#Near Third Impact | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sunflowerwinds · 9 months ago

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nobody but you | v.a

summary: you lost everyone close to you, including your best friend (and childhood crush) when you were fourteen years old and had to grow up on your own. seven years later, a ghost reappears, igniting those same feelings from all those years ago to come bubbling back up. bed-confessions lead to what you’ve wanted for years.

pairing: fem!reader x vi arcane

contains: reader is described to wear skirts and have longer curly hair, reader’s nickname is star, mature language, mentions of vi and reader being each other’s first kiss, caitlyn being a third wheel (i’m so sorry :/), mature content: dry humping & hickies (vi!receiving)

a/n: …. hey. arcane is a new fixation and i HAD to write for her. inbox is open for more vi ideas! (modern or not) <33 4 DAYS until arcane🙂‍↕️!!!

That night that the explosion happened, you were a wreck. You had lost so many people that you held near to your heart; Vander, Claggor, Mylo, and Vi. As much as you hated to admit to yourself but losing her had the most impact on you.

Her body wasn’t found so everyone, including yourself, assumed that she was dead.

Powder, god, you couldn’t get to her before Silco did. When you arrived at the aftermath of the scene, she was gone and all that was left was a piece of a bomb that was undeniably Powder’s creation. Guilt settled within you at the rumors that spread of who Powder had become; Jinx.

It took years for you to become somewhat okay, falling into a new routine. With Silco running Zaun and dowsing the streets with shimmer, you had to watch people you knew become addicted and lose their minds over it.

You were alone.

It was a last resort but you took up a job at The Last Drop; as a barkeep. It was shitty pay but at least you had enough for food. It, of course, was nothing like when Vander owned the place. There was no family feeling or sense of comfort and unity.

You had accepted from that point on that this is how things were going to be. You live in the space above Benzo’s souvenir shop, making it your own home. Since his death, the space had been unoccupied. You took it upon yourself to make it yours.

It was decorated with remembrance of your late friends and knick-knacks you’ve collected from around the Lanes.

You had gotten off of your afternoon shift at the Last Drop, making your way back to the broken-down place you called home. You were ready to sit back and make dinner for yourself, sitting with your thoughts and silence. However as you approached the door to the shop, a weird sense settled into your gut.

The front door was open ever so slightly, barely noticeable at first glance. You usually would’ve dismissed it as a mistake on your part.

But this incident mixed with the weird feeling in your gut told you that this wasn’t just forgetting to close the door all the way. You hovered your hand over your leather holster that held your coins and a few ninja stars that you had been holding on to since you could hold one.

It was also helpful to hold up your extra layer of skirt.

Carefully, you peeked into the shop to see if you could see something or someone inside. From the small crevice, your sight was limited so you couldn’t confirm anything just yet. Lifting your left boot, you push the door open with the toe of your foot. You look into the shaded areas of the building, waiting for some form of movement.

Once you carefully step into the abandoned shop, you reach behind you to grab the doorknob to shut it closed. Your eyes flicker around the room, squinting in concentration as you continue to walk across the wooden floors.

A second passes and that’s when you hear a creak come from behind you. Reacting quickly, you grab a ninja star from the pocket of your belt and launch it into the darkness. The sound of the blade splitting into the wood and a grunt relax your worries somewhat.

Reaching for another star, you raise a hand to turn on the light to see who exactly made their way into the shop. Your face hardened as you lifted your arm once more, preparing to defend yourself.

The intruder stood against the shut door, eyes locked on the weapon in your hand.

“Star?”

They question you, stepping forward into the light.

You grip onto the ninja star tighter, confused as to how they know who you are. You suck in a deep breath, tilting your head as the strangers' features reveal themselves in the light. You squint for a moment before letting out a soft gasp, letting the bladed weapon slip from your fingers and onto the ground.

It couldn’t be. It was impossible.

Were you hallucinating? Have you finally reached your breaking point?

The hair, the bandaged arms, the same slope of her nose.

“Vi?” You breathe out, your eyes welling up with tears.

The pink-haired girl nodded, letting out a shaky breath herself. She took a few more careful steps towards you. You take the same amount of steps to meet her in the middle, throwing your arms around her neck with desperation. You let out a sob as you bury your face into the crook of her neck.

“It’s me, sweetheart. It’s me,” her voice was gentle in your ear, one of her bandaged palms cradling the back of your head while the other held you close by your torso.

Your eyes squint shut as you take in the fact that this is really happening. Vi was here; alive and so different. You pull away from her now-inked neck, brows furrowed from the questions rattling through your head.

“You… Where have you been?” You ask her softly.

“I got arrested and I’ve been in Stillwater since that night,” she explained carefully, one of her palms cradling your elbow.

“How are you here now? How did you get out?” Your eyes flicker to the ink on her cheek and the nose ring.

“I got released earlier today. I—I just had to see you. To make sure you were even…” Vi trailed off as she brushed a flyaway out of your face so she could really look at you.

The way you looked both so different and the same; how much you still look like that same girl that used to cut your fingers on your ninja stars. She remembers how you would try to hide the little slits on the tips of your fingers from her until you would physically wince from the cuts, forcing Vi to tend to the wounds.

You, unknowingly, did the same.

Too distracted just like how you would be all those years ago. Two teenage girls just trying to survive every day, secretly meeting up on the rooftops to snuggle dangerously close when everyone was asleep.

“When you said we were making a quick stop, I did assume it would be quick,” a posh English accent emerges from behind Vi, causing you to pull away from her comforting touch.

Vi let out a sigh before turning her head to peer at the tall woman standing in the doorway. You immediately recognize the attire underneath the small coat she was wearing and raise your hand to aim a ninja star at her. She was an enforcer.

Vi had an enforcer… get her out of prison?

“Who are you?” You snip, eyes narrowed.

“Who are you?” The dark blue-haired woman quipped back.

You hold back the scoff bubbling in your throat before Vi reaches forward to gently push your hand down. You hesitantly did so, still gripping onto the weapon between your fingers.

“I was thinking that maybe we could lay low here for a bit. Get some rest,” Vi attempts to ease your obvious tense figure.

“We?” You glance over at the woman watching her face soften.

“Yes. Just until tomorrow. Then we’ll be out of your hair to go to Babette’s.”

Voice still calm and gentle, Vi explained the situation at the moment. It turns out the tall woman’s name is Caitlyn, they’re looking for Powder Jinx because they believe she’s involved with an explosion that happened in Piltover.

You could see the desperation in Vi’s eyes when talking about her sister and your heart broke for her.

“Okay. I’m up top so,” you nod towards the door more into the shop that leads upstairs.

“Lead the way, Star,” Vi grinned, shoving her bandaged hands into her pockets.

You look over at Caitlyn who is standing right behind Vi, towering a bit over you both. You lead the pair to your living space, flicking on the light to reveal the new made up home. Vi whistled as she walked around the familiar space now made into more than just an attic.

“You did all of this?” She questioned with a smile as she walked over to the shelf of books and trinkets.

“Uh, yeah,” you feel a bit vulnerable knowing that both a stranger and past best friend who you thought was dead are in your home. “No rent, no roommates, just me.”

Your childhood friend traces the hanging lights from your ceiling, grinning for a moment when they make a soft twinkling noise. Being as nosy as she was, she made her way over to where you slept. Her eyes locked on the beaten-down table next to your table, focusing on the small ceramic bowl full of trinkets.

“Shit, you kept this?” Vi grabbed an item off the bedside table that was next to your bed that made your eyes widen with embarrassment.

It was a star ring that Vi had gotten (swiped from an antique shop) when you were thirteen. That day she gave it to you was also the day you brought up the idea of being each other’s first kiss to get it out of the way. Dating wasn’t a worry but you both agreed that you might as well ‘prepare for that day when you’d need to.’

It wasn’t the most amazing kiss, of course as you were preteens but you still became flustered the second you two made eye contact as you pulled away. You remember twiddling with the star ring after and how much you felt so cared for by someone.

“Oh yeah. It was to remember you by,” you sheepishly reply.

Vi hummed at your response, her smile creeping onto her lips as she set it down.

“I don’t mean to interrupt but is there someplace where I can rest?” Caitlyn questioned from behind you, seeming to be standing carefully near the door.

You glance over at Vi who had laid back on your bed, shutting her eyes with a sigh. One of her bandaged arms draped over her lower stomach while the other rested above her head on your flattened pillows.

“You can rest over here.”

You motioned for the tall woman to follow you. You walk around the wall, pushing back a curtain to a secret space where you usually allow some acquaintances from work or people in need to sleep, turning to Caitlyn with a friendlier grin.

“Thank you,” Caitlyn called after you as she sucked in a deep breath, looking around the small room. “For allowing me in your home.

“Thanks for bringing her back to me,” you nod.

Caitlyn nods in return, a small smile on her lips as she lowers herself on the dingy mattress.

“I know it’s not the ivory walls you’re used to but make yourself at home,” you notice the small, barely noticeable gap in between her front teeth as she smiles at you.

“It’s lovely,” her posh accent makes you chuckle.

You simply shake your head and shut the curtain to give Caitlyn some privacy. You recollect yourself as you think about Vi who is currently lying down on your bed. Vi perked up as she heard footsteps walking towards the bed, making eye contact with you as you rounded the bed to the other side.

“Hi,” you mutter as you lower yourself down on the opposite side of the bed, knee first.

“Hi,” Vi replied, her lips twitching into a small smile.

You can’t even hide the smitten smile on your face as you lay yourself down next to her, back on the mattress as well. Your palms rest above your navel as you try to act as normal as possible.

A tense silence filled the open room; the both of you not knowing what to say to one another. You could hear the shouting and loud music of the streets coming from your open window but all you could focus on was your own nervous breathing.

“I thought about you every day,” Vi’s the first to break the silence. “Every fucking day there, I thought about what it would be like coming back to you. I hoped you’d be here, Star. I don’t know what I’d do if you were gone too.” Vi admitted as she shook her head, snuggling into your bed.

Your eyes bore into her side profile, admiring the slope of her nose and the ink etched into her cheek. You turn the rest of your body to match your head.

“You would’ve been okay,” you joke, weakly chuckling.

Vi blinks and looks over at you with a soft and meaningful gaze. She’s silent for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts before she speaks.

“Do you remember when we would go up to the roof of the Last Drop and talk about what we would do if we ever got out of here?” Vi questions gently, facing you so that you are face to face.

“Yeah,” you mutter, not knowing where she was going with it.

“Every scenario we talked about whether it was taking over the streets or getting bucket loads of cash to build a new life there, I never imagined what it would be like without you by my side. You were always… right here.” Vi breathed out, her gaze avoiding your own. “Now that I know what it’s like to have that reality, I don’t want it to happen ever again.”

“Vi,” you whisper with tears in your eyes.

Her eyes carefully lifted to meet yours, pupils dilated with vulnerability.

“I was so… scared you were gone too,” Vi whispered, hesitantly reaching for you but her hand retracted quickly.

You took the reins and carefully hooked your finger onto one of hers, sighing in relief at the touch. Vi stared at the courteous touch and wrapped her palm over your own, running her thumb over the back of your hand.

“Do you remember what happened after you gave me that ring?” You ask softly, using your free hand to brush a piece of her hair out of her face.

Vi wasn’t stupid. She knew you meant that kiss that put a pep in her step for a few weeks after; the girl that she had been crushing over since before she could remember. Not wanting to confront it head-on, she quickly stumbled out a little joke.

“I think I thought about doing that for months. Mylo wouldn’t stop giving me shit for it every time you came around, blowing kisses at me when you had your back turned.” Vi chuckled as she shook her head.

You smile at the mention of Mylo, not doubting it for a second. You, in a similar fashion, turned to Ekko for your little crush on Vi.

“You know, come to think of it,” you pretend to recall, “I remember you asking me an important question too.”

Vi wanted to punch herself in the jaw as you brought up another rather embarrassing moment. She could see it now; two teens sitting on a rooftop, shoulder to shoulder after sharing a quick peck and avoiding each other’s eyeline.

“We could be each other’s… back up when we get older, you know.” A fidgety thirteen-year-old Vi had proposed.

You remember glancing down at bright-colored streets and clouds that intoxicated the air of Zaun. Vi glanced over at you to see if you had even heard her as you had gone completely silent.

“Back up?” You questioned, your voice still going through the ups of puberty.

“Yeah, well, when we’re old, like, forty or something and have no one else, we could be each other’s.”

Vi didn’t really explain what that meant at the time but you agreed with ease. You knew how much you would do for Vi; maybe it was a little obsessive and unhealthy but she had a grip on you that you hoped never left.

Neither of you were near forty yet but there was a sliver of hope you could enact that pact today.

Something took over you after that confession and you scoot your body closer to hers. You reach your hand up to brush your hair out of her face, cupping the side of her face. Vi held onto your wrist as you began to lean into her.

Before you could even comprehend it, Vi pressed her lips to yours. Your eyes widen at the sudden movement, releasing her face in shock. Her hand was still gripping onto your wrist as her lips moved against your own.

After the initial surprise of the kiss, you follow her rhythm. You place your hand back onto her cheek as you suck in a deep breath, letting yourself enjoy what you have been craving to redo after seven years.

The soft smack of your kisses and you and Violet humming against each other's lips silently drove you insane.

“I missed you so much,” Vi mutters against your lips.

You sigh at the confession, warmth blooming in your chest.

“Never thought I'd get to do this,” you confess. “To be with you like this, Vi.”

Vi’s palms move down your body, rubbing down your sides carefully like you were going to disappear at any moment. Years of confinement and getting into fights with inmates led her to this very moment; the only person in her life that was really here for her.

“And now that you are doing it?” Vi questions, her big rounded eyes boring into your own.

“I don’t want it to stop.”

Vi beams at that and you dive back into her lips, humming against the gentle touch of her lips. This second time around was more hungry, eager for one another. There was nothing that could compare to the feeling of her bandaged arms wrapped around your waist as you kissed like you needed her; craved her.

Oh, how needy you were at that moment: selfishly grabbing onto her like she could disappear at any moment. She wasn’t; at least you hoped not.

“I still can’t believe you’re really here,” you sighed out, tears welling up in your eyes.

Vi immediately notices your mood drop and shakes her head, leaning in to kiss your cheek and placing a few more gentle touches on your neck and jaw.

“I’m here. Right here, sweetheart,” she murmured against your skin as she continued to carefully kiss your skin.

You suck in a deep breath as you cup either side of her face to pull her away from your flustered skin. Vi’s chest was heaving up and down from her own hunger for you becoming overwhelming.

“I want to make you feel good, Vi,” you admit, whispering just below normal speaking volume.

Vi stares and blinks, her breathing slowing down.

“Me?” She questions as if she misheard you.

“Yes, you. Please.”

You couldn’t even feel an ounce of embarrassment from your begging as you meant it more than anything. Vi, with not much more needed convincing, nodded frantically as she allowed you to take the reigns.

You pull away to sit upright and straddle her lap, your skirt lifting up your legs to rest on the highest part of your thigh. Vi’s eyes widened for a second at your position in your lap, her bandaged hands resting on the flat pillows as she stared up at your figure. Her eyes were rounded with admiration and lust.

“Is this okay?” You question, tucking some of your hair behind your ears.

“Yes. Yes, you’re… good.” Vi reassures you as you smittenly smile down at her.

She matches your smile as you lean down to reattach your lips, placing your hands on her collarbone. Vi’s hands grip gently at your upper thighs, frantically pulling you in closer to her. The strap of your shirt was slipping down your shoulder, resting on your triceps.

You allow yourself to be there in the moment with her. You had the tendency to think about the worst outcomes of every situation but right now as Vi’s palms move more up to your hips, you just feel her.

Not afraid, not depressed; just her.

Her touch was electric on your skin. Vi sits upright from her laid-back position, humming as you run one of your hands up the back of her head into her hair. Feeling her body running hot, she removes her hands from your body to shrug off her red jacket from her body.

You pull away to help her remove the jacket, throwing it to the side and hearing it hit the ground. You look down at her now-revealed arms and eyebrows raise up at the sight of her toned upper body.

You were gawking; you knew you were.

“What were you doing in there?” You shamelessly ran your hands down her firm biceps.

Vi lets you feel her up, watching your hungry eyes follow your hands on her body. She doesn’t answer your question but she does place her palms back at their rightful place on your hips.

You snap out of your daze as her hands squeeze your hips. Your cheeks lit aflame before focusing on the task at hand. Did you 100% know what you were doing? No, but you figured if you just do what you do to yourself to her, it was bound to make her feel good.

So you slowly began to grind your hips down onto her own. Vi sucks in a sharp breath at the unfamiliar feeling, letting out a shaky breath.

That only fueled your keep your hips moving against her. Vi’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, tilting her head back to huff out a soft moan. You let out your own noise at the feeling, leaning forward to attach your lips to the length of your neck.

Vi moaned your name at the feeling of you kissing the sensitive spot on her neck. Her grip only becomes tighter on your waist as you begin to suck and lick, creating a dark spot on her pale skin. You pull away after a few seconds to brush your finger over the mark, feeling disgustingly proud of yourself.

“What are you doing to me?” Vi whispered, groaning under her breath.

“I could say the same,” you quip with a cheeky smile, grinding down hard once.

The motion tugs out a moan from the both of you. The thinnest layer of sweat began to form on your neck and crevice of your hip and legs. Vi leans forward, panting into the crook of your neck. She attempts to hide her needy whimpers against your skin but you can’t miss the desperate sounds.

You were growing wetter by the second, aching to get her off.

“Vi—“ You gasp as her palms rest on your hips, helping you grind down onto her clothed crotch.

Your hands rest on the broad on her shoulders, feeling over the tight muscle. She was panting softly as she took in the sound of you asking for her; needing her like this. Her blue eyes admire the way your jaw was left open as you pant and whimper from the friction.

“So beautiful, sweetheart,” she praises, a low moan leaving her own hips.

You almost shake your head at her words but you knew it would be a huge mistake to do so. You allow yourself to take in the words, not wanting to seem like you didn’t believe her. She drew the beautiful inside to the surface with ease.

