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#but I had to narrow down the list to ten
colonelalloy · 1 year
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I set a few rules for what qualifies: first, only films from Disney’s Animated Canon were considered; second, the song must be sung by or about a villain in the theatrical cut of the film - no cut songs; and third, the song must have lyrics - it cannot be a leitmotif or score cue.
I did consider a few other songs, but I decided against including them because they were either not clearly villain songs, or I thought one of the other songs on the list would make for a better or more interesting voting option.
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thedeadthree · 1 year
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-`. GET TO KNOW ME
TAGGED BY @nightbloodraelle, @minaharkers and @statichvm to post eight of my favorite tv shows! ty ty so much loves!
TAGGING: @umbertors, @risingsh0t, @griffin-wood, @jendoe, @kingsroad, @unholymilf, @gwynbleidd, @denerims, @lavinet, @queennymeria, @chuckhansen, @yennas, @adelaidedrubman, @leviiackrman, @shadowglens, @florbelles, @confidentandgood, @detectivelokis, @nokstella, @lizzywizzy, @phillipsgraves, @calenhads, @girlbosselrond, @belorage, @roberthouses, @kiryukazumas, @noonfaerie, @celticwoman, @aartyom, @shellibisshe, @marivenah, @jacobseed and you!
-`. THE MANDALORIAN
-`. THE LAST OF US
-`. HOUSE OF THE DRAGON
-`. ERGO PROXY
-`. MOON KNIGHT
-`. MIDNIGHT MASS
-`. AVATAR THE LAST AIRBENDER
-`. CRIMINAL MINDS
#only if you want to of course! 🥀#im so sorry if i miss anyone AHH 🥀✨😭 pain brain from mirgaines :’)#leg.txt#leg.about#t: about leg#leg.tagged#t: text#TY SO MUCH AND AHH I SO SECOND THIS ONE WAS TOUGH FOR SURE 🌸💞 but also so cute to do!#narrowing it down was a time but i was like oh what shows have lived in my mind rent free the most over my years of living and here they are#(i have to finish the new free!content and aot but i did a cosplay for aot as sasha / hanji in hs and planned a free cosplay back then so#they’re faves of mine as well <3)#got will join this list for sure when i am finished with it and when I catch up on slow horses s2 as well 🥀✨🥴#(watched the first season a year-ish ago and was obsessed and now reading the book at a snails pace and it’s lovely <3 WATCH IT WATCH IT)#(ten bucks says ill make a clown for spider or river sosjjsuz)#(i mean ive had one on the backburner for eons but have yet to develop or make things for her skzjjxjx 🥀✨🥴)#e*dgerunners and absolution are also honorable mentions from last year 🥀😭✨#and p*sycho pass and t*okyo ghoul they will never not be unmatched#theres so many faves SO MANY#also WATCH ERGO PROXY I AM PLEADING (maybe ill make a clown for that show too in my campaign to get y’all obsessed 🥀✨😌)#OHHHH SHOCKER MANDO AND T*LOU THERE AND H*OTD BC BELOVED DAEMY AND AEGGY 🥀✨🥴#and like i need to watch n*arcos we are truly in our pedro era 🥀✨😌#ofc moon knight i mean i had to for chiara and her dearie marc I HAD TO 🥀✨😭 I OWED IT TO THEM#the last one was a toss up between f*ma and cm and as it’s lately been a regular thing to binge i was like teehee yes 🥀✨😌
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swiftsnowmane · 1 year
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Little game time! ♥️
Give me your top 10 favorite ships, all fandoms included (not just books) with one word to describe what you love about them
Anakin/Padme - Star-crossed
Sansa/Sandor - Blackwater
Beth/Daryl - Moonshine
Howl/Sophie - Starlight
Clarice/Hannibal - Gothic
Holder/Linden - Stay
Bran/Liadan - Trust
River/Jayne - Weapons
Amos/Peaches - Monsters
Beren/Luthien - Shapeshifting
Thanks for tagging me, @bookishfeylin 🥰
Tagging @thevampirecat , @spectral-musette , @caroh99 , @bethgreenewarriorprincess , @an-angels-fury , @plotweaver, @the-feral-lady, @nightingales-in-my-brain , @overlysweetcoffee, and anyone else who wants to participate...
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lundenloves · 6 months
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BABY’S FIRST WORDS
〔 a fluff piece brought to you by yours truly. domesticity at its finest, featuring the rarity of simon joking and we even observe a rare laugh from him. not without his usual cluelessness and blunt nature though. king! 〕
˗ˏˋ i honestly love him just existing as a dad. learn as you go type stuff, his daughter latching onto him when he wanted it least must’ve done him good. our emotionally stunted husband — someone give this man a hug and tell him he’s alr.
⇀ 1k | no warnings
dad!simon masterlist | masterlist | request info | taglist
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Of course. Of course it had happened the only ten minutes of the day you had left her — barely managing one foot in the shower before Simon had opened the door with your daughter in his hands. Not arms, but hands. “She spoke.” He provided lamely, holding her out to you as if she contained a transferable illness. 
You grabbed a towel, wrapping it around your dry body before taking her from him, the smile she made was adoring. “She what.” Brows pung upward, your brief frown at his interruption loosening into a warmth while peppering kisses all across her cheeks. “She—“ 
“She said my name.” 
“She said Simon?” You retorted and he scoffed, taking a step backward to the door, forearm leant on the threshold. “Dad?” She reached for your hair, small fingers pulling on it with a smile when you had begun bouncing her from side to side. 
Simon shifted. “Bit like,” His words were lost for a baby laugh, one that echoed against the bathroom walls. Your hand was against your mouth in milliseconds, finding obvious tears welling in your eyes. 
“What the fuck.” You mouthed, smoothing the hair on her head and Simon raised his brows in acknowledgment of your reaction, the faintest of smiles tugging at the side of his lip. “Sorry, what did she say?” You let a breathy laugh go, one that emphasised your emotionality. 
His eyes switched between you and his daughter, leaning his full weight against the door now. “Da.”
You tilted your head at him. “Doesn’t that make you feel whole?” The baby in your arms began flailing her arms in your hold, reaching for her father as if on cue. 
Simon shrugged, pushing off from the door to close the distance between you and allowing her to poke at his tattoo. “Didn’t think much of it.” He admitted, his eyes landing on yours that had narrowed ever so slightly with an understanding nod. 
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.” He bit at the skin on his top lip, acutely aware of the flaring of your nostrils. A list of potential worries flurrying your mind, ones you would all deem as irrational though Simon probably wouldn’t. It was valid to worry about his reactions. 
His immediate reaction to your daughters first laugh was, “Oh, shit.” The noise being between a baby coo and giggle combined into something that would’ve burst your chest yet only poked at his. He held her outward, stretched forearms while her small feet kicked in the air. 
Then came her first word, one of demand, a strong “Da!” One Simon had told himself meant dad, though it was more likely a protesting noise to be put down. Whatever the noise meant, he granted her outstretched hands, placing her back down onto his knee and bouncing it up and down gently. 
By no means did Simon Riley know what to do with a baby, he was still learning, very slowly — but surely. “What was that?” He mumbled at her, his eyes boring into hers as if she were an adult who could understand his demanding stare. “Tell dad, eh? Say it again.”
To clarify the noise wasn’t made in anger. 
Instead, she grabbed at his shoulder, bunching up the material of his shirt loosely. “Or that.” He muttered, diverting his attention along with her own to Blue Planet that had been on pause for ten minutes since you had left. 
He tapped his fingers in quick succession of the one before, the sofa armrest now becoming a point of interest for the baby who had watched his hand move. Though, right before she could hike off his thigh, he had then decided to take her through to you. You know, just to let you know your daughter had just spoken her first word (noise) alongside a laugh. 
“Did she say anything else?” You asked, pushing a stray strand of hair that had fallen to his forehead only for it to drop back down. 
“Yeah.” He said bluntly, taking her from your hold and looking down to her. “Quantum physics,” 
A pause for your sigh. “Explained it all.” 
You nudged his shoulder, turning to check the shower temperature. “Go put her down. She’s due a sleep.” Your back was to the man, though his expression was easily imagined. “No, I can’t do it.”
Oftentimes, Simon zoned out when doing anything with the baby. It was something he took through future years too, future kids and all ages, arguments at breakfast? Zoned out. Walking with him? Not there. Even talking to him? Meh. 
He put the baby down in a trance, standing over the cot silently praying to gods he didn’t believe in that she would continue her peace. That no cries would break and his headache would remain in its rest, taking slow steps backward when she had shut her eyes. 
“Can't believe she spoke to you.” You had said later that night, leant against a barstool watching Simon cut up an onion in that one way you just couldn’t master. “And not me, that is.” 
“I have a charm.” He pointed the knife on its end, spinning it on the cutting board before eyeing you. “Obviously.”
“A silent-threatening-mediocre type of charm.”
He shrugged, sliding the annoyingly perfect dicing into a pan. “First laugh too.” It was a mumble designed to entice a reaction, and that it did, your arm barging against his after hearing your baby cry on cue. 
“I’ll get something from her yet.” You picked up washing from the bottom stair, beginning up the stairs to go and pacify. 
“Only got the rest of your life!” He shouted for you to hear, gaining an earnest roll of your eyes. 
“I prefer you when you’re quiet.” You spoke aloud, just enough to gain a laugh from him, one you imagined he had let go without permission while aggressively preparing another onion. 
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simon ‘ghost’ riley taglist: @vamppxncess @crowbird @tallrock35 @fluffmonster @islanderr @blueoorchid @lea3773 @coldflapjack @rayhawk05 @han11dh @liishook @melovetitties @fallonx @rvjaa @fuckmelifesucks @bhayatsara @takeomisbitch @local-spidey @konigsblog @penutjuice @babychoi03 @sheluvzeren @sparklingtragedy @maviee @wiserebelpartypie @daddylorianisastateofmind @bhayatsara @mistydeyes @writingmysanity @johfaam0 @idkbbyx3 @gressseyy @fwibblefwobble @shibble @maladaptivedaydreamingbum @airghostlyfox @hotgirlsshareaccounts @simpxinnie @dilfdotgov @cliosunshine @bloobewy @lazybutsmexy @maki-z @yyiikes @tieflingteatime @cosmoscoffeee @lilvampirina @cinnabeanz @bubbyblob @spencerreidisbae123
unedited as usual. gonna go over my dad!simon masterlist this week. reblogs and comments are hugely appreciated!
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arminsumi · 7 months
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Hii can we pls get an extremely smitten in love like love sick gojo pls?????
˗ˏˋ꒰ 🍒 ꒱
𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤
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A/N: ABSOLUTELY!! 🥰
Wc ≈ 1.7k
Pairing: GOJO Satoru x f.reader
Summary: the annoying popular boy at college has his heart set on you 😌💕
Warnings; it's a little cheesy
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There’s a white-haired boy that always, always sits next to you in every single class. He’s got the looks that kill, one-of-a-kind features, almost too pretty to be on earth; the kind of boy that makes even teachers stutter in the middle of their lecture simply because of his presence.
So many girls fawn over him, like he’s the rockstar of your college with a bunch of groupies following wherever he goes.
And that ticks off one reason you don’t like Gojo Satoru.
The other reasons? To narrow it down; he’s an arrogant cocky flirty bastard who will not stop asking you out to parties and dates. Persistent and determined to make you crack and finally fall for him. Relentless and fast in his pursuit of your heart no matter how far it runs – he’s gonna getcha, he knows it, it’s just a matter of time.
He’s never felt this deeply or intensely. It makes his head spin. When you walk in the room, when you speak, when he sees your name on an attendee list… it has him feeling tingly and lightheaded. Even getting a text from you makes him jump; he replies in two seconds and pouts when you leave him on read. He even complains to his mom and Suguru about you.
This boy is the walking symptoms of lovesick.
But he’s in heavy denial about it. No, no – he’s not obsessed, you’re obsessed. He’s not crushing on you; you’re crushing on him. He’s not chasing you; you’re chasing him. He doesn’t wanna kiss you, you wanna kiss him.
“You have such a fat crush on me.” He smirks, talking unashamedly loudly so everyone who’s passing down the columned corridor can hear.
You sigh. “No I don't, Gojo.”
“It’s Satoru to you,” he winks, “And anyways, you’re not busy this afternoon, yeah?”
“Actually I am – ”
“Great! Let’s go out.”
Your whole face spells how frustrated you are.
“Oh my god…” you sigh, getting up for your next class which was in two minutes – Gojo took up all your time. Your friends had long slipped away after he gave them a glare, snickering as they did because they thought the whole thing between you and him was hilarious.
His long legs strode next to you down the corridor.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To class.” you replied.
“Let me walk you there.” he offered eagerly.
“Thanks, but there’s really no need.” you replied.
He looked at you like a sad puppy, so you gave in. “Oh my god, fine then.”
“Ask me nicely.”
“What!” you looked at him incredulously, “You’re the one who – oh my god never mind. Walk me to class, Gojo.”
He grinned in satisfaction. You almost wanted to smack him.
“It’s Satoru.” He corrected.
“I’m not calling you that. We’re not friends.” You said.
“Gosh, you’re breaking my heart!” he jokes, but deep down he was a little cut by that. You could tell by how he said no more smart remarks. He was silent.
You slid into your seat, watching your professor prepare the sliding whiteboards with awful scribbles of calculus. Gojo slid right next to you, settling his smart ass down a little closer than last time. He was aching to get closer to you in any way he could.
“I need a pen.” He whispered under his breath to you as soon as the lecture began.
“Seriously? Again? Where do you keep putting the ones I give you, up your ass?”
He smirked at you. Pretty blue eyes peaked over the rims of his sunglasses. You weren’t the only one to notice that he had them on indoors; the professor glanced over and immediately reprimanded him.
“Gojo, glasses off indoors, please. Don’t make me keep reminding you.” She said.
Gojo grumbled and reluctantly took them off, setting them down on the desk. You’d already began hastily scribbling notes, but all Gojo managed to do for the first ten or fifteen minutes of the lecture was drum his borrowed pen on his empty spiralbound notebook. He stole thirsted glances of you out of the corner of his eyes.
At some point his attention solely focused on you.
He observed you intently; the way you held your pen, the pace at which you write, your handwriting, how you leaned over just enough for your breasts to lightly squish against the desk.
“Hey.” He whispered to you.
You looked at him bemusedly. Ah, here he goes again. Fifteen minutes in and he has something to say to you.
