#NO ONE can imagine how deep my hatred runs towards these

[vagabond-umlaut]

why do i hate one night stands, flings, situationships or anything remotely temporary in the department of romance so-fkn-much?

[ponderingmoonlight]

Hiiiii!!! I hope you have the greatest time at your vacation! I was wondering if I could request about Sukuna x Reader where the reader is sweet and kind towards everyone, including him. He thought she would be afraid of him and confuses him all day until he confronts her as he confesses his feelings to Reader.

You know I had to write my bbys request right away 🫶🤍 I hope you like it!

Sweet Affection

Pairing: Sukuna x fem!reader

Word Count: 1,6k

Synopsis: Until he met you, Sukuna never believed in something as worthless as love and affection. But when you treated him like no one ever did before, when you showed him what affection might look like, he tumbles...

Warnings: this is just pure fluff y'all, reader is a sunny sweetheart so of that's not for you don't read, Sukuna melts like butter in her hands hehe

What do we think about adding a real "name" for a one shot instead of a brief description? Let me know 👀🤍

The air is thick with tension as you step into the room. The oppressive aura of none other than Ryomen Sukuna would send most people running, but instead of allowing fear or negativity to take over, you walk in with the same gentle smile you usually wear. After all, it’s this smile that has kept you safe so far, that kept you from losing your mind to darkness - even when standing in front of the king of curses himself.

Sukuna eyes you with a mix of dislike and curiosity. He’s not used to someone like you, someone who isn’t trembling in his presence or desperately trying to escape his control. No, you approach him calmly while offering him a cup of tea as if he were just another regular person.

A cup of tea. Is he dreaming? What the hell are you thinking?

“Here, I made this for you,” you say softly, placing the cup in front of him.

Your voice is just as warm and soothing as your appearance, completely throwing him off. He’s used to the screams, the fear, the devotion that his very name commands. But you… you’re different.

You don’t even tremble, not the tiniest bit while placing the cup in front of him. And then you sit down opposite of him as if it was nothing, as if he couldn’t kill you with one minor movement of his pinky finger.

He doesn’t take the tea, just stares at it with narrowed eyes for a brief moment.

“What’s your game?” he finally growls, his deep voice reverberating through the room.

“Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

You blink, tilting your head slightly as if the question puzzles you.

“Why would I be afraid of you? You haven’t given me a reason to be.”

Sukuna’s fingers twitch, the sharp claws extending slightly as if to remind you of exactly who he is.

“I’m a monster. These people are trying to hold me hostage. Your people,” he says, his voice low and dangerous.

“I’ve killed more humans than you can imagine. I could kill you right now if I wanted to.”

“And yet, you haven’t. Even though I’m here to make sure you don’t escape,” you reply simply, your eyes meeting his without a trace of fear.

“You could have done it a thousand times by now, but you didn’t. That tells me there’s more to you than just the monster everyone else sees or that you pretend to be.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that. Your words unsettle him, digging into parts of him he thought were long buried. He’s silent for a long moment, just watching you as you take a sip out of your own cup, eyes darting around the room in visible comfort.

“Why are you so kind? Why do you act like this?” he asks suddenly, his voice quieter this time, almost as if he’s asking himself more than you.

You smile softly, a small, genuine smile that somehow manages to light up the room despite the dark presence looming within it.

“I believe everyone deserves kindness,” you say, your eyes sincere.

“Even you, Sukuna. Or maybe especially you.”

His heart lurches in his chest, a foreign sensation he hasn’t felt in centuries. It irritates him how easily you disarm him, how your sweet nature pierces through the layers of hatred and darkness that have consumed him for so long. It baffles him, makes him feel things he hasn’t allowed himself to feel in so long.

But what angers him the most is the realization that he cares about your opinion of him. That suddenly, he doesn’t want you to see him as a monster. Not you with that glowy hair and remarkable eyes. Not you, who is the first one who actually dares to sit opposite of him, who doesn’t seem afraid of him the slightest. What do you see in him while looking up through your doe eyes and long lashes? What lingers through your mind while smiling at him oh so gently? You simply sit there, take a sip of tea from time to time and smile.

“You know I won’t stay here forever. It’s way too easy for me to escape”, he finally blurts out.

“I know you will. But until you do, I will enjoy my time drinking tea with you.”

He furrows his eyebrows, mind racing back and forth. What nonsense are you talking?

“I’m not that Itadori brat, foolish human.”

“I am very aware of that”, you reply simply.

This goes too far already, he can’t waste another precious minute sitting opposite of you while drinking tea when this might be the last change in a long time for him to take over that brat’s body. With a swift motion he stands up.

Sukuna allows himself one last glance at your soft features, the way you hold your cup so delicately. Then he’s gone.

Months pass with this strange tension lingering between you. Those past weeks, he finds himself over and over at your doorstep. Out of habit, he grabs every chance he gets out of trance to see you again.

You? You continue to treat him with the same kindness, offering him food, asking him about his day, even making casual conversation as if he were any other person.

And Sukuna… he finds himself wanting to respond, wanting to let down his guard, if only for a brief moment.

It’s maddening. He spends the entire time brooding, his thoughts swirling with questions he can’t answer. Why does he care? Why does your smile make his chest tighten? Why does he want to see it directed at him more and more? What is this urge to feel you close without the need to kill you? You, a jujutsu sorcerer from that cursed school, nothing but a weak human.

What is so special about you?

As night falls and he finds himself sitting on your couch again, he finally reaches his breaking point. You’re in the kitchen, humming softly to yourself as you prepare dinner, when he storms in, his presence like a thundercloud rolling through the room.

“Why?” he demands, his voice rough and almost desperate.

“Why are you like this with me? Why do you act like I’m not the monster I am?”

You turn to face him, your expression softening as you see the turmoil in his eyes. You take a step closer, and to his surprise, he doesn’t instinctively move back.

“Because I see more in you,” you say quietly.

“I see someone who’s been hurt, someone who’s lost so much that he’s forgotten how to be anything but cruel. But that doesn’t mean that’s all you are, Sukuna.”

Your words hit him like a punch to the gut. No one has ever spoken to him like this, ever seen him like this. And before he can stop himself, the truth comes tumbling out.

“I care about you,” he admits, the words rough and jagged like they’re being ripped from his very soul.

“And I hate it. I hate that you make me feel this way.”

Your eyes widen slightly in surprise, but then a soft smile tugs at your lips.

“It’s okay to care, Sukuna. It doesn’t make you weak. It just makes you human.”

Human.

He stares at you, his mind racing. Those countless words of nonsense leaving your mouth, that stupid smile that never wipes off your face, your kindness. Are you actually that dumb? But all he can focus on is how close you are, how your presence soothes the chaos in his mind. Without thinking, he reaches out, his fingers brushing against your cheek.

“You’re a fool. A foolish, kind-hearted human…” he murmurs, but there’s no heat in his words, only a strange, unfamiliar tenderness.

Before he can say anything more, you close the distance between you, pressing your lips against his in a gentle kiss. Soft and tentative, but it’s enough to make his heart stutter in his chest.

A firework seems to explode between both of you when he wraps his arms around your waist. Longingly, full of passion. You never allowed yourself to imagine this moment. Not when all you wanted to do was to support him, to show him that he doesn’t have to act the way he does. But this? This is more than you ever dreamed of.

Truth is, you fell for this man. Despite the stinging fact that he’s the complete opposite of you, despite all the horrible things he’s done. You can’t help but look up at him with nothing but affection glimmering in your eyes, with nothing but pure love filling your heart.

When you pull back, your eyes meet his, and for the first time in centuries, Sukuna feels something other than hatred and rage. He feels warmth. He feels… love.

And it terrifies him. Fuck, he isn’t supposed to feel this way. That feeling he always made fun of, rising up his chest because a random girl smiled at him?

But as he looks into your eyes, he realizes that maybe, just maybe, it’s worth it. Maybe it’s more than that, something worth exploring.

“I’ll destroy you,” he whispers, though the threat feels empty even to him.

You smile, leaning into his touch.

“I’ll take my chances.”

For the first time in his long, twisted existence, Sukuna doesn’t know what the future holds. But with you by his side, he thinks he might just be okay with that.

Tags:

@arehzhera @ploylulla @tzubaki @beatrexworld @kenstarsworld

@hellkaiserinphoenix  @lauv4chuuya @sindela @kayleegomez @sunshine7queen

@magalimachete @gatitam @idontknow1123 @creative1writings @sanicsmut 

@mynahx3 @sad-darksoul @chilichopsticks @hellkaiserinphoenix @chuyasthighs0

@ynackerman9499 @keepghostly  @froufrousnowman @tomiokathedepresso @gojosrealwife 

@coffeeluvr96 @mahi-tamashi @weebotaku21 @chaoticwinnercupcake @lees-chaotic-brain 

@risuola  @sugurulefttesticle @wordskeeper @baku2345 @polarbvnny

@ruixrei @bam-bam-bam-bame-blog @lavenderdrxp @localhehecat @alicerhr

@sugu-love @belovedvamp @wifenanami @chilichopsticks @dlwlrmas-world

@oikawarz @darkstarlight82 @satoreo @kentocalls @cheesemachine44

@ryva @kenjakusconcubine @baku2345 @komelrebi-san @deezy12299

@okay-it-is-ivy @paridoliaaa

[youryanderedaddy]

Summary: An unlikely encounter brings you and Cassian together, resulting in a decade - long obsession born out of lust and hatred. tw: female reader, hinted non-con, abuse/violence, obsession, jealousy, misogyny, degradation, slut-shaming, bullying, threats, choking, religious trauma, religious imagery, religious inaccuracy My ko - fi <3

Cassian still remembered the day you first met, the one he dreaded the most - the early spring warmth mixing with the smell of frost-hidden snowdrops. The earth being cleansed and reborn after a long, sluggish winter filled with challenges for the sinners' burning souls. Back then he was still working at the altar, freshly out of high school - barely nineteen, somewhere between a confused boy and a man of Christ.

He was called to fetch water from the well - it was nothing out of the ordinary, this was the sole reason he was part of the church, to help the elders with baptising and burying the dead. He was coming back with a rushed step when he saw you - bumped into you, to be exact. You were wearing a light white dress that covered just above the middle of your thighs, your ankles and feet fully exposed with just a pair of brown flowery sandals to go along with. You looked a bit older than the boy - maybe two or three years, he decided, as there was something mature in your beauty, an air of influence most girls his age didn't possess yet.

It all happened so fast - Cassian gasped in surprise as the water spilt all over you, sticking to each and every little crack and hem of your thin cotton dress. The wet fabric hugged all your curves, as if damp just to tempt him. He immediately looked down, covering his face with one hand as he tried to collect the fallen jug with the other, cheeks beet red. You, in turn, smiled playfully, reaching for the small pot before the man could grab it. You wiggled it in the air, laughing with your teeth out - glowing in the soft sunlight. He mumbled something incoherent, perhaps begging you to return it - but you were quick on your feet, running towards the river with the tool in hand, your soft giggles bursting like bubbles.

The boy hesitated for a second before eventually following after you, innocent brown eyes widening with a mix of fear and surprise, heart beating violently against his chest - this was the first time he was so close to a woman. After chasing you around the forest for a while, he stopped to catch his breath just to realise he had lost you somewhere along the way. He looked around, already panicking - too frightened to even begin imagining how the elders would react once they knew he had lost the ceremonial canna. 

“Looking for this?” You suddenly called out to him, a playful smile tugging at the corners of your pink lips. He quickly turned to face you, blushing once again as he spotted you sitting among the rocks surrounding the stream with the sun caught in your loosened locks - and his jug in your soft palms. You looked just like the nymphs his mentor had warned him about - cruel, whimsical creatures, yet painfully, breathtakingly beautiful. They liked to trick lost travellers and lonely shepherds, taking their soul for all eternity. 

Cassian took a deep breath and mouthed a quick prayer to his patron, bringing his hands together. He could do this. He wouldn’t be swayed by you no matter how cunning you may be - for his soul belonged to Christ and Christ alone.

“Stealing is a g-grave sin, Miss.” The boy exclaimed, voice shaky yet unrelenting as he took a step towards you. “So please return the can to me at once!” This time he sounded almost breathless, whiny like a mere child. You couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped your parted lips. “Aww, no need to get mad. I am simply borrowing it.” You cooed at the disciple with slight mockery, pretending to eye the item in your hands with great interest. 

“I am n-not mad!” Cassian swiftly contested, crossing his arms to appear more intimidating, if that was even possible. “I am just frustrated - righteously so, since y-you took something that belongs to me, and refuse to give it back.” He continued, puffing his chest out towards you in annoyance. You found his attempts to convince you utterly adorable - but the only thing they accomplished was making you want to pick on him even more. “If you want it so bad, come and get it!” You egged him on, dingling it just above his head once again.

Then suddenly, just for a split second, something in his eyes changed. The brown turned dark and muddy, almost glowing with fury, his teeth grazing his cheek until he could taste the blood on his tongue - and next thing you knew, he had pushed you into the stream, soaked up to your chin. You started coughing, desperate to keep the water out of your lungs, but his hand pressed heavy against your chest, shoving you towards the very bottom of the river.

It was your turn to panic, cheeks heating up with uncertainty. You looked up at Cassian with soft, pleading eyes - begging him to let go. It was all too much for the sheltered boy - your prior teasing, your pitiful gaze, your warm skin shivering against the drenched, transparent clothing, leaving little to the imagination… He subconsciously began tugging at his tight golden collar, feeling the cold sweat creep upon his neck - then he slowly released you, letting your body rise up to the top without any added weight on it.

The disciple stared at your trembling form for what felt like eternity, unable to look away. Soon enough you came to your senses, scurrying to cover your breasts - but despite your best attempts at hiding, his fervent gaze kept threatening to burn a hole into your flesh. You opened your mouth to say something, perhaps an apology of sorts, or even an accusation - yet no sound came out. 

And just like that the boy was gone.

***

Cassian cried the whole night, he cried his little heart out, hugging the Mary Magdalen icon close to his chest - hoping, praying that he could be redeemed. He was sick, utterly sick. The way he had felt, the way his body had reacted to you - it was sinister, devilish, unholy. Something completely unbecoming of the sacred figure he aspired to become once his altar duties were finished. He was supposed to be different, a beam of light in a crowd of darkness and misery, and now he was filthy, reeking of sin - of you.

His racing thoughts left him restless, unable to close his eyes. He had no other option left - he had to confide in his mentor, it was the right thing to do. It was going to be alright, he tried to rationalise. Repent, and you will be saved. A sin admitted is a sin resolved and punished from within, from your very core. That’s what the elders always said - sin was human, but deceit was intentional, it meant that your soul was purposely straying away from God’s love and protection. The ones who were truthful and eager to accept their faults could still ascend to Heaven.

And Cassian was lucky - so, so lucky, because his mentor proved understanding to the troubles of his soul. He reassured him, taking him into his arms, the smell of incense and wax and home enough to soothe any heartache. The old man smiled gently, petting his hair - telling him that beauty was a Godly virtue, and there was nothing wrong with admiring it for his body itself was a fruit of desire and love. Then once the boy had stopped sobbing, his breathing finally even, the priest pulled him to the side and reminded him that he was one of his best students, and as such he simply could not be tempted and swayed by the weakness of the flesh. The deacon had seen him - had felt the cleaness in his eyes, and that’s precisely why he had chosen him; for his unyielding chastity and goodness. And he was never wrong about his pupils - so it was obviously the woman’s fault. 

Cassian could understand it now, clear as day. You had tempted him. You had stolen his sleep and his tears like a siren, like a Jezebel. But that was fine, completely fine. It was all part of the big plan. Temptation was good - faith always had its challenges, and he’d be damned if he let someone as wretched as you lure him into severing his ties to God. This was his future. This church was his home, and so it would remain. He would become the next deacon of Holy Agnes, and you would be no obstacle. Just an underwater stone - a bug he had to crush so he could be free and whole again.

***

Several years passed by with a snap of a finger. Cassian slowly matured, soft cheeks and bright eyes turning sharp and mundane with his newfound restraint. He had adapted some level of unconscious stoicism, set on raising above the lowly human needs. And yet he kept seeing you everywhere he went, like a ghost of the past.

Sometimes you were in the garden by his church, laughing and smiling with avid colours covering your body. Countless dingley pearly bracelets stacked one on top of the other heaving on your little wrists like a fire circle. You were loud, never one to suppress your silvery ringing voice. Other times you were sitting by the nearby lake, sewing or knitting, writing in a worn out notebook with fleeting papers all over your lap. You were in the bakery he walked by after Mass, on the opposite side of the farmer alley he frequented on the Sabbath. Always just a breath away, but never quite close enough. 

He wanted to touch you. He wanted to drag you in by your hair and yell in your ear until it bled - you, who so innocently strolled left and right with your pretty twirly dresses and skirts that never covered your knees, you with your naked hands parading around the park with nothing on your mind, but rainbows and sunshine. As if you didn’t know you had ruined his youth with aching sickness over you - as if you didn’t care he had spent countless hours agonising, wondering whether he’d see you again. Wondering whether he’ll be able to hold back from reaching out and completely devouring you. 

Were you looking for attention, looking so bubbly and careless, bright shouting colours on display? Were you hoping to tempt him again by showing all this vulnerable, ripe skin? Had you completely forgotten about that unlikely encounter that was permanently engraved into his memory with the burning mark of hellfire itself? 

Because it certainly seemed so when the whole village was whispering about you and your countless misdeeds. People were saying that you were pursuing a crafting clerkship in the nearby town - that you were travelling alone, or in the company of strange men, sleeping in unknown taverns on the road for days. Drinking and drowning in debauchery. Rumours had it that you would give yourself away to the highest bidder, thus being able to fund all those adventurous trips across the land. 

Cassian didn’t want to believe them, and he refused to partake in the tired, painfully repetitive conversations of the common folk who flocked to the church for warmth and food like a herd of sheep to a master. To him tattle was a sin of itself, a needless effort to drop the Lord’s name in vain just to curse a harlot or to mock an innocent, unsuspecting widow - but from day to day their words became harsher, crueller, ungodly. You were made to look like Lilith herself, and he couldn’t help believing what he could feel with his own heart.

It was a simple fact, really. You were just a whore, and nothing more - because he could clearly see you clinging to another man’s shoulder through the small glazed window of his, pushing your chest towards the dark stranger - laughing unabashedly at his jokes, gazing into his eyes, prompting him to claim your sweet lips. You were a whore, because you let them all have you, yet you belonged to neither. Not even to him - not even when you appeared in his dreams, tormenting him even in the comfort of his own psyche. 

You would share your warmth with him then, caressing him - letting him rest against your soft breasts, letting him inhale your tantalising aroma. Teasing him endlessly, just to disappear at dawn, just before he had his final fill of you. And just like that the cycle repeated, driving him crazy.

***

It was another warm spring day when you two met again face to face. When he saw you, hair dishevelled and clothes torn apart, he thought he was still dreaming - but you were even more beautiful, even more radiant now. That’s how he knew you were real. He could finally touch you, he could smell the salt and morning dew on your skin, could lick the tears off your puffy, swollen eyes.

You had been dragged to the church early in the morning by the wife of the mayor, kicking and screaming. The older woman had been furiously gripping your wrist, forcing you to trip after her in a desperate attempt to keep up. Once inside the ceremonial hall, she had pushed you down at the deacon’s feet like a sacrificial lamb before a pagan god’s altar.

