her cup with a sharp click against the saucer. “why are you looking for this woman? is this one of your asinine crushes?”

you blink at her, cheeks growing warm in the silence. she laughs, full-bodied.

“you had such a thing for strong, older women. you were embarrassingly obvious about your brief attraction to me and even worse about your crush on that girl i hired to be an assistant. you worried me. i was afraid you would be too brash, too naive, and get swept up by an evil nature.”

“i—” you kept eye contact, despite the faint horror washing over you. “we will not speak of this again.”

iman’s lips curled into a saccharine sickle shape. “of course, kochanie.”

“anyway, she's looking for me.” you meet iman's gaze. “my parents…what they did to her. i need to understand.”

a shadow crosses iman's face. “your parents. yes.” her voice turns cooler. “i wondered when their work would find you.”

“you knew?”

“i suspected. your mother was many things, but humble was not one of them. her arrogance was a strong contender for what would eventually kill her.” iman sighs. “the girl you're asking about—she was a dancer once. bharatanatyam. quite gifted.”

something shifts in your chest—the first concrete detail of sevika before she became a weapon. “where? when? why?”

iman gives you a look of annoyance but continues. “zaun, a small industrialized portion of the countryside just outside of delhi. perhaps fifteen years ago. her family was…traditional. religious. they disowned her when she chose dance over marriage. she came here for a scholarship.” iman's eyes narrow. “and then she disappeared. there were rumors that she joined some experimental program. military, perhaps. or private sector.”

your parents' program. you swallow.

iman tilts her head. “we both know better than to believe that. she was preyed on. she most likely felt she had no other option. many young dancers were in the same way and are so easy to find in this country.”

“what was her name? her real name?”

iman hesitates. “why do you want to know this? to help her, or to protect yourself?” she leans forward, voice cutting. “you have a great capacity for selfishness. like your mother.”

the accusation stings with its precision. iman always knew exactly where to apply pressure.

“both,” you answer honestly. “maybe neither. i just need to know.”

iman studies you, searching for something in your face. whatever she finds seems to satisfy her.

“sevika,” she says finally. “that was her name even then. she was never devout, but she worshipped her mother—wore her kara, never removed it.” iman gestures to her wrist. “a steel bracelet. symbol of strength, unbreakable bonds with god.”

sevika. the name settles into you like a stone dropping into still water. so, she had been telling the truth. the file had not been doctored. it was not a code name, but her true name. a dancer, not just a weapon. a person with links to faith, with links to history.

“thank you,” you say, voice steadier than you feel.

“what will you do with this information?” iman's tone softens slightly, a rare concession.

you consider lying, offering some reassurance that would ease the concern in iman's eyes. instead, you offer truth—a habit you unfortunately seem to be developing.

“i don't know yet.”

iman nods, accepting this. "be careful, kochanie. whatever your parents built, it was designed to consume. don't let it consume you too.” she reaches across the desk, her fingers gripping your wrist painfully. “i didn't waste years training you to die foolishly.”

you finish your tea in silence, the warmth spreading through your chest, momentarily displacing the cold dread that's been your constant companion. when you stand to leave, iman surprises you by pulling you into an embrace. her body is small but solid, smelling of violet and ice. her fingers dig into your shoulders with familiar sharpness.

“your feet still remember the steps,” she murmurs, releasing you. “even if your mind has forgotten the dance.”

you look at her for a long time, press your face into your neck. she allows you to pretend you are a child. her gwiazdeczko. her only star.

you both know you will never see each other again.

𓃦

the library's microfiche archives are housed in a basement level that smells of dust and aging paper. the elderly archivist barely glances at your researcher credentials—fake, but convincing enough—before granting you access to the international dance competition records.

hours pass as you scan through images and articles, searching for glimpses of sevika. your eyes burn, and your back aches, but you continue, driven by something beyond yourself.

and then—there she is.

the image is grainy, black and white, but unmistakable. younger sevika suspended mid-performance. her body forms a perfect line, one leg extended behind her, arms arced overhead. her face is transformed by concentration, by connection to something beyond herself. on her right wrist, visible despite the poor image quality, was a simple steel bracelet.

you print the image, along with several articles mentioning her name. one features a brief interview where she speaks of dance as “conversation with the divine.” she gives the impression that she doesn’t believe it. another announces her acceptance to a prestigious dance academy in piltover. the last mentions her as a notable absence from a major competition, with no explanation given.

after that—nothing. as if sevika simply ceased to exist.

you know what happened. you've seen the files and read the clinical descriptions of “acquisition” and “integration.” but seeing her like this—alive with purpose, connected to heritage that was sawed off at the bone—makes the horror of what followed newly visceral.