“Can I copy your notes?” he asked.
“Seriously?” you whisper-shouted. The professor was so deep into her lecture about calculus that she didn’t notice Gojo starting to chat you up.
Asking to copy your notes was just his entry into flirting; what followed next was “I like your handwriting” and “so about that date…” and “there’s a party at my place this weekend…” and “wanna ditch this class together?”
“Satoru,” you said, “shut up, please.”
He shut up, not because you asked him to – he would have gone on and on despite your wishes, but you called his name. That took him aback so much so that he actually had to recompose himself and sit back, take in a breath, think for a bit. The way you pronounced his name had him in pieces.
Now came the part of the lecture where Satoru started making you laugh. You tried so hard not to, you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction – but he had a good humour, you couldn’t deny a few breathy laughs here or there.
His unwavering stare was so distracting. That and the fact he kicked his feet up on the desk. He took them down when the professor turned around, and then resumed his lazy position as soon as she turned back to the whiteboard.
“Satoru,” you began, “How is it that you never take notes and still pass?”
He shrugged. “I’m a prodigy. You’re sitting next to a real genius.”
You regretted asking.
He felt bad, so he gave you a small honest answer. “I cram at night.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Would be nice to have a study buddy…” he suggested.
“No.”
“But wouldn’t it be nice? Let’s study in the library later.”
“No – ”
“Okay! I’ll meet ya there!” he smiled decisively, choosing to ignore your decline.
The class concluded, and Gojo lingered by your desk waiting for you to pack up. Some lovestruck girls always approached him at that point, and he held small talk with them. He absolutely let their compliments fuel his ego.
You tried to take advantage of the fact he was distracted by them so you could slip out of the lecture theatre unnoticed. But he had good eyes.
“Oh, gotta go. Bye.” He said hastily, eyes locked on you like you were his target. He practically tumbled down the desk levels to get to you.
Just as you disappeared beyond the door, he caught up with you, lanky body colliding with yours on ‘accident’. You thought it was deliberate, but it really was an accident – he was so clumsy around you. He threw you a lopsided, apologetic smile.
That familiar sad puppy expression developed on his features as you walked quickly down the corridor and ignored him. Inside, you were bitter about how he bathed in those girl’s attention.
He had his hands behind his back. A peculiar thing – he usually walked like he owned the place with his hands swinging like a model on a runway. You stopped abruptly in your tracks when you noticed his deflated behavior. He bumped into you again.
“Hey…”
“Sorry.” He muttered apologetically.
“… wanna get lunch together, after studying?” you offered, feeling bad for how you ignored him the whole walk to the library.
His eyes lit up. “Yeah! Yeah… uh, yes.” He almost choked. “Absolutely.”
After that, he had a pep in his step as he followed you into the library.
Studying with him was super unproductive. He kept teasing your face, pinching your cheeks and ears to get your attention and then when he had it, he started rambling about something.
Then he pulled giggles out of you. He did such goofy, stupid things.
“Look.” He said, so you looked away from your textbook.
You shook your head.
He had balanced a book on his head and bit his borrowed pen between his pearly whites.
“Don’t put my pen in your mouth! I don’t want your germs.” You said.
He grinned.
You had to admit… that was an attractive smile. The way his Addam’s apple subtly shifted. The way his eyes lit up. The way his eyes creased.
He took the book off his head and the pen out of his mouth.
“You don’t want my germs?” he pouted jokingly.
“No, no way.”
“How are we ever gonna kiss?”
“E – excuse m – what? Huh?”
Gojo giggled. He threw that in just to see your reaction.
“You sooo wanna kiss me.” He teased.
“Uh… I don’t…” you swallowed.
“You’re such a bad liar.” He said, his tone shifting into a genuinely serious one.
“I’m not lying. I’d never kiss you.” You spoke.
“Yeah?”
He brought his face closer to you. So close you could see the subtle freckles on his pale cheeks.
“What would you do if I kissed you?” Gojo asked, peering at your soul with his eyes.
You stuttered, too stunned to response. What would you do? It was a genuine question, you could tell by the tone of his voice and look in his eyes. He really wanted to know.
“I don’t know…” you responded.
“Have you thought about it at all?” he asked. A slight nervousness shook his vocals. There was the smallest of voice cracks as he said ‘thought’.
Should you have been honest? You were looking into his eyes contemplatively. Was he trying to trick you? Was he gonna get an answer out of your lips and then humiliate you with it?
You just bit the bullet and said it.
“Yeah, I guess I have.”
His eyes searched for any hints that you were kidding. You got his heart thumping, his blood rushing around so hard he felt dizzy.
It looked like he wanted to kiss you really badly, but your phone went off and ruined the moment completely. The lovey air dissolved between you and him and he wished it hadn't.
While you hastily took your phone call, you noticed out of the corner of your eyes that Gojo had a boyish blush on his face.
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Reblogs n' comments help a lot!! 💗😙
Visit my library ?
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wraith-posts · 2 months
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you're no femme fatale
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pairing: dean winchester x f!reader
CONTENT: use of y/n, dubcon (mission sequence), soft dom!reader, guided masturbation, light degradation (m!receiving), stripping, begging, scratching, hair pulling, handjob, exhibitionism if you squint
word count: 3.3k
a/n: anon request here! enjoy 🖤 honestly felt like i was scraping the bottom of the barrel to keep this interesting LOL hope it's what you wanted
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"No. No way in hell I'm doing that," you said, throwing up your hands and backing away from the table, littered with piles of Sam's research.
"Aw, come on, Y/N," Sam protested. "You're the only one of us that could do it."
"I am not entertaining some dirty old man for this," you snapped, snatching up a museum scan of the artifact you were supposed to steal. "We'll find another way."
"If there was another way, I'd be asking you to do that," Sam said, furrowing his brow. "This is the path of least resistance. You get in his office, slip it into your dress while he's not looking, and we'll come get you after ten minutes. That's it."
You huffed a sigh and crossed your arms.
Just then, Dean returned from his fast food run, greasy paper bags in hand. "Hey, nerds," he greeted impishly. "Grub's on."
You rolled your eyes as he plopped the bags right in the middle of Sam's papers.
"So, what's the plan for tonight?" Dean asked, settling himself into a chair and unwrapping a double cheeseburger.
"You would know if you had stayed to help make it," you replied annoyedly.
Dean flicked his eyebrows. "No need to get testy."
Sam sighed, deciding to intervene before things got ugly. You and Dean weren't exactly known for getting along, tolerating each other just enough to get jobs done when you had to. This was mostly due to the fact that you thought Dean was a douchebag, and he just dished back whatever you threw at him.
"The best plan we've got so far is that Y/N seduces the guy," Sam explained.
Dean snorted, almost spitting out his too-large bite of burger. "I'm sorry what?"
"I figure we'll never be able to get in there during the event, since it'll be so locked down," Sam continued. "Our best bet is getting him to let one of us in."
"Have you seen her?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow and giving you a once-over. "Not exactly the seducing type."
You looked down at your current outfit. Cargo pants and a mens t-shirt topped with a utility vest and a leather bomber jacket. He had a point, although not for the reasons he thought. You could dress up, you just chose to dress practically. More pockets for knives. No, you just weren't sure you'd be able to convince the man you wanted him. Seventy-something sleazebags weren't exactly high on your to-fuck list.
"For once, I agree with Dean." You tossed the photo back onto the table. "Can we think of something else, please?"
"Yeah, as much as I'd like to see her try and pretty up to get in some old dude's pants, there's gotta be a more surefire way," Dean said with his mouth full. "Cuz you're no femme fatale," he added pointedly.
You were getting a little annoyed at his jabs. "You don't think I can do it?" you asked, looking at him through narrowed eyes.
"Sister, I don't think you could seduce a virgin," Dean scoffed.
You turned to Sam, bristling. "That's it then. I'll do it."
"What?" Dean said loudly through his half-chewed bite.
Sam looked at you with concern. "Are you sure? Just because Dean-"
"I'm sure." You set your jaw confidently. "Let's go to the charity event."
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"We're heading out to the car," Sam called through the bathroom door, where you were putting on the finishing touches to your makeup.
"Be right there," you called back, surveying yourself in the mirror. Not bad, you thought, considering the last time you put on this much makeup was prom night. You had tried to go for something an old man would like: a classic red lip and smoky eye that paired pretty well with the vintage-looking slinky black satin dress you'd found at the thrift store around the corner. It went down to your ankles, showing off your heels, and had a long slit that made its way up your leg to your hip.
You threw your coat on and hurried out the door, hopping into the backseat of the Impala. Sam glanced at you in the rearview mirror and raised his eyebrows appreciatively, but Dean didn't spare you a second glance. You were annoyed, since half the reason you were doing this was to prove him wrong, but there would be plenty of time to show off later.
As the Impala peeled out of the hotel parking lot, you took a deep swig from the flask you kept in your coat pocket. This better work.
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Neither of the boys helped you out of the car when you arrived.
"Chivalry is dead," you announced after almost stumbling onto your face getting out. You tossed your coat back into the backseat, revealing your outfit to the two hunters.
Suddenly Sam was all-too-eager to offer you his arm, and the two of you headed inside, Dean close behind. You hadn't missed the way his eyes widened when you dropped your coat, so you swung your hips a little as you walked. That'll show him.
The plan worked better than you could have hoped. The sleazy old something-inaire led you to his office, hand wrapped around your waist as you clung to his arm, pretending to laugh at his stupid sexist old man jokes.
As he clicked the heavy oak door shut, you quickly scanned the room, trying to find the artifact you came for. There. On his desk. All you had to do was grab it, and-
The old man grabbed you by the hips, pulling you flush against his body. "Where were we, sweetheart?"
Insides roiling with disgust, you turned around and placed your hands on his chest, giving him the sweetest smile you could muster. "Right here," you said cattily, batting your eyelashes as you grabbed him by the lapels and led him backwards to the desk.
Here goes nothing, you thought, and pulled the old guy in for a kiss. Trying to ignore the way his tongue dug into your mouth, you felt around behind you for the artifact.
Got it. You quickly palmed the object and broke the kiss, looking up at the old man through your lashes. Now Sam or Dean was gonna bust down the door, claiming you as his missing drunk sister.
Aaaaany minute now.
The old man smiled wolfishly and you felt his hands creeping lower, lower, until he grabbed your ass firmly, jerking you closer to him and capturing your lips again.
Your heart hammered in your chest. This was not going how it was supposed to. You tried to wiggle away, but the guy was surprisingly strong for his age.
"Where you going, baby?" he asked, eyes glinting.
"I think I- I have to go," you said, aware that you were sounding a little panicked.
"You wanted this," he reminded you, giving your ass a tight squeeze. He swung you around and pushed you into the leather couch across from the desk. You tried to scramble up, but it was hard with your tight dress and the artifact still clutched in your hand, desperately being concealed, so the old man grabbed you easily by the hair, forcing you to stay down.
"Now why don't we put those pretty lips to use?"
The door swung open with a bang. The old man looked up, startled, releasing his death grip on your hair.
"There you are," came the fake-laughing voice of Dean.
"Who are you?" demanded the old man. "Get out of here!"
"Sorry man, this is my sister," Dean said, raising his hands apologetically. "She gets really hammered, acts like a slut. Gotta get her home." He helped you up, and you smiled and giggled, putting on the drunk-girl act.
Dean helped you hurry out of the room, the old man looking disappointed and angry at being cockblocked.
"Thanks," you whispered once you were down the hall and out of earshot. "What a creep."
"Please tell me you got it," Dean said darkly, weaving you through the crowd. You slipped the artifact into his suit pocket, giving it a pat for good measure.
"Didn't do that for nothing." You winked at him and pushed him away to walk the rest of the way to the car on your own two feet.
Dean stared after you, dumbfounded. He tried not to fixate on the way your hips swayed in that dress as you walked away proudly. God, that dress! It hugged your body perfectly, and Dean would be lying if he said he hadn't been eyeing you all night. His cock was semi-hard in his dress pants, an annoying reminder of just how much you'd proved him wrong.
"Come on, dickhead," you yelled out the back window of the Impala. Dean realized starkly that he had stopped in place thinking about your tits.
"Dammit," he muttered, hurrying around to the driver's seat.
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The three of you piled into your hotel room to debrief from the mission. You assured the boys that you were alright from your creepy encounter with the old guy, and that stealing the artifact was worth it. The way Dean watched you raptly as you began to disrobe was not lost on you.
"I've dealt with worse in my time," you reminded them, shaking out your hair. "I'm a solo female hunter. Sleazy men hit on me literally wherever I go." You plopped down on the bed and pulled your stockings off one by one.
"As long as you're sure," Sam said, stretching and yawning. "I'm gonna head back over to our room to get some sleep. You coming, Dean?"
Dean snapped out of his fantasy. "Uh, no. I'll be there in a little bit. Gotta talk to her about something."
Sam raised an eyebrow. "Okay. Just don't bite each other's head off." And with that, he was gone.
You watched Dean from the shadows of the half-lit room. When he made no move to say anything, you did. "What do you need to talk about?" you asked, knowing full well. "Gonna say sorry cuz of how wrong you were?"
Dean flicked his eyes up to yours. Where had he been looking before?
He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Yeah. You did good."
You stood and sauntered over to where he sat in a straight-backed chair by the dresser. "But that's not all, is it?" You smirked at him and looked him up and down, gaze lingering on his crotch, where a tent had begun to form.
Dean covered his bulge with his hand and pressed down, growling. "You were a little too good."
"So, what? You stayed because you want me to help with that?" you teased, coming closer.
"Yeah," Dean said roughly, standing quickly.
"No," you said bluntly, taking him by the shoulder and pushing him back into the chair.
Dean grimaced. "Why? Please," he begged, face twisted in arousal.
You giggled. "Wow."
"What?" Dean snapped, eyes cracking open.
"Nothing," you said, smirking. "You could beg a little more, might help." You felt your own arousal start to pool in your panties.
"Please, Y/N." Dean looked up at you with wild eyes, squeezing his cock through his pants.
"Please what?" You cocked your head.
"Please... make me cum," he said finally, eyes dropping to your midriff, unwilling to hold your gaze.
You tilted his chin up so he would look at you again, feeling a certain sense of satisfaction that you had somehow reduced him to this begging, horny mess in the chair before you.
"All you had to do was ask," you said softly. You backed away and sat down on the edge of the bed.