“Martha, dear, what’s wrong?” Cassian was quick to intervene before the woman could mess you up even more. “You know it’s unbecoming of a lady of such wise age to engage in this ungodly behaviour.” He explained calmly - it was obvious that he held no wrath for her, and this was all just a performance. The mayoress was very influential in the village, so he had to be careful with his words, lest you’d both be in trouble.

“Oh, Cassian, Cassian!” The wife all but crumbled against the man, heavy, accusatory sobs strangling her speech. “This harlot has done it again! She tried to destroy another family.” Martha kept wailing in a theatrical way, hanging off the deacon’s white collar. “My family, Reverend! I saw her talking to my husband, oh, it was utterly despicable! I might faint just thinking about it.” She rambled on and on, cheeks turning comically red. “She must be possessed by the Devil - I see no other explanation behind her constant sinful endeavours.” She fluttered her lashes as if attempting to persuade the deacon, going as far as to use the title only given to priests. “I beg you, Father, do something. Teach her the right way, make her repent. Our village can’t keep tolerating these… these outrageous conducts!”

You looked up at him just as he lowered his head to you, your eyes meeting. Your orbs were wide and filled with fright just like that day in the forest when he had pushed you into the river. You were gripping the end of his robes pitifully, tearfully shaking your head as if trying to deny all those ugly lies, mouthing off little sounds he couldn’t quite understand - and just like that he was nineteen again, sweating and mad all over you, lost in your sweet pleas for help. And help you’d receive.

“Calm your senses, Martha. I will deal with this.” Cassian patted the wife’s shoulder reassuringly, nodding at the big gate leading to the garden. “You must not worry anymore, you know you have a weak heart. Just - just go home for the day.” He looked at you one last time, and the sheer black burning intensity of his gaze made you shiver. “I know what to do from here.” He made an airy gesture at the older woman, smiling benevolently. “You’re right. Enough is enough.” 

With that she finally left, satisfied that some order would be restored ultimately. The hall remained silent for a while; massive, dim-lit, over-decorated with various gorgons, demons and monsters - designed specifically to scare those who wouldn’t give in to salvation. “Leave us alone.” The man mumbled at last, snapping his fingers at the altar servants and nuns, who in turn hurriedly flocked to the back rooms, nowhere to be seen. You could feel the tears drying on your skin from the freezing cold air, leaving trails all over your scorching hot cheeks. He was observing you carefully, scared to miss even the slightest of reactions - your pain was so expressive he wanted to seal the memory forever in his brain. After all, he had dreamt of this for years. The day when he finally has you at his mercy with nowhere to go. 

“I see that you’ve decided to succumb to a life of sin.” Cassian started off haughtily, moving just a bit closer - you were still kneeling on the floor as if you had assumed an eternal repenting pose. His fingertips grazed against your chin, his touch radiating pure ice - cold frost as his head tilted down in rehearsed condescension. “It’s quite unfortunate to see someone so beautiful give up on Christ.” He continued, eyes practically glued to your quivering form from above. It was intoxicating to have you in this position, quivering below him. He wanted to see you like this all the time, he decided. It suited you to be underneath him - you were a filthy, wicked adulterer and he was your saviour. He deserved your worship. He deserved your pain, and everything that would come with it. 

“But then again, you’ve always been a temptress.” The man crouched next to you, quick as a snake - gripping your chin between his two fingers. “It must be oh-so difficult for you to act like an honest woman.” His grip got tighter. “Especially when you possess such a dirty, sinful bod–

“S-shut up!” You cried out, pushing yourself to stand on your knees. “Shut up, you know nothing of me, Reverend. You look at me with those eyes… Don’t think I don’t remember.” You hissed, suddenly gaining back the courage the woman had knocked out of you earlier, adrenaline pumping through your veins. “I’ve seen you follow me, I’ve seen you in my nightmares… You want me! You want me, and it’s driving you insane.” You gave him the cruellest look you could muster.

“The dirty one, the sinful one is you - you, and every single bastard in this goddamn village that seems to think they own me.” You spat it out, everything that had been building up over the past few months. The hurtful rumours, the nasty remarks on the streets, the way everyone was measuring you up, touching you without permission… This was your breaking point. “You don’t own me. You never will.”

Cassian was seeing red. Before he could even begin to summon any reason, his hands had tangled into your hair, pulling on it with malice he had never experienced before in his life. He was a being of love and kindness - yet any time he faced you, he turned to this gruesome, unholy beast of a man. It was all your fault. You had ruined him, since the moment you first met him you had been ruining him. You made him like this and there was no going back now. No amount of tears or pretty pleads could save you from the horrors that inevitably awaited you in Hell - the one on Earth. The one he was going to create just for you. Anything for you.

“Do not sully me with this blasphemous tongue of yours, wench. Don’t you dare utter a single word to me, lest you want to lose it.” The man hissed, venom dripping off every over pronounced syllable. His whole body was shaking with fury, skin red and painful as if on fire. One wrong movement could set him off into a flame that would kill you both. “I don’t want to hear a sound from those tainted lips of yours. Who knows how many have kissed them, hmm?” His face got dangerously close to yours - so close you could feel his warm breath across your cheek. Your heart was pounding violently against your chest in a fruitless attempt to escape the rib cage. You tried to push the deacon off you, but he didn’t bulge an inch. 

“Aww, you’re going to hurt me with the same hands you caress your lovers with?” He grinned manically - you had never seen a man so unhinged. You had always known he was dangerously unstable as the forest incident had proven - which was the reason you kept your distance over the years, but you could never imagine he’d be so… bloodthirsty. “Have you got no shame?” Cassian was spiralling, going in mental circles. 

He finally had you in his arms again, your skin warm and malleable against his - yet the only thing he could think of was all those men you had allowed by your side over the years. It was like he could see their fingerprints all over you, red and scorching on your body as if to mock him. As if to laugh at him for ever trying to fight the temptation in the first place. Your lips were wet and pink, so perfect and vulnerable trembling before him, just begging to be bitten. He reached in to kiss you - just like he had done so many times in his dreams, but he was met with your equally wet, cold cheek instead. You had turned your head away.

“Anyone, but me, huh?” The man screamed at the top of his lungs, beyond wild as he shoved you to the ground, crawling over your body in quick succession. You felt the blood drain from your face - could this be your final moment? “You are willing to give yourself to anyone, but the one who actually deserves you…” His hands travelled to your neck as if they had a mind of their own, voice suddenly dropping to a desperate, shaky whisper. “The one who craves you more than anything.” His fingers danced over your throat, holding your life in one tight grasp.

“What do you mea–”

“All my life I’ve been a good man.” Cassian interrupted you once again, tone back to its initial biting spite. “An honest man, goddammit! And I am not going to lose everything because of… because of some fucking whore!” His words aimed at your heart just like daggers, and your eyes watered. You squirmed like an injured animal, praying to whoever was up in the sky that he would release you, but God wasn’t so merciful to sinners, apparently. “So you’re going to kiss me, right here, right now.” He was holding your wrists over your chest as he positioned himself between your legs. This couldn’t be happening right now, but it was. You were doomed, you had been doomed from the start. 

“You’re going to kiss me like you kiss your lovers.” The deacon paused to lick the tear running down your chin, groaning at the heavenly taste. You wanted to drop dead. “Like you love me.” He pressed down on your neck, squeezing tighter just so your eyes would fill up with hundreds of tiny little tears - it made you look so glossy and cute. “Did you hear me? You are going to kiss me like you fucking love me, you damned slut.” Your face was turning blue from the lack of oxygen. 

“And then I am going to fuck the Devil out of you.”

[muxshwriting]

you and i (pt. ii)

Simon Basset x bridgerton!reader

summary: as Daphne's twin, you were always second to her. but then you meet someone who is only yours, completely devoted to you. nothing will come between the two of you, it is just you and him || warnings: pre-marital kissing (how scandalous), fuck old man Hastings || word count: 1072 || masterlist

PART ONE

You rushed into your sister's room that evening, needing to talk with her. "Daphne!"

She was sat at her window, already in nightclothes. "What is it?"

"I know about you and the Duke." You confessed. "I know it was all a ruse and I know he doesn't love you."

Daphne smiled knowingly, pulling you to it beside her. "He told you everything? Even-"

"He loves me Daphne! He said he wants to marry me but needs to court me properly first." Your practically giddy with excitement. "Oh Daphne, I'm going to be a Duchess and you a Princess!"

Now it was Daphne's turn to blush as she thought of her beloved Prince.

"When do you think the Prince will propose?"

She thought for a moment. "Soon, I suppose. He is returning to Prussia at the end of the season and we shall have to be married by July. I am going be a Princess, can you imagine? Me, in a palace, raising children of my own. I will miss you all terribly though."

You smile at her happiness. "You'll be a perfect princess Daph, trust me. Besides, you can always come back and visit or we can come and visit you. I'm sure Colin can stop by Prussia on his tours." The two of your giggle, spending the waning evening discussing your futures together and what they might hold.

The Duke courts you perfectly, charming each and every time. The season has quietened slightly as proposals are accepted and honeymoons begin. Simon joins your family at the park for a promenade, conversation flowing easily between the two of you as you tour the park before making your way back to your family.

"What do you want for the future Simon?"

He sighs, realising what he must confess. "I do not know. But there is something I must tell you. It could change everything and I understand if afterwards, you do not wish to marry me-"

"Simon, what is it?"

"I can’t give you children." Simon says the half-truth.

"Children are not the end of the world." You quickly reply. "If we cannot have children of our own, I shall spoil all my nieces and nephews from my siblings." You pause, resting a hand on his. "It does not make me love you any less."

"Truly?"

"Truly."

You want to say more but your youngest siblings are running over, begging you and Simon to entertain them. Simon watched on as you attempted to chase your youngest siblings around the grounds. They were much more agile than you and you soon fell behind, catching your breath. A look passed between Hyacinth and Gregory and they both leapt towards you, pushing you to the ground and climbing on top. They shrieked with laughter as you rolled them both over and began tickling them, squirming to get away from your hands.

You were a natural, bringing your siblings joy without much effort and sharing their joy on your face. In that moment, Simon was willing to cast aside all hatred he held for his father. To see you happy, surrounded by your family was magical. If Simon could give you your own family to raise, he would. He would be happy to spite his father, not live unhappily as his father wanted him to.

He makes his decision and takes the journey that very night, calling on the Bridgerton house in the early evening and heading straight to Anthony's office.

"Simon!" He calls, "What brings you here?"

"I am not here as a friend Anthony, there is something I must ask."

Anthony leans back in his chair, some idea of the question forming in his head. He nods for Simon to continue and watches as he wrings his hands together and stutters out a response.

"I love Y/N. I know our marriage is not your favourite idea but I willing to do anything for her. I'll do whatever I need to." He takes a deep breath. "Therefore, I am asking your permission for her hand in marriage. I intend to propose with my mother's ring and have no need for Y/N's dowry."

Anthony nodded slowly. "I am not blind, nor an idiot. Anyone can see that my sister would not be happier with anyone else. However, to reject her dowry is an insult to this family. I do not care if you have enough money to support her. Take the money, put it in a trust for your future children, let Y/N use it to buy whatever she pleases, but take it."

"I have you blessing?" Simon couldn't quite believe it was that easy.

"You have my blessing." Anthony pauses as he stands to shake Simon's hand. "But if you ever hurt her, you'll have me and my brothers coming for you."

"I'd never."

He appears in the Bridgerton House drawing room the very next morning, a bunch of flowers for you and Mama as he fiddled with the box in his pocket.

"There is a question I must ask you."

Your quietly hopeful as you stand to meet him. "Yes?"

"Marry me Miss Bridgerton." He begs. "It would do me no greater pleasure than to call you my wife."

"Yes." The brightest of smiles covers your face. "I would love to marry you."

Simon's smile matches yours as he slipped the ring onto your finger.

"This ring is beautiful."

Simon smiles wistfully. "It was my mothers. Lady Danbury kept it safe, hoping that I would find love of my own one day."

"Perhaps I should thank Lady Danbury then."

"Please do not, she will take it to her head and never let us forget it."

Your mother silently leaves the room, calling your sisters and servants out with her. Both of you are silent for a minute, revelling in your private moment and your recent engagement. "You know," You begin. "No one would know if I were to kiss you in this moment... That is why Mama called all the servants out."

Simon matches your smirk and steps even closer to you, feeling your breath on his face. You're breathing the same air, hearts beating in unison. His lips brush against yours as he speaks, "No one would know..."

You close the distance, threading your hands into the lapels of his jacket to pull his even closer as your lips melt together in perfect harmony.

All was perfect in the world, everything would be alright.

hope you enjoyed! part two had me giggling and kicking my feet ngl

[hearts4hughes]

Hi! I love your writing….Can I please get #7. “you don’t have to like me, you just need to pretend you do.” With Quinn Hughes??

fake dating - quinn hughes

quinn hughes x fem! reader

warnings: swearing, nothing else :)

notes: this took way too long for me to write. it’s lightly proofread because i have no motivation to fully proofread it. i was really proud of this imagine towards the beginning, but i feel like it’s just really rushed at the end. let me know how it is!

gif is not mine

it wasn’t a secret that you and quinn hughes didn’t get along. it was quiet obvious to anyone who was in the same room as you two for even a few seconds.

with your mom being best friends with ellen- quinn’s mother- you spent most your time with the hughes family. this wasn’t something that bothered you. after meeting luke and jack, you immediately clicked. they were both like little brothers / best friends to you. however, you couldn’t say the same for the eldest hughes brother.

you weren’t sure what you did to annoy or upset quinn, but you do know the first time meeting him, he grew a deep disliking to you. most of your memories with quinn consisted of excessive teasing. for example, one of your favorite things to do at the hughes’ lake house was to tan. quinn quickly ruined that however after dumping a bucket of ice cold water on you while you tanned outside.

years, and years passed, and quinn’s disliking to you only grew deeper. he didn’t even tease you anymore, he just stopped paying attention to you in all. you didn’t know why it upset you so much, but it did. you’d spent countless nights crying yourself to sleep over an asshole who literally didn’t even acknowledge your existence.

quinn didn’t quite understand why he did this to you. the first time he saw you, he’d felt feelings he never had before. you were the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. but quinn hughes didn’t show any emotion. he was a closed book. so, his only way to avoid confrontation with his emotions was so teach himself to hate you. thus where the hatred started.

even this wasn’t enough for quinn, though. he thought if he insulted and teased you enough, he’d make himself believe the things he’d been saying to you were actually true. but it only made him fall in love with you more. he’d spend countless nights obsessing over you, wondering what type of spell you put on him that made him feel this way.

quinn knew what he had to do. he had to just make himself forget everything about you. which after further examination was impossible- without some sort of head trauma. therefore, his only other option was to completely ignore you. the less he’d engaged with you, the less he’d like you.

what confused you now was the fact that quinn hughes- the same quinn hughes who was your sworn enemy- was laying sprawled out across your bed, begging you to be his date to a party his family was throwing.

“is this some sort of prank?” you ask dumbfound.

“i really wish it was.” he huffs out. “but it’s not.”

were you in some alternate universe or something?

“ok,” you ask in disbelief. “explain what you want me to do again, please?”

“oh my fucking god.” he groans, shaking his body dramatically. “i need you to act like my girlfriend so my family can stop bugging me about bringing someone to this stupid party.”

“i just don’t understand it.” you laugh out sarcastically.

“what don’t you understand?” he runs this hands through his hair in frustration. “you don’t have to have to like me. you just need to pretend you do.”

“why you wouldn’t just ask anyone else is what i don’t understand.” you throw your hands up as if it wasn’t obvious. “i mean you, quinn hughes, could get anyone to gladly go to that event with you. i mean girls would beg, and beg to fake being your girlfriend… and you choose me? someone who would rather stab her eyeballs out than be seen with you.”

“first off, you are such a liar. it’s a privilege to be seen with me.” he starts off smug and cocky as ever. “second, yeah i think i know anyone else would gladly go with me. when i told jack he had like ten girls that were fighting to go with me.”

“and this is relevant because?” you say in an annoyed tone.

was he trying to make you jealous?

honestly, quinn himself didn’t know the answer to that one, but if he was, it was definitely working.

“listen, y/n.” he sits up on your bed. “i know you. our families have been best friends since forever. you are close with my mom, dad, jack, and luke. my entire family.” he counts on his fingers to get his point across. “what i’m trying to say is my family loves you. if i come there with some random girl, i’m going to have to go through the grueling process of introducing her to everyone and all that shit. with you i don’t have to do that.”

you take a moment to actual consider doing this for him. “what’s in it for me?”

“both our families won’t try to make us like each other anymore.” he reasons.

“fine.” your voice is barely above a whisper as you respond. the second quinn hears your response, he’s jumping with joy. a toothy grin takes over his face as he’s yelling out ‘thank you’s’ and other endearments.

“calm down over there.” a big smile takes over your face as you witness a side of quinn you’ve never seen before.

“sorry,” his cheeks flush red. “i’ll pick you up around 5pm tomorrow because it takes an hour to get there and it starts around 6.”

“i can’t believe i’m saying this,” you shake your head, looking up at the sky. “but, alright.”

quinn bids one last farewell and thank you before exiting your apartment.

**

5pm the next day roles around a lot quicker than you expected. your currently sitting in front of your vanity mirror. while fixing your lipstick, you hear a knock on your door. nervously, you put the small plastic tube of lipstick down and walk towards the door.

on the other side of the door awaits a nervous and eager quinn. he wipes his palms on his black dress pants, nervous how he’s going to react when he sees you.

you’d think from the amount of times quinn has seen you dressed up, he’d get used to it. but he never did. every time he sees you in a small, tight, fancy dress, his palms start to sweat and he can barely form a coherent sentence. of course you two never talked enough for you to actually notice your affect on him.

opening the door slowly, quinn comes into your view. he looks amazing. he’s wearing his signature black suit- not caring enough to buy a new one- and his hair is slightly messy. you could barely say the words ‘come in’, shocked at his gorgeous appearance.

quinn’s reaction wasn’t much different. the second you opened the door, his eyes landed on the navy blue mini-dress that dangerously hugged your curves. his throat went dry as he scanned up and down your body. the dress showed just a little bit of cleavage, not enough to be over the top, but just enough to make quinn want to pant like a dog. the material stopped at your mid thigh, exposing your whole leg. god, quinn was practically drooling just seeing this shade of blue on you.

“uh, come in.” you blink a few times, bringing yourself back to reality.

quinn shallows nervously, biting the inside of his cheek and nodding.

“i’m just finishing up my makeup, but i won’t take to long.” you awkwardly smile.

in response, quinn mumbles a quiet ‘ok’ and just nods his head. he was never much of a talker, so you just brushed it off as post party nerves.

with you exiting the room, quinn is left alone in your living room. he slowly wanders around the room, letting his fingertips brush against your fabric couch. different photos that decorated the walls and tables of your apartment catch his eye. he smiles to himself as he picks up a photo of you and emily- your best friend. you must’ve been around 13 or 14 because you and emily both wear the goofiest smile, showing off your different color braces. he lets out a small chuckle. even in your awkward teen phase, quinn was still head over heels for you.

placing down the small frame, he moves onto a different photo. you’re older in this photo. he guesses around 17 to 18. it also appears to be prom night. standing in the middle of a large group of friends, you beam with happiness. quinn vividly remembers this night. something that seemed to slip his memory was the boy standing a little too close to you. his jaw began to clench at the photo in front of him. the blonde boy’s hands were wrapped around your body. your face was flushed as you leaned back against the tall boy’s frame. it’s honestly surprising quinn didn’t whip the framed photo across the room in a jealousy rage.