Your hips stuttered, wondering if you were going to cum like this. It wouldn’t be the first time as you’ve shamefully done the same to your mattress.

“You’re perfect,” you tell her honestly, a shaky breath leaving your lips.

Vi wanted to tell you you were far from correct but you were persistent on the fact.

“You are. You are, Vi,” you cup her face as you weakly grind your crotch on hers.

Vi nods to show you she is listening, one of the few whimpers she’s made throughout the night bubbling in her throat. You place a few kisses over her face before placing the final one on her awaiting lips.

“Fuck, I think I’m gonna—“

“Me too. Cum for me, please,” you encourage the pink-haired girl.

You watch as her muscles tighten, a vein popping out of the side of her neck. It beautifully highlighted the mark you’ve made on her.

With your grinds becoming sloppier and weaker, Vi assisted you by practically doing all the work. Your hips and inner thighs were growing more and more tired out by the second. Your will to make sure Vi came was the only thing keeping you going.

Your mouths were hovering over one another, whining and moaning onto each other’s lips. Your core tightened as you felt your orgasm approaching. Vi’s whispers of praise only drew you closer.

“Just like that,” you whine.

“Yeah?” Vi whines right back, kissing right above your chest near your collarbone.

You nod with a whimper, muttering ‘please’ and ‘right there’. The mix of your panting and hot moans drove you both to cumming against one another.

You were shaking at that point, arms now wrapping around her neck for stabilization. Vi, mimicking you, wrapped her arms around your torso, burying her face into your chest as she tried to catch her breath.

Your hair was now frizzy, your whole body aflame from the orgasm that tore through you. Vi’s lips were dragging on your heated skin causing you to shut your eyes as you, too, attempted to calm down.

The two of you sat there, matching each other's breathing patterns as you both came down from your highs. Your eyes before you knew it grew heavy with exhaustion. Vi noticed how slumped you were and cradled your body to maneuver you to lay back down. Your arms were still locked around her neck, refusing to let her go.

“Are you okay?” Vi asks after a few minutes of silence, licking her swollen lips.

You chuckle softly at her question, resting your forehead on her shoulder.

“Yeah. I’m perfect.” You mutter before placing a loving kiss to her bare shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Vi nods at your words, rubbing her hands down your back. She traces the length of your spine, lulling you into the sleep that your body was asking for.

“Go to sleep, sweetheart. I’ll wake you up before I leave.” Vi encourages when she notices you fighting your tired eyes.

Your heart sank at the word ‘leave’, brows knitting with betrayal. Your exhaustion left your body for a moment at her words.

“Leave?” You delicately whisper.

“No, no, not for good. I’m not doing that to you again,” Vi was quick to reassure your worries. “I just—I have to find Powder. I don’t know how long it will take but I will be back for you.”

You swallow your doubts that Vi will be able to change Jinx back into the girl she once was. You knew you wouldn’t be able to convince Vi into staying, especially with Caitlyn tagging along with her.

“Be careful, okay? I can’t lose you again,” you cup her face, running your thumb over the ink on her cheek. “You’re my backup, remember?”

Vi manages to chuckle at your words, shaking her head.

“I never should’ve asked you that. You were never going to be just a backup, Star,” Vi told you softly. “You were always going to be first for me.”

Your eyes rounded with admiration at her confession.

“We were kids when you asked me that, Vi. I’m glad you did. I’ve never wanted anyone but you,” you tell her with a smitten grin on your lips.

Vi presses a deep kiss onto your awaiting lips, nearing knocking your teeth against one another from her own smile. You lazily kissed her back until you physically couldn’t anymore. Sleep overtook you as you rested your head on her bicep that was acting as your pillow for the night. You felt one last kiss on your temple before you knocked out.

The next morning you awoke to the feeling of the bed shifting next to you. You slowly peek through squinted eyes to see Vi’s blurred figure sitting on the opposite side of the bed, quietly speaking with Caitlyn’s undeniable taller figure.

“I’m just pointing out how you completely disregarded the fact that I was in the room opposite of you. I had a curtain as a door,” Caitlyn quietly scolds the pink haired girl.

You try not to show any reaction but you were embarrassed that you had completely forgotten about Caitlyn resting just 10-15 feet away from you two.

“I’m not sorry for what I did but sorry you heard,” Vi snips, no doubt in your mind with raised brows.

Caitlyn sighed rather loudly before shaking her head, holding her hand up to Vi.

“Let’s just… get going, please. We haven’t got much time.”

Silence from Vi.

“Okay. Just give me two minutes. You can wait outside the door.”

You quickly shut your eyes and pretend to sleep once again, listening for the receding footsteps. Vi spoke with care as she gently tapped your shoulder.

“Star, sweetheart?” She hummed, brushing your flyaways from your face.

“Hmmm?” You open your eyes, stretching one of your arms up.

“Hey. I’m gonna head out, okay? I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Vi traces the apple of your cheeks as she talks to you.

“Be careful. I mean it, Vi.”

The blue eyed girl nods at you, giving you one last meaningful kiss onto your lips.

“I will. In fact,” Vi pulls away to reach by the bedside table, grabbing the star ring she gave you. She slid it onto her middle finger, showing you the jewelry. “I’ll be back to give you this. It’ll be my good luck charm.”

There was a beat of silence before you let out a soft laugh at her ridiculousness. You adored her more than anything and anyone.

“I’ll be waiting, Violet.”

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myrleius · 5 months ago

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love letter — iwaizumi h.

iwaizumi h. X shy fem!reader│word count: 1.9k

synopsis: You’ve had a crush on Iwaizumi for a while now and finally decided to confess through a letter. But to your surprise, he rejects it.

cw/tags: pure fluff, misunderstandings, light angst (resolved quickly)

Today was the day.

The mirror reflected a face that wasn’t sure whether to look determined or terrified. You adjusted the collar of your uniform for the third time, smoothing its nonexistent wrinkles, then clipped a small, colorful hair clip into your hair–a small attempt at looking cute.

You sighed and stepped back, moving around to check your overall appearance. It wasn’t bad but it looked like your usual ordinary self. You were never one to obsess over your looks, looking clean and simple was usually enough. But the thought of meeting him, of him knowing who you are, made you want to put in a bit more effort. Alas, Seijoh had a strict dress code so you didn’t have much room for experimentation anyway.

Your bag caught your eye sitting on your desk. Inside, the letter waited. You had checked a million times, both night and morning, making sure it hadn’t somehow disappeared. Maybe you hoped it had so you wouldn't have to go through this.

But no. There was no turning back now.

You’ve thought about this for months, prepared for it for weeks. You didn’t want to throw away your efforts, and you definitely didn’t want to regret not saying anything like you’ve done with your past crushes. With a determined huff, you grabbed your bag and headed out before you could second guess yourself further.

Classes passed in a blur, your mind too busy daydreaming to focus. You rehearsed the plan in your head over and over, making sure you knew exactly what to say and what to do when you approached him. It wasn't until lunchtime that the nerves started crawling into your skin. What if this was a mistake? What if you weren’t ready? What if you messed up?

Truthfully, it wasn't about his reply (though that's a big deal too)—you were more afraid of how he’d see you after this.

The two of you only met once at the cultural festival. You had wandered into a classroom hosting a raffle draw, unaware that claiming the prize required completing a dare. By the time you had realized it, it was too late. Your name was called and the attendant asked you to do a cute idol pose. It was simple but it didn’t mortify you any less.

You hesitated, feeling your palms grow clammy and your heart pounding against your ribs. The murmurs of the students behind you heightened into a roar of complaints in your ears, and it made you want to run off and just disappea–

“You’re overthinking it. Just go for it.”

A voice murmured behind you, steady and matter-of-fact. You turned and met the gaze of the guy next in line, his expression unreadable.

“No one’s going to remember in five minutes,” he added, hands in his pockets. “They’re too busy worrying about their own dares.”

It wasn’t exactly reassuring, but it was grounding. He spoke like it was simple, like this wasn’t something worth spiraling over. And somehow, that made it easier.

You did the pose—quick and awkward, but done. And the moment passed yet the world didn’t end. When you turned to sneak a glance at him, he wasn’t even looking anymore. That small exchange lingered in your mind long after. It wasn’t the fact that Iwaizumi had helped, it was the way he had done it that impacted you the most. No coddling, no teasing, just quiet confidence in you, like you were already capable.

And now, standing outside his classroom with your love letter behind your back, you at least wanted to leave a good impression on him as he had on you, even if he does reject your affections in the end.

Taking a deep breath, you slide the door open just enough to peek inside. A student near the door glanced at you, his brow raised in curiosity.

“Um, sorry to bother you, but I'm looking for Iwaizumi-san?” you asked, shifting nervously on your feet.

The student nodded, looking around before his eyes fell on the volleyball player in the corner. “Oi, Iwaizumi!” he called and jerked his head over to you. “Someone's looking for you.”

Iwaizumi's head snapped up. The moment your eyes met, your breath hitched. He stood and walked towards you, his footsteps syncing with the pounding of your heartbeat.

“What is it?” he asked, his tone serious and stoic as ever.

You didn't answer at first, too dazed with the fact that this was really happening. Your friends had never understood why you were so smitten with Iwaizumi (even after telling them the story of how you two first met) especially when Oikawa, the team’s captain, drew all the attention. Iwaizumi wasn’t flashy or outgoing, but that was exactly what you admired about him. There was a quiet yet solid confidence in the way he carried himself, and to you, that was way more captivating.

“Uh, yeah, hi. Can I talk to you?” you managed to say once you’ve regained your composure, gaze shifting to his classmates. “Alone... if that's okay?”

Iwaizumi stared at you, his expression hard to read, before nodding. You nodded back, somehow finding comfort in mimicking his action, and began to lead him to a more secluded spot behind the school building.

Once you were sure no one else was around, you turned to face him. Little pins prick at your cheeks, a sure sign that you were already blushing furiously. You took a deep breath, it was now or never. Shutting your eyes, you held the letter out toward him.

“I-I, uh, the reason I…” you fumbled, the script you rehearsed in your head drawing blank and you start to feel the panic set in. “Can... Can you take this for me!?”

As soon as the words left your mouth, you knew you had messed up. That wasn’t how you had planned to say it at all. Your heart pounded as embarrassment washed over you. Was that too abrupt? Too demanding? Oh god, what if he thought you were rude?

“Sorry! Oh gosh, I didn't mean it like that!” you blurted out, frantically waving your hands. “Wait. Let me start over—”

“No.”

You froze. The word had hit you harder than it should have. “I... What?”

“I won't take it,” Iwaizumi repeated, more stern this time.

You suck in a sharp breath, your fingers curling slightly at the letter that was supposed to be in his hands now.

“But why…?” you asked, your voice coming out more quieter than you intended. You knew he didn't owe you an explanation, but asking was the only thing keeping your composure from cracking entirely.

Iwaizumi sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I'm not trying to be mean but you should really do this by yourself. You won't raise your chances at getting with him through me. Trust me, that jerk would be way happier receiving that love letter from you directly. Would probably inflate his already shitty ego too.”

“... What?” you asked, blinking in confusion.

“What?” Iwaizumi asked back, just as confused.

“What do you mean by ‘giving it to him’?” Your brows furrowed. “Who?”

“Oikawa?” He said it like it was obvious. “Weren't you talking about him?”

“Oika—Of course not!” you said quickly. “I was talking about you!”

The words hung in the air, its impact resonating.

Iwaizumi's eyes widened, a blush creeping up his cheeks. You were just about to think it was cute when your mind screeched to a halt.

Oh.

You confessed to him.

It was roundabout, super awkward, and completely unintentional, but it was still a confession.

Your heart stuttered in horror.

“I, uh…” Iwaizumi trailed off, visibly struggling to respond. “Sorry for assuming? Most girls usually talk to me for... that.”

“Oh.” You hadn’t expected that. You knew he wasn’t as popular as Oikawa, but somehow, the idea of Iwaizumi being overlooked made your chest tighten. “It's okay. I... kinda didn't say it clearly so I understand why you misunderstood. Sorry.”

“No! It's my fault for jumping to conclusions,” he said quickly, stepping forward as if to further insist his point–only to freeze when he realized how close he got, a deep red spreading up to his cheeks. “I-I should've heard you out more properly.”

“No, it's not your fault, Iwaizumi-san.”

“It's not yours either, er…”

“Yn,” you supplied, realizing with a quiet chuckle that you hadn't even introduced yourself.

“Yn,” he repeated and you nearly forgot how to breathe. There was something about the way he said your name that made you like it ten times more.

“It's really not your fault,” he added firmly.

“Can we just say that we're both at fault?” you offered with a hesitant smile. “Because I don't think I can blame you entirely. Or at all.”

For a second, you were worried the tension would linger, but then–

Iwaizumi laughed.

It was short and awkward, maybe sounding more of a soft snort than a laugh? Still, you found yourself drawn to it. Like it's the best thing you've heard.

Feeling a bit braver, you offered the letter toward him again, wincing slightly as you realized it was a little crumpled from how tightly you’d been holding it. “So… are you okay with taking this?”

Iwaizumi eyed the letter, his gaze lingering on the small doodles you decorated at the edges. You suddenly felt embarrassed. Was it too childish? Maybe too much?

"Y-You don't have to give me a reply now,” you added quickly. “I know it's sudden, and I don't really think I did the best job at putting my feelings out there, but I'd appreciate it if you answer me honestly after thinking about it. Even if just a little.”

Iwaizumi was quiet for a moment. Then, he smiled.

“Sure,” he said, finally taking the letter off your hands. “I'll tell you when I've made up my mind.”

You felt your shoulders sag in relief and you returned his smile with one of your own. “Thank you.”

That night, Iwaizumi sat at his desk for hours, staring at the letter. He'd read it four times already, to the point where he could anticipate the next compliment, his eyes tracing her neat handwriting once more.

It was his first time receiving something like this. He couldn't really call it a 'love letter' per se. He'd seen those before–notes littered with flowery and gushing phrases–when Oikawa received some from his fangirls. Yn’s letter wasn’t like that. It was more like a letter that said she saw him.

Sure, it was also filled with praises that inflated his ego more than they should, but the way she worded it felt more like respect rather than infatuation. It was weird. He never saw himself like she did. To him, he was just doing things normally.

But as he read through her words, a realization settled in–maybe he really was someone worth admiring.

To know that his kindness, passion and earnestness reached someone he hadn’t even known existed until today filled him with a quiet, humbling warmth. It was proof that even the smallest gestures could ripple through the lives of others.

He sighed and folded the letter neatly back into its envelope, the smile on his face still lingering even after hours had passed. Now, he understood why Oikawa liked the attention. It was both amazing and terrifying how a few words from someone could make him feel invincible.

Iwaizumi leaned back in his chair, glancing at the letter one last time before tucking it safely into his drawer. He wasn't sure what answer to give yn yet. They've only just met after all.

But he was sure of one thing.

He would carry her words with him, knowing that who he was, as he is, mattered to someone.

#haikyuu #hq #hq x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #haikyuu x y/n #iwaizumi hajime #iwaizumi x you #iwaizumi x reader #hq iwaizumi #haikyuu iwaizumi #haikyuu fluff #hq fluff #iwaizumi fluff #fluff #fanfic

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guardianlegends64 · 4 months ago

Text

[Closed RP] Alternative Love Life Universe Of Dragon Ball in “The Forgotten Saiyan and The Mountainous love”

[Note: This is an Alternative Love Life Universe of Dragon Ball which includes Romance and Vulgar Language even some Music ]

In the morning of Peaceful and Silent Earth also the End of May and the beginning of Summer and June Four Adult men were Sparring and relaxing right near a Mountain as one was being silent and sitting near a Tree playing with birds and butterflies and even a deer as the other was waiting patiently for his turn in sparring and two were Already sparring but these weren’t normal men they were called “Saiyans”…

One Of the Saiyans whose name is Vegeta also known as Prince Vegeta as he was the one who was sparring with the Second Saiyan who is Goku and The Third Saiyan is Trunks awaiting his turn while the fourth is Broly the Bulkier but also the One who likes to stay calm in most of the day and eating all sorts of food…

Vegeta was being annoyed that Broly isn’t Attempting in sparring as Goku knows that Broly will get his turn whenever or whoever wins the sparring match…

The Four were Sparring at a Peaceful and far away location that is far from a City and also has a giant mountain as The Four also were sparring and Practicing there was a Female Kitsune watching on how they Practice and train and fight…

Back a Few years ago The Four saiyans found the Female Kitsune Hiding and Scared of being captured by Human Hunters but the Four saiyans helped and saved the female Kitsune and by time the Four Saiyans Had grown a Powerful bond for the female Kitsune….

Now in the current day The Four saiyans are now Practicing and Training and Sparring for the Worst to come..

“Vegeta: Kakarot! You’re wasting and stalling for Time!”

“Goku: Oh Come On Vegeta! It’s so nice outside today!”

“Trunks: He’s telling the truth father it’s a peaceful day right now”

“Vegeta: Do I Look Like I Care? Kakarot finish the Training or we won’t proceed!

“Goku: Ugh Fine!”

The Two then continued to train and sparring each other and at the end Vegeta Had Lost

“Goku: Work on that Ki Efficiency Vegeta it’ll make things easier”

Then when Vegeta was about to angrily talk back there was some sort of Fire ball that looked like a Meteor but the size was abnormal and the color was Not Normal either as it crashed against the mountain forming a crater as The Four checked it out and then they were shocked to see that it wasn’t a Meteor but an Individual that was falling from the sky…

When the Four arrived they noticed that their kitsune found the individual first and who had crashed landed on the mountain and created a ginormous Crater also made an Supernova alarming Noise that no one can hear because it had already Began when the individual crashed as it spreads far away from the reaches of Space…

Vegeta was Utterly confused and Silent as the others were shocked and surprised as the female Kitsune the one that they rescued and saved checks out the individual as the four were very hesitant to let her check the individual who crashed into the mountain…

The Individual is an Adult male and his Appearance is White Straight Hair that’s Dirty at the Moment, Incredible physique, and the Individual’s Height was tall even taller than Broly as the Individual then tries to get up and walk but was too Dizzy and wobbly and also Fatigued and A completely confused as he only muttered a few words…

“W-Who… Where… Am … I……?”