Dean started to get up and follow you.
"No," you said, holding up a red-manicured finger. "Sit back down." You pointed.
Dean frowned but did as he was told. You smiled, delighted.
"You're having way too much fun with this," he grumbled.
"I'm sorry what was that?" you asked with a stern expression. "Do you want to cum or not?"
Dean's dick twitched in his pants. The way you bossed him around was really turning him on. "Nothing."
"That's what I thought." You twirled your hair thoughtfully. Dean whined impatiently.
"Tsk, tsk." You crossed your legs at an angle where he could almost see through the slit into your crotch. "Take your cock out."
Dean was all too happy to oblige, unbuckling his belt and undoing his pants faster than you could say desperate, hiking up his dress shirt in the process.
"Wait," you interrupted before he could go any further. "Why don't you unbutton your shirt, too. Wouldn't want to make a mess." You smirked.
"Okay," Dean agreed breathily, practically tearing the two sides of the shirt from each other, exposing his muscular torso. You had seen him shirtless before, but there was something about the way he was breathing, stomach rising and falling quickly as he panted, that turned you on when it wouldn't normally.
"Now you can take your dick out," you said. You held your breath a little as his cock came into view. He was fully hard now, and dripping. He squeezed the base, moaning.
"Now what?" he asked, eyes shut as he lightly stroked his cock with his fingertips.
"You need me to tell you how to jack off?" you asked meanly. To your surprise, Dean moaned loudly at that.
He began stroking his cock, slowly at first, building up speed as he could no longer contain himself. A near-constant string of quiet whimpers and moans fell from his lips. You took note of the way he swiped his thumb over his leaking slit, spreading it around to aid his fingers.
"Look at me," you instructed. You wanted to see that wild look in his eyes again, and were instantly rewarded as his eyes flew open to meet yours. His mouth fell open as he gasped when he saw you.
"Forget I was here?" you teased. Dean gulped and shook his head vehemently. His hand slowed, and he started tugging himself less frantically, holding eye contact with you intensely.
"Fuck," he whispered hoarsely. "You're so hot, wanna see you."
You smirked. "Only because you admitted it." You hiked up your skirt, spreading the slit open so he could see your black lace panties.
Dean devoured your skin with his eyes, rubbing the head of his cock in circles with his thumb.
You dropped the straps of your dress so that they hung loosely around your shoulders and ran your long nails across your collarbones, petting your shoulders. Then you took hold of the neckline and pulled it down, freeing your tits from the dress.
"Better than I imagined, baby," Dean groaned at the sight, as his hips bucked into his hand.
You took one of your breasts in your hand, squeezing it towards your chest. "You imagined?" you lilted, smiling.
"Been thinkin' about you all night," he admitted shamelessly. "How good your tits looked in that dress. How good- ngh- you looked walkin' away from me."
Your other hand started creeping into your skirt. "Thought I couldn't even seduce a virgin. What does that make you?"
Dean growled, jerking his cock faster. "I don't- fuck-"
"Maybe you're just a manwhore," you purred, hopping off the bed to approach him.
"Please," Dean gasped, tossing his head back. "I need you."
You scoffed. "I'm not that lacking in self-respect." You lightly scratched your fingernails down the side of his face. He leaned into your touch, groaning, hand stilling.
You leaned in to murmur in his ear. "No, you're gonna take care of this all... by... yourself." You laced your fingers into his short hair, scratching his scalp, and pulled his head back. He relaxed and his eyes fluttered closed at the feeling.
"So take care of it," you remind him harshly, giving his hair a hard tug before letting go. Dean raised his head hazily and began to stroke his dick again, gasping. It was angry red, practically begging for release, but Dean seemed determined to tease himself until he couldn't take it anymore, which you suspected would be soon.
You turned your back to him and unzipped your dress, letting it fall to the floor in a silken puddle. You heard Dean moan softly, sound of skin rubbing skin growing faster. You smiled to yourself as an idea occurred to you.
Against a backdrop of street lamplight coming through the window and lewd noises coming from Dean, you padded barefoot wearing only your underwear to the other side of the bed, where your pajamas lay folded neatly on the nightstand. You unfolded them and spread them out on the bed.
"What are you doing?" Dean asked hoarsely. "Don't- please stay- I need to see you," he whimpered finally.
You ignored him, as you had been planning to do, and put your pajamas on dramatically slowly to the soundtrack of Dean begging you to stop, stay naked, help him.
You turned back to him when you were finished and a rush of arousal hit you at the sight: Dean, cock in hand, sitting exactly where you had left him, sweaty and gasping and looking at you with a wild, desperate expression. You moaned softly in spite of yourself.
"Poor baby," you pout, rounding the bed to sit next to him again. "Haven't you come yet?"
Dean's hand was working overtime, forearm muscles flexing and rippling beneath his skin where his sleeve was rolled up.
"Can't," he breathed.
"You can't come?" You feigned surprise, even though you had known for several minutes that he was probably going to wait for your permission.
"Need you," Dean panted. "Can't do it- mm- without you."
"Sure you can," you said, running your nails down his chest. He shivered intensely.
Dean whimpered, face contorting in frustration. "I can't."
"What, I got you so turned on you can't even jack off without me?" you tease, fingertips stopping right above his happy trail.
"Please touch me."
"I am touching you," you reply smoothly, digging your fingers into his stomach.
Dean rolled his eyes, although you weren't sure if it was sass or pleasure. "Please," he insisted, whining.
"Useless." You replaced his hand with yours, gripping his cock tightly as you stroked it for him. "Can't even make yourself come without my help."
Dean went slack-jawed, head falling back once more. "Uh-huh," he moaned breathily. He ground his hips upwards, trying to find more pressure or friction or something but getting nothing but what you gave him.
"You're a useless whore, right?" you taunted. He would tell you if you went too far, right?
"Yes," Dean groaned loudly. You almost clapped your hand over his mouth, certain that Sam could hear through the walls.
"Shhh, be quiet baby," you said instead. You swiped your thumb over the head of his dick and he hissed, biting his lip. Your other hand went down to cup his balls, giving them a light squeeze.
Suddenly Dean's whole body tensed and his eyes flew open. "Shit- I'm so close, please," he panted. His abs flexed, indicating that he was telling the truth.
You increased the pressure on both hands slightly. "Go on then."
Dean let out a sound somewhere between a strangled gasp and a groan as he came, spurting over his stomach and your hands. You kept pumping, using his cum to aid your efforts, until he was begging you to stop between gasping breaths. Only then did you let go of him, admiring your handiwork.
One Dean Winchester (formerly unbelieving of your sexual prowess), spread over a chair, covered in cum, sweaty and panting and utterly fucked out.
"Thank you," he whispered weakly after a moment.
"Will you ever doubt me again?" you asked, smirking.
He rolled his head to the side to look at you. "No. Fuck, that was hot." Dean grinned. "Actually, I changed my mind. Maybe I should doubt you more often."
You rolled your eyes. "Whatever, Winchester. Clean up and go to bed."
Dean got out of the chair stiffly, winked at you, and went to do as he was told.
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dividers by @cafekitsune and @saradika
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diejager · 5 months
Note
...i mean i have plenty of dark ideas with makarov but i mean... i kinda want to know on your thoughts with makarov and a reader who's equally dark/cunning. match made in hell basically
котёнок (A/n):I read a bit about him, but I can’t say that my portrayal of him is faithful to the game.
A fucking match made in hell. He doesn’t love easily, nor does he devote himself to someone as much as he did with Zakhaev often, but once he does give you this deluded level of love and devotion, it’s yours until he dies. In his mind, anything goes, shooting his only friend, bombing civilian areas to kill off one enemy, or trafficking as a source of money. Vladimir Makarov had no limit when it came to what he believes in.
He might be unpredictable with his acts and strict with his decisions, but that - by no means - meant that he didn’t like to play games, despite everything that went on in his life, Makarov loved games. He liked playing with his enemy, making it seem like they were ahead of him, only to disappear, being ten feet ahead. But then you appear, foiling his plans left and right, seeming to play right into his hands, moving as he predicted, only to outplay him, smirking his way as you strut away. He was mesmerized, the sight of the woman who had tricked the devil, clad in black and smile as sinfully cunning as his.
Makarov called you his котёнок —his kitten. He watched you in admiration, hungering for any moment with or against you, a gem in the corrupted world he lived in. He loathed that you weren’t working with him, standing beside him with that beautifully, cruel sneer you gave anyone who disappointed you. You didn’t follow the good or evil side, uncaring of who worked for the betterment of the world - he’d seen and heard you fucking up the 141’s attempts as you did with his - you only followed the wining side, the one who had the money to show and the hand to control it.
For months, he tried his luck, sending messages to you in many way, both nefarious and quiet, anything to contact you, anything to have you on his side; and when he had you working with him, striding to him in all your confident glory, he couldn’t be any prouder. Makarov had another asset up his sleeve, one more important than others, he cherished you, he devoted his time to you and he love you in his own twisted way.
If his котёнок wanted to play, he would play. He would back you up in every decision you mad, the jobs you took, the deals you signed. If you wanted to burn down the world, he would do it with you; if you wanted to bomb a public building, he would provide you the explosives; and if you wanted a hand in rebuilding the world in your image, he would help you, lead the men that worked under him and push your ideals.
Makarov didn’t just love you, he was obsessed, addicted —he was devoted to your being, cunning and devious. He might pull a few strings in the dark, but you were a danger on your own, giving your rivals and enemy a run for their money, and he loved that. You controlled the room when you sat down, your nails cackling on the table eerily as you stare down the people across from you, eyes narrowed and lips pursed, a stoic mien before cowering men.
He would sometimes stand behind you, acting as the looming shadow that added to your scary image, or he’d take up the seat beside yours, head tilted up with his arms crossed, the image of a confident tyrant, poised and powerful. You were a dark pleasure, sly and opportunistic, and he, a wicked and cunning man, portraying his ideology through his spread of terror.
“My sweet, sweet kitten,” he whispered in Russian, pressing his lips to yours, kiss feverish and rough, all teeth and domination. “Tell me, what is it you want?”
Tag list: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973
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thatsdemko · 4 months
Text
who’s the worst of them all? someone tell Santa Claus! - f1 grid
part two | masterlist
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warning: not intended for minors + some jokes + fluff/filler part
a/n: hi hi it’s me… I’ve had this written since early November and I’m excited to share!! enjoy!!
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DEAR Y/N,
have you been a good girl this year? I heard you’re looking for your stocking stuffed, I think I have just the gift. meet me at midnight for your gift!
Xx
secret Santa
you can’t read this out loud, and most definitely not to the public who will view this video later. whoever was your secret Santa, must’ve heard the rumors of your dry spell. and how pitiful was if that it wasn’t even a rumor, it was the truth.
“oh it’s just a sweet handwritten note.” you chuckle quickly flashing the note to the camera before shoving it back inside the off white envelope.
the presenter presses for more information. she asks what the letter contains and who you think it’s from, and in all honesty, it could be coming from anyone.
all the boys handwriting was not legible. it was like getting a doctors script, it could mean anything, but it was clear this individual took their time to make it perfect.
“I’ll have to find out at the Christmas dinner tonight.” you flash a wink in hopes to cover the beet red look against your cheeks.
“well have fun!”
fun… this was about to be nowhere near fun when it came down to narrowing twenty something guys to be your secret Santa.
starting off with Pierre. in his bachelor days, he would’ve sent you something like this, but it was always harmless jokes and he would never take it this far. with kika around his arm, you could cross him off the list of embarrassing yourself in front of.
then there’s his best friend, Charles. he always had a wobbly relationship with women, and seeing he’s alone tonight you cross the room heading his way, “you don’t happen to be my secret Santa?” your hands delicately press against his shoulders, he turns around rather quickly at your touch instantly shaking his head, “no, no, I got Pierre this year. you still don’t know yours?”
shaking your head in response, you eye the room from where you stand. the bar had begun to fill with drivers and team members rather quickly. the air was colder now, but the heat from inside was welcoming to those dressed in bare minimum, like yourself. Charles hand against your lower back was like a radiator, the heat spread through your system faster than the log fire going on, “I’m sure you’ll find him.” Charles promises, “but for now, can I get you a drink?”
“please.”
the nights gone smoothly and so far you can cross off valterri, Logan, Kevin, and Nico. you’re questioning yuki, Daniel, Lewis, and lando due to their abilities to dodge the questions.
George outright told you it wasn’t him after hearing you’d spun yourself in circles to find anyone new to question. Logan had confessed to having brought up the idea, but refused to give any further information.
and then there was Carlos.
the man who’d been under your nose this whole evening. with his bow tie crooked, and the clock ticking closer to midnight, you meander your way over to where he stands.
“I’m not who you’re looking for, hermosa.”
“and who am I looking for exactly?”
his eyes flicker from the clock, the television highlighting the Real Madrid game, and back over to you, “I’d never send such a cryptic message.” he maneuvers his body to face yours, “I know how to ask for what I want.”
“and what is it that you want?” you press your body closer in to the smooth wood bar top. your mind is spinning, your heart is hammering it’s way out of your chest, and Carlos is inching closer.
“for you to leave me alone.”
“you’re no fun, sainz.” you pout your bottom lip out and spin on your heels to find your body pressed into lando’s.
“you find him yet?” landos cheeky grin makes him look like a Cheshire Cat. ever since he read the note he’d been eager to place the pin on the man and root for your dry spell to end.
for now, it’s ten minutes to midnight and the place was emptying. the alcohol buzzed around the room and the chatter begun to die, it’s ironic how it was a little bit like your heart: buzzing to find the guy, but ready to die at the sight of him.
“I’m sure it’s all just a prank and I’ll have Logan to blame for it.”
“miss,” the bartenders tap against your shoulder makes you spin away from landos chest, “this is for you.”
DEAR Y/N,
giving up? never thought of you as a quitter.
xx
yours
grinding your teeth together you press the napkin into your palm until the ink smudges. you’re no quitter, but if the man with no balls doesn’t show up soon, you’ll leave here ready to slam your car into someone else’s.
“I’m going to head out, you’ll be okay to walk out alone?”
lando’s worries snap your thoughts from the napkin that’s disintegrating into your hands. his touch is soft against your bare shoulder, making your body two degrees warmer than the room, “I’ll be fine, you go home and have a good Christmas.”