“quinn?” you call out from behind him.

he quickly places the photo down, turning around to face you.

“are you ready?” he asks, pushing the jealous thoughts in the back of his head.

you noticed his sudden tense figure, confused at what he had just seen, but you just nodded.

leaving your apartment, quinn runs up to the car, opening the passenger door. he wasn’t really sure why he did it, but he made a mental note to do it more because it made you smile.

**

the car ride over was short. you both took the time to make a believable story for how you and quinn went from enemies to lovers miraculously. the story you agreed on was that you both realized that you never hated each other. you were both actually in love, but didn’t want to admit it. that story hit a little too close to home for both of you.

arriving at the hughes’ lake house, the nerves were really starting to set in. once again, quinn ran around the car, opening the passenger door for you and helping you out. the little subconscious movement gave you butterflies in your stomach and a familiar pink blush to your cheeks.

the walk up to the house seemed like forever. neither of you were in a rush to walk into the party. walking up the brick steps, quinn slips his hand in yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze and finally opening the door.

as you and quinn walk hand in hand to the party, everyone’s attention seems to be shifted over to you. you both get sent confused looks and a whole lot of furrowed brows, but quinn pushes through the crowd ignoring them. quinn notices jack, luke, ellen, and jim all standing together and makes his way over to them.

“hey!” you awkwardly yell out.

first, it’s ellen and jim. they’re expressions fall a bit, shocked by the scene in front of them, but they’re quick to pick them back up.

then, it’s jack and luke. jack doesn’t even seem phased as he goes in to dap up his older brother. same with luke. he just stands there with a drink in hand, smirking.

“hi sweetie!” ellen greets us, coming in to give you a tight hug. “i’m glad you could both make it.”

“we’d never miss a hughes’ party!” you beam.

“well i’m glad you two could both come, but i must say i’m a bit surprised to see you here together.” jim is the next to speak up. he mirrors ellen’s greeting by bringing me in a hug.

“yeah, we are too.” quinn blushes, looking at your proudly. the look he gives you could’ve made you faint right there and then, but you keep composure.

the rest of the night consisted of a lot of explaining. a lot of explaining. almost everyone there was confused as of how this happened based on your history, but you and quinn sold the story of your ‘relationship’.

as quinn pulls into the parking lot of your apartment complex, you don’t want to night to end. being this close to quinn tonight really healed your inner child. you got to be with him romantically for two hours. it definitely was enough to make you forget about the past heartbreak he’s caused you.

“quinn,” you say softly.

“yes, love?” his use of the pet name sends adrenaline through your veins.

“what are we going to tell everyone tomorrow?”

the question had been the elephant in the room the entire night. you both had been avoiding it. not wanting this daydream to end.

“i guess that we broke up.” he answers unsurely, rubbing the back of his neck.

“oh, ok.” you mumble. “thank you for tonight. i had fun.”

“thank you for pretending to like me for tonight.” he says, nervously laughing. you fake a little chuckle, knowing what he said isn’t totally accurate.

silence fills the car as you two admire each other. your body is turned towards quinn as his hands rest on the steering wheel.

“i wasn’t pretending.” your words are barely above a whisper, not really intending for quinn to hear, but he does.

“what?” he asks, unsure if he heard you correctly. his mouth is hanging slightly open and his eyes are wide.

“i wasn’t pretending to like you, quinn.” you respond once again. this time you are more confident in your words.

hearing the words again makes quinn fall back in his seat. he looks up to the ceiling of the car in disbelief. ‘was this some prank?’ was all he could think because it didn’t seem real that the girl he’s been in love with since he was a kid was telling him that she liked him back.

“are you serious?” he asks a little harsher than he means to. his tone of voice startles you, causing tears to swell in your eyes.

“um,” you try to hold back the sobs, but once the tears begin to fall, the sobs spill out not long after.

you couldn’t believe you let your guard down like that. he might’ve been acting nice, but he’s still quinn hughes. once an asshole, always an asshole.

“oh no, baby.” quinn coos, wrapping his arms around you. “don’t cry. i didn’t mean it like that.”

“then what did you fucking mean it like?!” you cry out, looking at him through tears.

“i- uh,” he can’t find the words he wants to say.

“save it. i don’t want to hear your excuse.” you mutter. you pull yourself out of his hold, throwing the car door open and stepping out.

the second you exit the car, droplets of rain hit your body, but you don’t care. you storm towards your apartment building, despite hearing the car door shut.

“y/n!” quinn calls out, grabbing your wrist and causing you to spin around suddenly.

“leave me alone.” you growl. your face is painted with aggressive features. your jaw is clenched, eyes dark, and you’re sending quinn a glare that could burn holes in his head.

“just listen to me!” his voice drips of desperation as he practically begs.

you don’t respond, allowing him to continue.

“i really, really like you.” he starts off. “i’m not good with expressing my feelings as you can tell, but i’ve liked you since we met.”

“stop lying to make me feel better. you hated me when we met.” you blurt out, not buying what he was giving you.

“i didn’t, thought! i only acted like i hated you because i didn’t know how to confront the fact that i was in love with you.”

your gaze softens at his confession, still staying silent, allowing him to further continue. you both ignore the rain pelleting against your skin.

“dammit, y/n, i’m totally whipped over you. haven’t you seen that?” he moved his grip from your wrist, to your hand- holding it tightly.

“no,” you whisper.

“your just so gorgeous it’s not fair, and i’ve never felt that way about anyone else. i mean look at you in this dress right now. you are absolutely stunning inside and out. how was i not supposed to fall in love with you?”

“quinn,” you interrupt him. “kiss me.”

he doesn’t waste anytime, smashing his lips against yours. the kiss is filled with passion and pent up frustration. your fingers tangle in his wet hair while his hands find your waist.

breathless, you pull away from the kiss. the rains starts to come down a little harder, ruining your dress clothes, but neither of you seem too fazed.

“you don’t know how long i’ve waited to do that for.” he admits, smiling cheekily.

“you don’t know either.” you attempt to bite back a wide grin, but you fail miserably.

looking up at the sky, and then your soaking wet clothes, quinn laughs.

“we really just had a hallmark movie type moment.” he jokes, wrapping his arms around you.

“i guess so.” you giggled, leaning into quinn’s hold. “let’s go inside.”

[percheduphere]

Something I'm curious on (And definitely not having fanfic writing problems *cough*) is how Mobius would react to people talking badly about or reacting badly to Loki when they have reason to. Like the Hawkeye duo or Coulson or Fury. Loki, I imagine, would probably be neutral towards or just accept their hatred/anger and move on. But how would Mobius react to it? He has been shown to try to defend Loki to others, but he also recognizes the fact that Loki was a dick. Your opinion?

From one fanfic writer (*cough* currently on hiatus *cough**cough*) to another, I'm so honored to be the recipient of this question!

If we're talking about how Mobius would respond internally, I don't think he would be offended. Maybe a bit tired of hearing the same response over and over again, but his patience is his second greatest strength after empathy. I think he would only get truly pissed (which we know is scary to bear witness to) if Loki has proven himself trustworthy in front of everyone repeatedly and he is still treated like crap. Oh, man ... now that you got me started on this, I think an angry Mobius, defensive on Loki's behalf, would dig REALLY deep into the person's insecurities and biggest flaws, slowly pull it out like disembowelment, and force feed it back to the person as poisonous truth and expose their hypocrisy. Mobius has the capacity to do that, but the threshold to get there is pretty high. Loki would need to be visibly distraught.

If we're talking about how Mobius would respond verbally, on first meeting, we should remember Mobius is an Analyst. He chooses how to act and what to say based on what he knows about the individual he is talking to and the current emotional state they're in. I don't think he would have a one-size fits all response. I think he would use the angle of highest benefit and interest of the person negatively affected by Loki's presence, then drill down into his Loki's value in increments.

He does this with Ravonna first by arguing Loki would be a useful tool to the TVA, then proving his argument is sound by explaining Loki's apocalypse theory is correct, and Loki should therefore be brought out into the field. Mobius feeds two birds with one hand in doing this: he gives Ravonna what he wants and he gives Loki an environment in which he can be himself and thrive. His selfish desires are rewarded for his efforts as well: he gets to spend time with Loki.

This is highly utilitarian, I know, but it's smart. Mobius knows what most people think about Loki. They don't care about him as a person, only his potential usefulness. Trying to make a humanitarian case is not going to work, at least not in the beginning. He knows it's more effective to go through the motions of proving, with a benefit to the affected person as a bargaining chip for Loki's immediate safety.

I am convinced that if Loki hadn't chased after Sylvie (and let's be honest, in the long run it was a VERY good thing for everyone involved that he did), Mobius would have presented the case to Ravonna that they shouldn't prune Loki once Sylvie is captured. He would argue: He's reformed. He's a good person. He's my friend. The humanitarian argument would then come out alongside the utilitarian argument to move the listener closer to compassion for Loki while also giving them a tangible benefit outside Loki's personhood. Eventually, Mobius would be able to drop the utilitarian aspect. Mobius is very cunning in this way and has the patience to play the long game for the big picture.

If time is an issue because of high stakes, then I would say that Mobius and Loki would mutually agree to have Loki restrained while Mobius performs a mini TVA infodump, which may include a crucial event about the timeline that is nearing actuation and how to best respond to it. The proving of his claim will verify the TVA infodump as truthful and his claim that Loki is good likely.

Now, if the issue is not immediate plot conflict but immediate emotional conflict, I think Mobius would be more subtle in how he gets people to pause before listening to him. No one can touch Loki without being harmed, at least that's the wisdom people have with pre-TVA Loki. Mobius might touch Loki's elbow, his shoulder, his back--points of contact that are casually intimate and normal for him and Loki, but shocking to anyone not-in-the-know given who is being touched. In that moment of shock, Mobius might say, with a sigh, "Y'know, we've heard this all before. We're not gonna argue with you. We get it. But do you really want to waste time going through three hours of backstory, or do you want to focus on figuring out how to deal with the bigger problem right now? Because I'll be honest with you: you dont have a lot of time. We've seen it."

The follow up to any of these initial responses would likely be a private moment between the character and Mobius, with Mobius hinting at or outright sharing the true nature of their relationship, and why he's stuck by Loki's side so long.

I hope this helpful, anon! Thank you for your question!

[snepril]

Every night, I'm back there again. Running through the canyon on all fours, sharp rocks cutting at my paws, frigid mud clinging to my fur. "Just a little further" - the words ring out from nowhere, echoing off the canyon walls and drowning out the pounding of the blood in my veins. Just a little further and we'll be safe- A blast of freezing water slams into my flank, sending me tumbling to the ground. A few feet ahead, I see my companion skid to a stop, ready to fight by my side. Their eyes meet mine. We both know how that would end. I smile and shake my head. Tears glitter in their eyes, even as they turn to run. Our pursuers are on me moments later, and the last thing I feel before I wake is a deep, terrible cold. It's the same dream every night - and how I wished I could believe it was just a dream. But even as I sit, staring down at the glittering bronze badge in my hands, I can remember it all so clearly. The feeling of flames spilling out from my jaws, the nights spent curled up beneath a star-filled sky, the way their snout curled when they smiled... I'd give anything to go back, do anything see them again. I slip the badge back into my pocket. For just a moment, I can imagine the hand beneath the fabric is a paw again. An illusion that will shatter the moment I pull my hand free, I know, but a comforting one all the same. "Ma'am?" The voice snaps me back to reality. I look up to meet the gaze of the man in front of me. He looks tired - we all do, I suppose. The tests have taken a lot out of everyone, but we can't slow down now. Not when we're so close. "The subject has recovered enough for the next trial," he continues, "but at the rate we're going, I'm not sure how many more breach attempts we'll get out of it. The stimulants-" "Double the dosage," I reply, my fingers playing across the badge's wings. "We're almost there." "But that's- its vitals are already-" "The subject's death will create the conditions we need for a breach," I reply. "I had hoped it would understand that and choose to cooperate, but..." I shrug. "I prepared for this outcome just the same." The man stares at me for several long moments, a hundred questions fighting to escape. For a moment, I wonder if he'll refuse. But he eventually nods and makes his way over to a console to punch in the command. Good. Replacing him would've just slowed things down. I climb to my feet and pace towards the viewport. It looks out on a large concrete chamber, its walls scoured with scorch marks from our initial containment efforts. The subject dominates the room, its body restrained by shimmering crimson chains. Its breathing is labored, its scales lacking their usual luster, but its eyes still glare up at me from below. Even from here, I can feel its hatred, its sense of betrayal. Every night, I dream the same dream - a dream I had tried so hard to pretend wasn't real. Doubtless I would've succeeded, were it not for the keepsake in my pocket. I squeezed it in my fist, then let it go. Two human hands pressed against the window. I'd give anything to go back, do anything to see them again. And soon I would. Palkia roared, and I smiled. Soon.

[thefallennightmare]

Soldiers-three

credit to whoever made the gif, found on google/pinterest.

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader.

Warnings: angst, language, fluff, violence, smut.

Summary: Reader has spent the last seventy years in hell as a prisoner soldier; Hydra's greatest weapon. Well, second greatest weapon after The Winter Soldier. The only thing that got her through that hell was him, even if she was the one behind his biggest pain.

Authors Note: I think what I'm going to like most about writing this story is that I can write Bucky/Soldat a certain way that I like and how I imagine he would be if he had someone there with him during the most horrendous time of his life. Tags are open!

Tags(open): @elizacusi-blog @pattiemac1 @yvessaintmuerte @mdpplgtz03 @mayjaysthots @broadwaybabe18 @sebsgirl71479 @yourfavunsub @themorningsunshine @nikwld

The busy night life of the small town was shining behind the curtains from the motel room where James and I were currently held up in. 

No, not James. 

Soldat. 

All this time later, I still had to correct myself on his name. Zola didn’t want James to remember any part of his past, afraid that it would confuse his weapon. 

I couldn’t stop the way my eyes rolled into the back of my head when he said that. He never saw James or I as people, simply a way to scare their enemies. Which was why we were here in this run down town in Russia to take care of one of Zola’s problems. Soldat and I did what we were told, us returning back to the motel a bit ago. 

I was positioned at the window, peaking through the curtain to make sure that no one had followed us back, while the large body sat at the edge of the bed behind me. 

“Voin.” 

The richness of his voice set my skin a blaze as I slowly turned towards him. I wished that I was able to tell him what my name was but knew that we both were ordered to only call each other by our soldier names. 

His eyes were so dark, glossed over while the strands of his hair fell into them. His hair had grown so much in the last few months along with his strength. Zola’s men worked tirelessly the last six months with Soldat, training and modeling him into the perfect prize. I was never allowed to sit in on these sessions, only being brought in to erase his memories if needed.

What started off as every day slowly became once a week until now, six months later, that I only needed to erase his memory when I thought he was remembering too much. The pain that erupted from his throat when my static shocked his brain had burned deep into my bones so I was thankful that it had been a while since I needed to do that. 

“Voin, are you alright?” 

Soldat’s voice brought me back and I gave him a small nod, still remaining in place. This was our first mission together and with what happened earlier, I knew that his mind had to be racing, his erratic heartbeat pounding loudly in my ears. 

“I’ll be fine,” I reassured him. “I’ve had worse things happen to me.” 

We were in a local mob’s laboratory looking for some kind of vial that Zola needed to perfect his serum, so if we ran into this scientist, we needed to kill him then steal whatever was in his safe. Everything went smoothly, the scientist going down without a hitch thanks to my powers while Soldat was taking care of the guards. One of them, however, slipped away and attacked me from behind. The image of me staring down the barrel of a gun was burned into my brain and I thought for half a second that I was about to die. Until Soldat snuck up behind him, snapping his neck in half. 

There was a look in his eyes that I had never seen before as he looked at the dead body that laid at his feet. The bright blue eyes of his were dark with hatred and it took a soft hand on his chest to bring him back to me, the darkness vanished in an instant. 

“I shouldn’t have let him get that close to you,” Soldat looked down at his hands, the metal fingers gripping tightly at his flesh.

My heart sank knowing that he thought it was normal, that he was born with it. He had no idea that he was forced to have it. 

I sighed while kneeling in front of him, still in my tact suit, and did my best to look into his eyes. There was no light behind them, almost as if he had no soul. 

With what he had been through, I couldn’t blame him.  

“It’s alright, Soldat. You were there. It all worked out,” I said. 

I gently brushed the hair out of his face, not wanting to scare him from my touch but he didn’t move, not even a flinch. 

Over the last six months, we had grown close, spending a lot of our free time together when we weren’t running our own solo missions. Soldat wouldn’t show his emotions at all, even around me, but he didn’t need to. His silent cues were enough. 

The soft brush of his hand as we walked past each other in the long halls of the compound, my name falling from his lips while he slept in the room next to me, and when his eyes would be looking for me in the training room. 

I wished that I was able to get to know James Barnes, not Soldat. So I took it upon myself to sneak into Zola’s office to retrieve his folder, staying up late one night reading everything I needed to know about him. 

He grew up in Brooklyn with Steve Rogers, Captain America himself.  Soldat used to be a sergeant in the army, him and Steve being in the Howling Commandos. I remember them because they were taking out all of the Hydra bases during the war and succeeded when Steve flew the plane he and Johann were on straight into the ice. 

I thought I would have been upset when I found out about Johann’s death because of everything he had done for me but that was the exact reason why I felt relieved at his death. Yes, he did give me a place to stay when I needed it most but it was his idea that made me the way I am, this soldier, so I felt no ounce of hurt because of his death. 

What hurt me the most was that according to Soldat’s paperwork, he was killed in action when he fell from the train, the day Steve captured Zola. But Hydra knew what everyone else didn’t. The serum that was pumping in Soldat’s bloodstream is what kept him alive, surviving the fall. 

All of this happened only a few months ago and I did everything I could not to tell him about Steve or the fact that Soldat had a life outside of Hydra. 

“Voin.” 

I looked into his eyes and hummed; the sudden proximity made my heart flutter. His metal fingers tucked a piece of hair behind my ear and I closed my eyes at the touch. 

“I don’t know what I would have done if you got hurt,” he admitted with a hushed tone. 

“Soldat,” I cupped his cheek. “You need to stop dwelling on it, everything worked out the way it was supposed to. Please.” 

He reluctantly nodded but I didn’t remove my hand from his face, loving how the warmth radiated off of him even in this cold state. There had been this sexual tension between us for a while now and as much as I wanted to feel him I knew that he had to be the one to make the first move. Soldat had so many things done to him that he had no control or choice, the last thing I wanted was to make him more uncomfortable. 

But a little nudge wouldn’t hurt, right?

“Thank you for saving me,” I breathed over his lips. 

Soldat swallowed thickly as I laid a kiss upon his cheek and our eyes bore deep into each other for a few beats, our breaths getting caught in our throats. Lust clouded around us in a black form and I felt the magnetic pull from his lips drag me in with the want to know what he tasted like. 

“Voin.” 

The brokenness in his voice made me stumble on my knees a bit and realized that he had tears welling in the corners of his eyes. 

“Why can’t I remember anything?” His bottom lip trembled. 

“Oh, Soldat,” I sighed while spreading his legs apart, kneeling between them. 

I was ready to tell him everything, let him know about who he was before this, but both of our bodies stiffened when our ears perked up due to the loud footsteps running down the hallway. 