𓃦

the basement apartment you've rented is sparse but functional. cash only, no questions asked. you've lined the windows with specialized film that prevents surveillance and swept for bugs twice. standard precautions.

what isn't standard is the small shrine you've assembled on the kitchen counter.

a printed image of lakshmi, the goddess of prosperity and fortune, downloaded and printed at the library. a small dish of water. a tea light candle. and beside these, the printout of sevika mid-dance.

you're not of any belief. you have no faith to speak of. yet, something compels you to create this space—a remembrance for the woman who existed before the weapon. perhaps it's strategy, preparation for your next encounter. perhaps it's something else entirely. maybe you are trying to become her.

you light the candle, watching the flame catch and steady. in its glow, sevika seems almost to move, her frozen pose briefly animated.

“sevika,” you say aloud, testing the name with new understanding. it feels right in your mouth.

the window behind you creaks. you don't turn, don't reach for the knife concealed beneath the sink. you know who it is.

“where did you get this?” her voice is dangerously neutral.

“library archives. international dance competition, 2010.” you glance at her. “you were extraordinary.”

something flickers across her face—confusion, perhaps. or pain. her cybernetic hand opens and closes reflexively.

“why?” she asks finally. “why are you doing this?”

the question hangs between you. why indeed? you're not entirely sure yourself.

“you deserve to know who you were,” you say. “before my parents told you who you are.”

her laugh is sharp, brittle. “strategy. make the assest question its focus.”

“i’m not sure if that’s it completely. do you feel it working?” you turn to face her fully now. in the dim light, her features seem softer, the hard edges blurred.

she doesn't answer. instead, she reaches toward the shrine, metal fingers hovering over the image of herself. she doesn't touch it.

“i remember… fragments,” she says, voice lower. “the smell of jasmine oil in my hair. the sound of bells on my ankles.” her hand drops. “nothing useful to me know. it won’t make me whole.”

“it's still yours,” you say. “those memories. that life.”

her eyes find yours, gray and penetrating. “why do you care?”

this time, the question feels genuine rather than accusatory. you consider your answer carefully.

“because what they did to you was wrong,” you say. “and because—” you hesitate, unsure how to articulate the strange connection forming between you.

“because?” she steps closer, and you can smell her—metal and leather and beneath that, something faintly sweet.

“i would rather be killed by someone i know than by a stranger,” you finish.

“i’m still a stranger,” she says.

“less now,” you answer.

sevika studies you, searching for deception. her flesh hand rises slowly, hovering near your face without touching. you remain still, heart hammering against your ribs.

“they're still coming for you,” she says. “three days. i wasn't lying.”

“i know.” you shift in place. “it’s been longer.”

“yes.” she is so close. “i should complete my mission.”

“you should,” you agree.

neither of you moves.

“why is it that when you’re so young, you are unafraid to die?” she asks you.

“i grew up surrounded by people who never wanted me alive,” you say, and something flickers within her gaze. “i cannot have a life of my own because of my parents’ sins. what is left for me?”

the candle flame flickers between you, casting shifting shadows across her face, illuminating slivers of the woman who was once better than this.

“you wear your kara on your left wrist now,” you observe quietly. “not the right.”

her eyes widen fractionally. beneath her jacket sleeve, barely visible: a band of steel encircling her human wrist.

“how did you—”

“a woman who knew of you told me you never removed it. symbol of unbreakable bonds with god.” you meet her gaze steadily. “they couldn't take everything from you.”

something breaks in her expression—a crack in the perfect soldier façade. she turns away sharply, moving toward the window.

“sevika,” you call softly.

she doesn't turn back, but her posture changes—a subtle shift that reminds you of the dancer in the photograph.