“you too, and if you don’t find him—“
“yes, I know, you’ll key his car.”
rolling your eyes, you playfully shove the Brit off into the cold, leaving you and the cleaning crew in silence.
you never noticed how trashed the bar was. in its glory days, you can tell the red thick carpet and white trim around the bar gave the place a holiday feel. and by the old pictures scattered around the walls, the formula one boys had a riot in this place. people from Michael Schumacher all the way down to young Fernando Alonso, the place seemed to always be the home of f1.
looking down at the disintegrated napkin in your hand, and quickly looking up at the clock, midnight had just struck. if he wasn’t here by 12:01 you were a goner. you hated people who wasted your time, you’d much rather be at home or maybe in lando’s warm McLaren buzzing from the alcohol and the warm leather seats.
turning on your heel, he’d just arrived. he’s shaking the snow off his bulky black jacket, shimmering out of the sleeves. a man comes and retrieves it from his grasp, and in typical fashion, he thanks him.
“you thought I wouldn’t come?”
“I hate when people are late.”
“good thing I’m not late then,” he says with a soft smile approaching where you stand at the bar, with your arms crossed tightly over your chest. he leans forward, inching his mouth over your ear, “I’m right on time.”
a/n: take your guesses on who you think it is!! the big reveal happens Christmas Day!
tags: @oconso @xcicix @imsorare @weasleyswizardwheezes-blog @monzabee @lpab @frreyaa @motorsp0rt @lovelytsunoda @smoothopz z @jaehyunluvcult @iloveyou3000morgan @lunnnix @leclerc13 @goldenalbon
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acourtofwhatthefuck · 2 months
Text
A Friend In Need’s A Friend Indeed — Azriel x Cassian.
Summary: Azriel’s been mighty stressed recently. Cassian is a good friend with a good suggestion and a good mouth.
Note: I still haven’t had a chance to sort out my tag lists, I’m sorry. This has been sitting in my drafts for ages. Life has been so busy recently 😅
Warnings: Smut, 18+, minors dni. 💕
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It’s clear to Cassian, the second he walks into the room, that the shadowsinger is in a foul mood.
In all honesty, Azriel has been in a foul mood all week.
He’s not very good at striking a work-life balance. Missions and reports and information flood his thoughts and keep him awake at night. They have done every night this week.
So when Cassian slumps down in the armchair opposite his, he eyes his friend and knows — Azriel is not going to be pleasant company tonight.
His brow is deeply furrowed and darkened as he stares down at the papers in his hands. Cassian considers asking him what, exactly, the report pertains to — but he selfishly decides that the information will numb his brain, and he doesn’t think he can bear to hear it right now. Whatever. Az doesn’t even glance up at him.
So Cass pours himself a drink and settles into the chair. And only after the fifth time Azriel sighs — yes, he’s counting — does he ask, “Long day?”
Az simply grunts and turns the page. This is going to be a long night.
"You look like you could use a drink," the Illyrian General pauses. "Or ten."
No reply.
Cass says, "Az."
"What, Cassian?"
"Why don't you put those papers down and have a conversation? Or better yet, let's go to Rita's—"
"I'm busy."
Cassian purses his lips. “The world isn’t going to end if you set your work aside for the night.”
“Your world is going to end if you don’t stop yapping in my ear,” Azriel pauses, scans the paper — and then growls, chucking it onto the coffee table in front of them both. “This is fucking pointless.”
Maybe Cass should ask, he thinks. He studies his friend. “What is it, exactly, that’s had you in such a foul mood all week?”
Azriel’s bleary hazel eyes merely flick up to him; clearly he doesn’t appreciate the observation. Dark smudges sit beneath his eyes. His entire body, shadows and all, is coiled tightly. Tense.
Oh. Oh. A fight, Cassian realises — a fight is what’s going to take the edge off. Goading Az, provoking him…he’s done it more times than he can count in centuries of friendship. Letting him get a few punches in will surely ease the tension. Cass is willing to do that for him.
“You’ve just been a rain cloud of fucking doom all week,” he smirks as the shadowsinger stiffens even more. “Perhaps you need to get laid. Although, no one will surely come near you while you’re walking around with a face like a slapped ass.”
Cassian waits for his retort. For him to surge forward and knock him out of the chair, or for him to demand that they go right up to the training rings at once and speak through their fists, considering Cass clearly has a lot to say.
But Azriel’s jaw ticks, and he merely shoots back, “Suck my dick, Cassian.”
The mischief almost winks out of Cass’s eyes. Almost. It’s not the response he’s expecting.
But he rights himself and sits up, his smirk widening. “Is that what it will take to cheer you up, Az? Getting your cock between my lips? When was the last time someone sucked you dry?”
The irritated twitching of Azriel’s eye tells Cassian that it’s been way, way too long since someone sucked him dry. And that shocks Cass. Az has many lovers dotted about the city — many different people he could lose himself in for a couple of hours. If he’s not even tearing himself away from his stress for some mindless pleasure, it must be bad.
“Cauldron,” Cassian raises an eyebrow. “Maybe I should suck your dick.”
There’s no response. Not even a bark for him to fuck off. Azriel simply shifts in his armchair and clutches a cushion to his lap.
And Cass tracks the movement. He narrows his eyes on that cushion, and it takes him a shamefully delayed moment to realise that it’s been very deliberately placed there. He chokes out a laugh, “Holy shit, are you hard?”
“I wouldn’t be,” Az grits his teeth, “if you’d just shut the fuck up and stop talking about sucking my dick. It’s been a while, okay? I’m wound up.”
“…And is your hand not working, or…”
“It’s not enough. I’ve tried. I can’t…I can’t come.”
Silence settles between them. For once, Cassian isn’t quite sure what to say.
And perhaps Az is expecting him to make a joke, because he shakes his head and quickly stands. Grabs his reports. Makes to book it the fuck out of there.
But Cass says, “Wait.”
“Forget it, Cass—”
“I’m not laughing at you, Az,” he sits up. “You know I’ll always help you in any way that I can.”
Azriel scoffs. “What, like sucking my dick?”
“Why not?”
“Can you be fucking serious for five minutes.”
Cass shrugs, “I’m completely serious.”
Azriel stares back at him, narrowing his eyes. But the usual humour and banter…it’s absent. His face is open, honest.
He’s serious, Az realises. Completely serious.
The shadowsinger raises an eyebrow. “Cass…”
“Are you saying no?”
“…Well, no—”
“So sit down, Az.”
The choice is entirely Azriel’s, and the shadowsinger himself knows that. He can sit down and…and take what Cass is offering…or he can walk out of here and leave that boundary unbreached.
It feels a little surreal as his feet begin moving. Back over to the chair he’d vacated.
He thinks he might be shaking, which is weird, but sex and all that it involves tends to come naturally to Az. But in five centuries, it’s a line that he and Cassian have never crossed. They’ve seen each other naked plenty of times. They’ve fucked other people in the same room. It’s never come to this.
Until now.
Azriel watches as Cassian rises from his chair and stalks over. He can’t believe he’s actually doing this, can’t believe Cassian is actually offering.
But there’s nothing but sheer will in the General’s eyes as he sinks to his knees. Azriel parts his legs for him.
He swallows hard as Cass drags his hands up his legs. And his voice comes out in a rasp as he says, “You don’t have to do this—”
“Az?” Cass cuts him off.
“Yeah?”
“Shut up and enjoy it.”
He can hardly argue with that. And as Cassian unlaces Azriel’s breeches and tugs them apart, the spymaster isn’t sure he’d be able to find the words, anyway.
Cassian’s hand is huge and warm and rough and callused. And as he reaches into Az’s breeches and pulls his hardened cock out, both males let out a little breath.
“Oh, yeah,” Cass eyes the rigid length, the swollen head, leaking with moisture. “You really need this.”
Azriel’s response dies on his tongue at the first stroke. He can only manage a grunt.
“Whatever you need, Az,” Cassian pumps his hand, dipping his head. “Fuck my mouth. I can take it.”
And then, gripping Azriel’s cock in his hand, he drags a broad stroke of his tongue, from the base to the head. Azriel’s hips jerk.
“Shit,” he grits his teeth, eyes intently on Cassian’s tongue.
Cassian smiles and does it again, “Like that?”
“Yeah. Yes. Can you…”
“Put you in my mouth?” as his tongue once again reaches the head, he wraps his mouth around it and hums his approval. He laps at that little pearl of moisture that’s waiting there.
“Fuck, Cass,” Azriel gasps. He relaxes in the seat, fingers sinking into Cassian’s hair.
Cass realises quickly that he enjoys this. He’s had the odd experience with males over the years, but it’s mostly females that take his fancy. But this — feeling Azriel’s cock disappear into his mouth, feeling his thigh flex under his hand, feeling him jerking and writhing on the spot — gods above, he’s so fucking hard right now.
His lips and tongue seem to work in tandem. He drags his mouth over Azriel’s length, licking and sucking as he goes. And then he pulls his lips off him and repeats.
Azriel’s breaths are picking up. This is so much better than his hand. He actually feels like he might come, and not just be beating away at pleasure that never comes to anything. He moans, pulling at the strands of Cassian’s hair. And at the same time, he uses his other hand to push Cass’s head down.
“Gods, Cass, your mouth,” he growls, encouraging the bobbing motion that Cassian’s head falls into. With every push, Cass takes him in deeper, deeper.
And with saliva dripping from his chin, and the head of Az’s dick damn near grazing the back of his throat, a single thought crosses Cassian’s mind: he really likes sucking cock.
“Harder,” Az grunts, not even sure he means to say it. But he just wants…wants Cass to be rough. Wants this to be teetering on the edge of pleasured pain.
But Cass pulls his cock out of his mouth, wrapping his hand around the length. He pumps fast, hard, and then says, “Fuck my mouth, Az.”
The second Cassian’s lips are wrapping around him again, Azriel does exactly that.
He’s lifting his hips and gripping Cassian’s head with both hands, and he thrusts, hard, panting and sweating and swearing. Cassian takes it all like a champ, greedily swallowing every taste of him. His hands grip the back of Azriel’s legs, and he slides his mouth all the way down.
And this time, when the head hits the back of his throat, Azriel stills.
“Fuck!” He shouts, groans, gasps, roars. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
His cock is absolutely exploding. A week’s worth of pent-up frustration shoots from him and spills down Cassian’s throat. Cass swallows. And swallows. And swallows. Every last drop. He moans while doing so.
Az thinks his hips are still rolling long after his release has rocked him. He can’t bring himself to let go of the pleasure, to remove his cock from his friends mouth. It twitches on Cassian’s tongue and dribbles the remnants of his seed with every jerk. Cassian stares up at him with swollen lips and lustful eyes.
And then, after what feels like an eternity, the two males finally part. Both are breathing heavily. Cassian wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“That was—” Azriel swallows, tucking himself back into his breeches. He doesn’t bother to lace them up. “When did you learn to do that?”
Cassian’s smirk is purely roguish as he pushes to his feet. “I’ve learned a whole lot of things you can’t even begin to imagine,” he rolls his shoulders. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
Az watches him, his eyes falling to that hardened bulge that pushes through Cassian’s own trousers. He clearly enjoyed what just occurred. And that thought alone has Az’s cock twitching to life again.
He leans forward, opening his mouth — to say what, to suggest what, he isn’t sure. But before he can voice his desires, footsteps are approaching.
Both males straighten up as Rhys appears in the doorway, a drink in his hand.
The High Lord sniffs, his brow furrowing. And then he looks between his two friends — Az’s unlaced breeches and heaving chest. Cassian’s swollen lips. He puts two and two together.
“Cauldron fucking boil me,” is all he grouses, and then he’s turning back and leaving the way he came.
Leaving Cassian and Azriel alone once more.
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hanniluvi · 1 year
Text
LOVE NEWS ! — YJW SMAU
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SYNOPSIS : BREAKING NEWS! valentine’s is right around the corner, yet you still had no partner. you didn’t think too much of it, you probably thought it was just another year where you’ll be single again. not a big issue at all. however, your favorite gossip account proves you wrong! what if you find out someone actually likes you? after gathering all the hints you’ve been given, you narrowed your list down to one person. that one person ended up being yang jungwon, one of your crushes. there’s no way, one of your crushes actually liking you back? will you believe it’s just fake or actual love news?
PAIRING : classmate!jungwon x fem!reader
GENRE : smau, fluff, crack, classmates to lovers
FEATURING : all enhypen members; hanni — new jeans; yunjin — le sserafim; rei — ive; soul — p1harmony; sunwoo — the boyz (more might be added later on)
WARNINGS : swearing, use of kys + kms jokes, some lovey dovey action (some warnings will be mentioned on top of the chapters if any)
NOTE : this is all FICTION! this has nothing to do with any idols irl! + reblogs/likes/comments are appreciated so i can improve later on 🤍
AUTHORS NOTE : another jungwon smau yay!! heres a smau i thought of while i was procrastinating my other smaus.. anyways im really excited for this one so i hope you guys are too as well <3
STATUS : completed ! (DEC 24 2022 - MAR 4 2023)
LOVED LOVE NEWS? CHECK OUT LOVE ERROR, THE SECOND SMAU !
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PROFILES . . !
gossip baes [yn] | love news club [jungwon]
LATEST NEWS . . ! (chapters)
article one - whats new?
article two - what if i press this silly “tweet” button 🤣
article three - SOMEONE LIKES YN??
— bonus : kim sunwoo im keeping my eyes on you fr.
article four - the dm
article five - niki scamming time
— bonus : nikis scamming (gone wrong)
article six - who? crush #45?
article seven - eye contact (written + smau)
article eight - SOUL PSYCHIC
article nine - THE BATHROOM DOOR
article ten - why she kinda
article eleven - who tf is he 😧
article twelve - idk…piss on it 🤔
article thirteen - okay what if…
article fourteen - niki DUPE
article fifteen - WON VICE PRES???
— bonus (1) : prez datez (real?!)
— bonus (2) : MF PARK SUNGHOON??
article sixteen - dude hes flirting 😂
article seventeen - overthinking ..
article eighteen - LET ME IN
article nineteen - feeling evil (written + smau)
article twenty - getting on my nerves
— bonus : her love news era 😍‼️
article twenty-one - cackles evilly
article twenty-two - just a silly move
article twenty-three - megamind 😱
article twenty-four - yn 2.0??
article twenty-five - twirls hair
article twenty-six - be mine?
article twenty-seven - confirmed <3
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ENHA PERM TAGLIST OPENED !