The door to our room busted open with a loud kick but both Soldat and I were quick to our feet, staring down the intruder that had kicked the door down. It was one of the men from the lab we raided and by the bewildered look in his eyes, he was here for revenge. 

“Where is it?” He demanded; gun clenched tightly in his hand. 

Soldat stepped forehead while flipping his knife between his fingers but my hand on his chest stopped him. 

I looked back to the man with my head tilted. “You’ve got a lot of balls showing up here.” 

He ignored me by cocking the gun. “I’m going to ask one more time. Where is it?” 

“Where’s what?” I shrugged. 

The bullet nearly missed me by a few millimeters and I stared at where it met the wall with fire in my eyes before the electricity sparked at my fingertips. I sliced the man in half with my gaze, anger radiating the sparks. 

“I’m going to assume that was an accident,” I seethed. 

Soldat gripped the knife tighter in his hands, still waiting for my cue. 

“I’m not afraid of the two of you; Zola’s monsters!” The man yelled. 

However, I saw the way his hand shook while holding the gun towards us and knew that he was lying. 

“Alright, I’m finished with this conversation,” I groaned before nodding towards Soldat. 

He wasted no time in throwing the knife towards the man, hitting directly into his heart. Just for added measure, I extended my fingers at him, the electric shocks shooting towards him and evaporating him to dust. 

“If he found where we are, it’s only a matter of time till someone else comes,” Soldat said. 

I nodded with a sigh and gave his flesh hand a squeeze. “Pull the bike around while I pack our things?” 

He agreed with a kiss to the back of my hand and my heart fluttered with the mundane action, not stopping to think what would happen to us when we got back to the compound. 

[montyterrible]

Born to Hench, Forced to “Boss!!”

I’m not a Minion hater exactly—no more so than I am, ambiently-like, of anything “mainstream” or “popular.” At the same time, I also don’t tend to engage with any media in a “lol so wacky I’m going INSANE from exposing myself to this!” sort of way either. When I really think about it, you could see the Minions as particularly cynical, like the Disney animal sidekick thing on steroids. They have a simple, pleasant design (emphasizing the body/head, deemphasizing the limbs and fine detail) with room for a smidgeon of individuality/visual flexibility using a satisfyingly limited number of features or elements like eyes, and which makes them more or less Engineered for Marketability as a toy or just plastered on one thing or another. There’s an enormous Minion (I think) sticker around here somewhere that a friend of mine gave me once when I was visiting him that he (I think) got from a cereal box as a “prize.” It’s my understanding that Minion memes were somewhat ubiquitous on Facebook at one point, though I can also easily imagine adults (namely parents) harboring a deep-seated hatred of these things.

Upon initially firing up Minions (2015) and hearing those eminently recognizable chattering voices “singing” the Universal Pictures theme, I thought my fears were going to be confirmed—that this was going to be a very annoying movie for me. I imagined being a parent in one room hearing that tell-tale sound for the umpteenth time coming from a TV in another, and what that might feel like. I didn’t end up following this “lol so wacky I’m going etc.” thread any further, though, because I actually found the Minions (and their movie) pretty easy to like!

On the one hand, yes, they are adorable: visually, but also in terms of personality and thanks to the ambiguity of their emotional and intellectual maturity. The Bob character, in particular, is very child-esque, but all of the Minions are vaguely characterized in this same way, and so it’s easy to feel drawn to them in their extremes of feeling, to want to nurture or at least pet them. “Part child, part dog” may be another intentional element of their design, meant to reach children and parents and childless adults all in some primal way. Ironically, the chattering wasn’t an annoyance, and I think it may actually have made the predictably goofy and usually physical humor I expected from the movie more palatable. Rather than an endless slog of “That was SO awesome!” or other “That just happened!”-adjacent running commentary on every precious goof, you instead get these intervals (sometimes surprisingly long for such a movie) where no coherent sentence is uttered. The Minions speak a winning mix of total gibberish and real language (English, Spanish, etc.), and I’ll be damned if there isn’t a certain… confidence to having that be the medium of communication, visuals aside, of bits and pieces of this movie.

On another hand, I find the very concept of a “Minion” kind of fascinating. The movie starts with an initially wordless sequence showing off Minion evolution—how from their most primitive, water-bound state they’ve always latched onto the largest and most dangerous other creatures without conflict, which is a compulsion that takes them onto the land and forward through history until they gravitate toward humans and then “supervillains” specifically. The Minions are apparently immortal(?) and so, critically, out-live their beloved masters, sometimes apparently killing them by accident. I know I’m late to the Minions party in this regard, but that’s just such a weird and compelling baseline concept. Minions being so “Assigned Henchman at Birth” while also potentially, actually being the superior animal just makes for an interesting hook.

While Minions has a recognizable-enough dramatic plot, I found it kind of oddly… “empowering” to watch. You don’t so much feel tension or stress about the scraps and scrapes the Minions get into, so much as you eagerly wait to see how they’ll easily overcome the inconvenience and defeat their enemies. I’m not joking when I say that the Minions have more in common with Alucard from the manga/anime Hellsing than they do with other protagonists in similar movies. They’re essentially “over-powered.” There are some great, fun bits of action or imagery here, though a favorite might be when the Minions’ boss-turned-enemy, Scarlet Overkill, tries to have them tortured, and this includes a bit where the Minions are gleefully slipping through and playing around with a noose. It’s fleetingly dark, perhaps surprisingly daring.

(Of course, the “3 edgy 5 you” take that I’ve even heard out in the real world about the Minions is “lol Did they work for Hitler? lol” And this movie makes clear that, no, they did not. After serving Napoleon, the Minions were in exile in an icy cave until 1968, thus avoiding the Harry Potter problem of mixing magical beings and the Holocaust.)

I was also just surprised at how twisty the plot of Minions is. I did not expect Bob to pull the mythical Sword from the Stone, or for the spurned, exploded Scarlet to return for one last attempt at the Queen of England’s crown when it felt like the movie was already over. I had a harder time thinking of really distinct swerves than I expected writing this up, but it’s all just kind of inherently Interesting. The way that this world pivots around professional villainy (even if only in secret circles) reminded me a little bit of The Venture Bros. This still isn’t evil evil—It’s easy enough to see the Minions as conventionally likeable if not exactly heroic and Scarlet Overkill as conventionally threatening and villainous, but it’s a fun enough, kid-friendly flirtation that at least sort of eschews predictable plotting.

There are some character designs that rely a bit on fatphobic imagery for their visual identity/comedy potential, but I think the most offensive thing about the movie is its treatment of The Queen, who cutesily throws down with the Minions when they attempt to steal her crown for Scarlet and who is hanging out at a pub arm wrestling after she’s dethroned. Her toothiness might qualify as gentle caricature, but I would have (cruel Leftist that I am) preferred a much meaner treatment. I mean, really, the Minions should be latching onto her, right? What with the whole legacy of colonialism and so forth? Her being a sort of apex thief and whatnot?

I jest—Obviously, that’s far too subversive and cerebral for such a Childish property! The Minions are instead drawn to the biggest cartoon of villainy, which means Scarlet at first but then ultimately a young Gru. Minions almost tells a standalone story using the critters but then has to wrap back around to Despicable Me, which means there’s a heavy Gru emphasis at the very end and during the little credits sequences. I would have preferred that it not do this (and also that Scarlet be an anthropomorphized wolf-woman for the entire movie and not just the “bedtime porry” scene), but I know this isn’t really For me, in the end, and have just accepted that with as good as a shrug. Which is how I’ve felt about the Minions as a property and/or marketing gimmick for years now.

[screechthemighty]

OKAY new chapter of will you greet the daylight looming? is live! Tow-part warning for this one. One: Chunks of this are just a perspective flip of events from the balance of life is in the ripe and ruin, so yes, this is the same dialogue as last time. Two: Related to that, Sindri's current and Kratos's past suicidal ideation are both hinted at, though less explicitly than other fics. At least you guys can go in knowing for sure that one has a happy ending.

AO3 link will be in a reblog, full chapter below, full fic tagged on my blog also!

will you greet the daylight looming? part 3/6: summer

cws: suicidal ideation (hinted), fantasy racism (mentioned). ragnarok spoilers throughout.

.

“Interesting choice of training weapon.”

The voice still sent a jolt down Kratos’s spine, despite knowing it no longer belonged to an enemy. He fought the urge to summon his own spear as he turned around. Týr stood at the fence, watching his students run through their drills. “But it makes sense,” Týr continued conversationally. “That’s how you would’ve started, right?”

“Hmm.” Kratos still did not know how to react to the true Týr. On the one hand, he was nothing like Odin’s impersonation. There was a thoughtfulness to him that the tyrant had not been able to capture. Kratos could almost picture Týr debating with the philosophers of Greece in his free time. He seemed to have no interest in war or power, but was not so aggressive about it as Odin had depicted. He was simply a man who had fought enough for now, and wished to go home to his family and crops.

But Odin had captured his face and voice perfectly. The memory of that voice going cruel as Odin drove the knife into Brok still haunted Kratos. And then there was the memory of Týr’s treasure room. The bottle of Lemnian wine. The pot with Kratos’s likeness on it,

How much did the war god know?

“You visited Sparta?” Kratos asked carefully.

Týr shook his head. “I only ever knew of it by reputation,” he said. “And I was never sure how much of it was true.”

“If you heard it from an Athenian, it was a lie,” Kratos said immediately.

Týr chuckled. “RIght, and I’m sure you can be trusted to tell the truth about Athens,” he replied.

“They made a great many contributions to Greece. And they were annoying.” And the less said about Athena herself, the better. “I’m surprised I never heard of your visits.”

“Oh, I made a point of keeping to myself. Greece was a beautiful place, but…”

Týr hesitated. Kratos turned his attention to his students. Hopefully, it looked as though he were supervising them, not as though he were avoiding eye contact. “Say what is on your mind,” he said.

“...I never met him directly, but Zeus reminded me of Odin in some ways,” he said. “Not exactly the same, but I left Asgard to avoid thinking about my family.”

“Hmm.” Kratos could see some resemblance. The same obsession with prophecy and habit of stabbing their children, for starters. Same habit of damaging lives with their meddling. It seemed to be a requirement for being king of the gods.

“I’m glad you got out,” Týr added, “for what it’s worth.”

Kratos felt a surge of adrenaline, though he knew no physical attack was coming. It was accompanied by a deep feeling of dread, nausea, revulsion. “That is not how I would put it,” he said.

Týr hesitated again. “I don’t know how else to put it,” he said finally. “I heard of how things ended there, but you could have…stayed, mentally. Remained trapped in it all, spread that distrust and hatred. Instead, you’re doing this.” He nodded towards Kratos’s students. “Helping people. I’ve heard about what you and Freya have been up to. So…you got out, in the end.”

The clarification made sense, and soothed his heightened emotions somewhat. Not entirely, though; his scars still tingled. “I suppose. I only wish…”

Wish I could have done it sooner.

Týr smiled sadly, a look of understanding in his eyes. “Me, too.”

Kratos thought about Týr, held hostage in Niflheim for imagined crimes. He thought of Deimos, bound for sins he hadn’t committed yet, and would never get the chance to commit. He imagined how difficult it must have been to push against an unmoving object like Odin.

He was lucky to be alive at all.

“We are not our fathers’ pasts,” Kratos said quietly.

“Yeah,” Týr said. For the first time, Kratos did not see the threat of Odin in him. For the first time, he saw a possible ally. “I sure hope not.”

.

There was more to Skjöldr than Kratos had realized.

Kratos had seen glimpses of the boy’s work ethic before. Skjöldr had been one of the primary organizers as his people settled back in Midgard, and seemed to be treated as a leader among his peers. These traits became more pronounced as they progressed in their training. He was first to volunteer, obeyed orders while still asking the right questions, and had a talent for encouraging the others. He was, of course, still a mortal boy–growing into his body, voice cracking at odd times, still learning the ways of the world. Kratos did not want to ask too much of him too soon. But he was well on his way to doing something great with his life.

He also had a very encyclopedic knowledge of fish.

“They’re the same fish,” Skjöldr explained, “but the coloration is completely different in Asgard. I still kind of think it’s due to some magical influence.” He started gutting the fish with careful precision. “I’d love to go to Vanaheim and see if there’s a pattern. I’d ask Lady Freya, but…y’know.”

“She’s intimidating?” Kratos guessed.

“No…well, yeah, but it’s more that it’s…dumb? I don’t want to bug the Queen of the Valkyries by asking her about fish.”

Freya would probably welcome the question, Kratos thought. It would be a break from the monotony of questions about Draugr or the pockets or trouble-makers they still had to deal with. But he kept that thought to himself and continued skinning his own fish. “You learned all of this yourself?” he asked.

“No, my dad…” Skjöldr hesitated. “...is a fisherman. He taught me. I’ve had to pick up a lot of it since he just started walking again. His leg got pretty busted up during…y’know.”

Ragnarök. Some were still hesitant to invoke it by name. Kratos understood. “But it is healing?”

“He’ll probably have a limp, but yeah, it could have been worse.” Skjöldr straightened up suddenly at the sound of wings nearby. “Is that…?”

Kratos didn’t have to look up to confirm that it was. He knew that sound by now. The Valkyries were back, and Thrúd with them if the crackle of lightning in the otherwise clear air was any indication. Kratos could hear them talking among themselves. It seemed like they’d missed a few holes out of Helheim. That was irritating. He heard footsteps approaching; Skjöldr attempted to sit up straighter as they grew close. “Hey, Thrúd,” he said.

Ah. Kratos made a point of looking down at the fish he was cleaning. The boy was already nervous. There was no point in making it worse. “Hey, Skjöldr,” Thrúd said. She gave him a friendly punch to the shoulder. Her being a goddess, the “friendly” punch nearly knocked Skjöldr over. He didn’t seem to mind. “Keeping everyone fed?”

“Trying to. Uh, everything going okay with the, uh…Helheim stuff?”

“Oh, y’know. Helheim is Helheim.” Kratos felt knuckles nudge into his own shoulder in an attempt at a similar punch. It didn’t move him at all. “Kratos.”

Kratos grunted. He glanced up long enough to see if Freya was there. She stood nearby, examining her swords carefully. Frost marked the edges. Good hunting, if he had to guess. “Where were they entering Midgard?” he asked.

“Oh, right next to Jörmungandr’s head,” Thrúd said with a laugh. “He did half the work for us. Not sure they tasted any good.”

Skjöldr laughed, perhaps a little too quickly. Oh, poor boy. If it had been any other goddess, Kratos might have considered intervening as soon as possible. He still considered it, but not for any fault of Thrúd’s. The heartache of a mortal and an immortal was potent. He knew that from experience.

But he was not the boy’s father, and that was probably a mistake he’d have to make on his own. So Kratos kept his eyes on the fish.

Freya sat down next to him with a sigh. “They’ve got you doing manual labor?” she asked.

“I volunteered.” He liked the normalcy of it. If he feared one thing, it was becoming too used to being a proper god again. He may not be running from his true nature anymore, but he did not want to be some distant thing sitting on a throne. He wanted to keep the life he had created for himself–fish guts and all. “The river’s thawed entirely. Travel should be easier now.”

“Finally. I thought some of those chunks would never clear away.” Freya glanced at Skjöldr and Thrúd. She was talking about her Valkyrie duties while he listened attentively. “Oh, dear,” Freya said quietly.

Of course she’d noticed. Love was one of her domains; if it was obvious to Kratos, it was probably a full signal fire to her. “Best of luck to him,” Kratos said quietly.

She didn’t audibly laugh, to her credit, but he could see the amusement in her eyes. “Best of luck indeed.”

Kratos waited until there was a lull in the conversation before asking his next question: “Do you have fish like this in Vanaheim?”

Skjöldr’s eyes darted over to them, looking surprised, but he kept his mouth shut. Freya examined the fish. “Similar, but they’re more of a…sunset color, I guess you could say. Why?”

Kratos shrugged. He knew the lack of answer wouldn’t give much away; Freya was used to him not answering questions by now. It wasn’t as if she could find him any more odd than she already did.

The grateful look on Skjöldr’s face made it worthwhile, anyway.

.

He had only seen Angrboda in the Ironwood or the Wild Woods. She’d alluded to returning to Jötunheim proper a handful of times (“Just looking around”), but beyond when she helped them during Ragnarök, she seemed content to stay in her part of the world.

It caught Kratos just as off-guard as everyone else when she arrived in Midgard.

“Hey, is that Loki’s friend?”

It was. And Kratos immediately noticed the change in the air around them. He’d set up the training grounds close to the mortal’s growing town, close enough that there were always people walking by. Those people were staring. Visibly.

She hadn’t come with Fenrir. It was just Angrboda, her arms wrapped around herself tightly, her gaze more frightened and rabbit-like than he’d ever seen it. Kratos stepped closer to her, carefully scanning the staring faces, searching for any signs of threat-

“Angrboda, right?” Skjöldr said. He had put down his spear and was approaching her with a friendly smile. “Loki’s friend? I’m Skjöldr.” He held out his hand. “Are you here to train, too?”

“Oh, uhm…” Angrboda unfolded enough to shake Skjöldr’s hand. “No, I was just here to say ‘hi.’”

Some of the students were still staring. Skjöldr’s friendliness seemed to put them at ease, but they were still curious. They had never seen a giant before, Kratos realized. They had only heard stories of them, and likely stories filtered through the lies of Asgard. None of them seemed hostile, at least, but…

“Drills,” Kratos called sternly. “Your enemy is over there.” The students quickly went back to their straw dummies. “Skjöldr, you as well.”

“Yes, sir,” he said immediately. To Angrboda, he added, “We should talk sometime! I never got to thank you for helping.”

“It’s no problem,” she replied with a hesitant smile. “Glad you’re okay.”

Kratos waited until Skjöldr was out of earshot before moving closer to Angrboda. “Are you all right?”

Angrboda let out a shaky breath. “I’m okay. I just…I guess I wanted to see if it was really okay out here. You mentioned coming here a lot, so I thought it’d be safe.”

Of course. She wanted to see how one of the last giants in the realms would be treated for showing her face. If Atreus did return with more giants, that would be important to know. “I would have escorted you,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t really plan to come here today, but thank you.” She seemed more relaxed now that he was close. “I haven’t been to a town in a while. It looks nice.”

“They’ve done well for themselves. There’s been help from Vanaheim and the Aesir left…” He noted one of the students was struggling with her form. “I’ll be right back.”

Kratos was worried that some trouble would find Angrboda in the time it took him to help the student and return. But she was still standing at the fence when he was done, and no one accosted her during her visit.

It may have been naive of him, but Kratos hoped that was a good sign.

.

Skjöldr made a point of including Angrboda after that whenever he saw her. Kratos suspected it was out of loyalty to Atreus more than anything, but he was still grateful. Angrboda herself opened up quickly to the attention, losing the wariness she’d had that day very quickly. He might be the second person her age she’s ever spoken to, Kratos realized. Perhaps that was the other reason she’d risked showing herself.

She was lonely.

“So, these are…” Skjöldr looked up from the hinge he was fixing. “...what, past, present, future?”

“Sometimes. And it really depends on when you see it.” Angrboda kept her eyes on the shrine. They needed some attention after three years of snow. She’d insisted on repairing the art herself while Kratos and Skjöldr tended to the doors. “This used to be past, present, future. Now it’s more like…beginning, middle, end, I guess.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. Much as any of this makes sense.”