“i'll return,” she says, voice rough.

“and what will you be to me?”

“whatever i need to be.”

she slips through the window into the night, leaving you alone with the dancing flame and a strange, warm ache spreading through your chest—an unfamiliar feeling that might, in someone else, be called hope.

you blow out the candle but leave the shrine intact. whatever comes next, you want to remember this moment: the first time you saw sevika truly see herself.

sevika 𓃠: she dreams of bells on her ankles. the weight of jewelry in her hair. hands moving through precise mudras, telling stories her conscious mind no longer remembers.

she wakes clutching her kara, the steel warm against her skin. something is shifting inside her—memory returning like water seeping through cracks in a dam. dangerous. destabilizing.

she should complete her mission. she is nothing but an asset.

instead, she traces the curve of the bracelet, remembers a temple filled with marigolds and incense, remembers a promise made before gods whose names she can almost recall. she thinks she hears her mother laugh.

sevika. the name feels both foreign and familiar in her mind, as it always does.

you—the target—are destabilizing. sevika knows she is being manipulated. knows that the cloak of her compassion is simply another strategy.

and yet.

in the darkness, she whispers your name. she weeps.

do you get tired of serving, sevika?

she answers you.

yes.

V: ALEXANDRA FEODOROVNA.

sevika enters with the precision of someone who has already made up her mind. she doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t falter. the weight of decision is a chain around her throat, one she has worn before, heavy with rust and familiarity. she is here to finish this. to close the door, to cut the thread. that’s the way it’s always been.

and yet.

the moment she sees you, something snags in her resolve like a nail catching on silk. you are not afraid—not in the way you should be. you look at her like you expected this, like you summoned her here with your own bare hands. there is something reckless in you, something that makes her hesitate. the air between you is electric, brimming with the possibility of violence or something worse.

“get up,” she says, low and even.

you don't move. she exhales, slow and measured, as if she's convincing herself of something. then she steps forward, the heavy drag of her boots loud against the silence.

“don't make me say it again.”

“and if i do?” the words are out before you can stop them, brittle and reckless. you're exhausted, but something inside you still strains against the inevitability of her. “are you going to kill me?”

your body betrays you before your mind does; you shift forward as if to meet her, not away. sevika notices. of course, she does.

your voice is quiet, steady, a blade run along the strop. sevika should say yes. should finish this. should do what she came here to do. instead, she takes a step closer.

“should i?”

a pause. your lips part, a sharp inhale, and sevika watches the way your throat moves when you swallow. everything you do betrays that you are a ballerina. this is the kind of detail she shouldn’t notice. this is the kind of detail that betrays her.

you shake your head, but it isn’t a no. “you told me that when you returned, you would possess the answer to that already.”

the heat between you is unbearable. this is not seduction, not in the traditional sense. this is something else—something raw, desperate, as old as war. attraction sharpened to a knife’s edge, desire that tastes like iron. if sevika touches you, it won’t be gentle. if you touch her, it won’t be soft. there is too much between you. and still—you step closer.

sevika exhales sharply, her hand twitching at her side. her fingers itch, but she doesn’t know if it’s to hold you or to hurt you. maybe both. maybe neither. and then you say it,

“i don’t want to die.”

it spills from you like a confession, the rawest thing you’ve ever given someone else. you’ve spent so long pretending that death is just something that comes and goes, guiding your every choice. and now, at the precipice, you fold.

you want to live. and sevika—

something shifts. the space between you collapses. the weight of inevitability bears down on both of you, crushing, suffocating. this is not mercy. it is something worse.

sevika reaches for you.

you let her.

woman-soldier/sevika 𓃠: “you want to continue to live like this?” she asks you. “don’t be stupid.”

her hand settles around your throat, presses down. you are losing air, but you speak anyway.

“when i was younger, i was obsessed with the romanovas. otma. the sisters. olga, tatiana, maria, and anastasia. the tsarita too. i don’t know why. maybe, despite my mother’s best efforts, i was just like every other little girl. i loved a fairytale, i loved the glamour.”

the solider cups the back of your head with her human hand.

“everyone wanted to be like anastasia, but i felt the most like tatiana. relentlessly private, withdrawn.”

she does not understand the point of this. maybe this is you trying to live.