@son4taa @luvhooniez @yenavrse @shinsou-rii @luveuly @ilovewonyo @yenqa @dimplewonie @bubblytaetae @wtfhyuck
PERM TAGLIST . .
@ahnneyong @hanienie
WAITING FOR MORE UPDATES? JOIN NOW!
TAGLIST . . 💗 CLOSED 💗
bolded = can’t tag </3
@invusblog @wonvnz @xiaoderrrr @flowers4thalia @nyuukei @curly-fr13s @itsactuallylina @risseei @0310lvr @viagumi @luvdokja @sickvision @wanna-live-yn-life @rionah @dreamenvi @rinnqx @0i8ma @ksnu @sunoksunny @aki1e @adajoemaya @naddii @yourfavjwstan @meeznoi @neozon3nha @wonyoungsvirus @rionah @nokacchan @luvkait @kyanmeai @sserafimez @wonieleles @beomsbeanie @yabukkura @shynypeacekitten @en-minniesode @seungily @captivq @georgi-salva @nayuzaa @jjulliette
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insomniumstella · 1 year
Text
unfinished business (2) | bucky x avenger!reader
summary: Steve’s silly joke happened to inspire the best, or possibly the worst, idea Wanda had ever come up with — send James Buchanan Barnes and y/n on an all-expenses-paid honeymoon in Hawaii. the problem? they cannot stand to be around each other.
warnings: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, explicit language, alcohol consumption, sarcastic!bucky
word count: 3,230
taglist is down below (please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list!)
WHERE DREAMS GO TO DIE masterlist
series’ SPOTIFY playlist
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A brooding figure loomed over the table, and, judging by the sharp scent of woody cologne, it was not the waiter.
The sun had disappeared from the broad horizon, leaving the restaurant basking in the soft glow of lanterns and candlelight. Dreamy jazz sounds saturated the space, which was simultaneously open and closed. Despite the lousy name, Toro Toro was a spectacular overwater establishment — a long wooden dock led to an intimate setting with limited tables and a narrow but elegant bar. It was situated only a short walk away from the common areas of the hotel, possessing the pleasure of undisturbed peace as the restaurant imposed a strict adults-only policy.
“The menu’s full of oysters, caviar, shrimp with garlic butter?” Her sentence warped into a question as she read through the entrees before glancing at James through the top of the menu. “Delicious, but might be dangerous for a man pushing a hundred and ten.”
“A hundred and seven.” James scanned y/n’s exposed chest, eyes raking over the silk dress and Louboutin heels.
The man wouldn’t describe the attire as a pleasant change, that he’d die before admitting, but it was a change. The black satin shirt Steve had convinced him to pack matched the color of her clothing, and they, to anyone who knew any better, horrifically resembled a couple. A massive diamond ring rested on y/n’s fourth finger from when Tony had gifted it to her for Christmas, solidifying her as Bucky’s pretend wife. 
The table bore two bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon, one empty and the other on its way there. She must’ve been sitting at the table alone for the last half hour, nibbling at bread and cheese without ordering. If James knew y/n, and in some of the worst ways he did, he’d guess she had established a sob story of a fourth wedding anniversary and a missing husband.
He’d be right.
“I’ve heard oysters are an aphrodisiac, so that’s a no,” she placed the menu down, staring at James as he sat down, “why are you here?” 
It was the burning question of the hour. Why did James Buchanan Barnes decide upon a dinner with her? 
“I was in desperate need of an evening with you, and it is our wedding anniversary,” he nodded at the waiter, who approached the table to bring more bread, “also, I was hungry, and nothing at the buffet seemed appetizing.”
To say that nothing at the buffet seemed remotely delicious would be an understatement. The Shack was holding a Mexican night, and as much as James had fallen in love with nachos over the years sharp salsas he couldn’t yet stomach. Mexican dishes had consistently been more of a punishment than a pleasure for the soldier. A rendezvous with y/n could never compare to his intolerance for spicy foods. Besides, James had no desire for mediocre pizza at the 24/7 lounge.
She cocked her head to the side, amused. “Jordan!” The woman called after the boy. “Could you bring us champagne? Oh, and more butter, please.” She flashed him an innocent smile, gazing at him through hooded eyes.
Besides the hostess, Jordan the waiter was the first to greet y/n at Toro Toro. He had been as flirtatious as he had been awkward, but he was also great at conversation, even sitting down with y/n when she had, less than honestly, admitted that her husband would not be joining her. He had brought her an off-menu appetizer, inviting y/n to a staff party later that week as condolence.
“I see you made a friend.” James spread a generous amount of butter on a piece of bread. 
“I did! He’s a Maui local and works at the resort for good tips, hot chicks, and free booze.” The explanation earned a baffled look from James. “Jordan’s words, not mine.” She graced his empty glass with the leftover cabernet and shook her head in disbelief. “I cannot believe I had to sit through exhausting monologues of villains on vacations and catch me if you can, but please don’t for nothing.” James couldn’t figure out the latter reference.
“Did it excite you?”
“Yes.” She poured herself a glass of champagne when Jordan placed an opened bottle and hurriedly disappeared. “All that foreplay, and you still showed up.”
James grinned crookedly, staring into her eyes — for a split second, his walls crumbled, allowing her to witness an honest man who was truly amused by her joke. Except it was over before she could say anything, and James averted his gaze, picking up the menu. She is not funny. 
“Oysters are the last thing I’d imagine to an aphrodisiac,” he commented, eyes locked on the piece of paper resting in his hands. 
“Giacomo Casanova reportedly ate heaps of them for breakfast,” she drained half her glass, “learned it at Pepper’s fun fact Friday,” she explained, referring to Pepper’s infatuation with acquiring seemingly the most peculiar of information. 
Her own remembrance of bizarre knowledge had never come in handy until the conversation, yet, she had been grateful to have learned about seahorses, the purpose of eyebrows, and, in Pepper’s words, “dangerous wax coating on supermarket apples”. 
The left corner of his mouth curled up into a meager smile, “he must’ve been real horny then.” 
“He must’ve been,” she agreed. 
An unusually amicable silence settled between the pair as she bit her tongue on a cobra’s blood would be a much more unsettling aphrodisiac addition, keeping it to herself rather than continuing a conversation of sexual matters with him. James had presumably picked out an entree, messing with the silverware until a certain man caught his eye. He shuffled in the seat, refilling both of their glasses, and leaned in closer than she would ever want him to, especially during dinner, for she had not yet lost her appetite. 
“Remember Elijah Williamson,” he stared at someone behind the woman, “a corrupted politician the FBI asked us to help incarcerate?”
“Yes,” she narrowed her eyes, attempting to read Bucky’s expression, “he was accused of working with HYDRA on a similar project as they did in 2014.”
“And we both knew that HYDRA continued to work in silence and that he was guilty, even though the court deemed Elijah innocent?”
“Yes.” The tone of her voice was beginning to bear hints of annoyance again, the relatively lighthearted atmosphere shattering. 
The FBI and Avengers often bumped heads, given their lines of work, so it had come as a surprise when the government’s agents had reached a dead end and showed up at the compound for help. She could remember the day as if it had happened yesterday — the smug grin she had on throughout the first meeting and the sour taste when Steve had paired the two.
“We need someone with extensive knowledge of HYDRA and someone who could go undercover,” he had said then, “please put your differences aside. This is important.”
Steve had been wrong about the woman. She had not been needed for undercover work.
Nonetheless, by the time Natasha had offered to step in and take over, James and y/n were in too deep. Too deep into Elijah Williamson’s personal and professional lives. The case had consumed them, and at times, they’d almost stumble on the missing piece of the puzzle before the court had deemed him innocent, and they had been forced to step away empty-handed. Somedays, she strangely missed the countless cups of coffee, the sleepless nights, and the eerily peaceful conversations the two had shared for eight solid months.
“Do you still think he’s guilty?”
“The government asked us to not intervene any further after the trial was over.”
“Yes, but that is not the answer to the question I asked.” James returned his stare to her face. It was firm and heavy, and as he searched for something in her eyes, a glimmer of trust perhaps, she hunched in the chair. “Do you?”
She was in thought for a second. “We had very few leads, James.” None were of significance either. “Elijah donates to charities all the time, he helps kids in the foster system, hell, he does too much good to believe he’d want to wipe out half the population.”
“That’s what he wants everyone to assume.”
“I would love to entertain the idea of Elijah Williamson being guilty, but the man, as it stands, is innocent in the eyes of prosecutors.”
James leaned back in his seat. “Do you trust me?” His sudden change of tone took her by surprise.
“I could envision trusting you on the field if my life depended on it, but I’d be reluctant to ask for a coffee.” Reluctant was a restrained statement. 
“Good girl.”
“What?” She asked, face drained of emotions before she burst out laughing. Heaven help me, James has a praise kink, she giggled once more, he’s so getting blackmailed when we get back. 
“It slipped out on accident.” Pink hues crept onto his cheeks before his expression hardened. “Don’t turn around, but Elijah’s here, and he’s been staring at me ever since Jared brought the champagne.”
The woman must’ve developed an instinct to do the opposite of what James would instruct her because she peeked over her shoulder, locking eyes with the politician.
“The waiter’s name is Jordan.” She spoke, ignoring Bucky’s disappointed expression when their eyes met. “I suppose this action did not earn me a second good girl?”
“It did not.” He smoothed the invisible wrinkles on his satin shirt. “Please behave. Elijah is making his way towards us.” His words were less than a whisper.
She had seen Elijah at the trial, sneaking glances from the very far back to avoid getting noticed, but she did not remember him being … attractive? The man who loomed over their table had a full head of luscious, gray locks, and though he had just turned 68, he did not look a day over 50, with sun-kissed features and round eyes.
“Sergeant Barnes, it’s a surprise to see you in Maui.”
James rose to shake his outstretched hand. “I have to agree. I’d never peg you as The Maui Resort kind of man.”
“My wife and I met here, what,” he paused, “thirty years ago? We return each August for our anniversary.” He chuckled, turning his focus towards y/n. “Who’s this beautiful lady?”
“Thank you.” She offered him a smile, leaping up from the chair. “I’m Amelie, James’s wife.” She outstretched her hand, which he shook without hesitancy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
It pained James physically to abstain from an eye roll. 
“Elijah.” He introduced himself and glanced behind the pair, studying the table. “Champagne is always a sign of celebration.” Though it was not formulated as a question, his tone had notes of curiosity in it.
“Yes!” James confirmed as if breaking free from a trance. “Honeymooners,” he gestured between himself and y/n, “we’re honeymooning.”
Elijah took a second to speak, staring at the soldier in amusement, and y/n stepped in before James had a chance to deliver additional, and most likely ludicrous, lines. “Would you mind joining us for dinner?”
The politician was great at masking, but she was a spy, trained by the Natasha Romanoff to pick up every, and any, clue. “Everyone has a tell,” the redhead had observed, “learn to notice the smallest of reactions.”
It was a slight raise of his left eyebrow that had revealed his interest in the personal life of James Buchanan Barnes. His interest in James’s wife, in her.
“We’d hate to interrupt.” He spoke, and there it was again, the subconscious raise of his eyebrow.
“Please,” she smiled, softly placing a hand on Bucky’s bicep, “I’d love to hear about your program for troubled teens in foster systems.”
The soldier beside her realized y/n’s play, “we haven’t even ordered, yet,” he encouraged.
They had been asked to abandon the case, but a dinner with Elijah Williamson was the closest lead they’d ever get. The eight months they had spent working on the case had strangely been the most peaceful months he had ever spent at the compound. A snarky remark would slip past his or y/n’s lips in a while, but they had managed to act cordial. He burned with a desire to demolish HYDRA and anything that was left of it, and she had taken the hint, letting James lead the way. It had been the first time he had seen y/n for who she truly was — a great spy and agent, but she’d never know for he’d never tell her. The pair had built a balance between respect and hatred, and compliments had no place in their complex relationship.
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She had always known James was a deadly assassin and an excellent spy, but she had never accounted James as a persuasive liar. By the time dessert came, Bucky had fabricated intricate stories of their wedding, life after retirement, and a random fake cat named Alpine. According to him, it had magnificent white fur and was adopted. He had lazily draped the metal arm across her chair’s backrest a while ago, and she could almost forget the motive behind the dinner. Bucky’s stories had painted him as a cool, loving husband, who had been eager for a honeymoon ever since the two got falsely married. That he hadn’t mentioned.
The tone of his voice remained charming throughout the night, and y/n silently reminded herself this dinner wasn’t a pleasure for Bucky or for herself, but simply a means to an end.
“James, do not take this the wrong way, but Amelie is wonderful.” Nancy, Elijah’s wife, spoke. “Very few people would be willing to forgive, and pardon me for the harsh phrasing, the Winter Soldier’s bloody past.”
James tensed at the words, maintaining his faux grin. “She is.”
Perhaps under different circumstances, she could see herself appreciating Nancy. The woman operated multiple charities, was a human rights lawyer, and a socialite. She oozed elegance, her graying blonde locks, pulled into a tight bun, perfectly complemented her auburn orange gown. She appeared to be out of touch with reality at times, but she was somewhat friendly and welcoming. Definitely, a great listener, and though being a great listener did not exclude someone from committing crimes, y/n had a hard time comprehending that this graceful woman could do as much as lift a finger to a small animal. Nancy couldn’t want half the population wiped out, could she?
“It was harsh,” she came to Bucky’s defense, “but I understand how it could appear from the outside looking in,” her tone had an edge sharper than she intended it to. 
“Amelie’s a very forgiving person,” James shifted in his seat, removing his arm to refill everyone's wine glasses, “and she’s all mine.” The glimmer in his eyes when he turned to peek at her was a relieved thank you.
“Sergeant Barnes,” she broke their brief eye contact to look at Nancy, “has blood on his hands, but it is not a burden James should bare, for it was HYDRA’s fault.” She noticed as his hand slowly crept underneath the table, harshly squeezing her thigh; a warning that it’s too soon to bring it up. “If HYDRA existed to this day, I would destroy it myself for everything they’ve done to him.” Bucky's firm grasp had painted goosebumps on her exposed skin, yet she refrained from smacking his palm away, opting to furtively push it aside.
“She asks me to get rid of spiders.” He forced a chuckle, studying y/n, and removed his hand. “My wife is too terrified to kill them.”
“Oh, I believe Amelie. A woman would do anything for the man she loves.” Nancy nodded, causing the two to share a pithy look.