Kratos understood that sentiment. He tried not to think about the complexities of prophecies now that they were no longer a matter of life and death. He had struggled with the decision before, but Kratos was grateful now that Faye had never told him about it until she absolutely had to.

He wondered how she had stood living with it herself.

“Does Jörmungandr know this is in here?” Skjöldr wondered. “It must be weird for him if he does. Knowing your whole life story is out there somewhere…I don’t think I’d be able to live like that.” He hesitated. “I’m not on any of these, right?”

“Not that I know of,” Angrboda said. “Guess that means you can do whatever you want.”

Skjöldr looked relieved–then, almost immediately, nervous again. “Okay , that sounds really scary when you put it like that.”

Mimir barked with laughter. Even Kratos couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “Really no winning is there?” Mimir said. “The burden of choice.”

“Better than being a story with the end written,” Angrboda noted quietly.

Kratos hummed in agreement. He waited until Skjöldr moved away from the open door and nodded before releasing it. It settled back on its hinges, now fully repaired. The shrine may not have been good as new, but it looked much better than it had. “Do you think we can move them one day?” he asked.

“I think they’ll be okay where they are for now, but I’ve thought about it,” Angrboda admitted. “Maybe once things settle down a bit more.”

Maybe once more of the giants return and can make that decision, if he had to guess. But Angrboda was still careful not to discuss that in mixed company. She had been treated fairly so far, but Kratos understood her caution.

Eventually, Skjöldr had to go back into town, leaving Kratos and Mimir along with Angrboda. He was content to watch her paint at first, her hands carefully tracing the pre-existing lines. She was the first one to break the silence: “Thanks for the help with this.”

“You’re welcome.” Kratos examined the canvas before them. “I was hoping…to learn.”

“About the prophecies?”

“About the giants. I know Faye left long before she met me, but they are her people. I want to know.” It was the least he could do to respect her memory. The memory of the family she had only talked about once, but with so much pain in her eyes. “I want to understand her.”

Angrboda set her paintbrush down and looked at him, understanding in her eyes. “I’d love to tell you,” she said quietly. “Do you think you could tell me about her? I know she meant a lot to a lot of people, but I don’t think they knew…her. You know?”

Kratos nodded. “Of course. She would have liked you, I can say that.” His gaze swept over the shrine, the carefully restored paintings. “She was an artist herself.”

“Really?” Angrboda looked pleased. “So Atreus got it from her?”

“Yes.” His Spartan training had covered more than most people assumed. Neither drawing nor painting was on that list. “They were alike in many ways. I know it will serve him well.”

“So will what he got from you.”

The compliment hit him harder than he thought it would. “...thank you.”

He hoped she was right.

.

The invitation was unexpected. Kratos hadn’t had much chance to return to Niðavellir since Brok’s funeral. The dwarves had largely kept to themselves in the wake of Ragnarök, trying to rebuild their realm without outside interference.

But they remembered him, apparently, because Durlin arrived one mid-summer day with an invitation. “We’re tearing down the statues the Aesir left up. Want to help?”

Kratos found he did. And with the dwarf’s permission, he invited Freya and Angrboda as well. The former declined; the latter agreed wholeheartedly, though Kratos had a feeling the possibility of seeing a new realm influenced her decision. She was practically bursting with excitement when she arrived with Fenrir in tow.

“This place is amazing!” she said.

“It certainly smells nicer than it did,” Mimir noted.

Kratos grunted and kept an eye out for grims. They were going to a statue near a mining operation, not the one in town. It was probably for the best, considering Fenrir was there. The wolf was as excited as Angrboda, eagerly taking in all the new smells. Word of his size must have reached Niðavellir, because the few dwarves Durlin had assembled weren’t too alarmed at the sight of him. Still alarmed, but it could have been much worse. “What the fuck were you feeding that thing?” Durlin asked.

“I’ve seen bigger beasts,” Kratos said. The actual answer would take too long. “We thought he could help.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Durlin glanced Angrboda’s way. Like the citizens in Midgard, he seemed to figure out quickly that she was a giant. Unlike the citizens of Midgard, his reaction was much softer. “You want the first hit, little lady?”

Angrboda examined the statue critically. It was about as much an eyesore as the one in Niðavellir city proper. Then again, Kratos had a feeling it would be difficult to make Odin look good at all. “Actually,” she said, reaching into her bag, “there’s something I was thinking about doing first…”

She had small sacs filled with paint. The first slap of bright green struck the statue right in the eye patch, splattering across the face. It was strangely satisfying to watch; the cheers that accompanied it were even more so. Angrboda quickly started distributing the paint balls among the dwarves. Kratos was content to position Mimir so he could hurl insults and watch from a safe distance. Durlin joined him. “She seems like a sweet kid,” he noted. “Reminds me of someone we know.”

“Hmm.” Kratos glanced Durlin’s way. The dwarf’s eyes were fairly clear today. It was difficult to tell if he had stopped drinking entirely, or had decided he wanted all his faculties for the occasion. “You knew her well?”

“Not as well as I’d thought, apparently. Never would’ve picked her as the wife and mother type.” Durlin huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m happy for her, though. She deserved that peace.”

The dwarf’s voice softened as he spoke about her. Kratos was still getting used to hearing that tone when others spoke of her. She had been cared for by so many before him. It was comforting, to know that she had people around her even in her worse days. “You cared about her,” he noted.

Durlin’s next laugh was louder. “Not jealous of you, if that’s what you mean. But someone might be. Half of Niðavellir was in love with her by the end. You’re lucky you managed to get her before one of us did.” More encouraging shouts broke out in front of them. Fenrir had started digging at the statue’s base while the others egged him on. “Think they could use the extra muscle.”

In truth, Kratos could have brought the statue down single-handedly, but he knew the others needed the catharsis. He only expanded as much energy as needed to get the statue lowered down, allowing the others to bring it down entirely. The energy of the crowd was somewhere between a celebration and a battle. Fortunately, most of the insults being hurled were in Dwarvish. Kratos had a feeling they would be too strong for Angrboda.

Then again, he had no idea what her hurled insults were, either. She may have had a broader vocabulary than he realized.

Kratos was helping pry the statue’s head off when he heard it. The shout was distant at first, but quickly solidified into a familiar voice: “Kratos? Kratos?!”

It was Lúnda. When Kratos turned around, the dwarf was running towards them. Her face was as frantic as her tone. Kratos immediately ran to meet her. “It’s Sindri,” she gasped before Kratos could ask. “It’s…”

Kratos suddenly felt very cold. “Where?” he demanded.

“Back at the house…I don’t know, but something’s wrong. Please, I don’t know what to do.”

She was frightened. This woman had fought alongside Freyr against the Aesir, and this had her rattled. Kratos looked over his shoulder. Angrboda must have sensed something wrong; she’d followed him closer, but kept a safe distance away to avoid eavesdropping too much. “I have to…” Kratos started.

She nodded immediately. “Yeah, go. Fenrir can get me back home. I think I’ll be okay on my own.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll look after her,” Durlin said immediately. His face remained calm, but Kratos saw one hand anxiously fiddling with one of his vest buttons. “Make sure he’s all right.”

“Thank you.”

His last sight of the group was Fenrir chasing after Odin’s severed head. He wished the sight could bring him any joy. All he could think about was Sindri.

I should have gone to the house more. I should have spoken to him before this. The thought that he had been giving the dwarf too much distance had crossed his mind, but never for long. He had other things on his mind: helping Freya, training his students, looking after Angrboda. But now all he could think was that he’d been using those tasks to avoid making things right. That he could have cut into the time spent on his own, used that to repair this wrong.

Repair it now. There is no sense dwelling in what-ifs.

He was bracing himself for something terrible. What they found when they reached the house was not what he’d expected. Somehow, that only made things worse.

The house was completely abandoned. The only sign of life was the upturned bucket on the floor, and the brush beside it. The main room smelled strongly of soap and damp, molding wood. The worst damage was centered around a spot near the table.

The place where Brok had breathed his last.

“He’s not upstairs either.” Lúnda ran down the stairs, dislodging her goggles as she ran a hand through her hair. “He was here when I left, I swear.”

“What the blazes was he doing?” Mimir asked.

“I don’t know. He was…talking crazy, saying Brok was in the floor or something. I don’t know what was wrong.”

Kratos knew. He may not have experienced it in the same way Sindri was, but he knew its root cause far too well.

“He is grieving,” he said quietly. Of course Sindri wasn’t behaving rationally. Nothing about grief was rational. For a moment, Kratos was back in Greece, sharpening his knife to the point of damaging it. He knew it was too much, but he couldn’t make himself stop. It was the only thing that made sense in light of the unthinkable. His friend, the man he would name his son after one day, gone.

And that was the most rational thing grief had driven him to do.

“We’ve gotta find him,” Lúnda said. “He shouldn’t be alone when he’s like this. I just don’t know where he’d go.”

Kratos did, or at least he had an idea. It’s where he’d go, if he’d known what he knew now. “I will look,” he said. “You two should wait here, in case he comes back.” He could see the protest forming on Lúnda’s face, so he cut it off quickly: “He may not be receptive if all of us go. One is better than a crowd. And…I need to do this.”

I have to set this right.

Lúnda relented with a heavy sigh, taking Mimir without complaint. “Just bring him back, okay?” she said.

“Good luck, brother,” Mimir said, his eyes soft with understanding.

Kratos nodded to them both and left.

He managed to avoid breaking into a run until he was following the World Tree to Alfheim.

Atreus had spoken sometimes of speaking to his mother, asking her for guidance. Faye’s only prayers had been ancestral; according to Angrboda, this was a giant practice. The gods haven’t really done much for us. All we’ve got is each other. Kratos had never tried, being out of practice with prayer in general and unsure of what to ask her.

He spoke to her now.

Please. I know he’s your friend. I need to find him. Show me where he is, elskan. Help me find him.

Show me.

His time in Alfheim had been limited over the past months, but Kratos still remembered the way. Through the closest gate, to the Lake of Souls. With Lúnda’s help, they had been able to reopen a gate on the far shores, near the forge Sindri had used. That day had been difficult (trying to dodge the latest fight that had broken out had been tedious), but Kratos was grateful for the effort now. He half-expected to find Sindri there, hammering away at a weapon as he had that day in Midgard, but the forges were quiet and still. No sign of him.

Kratos stopped and forced himself to breathe.

He is likely here. He knows this is where Brok’s soul would have gone. But where is the best spot? Closer to the temple? It made the most sense. His hands shook as he shoved the boat into the water. Calm, he reminded himself. Panic will not serve you now.

Then, Faye, please.

He felt nothing but his aching dread until he reached the lake. He steered the boat towards the western shores–the beach near where Odin had kept one of the Valkyries. Good view of the light. Easy access to the water. And something else–a growing certainty that he wanted to trust. It may have been foolish, it may have been nothing…

There.

A pile of armor on the shore.

Pure instinct screamed at him to get out, get out now, get into the water, but he controlled it long enough to beach the boat. He’d risk losing it if he didn’t, and it would be faster to get Sindri home that way. A glance confirmed that the armor was his, which meant…

Kratos barely stopped to leave some of his own gear before plunging into the water.

The water was cool, and only grew colder the deeper he swam. Weeds and underwater plants swayed in the currents; a few times, he could have sworn they were not plants, but arms, hands, eyes watching him from the darkness.

Both eyes forward. Focus.

It was difficult to see, but the same impulse that had pulled him to the shore called him onwards. The deeper he swam, the more it took on a concrete form. A familiar voice–an even more familiar song. There was something different about it now, more urgent. Here, it whispered. He’s here. This way, my love, he’s here.

Kratos followed that feeling, even as his lungs started to burn. He followed it until a patch of darkness turned into something solid, into a small form drifting listlessly, dragged downwards by the plants.

There!

Kratos surged forward to grab the body. As he did, he could have sworn he felt something brush his cheek. Whatever it was, it gave him the energy to swim back to the surface, to the sunlight above, and from there to the shore. Sindri’s body was unmoving at first; when Kratos put him down, the dwarf’s lungs remembered to breathe. The first attempt brought convulsions, movement, Sindri turning over as he coughed up lake water onto the shore.

Kratos breathed a sigh of relief. Thank you. Thank you. The hardest part may have been yet to come, but at least he had the chance now. “Breathe,” Kratos said. “Slowly.”

Sindri’s coughing subsided. He wouldn’t look directly at Kratos. “Can you hear me?” Kratos tried. Sindri may have only been semi-conscious. Perhaps he needed more rest before-

“Why did you pull me out?” Sindri asked.

It was a question Kratos had not wanted to hear. It was also one that he understood.

Kratos sighed and sat in the sands, not too far away, but far enough to give Sindri space. He thought of Sindri’s face in the workshop that day, of his own deep pain in the deepest pits of Hades. Deimos and Brok, each twice-lost. “I had a brother,” he said. “The gods took him from me, too. It took a long time for me to…stop blaming myself for what happened. You should have that chance.”

Deimos. What would his brother think of him now? They’d barely had the chance to know each other. In truth, Kratos had envied Brok and Sindri sometimes. They had been separated for a time, but they still had many years shared between them. Kratos barely had six years when they were children, a handful of moments as adults. All the rest had been robbed from him because of some prophecy.

Some cycles couldn’t help repeating themselves, it seemed.

“You do not have to speak to me,” Kratos added. “I understand, you are angry. You have every right to be. But I am not leaving you here alone.” Not again, not this time. Not when the wounds were still so raw and open. Being alone is worse. He should have remembered that. Should have tried to convince Sindri of it sooner.

There was another stretch of silence. He glimpsed Sindri moving, not quite getting up, but hunching over less. When the dwarf spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

“I killed him.”

Again, three words Kratos did not want to hear. And three words he understood.

“It’s my fault,” Sindri repeated, louder this time. His voice broke under the strain of his grief. “Oh, gods, I killed him.”

Sindri fell apart.

For a moment, Kratos felt he should not be there. This pain was too raw, too intimate; what right did he have to witness it? But he had sworn he would not leave. Now, more than ever, Sindri should not be alone.

He moved close enough to grip the dwarf’s shoulder. Sindri did not protest. Kratos still could not look directly at him, so instead he looked out over the water. Partially for threats. Mostly for answers.

How do I help him bear this?

How can anyone?

Sindri’s sobs quieted eventually. Once they had, Kratos stood and walked to the boat, and the pile of discarded items next to it. The Blades, Leviathan, a few of his own things. He made sure his weapons were out of the water’s reach and picked up a water skin before returning to Sindri. He grunted quietly and held it out in offering. “Do you have anything stronger?” Sindri asked, his voice ravaged by tears.

Maybe I should’ve brought something stronger. “Water first,” Kratos said. “You need it more.”

He sat back down in the sand, half-watching Sindri drink. The knuckles of the dwarf’s exposed hand looked red and raw, probably from the cleaning he’d been doing. He’d lost weight, too, his already thin face looking more haggard than before. He needs rest, Kratos though. Food. If he could be convinced to take it. “How did you know I was here?” Sindri asked as he handed back the water skin.

“Lúnda said you were distressed. Talking about Brok. I thought…”

If it had been me, I would have tried to bring her back, too.

“I heard her here,” Kratos said instead. “Both times. Your shop is not far. It seemed a logical place to start.”

“...Lúnda’s not here, is she?”

Kratos shook his head. “No, she stayed at your home. The head, too. I made sure they wouldn’t follow. You have time.”

He likely needed it. Kratos had asked them to stay for a reason. Just because Sindri shouldn’t be alone did not mean he needed a full audience for his grief. Kratos was sure his presence was bad enough. And yet despite that assumption…

“How do you do it?” Sindri asked quietly. “How do you…handle it all?”

Of all the people Sindri could have asked. Kratos almost wanted to laugh. “Not as well as you’d think,” he admitted. He cast aside his self-mockery and carefully considered his next words. “I simply lived with it, for a long time. If you can call it living. Faye, she…” He had to pause at the memory of that day in the woods. Of the first time she ever held his hand, soft and careful. “...she said once that we would always walk together. That she would always carry a part of me, and I of her. The culmination of love is grief, and yet…we still open our hearts to it. I did not understand what she meant until recently.” He only wished he could have understood sooner. “The pain…no longer feels like pain. Or it feels less so. Instead I feel her. What she taught me, what she gave me. It takes time to accept, but it is possible.”

Now more than ever, he was sure she was with them. That she had called them down to those waters. And even if he couldn’t feel it as clearly elsewhere, she was still with him.

She always had been.

“I mean,” Sindri, “Faye hasn’t been wrong yet.” Despite himself, Kratos chuckled. “She was right about something else. He who walks his own path walks alone.” Sindri met his eyes. They were still red from tears, tired and pained, but clear. “It wasn’t your fault, and…I’m sorry for what I said.”

Kratos had not realized how heavy the weight truly had been until it was lifted. This was not about him, he knew, but he was still…grateful. “You were grieving. I understand. It is behind us.” In the past where it belonged. Now, he could look to a future, one perhaps with Sindri in it. Except… “I do not know if you heard…”

“About Atreus or about Tyr?”

“Both.”

From the look on Sindri’s face, he had. Kratos was not entirely surprised. Atreus’s departure had been quieter, but not unnoticed; Týr’s reappearance, meanwhile, had certainly created a stir. Both would be hard for Sindri, Kratos knew, each in their own way. The only question was how hard, and how he would bear those weights as well.

“He’s going to be okay, right?” Sindri asked.

There was no anger in his voice, no blame. Instead, Kratos heard regret. He missed his son desperately then, and wished he could be there to mend things. But it could wait. Perhaps it was better if it did. “He will,” Kratos said. “I know he will.”

He accepted it as a certainty. His son would return. This could be mended. Both thoughts gave him some comfort.

He hoped they gave Sindri some comfort as well.

They sat in silence for a time. Kratos was grateful for the quiet, and equally unnerved that it was so quiet. Alfheim was never this quiet for him. Elskan, if this is you somehow, I am grateful…but why only this once? He could picture her laughing at the question, clearly as if she were there. I mean it.

“I don’t know if…if I can go back to the house,” Sindri said suddenly.

Kratos did not blame him. He wasn’t sure he wanted Sindri back in that place anyway. There was still too much pain there. Too many memories. “There is room in my home, if you wish,” Kratos said. There was never a doubt in his mind about that. “I cannot promise the wolves will leave you alone, but there is always a place for you.”

It was only right. Sindri was family, some of the first they’d found there. Kratos would have made the same offer to any of the others, but it felt especially important here. It’s what Faye would have wanted. That was reason enough.

Sindri considered it before nodding. “Okay. Okay. If you’re sure.”

“Hmm.” Kratos stood and offered Sindri a hand. “I’m sure.” Sindri hesitated, but took the help getting up. “Home, then.”

“Yeah. Home.”

They gathered their things and rowed back to the gate. Kratos only lingered a moment once the boat secure, pausing to close his eyes and let the sun warm his face.

He thought he felt that touch on his cheek again.

Thank you.

Kratos opened his eyes again, turned to the gate, and brought Sindri back home.

.

“You look tired.”

Sunset had turned Freya’s quarters golden. It was a space Kratos had only seen once, and briefly. It seemed more lived-in now, which was good. Freya hadn’t mentioned any resistance against her return to Vanaheim, but Kratos still worried. “I was going to say the same to you,” he retorted.

Freya rolled her eyes as she poured him a cup of mead. “It’s almost like being queen is exhausting,” she said. “Who would have thought?”