The Individual said softly and weakly as he then Fainted and fell on the female Kitsune in her hands by exhaustion and the impact from the crash and something else… as the Female Kitsune Spoke and said…

#dragon ball #alternative universe #Alternative Life #dante infinite #romance #drama

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stil-lindigo · 2 years ago

Note

The problem is the main things what they’re asking for is impossible for 99% of people, if we take off for a week from our job we lose that job. If we walk out for a week from university (since emailing and asking for notes to catch up undermines the whole point) we miss critical info fail the module and fuck up our degree. sure the side stuff is more acessable but when the main strike idea can’t be put into action your going to have all the momentum and impact of a dead slug, that’s why people are having difficulties.

hi anon. I understand that, and I empathise with the people who want to be doing more but can't, because capitalist society is built to punish us whenever we attempt to fight for a better life. But, again, you're approaching this in an unnecessarily defeatist way. The strike period hasn't even started for the northern hemisphere, and you're comparing the impact of the more 'accessible' strike actions to a dead slug.

I think if you approach resistant action with the idea that only massive gestures are worth anything, you're not going to get anywhere. You can make a difference by volunteering more this week, donating more to Palestinian escape funds and aid organisations, you can buy e-sims and connect human beings during the worst period of their life. It might not mean much to you, but donating the money that gets a Palestinian family food for the day, that helps them be able to text their families overseas - small actions can and do mean the world. One day I went fuck it, and kicked up a huge fuss on twitter because Gofundme refused to transfer a Palestinian man his funds. And, because of that small action on my part, he's going to get his money, even if it's weeks late.

And, just. One more time for good measure. This strike is being called by Bisan, a Palestinian journalist in Gaza who could quite literally be killed at any second. I know you mean well, but genuinely - what alternative does she have at this moment? It's nearing the end of the fourth month of genocide in Gaza. Palestinians have spent almost one third of a year being ruthlessly murdered with practically zero effective international pushback. If they're holding onto hope that action like this can make a difference, I'm not going to be pedantic and miserly about it.

#do what you can.#seriously. do what you can.#make a concerted effort this week to do more.#even if you cant sacrifice your work or education compensate in other areas #free palestine #palestine #free gaza #free westbank

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breezyblossoms · 3 months ago

Text

Author Note: IM SO SORRY FOR ANOTHER VERY LONG ONE!!!

You met Bodhi at Basgiath before the ink of your surname had even dried on the parchment.

He had offered a sarcastic smile, a tilted chin, and a hand callused from hours gripping a dagger hilt. “You’re not gonna make it past the parapet if you keep hesitating like that, you know.” You had scowled, shoved back the dread rising in your chest, and stepped onto the narrow stone deathtrap anyway. He didn’t leave your side once.

That’s how it started. A friendship forged in adrenaline and survival. Bodhi, with his ridiculous jokes and sharp wit, always one step away from disaster. And you, calculating and quiet, the one who kept him grounded.

So when he introduced you to his cousin a few weeks into your first year, you’d been entirely unprepared for the impact. “Y/N, this is Xaden. Try not to stab him, no matter how punchable he looks.” You didn’t respond. Mostly because your tongue had stopped working the second Xaden turned his storm-dark gaze on you.

You hadn’t known then that your whole life would bend toward him like a compass to true north.

⸻

The relationship came slow. Xaden wasn’t the type to fall. He was the type to watch from the edge of the room, arms crossed, reading everyone like a battle plan. But with you, he softened—in ways he never meant to. You weren’t some damsel in need of protecting. You could break a man’s arm in three moves and had a signet that made even the third-years uneasy.

Still, when you were in his arms, curled up in his room with the sound of Sgaeyl’s wings rustling outside, you felt… safe.

He didn’t say I love you. Not with words. But in the way he tracked you across the training fields. In the way he’d pull you back from danger and growl, “Don’t do that again. I can’t—” and then stop himself. You knew.

But then Violet arrived.

⸻

The Threshing changed everything. You stood near the edge of the field, Kaerith’s massive body coiled protectively around you like a stormcloud made flesh. And then you saw them.

Tairn. Andarna. Violet Sorrengail.

Xaden’s expression didn’t change—but you felt it. The shift. The way he stepped toward her, as if fate had threaded something between them. You tried not to flinch. Tried not to see how Sgaeyl’s head dipped toward the golden hatchling with something like awe.

It wasn’t jealousy. Not exactly. It was… displacement. Like the story had kept moving without you.

⸻

You didn’t break up all at once. It was in the missed glances. The quiet dinners. The way his fingers twitched when he reached for you—then stopped.

One night, you sat in his room, your back to the wall, knees pulled to your chest. Xaden didn’t meet your eyes.

“She’s bonded to them,” he finally said. You nodded. “I know.” “I don’t want this to change anything.”

But it already had. So you left. Not with drama. Not with screams or accusations. Just a quiet morning where you didn’t show up to sparring. A room left empty. A dragon that took to the skies before anyone could stop him. You needed air. Needed to remember what it felt like to live without always looking over your shoulder, waiting for war.

Bodhi didn’t ask questions when you wrote. He just wrote back, “Where are you?”

You met him a few weeks later in a forest clearing near a coastal cliff. Kaerith growled at his approach, then relented when he saw Bodhi alone. He offered you bread, water, and silence. “Gonna tell him?” he asked after a long while. You shook your head. Bodhi leaned back against a tree and said, “Alright.” Because Bodhi had always known when to push—and when to simply sit beside you in the quiet.

⸻

Months later

You don’t remember what exactly happened. One moment, you were walking through a small valley, scouting for herbs and supplies near a river. The next, a blade from a Venin ambush sliced across your abdomen like fire. Kaerith had roared, a sound that cracked the trees and sent every bird skyward.

You remember falling. Then… darkness. Miles away, a blue-scaled dragon lifted his head.

“She’s down.”

Bodhi knew something was wrong the moment Cuir stirred. His dragon had been resting atop the cliffside near the northern coast, where the wind howled like it carried ghosts, when he suddenly tensed—eyes flaring a deep, storm-touched blue.

“Kaerith called out. She’s hurt.”

Bodhi froze mid-step. “Y/N?” he asked aloud, though the question was useless. He already knew. A flicker of pain—not his—rushed through the bond with Cuir, sharp and nauseating, and the dragon launched into the sky without waiting for permission.

He didn’t need to ask where. He’d been there before. That small river bend surrounded by wildflower fields and cliffs, where you met him sometimes with a tired smile and the kind of quiet peace Basgiath never offered.

The sky blurred around them as Cuir pushed himself to the limit. Wind lashed Bodhi’s face. His hands in a fist.

Please be alive. Please.

⸻

Kaerith was a storm on the ground. His massive wings snapped trees like twigs, his tail lashing in wide arcs as he circled your still form—laid across a stone near the riverbank, barely breathing.

Bodhi didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate. He dropped from Virek before he landed, skidding to your side in seconds.

“Y/N—” His voice cracked. “Hey, hey, no sleeping on the job, remember?” You didn’t answer.

There was blood. Too much. Seeping from a gash just beneath your ribs, and bruises already blooming along your collarbone. Your pulse fluttered weakly beneath his fingertips. Kaerith let out a low, guttural sound that was more grief than rage.

“She needs Brennen,” Bodhi said to no one in particular. “Then take her.” Kaerith’s voice thundered directly into his mind, ancient and wild. Cuir rumbled in agreement beside him.

Bodhi swallowed hard and gathered you into his arms, ignoring the blood, the pain, the broken pieces. You were limp. Your head lolled against his chest. He held you like something fragile. Like you might vanish.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “You’re not dying on me, okay? You don’t get to leave twice.”

⸻

They landed in Aretia under a storm-gray sky. The winds carried ash from distant fires, and the cliffs were shadowed by the late hour. But Bodhi barely saw any of it—he moved like a man possessed, Kaerith flying close behind with a protective shriek that echoed off the cliffs. He didn’t realize how much noise they made until people started running.

“Get Brennen!” someone shouted.

“Is that—?”

“Is she—?”

And then—

“Bodhi.”

That voice. Low. Cold. Laced with something dangerous. He didn’t have to turn to know who it was. Xaden stood near the edge of the courtyard, black hair wind-tossed, shadows clinging to his boots like loyal pets. Sgaeyl dropped down behind him in a whisper of wings, her eyes immediately locking on Kaerith. And then his eyes landed on you—in Bodhi’s arms, unconscious and bloodied. Everything about him stilled. Time cracked.

“What the fuck happened?” Xaden’s voice was sharp, near a snarl. “She was attacked,” Bodhi said flatly, shifting your weight as he moved toward the doors where Brennen was already shouting orders. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Xaden snapped, stepping into his path. Bodhi didn’t stop walking. “I asked you a fucking question, Bodhi.” He turned then, slowly. Looked his cousin in the eye—really looked at him. And saw it. The wild panic under the surface. The tremor in his jaw. The pain he was trying so hard to hide.

“I didn’t tell you,” Bodhi said quietly, “because she asked me not to.” Xaden’s fists clenched. “You should’ve—” “She was my best friend,” Bodhi said sharply, cutting him off. “Long before she was your girlfriend. I owe her that.” The words hit harder than any punch. Xaden reeled like he’d taken a blow to the ribs.

Brennen pushed between them then, snapping, “Unless one of you is bleeding out, move.” Bodhi did. He carried you through the doors and didn’t look back.

⸻

Later that night

Xaden stood outside your room. He hadn’t moved in over an hour. Inside, Brennen worked quietly, mending you with a tired, pale expression. Your chest rose and fell—barely, but it did. Kaerith loomed just outside the window, his silver eyes glowing through the storm. And Bodhi? He sat in a chair near your bedside, holding your hand. Xaden’s jaw tightened. You were here. Alive. And you hadn’t told him.

⸻

The sun rose slow over Aretia. Its light crept in like it was afraid to touch the stone walls, painting them in pale gold and soft blue. But inside your room, time didn’t move. Not really.

Your breathing was steady now. Still shallow. Still cautious. But steady.

Xaden stood just inside the doorway, arms crossed, shoulder pressed to the wall as if it were the only thing holding him up. His eyes hadn’t left you in hours.

You lay against the pillows, pale as ash. Bandages wrapped around your midsection and shoulder. A bruise bloomed along your jaw like a shadow of the battle you didn’t get to finish.

You hadn’t woken yet. Brennen sat beside you, murmuring quietly to Kaerith through the window every so often. The massive dragon had refused to leave. Not even when offered food. Not even when others tried to soothe him. “Your bond’s too deep,” Brennen had said once under his breath, fingers pressing over your wound. “He’ll feel her pain like it’s his own.”

Xaden didn’t reply. Because he understood. He felt yours like a phantom limb. A dull ache in the back of his skull, just where memory lived. And fuck, there were so many memories.

⸻

He hadn’t meant to fall for you. It wasn’t part of the plan—hell, nothing with you ever was. You’d been quiet where he was storm. Brutal where he was calculating. And still, you’d seen through him from the beginning.

That first year, he’d caught you and Bodhi sitting outside the barracks at midnight, stargazing like you weren’t being trained to kill.

You’d looked up, eyes full of stardust and steel, and asked, “Do you think we’re allowed to want more than survival?” And he hadn’t known what to say. He never had. Until it was too late.

⸻

The door creaked. Bodhi stepped out quietly, closing it behind him. Xaden didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched him with unreadable eyes.

“She’s stable,” Bodhi said, rubbing a hand over his face. “Still out cold.” Xaden didn’t reply. Bodhi sighed. “You don’t have to hover, you know.” “I’m not.” “You are,” he said flatly. “You haven’t blinked in a while,” Bodhi said again, a note of dry exhaustion threading through his voice. Xaden finally shifted his gaze, dragging it from your still form just long enough to glare at him. “I’m not leaving her,” he said. Quiet. Final. Bodhi leaned back against the opposite wall, crossing his arms. His usual lightness was gone. “Didn’t say you should.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the kind that settles in when two people have too much history to fill it with anything else.

“She cried when she left, you know,” Bodhi added after a beat, eyes locked on the ground. “Not loud. Not where anyone would see. But I did. I always do.” Xaden’s jaw locked. “You should’ve told me she was alive.” “She asked me not to.” “I would’ve gone after her.” “That’s exactly why she didn’t want you to know.”

Xaden’s fists clenched at his sides, but he didn’t say anything. Not at first. Not until— “I would’ve brought her back.”

Bodhi looked up, sharp. “Brought her back to what, Xaden? A war? A life she never wanted? You?” Xaden’s silence was colder than steel. “You weren’t ready to fight for her,” Bodhi said. “Not when she needed it most.”

That hit like a gut punch. Because it was true. Because he’d known—deep down—that he’d let you walk out of his life with too many words unsaid and too many fears swallowing him whole.

“I loved her.” Bodhi stared at him. “Then why didn’t you run after her when she left?” Xaden looked back toward your door.

“I thought I’d already lost her.”

⸻

Inside the room, the first signs of waking stirred in your chest. Your breathing hitched, shallow but quickening, and Brennen leaned forward immediately. “Y/N,” he said gently, pressing a hand to your wrist. “You’re safe. You’re in Aretia.”

Your eyelids fluttered open. Light spilled in too fast, too sharp. You squinted against it. The dull throb in your side surged, and Kaerith’s presence flared through the bond—solid, grounding, massive.

You are safe.

You reached out mentally, weak but steady. You didn’t leave.

Never.

Then the door opened. And everything slowed. Because standing just inside the frame, armor still dusty, hair a mess, shadows clinging to his boots— Was him. Xaden Riorson.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he. He took one step inside. You blinked up at him, eyes glassy, chest burning.

Don’t cry.

Don’t—

“Hi,” he said hoarsely.

It shattered you.

⸻

The moment stretched. You stared up at him, chest tight, throat dry, barely able to process the reality of him standing in your doorway again. Of those eyes—dark, storm-torn, familiar—fixed on you like you were something fragile he didn’t know how to hold.

And Xaden didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. “Can I come closer?” he asked. It came out quieter than you’d ever heard him. You gave the smallest nod.

He crossed the room in three slow steps, dragging a chair beside your cot. His hands—gloved, blood-stained from flight, from war—hesitated for a moment before peeling the leather away. He set the gloves down, one over the other, like he was trying to do something with them. His fingers trembled once, then stilled.

When he sat, the chair creaked under his weight—but he didn’t lean back. He leaned forward. Toward you. Like he couldn’t stay away anymore.

His eyes traced every inch of you—your temple, bruised; your arm, still bandaged; the deep, angry wound over your ribs that Brennen had barely managed to stabilize. His jaw clenched.

“I didn’t know,” he said hoarsely. “Gods, Y/N, I didn’t know it was this bad.” You blinked, slow. “Would it have mattered if you did?” He flinched like you’d slapped him. You almost regretted the question. But not enough to take it back. Because it did matter. You mattered. And there were too many nights you’d fallen asleep wondering if you’d ever mattered enough.

“You’re the only thing that’s ever mattered,” he said finally, voice scraping raw across his throat. You looked at him—really looked. There was something so tired in him. So desperately, devastatingly tired. Like he’d been walking through a world that no longer made sense since the day you left it.

“I needed you,” you whispered. “I know.” “I waited for you.” “I know.”

His hand moved, fingers stretching forward. Then paused, inches from yours on the blanket. You didn’t move. So he let his palm drop gently onto the edge of your hand, barely touching. His thumb brushed your knuckle—once, slow. Reverent. It felt like something shattered in your chest.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he said. “Not once. Not when I was training Violet. Not when I was sent across the ward. Not even when I should’ve been thinking about everything else.”

You swallowed thickly. “Then why didn’t you come?” He exhaled like the question burned. “Because I thought I already destroyed you once,” he said. “I didn’t know if you’d survive me again.” You closed your eyes. Because the truth was—you didn’t know either.

⸻

Outside the window, Kaerith shifted, massive wings stretching across the sky like a shield. Sgaeyl perched silently nearby, still and watchful. Dragons, quiet in their knowing.

You opened your eyes again. And whispered, “I still love you.” Xaden’s breath left him like a weapon had torn it out. His hand gripped yours. Tight.

And then he said it back—choked, ragged, as if it had been lodged in his throat since the day you left.

“I never stopped.”

⸻

You didn’t let go of his hand. Not for a while. There was something comforting in the way his thumb kept brushing over your knuckles, slow and steady. Like he was reminding himself you were real. Like he didn’t believe it. Your breath caught once, and Xaden stilled.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, already halfway to pulling back. “No,” you said, voice barely more than a whisper. “Just… not used to this.” He nodded, slow. You didn’t have to say what this was. Not really. Touch. Closeness. Letting him in again after all the silence.

The room stayed quiet for a long time, filled only with Kaerith’s distant grumble outside, and the low creak of Sgaeyl shifting beside him. Two massive dragons—bound by instinct, by history—standing watch like sentinels.

Brennen came in briefly to check your pulse, muttering something about how your color was better. He didn’t say anything about the way Xaden sat, hunched forward like if he let go of your hand for even a second, the whole world might crack open again. Brennen didn’t have to. He knew better than anyone what broken things looked like when they were trying to heal.

After he left, you shifted slightly in the bed, wincing as your ribs flared hot with pain.

Xaden was there instantly. “Careful.” “I’m fine,” you murmured. His brow furrowed. “You almost died.” You looked away. “I didn’t.” “Don’t do that.” You turned your head back slowly. “Do what?”

“Pretend like it didn’t matter. Like I wouldn’t have gone insane if Bodhi hadn’t brought you here. Like you’re just another mission casualty.” You stared at him for a long moment. “You didn’t come for me.” “I didn’t know where to look.” “You didn’t try.”

That landed.

Xaden leaned back, running a hand down his face, like he hated every version of himself that had let you slip through the cracks. “I was scared,” he said finally. You blinked. “You’re never scared.” His laugh was hollow. “I’m scared every damn day. Of losing people. Of being wrong. Of not being strong enough to stop what’s coming. But you?” His eyes lifted to yours again. “You’re the only thing I was ever scared of losing completely.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you said the truth.