“Nancy’s right, James, your wife is a wonderful young woman,” he peered at him through the top of his glass, “and Amelie, thank you for having common sense.”
She analyzed Elijah's body language, noticing a second tell.
The politician would gently tap on his glass, middle and index fingers barely making contact with the object before he'd push it away to knit his hands together. It had only begun after bottles of champagne they had shared as a group. He was intoxicated and most likely wouldn’t shy away from speaking voluntarily.
“What do you mean?”
“Last year I was on a trial instigated by some FBI fools.” The politician leaned back in his seat. “They accused me of leading HYDRA, except HYDRA doesn’t manifestly exist."
She caught the word manifestly, holding onto it. If he had ended the sentence with "HYDRA doesn't exist, manifestly," she might've let it slip, but, and perhaps she was reading too much into it given his underhanded past, "HYDRA doesn't manifestly exist"?
“The FBI does more damage than good.” She spoke with faux reassurance. “I wouldn’t find it hard to believe those knuckleheads put a lovely man through unimaginable horrors.”
“Careful, Sergeant, I might have to steal her.” Elijah’s comment earned him a playful smack on the shoulder from Nancy. “Darling, it was a joke. Nancy Williamson is the only woman I’d ever need.” He placed a tender kiss on her temples before turning his attention to James.
“What is the secret?” He questioned, pretending to be amazed by their affection. “We might need it a couple years down the road.” A sly smile stretched across his features.
“Don’t say that!” Nancy hiccuped as she drained her glass. “You’re both so young and so in love.”
We are young, y/n thought, but hell would freeze over before we fell in love.
The woman placed a gentle hand on Nancy’s before she could refill her glass. “It’s probably best if we called it a night.” She spoke, pretending to care whether Nancy was drunk or sober. 
“I was skeptical of a dinner with the former Winter Soldier at first,” Elijah wrapped a hand around Nancy’s shoulders, pulling her into his embrace, “but it was great. I cannot believe you cook eggs with pesto, I must try that.”
“I do,” James nodded, unsure of what pesto was, only ever hearing about it from Tony, but supporting his lie nonetheless, “it’s a breakfast from heaven.”
Elijah laughed at his words, loud and carefree. “What are your plans for tomorrow?” He asked, glancing between them.
Her plan was to tan in an adults-only beach and drink her body weight in mediocre margaritas, as far away from James as she could possibly get, but an honest answer might not have gone down well.
“Surprisingly, we have not decided yet.”
“Great! Nancy and I are organizing a yacht party tomorrow, so put it on the list.”
James wasn’t a fan of yachts, parties, or spending time around y/n, but he was willing to sacrifice comfort if it meant a solid lead toward the demolition of HYDRA, “I cannot wait.” 
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TAGS:
@legohe4rts @missvelvetsstuff @browneyedgirl22 @gr33nleo @thatrandomcatoverthere @fiftywhore1 @buggy14 @nt-multi-fandom @physically-im-fine @marygoddessofmischief @fuckthealarm
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jae-bummer · 5 months
Text
Wrong Number
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Request: Can I request n° 14 from your prompt list with shownu or woozi pls 🥺omg I love your works 💗💗
Prompt:
14) You accidentally send a text meant for your ex to the wrong number. Your bias replies.
Pairing: Seventeen Woozi x Reader
Genre: Fluff
Song rec as you read: Still Here (Acoustic Ver.) - ATEEZ
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Chewing on your lip, you stared down at your phone screen, tapping it lightly whenever it began to dim. All you had to do was hit send.
You read the message over and over again, trying to determine if it sounded like you were trying too hard. After nearly ten different variations of the same message, you deleted it all again and settled for something a little more profound.
Hey :)
Was the smiley face too much? You didn't want to seem too eager. Maybe you should - shit, you brushed against the send button.
Flying into a bit of a panic, you decided it would be the best course of action to send another message.
It was really good seeing you yesterday! I hadn't expected us to bump into each other, but I'm glad we did.
You took a deep breath before tapping send again.
That was a little better. If he had deleted your number, at least now he could figure out who you were via context clues.
Leaning back into your couch, you wished the cushions would simply swallow you up. You were mortified with your increased heartbeat. How could you let yourself get so worked up over a guy who had broken up with you?
And it wasn't a delicate breakup. You had been seeing him for nearly a year when he decided to tell you (through text you might add) that it simply wasn't working out anymore. He was your first real boyfriend since coming to Seoul, so you could admit that part of you would always hold a soft spot for him.
That's why, when you bumped into him at a cafe yesterday, you couldn't stop your stomach from plunging to your toes. He was still just as beautiful as you had remembered. Asking for his contact information felt like a fever dream now. At some point in your post-breakup anger, you had deleted any of his information that still lived in your phone. To save face, you told him you lost all of your contacts after getting a new device.
You couldn't quite remember if he had mentioned meeting to catch up or if it was you, but you left the experience in a daze. It took you hours to talk yourself into taking the plunge and sending that text. Now all there was left to do was wait.
It had been only minutes before you heard the high-pitched ding.
Vulnerability was not your strong suit. Even something as simple as allowing yourself to hope was a dangerous route to go down, so you tried to squash the optimistic butterflies that sprang up in your stomach before they could take flight.
Steeling yourself, you finally looked at the screen.
wrong number
You jerked backward as if you had been slapped. Maybe he hadn't picked up on the context clues after all.
It's Y/N. You gave me your number, remember?
Surely you hadn't dreamed up the entire interaction. He must not have been expecting you to actually text. Well, that stung a bit.
You flinched as your phone dinged an instant later.
still wrong number
You double checked the contact you had texted and felt your face grow flush. Your stomach felt hollow. Did your ex seriously give you a fake number?
Just so we're clear...this isn't a joke...right? This really isn't Jae?
Typing bubbles immediately appeared.
nope. sorry.
You blinked dumbly at the screen. God, how could you have been so stupid?
..
Woozi tilted his head as he glanced at the screen. When he had read the first message, he automatically assumed his number had been leaked again. It wasn't a common occurrence, but it was known to happen on occasion. After the second message came through shortly after, he narrowed his eyes. He hadn't even left his studio yesterday.
"What's up?" Hoshi asked, shifting to sit up from his lounging position on the couch.
"Wrong number," Woozi muttered, placing his phone face down beside his keyboard.
"Weird," Hoshi hummed.
Woozi's phone vibrated again, causing him to sigh.
"I thought it was a wrong number," Hoshi chuckled.
"I did too," Woozi grumbled, typing back a quick response. He had no idea who Y/N was or how they got ahold of his number, so he was certainly not who they were looking for.
After his phone vibrated again, he let out a small huff.
"What is going on over there?" Hoshi laughed, now moving to hunch over the shorter member's shoulder.
"Nothing," Woozi said shortly, attempting to set his phone back down before Hoshi snatched it from his hand.
"Aw," he clucked, holding the device high enough into the air that Woozi knew he would look ridiculous trying to jump for it. "Well, that's sad."
"Yep," Woozi groaned. "Now give it back."
"Wait," Hoshi chuckled, now typing quickly on the screen. "I need the tea."
"You need the what?" Woozi asked, now increasingly annoyed. Choosing to make a fool of himself after all, he began to hop around Hoshi, tugging at his arms in a futile attempt to get the phone back.
"The tea," Hoshi clarified. "Let's live vicariously through someone else's misery."
"I have enough of my own," Woozi groaned. "Now give it back."
"Ooooh," Hoshi said, spinning so his back faced the other man. "Jae is the ex-boyfriend."
Woozi rolled his eyes. "Why do you care?"
"Oh my god, he gave them this number," Hoshi gasped. "He ghosted them and doxed you in the process."
"Doxing requires them knowing who I am," Woozi sighed, crossing his arms. "And it sounds like all of this was just a coincidence. Now, please give me my phone and leave me alone."
"Fine," Hoshi pouted, dropping it into Woozi's palm. "Party pooper."
Shaking his head, Woozi plopped back into his desk chair and went back to work. After a few minutes, he had completely forgotten all about the person who had texted him and brought their misfortune to his doorstep.
Or at least he thought he did.
After hitting a wall while creating a new song, he looked idly around the room in search of inspiration. This was the hardest part of his job, having to work around the writer's block.
Lifting a brow, his gaze settled on his cell.
Flipping it back over, he tapped through it aimlessly before finally settling on the chat that Hoshi had continued.
who's jae btw???
Hoshi and his need for unnecessary punctuation.
He's my ex-boyfriend. He said this number was his. Prepare yourself for any other jilted lovers that might be heading your way.
Woozi shook his head. Why couldn't people just be straightforward with each other?
ugh that's the worst. i'm so sorry.
It was the worst and Woozi was sorry. That didn't mean that he wanted Hoshi to continue the conversation.
Thanks :) I appreciate that. I'll stop bothering you and crawl back into my hole now.
Woozi set down his phone and turned back to his screen. He had been in his share of unsuccessful relationships and seen plenty amongst his members. In none of those situations had something like this happened before.
Clicking through various windows for a few moments, he heaved a deep sigh before grabbing his phone again. Before he could think better of it, he began to type.
you doing ok?
It was short and not too invasive. He wasn't looking for any new friends, but he could at least be a decent human being. Plus, this could be just the inspiration he needed to continue his song. Heartbreaks were always a hit.
...
You squinted blearily into the darkness of your bedroom.
you up?
Chuckling to yourself, you turned the brightness down on your phone before responding.
Lee Jihoon, you DID NOT just send me a "u up?" text.
The response came shortly after.
i used "you" not "u." give me some credit.
Rolling your eyes, you settled back into your pillows with a smile. It had been about a month since you had purposefully texted your ex, while accidentally texting Woozi. You hadn't expected for anything to come out of the situation and there was definitely no way that you would've seen this turn of events coming.
You liked him. Against your better judgement, you were crushing on a complete stranger that happened his way into your life. At this point, you had exchanged countless texts, hours on the phone, and photos of your day. Woozi worked a lot, so on occasion, you would even sit on FaceTime and work quietly together. Just having each other for company was comforting in a way that you hadn't found with another person in quite some time. It had all been a bit of a shock, but you complimented each other well.
On several occasions, you had attempted to meet up, but life was hard for both of you. With Woozi's schedules, it was difficult to stay on the same square in the calendar. Admittedly, you had been the one to cancel once or twice as well, but the time had finally come. You were supposed to meet today.
Which made Woozi's text all the more concerning.
Is this the part where you have to cancel on our plans today?
You glanced at the time, noting it was still the early morning hours. Either he hadn't gone to bed yet, or he was waking up much too soon.
ye of little faith.
i'm not cancelling. i'm just not sleeping well.
You lifted a brow. Normally, he wasn't one to be prejudice against a sleeping situation. Since he got so little of it, he often could fall asleep anytime, anywhere.
That is, unless his brain was working overtime.
What's got your brain going this time?
You waited only seconds.
you
You inhaled sharply. Woozi was generally a direct person. Getting him to talk about his emotions, and more specifically, his opinion of you, was a bit more difficult though. Sometimes he was able to speak in such a straight way that it caught you off guard. Other times, he relied on the soft, quiet moments in between to really convey how he felt.
Me?
This time, he typed for a while.
yes, you i'm probably only saying this bc i can be a coward behind a keyboard BUT i'm nervous about today in a good way but...another part of me is scared that we're putting each other on these pedestals that are much too tall. how can reality actually reflect the image of you that my mind has created?
You sniffed in amusement.
It would have been much easier to say you're scared that this is too good to be true.
The typing bubbles appeared and disappeared several times. You knew he was going to come back with something sassy.
i don't do "easy" well, y/n
He had that right.
Rolling over onto your side, you chewed your lip. You could easily admit that you probably had an idealized version of Woozi in your head. It was hard not to when you got to see the best parts of each other every day. That being said, it didn't mean that that image was wrong. It just wasn't factoring in the darker side of his personality. Everyone had one and you wouldn't fault him for being human.
It'll work out. We both know that there's still so much to learn about each other. We just need to be patient and have a little faith.
He hearted your response before his own appeared.
my y/n. so wise.
Your heart fluttered at the simple words. Seeing him acknowledge that you were his made you feel full. You knew you were right. Everything would work out fine.
....
Spinning your phone around on the tabletop, your brain warred against you. Maybe this was a bad idea.
Unlike most people your age, you had never met with someone from the internet before, let alone a stranger you had accidentally texted in a fit of love sickness. Woozi had insisted that he had never done anything like this before either, so that brought at least a small amount of solace.
Plus, everyone you had ever met had been a stranger at one point.
And Woozi really hadn't been what you would consider a "stranger" for some time now.
You looked up from the cafe table for the hundredth time as someone entered.
Still not him.
Taking a deep breath, you nodded to yourself. Everything would be alright. You had told Woozi as much this morning. Now it was time to believe it.
"Hey stranger," a familiar voice hummed from above you. Glancing up, you met the shining, dark eyes you had only ever seen on a phone screen. It felt surreal.
"Jihoon," you breathed, a smile stretching across your lips.
"Well, come on," he clucked, motioning for you to stand. You did as directed, nearly forgetting to breath as he wrapped you in a quick hug.
"Sorry," he said, pulling away almost instantly. "I should've asked if you were okay with physical affection. Are you?"
You nodded weakly, trying to find a coherent thought through the cloud of Woozi's scent. He didn't smell strongly of anything aside from clean laundry, but it was enough to catch you off guard. He was in front of you, looking gorgeous and smelling comforting. It almost felt impossible.
"You sure?" he asked, his mouth hitching up at the corner. He slid into the seat across from where you were sitting.
Plopping dumbly back into your own seat, you shook your head. Get ahold of yourself, Y/N.
"Sorry," you croaked. "I'm just trying to...uh...wrap my brain around...well, you."
Woozi smiled, his cheeks going slightly pink. "I know what you mean."
Glancing around the cafe, he set his hands in front of him. "Let's just wait a moment...to take everything in?"
You nodded, immediately allowing yourself to look at him directly. His cuteness definitely transferred to how he looked in person. He wore his hair as you usually saw it, dark, long, and slightly wavy. He had a solid jawline and a cute, button nose (the deadliest combination). His shoulders and arms were much wider and more muscular than you had expected, which was both attractive and terrifying.
Overall, he was breathtaking.
He seemingly refused to look at you though. Continuing his search around his surroundings, you noticed his fingers slowly begin to creep toward yours. Halting before they got to their destination, he deigned a glimpse your way.