“Hmm.” Kratos took the cup with a grateful nod. “Anything I can help with?”

“Not really. We’ve just spent so much time under Asgard’s thumb. It’s…difficult, starting over.” She stared into her own cup, as if the answers were floating inside somewhere. “I think some people aren’t convinced Odin is gone.”

Kratos understood. There were times when he felt the same way about Olympus.

“What about you?” Freya added. “Those kids giving you trouble?”

“No. They listen well. They’re eager to learn.” They might have been the easiest thing he was handling lately, had it not been for one detail. “One of the parents…tried to give me an offering yesterday.”

“...oh?”

Kratos nodded. “I told her to keep it. Use it for her family. But they want to know what they should call me.” The admission made him feel ill. For a moment, he remembered the smell of burnt offerings, a statue in chains, the taste of blood and unsweetened wine. Nothing like the small bundle of food held in shaking hands, and yet everything like it at the same time.

“Are you really surprised?” Freya asked. “Most of their gods were just using them. You gut their fish and train their children to protect themselves with no expectation of repayment. If you didn’t want attention, you should have stayed in those woods.”

“I know, I know.” She was right, of course. Kratos took a long drag from his cup and sighed heavily. “It is not only that.”

“Your past?”

That as well, but not entirely. “My present. Sindri is still struggling. It is difficult to feel godlike when I can’t even help him.”

Sindri had more or less settled since that day in Alfheim, but grief still hounded him like a predator. Some days he would sweep the same patch of floor over and over, or move around the house carefully adjusting items so they were exactly in their place. He’d even insisted on tending to Kratos’s armor, as much as Kratos had tried to talk him out of it. I have to do something, he’d said. It’s like I’ve got this swarm of nightmares in my head, and doing stuff like this is the only thing that keeps them at bay. Do you know what I mean?

Kratos did, in a way. He was not sure he experienced it the same way Sindri did, but he understood the basic sentiment.

“You’re doing everything you can for him,” Freya said. “He’s not alone now. That’s what matters.”

Kratos wasn’t sure he felt that way, but he tried to believe it.

“I came here to see how you were doing,” Kratos noted suddenly. How had they gotten to talking about him?

“Well, in that case, please, let’s keep talking about your life,” Freya said dryly. Kratos laughed. “Have you been sleeping enough? Remembering to eat?”

“You can’t hide from your problems by fixing mine.”

“Oh, really?” Freya made a show of looking around her room. “Hold on, I think I have a mirror you can look at…”

“All right, all right. I yield.” Kratos sighed, for once in amusement and not in exasperation, and leaned back in his chair. “I propose an armistice. Neither of us discusses our problems. We are simply two friends having dinner.”

“That’s fine with me.” Freya took the opportunity to start drizzling honey over a thick slice of bread. “That said, there is…one thing you might be able to help with.”

He would, of course, without question, but… “Is it urgent?” he said.

“It will keep.”

He topped off his cup with more mead. “Then ask me when I’m done with this.” They could rest that long, he thought. Perhaps it would do them some good.

Freya smiled gently. “Okay.”

He drank slowly. They talked about the summer heat and returning plant life. Their problems kept for a little while longer.

They didn’t seem so insurmountable by the time he reached the bottom of his cup.

.

He returned to Midgard three days later thinking that he had spoken too soon. He did have some dragon scales for Lúnda to use and no one had died. That was about his only consolation.

And at least it’s not Aesir interference, he reminded himself. He had faced worse. And more annoying. But he was glad to be home.

Sindri hadn’t gone mad during Kratos’s absence. He supposed that was another victory. He was tense, but the dwarf was often tense, so Kratos assumed he would live through it. Neither spoke about how their days had gone. They only settled down around the fire pit to eat.

“I am this close to just replacing the fucking floors,” Sindri suddenly. “I don’t want to look at them anymore.”

Kratos nodded, more out of support than because he had truly registered the words. He had to run them over a few more times in his mind. He thought about the damp wood smell, that dark stain in the center of the floor. He hadn’t seen them since, but he doubted the time away had made things any better.

“We could do it,” Kratos replied.

“Do what?”

“Replace the floors.”

Sindri looked taken aback that Kratos had agreed with him.But after some consideration, he straightened up. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. We could. Uhm, I mean, if you’re okay with helping.”

“I am.” He didn’t like to think of the house in that state, and it might do Sindri some good.

It might do both of them some good.

[ms-scarletwings]

Woopsie, I Put Too Much Effort Into A Character Song Playlist (Zib)

Just showing off some contextual brain worms. Feel free to toy with it as hyperfix fuel, art/fic ideas, a discussion starter, or just to know what’s been rattling around in my ears lately. Addition suggestions welcome. No particular order to arrangement.

Breakdown/Preview below:

Outer Science, English Ver. [Kuraiinu]

Song artist: Jin (covered by Kuraiinu, English lyrics by Kuraiinu)

Fact of fun: The story told in the original song is part of a whole rabbit hole of a work, the Kagerou Project. Outer Science is specifically about one very bad ending out of a huge branch of connected timelines and possible “routes”.

Sorter’s note: This badass track is a huge favorite of mine both with and without even considering this character list, but holy shit did I find it appropriate for this purpose- from the action, the vibes, and especially for it to center around another villain as utterly maniacal as the star of the list. In my little headspace I love to imagine it mostly addressed from Zib’s perspective toward our main timeline’s Dib.

Sample lyrics:

[Does it matter when you, will soon awaken anew

That I’m reveling in every suffering just like a demon?

“Ahh why! No! Why!” you howl and cry

“I never wanted this” you lie..!

Look into my own eyes, there lies your fate and demise

And I know there another fated eloquent master awaits]

[Ahh, not enough, I can’t evade the desire

To eat up their darkened hearts upon the pyre

Taking ahold of every one of their lives

I’m buried in their eyes

Ahh, it’s also in you, deep down inside

The power bigger than them all, Combining Eyes..?

Yes, within this sad tragedy

You are the “queen”]

[How pitiful to live and die

Time and again you all defy

Though it will end the same, you keep resetting the game

Remiss and pain all aflame

Crying, howling, ever writhing]

Broadcast Illusion

Song artist: GHOST & Pals

Fact of fun: This is effectively a remake of one of GHOST’s earlier works, “Colorbars” and was the last song released as part of their Communications project before the series cancellation.

Sorter’s note: With the instrumental stylizations and dark themes of this piece outright, I hope my associations with the favored freak become self evident.

Sample lyrics:

[We’ll wake up in a singular reality

The death of a nation

A toxic reaction

So scream and shout, make a whole lotta noise

Don’t be afraid, let the night run out

Well, after all, it’s a television show

A telecast promoting vertigo]

[A moment in time to reconcile

Came a little too late, and now it’s gone

A moment in history

Produced by the broken and thrown away

And I’m already here

For you to see, for you to see, to see you

I’ve always been here]

Goodbye Moonmen

Song artist: Ryan Elder (Cover by Shadyvox)

Fact of fun: It’s generally accepted that this song was composed in a way to parody/tribute the musical style of David Bowie

Sorter’s note: I felt this one fitted Zib to the point of comedy. The original context of the song was literally about a universe-wide genocide with xenophobic motivations. To me this might as well have been going through his head in canon had he gotten his way.

Sample Lyrics:

[The worlds can be one together

Cosmos without hatred

Stars like diamonds in your eyes

The ground can be space, space, space, space, space

With feet marchin' towards a peaceful sky

All the moonmen want things their way

But we make sure they see the sun

Goodbye, moonmen

You say goodbye, moonmen

Goodbye, moonmen

Goodbye, moonmen

Oh, goodbye]

Final Transmission (Remix)

Song artist: Remixed by The Living Tombstone

Fact of fun: The original version was by Temporal Walker & Voodoopony

Sorter’s note: Delicious Title. Pretty darn catchy on its own. Trippy AND sad when you think about it for too long.

Sample Lyrics:

[He feels it in his stomach and in his bones

The weight is lifted now, he's never going home

Drifting in silence, now he's all alone

Difference is that now, there's no need to atone

Spaceman, that's what they said he was

Head up in the clouds, he never put up a fuss…]

[Eyelids getting heavy, sleep it off now kid

Everyone now knows exactly what you did

Go on, finish up the fuse that you lit

It doesn't matter now, cause we'll see you in a bit

Tapestry of nightlights above and below

Sanity coiled tight, the Earth he'll out grow

Amnesty a slight, too late to forego

Vanity benight, all to do now is let go]

Control

Song artist: Halsey (pitch edit presumably by Lunarex)

Sample Lyrics:

[I paced around for hours on empty

I jumped at the slightest of sounds

And I couldn't stand the person inside me

I turned all the mirrors around

I'm bigger than my body

I'm colder than this home

I'm meaner than my demons

I'm bigger than these bones

And all the kids cried out, "Please stop, you're scaring me"

I can't help this awful energy

God damn right, you should be scared of me

Who is in control?

I'm well acquainted with villains that live in my head

They beg me to write them so they'll never die when I'm dead]

Bacterial Contamination [Bookiezz]

Song artist: Kanimiso-P (covered by Bookiezz)

Fact of fun: The original music video with Hatsune Miku is super famous for good reason, and it’s actually a terrifying piece of art. The song by itself carries a really sad story involving themes of alienation, the vicious cycle of bullying, and possibly suicide, depending on how you interpret its ambiguous ending. There’s also a lot of body horror in the fashion of arthropod imagery, and that’s neat. This pick happens to be my favorite version of it, something about the part with the laughter still gives me actual chills.

Sorter’s note: I’m keeping it a secret for now what segment of the song I’m referring to but I actually started working on storyboarding for a brief animation of Zib to an audio snippet earlier this month.

Sample lyrics (approx. translated):

[Bacterial Contamination

You're not worth believing in my mind

Recently my "common sense" has corroded

I can't even hold my purity

The contamination is spreading

You’ll want to become stronger

Even if I barely survive

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts]

[My contamination has healed

I’ve been starting to feel much better

All because I transmitted it to her

Aha Aha Aha AHAHAHA…

Bacterial Contamination

Everyone's infected wounds keep bleeding

Killing themselves from contamination

They can't even die with grace now

The contamination has spread

None of you are here; you're dead in my mind

I'm eventually alone

It hurts (x13)]

The Distortionist -

Song Artist: GHOST & Pals

Sorter’s note: Oh hey look, a ditty specifically about gaslighty, abusive assholes for the self loathing bug bastard that started his own cult.

Sample Lyrics:

[Surely you can see the problem

I don't wanna lose my own reflection

A deplorable perception of me

Was none other than an image of you

You're making a wreck of broken glass and leaving me a fuckin' mess!

Bending light in a way that shows exactly how the story goes]

[In all this madness, it's madness

Oh-ho, it's sickening, it's sickening

You know it's unfair, it's unfair

How you distorted my reflection

You know it's too late…

You're lost in a world of funhouse mirrors, twisted for eternity

Bending light in a way that shows refraction of hypocrisy

Whimsical, dear, your lies are clear, now, who the hell would've ever guessed?

Play my games and abide my ways, there's no way you can compensate]

CORROSION

Song Artist: R.I.P.

Sorter’s note: I’m just gonna let “I've lived in fear my whole life; I'll give you a taste, you can't change my mind” speak for itself. This is one of the more tragedy flavored ones.

Sample Lyrics:

[Don't you know? I'm truly evil, and

Everybody 'round me's dropping dead!

Overflowing, oddly gleeful, and

You're all blue and cold, yet painted red!

Undergone drastic changes

Oh, it's the only thing that's left for me

All along I've known it's wrong

But I can't fix what I am

It's all I know

Low and behold!

I'm truly evil, and

You're a person standing in my way!

Have I shown I can be lethal

I'll leave them all to rot and to decay

Hold on tight, it will be painful

Oh, it's more than your weak mind can conceive

You're all blind, I'll take what's mine

Oh, I wish I could restrain

It's all I can be]

Wake Up!

Song Artist: Oomph!

Fact of fun: The German version of this song goes really hard too.

Sorter’s note: This one was selected more to reflect the broader nature of the Zimvoid and the hierarchy itself.

Sample Lyrics:

[Got no time for waiting

Got no time to waste

Everywhere machines here

Set a deadly pace

Got no time for questions

You have work to do

Got no time to stand now

If you stop, you lose]

[Your life is seeping through your fingers like sand

And time, it flies like the wind

You run in circles and you're losing your mind

But all you want is to win

Just breathe in

Then breathe out

Wake up! Now you're stuck in this game

And even if you run, the score is the same

Wake up! Now you're stuck in this game

You're just stuck in this game]

Confrontation

Song Artist: Frank Wildhorn, Et al.

Fact of fun: yeah yeah it’s from that Jekyll and Hyde Musical. The one people been making animatics of forever and they had every right to be because it’s still good decades later.

Sorter’s note: A little red meat for some of you who like to toy with the two minds, one body idea/headcanon, or your cute little corruption arc narratives.

Sample Lyrics:

[This is not a dream, my friend

And it will never end!

This one is the nightmare that goes on!

Hyde is here to stay,

No matter what you may pretend,

And He'll flourish, long after you're gone!

Soon you will die, and my memory will hide you!

You cannot choose but to lose control.

You can't control me! I live deep inside you!

Each day you'll feel me devour your soul!]

Amygdala’s Ragdoll -

Song Artist: GHOST & Pals

Fact of fun: For some reason the chorus of this caught on as a little animation trend once. Think they dubbed it the Trypophobia Meme. If I do actually ever do something with it myself, I know I’m not calling it that.

Sample Lyrics:

[Today something changed

I figured it’s true

The frontal lobe placed me behind my own strings

‘Cus I defy the way the game works

I’ll say it again, I’m only getting worse]

[Say we take what had been torn apart

Say we mend any patchwork discord

Turning eyes to the trypo-puppeteer

Waiting for the world to burn

So, One two three, and we’ll tie the tourniquet

Larvae eating away at everything

Word goes ‘round, I’m the trypo-puppeteer

Laugh along, I’m spreading holes

Now I know this has always been my fault

and I can’t inhale anymore]

Honorable Mentions:

• C e n t i p e d e by GHOST & Pals, omitted for personal and practical reasons.

• Honey I’m Home, another GHOST hit, omitted because most of my Zib association with that goes along with my personal “darker harvest” theory/headcannon

[trashcanalienist]

The water, the water, the ferry's whistle like a ghastly scream, the town like Crystal Lake and every other small forest town, lonely gusts of wind and gentle spirit of a guitar, narration so lost, introspective...such a beautiful movie, such a beautiful film.

A beautiful redhead with eyes and lips of ice and a sly foxmouth, Jessica's brown big eyes like the earth and the intelligent badger who knows it, her face like the grave, she's beautiful, like a rabbit, like the moon. Rare music and only ever that guitar, real or imagined it accompanies them. Old Gothic farmhouse, tall tiled walls in the kitchen, "stay forever my love, my love" old loving folk songs, new loving hippie songs

New York is "a mad city". Out here the blue water sways on and on for miles, blue lake, blue fog, blue clouds, blue land. Blue eyes, chips of ice, mourning herself. Thick green forestry, the brown reflection of water, and occasional red blaze as one and another tree succumbs to the fiery phoenix death that allows for their vernal rebirth. Blue turquoise teal water ripples, ripples, rips the sanity from her bones as the blonde vampire with pretty pouty lips and a child's white nightdress (a wedding dress) claws towards Jess through the deep waters of her grave like every ancient wraith, a whisp'ring banshee.

Whistling wind through the brown attic, a deer's head mounted, Jessica's eyes but lifeless, and the vampire ghost's dress and dagger closed but not locked in a warm brown wooden trunk. Piano, and some unburied percussion joins for a moment in the light from green window. Eggshells hippies, and only two, three years later.

"Flowers of evil. How can anything this pretty be evil? It's just old, that's all."

A sudden pounding synth and the whistling wind as the now redheaded, now blonde vampire rises from the depths again - Jess at her grave sees her too, the blonde drowned ghost in white beckoning her, and chases her through the woods and finds in the harried girl's place only water, water. A great blue spirit-soaked waterfall and the body of Abigail Bishop's victim, victim of her curse, then just earth. Beautiful running legs of this pouty fawn-eyed silent mute woman, cloth ribbon around her neck, she at least is real. Tangible. The redheaded velvet fox, sharp-jawed, sharp-nosed, sharp-eyed, always in red and often in green camo, the fox appears and the fawn runs.

The fear and the paranoia, the gentle instability of a beautiful happy mole-like woman, nosing blindly through the warm earth, vulnerable to all attack. The moment she's thought unreliable she cannot trust her own husband and another woman to be faithful, to be decent. She's had a nervous breakdown, but the mad rushing apathy of the city gives way only to the slow malicious hatred in these old rural places, foxes stalking fawns in forests and digging moles out of their cozy burrows. The cruelty of foxes and the mean piggish stupidity of men. I know a girl with eyes like this fox, but I can't recall her right now. Clear, perfect eyes, like the steel shutters on old spotlights, thin and sharp and cold but so hot with knowing. The ghost redheaded after all, like drowned silk in cold marble flesh and clothing, the whispered plea, "Stay. Stay." "I want you. What do you have - I need you. What do you have to live for?"

The justified fear and paranoia, and the instability, and the desperate search for comfort, and the dangers of foxes. Being Mary Lou is not as venerable a career when your place and time is the 1880s. The whole town is in sort of a Mangler cult. Fresh open wounds and old scars from her lips, from her knife. Wind, piano, water. A vampire, white mockery of purity, with her fangs in every man, with no women left who might challenge her and now even the mute blonde slaughtered. A true vampire. I want to see La Morte Vivante again, and Vampyr.

[noodlyappendages03]

Yup. That was it. DD walked up with his beautiful eyes and dazzling smile as he always does. He didn't cut and run. He found out I was doing shadow work therapy last week and I thought, "Oh God, he thinks I'm crazy." Turns out he doesn't. He shared that he was in therapy up until his separation last year and then asked me about it. Didn't pry but said I could share if I felt comfortable. I now get the sense that he has strong feelings for me but is mature enough to know that we can't make the two parts of our lives co-exist at this moment in time. Definitely not a fuckboy. He really tried his best to make his marriage work from our conversation today. Loves his baby girl to pieces. But it was a pandemic shotgun wedding with the wrong person. It really, really sucks that I can't sleep with him anymore, but it would only prolong and intensify the pain for both of us. Better to preserve and deepen our relationship as it is than to ruin it completely.

He knows about my major trauma - raped at 18 as a virgin and was impregnated against my will. Dissociated heavily in the days after. I miscarried in a dorm bathroom in the first trimester and was in heavy denial about the pregnancy because I was trying to deal with what had happened, plus I had taken a test too soon and it was negative - stuffed it all down and tried to pretend it never happened because the one person I told laughed at me and didn't believe me. Complex PTSD doesn't let you do that, btw. Attempted suicide 4 months after the miscarriage because the pain of living in the aftermath was just too much. Chose to stay on this earth out of pure spite and hatred toward my rapist, if we're being honest. Yay spite!