“my entire life,” you wheeze, “i have been anastasia. mythologized and the imagined last living thing of a bloodline so vast and well-known that it almost kills you. for my entire life, i envied tatiana, who died first. it’s such an evil thing to envy, and i’m aware of it. i know.”

“what is the point of this?” sevika asks, her voice weary.

your eyes darken, your voice strengthens. your face is wet, gleaming like a diamond with your tears.

“this is a slow, pathetic way to kill me. give me what i want.”

the soldier loosens the constriction of her metal fingers, and she sees you see her consider it. she could put a bullet in your brain and move on from this. the soldier pulls away from your throat and reaches down, holds your hand. the soldier returns to your throat, only now you are suffocating yourself. the soldier leans forward.

sevika kisses you.

𓃦

she is kissing you, and it's not gentle. it's not meant to comfort. it's a challenge, a demand, and a concession all at once. your mouth opens under hers like a flower, and you taste something metallic, almost alcoholic. it could be regret. her metal hand is still around your throat, forcing you to strangle yourself—a twisted form of agency in your own destruction.

when she pulls away, there's a thin line of blood on her lower lip. yours or hers, it's impossible to tell.

“this isn't what i came here for,” she says, but her voice lacks conviction.

“what did you come here for, then?” your voice is sandpaper, raw from the pressure on your trachea. “to kill me or to save me? do you not know the answer, or are they the same thing in your world?"

the soldier releases your hand from your throat, and you gasp, drawing in air that burns like fire. she steps back, creating distance, but her eyes never leave yours. there's something haunted in them, something that makes you wonder if the woman you see before you is really sevika at all or just the ghost that lives inside the weapon they made her to be.

“you know nothing of yourself,” you remind her.

“your mother,” sevika says finally, “she knew exactly what she was doing.”

you flinch. the mention of your mother—architect of nightmares, designer of the programming that stripped the woman before you of everything—lands like a slap.

“i am not her.”

“aren't you?” sevika's laugh is harsh, cutting. “the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, as they say. and you—parts of you—are rotten.”

“spoiled,” you correct her. “never rotten.”

she scoffs.

“i didn't know.” your voice breaks. “i didn't know what she was doing. what they were doing.”

“would it have mattered if you did?”

the question hangs between you, unanswerable. you are unsure. you'd like to think it would have, that you would have been brave enough to stand against your own blood. but the truth is, you've spent your life in willful ignorance, basking in the privilege that your family name afforded you, never questioning where the money came from, what built the empire you inherited. you were silly and stupid and angry—but misdirected. at odds with the world around you.

you think of what you told her before: no one is ever happy with the truth. the best you can do is be unafraid of it, better aware of it.

“i want to make it right,” you say finally.

“you can't.” sevika's voice is flat. “some things can't be undone.”

she moves suddenly, and you manage to stifle your flinch, expecting violence. instead, she slides her jacket off, revealing the full extent of her mechanical arm. the metal gleams in the dim light, a masterpiece of engineering and cruelty. where flesh meets metal, a network of scars radiates outward, a map of her suffering. there is a red star pressed upon it.

“this is what your family did,” she says, jutting her chin toward you. “not just to me. to dozens. most didn't survive the process.”

you reach out, hesitant, and she goes still as a corpse. your fingers hover over the scars, not quite touching. a muscle jumps in her jaw. she nods, a quick, sharp movement. your fingertips brush against the raised tissue where metal meets flesh. the scars are smooth in some places, puckered in others. you trace the boundary between woman and weapon, feeling the heat of her skin give way to the cool bite of metal. sevika watches you, her breath shallow, controlled.

“does it hurt?”

“always.”

the word is heavy with years of endurance. you withdraw your hand, ashamed of your curiosity, your fascination with the physical manifestation of her pain.

"i'm sorry."

"apologies won’t fix anything." sevika moves past you, further into the room. she surveys your living space—spartan, impersonal, a place to exist rather than live. "you've been hiding."

it's not a question, but you answer anyway. "yes."

"from who?"