"You were right," he said quietly.
"That's good to hear," you grinned. "But what about?"
Finally placing his hand on top of yours, he gave it a gentle squeeze. "I wanted this before, but now that I have you in front of me, I want to know everything. The pedestal was high, but you're still sitting on top of it."
You were positive you were about to short circuit. Who just walked around saying things like that?
"Who would have thought," you managed. "That I would have an ex-boyfriend to thank for giving me the wrong number."
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xiamentshoneypot · 2 months
Text
Heart stopper
Angst no comfort
Not proof read
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Everything went wrong so horrifically wrong, everything else horribly wrong, felt wrong the air that had been pushed into your lungs replacing the air that had been knocked out of you when you realized you’d been ambushed and the comms had been intercepted and he couldn’t hear you. How you heart was so erratic you’d bet it had to rock it’s self and count to ten to calm down after everything had settled. All the air that passed thought shallowly after you’d made your choice. Bold
Now here you were aching and screaming at the top of your lungs at the man you’d die for at any minute it didn’t matter. “fucking answer me” you said calmly trying to soothe your aching arm and heart. This felt like when you had did somthing bad and you thought someone knew and you were just waiting for the shoe to drop the anxiety you felt at the bottom of your heart and to the tops of your soul and being in every form it could possibly take.
Silence. It was infuriating “fucking answer me now” you screamed your sweet voice now high pitched and bare utterly agnostic on the eyes of everyone. Good you wanted him to suffer as you heart is…
“Luv’ m’trying to help” Simon bowed his head scared not from a physical threat or anything like that, scared of your tone you’d never spoken to anyone like that before not when you were barking orders at subordinates and not when interacting with the enemy for information. He’d much rather those voices than this. “Then fucking answer me then! Are you in love with Her”.
Bitter
“Love m’sorry” he tried to plead with you it felt like a firefighter trying to talk someone down from a cliff after the ink dried on all there notes stamped and in route. “Yes or no” you sour voice asked eyes narrowed and soppy. Hoping a quick nod would free him a swift yes of the head stepping forward trying to touch you. Bluntly stepping back chest rising and falling hard.
“Why? And don’t give me no bullshit about how you can’t help who you fall in love with that’s bullshit!” How could he love her she’d done nothing toe arm his love she wasn’t there for him how you were.
“She- she what huh what the hell did she do to deserve that?” You interrupted her was taking too long and it was pissing you off like he had a long list of reasons he was considering. “Please I don’t want to hurt you” he pleaded he never begged like this. “Mission failed bitch what is it huh” you needed a reason and he was stuck.
“She wasn’t there for you, she wasn’t the one who stood by you through the last ten months, the night terrors the ptsd. You didn’t fuck and make love to her for seven months straight sleeping next to her, waking up with her breakfast all that shit.” Did you mean nothing to him did all of that mean nothing.
“I would die for you I just took a fucking bullet for you, not because I had to but because I love you that’s not nothing there aren’t many people who would do that for love.” You had just jumped in front of a bullet to save him to make sure he didn’t die in the face of the enemy.
The coms had been jammed and there were more and more people approaching him, in a stupid act of love you raced over to his aid to see him down but fighting as well as fading into death. Fighting for him, beside him ready to give your life to save or die with him once the gun smoke cleared and you drug his limp body on one good leg and shoulder to the evac site shedding tear after tear for him praying to a god you were sure had domed you years ago. Pleading with him not to fade away in your arms an “I love you” on the top of your tongue when he asks for her.
“it’s everything” he whispered hearing how your heart broke right in front of him love gone like he had almost been.
“I hate you Simon”
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maivolpe · 1 year
Note
Can I request Bucky being protective of reader? 😊
of course nonnie! thank you for requesting, i hope you enjoy ♡
・。゚: ∘◦☾◦∘。゚.
pairing: bucky barnes x reader cw: none wc: 617
you had finally convinced bucky to come grocery shopping with you, after hours of unsuccessful attempts to drag him out the door. you were both bundled in your matching hoodies. you swore blue was “his color,” and of course you got one too.
you’d been trying to get him to go out more, just so that he could feel normal for a few hours. doing mundane tasks made him happier than he would admit.
you had already snapped ten pictures of him on the way in, causing his cheeks to warm as he pulled his hood up. he just looked so beautiful to you, his eyes scrunching up when he smiled for what felt like the first time in a while.
you let him follow you through the produce aisle, but the two of you split up so he could go to the deli and you could replenish your baking supplies. you knew nothing about meat, and while he could bake, that was your claim to fame.
unfortunately for you, there was a man at the end of the aisle. you tried your best to shop from your side, mentally checking ingredients off of your list.
you felt his eyes on you as you looked down the shelves for chocolate chips. please don’t say anything, just let me get my chocolate and leave.
“hi!”
ugh.
you sent a tight-lipped smile his way, turning your attention back to the chocolate chips.
he moved closer to you, and you felt in your pocket for your keys. an overreaction? maybe. but then again, men didn’t normally approach you at the grocery store. he was wiry, but you didn’t want to take chances.
“you’re beautiful,” he confessed. he watched you expectantly, waiting. what did he want, a medal?
“oh! um, thank you.” you smiled, though it didn’t reach your eyes. clutching onto your hoodie sleeve, you tugged at it to avoid looking at him.
“i’m sorry for being so forward, but could i get your number?”
hadn’t he seen you come in with bucky? you guys were matching, for god’s sake.
“no thank you,” you smiled apologetically. “i actually have a boyfriend.”
he laughed, holding his phone out to you. “i’m sure he won’t mind.”
a beat of silence passed as you processed what he had just said. what could you even say now? you’d already turned him down once, and he clearly had no regard for your existing relationship. could you walk away?
before you could think to do anything, strong arms snaked around your waist and you relaxed, letting yourself melt under the familiar touch. it wasn’t like you couldn’t take care of yourself, you both knew that you could, but it was comforting to have him by your side.
“hey doll,” he rumbled, leaning over your shoulder and catching your lips in a passionate kiss. you broke it eventually out of embarrassment, your cheeks tinged with red at the wide eyes of the man across you. “thought i lost you,” bucky continued.
“‘m right here,” you squeaked, caught in the middle of the two men. you felt better with bucky behind you, but the other man’s face was beginning to redden.
“who’s this?” bucky asked, his eyes narrowing as if he hadn’t been keeping an eye on you across the aisle.
“i didn’t actually catch your name, mister…?”
“never mind,” the man spat, turning on his heel and stalking away.
bucky chuckled, the vibrations from his laugh tickling your shoulder. he adjusted his grip on your waist, squeezing you tighter. “you doing okay darling?”
“yeah, but that was mean, buck,” you groaned.
he smirked, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “so is he. i’m sure he won’t mind.”
・。゚: ∘◦☾◦∘。゚.
ko-fi ♡
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brewsterispunkk · 1 year
Text
THE TUTOR
part 2/4
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pairing: eddie munson x afab!reader (period is mentioned), eddie munson x fem!reader
WC: 4.1k
summary: reader and eddie begin their little deal.
warnings: idiots. just idiots. also brief SA-- nothing explicit, just groping--NOT main pairing, recreational drug use
A/N: here is part 2! hope u love it! pls pls pls leave feedback ;) read it and weep.
Senior Year Bucket List
1) Get drunk
2) Skip Class
3) Do a drug
4) Sneak out
5) Skinny dip
6) Get a boyfriend, lose my virginity
You sighed and shook your head as soon as you’d written that last part, hands only half-shaking.
This was fine, you thought to yourself. 
It wasn’t weird, you kept telling yourself. It wasn’t. Eddie himself had asked you to come to school Monday with an itemized list of what exactly you’d felt like you’d missed out on. “A bucket list of sorts” he called it. 
You had to keep yourself from adding “feeling safe” to the list of things you’d felt you’d missed out on.
That was difficult for you sometimes. 
For the most part, you’d been able to compartmentalize what had happened to you last summer: the deaths, the torture, the “mall fire.” The rest of Hawkins knew that you’d survived it, along with Steve, Robin, and the kids. You’d gotten away with minor bruising to the face and neck after a Russian tried to choke you in an effort to get you to talk. It wasn’t ideal, but it could have been worse. Steve had been the one to take the brunt of the torture. You and Robin had screamed yourselves hoarse while they beat him in the other room. 
You sometimes still had nightmares about the sick sound of their fists hitting his face.
When you’d emerged as one of the survivors of what they were calling the “Starcourt Mall Fire,” your mother had been relieved. After your father had split when you were ten, you were all she had. Still, she hadn’t been prepared for the effects of what had happened to you. To be fair, neither were you. Neither were any of you. 
You’d always been shy, ever since you were a kid, but now instead of having a generally quiet disposition, you were skittish. The slightest noise made you jump, and you couldn’t stand to listen to Reagan talk about the U.S.S.R. on the news without having a panic attack. The nightmares had subsided after about two months, though they returned whenever you were stressed. 
You found you always looked over your shoulder, always looking out for some unknown thing that might be stalking you. When people talk about saving the world, they never talk about the ugly parts. About the broken fingernails and the insomnia and the muffling of sobs behind your hand as you break down in the girls’ bathroom. 
It’s a lonely thing, being a hero. An unfair thing. You felt like that night at Starcourt, when Hopper and Billy Hargrove hadn’t emerged from the fire, your adolescence had been stolen from you. That it had disappeared with the smoke and ash as it engulfed Scoops Ahoy and the rest of the shopping center. You hope that if Eddie actually does follow through with this little deal of yours, you’ll be able to experience at least a little of it. 
- - - -
“So,” Eddie drummed his hands on the top of your desk as he slid into the seat in front of you. “What do you have for me, miss tutor girl?”
He was awfully chipper for 7:00 in the morning. You blinked at him and skated your gaze across the room. 
It was close enough to first period for the room to be reasonably filled with students, most too sluggish to notice. But a few girls towards the front looked over their shoulders at him, eyes narrowed, before zooming in on you, where they widened curiously. 
“What, scared for your reputation?” Eddie was only half-joking, his eyes a little guarded. They narrowed at you. 
You shook your head almost comically. 
“No,” you burst. “No, not at all. Just had a weird night.”
“Hm,” he looked at you skeptically. You rolled your eyes.
“We’ve already talked about this, Eddie. I don’t have a reputation for you to ruin.”
He snorted at that.
“Alright then,” he leaned forward, his chin on his fists. “What’s got you so skittish, then? Another crazy party like Friday?”
“No,” you sighed, leaning down to retrieve your list from your backpack. “Just couldn’t sleep.”
 “Okay.” He looked like he didn’t believe you. You didn’t blame him; you couldn’t have been that convincing. You couldn’t bring yourself to care.  
“Did you bring it?” He asked. 
You nodded, slamming the sheet of notebook paper onto the desk and slid it over to him. 
“Here you go,” you pulled at your sleeve nervously. “Just don’t laugh, okay?”
Eddie looked at you and feigned shock. 
“Me? Laugh at you? I’m offended.”
“Eddie, I’m serious,” you felt your cheeks flush and your stomach plummet. “I’m just–It’s embarrassing. I’m being very… vulnerable and if you’re gonna laugh, we can just forget about it—”
“Hey, hey, hey,” his warm hands covered yours where they were sitting on the desk. He squeezed your palms reassuringly.  “I was kidding. I won’t laugh. Scout’s honor.”
You looked into his eyes for a moment to see if he was serious. All you saw was sincerity. You let out a deep breath. 
“You were a boy scout?” 
His lips spread in a wry smile as he turned to the paper. 
“Nope,” he unfolded the list. “It’s the thought that counts, though, right?”
You shrugged. 
“I guess?”
“Okay, what do we have here?” 
You sat in awkward silence as Eddie scanned the page, dark eyes focused. Hie brows were furrowed and his lips pouted in concentration. 
“‘Get drunk,’ we can certainly make that happen. ‘Skip a class,’ you won’t need to ask me twice.” He stopped for a moment and huffed a laugh. 
You felt your cheeks heat up. 
“What–”
“‘Do a drug.’” He said with a secret smile–like he knew something you didn’t. 
“Yeah,” you drew out. “I figured you’d know a guy.”
“Oh,” Eddie laughed. “I know a guy.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” he smiled at you, before turning his eyes back to the page. “Ohh.”
Eddie’s eyes sparkled as he turned them back to you. He looked like a sprite, you thought. With his wild hair and mischievous smile. He was gorgeous. 
“‘Get a boyfriend,’” he set the list down on the table. “Am I going to be playing match-maker, teacher’s pet?”
You rolled your eyes. He was teasing you. 
“If that’s what it takes,” you quipped, your nervousness having melted away. “And I am not a teacher’s pet.”
“Whatever you say,” he raised an eyebrow at you. 
As you opened your mouth to respond, the clearing of a throat interrupted you. 
You looked up to see Cameron Reyes leering over Eddie. 
“Hey. You’re in my seat,” he sneered. “Beat it.”
Eddie sighed, before slinking out of the seat slowly, taking his time. 
“My apologies,” he smiled at Cameron, before dropping into his own seat, next to you. 
You glared at the back of Cameron’s head. 
Why did he have to be such an asshole?
Cameron was on the swim team and you’d had classes with him since Kindergarten. He hadn’t always been a dick; In fourth grade when you’d skinned your knee, he’d helped you up and walked you to the nurse’s office. It wasn’t until high school, when he’d begun running with guys like Tommy Hagan, that he’d changed. Now, you couldn’t stand him. 
That was the way of things, though, in Hawkins. There were the bullies and the bullied—rarely anything in between.
- - - -
As you walked down the halls, you felt their eyes on your legs and you regretted letting Robin convince you to wear this skirt. 
The denim felt heavy on your hips. You wiped your clammy hands on the blue material, wishing that you didn’t have to walk practically across school to get to pre-calc. 
“Looking good,” someone whistled from behind you. You felt dread seep down your spine. 
Please no, not here. 
This wasn’t the first time you’d been catcalled. 
The first time was when you and Robin were thirteen and walking to the general store down the road from your houses. A few men in a pick-up truck had rolled their windows down and told you in great detail all they’d liked to do to you. You and Robin hid inside the general store until the clerk called your mom to pick you up. You hadn’t even gotten your first period yet. 
However, this was the first time you’d been catcalled at school. It still felt just as scary as the first time. 
“Where have you been hiding those legs, teacher’s pet?” 