I've been able to heal the pregnancy wound by having my daughter 14 years later, but have had deep shame issues around sex ever since. Married a man young who made me feel secure emotionally but had no sex drive. At the time that was fine, and we had our kid, but I could count the times we were intimate on basically two hands in a decade. As I healed, I felt like I was not only missing out but unable to reclaim my sexuality. That ended, and here we are. DD certainly helped me reclaim parts of my sexuality that used to feel dirty to me. He took my virginity in um, a different way...haha! 😆 🍑

DD was in shock and in awe when I shared my story. He revealed he had a son at 22 - accidental pregnancy and later took responsibility after not being present for him growing up. He said he couldn't bear to imagine how painful it must have been for me to not have had a say in my bodily autonomy and to also be just 18 years old - about the same age as his son now, btw - and to technically give birth while being not entirely aware of what was happening with zero support system and then have to deal with complicated grief/rage/PTSD. So he kinda understood my situation, what makes me tick, and why I seek therapy. In fact, his son was born the same year that took place. So yeah...we share a unique bond.

If anything, he seemed to admire me more for being open about journaling and therapy. I'm trying to work on myself. Dude's got his own wounds to heal. He knows we're both unhealed. Both of us felt love and ran scared. Have to fix ourselves before there can be a healthy relationship (and one of us would have to quit because the working environment would become unhealthy - the Gossips!). Time will tell.

[zephyr-mew]

📱💕👻🐷

- @nsfwitchy

📱 Show your phone lock screen and/or home screen

The thing with this is that I have a wallpaper changer that pulls from a few image folders - mainly fandom, animals, and aesthetic photos.

Here's the current one. I have an absurd amount of Arcana screenshots in rotation, to no one's surprise.

My lockscreen's just an ad app thing to get $, so not much point in showing that, lol.

💕 Your two top fave fictional characters

Oh my god you can't do this to me. There's so many amazing boys, how am I supposed to choose

I'm trying to think of ones I've been most attached to in a variety of ways, and also ones that I don't have some level of vague uncomfortable feelings with - but I'm realizing that I'm always a bit uncomfortable with my attachments, lol. So that doesn't narrow things down.

Ah, I'm overthinking things. Honestly, it's Muriel and Julian from Arcana. These two are the first ones that've inspired me to write actual fic in... god, over 10 years? (Literally the last time I remember writing fic was in 2010 after playing Hotel Dusk and Last Window and getting a weird burst of inspiration for a few stories.) It's kind of embarrassing to admit how much of an effect they've had on my life.

I know this might sound weird, but... I've never really personally related to characters in more than one or two small ways before. I love the hell out of so many characters, but I've never really seen myself in them. And playing Muriel's route... well, I saw myself in him. His quirks and interests, the way he moves through life, how trauma has affected him (though it feels kind of weird saying that when my trauma's not nearly as bad as anything he went through).

But hey, we're both anxious, depressed, traumatized softies. And seeing him grow and heal bit by bit, step by step - it gave me hope that maybe... maybe I could heal. That I wasn't trapped in my trauma responses permanently. That things could get easier. Maybe even - better?

That I could learn to be more comfortable with opening up, I could get more comfortable with someone and build something good with them, that there could be depth and lightness and joy and understanding. That I didn't need to be perfect to be loved - that I could be loved just how I am, mental scars and all.

And Julian, ahh. How he was so loving and affectionate, so clearly, genuinely interested in me - it's something I would hardly even let myself imagine before with anyone (yes, even fictional characters). Having self hatred run so deep that I just couldn't imagine anyone feeling anything even remotely that positive towards me. But something about his scenes clicked something in my head, something finally got through to me - maybe, just maybe, it is possible for someone to be interested in me.

He's helped me get more comfortable with a lot of aspects of myself, of interests and desires and just being imperfect and enjoying life anyways. Taking chances and trying new things and learning that I can be comfortable around people, that I can find joy in being open and letting go. That I can find freedom in another person.

It's a small thing, but - I've always wanted to sing, but I'm scared as fuck to for so many reasons, and the thought of him singing along with me helps (especially because he can't sing well - doing things badly in front of other people is one of my biggest fears).

Also he's helped me feel more comfortable with a lot of aspects of my sexuality so that's cool ✌️

Looking through this, it seems like they've brought a lot of the same lessons in different ways. Showing that being imperfect and utterly human isn't a death sentence. That there's joy to be found in connection and vulnerability and not just pain. That I can heal and grow. That there are people who can love me as I am and meet me where I'm at, and I don't have to shove parts of myself away to be worthwhile.

Honestly, thank you for asking this one. It's nice to have the opportunity to reflect like this.

👻 Do you believe in ghosts

Vaguely, but also not really? Like, I'm open to the possibility bc who knows, but they've never really felt like an actual real thing. ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯ tbh I hope not bc I'm enough of a scaredy cat as it is, I freak out over horror games knowing full well it's not real, I don't need more actual scary shit to worry about lol

>is guro fucker >can't handle horror

🐷 Junk food you can never get enough of

Probably sour cream and onion chips ✌️

Tysm for the ask~! @nsfwitchy

[vidalinav]

@dustjacketmusings always has some of the best ideas and this one was about Cassian being offered as a sacrifice to witch Nesta. But I just made Nesta more otherwordly. 

~

“The have called me the maiden, the blessed, the Mother’s favorite child... Some call me queen.” Nesta shuffled the cards. They were dipped in a deep red and Cassian wondered if her sharp nails had drawn blood from paper--wondered if the female who was rumored to grant life did so to hear its screams. “Others call me death.”

“What can I call you?” Cassian asked, smirking even as he felt dread gurgle in his stomach. There was no escape here, he knew. The priestesses had not only drugged him and had him bound, they'd blindfolded him as they took him miles from his home. He didn’t know where he was. 

The room he was in now--a parlor of some sort for games--was quiet and cozy. Or it would have been if he didn’t just see a group of the most powerful and richest lords look at this female with drunken wanting, all logic be damned to the lowest levels of hell. He could already imagine it. She’d tell them to jump and they would ask how high and she would point to the cliffs he could see outside the window. 

“You won’t get to call me anything seeing as you are my sacrifice,” she mused calmly. “Though I’m certain I’ll hear your pleas.” 

The cards folded in her hands and Cassian watched transfixed at the movement. The shuffle sang in his ears and he held onto the notes instead of the soft, melody of her voice. “They’ll grind your pretty wings into powder for my bath… or maybe they’ll hang you up.” Nesta nodded as if the idea pleased her. “Stretch you over the stained glass so we’ll all be able to bask in the faint glow of Illyrian wings.”

Cassian smirked, willing his voice to sound flat. Bored, even. 

He sounded cocky at best, “you’d enjoy me up there. I’m much too pretty to be ground up in powder.”

Nesta raised a brow and a flash of irritation bloomed in grey. She set down the deck and on top was the queen of hearts. 

Queen of hearts, indeed. She’d take it in her fist or demand his head, instead. Wasn’t that what the priestesses gleefully sang when they captured him? 

Nesta picked up a glass on one of the tables. Wine, he presumed... Cassian watched as she dipped a black painted nail into the red liquid, her finger circling around the rim. She raised her fingertip to her lips and hummed at the taste. 

Was it blood then? It wouldn’t surprise him. In fact, he was sure that if his wings were to be taken and displayed, then his blood would be used for her feast.

“I have no appetite for bats,” she remarked plainly. 

At her words, Cassian half wondered if she’d read his thoughts. 

But no... she looked at him with that mischievous gleam in her eyes, her lips raised lightly in a smirk. She must have been talking about his looks and not kindly. She didn’t like bats, she’d said. 

“I have no thirst for witches or queens and yet I’ll drink from you if you ask.”

Cassian didn’t know why he’d said the words, only that he didn’t like the thought of her dismissiveness. Fire warmed his veins and he felt his blood run hot with outrage. Was it hatred? It could have been. 

It could have also been the fact that this female was beautiful. Possibly the most gorgeous fae, he’d ever seen, if he could truly call her fae. She smelled like one... acted like one... but there was something different about her. Something darker and thoroughly sweet. He ached to taste it for himself. 

But no, Cassian shook his head. This was a trap. This was what she did. Poor males came into her palace and they lost their will as well as their minds. Sacrifices, the lot of them. 

Nesta raised her chin in challenge, stepping towards him so swiftly he could barely hear the shift of her gown. She placed her hand on his cheek and for a moment, he thought she might slap him.

All he felt was a soft caress, her fingertips traversing to his chin. 

“Queens shouldn’t have to ask. Good sacrifices should already be on their knees.

“Unfortunately for you, Lady, I’ve never been any good.”

~

@arinbelle

[mercurygguk]

winter soldier | jjk

genre; winter soldier/avengers au, angst/smut/fluff

pairing; winter soldier!jungkook x avenger!female reader

summary; the love of your life died during ww2, they honored his death. you had never imagined you’d ever see him again until you’d join him in death, but here he is and he’s trying to kill you. he’s not himself at all. you, however, insist that the man you used to know is still in there somewhere.

word count; 6,764

warnings; descriptions of war/battle/fight scenes, descriptions of scars, the rest of the avengers joins the party, reader is like Cap A but not like Cap A, you know??, jungkook looking hella hot with his long hair and steel arm, inspiration from ‘captain america: winter soldier’, swearing, SMUT; explicit sexual activities, oral (f. receiving), love making at its highest- nothing kinky, just plain ol’ sex

a/n; okay so um, i’m binge-watching the avengers movies atm and i was watching Captain America: Winter Soldier. i kid you not, throughout the entire movie i was imagining what jungkook would look like as the winter soldier- jungkook combined with superheroes is like the perfect story, amirite?? ;)) enjoy!

ps. once again, i didn’t proof read so ignore my possible mistakes lol

(for reference, this is what jungkook’s hair looks like in this fic)

War.

Terrorizing. Horrifying. Absolutely petrifying.

There are several words to use when talking about it, describing it, reliving it. Once you’ve experienced it, it will haunt you till the day you die and even beyond that. There isn’t much positive to take from it, not many positive memories come to you as you think back to the time during war. Only one positive memory returns to you from those dark times...

Him.

Him who did not fit in with the military services due to his lack of strength and speed. Him who never let anyone step upon him and evolved with the job. Him who never backed down from a challenge or an order given from the highest ranks. Him who had braveness unlike anyone, loyalty like no other, a will to fight for what’s worth it and to win. Him who made you fall for him without meaning to. Him who promised he would always come back to you, no matter what happened.

And then one day he didn’t. They had told you he went down in the fight, died for his country, for his team. He hadn’t hesitated to sacrifice himself, thrown himself towards the threat in the hopes of ending it for everyone once and for all. That he did. He killed himself in the process of saving everyone else.

A hero is what they had called him. Honored his name, saluting as they all stood facing his military photograph, serious faces and emotionless eyes all over. Tears had filled your eyes that day, but they didn't fall. You refused to let them. There was no way you would cry because of a liar. A coward, really. Anger kept you going, anger aimed at him. A rage so intense that you would convince yourself that you hated him. Some people would call you selfish, selfish for hating a man who sacrificed himself for everyone else. They were right. You were selfish. But love makes you selfish, and you loved him. So ridiculously much.

Years later, decades into the new century he remains as a positive yet heartbreaking and frustrating memory in your mind and heart. You haven’t aged a day thanks to the advanced technology and the project you offered to be the experiment of, in the end of the war. After his death and the war seeming more out of control than ever, you thought there wasn’t much more to live for, so you volunteered. A successful masterpiece, professor Kim had said as you regained consciousness on the lab table. You were his greatest, most succeeded experiment. You still are, except for the fact that Kim Namjoon is no longer walking among people on earth.

Now you’re living as the successful masterpiece he has created. Stronger, faster – young too even though your real age is something near 98. It doesn’t show. You look like any other 23-year-old but with extraordinary strength and speed. Being a part of a team as the Avengers truly has given you a meaning of life, a purpose that you didn’t feel you had before joining this outstanding team of superheroes as some would call you.

But as you stand here, in the middle of a battlefield that is scarily similar to those back in the 1940’s, you feel small. Gunshots fire around you, flying past your head and ringing in your ears. Explosions going off from the shots fired by Stark, Iron Man as he’s known as. The grounds breaking from the power of Thor’s hammer, the bad guys falling like flies in the hands of Widow. You’re watching it all unfold, breathing for a split second as robots are charging at you with red, glowing eyes.

For God’s sake, just how many of these are there?

Keeping yourself from rolling your eyes in pure annoyance, you set off running towards them with an unmatched speed, fists up and ready to take them out. One goes down after another, surrendering to your very angry, very powerful fists. Your patience is running thin as the robots keep appearing from left and right, setting their focus on you as demanded by whoever’s controlling them. A person you haven’t managed to find yet, but determined to hunt down and put a bullet through their head.

“Hey, Thor!” You call out to the nordic God flying around you, punching fists through robots and throwing his hammer at them. He glances your way, finding you surrounded by robots, too many for you to fight by yourself. “A lil hand here?”

He nods in response, immediately dropping to the ground and plunging his hammer into the asphalt on the ground, lightning seeping through the ground and into the robots, taking them down and splitting them in half. Thor throws a smug smirk at you before turning back around to fight another round of robots. You roll your eyes, about to run off when shots are being fired at you.

“Shit!” You hiss, running to hide behind a tipped-over truck while fishing out a gun from the strap around your thigh. You lean out, aiming in the direction of the shots. There is a man with long, dark hair, a black mask covering half his face and a silver arm that does not look familiar at all. The mysterious man steps onto the railing of the bridge he fired shots from, hard glare focused on you as he steps out and lets himself fall to the ground beneath the bridge. He lands on his feet, supporting himself with the silver fist into the asphalt. He stands to his height, walking straight towards you and leaving a mark in the asphalt where he had landed. Your eyes widen as he holds up a machine gun, opening fire at you as you scramble to run off while loading more shots into your gun.

Peeking around the corner of the brick building you’re hiding behind, you hold your gun up to aim at him. You fire a bullet, hitting his silver arm. He doesn’t budge, the bullet not even leaving a bump in the silver.

“What the-” you gape, firing shots again. He holds his silver hand up, the bullets bouncing off like they’re made of cotton, still walking towards you with eyes focused on you. There’s something about him that seems familiar – maybe his build? Or the way he walks? Or was it the slightly curly hair on top of his head? You can’t quite pin it as you watch him get closer, fists clenched tightly at his sides as if he’s ready to throw punches at you. You contemplate running to him, throwing the first punch at him before he gets to you. There is a slight hesitancy in your body as you can’t shake off how awfully familiar he seems the closer he gets to you. Knowing what the right thing to do is, you step out from your hiding spot, collecting all strength as you charge at him. A yell of anger and confusion rumbles from your chest as you jump on the last step, fist pulled back only for it to be forced forward and into the center of the mysterious man’s chest.

He stumbles back slightly, gaining his balance quickly before he steps closer, throwing a punch at you as well. You dodge, throwing your leg into his side in a strong kick. He grunts as he catches your leg, pulling on it to force you towards him. You ram into him, his clenched fist connecting with your jaw. You groan in pain as you fall to the ground, landing before his feet. Squinting at him, you watch as he kneels down over you, holding you down against the ground. As he stares at you, raising his hand to deliver a punch to your face again, you realize it as your eyes meet his. You gasp softly, not believing the sight in front of you. It’s a known fact that you would recognize those deep, brown eyes anywhere in any given moment.

“J-Jungkook?”

The sound of your voice, the sound of his name falling from your lips has him freezing for a split second. His eyes shift between yours as he slowly begins to sink his fist. But not even seconds later he’s raising his fist again and that’s when you can tell that he does not recognize you. He is looking at you as if you’re a complete stranger, like he didn’t spend the last year of his life telling you that he loved you more than life itself.

His gaze fills with the only feeling he feels, hatred. He moves to force his silver fist down and into your face, a face he used to call beautiful as he traced his finger tips along the edges. You barely dodge it, trying your very best to meet his eyes again as you call his name.

“Jungkook!” You fight the tears that are brimming your eyes as you continue to dodge his hits the best you can, “Hey! It’s me!”

He’s not holding off, continuing to throw punches at you and hitting the asphalt as you squirm in between his thighs. He’s impeccably strong, the asphalt cracking under the jabs of his fists. His thighs are keeping you in place as he pins you to the ground, your arms locked along your sides. You know he’ll punch you to death if you don’t get inside his head. It seems nearly impossible as his eyes are trained on you, emotionless and angry, only a small glimt of the man you used to know in them.

“____! Might wanna duck down a bit,” Tony shouts as he flies in your direction, his glowing hand aimed at Jungkook.

Your eyes widen in horror as you scramble together all the strength you have, throwing Jungkook off you and away from the deathly ray of light coming from Tony’s palm.

“No!”

The shot hits the asphalt a few meters away from you, nearly grazing Jungkook but it doesn’t, thankfully. Tony is shocked as he comes to a halt in the air, staring between Jungkook and you. You wave a hand at him. “I got him,” you assure him as you pant out breaths of air, nodding towards Widow and Thor, “go help the others.”

The man in the iron suit in front of you seems to hesitate for a second as he looks at you. He catches the pleading look on your face, glancing back at Jungkook for a moment before nodding at you once and flying in the direction of Widow and Thor, aiming his shots at the robots that are still coming from all sides. You turn your attention back to Jungkook, the body of the love of your life but not the eyes or mind of him.

“Jungkook,” you try again, slowly stepping closer as he stays still, slightly shocked that you had saved him from Iron Man’s deadly shot, “it’s me, ____.”

You’re begging, tone pleading him and hands up in surrender as you slowly step closer to him. He’s breathing hard, chest rising and falling in deep breaths. His eyes are dark, cold and distant as you get even closer. He’s frozen in his spot. He seems confused behind that hard expression, confused because you look less terrified than you did before realizing who he is. He doesn’t flinch or move away from your hand as it inches closer to his face, reaching for the black mask on his face.

“Hey,” you softly say, hesitating to touch him as you let a single tear escape and roll down your cheek. Something flashes in his eyes as he looks into your wet eyes, a small hint of recognition, familiarity too. Maybe he remembers. You hope he does. He lets you pull the black mask off completely, the strong line of his jaw appearing in front of you as well as his pink lips you used to kiss so often in that hidden place you liked to meet almost every night. “It’s me,” you whisper, “it’s ____.”

You’re afraid you’re imagining things as tears build up in the corner of his eyes, his jaw tightening. It’s too much for him. The memories returning with full force, the emotions filling his chest and warming it for the first time in 70 years. He wants to cry. He doesn’t know whether it's happiness because you’re right here in front of him, after he thought he would never get to see you again as he took his last breath back in 1944, or sadness because he’s well aware that he almost killed you if you hadn’t pushed him off you.

“____?” His voice betrays him as it cracks, your name coming out in a croaked voice. More tears escape as you hear your name falling from his lips for the first time since that morning in the military camp where he said ‘see you soon’ and then never returned. He freezes as you throw yourself at him, arms wrapped around him as you pull him closer in a tight hug. The sniffles and muffled cries you let out breaks his emotionless, cold heart and filling it with a warmth he hasn’t felt in so long. A tear escapes from the corner of his eye as he lets his own arms snake their way around your waist, hugging you just as tight as you hug him.

Relief.

That’s what he’s feeling.

Jungkook wanders around inside Stark’s office, eyes exploring things as he calmly runs his silver hand over them. You watch him from a few feet away, arms crossed over your chest. Worry is filling your entire body as his back is turned to you. He still doesn’t seem like himself. There is something about him that makes you anxious, something about him makes you wonder if he’ll turn at any moment, falling back into whatever sort of amnesia he has been experiencing for the past decades.

You jump in surprise when the door opens beside you, revealing Tony. He notices your jumbled state, giving you a small, half smile. You turn your eyes back to Jungkook who’s picking at an ancient-looking sculpture on Tony’s desk causing Tony to take a step closer.