“I thought you already had.”

⸻

A soft knock interrupted whatever would’ve come next. Bodhi pushed open the door a crack. “Everything alright?”

You and Xaden looked at him at the same time. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Come in.” He stepped inside, dragging a chair toward your other side. “You look less dead. That’s promising.”

You rolled your eyes, and the motion made your bruised jaw throb. “Thanks for the assessment, Healer General.” Bodhi grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Kaerith told me the minute you twitched. Bastard nearly knocked the whole roof off trying to get my attention.”

Xaden’s gaze flicked to him. “You’re still talking to her dragon?” Bodhi raised a brow. “You’re still pretending you didn’t want to break something when you saw her in that bed?” The silence that followed was sharp.

Bodhi’s voice softened. “She’s my best friend, Xaden. She always has been. I wasn’t keeping her from you. I was protecting her for you. From everything. Even you.”

You didn’t breathe. Xaden didn’t flinch. But you could feel the tension radiating between them like heat off embers. Deep. Scalding. Unspoken.

“I’d do it again,” Bodhi added. “Because she asked me to.” “She’s mine,” Xaden bit out, low and raw. Bodhi shook his head. “Not anymore. Not unless she says so.” And for a long second, no one said anything. Then Xaden turned to you, eyes searching.

“Do I still get to be yours?” he asked. Your throat tightened. Your fingers curled into his. And you whispered, “I don’t know yet. But I want to.”

⸻

You made it outside by morning. Barely. Your legs shook with every step down the stone corridor, but you were walking. Brennen had raised an eyebrow, clearly ready to lecture you into oblivion, but Bodhi had just handed you a cloak and said, “Don’t fall. I’m not carrying you again.”

So now, you stood beneath the towering archway of Aretia’s outer courtyard, bathed in the golden light of sunrise, your breath fogging gently in the cool air.

And Kaerith? Kaerith was pissed.

He loomed behind you like a thundercloud with wings, tail sweeping close at your back, nostrils flaring every time someone so much as looked your way.

Xaden emerged from the barracks steps just as you reached the edge of the field. You stopped walking. So did he. Kaerith growled low. A sound of warning.

“Down,” you said, without looking back. Kaerith didn’t move. Xaden held his ground but raised his hands slightly, eyes never leaving yours. “Tell your oversized death machine I’m not here to fight.”

“I told you that last time,” Bodhi muttered from behind you. “Didn’t stop you.” You ignored them both and took another step forward. The movement made your ribs scream. Your body trembled. But Xaden was already in front of you. Hands reaching.

And Kaerith—Kaerith roared.

Sgaeyl dropped out of the sky like a dark streak of lightning, slamming between you and Xaden in one smooth motion, tail curling protectively. “Kaerith,” you snapped, grabbing a handful of his scales. “Stand down.”

He snarled, but relented—barely. Sgaeyl snorted. If dragons could roll their eyes, she absolutely just had.

Xaden waited, eyes full of something that looked dangerously close to fear. Not of Kaerith. Not of Sgaeyl. But of you.

“You okay?” he asked. You nodded once. “More or less.” He exhaled slowly. “You’re walking.” “Don’t get too excited. I still feel like I got trampled by a gryphon.” The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

You glanced up at Kaerith. “He doesn’t like you very much right now.” “I deserve it.” “He’s only like this with people who matter.” His eyes flicked to yours. “Do I still matter?” You blinked. Then—quiet, careful—you said, “More than I want to admit.”

He stepped closer. Not enough to touch. Not yet. But enough to feel. “Let me stay,” he said softly. “Wherever you are. However you need me. Just let me try again.” You opened your mouth. Closed it. Looked at his hands, his eyes, the quiet desperation under the cool mask he always wore.

And then—

You reached up. Touched his face. Barely. Kaerith huffed but didn’t move. “Okay,” you whispered. “But you don’t get to break me again.” “I won’t,” Xaden said. Like a promise. Like a vow. You believed him.

Gods help you, you believed him.

⸻

You didn’t go far that day. A few steps into the courtyard. A brief moment in the light. Then you were exhausted, half-leaning on Kaerith, the world tilting slightly at the edges. Xaden had said nothing. Just stayed close enough to catch you if you stumbled.

By nightfall, you were in one of the smaller guest rooms inside the northern wing—one of the few places in Aretia that felt untouched by war. The walls were warm sandstone. A soft rug covered the cold floor. There was a window that looked out into the valley. Xaden had brought a chair again. But this time? You told him not to.

“I don’t want you across the room,” you said softly. “I don’t need the space. Not anymore.” He didn’t argue. Didn’t push, either. He just sat at the edge of the bed, hands braced on his knees, like he was afraid to move.

You watched him for a long moment. The shape of his shoulders. The way he exhaled slow through his nose like he’d been holding his breath for days. “Lie down,” you said. His brow lifted, guarded. “You sure?” You nodded. “I trust you. And I… I miss you.” That broke him a little.

He kicked off his boots and climbed in carefully, like you might vanish if he moved too quickly. The bed dipped beneath his weight. The warmth of him slid into the space beside you. He didn’t touch you—not at first. But his presence was loud. And familiar.

He lay on his back, hands over his chest, staring at the ceiling like it held answers to everything he couldn’t say. You shifted, slow and cautious, until your head rested just beneath his shoulder. He froze. Then—slowly, carefully—his arm wrapped around you. And gods, you didn’t realize how much you missed this. Missed him. The shape of his body beside yours. The weight of his palm at your side. The way your breathing fell into rhythm like it always used to.

Minutes passed like hours. Then he said—barely a whisper—“You still do that thing when you sleep.” You blinked against his chest. “What thing?” “You breathe out three times really fast. Then pause. You’ve always done it.” You smiled into the fabric of his shirt. “You remember that?” “I never forgot.” A beat. “I tried.” Your heart twisted. “I didn’t stop loving you,” he added quietly. “Even when it felt like I had to.”

You lifted your head. Looked at him. Really looked at him. There was a vulnerability in his eyes you rarely saw. Not even when you first kissed. Not even when you first fought. This wasn’t desperation. This was truth. And so you leaned in. Pressed your lips to his—gentle. Slow. Not a promise. Not yet. Just a memory finding its way home. When you pulled back, he exhaled hard, eyes still closed. And you whispered, “I still love you, too.”

⸻

The morning light bled into the room like an old wound—slow, reluctant. You stirred before he did. Your body still ached in all the places that hadn’t quite forgiven you. But you were breathing. Steady. Even. And you were warm. Because Xaden hadn’t moved an inch. He was still there, one arm around you, your cheek tucked against his chest. You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ear, slow and thunderous. Like it had something to say.

You didn’t move. Not at first. You just listened. To the silence. To him. To the way your breath still fell in sync without trying. But eventually, you whispered, “I don’t know how to stop being mad at you.”

Xaden opened his eyes. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t deny it. “Then be mad,” he said, voice rough. “Yell at me. Hit me. Whatever you need.” You looked up at him, eyes burning. “I don’t want to hurt you.” “You already did,” he said quietly. “When you left.”

You sat up then, too fast. Pain flared across your ribs, but you didn’t stop. “You think that was easy for me?” “No.” He sat up, too, turning toward you. “I think it killed you. Just like it did me.”

Kaerith stirred outside the window, sensing the tension. His wings rustled like storm winds through the valley. You didn’t need the bond to know he was restless—protective.

Xaden’s jaw clenched. “I saw the way everything shifted after Threshing. After her. I couldn’t divide myself cleanly anymore. Orders from Tairn. Protection. Secrets. You—” He broke off, eyes burning. “You deserved better than being second to someone I didn’t even love.” The words hit hard. You felt them deep, like truth and regret in one sharp breath.

“But I still left,” you whispered. “I walked away. I didn’t fight for us.” “I didn’t give you a reason to.” He looked down. Fingers flexing like he wanted to reach for you. Like he didn’t know if he was allowed to.

“You were everything to me,” he said, voice raw. “And I got so good at pretending I was fine without you… I almost believed it. Until I saw you bleeding in Bodhi’s arms. Until Kaerith called out and I felt it in my bones.” You swallowed. Hard. The silence stretched again. And then, slowly, carefully—you reached for his hand. He didn’t hesitate. Fingers locked. Palms pressed.

“You don’t have to fix it all today,” you said, voice quiet but steady. “But if we’re going to try again… we can’t pretend the cracks aren’t there.” “I know.” “We build slow this time.” Xaden nodded. “Even if it hurts.” You leaned forward. Pressed your forehead to his. And this time, you both stayed there. No one ran.

No one turned away.

⸻

Later that day

The quiet didn’t last. By the time you’d managed to walk down the hallway—Xaden shadowing every step—Bodhi was already waiting in the courtyard below. Leaning against the worn stone wall, arms crossed, his dragon, Cuir, perched high on the cliff behind him like a sentinel of old.

He didn’t look surprised to see you. Didn’t even blink at the way Xaden hovered a step too close. “Still stubborn,” Bodhi muttered as you stepped into the sunlight, eyes sweeping over the bruises on your skin. “Still getting yourself nearly killed.” “Still dragging me out of it,” you returned softly. That earned the smallest of smiles. But it didn’t last. Because Xaden moved forward. And you felt it shift—like a ripple of old storms under calm water.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Xaden asked. His voice wasn’t loud, but it cracked with something sharp. Something ancient. “You knew where she was. For months.” Bodhi’s jaw tensed. “I did.” “You let me think she was gone.” “You let her think she was nothing but collateral.” The words landed like fists.

You inhaled slowly, ready to speak—but Bodhi raised a hand to stop you. His gaze stayed locked on Xaden.

“You want the truth?” Bodhi said, stepping away from the wall. “She was my best friend long before she was your girlfriend. I held her hair when she was sick. I taught her how to punch harder than you. I read every letter she wrote, even when she didn’t send them.” Xaden flinched.

“She didn’t leave just because of you,” Bodhi added. “She left because that place—Basgiath, war, everything—it was eating her alive. And I wasn’t going to drag her back just because you finally decided to miss her.” The silence that followed was brutal.

Xaden’s fists were clenched. His breathing ragged. But he didn’t argue. Because he couldn’t. You stepped forward, putting a hand on Bodhi’s arm. “Thank you,” you said quietly. His expression softened just a little. “I’d do it again.”

Xaden finally spoke, voice low, broken at the edges. “You should’ve told me.” Bodhi shrugged. “Maybe. But then again, maybe you should’ve looked closer when she stopped smiling.” Another hit. Direct. And earned. Xaden didn’t respond. But he nodded. Slow.

And for the first time… something passed between them. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But understanding. Mutual grief. Shared weight.

“Next time,” Bodhi said, backing away toward Cuir, “don’t wait until she’s bleeding to remember how much you love her.” And then he was gone.

The wind shifted. And you stood there with Xaden—both of you raw, scraped open, stripped down to nothing but truth and tension and too many things left unsaid. But this?

This was how healing started.

⸻

The sun was low by the time you returned to your room. The walk back was slow. Silent. Xaden didn’t reach for your hand, but his presence was a constant hum beside you—warm and steady, like a pulse that refused to fade.

You closed the door behind you with a soft click. And still, he didn’t speak. Not until you turned toward him, eyes searching his face like you might find something you’d missed the first time you fell in love with him.

“What are you thinking?” you asked softly. Xaden’s mouth twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. More like a wince of truth. “That I don’t deserve this.” Your breath hitched. “Me?” “You,” he said. “This chance. Your trust. After everything I didn’t say. Everything I let happen.”

You walked toward him, slow and quiet. “Do you want it?” His eyes lifted—sharp, dark, wounded. “More than anything.” “Then earn it.”

You were close now. Close enough to see the way his shoulders shifted, to hear the subtle catch in his breath. He looked like a man standing in a fire, unsure whether to run or reach for the warmth.

“I don’t want the version of you who shuts down,” you said, voice low. “Not the one who hides things ‘for your own good.’ I want the version who looks me in the eye and lets me in. Even if it’s ugly.”

Xaden looked down at his hands. “I don’t know if I remember how.” “You don’t have to know yet,” you whispered, fingers brushing his. “You just have to try.” He met your gaze then, and something cracked open behind his eyes. Not pain. Not guilt. Hope.

He took your hand—slow, deliberate. “I can’t promise I’ll be easy,” he said. “Or perfect.” “I never asked for perfect,” you replied. “I asked for you.” He stepped closer. Pressed his forehead to yours. His voice was rough, full of truth. “Tell me what you need.” And you didn’t hesitate. “I need you to be here. Really here. Not just when I’m hurt. Not just when you’re scared you’ve lost me. But when I’m healing. When I’m angry. When I’m quiet.” “I can do that,” he said. “Gods, I want to do that.”

You leaned into him, heart thudding against his chest. “Then stay. Not because you owe me. But because you still choose me.” His arms wrapped around you—gentle, but sure. And you felt it, in the weight of his touch, in the way his breath slowed against your skin. He wasn’t running. Not anymore.

And maybe that was enough.

#xaden riorson #angst #fourth wing #rebecca yarros #the empyrean #xaden riorson imagine #xaden riorson x reader #xaden x reader #fluff #bodhi durran #bodhi fourth wing #bodhi x reader

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dee-writes-angst · 18 days ago

Text

THE INTERROGATION ROOM

FEATURING Azriel x Reader

SUMMARY When an Autumn Court spy gets caught sneaking through the Night Court, she expects torture — not Azriel, shadowsinger, spymaster, and utter bastard, determined to break her down one orgasm at a time.

CONTENT WARNINGS smut, p in v, no mentions of protection - wrap it up!, knife play (yes, he brings it to bed), bondage (wrist cuffs, ankle cuffs, shadow ropes, and one very rude spreader bar), vibrator use, orgasm control (he’s mean about it), overstimulation, impact play, degradation, dom!Azriel (capital D), bratty sub!reader, light choking, semi-public setting (interrogation room turned sex dungeon), possessive/territorial behavior, pain kink, blood (a drop, for flavor), hate sex

AUTHORS NOTE uh hey guys heh... sorry I dropped off the face of the Earth for like a year, have some smut!

Check out Cassian’s and Rhysand’s version here! The War Room and The High Lord’s Room

The cell door creaked open, and Azriel stepped in like a storm made flesh.

“You didn’t cover your tracks very well,” he said, voice low and lethal. Shadows curled at his shoulders like they knew they were about to feast. “Autumn Court spy. Thought you could sneak in, play diplomat, seduce a few courtiers—”

You smirked from where you were chained to the chair. Ankles cuffed. Wrists restrained above your head, secured by siphon-enhanced steel. You’d stolen the map. You’d almost gotten away. You leaned back and crossed your legs — as much as the chains would allow.

“I wasn’t seducing anyone,” you said. “You just wanted a reason to throw me in here. Bet you’ve been dying to see me like this.”

His mouth twitched. Not a smile — something sharper. “You think I need a reason?”

He moved like smoke, crossing the room in a blink. Gloved hands braced on either side of your chair, wings flaring wide. His scent hit you like a drug — dark spice, leather, and shadow. You refused to flinch.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you act when I’m near,” he murmured. “Mouthy little thing. Always pushing, waiting for someone to push back.”

Your chin lifted defiantly. “What are you going to do, Spymaster? Hurt me?”

A pause. Then a grin — cold, slow, vicious. “Beg for it.”

He pulled a slender blade from his thigh sheath. It gleamed like moonlight. The tip dragged slowly along your jawline — just pressure. No slice. Yet.

“You like pain,” he said flatly, reading your pulse like it was written on your skin. “You want it to mean something. You want someone to take control because you can’t stand giving it willingly.”

You clenched your thighs. He noticed.

The blade traveled down your neck, then lower, to where your shirt was already torn from your earlier scuffle. A flick — fabric parted. Another — the front of your bra gaped open, and cool air kissed your nipples. His eyes didn’t even drop.

“Let’s make something clear,” he said, fingers ghosting the edge of the blade between your breasts, down your ribs, to your belly. “This isn’t sex. This is consequence.”

He stepped behind you, and the chains above your head retracted, forcing you to stand. When you tried to twist away, Azriel caught your throat with one hand and shoved you against the stone wall, body pressing flush to your back. Hard length grinding against your ass through his leathers.

“Still so cocky,” he growled into your ear. “You don’t get to be in control here.”

You laughed — breathless. “Try me.”

A snarl. Then pain. His hand cracked across your ass, open-palmed, and you gasped as the sting bloomed instantly. Again. Harder. A third, and he didn’t stop — striking you until your thighs trembled, ass blazing, slick already pooling between your legs.

“Color?” he rasped.

“Green,” you spat.

His shadows tightened around your wrists like living rope. He dragged a short bar from a nearby drawer — steel, sleek, curved. A spreader bar.

“No closing your legs now,” he said, voice like sin.

You should’ve been scared. Instead, you were soaked.

He knelt, parting your legs with the bar and securing it to your cuffs. Then — something cold pressed to your clit. A sleek, vibrating toy, strapped tightly in place.

Azriel’s shadows coiled around your throat as he murmured, “Don’t come until I say.”

The toy clicked on.

You jerked against the restraints instantly — the vibration sharp and fast, relentless. He watched from the chair across from you, gloved fingers idly stroking the blade still in his lap. Your breathing turned ragged.

“You’re drooling for it already,” he sneered. “Filthy little traitor. Look at you. Legs spread, tits out, whining through your gag reflex.”

“Fuck you,” you choked.

His wings flared. “You will.”

He crossed the room and shoved two fingers between your legs — rough, ungloved now. Curling, stroking, commanding. He watched your face as your body betrayed you, grinding down on his hand despite the ache, despite the humiliation.

“I bet they trained you to seduce, didn’t they?” he said darkly. “Did they show you how to fake an orgasm, little spy?”

You nodded, desperate, hips twitching. His fingers stopped.

“Show me.”

You blinked. “What—?”

“Fake it.”

You moaned — loud, over-the-top, back arching like a porn star. He laughed once. Cold. Cruel. Then—

“Now do it for real.”