"everyone. the people who want what's in my head. the people who want revenge for what my family did." you pause. "from you."

sevika turns to face you, and there's a terrible kind of understanding in her eyes. "and how has that worked out for you?"

you gesture around the empty room, at the life you've carved out in shadows. "it is working. i'm still breathing."

"is that enough?"

the question lands like a blow. is it enough? to exist in this half-life, always looking over your shoulder, never allowing yourself to be known? you've survived, yes, but at what cost?

"i do not know anymore," you admit.

sevika nods as if you've confirmed something she already knew.

“why do you speak like that?” she asks, eyes cool and steady. “breaking apart your words, never contracting.”

“it makes me feel like i have more to say.”

she hums and moves to the window, parting the curtain with her metal fingers. the city lights create strange patterns on her face, illuminating half, leaving the rest in shadow.

“they're coming,” she says simply.

your heart stutters. “i know.”

sevika lets the curtain fall. "the files you accessed most likely have triggered alerts. the remaining members of the program, government agencies, private contractors looking to restart the project. they all want what you know.”

the revelation shouldn't surprise you, but it does.

"will you continue to help them?"

"no." sevika's denial is immediate, certain. "not anymore."

"so, why are you here, sevika?"

she doesn't answer immediately. instead, she crosses the room to where your ballet shoes hang on a hook by the door—a remnant of your former life, the one thing you couldn't bear to leave behind. she touches them with her human hand, a gesture so gentle it feels intrusive to watch.

"do you miss the stage?" she says, and it's not a question.

"i was never on it."

sevika nods as if this makes perfect sense to her. "the muscle memory never leaves you.”

the words strike a chord in you, resonating with something deeper than their surface meaning. you wonder what her body remembers that her mind has been forced to forget.

"why are you here, sevika?" you ask again, softer this time.

she turns to face you, and the look in her eyes makes your breath catch. it's not hatred, not anger, but something far more dangerous—conviction.

"to warn you," she says. "and to make you an offer."

"an offer?"

sevika moves toward you with the fluid grace of a predator, each step deliberate, measured. you hold your ground, even as every instinct screams at you to run.

"they're going to tear apart everything you've built here," she says. "they’re going to tear you apart. they'll extract every piece of information from your mind, willingly or not. and when they're done, they'll discard what's left. or worse, they'll use you to rebuild what your mother started."

the cold certainty in her voice leaves no room for doubt. she's not threatening you; she's warning you.

"what's your offer, then?"

"come with me." sevika stops just shy of touching you.

you laugh, a brittle sound. "and go where? do what? live on the run for the rest of my life?"

"live freely."

the simplicity of her answer takes you aback. free. the word tastes foreign on your tongue.

“you are still trapped. you are worse than me.” suspicion colors your voice. "why would you help me?"

sevika's eyes harden. "don't misunderstand. this isn't forgiveness."

"then what is it?"

she reaches out, her metal hand cold against your cheek. the gesture should be threatening, but it's not. it's almost tender, despite the chill of the metal.

"insurance," she says. "you're the last one who knows how the program worked. how to undo it."

understanding dawns, cold and clear. "you think i can help you."

"i know you can." there's no doubt in her voice, no hesitation. "your mother might have created the program, but you've spent the past few days studying it, trying to understand what she did. you've pieced together more than you realize."

you want to deny it, but the truth is, she's right. since discovering your mother's role in the winter soldier program, you've been obsessively researching, gathering fragments of information, trying to make sense of the horror that festered inside of you. not out of scientific curiosity, but out of a desperate need to atone.

"and if i help you," you say carefully, "what then?"

"then we're done." sevika's voice is matter-of-fact. "you go your way, i go mine."

"just like that?"

"just like that."

you search her face for deception but find only grim determination. she means it, or at least, she believes she means it. whether she'll feel the same once you've served your purpose is another matter entirely.

“liar.”

sevika's expression doesn't change, but something in her eyes grows colder. "then i leave you to them. what happens after that isn't my concern."

it's another lie, and you both know it. if it wasn't her concern, she wouldn't be here at all.

"you're lying," you say again, and there's no accusation in your voice, just certainty.

sevika's jaw tightens. "think what you want."