“Hey! Buddy!” He calls out, catching Jungkook’s attention. “Don’t touch that, please. It’s antique.”

Jungkook steps away from the desk, hands up in mock surrender, emptiness in his eyes as if he couldn’t care less about Tony’s antique sculpture. No one really cared about that sculpture. It’s doomed to break at some point when it’s placed in his office, in the Avengers building.

“Tony,” you catch the attention of the older man, looking straight at him with hopeful, desperate eyes, “can you help him?”

He turns to face Jungkook, looking him over from head to toe. “Friday, give me a scan of whatever’s controlling Jungkook.”

Anticipated, you wait while biting a nail. Jungkook doesn’t move an inch as Friday scans him for anything to help Tony figure out a way to help. He’s glancing from Tony to you, his eyes meeting yours. Seconds. It takes seconds from his stare meeting yours to something flicking behind his dark brown irises, something inside of him snapping like the tips of someone’s fingers. Your eyes widen in panic as you move to stand between Tony and Jungkook.

“Tony!” You shout, moving fast as you try to get in between the two men. Tony has already activated his iron hand, catching Jungkook’s silver fist right before it hits him square in the face. You come to a halt, staring in surprise as Tony tightens his hold on Jungkook’s fist, forcing him to the ground. “Tony, please, don’t hurt him. He’s not in his right mind!”

“Oh, really?” Tony scoffs, sarcasm dripping from each word. A small yelp leaves your mouth as Tony kicks his knee up under Jungkook’s jaw, knocking him out. Jungkook falls limp to the floor, eyes closed as he’s kicked unconscious by Tony. You kneel down beside him, brushing his long strands of hair out of his face. He looks peaceful as he lays there, completely unconscious, and yet there’s a furrowed look on his face, like he’s never free from whatever that is controlling him. You sigh deeply, head dropping as you cradle Jungkook’s hand in your own. Tony’s palm rests on your shoulder. You glance up at him. He gives you a small, reassuring smile.

“Don’t worry, we’ll help him,” he tells you. You nod, knowing he spoke the truth.

“Thank you.”

The frustrated look and furrowed eyebrows are gone. He looks genuinely peaceful this time, long lashes resting on the top of his cheeks as he rests beneath the sheets on your bed. You can’t help yourself as you reach out, palm cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone in a soft caress. Hopefully you’ll have the love of your life back once he wakes up from the deep sleep Tony put him in.

You’re about to move away, retrieving your hand from his cheek just as you hear him whimper softly. Turning back to him, you watch as his lower lip begins to quiver, eyebrows furrowed tightly together. “No,” he whimpers again, head shaking in his sleep. “Please, no! Don’t!”

Worry fills you once again as you sit on the edge of the bed beside him, hands cupping his face between them. “Jungkook,” you softly call, trying your best to wake him without startling him. “Jungkook, my love, please wake up. Please!”

Startled, you gasp as his eyes shoot open, his lips parting as he gasps for air. He’s looking right into your startled, widened eyes. It takes a minute for him to realize who you are and where he is, the surroundings not seeming familiar at all, but it feels nice. The aura, the warmth and the dimmed lighting in the bedroom where he’s tucked under the sheets.

“Hey,” you breathe out as you smile, not sure what to say to him. Tony had made sure to help him, get whatever that was controlling him out of him, his head to himself now and slowly filling with memories, both good and bad ones. “How are you feeling?”

He groans as he moves to sit up. You help him straighten up, making sure he has a pillow for his back as he leans back against the head of the bed. He closes his eyes tightly together as he drops his head back, still trying to calm his erratic breathing. You sit back in the chair you had pulled to the bedside when you got here.

“I feel…” he begins, words feeling foreign on his tongue as he speaks with a croaking voice. He sighs deeply. This is a lot for his head to take in in just one day. “I feel like my head is about to explode.”

Your smile is careful as you look at him. “Makes sense,” you softly say, watching him glance at his arm only to notice the silver is still there, like he had hoped it would be gone. It’s easy to tell the arm itself is a symbol of a very dark time as he looks at it and then looks away from it. He isn’t fond of the silver arm, obviously having a love-hate relationship with it as it has given him power and strength he never had to begin with and problems he never voluntarily wanted in the first place. There’s pain in his eyes as he glances at you, shame as he cowers under your gaze.

You frown deeply. “What happened to you?” You ask, voice barely above a whisper. He closes his eyes, not really wishing to go back to those dark times where his life was saved and changed for the worse. The dark times where he became a shadow of himself and a manipulated soldier, brainwashed to take orders from others.

“I, uh, I don’t think-“ he stumbles over his words.

You place your hand over his actual hand, your thumb brushing the skin there. He glances at where you’re touching him before looking up at you. You’re hurting, it’s easy to see. It’s not your own pain though, it’s his. You’re feeling pain for him, hurting because he went through things he never should have, things where death would’ve been much less painful. You want to kiss him, kiss it all better if that was possible.

“You can tell me,” you whisper, pleading him to confide in you, to tell you what happened to him all those years ago.

He sighs deeply, turning his hand over to wrap it around yours. A rush runs through your stomach as he grips onto your hand with a hold so tight that you find yourself promising him silently that you’ll never let go again by giving his hand a small squeeze.

“They found me a few days later,” he starts, gaze focusing on the way yours and his fingers intertwine with each other like they’re meant to do it, “in the ruins of buildings. I-I wasn’t fully awake when they did, only just coming to my senses again after the explosion that was meant to kill me.”

You’re focusing on his hand in yours now, not able to look into his eyes as he tells the story of how he ended up here, 70 years later, and still looking like himself but with longer hair and impeccable strength.

“I didn’t recognize them. They wouldn’t tell me anything. They took me to this place, a bunker or something like that. There was this huge laboratory inside with equipment way ahead of its time,” he looks confused as he relives the horrifying moments, “I was placed in a chair and the next thing I know they’re sawing my arm off-“

You whimper. “Oh, god,” tears dwell in your eyes as you grip his hand tightly.

“____, I have never felt as much pain as I did that day,” he looks you straight in the eye, the pain from that day flashing over his face as he recalls it, the feeling of it. “And all I could think about while they turned me into this- this monster… was that I lied to you.”

You shake your head in denial. “No, Jungkook,” you whisper, “you couldn’t know. You couldn’t.”

He offers you a small half-smile, remorse covering his features as he reaches up with his silver hand, careful as he lets the fingertips of it brush your hair out of your face.

“I’m sorry I gave you an empty promise,” he whispers, silver fingertips brushing against the side of your face. You cover it with your own hand, letting him cup your face in the cold silver. He leans closer, hissing lightly as pain shoots up the side of his torso. “I’m sorry that I didn’t come back to you like I promised.”

“You did though,” you sigh deeply, resting your forehead against his. “You’re right here.”

He nods softly, his eyes shifting between yours.. “and I won’t leave again,” he assures you before hesitating, shrugging as he adds; “unless you want me to.”

You chuckle through the tears that had built up in your eyes. He’s smiling at you as you reach up to cup his face in your palms, brushing your thumb across his cheeks. He’s watching you, still not quite believing that you’re here with him. After so long. 70 years of wondering if you’re still alive. 70 long years of wondering where you were in the world. 70 unbearable years of longing for your touch, your soft, plump lips that made his heart stop beating for a few seconds each time they would touch his in a kiss.

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you,” he whispers into the small gap of air space between you and him. “Each time I’d return from a mission and become myself again after being under mind-control, you were the first thing on my mind. To be honest, I don’t think you ever left it. You’ve always been there with me, in the deepest parts of my consciousness. You kept me sane during the missions, kept me from forgetting myself completely.”

Listening intently, you close your eyes as your thumbs continue to brush over the skin on his cheeks. He continues, a deep sigh falling from his lips and clashing against yours causing goosebumps to rise upon your body. You’re shocked that you have gone this far without smothering him in kisses. You don’t want to risk anything, waiting patiently for him to make the first move in the direction of more physical affection, whether it’s a touch of his hand, a hug or more.

“And when I realized it was you earlier today...” his voice cracks, “when I realized I almost killed you- I don’t think I can ever forgive myself for that.”

“You can and you will,” you softly tell him, the undertone of your voice stern, “you didn’t kill me. You wouldn’t. You were gonna recognize me sooner or later.”

He exhales shakily. “You don’t know that,” he almost snaps, eyes closed tightly as he drops his silver hand from your face. He pulls away from your touch, the warmth of him disappearing the further he moves away. He’s not looking at you. Tears are threatening to spill as you stare back at him, lips slightly parted as you want to speak up. You want to tell him he’s wrong, but you already know that he will not take your words for what they are. He, and you, know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t pushed him off when you did.

“You’re right,” you say, catching his attention again. He barely glances at you, noticing the small remnants of tears in your eyes before looking back at his silver hand, clenching and unclenching it. A tear rolls down your cheek. “You’re so right, Jungkook. I don’t know if you would or not.”

You get up from the chair you’ve been sitting in since you brought him back to your apartment. Jungkook still refuses to look at you as you move onto the bed, crawling closer to him. You don’t hesitate as you lay a hand on his shoulder and throw a leg over his to straddle his lap. He finally looks at you, eyes slightly widened at your actions. His eyes meet teary ones again, his silver arm moving out of an old habit as he reaches up to wipe your tears away.

“But I like to think you would.”

Your lips press against his before he can reply to your words. Jungkook gasps and then grunts in response as you press your mouth to his, desperately and needy. His body freezes beneath you as you kiss him, tasting his lips for the first time in an unbearably long time. It takes him a while to realize that you’re kissing him, finally kissing you back as he cradles you in his arms, pulling you closer to his chest. The silver arm keeps a tight grip around your waist, holding you in place as the other runs up your thigh.

Pulling away, you gasp for air, letting your forehead rest against his. Jungkook is breathing heavily, his breath once again clashing against yours as you both catch your breath. Your eyes meet, seconds after he’s kissing you again, your tank top riding up as the silver arm keeps you tight against him. The silver touching your skin causes goosebumps to cover your skin, a chill running up your spine as you cup his face. His tongue licks against your bottom lip, you let him in. A moan escapes your lips as his tongue touches yours.

“I’ve been holding myself back ever since you woke up,” you whisper against his lips, making him smile as his hands slide under your top, pushing it up before pulling it over your head completely. You return to his lips, catching them with your own as you reach for the hem of his t-shirt. He helps you pull it off, your mind elsewhere as you throw it onto the floor. Your hands rake down his body, over the tensing muscles of his abdomen as he moves his kisses down your cheek and further under your jaw. Your breathing is ragged as you pull away, only a few inches so you can glance down at his torso. The sight horrifies you, your fingertips brushing over scars and healed wounds.

“Oh my god,” you whisper as you glance up at Jungkook, his eyes meeting yours for a few seconds before you look back at his chest. Your eyes wander, over his both small and larger scars to his silver arm. You feel your heart tightening as you take in the way the silver arm is sewed onto his body. You hesitate to reach up, Jungkook’s eyes on you as you let your shaking fingertips brush over the burned, scarred skin that keeps the silver arm attached. “I- This…”

His human hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb caressing your skin. “I know,” he agrees without hearing the rest of the sentence. You look back at him, finding relief in his eyes as you rest your palms against his chest. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he then says.

“They literally cut off your arm,” you point out, shaking your head in disbelief. You can’t even imagine how much pain he must’ve been in when they did this to him. “I wish I could have spared you this pain, spared you the torture you went through.”

He smiles softly. “I know, ____. But there's no way you possibly could’ve.”

You're carefully running your pointer finger along one of his scars when you look up at him, eyelashes framing your eyes so perfectly. He thinks you’re absolutely beautiful, even more so than the last time he saw you. You can’t do anything to stop the words that tumble from your lips next.

“I love you so much, Jungkook.”

His breathing stops for a second, his heart skipping a beat. He hasn’t heard those words since 1944. He didn’t even hear those words that morning you had sent him off, he hadn’t said those words when he promised to return. He should have. That way you’d never be in doubt of his love. He wonders if you’ve loved him since or if there has been anyone else in the meantime to love you the way he should’ve.

Silently, you watch him as his thoughts run one hundred miles per hour. Your palms are sliding from his chest to his shoulders and further up his neck to cup his face again. The love he feels is evident in his eyes as he focuses on you.

“I love you,” he whispers, carefully turning you over onto your back only for him to hover over you. You’re watching him, tingling in your stomach as you hear the words fall from his lips. He returns to kissing you, kissing the skin on your cheek, your neck and further down to the very top of your chest, right beneath the collarbones. He glances up at you as he kisses his way down the valley of your bra-covered chest. “I didn’t say it enough back then,” he mouths against your skin, another round of goosebumps rising beneath his lips, “I should have said it more. I’m sorry.”

You exhale deeply, arching your back into his touch as he reaches your navel and moves even further down to the waistband of your pants, your spandex pants that you so elegantly wear whenever you have a mission with the Avengers.

“Stop apologizing,” you breathe out, eyes closed as you succumb to his touch. The silver hand brushes over your stomach as it runs up to your chest, unclasping your bra on the front. It falls to the sides, revealing your perky nipples to the crisp air. You gasp softly as a silver hand brushes over both, the cold steel doing nothing but erecting them even more. “I've always hated it when you apologize.”

He smirks softly against your lower stomach, pressing one last kiss to the skin there before pulling the silver hand down to pull off your pants, and panties too. The pants are barely on the floor before he returns to your lower abdomen, kisses being spread across your hip bones and pubic bone. You reach down to tangle your fingers in his long hair as he runs his hands up the inside of your thighs. He spreads your legs, revealing your throbbing core to him.

“God, I missed this,” he breathed out, the air of his words hitting your wet folds. “Having you like this, all to myself.”

You whine from above him. “Jungkook,” you whimper, “please.”

It doesn’t take more for him to lean closer, tongue licking a stripe up between your folds and to your clit, his silver arm sliding across your abdomen to keep you down as he eats you out for the first time in decades. One would think he had lost his touch and knowledge of a woman’s body, but you can say that he certainly didn’t as he roots himself between your legs, tongue licking your wetness and prodding at the entrance.

“Oh god,” you moan, softly gasping for air as his human hand rests on top of your one thigh, fingers digging into the flesh there. You’re in heaven, on the ninth cloud as he slurps your arousal, licking your folds and clit as if his life depended on it. “Fuck, Jungkook!”

The sound of your name toppling from your lips as he hits a certain nerve makes his body flush with a warmth he almost forgot what feels like. You’re writhing in the tight hold of his silver arm, squirming as he licks you to your release. The orgasm is approaching fast and hard, Jungkook being the sole reason for it. No one could ever get you there as fast as him.

“I’m s-so close- oh!,” you pant, your walls clenching as Jungkook’s actual fingers slide into you. He pumps his hand in and out of you in a pace that is perfectly building up your orgasm. He takes nothing but a glance into his eyes as he leans down to softly kiss your clit that you’re toppling over, hitting the wall of your orgasm. “J-jungkook, my god!”

You jerk away as he leans forward, tongue licking up your release, tasting it on his taste buds. He hums with a small smile as he glances up at you, loving the way your eyes are almost bulging out of your head at the sight of him between your thighs. It takes nothing more than a few seconds before you shitting up, Jungkook meeting you halfway in a kiss. Tongues clash against each other, the taste of you on his tongue as he kisses you deeply, needingly.

“Please fuck me,” you mumble in between kisses, a desperate whining tone attached to your words. “Make love to me, Jungkook.”

He seals your words with a kiss, giving you a silent promise of doing just that. As if he’d lick you out and that would be it. No way.

You watch, teeth biting into your bottom lip, as he gets off the bed to remove the sweatpants you had dressed him in when you got back, getting him out of those military pants with belts and buckles all over them. His cock springs free, slaps against his abdomen as it stands proud into the air. A rush runs through your stomach at the sight, mouth slightly watering. Once the sweatpants and his boxers lie on the floor by his feet, he crawls back onto the bed. He moves closer, pushing you back onto your back as he hovers over you. You’re glancing at his silver arm for a mere split second, your hair reaching up to run along the hard edges of it. Jungkook can’t feel your touch but he’d like to imagine that he can as he watches your palm brushing over and further up to the nape of his neck. His eyes move back to lock with yours. You’re looking at him just like you did that last night of intimacy you had back in 1944, the night before he was sent off on a deathly mission. A huge wave of emotions hits him as he glances from your eyes to your lips and back again.

“I love you,” he softly says, eyebrows furrowed together as he looks at you, “so much, ____.”

You smile, pulling him down to meet you in a kiss. The kisses are soft, tender even as he reaches down to line himself up with your entrance. You gasp into his mouth as the tip of his cock prods at your folds. A hand of yours tangles back into his locks as he pushes inside, the tightness overwhelming for the both of you. He rests his forehead against yours, your breaths clashing together between you as he buries himself to the hilt.

“Shit,” he hisses, glancing down at your connecting hips. “Can i move?”

You nod your head, whispering, “yes.”

Jungkook watches the way your eyes roll to the back of your head as he pulls out and pushes back in, the sight causing him to do it again and again, wanting to see you lose yourself and succumb to the feeling of his cock brushing against your walls.

“Oh fuck!” You gasp as he gives you a particularly hard thrust, the sound of skin slapping against skin as he hits that exact spot that makes you whimper out a soft, whiny moan. You’re clawing at his shoulders, his neck and chest as he sets a rhythm, keeping it steady as he grinds into you. He grabs your leg with his silver hand, helping you to wrap it around his waist. The other follows suit, locking with your other behind his back. He hits deep inside of you, his veiny cock sliding against your walls so deliciously.

It’s like that last night you had with him all over again just with more longing and more desperate kisses. Your stomach tingles with the overwhelming amount of emotions you’re feeling in this exact moment as you look up at him – his long hair slightly damp at the roots, his toned chest glistening in sweat as he works you both to a release, to a high you’re both so desperately in the need of.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans as you unawarely clench around his length, his head dropping to your shoulder. “Don’t do that or I’ll cum right now.”

“Sorry!” You squeak, chuckling as he eyes you with a small smirk. God, you wanna ride him so badly. “Oh, Jungkook,” you moan breathily as he hits your spot again. He’s watching you, eyes running over your face as it contorts in pure pleasure.

“Fuck, I’m close,” he grunts, leaning up on his hands to get a better angle. He rams his hips into you, his strength coming to show as he thrusts into you harder than ever before. The power of his thrusts have you seeing stars as your second orgasm nears you. Jungkook can feel it as you clinch repeatedly around him. He won’t last much longer if you continue to do that.

High pitched moans tumble from your parted lips as he speeds up his movements, desperately trying to get you over the edge before he topples over himself. Your nails are digging into his shoulders as you reach your high, the orgasm hitting you like a bullet.

“Oh my fucking god,” you moan, breathing ragged as he continues to fuck you to get himself to cum. His breathing is uneven, not matching his thrusts as all as he moves in and out a few more times before stilling inside of you, spilling his load and painting your walls inside.

“Fuck, I love you,” he breathes out as he drops his forehead to your collarbone. You’re smiling widely as you run your fingers from his shoulders and up into his hair. He lifts his head to look at you as you push his long, brown hair out of his face. You know him too well when he gives you a look, a small smirk on his lips. A joke is coming. You can just feel it. And you can’t help but grin at him as everything feels exactly like 1944 again. Also, you want to punch him for his next words:

“Not too bad for a 98-year-old, huh?”

all rights reserved © mercurygguk (with help from marvel studios *wink* )