His fingers slid back in — three now — and the toy at your clit kicked into a new setting, meaner, sharper. You couldn’t fake anything now. Your body thrashed in the chains, the bar keeping your legs wide open while he watched you unravel.

“You don’t come,” he warned. “You don’t get that until you beg me like the pathetic little whore you are.”

You whimpered. “Please…”

“Not good enough.”

His shadows slithered over your breasts, pinching your nipples with cruel precision. You sobbed through gritted teeth.

“Say it,” he snarled. “Say you’re a filthy little traitor who needs to be ruined.”

You were panting, soaked, dizzy. “I’m a filthy—fuck, I’m a filthy little traitor who needs—needs to be ruined, please—”

The second the words left your mouth, he slammed you onto the table in the middle of the room. Bent you over it. Yanked your hips back. Freed himself from his leathers — and the stretch of him was brutal. Immediate. Unforgiving.

“Take it,” he hissed in your ear as he bottomed out.

You screamed. He didn’t slow. Just held you down by the throat and fucked you like he was punishing every lie, every mission, every flirtatious smile you’d ever weaponized.

The knife was back. Cool against your spine. Just pressure — and then the tiniest prick, enough to draw a drop of blood.

You moaned.

He laughed, low and mean, fucking you harder.

“Gonna fuck the secrets out of you,” he snarled. “Gonna fill you so full you forget who you work for.”

You were already there — sobbing, babbling nonsense, the toy still humming against your clit as he pounded into you like he hated you. Maybe he did. Maybe you loved it.

When he finally let you come, it hit like lightning. Full-body, legs shaking, body writhing in the chains as you shattered around him, crying out his name like it was carved into your throat.

He followed with a groan, spilling inside you, hips jerking against your ass as he growled against your shoulder, teeth sinking into your skin.

Silence fell — broken only by your shuddering breaths, the wet sounds of your bodies still pressed together, and the soft coil of his shadows retreating.

Then:

“I hope you got what you needed,” you rasped.

Azriel leaned in, teeth grazing your ear. “Not even close.”

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marvelstoriesepic · 7 months ago

Text

Like a Phoenix (3)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 8k

Warnings: knife throwing; Bucky being infuriating; mentions of murder, fire, death, knives, dead parents, sexism

Author’s Note: Third part here y’all!! I’m getting excited! Hope you enjoy ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

It has only been a week since the attack on the palace, but it feels like the span of an eternity unfolded between the life you once knew and the one you are now stumbling through.

Each day adds years to your soul, leaving you brittle and burdened. It feels like you are carrying the ashes of your old life in your lungs. They seem to cough up black dust every time you breathe.

Bucky - as you’ve tried to remind yourself to call him, though it feels strange - is a ghost at your side.

Sturdy and inflexible, but strangely distant.

He barely speaks. And when he does, his words are clipped and sparse.

You match his silence with your own, the quiet between you thick as the mist that lingers in the trees each morning.

But something has shifted, ever so slightly, in the way he speaks to you but also in the way you speak to him.

A spark of resistance broke through the exhaustion and fear you have been feeling ever since meeting the man.

You couldn’t explain it. Still can’t. The sudden surge of boldness that had begun to creep into your tone. You’re not sure where it came from - perhaps it’s the sheer strain of everything you had to experience in such a short amount of time, or maybe it’s his relentless stoicism, his refusal to bend or break.

You discovered something in that defiance. It wasn’t control - not over him, nor over the tides of your life - but it was enough to reclaim the smallest piece of yourself.

And it worked.

He didn’t raise his voice again. Hasn't allowed the intensity of his temper to affect you once more. His words maintain their typical roughness, but he appears to have eased the impact behind them just a little.

He even let you take a bath.

It took some time for him to relent, some persuading, but with a grumbled sigh and a muttered “Don’t take too long. We got ground to cover,” he let you chase the faint glimmer of a stream in the distance, even giving you a small bar of soap he had stored in his pack.

He didn’t follow you but you knew he wasn’t far.

The stream was small but clear and looked utterly enticing. The icy water shocked you back into yourself as you washed your hands and drank some of it. First, you splashed your face, gasping as the cold seeped into your pores, washing away the dirt and sweat that had accumulated over the days.

Glancing over your shoulder, you scanned the treeline. No sign of him. No sound of him either, but you still didn’t trust that he wasn’t near.

You stripped off your gown and the underdress, shedding some weight on your shoulders with it, thread by thread. You would have some problems putting it back on without your maids but it’s ruined anyway. It’s not like you would look like the perfect storybook princess anyway even if you’d have some help.

When you sank down into the water, you closed your eyes. To be honest with yourself, you tried to scrub and wash away more than just the dirt on your skin. You wanted to get rid of it all - the guilt, the grief, the rage. The memories of your parent’s voices, now silenced forever. The sight of your castle in flames. The ache of being pushed forward into an unknown future you had no say in.

Nails bit into your flesh as you scrubbed at your skin. But there was no point. You were well aware you could not just scrape away the person you had been to become someone else. Anyone else. But you still tried. Because the invisible tiara atop your head is pressing against your skull, unwelcome and unrelenting. And there is no way to get it off.

After emerging, pulling yourself out of the water, and ungracefully slipping your underdress over your head you even thought of leaving the gown behind, letting it wither on the forest floor and just continuing in your underdress when his voice startled you enough to make your heart lurch.

“Are you done yet?”

Bucky stood at the edge of the clearing, leaning casually against a tree, arms crossed over his broad chest. His expression was neutral, rather bored, but his tone held a composed hint of impatience.

“You-” The words died on your lips, replaced by a flush of heat that spread across your cheeks. “Were you watching me?”

He snorted. “I’ve got better things to do than spy on you playin’ in the water, princess.”

“I was not-” You cut your protest off, biting down on your lip. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, you turned away, reaching for your gown and clutching it to your chest. You wouldn’t leave it behind after all. “Granting me a little bit of privacy would not kill you, you know.”

“No. But it might kill you,” he stated flatly, pushing off the tree, uncrossing his arms, and stepping closer. “Now let’s move. We’re wasting daylight.”

You grumbled under your breath as you threw on your gown without a care in the world how you looked like and stomped over to him.

A slow smirk played with the corner of his mouth as you stalked passed him and you even heard him breathe a suppressed laugh.

You don’t know what had shifted, but you remember the moment it began.

It was the morning after your argument. Actually, it was barely even morning. The sun was still missing and the cold of the night was tormenting you.

You woke up to a rustle. You didn’t notice anything at first, too groggy from sleep to process much beyond the aching stiffness in your joints and the cool fabric draped across your body. It took you a second to realize that what was covering you was Bucky’s bedroll.

Though what jolted you awake in an instant was the fact that he was still crouching beside you, carefully trying to cover your whole form with the fabric to ward off the chill of the night.

He was so close - too close - his broad frame towering even in his lowered position. The morning light filtered faintly through the trees, casting fragmented shadows across his face.

But it was the gleam of metal in his hand that drew your attention. His knife. He always seems to have it in his hand, always present, always ready.

But in that moment, after the things he said the day before, and with his presence in the dark now looming over your vulnerable position, it terrified you.

Every nerve in your body seized. The rough bark of a tree collided with your back as you scrambled backward, your heart racing and breath hitching as you stared at him with wide, panicked eyes. Your gaze darted between his face, the blade in his hand, and the many trees surrounding you. Already making escape plans due to the fear that clawed its way up your throat. It almost urged a scream out of you. But nobody would hear it.

You didn’t trust this man who wielded weapons so casually, who barely spared you more than a few begrudging words since he’d been tasked with your life and basically admitted to you being an inconvenience to him the day before.

And for a brief, horrifying instant, the image seared itself into your mind; the knife flashing toward you, the finality of it. Because why wouldn’t he? Why should you trust that he wouldn’t?

He saw it. Your fear. Because the moment your eyes locked, something shifted in his expression. His lips parted slightly, as though he wanted to speak, but no words came.

It even seemed to take him a second to realize that the cause of your fear was actually him.

And immediately, his jaw tightened, his lips twitched, his shoulders stiffened - and then slowly, he lowered the knife. Placed it on the ground beside him with a deliberate motion that spoke of careful control. With his eyes on you, he let his hands rise, palms open and unarmed, and he leaned back just enough to create space between you.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said, his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it, roughened not by irritation but something closer to regret. “You were shiverin’.” He shot a brief look at the material draped over your shoulders that he had placed there to explain himself.

You didn’t move, couldn’t move, the tension still coiled in your chest and ready to make you bolt through the trees if he were to pick up the knife again.

But the look on his face struck you hard.

And it made you pause ever so slowly.

Since his expression didn’t convey anger, frustration, or the typical facade of indifference he carried so convincingly. No, this was unlike anything else. This was suffering. Pain. Concealed beneath the unsmiling features of his face was an emotion that appeared to be painfully close to remorse.

He hated it, you realized. He hated that you were afraid of him.

The thought left you reeling. You were unsure how to handle the vulnerability reflected in his eyes, contrasting so starkly with the man you had grown familiar with.

For a moment, you almost felt sorry for him. Almost. But the fear still twisted your stomach, unseen hands wringing it and wringing it until everything felt dry. And you couldn’t bring yourself to move any closer or open your mouth.

He didn’t speak, didn’t offer an apology or anything more. Instead, he turned away. Jaw still clenched so hard, dark brows lowered deeply, eyes moving to the ground, hands in tight fists, shoulders painfully tense. He shifted to busy himself with something at the border of your clearing and then vanished for a few minutes into the forest. It seemed he couldn’t bear to remain in the same space.

You stayed where you were, back pressed against the tree, his bedroll still draped over your shoulders and you clutched it so tightly with your hands, you were surprised later that the fabric withstood your grasp.

He didn’t look at you when he came back. Didn’t talk. He was so quiet, his movements more subdued, and when he glanced at you briefly, his expression was on the verge of careful. To you, it seemed something had chipped away at some part of him.

He hadn’t wanted your fear, didn’t mean to inspire it. That much was clear. And it made you breathe a little easier.

Since then, he had softened in small, almost imperceptible ways. He no longer dismisses everything you say with the same outright disdain. His tone carries an edge of restraint, as though he’s making a conscious effort to temper himself.

You’re not sure if it’s because of what happened or if he simply grows tired of you, but the change is there, subtle but undeniable.

And that is what has you thinking as you lie there, staring at the interwoven branches above, their gnarled silhouettes jagged against the pale light of the moon.

The bedroll beneath you is threadbare, offering little comfort against the damp, uneven forest floor. Bucky carries it throughout the day but always throws it your way when you settle in for the night, accompanied by a warning glare not to argue with him.

You don’t. You’re tired of talking to him. And if he willingly chooses to deny himself the smallest comfort possible and instead allows you to have it, then hell, you won't argue.

But sleep eludes you, slipping through your grasp no matter how tightly you try to force it upon you.

Your body aches. Usually, exhaustion is able to pull you under, but not today.

Today you took care of your own sleeping area, ignoring Bucky’s raised eyebrow and missing the amusement in his expression by discharging your chosen spot of stones and sticks. But you guess you didn’t do a good enough job.

The hard surface of the ground pushes back against you in all the wrong ways, sharp edges and dips pressing into your back. You try to adjust, twisting your spine subtly, but your shoulder only digs into a rough patch of dirt or an unseen stone under the thin fabric. You sigh.

Turning your head involuntarily, your eyes search the dark for Bucky.

He’s not far, just a few feet away, sprawled near the gone cold fireplace, his back against a tree, head tipped slightly to the side.

For once, he’s still.

Not standing, not pacing, not sharpening that ever-present knife. Just lying there.

Never before have you seen him like this - at rest, or at least something close to it.

He’s always been awake when you drifted into uneasy slumber. And when morning came, he was already up. Sometimes at night, when you would wake up shortly after falling asleep, you would hear him pace, or light the fire.

You had questioned, more than once, whether he ever slept at all and what kinds of things might keep him awake through the hours of the night.

But now, here he is, his body splayed out, one hand resting on his abdomen, the other loosely at his side. His knife lay within arm’s reach, but his hand doesn’t grip it.

The moonlight catches on the sharp angles of his face, softening them in a way that almost makes him look peaceful. Relaxed. But not quite as much as you’d expect somebody dead asleep to be. There is still tension in his posture, a readiness that doesn’t seem to leave him even in rest. You wonder what it would take for him to let go completely.

Your gaze lingers on him longer than it should. Taking your time, you trace the softened lines of his face you are able to make out, the rise and fall of his chest.

It feels intrusive, almost, to watch him like this, but you can’t help yourself.

There is something about seeing him vulnerable - unguarded - that draws you in, even as it makes you feel unsteady, treading on sacred ground.

It makes you wonder who he has been before all this. Before the wariness, the stoicism, the constant presence of that damn knife. You don’t think you’ll ever get an answer.

But you won’t ever stop questioning him. Even if you can’t voice them out loud.

You wonder if he ever watched you sleep like that in the time you have traveled together.

You’ve definitely caught him watching you in daytime more often than not, his eyes intense and assessing and it is always enough to set your teeth on edge. You ask yourself what it is he sees. A burden, surely. A task he never wanted. He’s made that clear enough already.

But sometimes - just sometimes - you think there is something else in the way he keeps you in his sights, in the way he now moves through the woods with you always in his peripheral vision. It’s a kind of vigilance, that feels different than disdain. Protective, almost. Not kind, but not cruel either.

You don’t know what to make of it.

Another sharp forest object digs into your shoulder and you sigh again.

Your stomach is growling.

Thankfully, your bladder is empty.

Basically the second you noticed Bucky going still and breathing evenly, you got up to take a bathroom break. Admittedly, that’s not what you can call relieving yourself in the woods like an animal, but it is the only way for you to keep a sense of dignity.

Because managing this kind of thing in such a gown usually takes time.

And Bucky doesn’t want you taking your time when you aren’t in his sight.

So you always try to make yourself quick, fumbling with the layers of folds, muttering curses under your breath that would have left your parents embarrassed and shocked.

Still, he came calling for you just yesterday when your heavy gown wasn’t compliant.

“Hey!” he barked, sharp and commanding. “What’s takin’ so long? Where are you?”

You’d frozen, pulse hammering and cheeks flooding with embarrassment. “I’ll be just a moment,” you called back, voice high and thin.

“That’s what you said five minutes ago,” he snapped, the note of urgency in his tone carrying over to you through the trees. “Answer me properly. Where are you?”

You surely wouldn’t let him see you in such a degrading position, so you just shot back that you were fine and just needed a second.

His reply had been terse. “Just hurry the hell up!”

You finished quickly after that, stumbling back onto the path where he stood waiting - his arms crossed, face stoic.

He didn’t say anything when you rejoined him, only giving you a once over with those piercing eyes of his before turning on his heel and continuing forward.

But something about the way he’d looked at you in that moment stayed with you. Like he was measuring your well-being. Like he was ready to drag you back to him if he had to.

You also don’t know what to make of that.

Sighing softly into the night air and listening to the rustle of leaves in the slight breeze, your hand moves almost instinctively to the hollow of your throat, searching for the familiar feeling of your necklace. But your fingers only meet the fabric of your gown. You remember you tucked the jewelry into the folds of it after offering it to Bucky.

But you know it’s not there either.

It’s not yours anymore.

You turn your head to glance back at Bucky’s sleeping form.

You pressed the necklace into his hand just two days ago, along with the handful of jewels that had adorned you - rings, bracelets, earrings. All ornaments of a life that felt no longer like yours.

“I don’t want them,” you said to him then, voice steadier and more resolute than you expected. He looked at you so intensely but you didn’t falter. “I never cared for them. They mean nothing to me now.”

He didn’t say anything at first. He just stared at you for a while and then at the glittering heap in his hand.

They were undimmed even in the shadowed forest, but they looked out of place against his rough and calloused skin. He didn’t know what to do with them. That much was clear in the way his fingers curled and uncurled around them.

You planned on shoving the jewels into his hand and retreating to your little sleeping area, but he looked so utterly stunned, it was almost endearing.

“Take them,” you insisted with a softer voice. “You can sell them, trade them - do whatever you want with them. They will be more useful to you than they ever were to me.”

His chin dipped. His adams apple bobbed with a swallow that seemed to stay stuck in his throat for a second too long. His brow was furrowed. So tightly. So conflicted. So immensely confused.

You could sense his question in the way he looked. The huge why.

Because you did acknowledge that giving those jewels, the symbol of wealth and privilege to him with nothing but a shrug, was something tremendous.

But you could not tell him that they reminded you of everything you’ve lost. That they are a relic of a life you always took for granted and now never get back. That they felt like chains on your skin, not treasures. That they made you want to vomit.

Bucky glanced back up at you then, really looked at you like he had all the time in the world. For a moment, you thought he might argue. But he didn’t. Instead, he closed his hand around the jewels, his knuckles whitening as though the act of accepting them cost him something.

A tremor passed through his clenched jaw. His lips were a thin line and you heard his teeth grind ever so slightly.

And his eyes. His eyes were full of disbelief. At the way you could give away something so valuable. To someone like him.

“You’re givin’ this to me,” he said slowly, voice low and hinting at something far more difficult to make sense of than the incredulity that lay in his tone. “Just like that.”

“Yes,” you replied simply, yet hoping to put an end to this. “Just like that.”

He still stared at you for a long moment. There wasn’t exactly gratitude in his expression but you guessed there was no place for it yet since his confusion outweighed everything else. He almost looked soft. Younger, with the way he was studying you with a face so open with emotion.

But then, without another word, he turned away, slipping the jewels into his brown leather armor with a swiftness that suggested he didn’t want to linger on the act.

And you didn’t.

You don’t even know if he still carries them with him right now and what exactly he will do with them.

Your hand falls back to your side, fingers curling into the fabric of Bucky’s bedroll. They are so bare now. And it makes you realize how smooth your skin is. Never knowing, never finding out what it means to shape, to hold, to build a life out of what is given.

With your eyes back on Bucky you let out a shaky breath.

The forest feels too big, the night feels too quiet, and the questions in your mind feel too loud.