"i think you care." you take a step closer, closing the distance between you. "i think that scares you more than anything they ever did to you."

her metal hand moves faster than you can react, wrapping around your upper arm with bruising force. "don't," she warns, her voice low, dangerous.

"don't what? tell the truth?"

the pressure on your arm increases. you'll have bruises tomorrow if you live that long. but you don't back down.

"you've been watching me for days. well past your given three," you continue. "you could have killed me anytime. but you didn't. you're here. why?"

"i told you why."

"no. you told me a reason. not the reason."

sevika's grip tightens further, and you wince. she notices, and something flickers across her face—not regret, exactly, but awareness. she releases you, steps back.

"get your things," she says, her voice clipped. "we leave in five minutes."

"i'm not going anywhere until you tell me the truth."

sevika's laugh is harsh, incredulous. "you're bargaining? now?”

"yes."

she stares at you, disbelief warring with something like respect in her eyes. "you really are like her."

the words hit harder than any physical blow could. you recoil as if struck, and sevika watches the impact of her words with calculating eyes.

"i am nothing like her," you say, each word precise, cutting.

"no?" sevika moves closer again, invading your space. "the same reckless disregard for consequence. the same arrogance, thinking you can control forces beyond your understanding. the same willingness to use people as means to an end."

"that's not true."

"isn't it?" she's so close now that you can feel the heat radiating from her body, smell the faint scent of amber and gun oil that clings to her. "what do you call this? standing here, demanding truth while death comes knocking? what do you call using my—" she stops, biting back whatever she was about to say.

"using your what?" you press.

sevika's expression shutters. "nothing."

but it's not nothing. you saw it, just for a moment—vulnerability. a crack in the armor. and suddenly, you understand.

"using your attraction to me," you finish for her.

sevika goes still, so perfectly motionless that she might as well be carved from stone. then, with deliberate control, she steps away from you.

"pack your things," she says, her voice devoid of emotion. "or stay and die. i don't care which."

but she does care. that's the problem, isn't it? for both of you.

“sevika,” you murmur.

she turns to you, a puppet on invisible strings. you sit on the bed.

“are you tired of serving, sevika?”

your voice is soft, almost soothing. you wait.

sevika 𓃠: you watch it hit her. that phrase. that relentless phrase. it shakes her teeth, boils her blood. you are putting your own code inside of her.

you sit on the bed, soft and sweet. she wants to carve you up.

are you tired of serving, sevika?

you get up, move to your closet, and pull out a small duffle bag already packed. you move back to the bed.

“i'm always prepared to run,” you explain.

you sit again, slinging the bag beside you. it’s baby pink. a dancer's bag. you meet her eyes. “sevika.”

she feels stuck, both in and outside of herself.

“it’s less about going with you and more a question of if you would like to come with me,” you tell her. you’re patient, uncaring of her silence.

she looks at you, and for just a moment, the mask slips. you seem determined, and there’s something else—something slightly sinister. it sends warmth pooling in the pit of her stomach.

“do i want to come with you?” she repeats.

“yes. we run," you say. "together."

the word hangs between you. together. not as captor and captive, not as hunter and prey. undefined.

you rise and step forward. she follows you into the hallway, leaving behind the shell of a life that was never really yours to begin with. ahead lies danger, and possibly death. as you descend the stairs, sevika's metal hand brushes against yours, cold and reassuring in equal measure.

you don't pull away.

neither does she.

this isn't a fairytale. there will be no happy ending, no redemption that erases the past. the ghosts of your mother's creation will follow you both, perhaps forever. the winter soldier and the daughter of her creator—an unstable alliance, a desperate gamble.

“sevika.”

she looks at you. your eyes are bright, a meteor. she hears the silent question.

do you get tired of serving, sevika?

are you tired of serving, sevika?

who do you wish to serve, sevika?

sevika?

“yes.”

you smile. she lunges at you, kisses you. you bruise.

обсидиановый оперативник (новый): первая фаза - излечение.

obsidian operative (new): phase one - cure.

𓃠 | 𓃦.

oct.12 ❝…anya brought me from malama (probably she speaks about dmitry malama, officer of the life-guards uhlan regiment) a small french bulldog (ortino). it's a very cute little thing.

i am so happy…❞

— letters of grand duchess tatiana romanov.