But you lay still, your gaze lingering on him. You just can’t look away.

You don’t know what you’re searching for as you watch him. He doesn’t give you any answers when he’s awake and he sure as devil can’t give you any answers when he’s asleep.

His face is as unreadable now as it was when he told you the only reason you’re still breathing is him.

The memory of the argument you had a week ago just doesn’t want to ease. Your mind is still crowded with his words.

“The only thing that matters is who’s still standin’ at the end of the day. And the only reason you are is because I’ve decided to keep you that way.”

Your fists clench against the bedroll.

To him, you are just another spoiled noble, another fragile thing too soft for the world.

He doesn’t see you. Not the way you crave to be seen. He strips your identity down to a title and a crown just like everybody else.

And yet, even as you hate him, even as your knuckles turn white against the thin fabric surrounding you, you hate yourself more.

Hate how dependent you’ve become, how easily your existence has been reduced to his choices, his skills, his protection.

He doesn’t understand. Doesn’t want to. Being a princess hasn’t made you feel special in years. It made you feel small, invisible, a thing rather than a person.

Your life has always been defined by what you represented to others, by how useful you could be in their schemes and alliances. A crown on a pedestal. A name on a contract.

You told him that. Or at least you tried to. You tried telling him that you spent your life being seen as something to be bartered, to be taken, to be used. You tried to tell him what it was like to be alive without truly living, to have no say in the course of your own existence.

But he didn’t listen.

He dismissed everything. Your grief. Your fear. Your anger at being dragged into this brutal, endless survival without so much as a choice.

And yet, there is something curdling in your stomach. It starts in your mouth, sour and bitter, and you swallow it down like poison.

Because no matter how much his words still sting, how much you want to prove him wrong, you can’t deny the truth his words held.

You would not have survived without him.

You wouldn’t even have survived the first night. The night your palace burned to the ground. You could never have fought your way through whoever attacked your home and the hunger and cold out here would have shoved you toward your grave. A princess left to rot on the forest floor.

You’ve never been taught how to hold a blade, how to navigate the wilderness, how to keep yourself alive in a world that doesn’t care about your bloodline. Your education has been in curtsies and pleasantries and how to sit still while men twice your age drank in the sight of you as if you were something to be won.

And now you are nothing more than a heavy and useless stone thrown into Bucky’s pack he’s forced to carry around and can’t toss out.

Out here, in the shadows of the world, you are useless. He knows it. You know it. It makes you feel like some fragile porcelain doll that has no business pretending she can stand on her own.

You will fight him again, eventually. You will find the words to break through whatever barriers he built to shield himself and make him understand. Make him care.

Perhaps he will forever meet you with the same infuriating indifference. But you’ve seen his walls crack for a second. The one second of vulnerability when he saw the fear in your eyes that night. The fear caused by him. The fear of him, and what he might do to you. And the way he seemed to hate it.

You wonder if it haunts him as much as it haunts you.

Bucky stirs slightly in his sleep. His fingers twitch faintly, a short grunt leaves his lips as he adjusts his back against the bark and your breath catches. You stare at him until he lays still once again.

Slowly, your gaze flickers to his knife. Always within reach. Always a reminder of who he is. What he is. You wonder if he dreams about it, about the blood it has spilled. Or if he dreams at all.

You bite the inside of your cheek, recalling the rest of the argument. The way his face turned dangerously solemn when you mentioned the oath he swore to your mother. You’d struck a nerve. Unfortunately, he cut you off before you could complete the question.

It certainly would have been a mistake, but you still wished you had pressed on.

You want to know what your mother - your gentle, loving, humane mother - had done to bind this ruthless man to her, to you. What did she do to earn his loyalty when no one else seemed capable of reaching him?

You hate him for silencing you, stomping on the last thing that ties you to a world where your mother still exists, even in memory.

You feel so small.

He dismisses you in everything you do and it seems so easy for him. So unbothered.

The life you lost, the identity you try to keep hold of, is nothing to him. A crown isn’t armor, he said. It’s not worth anything out here.

But it was. It has been. It has been your whole world, for better or for worse. And now it’s a pile of ash alongside everything else.

You don’t even know who you are without it.

And that terrifies you more than anything.

Your gaze is still drawn to Bucky.

You should definitely be concerned at the way your eyes can’t seem to find something else to look at, but the faint glint of his knife in the pale moonlight catches your attention again.

You wonder what kind of hold it has on him. What makes him carry it around like a child.

And then a thought passes your mind. A thought you definitely should ignore. You should ban it. You should have pushed it out the second it came up. But it’s still there.

Your skin tingles and your heart quickens, but you don’t know if it is out of fear or giddy recklessness.

The thought thumbs its nose at the rules you’ve been taught your whole life. It whispers of something that might even come close to the freedom you always wanted to explore, of stepping beyond boundaries, of tasting what you never have before. Because you are a princess.

Before you know it, you sit up. The soft rustle of the fabric of your gown blends with the sounds of the forest. The rustle of leaves.

Your heart pounds as you crawl toward him. You watch him closely.

Bucky doesn’t stir. His chest continues to rise and fall with each deep breath. His eyes remain closed.

Your fingers hover over the knife's hilt. You try to remind yourself that breathing is important and take a tight breath.

Taking his knife feels like a line you shouldn’t cross, a violation of something unspoken. But the thought of staying a burden for who knows how much longer spurs you on.

Your fingers close around the hilt.

You lift the knife.

And for a moment, you just hold it. It feels weird, really. So foreign. A little heavier than you expected. But maybe you’re just weak.

You turn it in your hand, marveling at the balance of the design. The way it feels almost powerful, dangerous, like a piece of the world you’ve never been allowed to touch.

Your gaze flickers between the knife in your hand, Bucky’s sleeping body, and the dark stretch of forest beyond.

And then you turn.

Your feet carry you a few steps away, to a fallen log that seems perfectly aligned for what you plan to do. The end of the log is smooth enough.

You square your shoulders, gripping the knife with a small tremble in your hands.

You’d seen soldiers practice with blades before, seen the way they moved with so much precision and grace. But watching is one thing. Doing is another.

You draw your arm back with a motion that feels so unnaturally wrong and let the blade fly.

It doesn’t stick. The knife doesn’t even reach the wood and rather clatters to the ground so far off, it makes you wince. Your cheeks flush with embarrassment even though nobody else saw. Bucky is still where you saw him last, his form undisturbed, and you exhale slowly.

Your second try is no better. Still awkward and hesitant. Still far off.

You retrieve the knife, the hilt cool against your palm, and try again.

It misses.

And it misses again. And again.

And it misses another time.

Again and again, you throw the knife. It feels like a small rebellion against the helplessness that has defined your life.

The blade flies from your hand and wobbles midair before it bounces off the edge of the wood with a thud that sounds so dull and sad, you groan under your breath.

Another throw. Another miss.

Another throw. Another groan, because you missed again.

The knife thuds to the ground with an undignified thwack.

Sweat beads on your forehead, and your arm aches, but you don’t stop.

If Bucky can hurl this thing like it’s an extension of his arm, surely you can manage to land one throw on a stationary target.

Then, the knife grazes the wood slightly before landing in the dirt.

It gives you a glimmer of hope.

After trying another few times, the blade lodges in the edge of the log, its point biting into the wood with a satisfying thunk.

A spark of triumph flares in you, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you smile. It’s small. But you can’t suppress it, so it feels like a victory.

Until the blade slowly falls off and lands in the dirt underneath.

You groan.

And then you freeze.

Because there is a sound coming from the camp.

A low, rumbling chuckle.

Your shoulders stiffen and heat rushes to your face.

You straighten, winding your arms around your body. Slowly, you turn to find Bucky with his back leaning against the tree he’s been sleeping against earlier. His arms are crossed lazily over his chest, Bizeps bulging.

His lips are curved in a faint smirk, eyes glinting with unmistakable amusement.

“Practicin’ to stab me in my sleep, princess?” he drawls, his tone warm with dry humor.

Your stance grows defensive. Your mouth opens and closes and you look over at his knife lying in the mud. He won’t kill you for taking it, will he?

Bucky pushes off the trunk and takes a step closer, arms uncrossing. His boots are silent against the earth. “You should know,” he hums lowly, though with that hint of humor in his tone. “I don’t go down that easily, darlin’.”

Your head snaps over to him in an instant. You meet his almost lazy smirk that curls the corner of his mouth. He isn’t mocking, exactly. He is teasing.

“I am learning,” you ground out, though your voice is rather weak.

A dark eyebrow shoots up. His smirk deepens. “Learning,” he repeats, his voice smooth. “Right. That’s what you call this?”

Heat settles high on your cheekbones.

“Yes.” You try - and fail - not to sound defensive. “I am teaching myself.”

For a moment he just stares at you, his head tilting slightly, eyes trying to puzzle you out. Then he lets out a huff of laughter. “Like that?” He nods vaguely to the fallen log and the knife that lay beneath it, eyebrows high up his forehead. “You’re highly unlikely to achieve anything. Except maybe stabbin’ your own damn foot.”

Your fingers grasp your gown tightly. Irritation coils low in your gut. “I am trying,” you snap.

“Trying’s fine,” he eases, though his tone is maddeningly indifferent. He clicks his tongue. A small shake of his head. “But tryin’ without knowing what you’re doing? That’s just gonna get you killed.”

You press your lips together. You have to, because your mind is telling you to scream him in the face. And that might get you killed.

With a sharply released breath, you stalk over to retrieve Bucky’s knife off the ground and walk back to your sleeping area, where you sink down. Still in your defensive stance, you pull your knees up to your chest. You use the fabric of your gown to clean the knife off the dirt.

“It is my own problem if I end up dead,” you murmur bitterly, quietly, but he hears it.

Bucky is quiet for a few moments. But you have him in sight in your peripheral vision, standing there and looking over at you.

“I’m kind of tasked to prevent that,” he then mutters, also quietly, but with a profound sigh in his voice.

You huff..

It’s silence for a while longer.

You are still busy with cleaning the hilt of his knife, not caring about the fact that it only worsens the state of your gown. It was ruined the day you left your palace.

But then, with a sigh that feels pulled from somewhere deep in his chest, Bucky crosses the small space to stand over you.

You don’t look up.

“Stand up,” he says simply.

You blink up at him. “What?”

“Get up,” he repeats, not unkindly, but losing patience.

You hesitate, searching his face for a trap hidden beneath his words, but he only raises a dark brow, waiting.

Slowly, you rise with the knife heavy in your hand.

When you are fully standing before him, he holds out his hand, gesturing for his knife.

With a wary glance up at him, you lay the knife into his waiting palm, the blade gleaming just a little bit in the pale light.

He then walks past you without a word, but you know he expects you to follow him.

Bucky positions himself on the spot you stood before, turned in the direction of the fallen log you had tried to hit.

You watch him reluctantly.

He flips the knife in his hand - just for show, you guess, and suppress an eye roll. Then, he glances back at you. “First of all, don’t throw it like it’s a rock,” he says, tone light enough to count as teasing, but still tinged with seriousness. It’s not cruel though.“You’ve got to let the knife do the work. It’s about control, not brute force.”

Your teeth grind together, pride smarting under his casual critique. You open your mouth to defend yourself, but he only throws you a challenging look.

“Watch,” he cuts in before anything could come of you.

And, albeit reluctantly, you do watch the way he draws his arm back in one fluid motion, so smooth and precise, it’s actually interesting. When he releases the knife, it spins through the air before burying itself dead center in the target.

You stare at the blade, trying to hide your emotions from your expression, guessing it would inflate his ego.

He still turns to you with an expression that is just pure insufferable smugness.

“Your turn,” he drones out, as he goes to retrieve the knife.

You take the knife from him, the handle warm from his touch. You position yourself in front of the log again, but before you can do anything, he stops you with a shake of his head.

“No.” He moves closer. “Hold it like this.” His voice drops into something focused. He reaches out, his fingers brushing against yours when he adjusts your grip on the hilt. You let him guide your hand the way he wants it and try to bring yourself to ignore what his touch is doing to you. It’s fleeting, almost clinical, but it makes you feel like you’re sweating more.

“Your stance is all wrong,” he continues and moves to stand behind you. Big hands settle lightly on your shoulders, bringing them back, adapting your stiff posture. His boot lightly taps your heel to bring your foot further forward. “You need balance. If you’re off-center, you’re dead.”

He talks to you as if he really cares about you learning and remembering those things.

You follow his instructions despite yourself.

With a satisfying nod you can’t see, Bucky takes a step away from you and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Now, throw it again,” he instructs. “Aim for the tree this time.”

You bristle at the boldness of his amusement that makes room in his voice. It seeps through his tone so smoothly, fits there so nicely, as if he’s been talking to you like that the whole time.

You try to send him a glare, but it lacks the real heat since your nervousness doesn’t allow for anything else. You’ve already embarrassed yourself enough in front of him.

You throw the knife.

It still leaves your hand with a clumsy arc and misses the tree by several inches, embedding itself into the dirt.

“Not exactly inspirin’ confidence,” he remarks dryly, but there is no malice in his voice. No judgment either.

Still, your chest is tight with frustration and you turn to him with a glare. “Maybe if you weren’t watching me so-”

“What, now you don’t like me watchin’ you?” He interrupts you, stepping forward to retrieve the knife. His back is to you but you hear the smirk in his voice.

“It’s distracting-”

“Ah, now you’re just blamin’ me for your bad aim,” he cuts in again easily, making his way back to you.

He holds it out to you, just as you release a huffed breath. His fingers brush yours once more when you take it.

“Try again.” He says it almost gently, stepping back again to give you some space.

The knife hits the dirt again and a loud groan tears from your throat, not caring about your company. Your hand aches from the repeated attempts, frustration is boiling underneath your skin, and your pride - what little of it remains - is crumbling fast.

“Damned knife,” you mutter under your breath, more to yourself than him, but he stands close enough to hear it. He’s always close enough.

An amused chuckle follows. Bucky’s smirk tilts enough to be maddening. His eyes glint with curiosity, brows arched. “That’s high profanity for a lady like yourself, darlin’.”

You throw him a heated glance, chest rising and falling with breaths that are a little too uneven. “Do you ever not have something to say?” you snap, the sharpness in your voice as much from embarrassment as from irritation.

His grin spreads, slow and wolfish. He takes a step forward, unhurried and languid. He seems entirely entertained by you and it fuels the heat climbing higher inside your throat, over your skin, spreading with every heartbeat.

“You’re makin’ it quite easy for me, your Highness.” He does not regard you with a mocking tone, but his words are still said with half a chuckle, half a taunt.

His gaze flicks to the knife buried in the earth a few meters away and then back to you, taking you in with those studying eyes.

“No need to get frustrated,” he states after a few silent moments. “That’s only gonna hold you back.”

His tone makes you pause. You stiffen at the way he almost said it gently again. Voice underlying something akin to understanding, or sympathy.

It makes your head buzz.

It feels strange. As though this moment got just a little too intimate. Your skin begins to flush for whole other reasons now. Perhaps you liked his harsh tone more than whatever this is.

Because you don’t like the way you’re feeling right now.

It’s like he is seeing right through you. It’s still dark, but you feel like every shadow around you dissolved in the blinding light of his gaze. Of his voice.

It’s like he reached out his hand and clawed something out of your chest, unearthing a part of you even you were afraid to look at.

It’s like he sees that it’s not the knife or the fallen log or even him that has you bubbling with exasperation. No, it’s the helplessness. The feeling of trying and failing and being reminded, over and over again, how much you don’t know - how little you’ve been taught to fend for yourself and how much you took for granted that people were around to care for you.

And somehow, for reasons you can’t explain, he doesn’t try to make you feel bad about it. Not more than you already do.

Bucky went to pick up the knife again while you were lost in thought for a second and you take it from him again. Fingers brush. You feel like he does that on purpose. For whatever reason. Maybe to distract you more.

“You’re holding it wrong again,” he says, voice quieter, though there’s still that amusement dancing in the lines of his face.

You sigh profoundly, gripping the knife with a force that turns your knuckles white. Ignoring his words, you throw it again, only to make the blade clank against another tree before falling to the ground with a sad thud.

Bucks tsks, shaking his head with his arms crossed, grin tugging at his mouth.

But you just stomp forward and get the knife yourself this time.

“This won’t be gettin’ any better until you’re done sulking,” he tells you with that teasing edge when you reach him again.

“Sulking?”

“Yeah.” He tilts his head, eyes on you. His smile is a little softer. “That little tantrum just now? That was sulking.”

You get in position again, huff out a scoff. “Bloody bastard,” you mutter under your breath.

Bucky snickers. It’s a sound stemming from surprise. Still with his arms crossed, he leans closer to you, something delightful glinting in his eyes. “Careful, princess,” he drawls, voice dipping low and sly, smirk in his tone. “Keep callin’ me names like that and I might start thinking you like me.”

Your focus is on the tree, but you feel your breath hitch and your hand turn clammy around the hilt of the knife. “I do not,” you retort half-heartedly. Rather lamely. His response is a huffed laugh that brushes over your cheek. You do your best to ignore him.

This time, you adjust your grip as he has shown you earlier, fingers tightening.

“Good.” He nods, but he’s not really looking at the knife in your hand.

Bucky brushes his hand over your shoulder to adapt your arm and lightly taps your heel again for you to move your leg forward for better balance. His chest almost brushes against your shoulder.

“Now, plant your feet. Keep your weight balanced. And aim where you want it to go, not where you think it’s gonna end up.”

Again, you follow his instructions, narrowing your eyes in concentration.

Drawing your arm back the way you had seen Bucky do it, you focus on the target, on the way the blade should arc through the air. And then you throw.

The knife sticks. Barely - it’s wedged at an awkward angle near the edge of the log - but it sticks. It doesn’t fall off.

A breath escapes in a rush, a small flare of triumph sparking in your belly, your chest heaving. You swirl to Bucky.

He gives you a small nod, the grin on his face is sincere and there is something in his eyes that speaks of approval.

Perhaps not for the way it landed, but for the way you tried until it did.

“Not bad.”

And something in the way he says it makes you turn away out of the fear he sees what it does to you. Because he means it. His tone doesn’t follow a tease. He is genuine.

You’re not sure when it started - when his opinion of you began to matter. But it does. It matters in a way that makes thousand tiny fingertips press against your chest in an almost tender way, but only to remind you of your cage of ribs that don’t seem to let you breathe the way you should.

Approval. Slight satisfaction. That’s all it is. So simple, so small, and yet it crushes you. How he looks at you with a softened expression, his sincere tone, his thoughtful eyes as he watches you. It makes you feel like you just conquered something monumental, something larger than just a knife hitting wood.

It terrifies you.

Because for so long, you have been measured by others. Your worth weighed against expectations, traditions, titles. You were the sum of what you represented, never who you were. Approval, in those circles, was currency. And you hated it. Hated the way it chained you.

But this is not just a curtly nod or a murmured compliment laced with ulterior motives. This is earnest. And it makes you feel like another blade is thrown, but this time, the target is you and it’s not known for missing. It hits dead in the center of something inside you, a place you don’t want to consider, a place that wants to earn it again.

You don’t look at him when you walk to yank the knife free.

You hate this feeling. Hate that you crave this so much. Hate that you crave it from him of all people. He has insulted you, dismissed you, reduced your struggles to trivialities. He’s been cruel and sharp and unbothered.

But he also keeps you alive, even when you never want to admit how much you actually need him.

His insufferable smirk, his barbs, the way he calls you princess as if it’s a burden and a joke all at once - they should only spur on the disdain you felt for him at the beginning. And you still want to feel.

But somehow you are desperate for his regard, for his respect.

He still stands there, brown leather engulfing his chest, worn trousers hanging from his hips, dark strands framing his face haphazardly, broad shoulders almost relaxed, the grey shirt under his armor rolled up to his elbows as if it isn’t the middle of the night and damned cold.

And he is looking at you.

Focused and almost bold in the way he doesn’t take his gaze off you.

You stalk over to him and hold out the blade for him to take, eyes not meeting his. You barely hold onto the knife, but still, his fingers manage to touch yours again.

“I am sorry for taking your knife,” you say quietly and turn to your sleeping spot before he can respond.

“Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”

- Samuel Beckett

Part four

Taglist: @cjand10 @unaxv @bellamoret

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bbokaricentral · 1 month ago

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because this is my 14th life -teaser

pairing. hyunjin x fem!reader

genre. starcrossed lovers with a twist, thriller/sci-fi, romance, fluff, a good portion is straight angst.

synopsis: You’ve found him in every lifetime—his soul pulling you in before your mind can catch up. A touch, a glance, a smile, and the ancient fire between you ignites again. But each time, the universe rips you apart. War, betrayal, tragedy—the endings shift, but the pain is the same. This life is different. This time, you remember. Flashbacks of past lives flood your mind, and a terrifying power awakens within you—the ability to bend time itself.

You vowed you wouldn’t lose him again, but you know what’s coming. Every third anniversary, you lose him, and in just 14 days, it will happen again. But this time, you’ve done something—something dangerous. You're not supposed to be here, you're not even supposed to be alive. But against all odds you’ve shattered the rules, and now Fate itself is hunting you. They’re watching, waiting for you to slip. Can you save him before time and destiny destroy you both? Or is this ending—like all the others—already written in the stars?

warnings. smut,(spanking, kissing, fingering, oral -fem receiving, so so so much praise he lit praises reader every second) plot twists, mentions of violence, going through many universes, rewinding time, messing with time, thrills, an argument where a secret gets revealed, near death encounters, lmk if i missed anything.

est word count. 34k (longest shit ive ever written and plus i have another han, felix and chan one too..) / teaser word count. 1k

teaser warnings. Mentions of a car accident, mentions of a hospital.

est release date. june 20th or june 22nd(extended to june 26)

You don’t remember the crash. The impact, the screech of metal, the shattering glass—all gone. Your mind is a blank, a void that refuses to recall. But there’s something, an echo, a persistent feeling, gnawing at the edges of your consciousness. The sound of sirens, sharp and terrifying, slicing through the air as you're rushed to the hospital.

The world feels muffled, distant, as though you're submerged in water. You can hear the frantic cries of people, but their words are indistinguishable. Only the voice of the doctor breaks through, his words cold, clinical, almost rehearsed: "This is bad. The crash... it's serious."

But even that, even that doesn’t feel real. It’s all a blur.

And then, it begins. A sudden rush. A flood of memories. But they’re not yours. They come crashing into your mind, tumbling over one another like waves in a storm. At first, it’s just flashes, fragmented moments that make no sense. Faces you don’t recognize. Places you’ve never been. But then—something shifts.

A battlefield. The air is thick with the scent of smoke, of blood. The distant cries of soldiers and the rhythmic pounding of artillery echo through your mind. You see men, their uniforms caked in mud, their faces twisted in fear and determination. The weight of something heavy in the air. You don’t know how you know this, but you do.

A soldier’s face stares back at you, eyes hollow with exhaustion, mouth set in a grim line. He’s standing on a battlefield, rifle in hand, looking not at the horizon, but directly at you. You freeze. His face... it's your face.

You gasp. The sharp intake of air stabs your lungs as you jolt upright, your body betraying you, as though trying to escape the weight of those memories. The vision of the soldier lingers, haunting your mind, his eyes still locked on yours as if warning you.

Then, more faces. A woman this time, standing in front of a grand, lavish estate, her dark eyes filled with sorrow. She’s holding a child, her arms trembling. But there’s something in the way she looks at you—a sense of recognition, a deep familiarity that doesn’t belong. You try to place her, but it slips through your fingers like water.

You blink, and the image disappears. The faces blur, distort, becoming a storm of people. But then another scene. A dusty road. A horse-drawn carriage. A man riding beside it. His face too is yours. His expression is tense, as if he’s looking back at something—or someone. Who?

You feel a tremor run through your body. The disjointedness of it all. The sense that these people, these lives, these memories, are somehow connected to you, but they aren’t yours. They can’t be.

And just as quickly as the visions come, they begin to fade. But something lingers—a presence. A feeling. You can’t place it, but it’s there, like a shadow hanging just behind you, following you, whispering something you can’t hear.

You let out a sharp gasp, your breath shaky. You try to sit up again, but your head spins, and the world around you remains a blur. What’s happening?

"Ms. L/n? Are you alright?" The voice is soft, concerned. It’s a doctor’s voice. It cuts through the chaos in your mind, but it doesn’t sound real. You blink rapidly, your surroundings still swimming in and out of focus.

Something’s wrong. Something is so wrong. The air around you feels heavy, stifling. The scent of antiseptic, the distant beeping of machines—all too sharp, too sterile. It feels... unnatural.

"Love?" A voice trembles, soft yet desperate, cutting through the confusion. It’s familiar. So familiar. It’s him. Hyunjin.

Your heart skips a beat at the sound of his voice. You know him, of course you know him. He’s your anchor. Your other half. But even now, even as he rushes to your bedside, the unease gnaws at you.

You turn your head towards him, your vision still blurry. There he is, kneeling beside you, his hand hovering over yours, uncertain. His face is streaked with tears, his eyes wide with panic. "Are you okay?" he whispers, his voice breaking.

For a moment, you can’t speak. You can’t breathe. The room spins. Your boyfriend. You were just with him, weren’t you? You were driving to your favorite dinner place, excited for the reservation. Your anniversary. Everything was fine.

You remember that now. The laughter in the car. The warmth of his hand in yours.

But then the flashbacks surge again.

The soldier. The woman with the child. The road. The carriage. All of them, overlapping, colliding, their faces flickering like a broken film reel. It’s like you’re living their lives, their thoughts, their experiences, all at once.

And with every passing moment, the unease grows. The feeling that you’re not supposed to be here, that you’re out of place, out of time. That none of this is real. That you’ve stepped into someone else’s world.

You try to speak, but your throat is tight, as if the words are caught somewhere deep inside you. “Hyun—” you begin, but your voice cracks.

Hyunjin leans closer, his face contorting with fear. "What is it? What’s wrong?" His hands tremble as they hover near your face, but he doesn’t touch you, as if afraid that doing so might break something irreparably.

Your heart pounds harder, your pulse racing as another flashback breaks through—a man in a dark coat, his eyes cold and calculating, watching from the shadows.

You gasp again, the room tilting around you as you feel your mind stretching, expanding, breaking. You grasp Hyunjin’s hand, squeezing it, as if grounding yourself in this moment, in this reality. But the sensation is fleeting.

Something is wrong. You don’t belong here. You know it. But why?

Why does everything feel like it’s unraveling, like you’re on the verge of losing yourself, of losing him?

"Please, please, talk to me," Hyunjin pleads, his voice trembling with desperation. "You’re scaring me."

And you want to tell him, you want to scream, but the words are too heavy, too full of the truth you’re not ready to face. Because deep down, in the pit of your stomach, you know.

Something is coming for him.

The danger is real, and it’s closing in on him, on both of you. But you don’t know what it is.

All you know is that you’re running out of time.

authors note: heh! one of my biggest projects almost completed, (i might have 4 other fics ready around that time as well 👀)

do not copy, repost, or translate my works on any platform. do not repost, alter, or translate any of my content without my consent.

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fairuzfan · 11 months ago

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19 October 2023: In Gaza, we have grown accustomed to war

Horrific experiences of death and destruction have permanently impacted Palestinians’ culture, language and collective memory. “Is it war again?” asks my little Amal, 7, memories of the previous Israeli assaults still fresh in her mind.

The wording of the question shows the maturity she has been forced to develop. Last year, Amal asked her mum if it was “another war.”

Yes, it is war again in Gaza! In Gaza, we have grown accustomed to war. War has become a recurrent reality, a nightmare that won’t go away. A brutal normality. War has become like a grumpy old relative, one that we can’t stand but can’t rid ourselves of either.

The children pay the heaviest price. A price of fear and nonstop trauma that is reflected in their behaviors and their reactions. It’s estimated that over 90 percent of Palestinian children in Gaza show signs of trauma. But also, specialists claim there is no post-war trauma in Gaza as the war is still ongoing.

My grandmother would tell me to put on a heavy sweater because it would rain. And it would rain! She, like all Palestinian elders, had a unique sense, an understanding of the earth, wind, trees and rain. The elders knew when to pick olives for pickling or for oil. I was always envious of that.

Sorry, Grandma. We have instead become attuned to the vagaries of war. This heavy guest visits us uninvited, unwelcomed and undesired, perches on our chests and breaths, and then claims the lives of many, in the hundreds and thousands.

A Palestinian in Gaza born in 2008 has witnessed seven wars: 2008–2009, 2012, 2014, 2021, 2022, 2023A and 2023B. And as the habit goes in Gaza, people can be seven wars old, or four wars old. My little Amal, born in 2016, now holds a BA in wars, having lived through four destructive campaigns. In Gaza, we often speak about wars in terms of academic degrees: a BA in wars, an MA in wars, and some might humorously refer to themselves as PhD candidates in wars.

Our discourse has significantly changed and shifted. At night, when Israel particularly intensifies the bombardment, it’s a “party”: “The party has begun.” “It will be a horrific party tonight.” And then there is “The Bag,” capital T and capital B. This is a bag that is hurriedly prepared to contain the cash, the IDs, the birth certificates and college diplomas. The aim is to grab the kids and one item when there is a threat of evacuation.

The collective memories and culture of Palestinians in Gaza have been substantially impacted by these horrific experiences of war and death. Most Gazans have lost family members, relatives, or loved ones or have had their homes damaged or destroyed. It’s estimated that these wars and the escalations between them have claimed the lives of over 9,000 (it was 7,500 when I started drafting this last week!) Palestinians and destroyed over 60,000 housing units.

Death and war. War and Death. These two are persona non grata, yet we can’t force them to leave. To let us be.

Palestinian poet Tamim Al-Barghouti summarizes the relationship between death and the Palestinians that war brings (my translation):

It was not wise of you, Death, to draw near.

It was not wise to besiege us all these years.

It was not wise to dwell this close,

So close we’ve memorized your visage

Your eating habits

Your time of rest

Your mood swings

Your heart’s desires

Even your frailties.

O, Death, beware!

Don’t rest that you tallied us.

We are many.

And we are still here

[Seventy] years after the invasion

Our torches are still alight

Two centuries

After Jesus went to his third grade in our land

We have known you, Death, too well.

O, Death, our intent is clear:

We will beat you,

Even if they slay us, one and all.

Death, fear us,

For here we are, unafraid.

23 October 2023: Five stages of coping with war in Gaza

Our familiarity with war in Gaza has led us to develop a unique perspective and unique coping mechanisms.

We can identify five major emotional stages that Gazans go through during these grim conflicts. The stages are denial, fear, silence, numbness, hope, despair and submission.

This is day 16 and Israel has killed more than 5,000 Palestinians (many are still unaccounted for under the rubble), including over 2,000 Palestinian children, Gaza authorities tell us. More than 15,000 were injured and over 25,000 Palestinian homes were destroyed. And Israel says it is ready for ground invasion.

Stage one: Denial

In the early stages of a crisis, there is often a sense of denial. We convince ourselves that this time won’t lead to war. People are tired of the recurring conflicts, and both sides may appear too preoccupied to engage in warfare. As missiles fall and soar, we maintain a form of partial denial, hoping that this time will not be as lengthy or devastating as past wars.

No, this time it’s not going to be war. Everyone is tired of wars. Israel is too busy to go to war.

Palestinians are too exhausted and too battered to engage in a war. It could just last five days, give or take, we hope.

Stage two: Fear

Soon, denial turns to fear as the reality of another war sets in. Gaza is paralyzed as civilians, including children, are attacked by Israeli bombs. The pictures and videos of massacres, of homes obliterated with the families inside, of high rise buildings toppled like dominoes turn the denial into utter terror.

Every strike, especially at night, means all the children wake up crying and weep. As parents, we fear for our kids and we fear we can’t protect our loved ones.

Stage three: Silence and numbness

This is when Israel particularly intensifies the bombing of civilian homes. Stories are interrupted. Prayers are cut short. Meals are left uneaten. Showers are abandoned.

Therefore, amid the chaos and danger Israel brings, many in Gaza, especially children, withdraw into silence. They find solace in solitude as means of coping with the overwhelming emotion and uncertainty that surrounds them. Silence prevails.

Then numbness follows. As people attempt to protect themselves from the constant onslaught of distressing news, they grow indifferent. Because we could die anyway, no matter where we go. Emotional numbness sets in, as individuals attempt to detach from their emotions to survive.

Stage four: Hope

In the midst of despair, glimmers of hope may emerge. Even in the darkest moments, Gazans may hold onto the belief Israel might at least kill fewer people, bomb fewer places, and damage less. The most hopeful of us wish for a lasting ceasefire or an end to the siege or even the occupation. But this is merely hope. And hope is dangerous.

We hope that politicians will man up. We hitch our hope to the masses taking to the streets to reassure their politicians and warn they will be punished in future elections if they support Israeli aggression against Palestinians in Gaza.

Stage five: Despair and submission

Unfortunately, hope can often be fleeting, and many Gazans have experienced recurring cycles of despair. The repeated loss of life, homes and security lead to deep feelings of helplessness.

In the final stage, there is a sense of submission as Gazans accept the reality that they are unable to change the situation. That they are left alone. That the world has abandoned us. That Israel can kill and destroy at large with impunity. This is a stage marked by endurance, as Palestinians strive to adapt and persevere in the face of ongoing challenges.

These stages of war have become an unfortunate part of life in Gaza, shaping the resilience and perseverance of the Palestinian people in the face of unimaginable hardships imposed by the Israeli occupation.

27 October 2023: What it’s like when Israel bombs your building

I have six children. And so far we have survived seven major Israeli escalations, unscathed. We are an average family. My wife, Nusayba, is a housewife, I have two children in college and my youngest child, Amal, is 7. In Gaza, Amal is already four wars old.

We are an average family in Gaza, but we have had our fair share of Israeli death and destruction.

So far, since the early 1970s, I have lost 20 (and 15 last week) members of my extended family due to Israeli aggression.

In 2014, Israel destroyed our family home of seven flats, killing my brother Mohammed.

In 2014, Israel killed about 20 of my wife’s family including her brother, her sister, three of her sister’s kids, her grandfather and her cousin. And destroyed several of my in-laws’ homes.

Combined, my wife and I have lost over fifty 50 members to Israeli war and terror.

2023 war on Gaza

As the bombs fall and Israel targets sleeping families in their homes, parents are torn between several issues.

Should we leave? But go where, when Israel targets evacuees on their way and targets the areas they evacuate to?

Should we stay with relatives? Or should our relatives stay with us, whose home is relatively “safe?” We can never be sure. It’s been more than 75 years of brutal occupation – and over six major Israeli military onslaughts in the past 15 years – and we have so far failed to understand Israel’s brutality and mentality of death and destruction.

And then there is the fear of what to do if – when – we are bombed. We try to evade them. But how can you evade the bombs when Israel throws three or four or five consecutive bombs at the same home.

The big question Palestinian households debate is whether we should sleep in the same room so that when we die, we die together, or whether we should sleep in different rooms so some of us may survive.

The answer is always that we need to sleep in the living room together. If we die, we die together. No one has to deal with the heartbreak.

No food. No water. No electricity.

This 2023 war is different. Israel has intensified using hunger as a weapon. By completely besieging Gaza and cutting off the electricity and water supplies and not allowing aid or imports, Israel is not only putting Palestinians on a diet, but also starving them.

In my household, and we are a well-off family, my wife and I sat with the children and explained the situation to them, especially the little ones: “We need to ration. We need to eat and drink a quarter of what we usually consume. It’s not that we do not have money, but food is running out and we barely have water.”

And good luck explaining to your 7-year-old that she can’t have her two morning eggs and instead she will be having a quarter of a bomb! (Israel later bombed the eggs.)

As a parent, I feel desperate and helpless. I can’t provide the love and protection I am supposed to give my kids.

Instead of often telling my kids “I love you,” I have been repeating for the past two weeks:

“Kids, eat less. Kids, drink less.” And I imagine this being my last thing I say to them and it is devastating.

Israel bombs our building

If we had a little food last week, now we barely have any because Israel struck our home with two missiles while we were inside. And without prior warning!

My wife Nusayba had already instructed the kids to run if a bombing happened nearby. We never expected [our building] to be hit. And that was a golden piece of advice.

I was hosting four families of relatives in my flat. Most of them were kids and women.

We ran and ran. We carried the little ones and grabbed the small bags with our cash and important documents that Gazans keep at the door every time Israel wages a war.

We escaped with a miracle, with only bruises and tiny scratches. We checked and found everyone was fine. And then we walked to a nearby UN school shelter, which was in an inhuman condition. We crammed into small classrooms with other families.

With that, we lost our last sense of safety. We lost our water. We lost our food and the remaining eggs that Amal loves.

We are an average Palestinian family. But we have had our fair share of Israeli death and destruction. In Gaza, no one is safe. And no place is safe. Israel could kill all 2.3 million of us and the world would not bat an eye.

#palestine

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oceantornadoo · 5 months ago

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the ex-wife chronicles pt.4 (ex husband!john price x f!reader)

masterlist | next

follow and turn on notifications: @tornadoowarning

tw: smut. heheheh. also drunk actions also unedited

The rest of the week passes in a blur.

The men meet their mandated therapists. Sure, they’ve had psych evals and required sessions before, but these are new ones, therapizing with what happened to Soap in mind. It’s where another part of your job comes out: nanny. You have to build them up after sessions break them down. Learning what makes them tick: Ghost’s tea, Gaz’s candies, John’s cigars. Soap visits in the afternoons, going straight from physical to mental therapy. The routine is grueling and quiet a change from their normal activities when they aren’t on a mission. That’s why Friday becomes a mandatory pub night.

“Now, I’m not saying to solve your problems with alcohol,” you preach to Gaz, your third glass of white wine in hand. So what if you’re taking advantage of their Frisky Friday deals? “But sometimes, you need to get drunk with your team.” The word ‘your’ is hard and heavy in your mouth. “The people you work with. Coworkers.” You correct yourself. He nods slowly, clearly also impacted by his third drink of the night (tequila and lime).

You scored the last booth in the extremely packed pub. Gaz sits in the middle, with Ghost and Soap on his left and you and John on his right. You restrained yourself from stumbling when John waited for you to get in, instead of sitting near his sergeant, but you were too drained from the week to question it. The booth’s only meant for four, and with how much muscle this group has, you’re all thigh-to-thigh under the table.

“‘Ve got an idea.” Soap pipes up from across the way. He’s been nursing a beer while Ghost occasionally sipped on his scotch. Doctor’s orders are no alcohol, but you told him he owed one drink for his troubles. “Was tha’?” Gaz replies. “Never have I ever.” Everyone groans, even Ghost and John. That you find comical, sending you snickering and leaning on your shoulder towards Gaz until John tugs at the belt of your jeans. It’s under the table but somehow sends the whole group stock-still, watching. You send a glare towards John, and he sends you an unimpressed stare back.

Gaz starts asking Soap about his favorite drinking games, giving you enough cover to reprimand your ex-husband. “Don’t do that.” You whisper sharply. He leans forward into your airspace until his lips meet your ear, soft stubble rasping against your cheek. “Y’ were about to fall into Gaz’s lap.” It’s pissed you off, this handsyness of his that’s been suddenly acquired in the past week.

His hands on your stomach during the ATV ride. His thumb swiping under your eye as he murmured ‘eyelash’ under his breath. A guiding pat on the back as he moved behind you in the kitchen, completely unnecessary with how much space there was. A squeeze to your shoulder after his therapy session before he shut himself in his room for hours.

“What if I wanted to?” You snip. A lie, but cutting all the same. John Price is too practiced to show his emotions on his face, but you are were his wife. You can see how he grinds his jaw under his beard, how his eyes flicker with darkness. That same disregard for compromise that shows up in his file, time and time again. Except in the military, he’s done enough good deeds to earn it. With you, he has years to make up.

“Let’s play!” You turn back to the group, aiming a smile at Soap. He cheers, nudging Ghost who gives him a mellow look underneath his black balaclava. Soap completely ignores it.

“Aye, hen. Never have I ever shot at hostiles while hangin’ from a heli.” Gaz grumbles and takes a swig from his drink. Ghost’s eyes seem to sparkle at the memory. Soap gestures at Gaz to ask the next question, to which he rolls his eyes. “Never have I ever fucked a coworker.” You can tell he meant it to call out Soap, who makes a production out of guzzling his beer while Ghost takes a slow sip, but they all freeze when you and John drink at the same time.

You didn’t expect him to admit it. You wonder if there were others, if you were the start of a pattern.

Then you wonder why you care.

“Cap’n!” Even though he seems more laidback than the others, you’ve never seen Soap so…loose. He’s only had half a drink too, but there seems to be a weight off his shoulders. John doesn’t respond to his taunts, simply raising an eyebrow. After a second, he shrugs and gives a non-answer. “A man’s got to have his secrets.” Soap shrugs, then turns to you. “Doc?” You shrug as well, fighting the urge to tuck your chin under the heat of four pairs of eyes. You haven’t worked your way up and invented a whole new occupation just to fold after a few drinks of wine, but you do like to stir the pot. “Don’t know why you’re singling me out, Soap. Seems here everyone does it.” He snorts, satisfied that you won’t given in. “Righ’ ye are, hen.”

The game gets fiery as Soap delivers another round of drinks (and a ginger beer for himself). You learn new things about the team: Gaz has a sister that loves to prank him, Soap’s nickname does not mean what you think it does, Ghost likes to tell bad dad jokes. John seems to be more restrained, commenting on the others while refusing to acknowledge his own answers.

As Gaz starts his fifth drink, there’s a twinkle in his eye that puts you on guard. “My turn. Never have I ever been married.” Underneath the table, your thigh goes rigid. John can feel it, you know, which means Gaz can as well. It’s a giveaway you’ll allow only due to the new glass in your hand. You sip slowly.

John does too.

He could have lied and no one would’ve known. He’s not drunk, on his second glass of whiskey when you know he practically has a tolerance.

Ghost doesn’t seem surprised, so you wonder if he sniffed it out. On the other hand, Gaz and Soap are frozen, like someone dumped a bucket of water over their heads. Their eyes are on him but Ghost’s are on you. You feel akin to a mouse caught in a trap.

“Cap?” It’s Gaz, questioning something he never knew about his mentor. Like a son discovering his father’s lie. John swallows slowly, then cocks his head with that disarming close-lipped smile of his. “A few years ago. Not married anymore.” Gaz makes a noise in the back of his throat. You take an extra sip of wine for good measure.

“Doc?” Ghost asks. The sergeants turn their gazes to you, no less interested. The bare skin on your left hand vibrates under their attention. “Mine was a while ago. We were young and…”, you trail off, shrugging.

“Ain’t tha’ funny.” Ghost grunts. You cock your head at him. “What’s that?” His eyes flick to John, then back to you. “Both were married awhile ago. Might’ve crossed paths at th’ license office.” Soap and Gaz laugh; forced, choked sounds. You smile slightly, then look down into your glass of wine. You don’t look at John.

“Makin’ it sound like I’m a hundred years old, Ghost.” John shoots back. With his approval, or more lack of disapproval, the game continues on. You nod at certain intervals, drinking when necessary. When Gaz asks if you’re okay, you mutter that the wine got to your head.

“C’mon, sweetheart.”

“You’re insane, Lieutenant Price.”

He snorts into your hair, tucked under his chin as you cuddle in the early Sunday light. A rare weekend of leave, hunkered down in the flat you share in London. Six months ago, he reasoned it was easier to split one rent instead of paying for two, since you were both barely home. Things are still in boxes and there’s no art on the walls. No bedframe either, a full mattress on the floor covered in floral sheets you insisted on.

“Two Lieutenant Prices. That’ll fuck with the Captain.” Your Captain is a piece of work, but not enough to the point where you’d get married just to fuck with his head. “You really know how to propose to a girl, John. I’m near fainting over here.” He snorts, the bare skin of his chin brushing your forehead as he nuzzles him. Last night, you told him he’d look good with a beard. He said he’d look like a bear, which made you growl at him until he bent you over the couch (the singular piece of furniture you own) and fucked you into its cushy fabric.

“Stay here.” You whine as he gets up, a terribly ugly roll out of the bed because of its proximity to the floor. There’s scratch marks on his bed, new ones on top of those that had barely healed. You’d been sent on a training mission, separated for a month, and couldn’t wait to get your hands on him. Lover. Boyfriend. John.

“Close your eyes.” You closed them, sitting up and wrapping the sheet around your bare body. He never got you gifts, and neither could you, too busy being grunt workers to the captains you both got tossed around to. It was a miracle you were granted leave together. Something that had never happened before.

“Open.” He was sitting, no, kneeling in front of the bed in a fresh pair of boxers. You squinted at his face, confused. His eyes flicked over somewhere to your left and you followed them and –

Oh.

“John.” The ring is beautiful. Older than the minimalistic styles now, which means he didn’t go out and buy it. “Baby.” His face is open and calm, always self-assured. A second look reveals a twitch in his jaw, a tell. “It’s a ring.” You point out stupidly. He laughs, something that’s become deeper recently, which you blame on his newly acquired cigar habit. “Found it in the bin an’ thought ya might like it.” He jokes. “John.” You plead.

“Marry me, sweetheart. Become the better Lieutenant Price. Yell at me when I get you pregnant and your back aches. Pick out the grey hairs in my beard.” There’s something in your eye. It’s the only explanation for the tear that trickles down your cheek, the one he swipes at with his thumb and brings to his mouth. “I can’t be a housewife, John. I mix my colors with my whites in the wash and I’m more comfortable with a gun in my hands than kids and I can’t plan a wedding.” He captures your lips in a kiss, then pulls back smiling. “Let’s elope and I’ll get a vasectomy. What’dya say?” You think. You think about how you don’t even need to think. Then you nod.

“Let’s get married.”

Soap calls it a night an hour later, muttering how he needs to take his meds. There’s an ache in his voice when he says it, mourning his past life. Ghost follows him out with a hand hovering at his shoulders. Gaz sticks around longer, talking footie with John and making eyes with a woman across the bar. He’s gone half an hour later, his arm around her waist and his mouth at her jaw.

“Forgot how easy it is.” You mutter, eyes on the sway of her hips as they exit the bar, Gaz turning back and winking. It makes you feel like a bitter hag, mourning the fun you used to have. John nudges your knee with his own, compelling you to look up. “What’s easy?” You nod in the direction of the doors. “Pickin’ up someone for the night. Not thinkin’ ‘bout the next day.” He grunts in agreement. John signals a waiter, mutters something to him, and then turns back to you. “You sayin’ you haven’t fucked anyone in a decade.” You scoff and roll your eyes. “I have, in fact. Used to be just like Gaz, pickin’ up someone new everytime I got stationed somewhere. Fun for a few nights and then gone.” John takes a sip of his drink, his jaw straining with effort.

“Gets tirin’ after a while.” He grunts. You blink, then nod. “Playin’ coy about the dog tags, the scars an’ the bullet wounds. Wakin’ up in the middle of the night an’ not bein’ about to explain a nightmare.” Though you haven’t been in combat in a while, you can relate. There’s a new layer of horror when you’re trying to heal soldiers and you get a glimpse inside their head, the bloody carcass of the beaten thing they call a brain, warped by gunpowder and bomb residue.

“Why’d you tell them you were married?” You wonder aloud. He shrugs, shifting the hand that’s been laying on his knee. Because of the movement, it slides between the two of you, the tips of his outer fingers grazing your thigh. You should pull back. The wine argues you shouldn’t. It wins.

“You’d rather I lie?” This time it’s you shrugging, your leg pressing closer to his. He doesn’t pull away. “I wouldn’t have cared. You don’t owe me anything.” His other hand leaves its position on his drink and finds your wine glass. You watch, enraptured, as he brings it to his mouth and swallows. You thought he hated wine.

“I think about it.” He murmurs. You know the answer, but you ask anyway. “Think about what?” He turns to look at you, blue eyes searing into you. “Our marriage. ‘Fore you came, still thought about it.” Before you can answer, a paper container of fried food pops out of thin air. The smell wafts over and you perk up immediately.

“Are those cheese curds?” You became obsessed after your first trip to America when you were stationed in the Midwest. “C’mere.” He wraps an arm around you and pulls. You decide not to question it and stay silent.

“Open.” There’s a cheese curd in front of you. Obediently, you open. He hums as he places it in your mouth, your lips wrapping around his fingers and tasting the grease on them before letting go. As you chew, he pops one into his mouth, licking at his thumb. You whine at the loss of fried goodness. “Still a vulture with food, hm?” Instead of answering, you reach for another one, but he pins your hand to the table with the hand that isn’t around your waist. That’s when you register your position on his lap, propped on his leg as he feeds you a treat you didn’t think he knew existed. (You were divorced by then, no contact for a few weeks.) The way you’re sitting is unprofessional and comfortable and so delicious when he feeds you another bite. And then another. It continues until the container is empty and your belly is full and your head is slightly clearer.

You look up and he’s there. Bearded and wrinkled and hardened. The bright blue of his eyes has dulled into a stormy ocean grey. His hat is stupid and you want to curse whoever bought it for him. There’s no ring on his finger and by the sound of it, no one waiting in his bed. And you, his ex-wife, are here in his lap, your thigh pressed against the hardness that strains the denim of his jeans.

There’s crumbs on your face. He’s seen you pimply on your period and heaving after a bad hangover and squatting in a dark forest after a spoiled MRE (who knew they could go bad). Yet, he still yanked you onto his lap and now his face is tucked into the crook of your neck, sniffing. His nose brushes the skin behind your ear and trails around it until your earlobe is between his teeth.

“John.” Your hands curl into the khaki fabric of the black button-up he wears. He groans into your neck, shifting you further into his lap. “John, you’re drunk.” He licks at the skin above your shirt and you gasp, the feeling so alien. You’ve been celibate for a year now and this much physical contact, all-consuming with the man you once loved and made vows to, is overwhelming. John doesn’t answer, tongue occupied with licking the salt on your skin. Your view is blocked by his stupid, stupid hat so you rectify the situation by taking it off him and plopping it on your own head. He pulls up immediately.

“You’re drunk too, sweetheart.” He hasn’t called you that in years. Something inside you clenches, too difficult to tell if it’s your heart or your core or the space in between. “C’mon.” He pushes you off his lap and out of the booth, hands at your hips to help you stand. John crowds your back as he guides you to the one-room bathroom. Are you really doing this, with him? The monsters of your marriage turn out to be just trees when you think back, blurred by the pressure of him behind you.

“We’re not fucking.” The bathroom door opens, and shuts closed with a click. “Tha’s fine.” You’re pressed against the wall. “And I’m not getting on my knees in this filthy bathroom, John.” A knee slots between your thighs. “I ain’t either.” You scoff. “Then what-”

“Y’gonna let me kiss my wife now?” He shuts you up with a kiss. Lips you haven’t felt in ten years, five months, and three days. Not that you remember that last fuck, the night before you agreed to sign the papers.

His hands pull you forward, your clothed cunt sliding against his denim-clad thigh, and you whine with understanding. It was your favorite way to get off (still is, but no one else can do it correctly) when you were together. Grinding against him, the seam of your jeans hitting your clit as you pant into his mouth. Strong hands guide you up and down and wetness pools in your underwear, simple cotton ones you didn’t think anyone would see. You bite down hard on his lips, wanting him to feel your frustration at how well he still knows your body. All he does is smile against your lips.

“Now y’r quiet, pet. Ten years an’ so fuckin’ predictable.” You whimper at the new nickname. His presence has changed from upstanding to all consuming, his words from sweetheart to pet. Lips trail down your cheek, your jaw, your neck. That godforsaken hat is still on your head and almost slips off, but the strap catches on your chin. The pressure in your core is unbearable, encouraged by the firm muscle under you that hits every angle. Your hands curl around the nape of his neck, nails digging into the skin there, wanting to make him hurt a little. To feel the same bodily betrayal that seeps into your veins, murmuring all the reasons this is wrong. Except all it does is urge him on, those paws tugging you up and down.

“Probably soakin’ through your jeans, huh?” He murmurs in between bites to your jaw. “Not possible, would have to be wet for that.” You attempt. He growls, bearlike. “Can fuckin’ hear the sound of you, pet. Don’t play dumb now, I know you’re close.” You give up on being coy and tuck your head into the nape of his neck, losing steam as your thighs burn. He makes up for it, maintaining the rhythm that has something coiling deep in your core.

“John, John, I’m right there, will you-” He bites the juncture of your neck, a vampire in another life. You squeak at the thrill it sends down your spine, at how you tip over and into your orgasm as your cunt clenches and spasms. He helps you through it until you beat at his back and plead for him to stop, your voice almost gone from all your whines. John gently places you on your feet, your head against his chest as you catch your breath. And he just stands there patiently, hands at your waist until your breathing evens out.

“Feel ok?” You nod, then shake your head. “That can’t happen again. It’s not- this isn’t professional and I’m going to be here a while.” His hand sneaks under your shirt and presses into your stomach, like he’s checking for something. “Yeah, baby. Whatever you say.” You tug on his shirt until he meets your eyes, choosing to not acknowledge the hold he has on you. “I’m serious, John.” He kisses a spot near your lips and you mourn that he ignored them. “I’m serious, too. Let’s get you back now.”

It’s a short walk back to base, time passing by as fast as the stars overhead. When you reach the barracks, you shoo him away and tell him to go through the back entrance. All he does is pat your ass before walking away. When you walk through the entrance, smoothing down your shirt, you stop at the light in the kitchen. Ghost sits statue-still, nursing a steaming mug of tea. Eerie, since you thought he and Soap weren’t sleeping here. That thought floats away when he opens his mouth.

“Nice hat, Doc.”

Fuck.

comment if you spot the t swift lyric! it's not from this decade (2020s) if that helps...

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