You whipped around at the nickname, bristling at it. You hated when people called you that, unless that person was Eddie. 
You were faced with a basketball player; one of the guys who hung out with Jason Carver and sometimes Lucas. Thomas Reed. Your skin crawled at the way he and the two boys behind him looked at you. 
“Fuck off,” you spat at him before turning on your heel and walking faster to your destination. 
“Aw, come on, don’t be like that!” He called after you, but you could barely hear him over the blood rushing in your ears. 
It only calmed when you’d reached your classroom.
- - - -
“Are you even listening to me?” You smacked his hand where it was tapping on the wood of the library table. Outside, a heavy autumn rain pummeled the sidewalk, the trees swaying with it. 
“Yes,” Eddie rolled his eyes. 
“What did I just say?”
“That…Holden is a whiny little bitch.”
You sighed, bringing a hand to your forehead. 
“No.” You ground out. “And if you write that in your essay, Ms. Taylor is going to fail you and me, so please, can you take this seriously?”
He sighed and had the nerve to look a little guilty. It made your heart clench a bit. 
In the few sessions you’d tutoring Eddie, your crush had done anything but lessened. In fact, it had grown tenfold. It was one thing to admire him from across the room, it was another completely to spend time with him and actually be able to talk to him. 
You found that in addition to being cute and pensive, he was kind and not at all the scary loner that everyone painted him to be. If he hadn’t cemented his reputation by being an avid player of D&D, he would’ve been popular, you thought. 
And all this goes to day: you couldn’t stay mad at him, even when you wanted to.
“Okay,” he said, blowing his bangs out of his eyes. You briefly reminded yourself to offer to cut them for him later—he’d been complaining about them getting in his face all session. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”
“What?” Your attention snapped back to him. Eddie looked at you like you’d grown another head. 
“Uhh, I asked what you were saying?”
“Oh! Oh yeah,” you shook your head. “I zoned out.”
“I gathered that.” Eddie snorted, leaning forward. “Uh, off-topic, but I was wondering, when do you wanna get started on that bucket list?”
“Oh. Whenever.”
“I was thinking we could start this week.”
“So soon?” You practically squeaked. As excited you were about these new experiences, you were nervous. Especially because the person you’d be experiencing them with was Eddie. You didn’t want to embarrass yourself. 
“No time like the present,” Eddie’s voice was chipper. “So, what did you wanna start with?”
“I thought we’d start small and work up to something bigger?” You asked.
“That sounds good,” Eddie nodded. “How does skipping class work for this week?”
“Ugh, not well actually.” You sighed, sour. “We have that exam this week in Taylor’s and then for Chem I have—”
“Relax, we don’t have to start with that one. Hmm, what else…”
“We could always—”
You cut yourself off, thinking better of it, but Eddie caught you. 
“Nevermind.”
“No, what is it?”
You looked at him skeptically. 
“If you wanna do something, you gotta tell me. It’s your bucket list, tutor-girl, not mine.”
“What if we…did a drug?”
God, you sounded like such a teacher’s pet saying it.
“Okay, teacher’s pet.” Eddie’s face was gleeful, excited. “You’re full of surprises. We can do that, definitely.”
“Okay,” you let out a breath. 
“Any reason why you jumped to that one?”
“I just– I’m so stressed.” Thomas Reed’s lustful gaze flashed in your mind and you shook it off. 
“You okay?” Eddie grabbed your hand on the table. You swallowed. 
“Yeah,” you said lamely, mouth dry. “Just–a lot going on. School.”
“School,” Eddie repeated like he didn’t believe you. His eyes held yours for a moment before he nodded. “Okay teacher’s pet. Drugs it is. Any preference?”
“Nothing too crazy. Just something to take the edge off?”
“I can do that,” he smiled. “This is gonna be fun.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just think you’ll be funny high.”
“We’ll see,” you narrowed your eyes at him. He just smiled at you for a moment. Your eyes held his and you had the sudden urge to reach over the table and kiss him. You coughed, turning back to your notes in front of you. 
“Anyway, what do you think Salinger’s trying to say?”
“Other than the fact that Holden is annoying?”
“Eddie, I’m serious—”
“I am too!” Eddie insisted. “All this shit about ‘phonies,’ when he’s just like them–”
“You know, I thought you’d relate to Holden.” You smirked at him.
“What?”
“Well, he’s an outcast—all teenage angst and—”
“I’m twenty, thank you.” He snapped at you, causing you to stutter. 
“Oh, no I didn’t mean outcast like—”
“No, it’s okay,” Eddie chuckled, waving you off. “It’s true. And I like it that way.”
You eyed him skeptically. 
“Really, I do.” He folded his arms over his chest. “There are too many assholes in this school. If I wanted to fit in, I’d have to act like them. At least a little bit. Besides, I’ve got people. Not much, but I’ve got’em.”
You hummed. 
“I’ve never thought of that.”
“What, Holden being a bitch, because—”
You smacked his arm, laughing. 
“Okay, okay, sorry,” Eddie giggled. He giggled. Your heart leapt. “What, though? What did I say that was so profound?”
He was being sarcastic, you could tell, but you didn’t care. 
“The whole—having to sacrifice part of yourself to fit in. It’s true. I’d never thought of it like that.”
He hummed, eyes holding yours a moment, before his grin broke the moment. 
“Maybe I should be the one tutoring, huh?”
You scoffed and rolled your eyes. 
“Turn to page 225.”
- - - -
Thomas found you again the next day, this time before school as you were at your locker. 
“Hey there,” he smiled, sliding up next to you, effectively boxing you in between him and the locker. You jumped, moving as close to the locker as you could. “How are you today?”
“Leave me alone,” you ground out, trying to slip past him, but his hand in a hard grip on your arm stopped you. 
“Aw, but we could have so much fun, teacher’s pet.”
“Let me go—”
“Where’s your little skirt?” he asked, grip tightening on your arm as you scrambled to get away. 
You silently cursed whoever in the administration office had placed your locker on one of the most abandoned hallways in the school. 
“Your legs looked so good—”
His palm came to squeeze the meat of your ass and your stomach churned. Without thinking, you spat in his face, palm coming to connect with his cheek. 
“You cunt—”
“The hell is going on here?” 
Eddie walked briskly up to you as you stepped back from Thomas. He moved to stand between you two, face hard. It was the mask he put on every day in front of the rest of the school, the ones who thought he was mean and scary. Only now, you weren’t sure how much of it was a mask. 
“Nothing, man.” Thomas waved him off, wiping his face. He glared at you in a way that made your feet stick to the spot. 
“It doesn’t look like nothing.”
“I said it's nothing.”
“And I said—”
“It’s fine,” you mumbled. 
“Hey wait—”
Eddie moved to grab Thomas as he walked away from the two of you. 
“I said it’s fine,” you said louder this time, and reached out to grab Eddie’s shoulder and pull him back toward you. 
“Bullshit!” He spun and turned toward you, clearly pissed off. “What the hell was that?”
“I said it was fine, Eddie!” You burst at him, voice cracking. You took a deep breath. 
“Honey, are you—” 
“I don’t want to talk about it,” you interrupted Eddie’s suddenly soft voice. You wiped a stray but of moisture from under your eyelid. “Let’s just go to class.”
“But–”
“Eddie, drop it,” you all but snapped, before adding lamely, “please.”
“Fine,” he grumbled. “Lead the way. Taylor’s gonna be pissed if I’m late again.”
You could practically hear him simmering as he walked a half-step behind you to class, but you didn’t care to acknowledge it. You’d made it abundantly clear you didn’t want to talk about it. If he pushed you, you might just snap. 
As the two of you made your way down the halls, you felt eyes following you. They were all wondering: what was the quiet nerd doing with the freak? You didn’t care to acknowledge that either. 
Let them wonder, you thought. I’m done caring about their rumor mill.
- - - -
“Jesus, Eddie.” You gasped and looked around. 
There was no one in the janitor’s closet with you, but still: with that much weed on him, Eddie would be expelled and arrested. You had no idea how he’d gotten it in the two days since your conversation. 
“What?” He asked, out of breath. He’d pulled you in here between third and fourth period, scarring you half to death in the process. “I told you I’d get the stuff.”
“Yeah, but I didn't know you meant so much,” you scoffed. Now, looking down at the green, wooly buds you were going to smoke, you felt your stomach flood with anxiety. You weren’t so sure about it anymore. “Where did you even get it?”
“I know a guy.”
“Fine, don’t tell me,” you rolled your eyes frustratedly. “What did you drag me here for, anyway?”
Eddie furrowed his eyebrows, looking genuinely confused at your hostile tone. 
“To…let you know I got the stuff.” He drawled, before narrowing his eyes at you. “You okay, sweetheart? You look like you’re gonna be sick.”
Your stomach was churning. Between the stuff with Thomas that morning and now this, it was too much. 
You pressed a hand to your abdomen as the faint smell of weed permeated from the open baggie between Eddie’s fingers.
God, he had pretty fingers, you thought somewhere in the back of your mind. It was something you'd revisit when you weren’t about to have a panic attack.
“Woah, woah, woah,” Eddie rushed toward you as you doubled over, hands on your knees, trying to catch your breath and calm the nausea. His hands found your shoulders, and another wave of the sharp smell of marijuana made you retreat further into your mind. 
All of a sudden, you weren’t there; you were back at Starcourt with Billy Hargrove’s hands around your neck, the smell of the weed he’d smoked earlier still on his clothes. 
Your breathing shallowed and you gasped, trying to breathe, but in vain. 
“Hey, hey, breathe for me,” you faintly heard Eddie over your own heartbeat. “You gotta breathe, honey. C’mon, breathe for me. Deep breaths, like this.”
He pressed your palm to his chest as he inhaled deeply.
You looked up at him, at his wide, panicked eyes and did as he said, slowly inhaling a shaky breath. 
“That’s it,” he took another deep breath, eyes not leaving yours. “Just like that. Okay. Another one, now.”
You took a deep breath, much easier this time, eyes never leaving his.
- - - -
“So…” Eddie began, eyes finally meeting yours. “You wanna tell me what the hell that was?”
You sighed, tilting your head back to lean against the wall where you were sitting. You looked up at the fluorescents in the janitor’s closet. 
“That was a panic attack, Eddie,” you said monotonously.
“Don’t be a smart ass. What happened?”
You sighed again. 
It had taken five minutes for Eddie to talk you down from your… episode. After, he’d let you catch your breath. You’d thought that you’d be able to just go about your day from there. You were stupid to think he’d let this go. 
“It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“Jesus, sweetheart, I don't care about that. I just wanna know what the hell caused it. Did I–”
“No,” you said immediately. “You didn’t—”
“Did it have something to do with this morning?” Eddie’s voice was low, and as serious as you’d ever heard it. 
You remained quiet, eyes trained on the light above you. Eddie took that as confirmation. His eyes flashed dangerously as you finally looked at him. 
“I’ll kill him.”
Eddie moved to his feet with purpose, moving to open the closet door. 
“No!” you grabbed his ankle, scrambling. “No, Eddie. It’s not worth it.”
“Bullshit, it’s not worth it—”
“Please, let’s just get out of here. Let’s go smoke. We’ve practically missed all of fourth period anyway.”
“Honey, he can’t just–”
“I know, Eddie,” you stood up level with him. “But right now, I really wanna leave, and that’s more important than whatever revenge plot you have.”
He looked at the door obstinately for another moment before turning back to you. 
“Fine.” he said, not fully convinced. 
“Thank you,” you took a calming breath. “Good. Besides, it’ll be like killing two birds with one stone, right? Two items off the bucket list at once.”
- - - -
Eddie’s car was smoky; a hotbox is what he called it. 
As you took a long drag of the joint he passed to you, the deep, leafy aroma filled your lungs. As you breathed out, all worries or stress you had about school or Thomas or even the Upside Down diminished to an afterthought. 
So this is why people smoke, you thought to yourself, giggling a little bit. 
“What is it?” Eddie turned his head to you, unruly curls brushing your cheek. 
The two of you were sprawled out on the floor of his van, shoulder to shoulder and head to head, about twenty minutes into the session. You’d learned this so far: that Eddie smelled good, like cigarettes and cologne and something musky, and that his eyes got even more glassy when he smoked. All that to say: you wanted to kiss him. Bad. 
You passed him the joint, your fingers brushing his in the process.
“It’s just that I finally get why people do this so much,” you laughed. 
“It’s been twenty minutes,” Eddie laughed with you. 
“And I feel better already!”
Eddie went quiet, taking two puffs from the joint. You turned to look at him, eyes immediately darting to his lips. He was looking pensively at the corner of the van. 
“Not fair,” you grabbed the joint from him. “Don’t hog.”
“I get them too, you know.” He said all of a sudden, somber. 
You stopped, looking at him still. Eddie turned his head to face you, nose only an inch from yours. 
“Not so much anymore, but when I was younger. When I first came to live with Wayne.”
“Wayne?”
“My uncle,” he swallowed, turning his head away from yours. “I live with him. Have since I was twelve. My dad, he was… not a great guy.”
You were quiet for a moment, passing the joint back to him. 
“My dad left.” You said. “Sometimes I’m not even sure I remember what he looks like.”
Eddie grabbed your hand, squeezing. 
Instead of the flutter of anxious butterflies, you felt a calm wash over you at his hand in yours. 
“Do you, uh…” Eddie trailed off, taking a deep huff, “wanna talk about what I saw this morning?”
You sighed, not feeling anxious, but feeling tired. 
“You remember the skirt I wore the other day?”
Eddie swallowed visibly, eyes darting to your legs before your face again. 
“Yeah.”
“Robin helped me pick it out in June,” you fiddled with your sweater. “She convinced me to wear it the other day, finally, while the weather is still at least a little nice. Anyway, Thomas noticed my skirt. He hasn’t left me alone since. And today, he…”
Eddie took a long drag. 
“He grabbed me, grabbed my ass. Fucking pig.” You rolled your eyes. “I’m not even, like, scarred by that. You know how ridiculous that is? That I’m not even phased by it anymore?”
Eddie just shook his head, glaring at the ceiling. 
“Eddie?”
He wordlessly handed you the joint. 
“Toke up, sweetheart.”
You chuckled. 
“Jesus, what an asshole.” 
“Yeah,” you nodded, taking a long drag. 
“Someone should—”
“Someone should, but someone won’t.” You looked at him. “They never do.”
“Hmm,” Eddie hummed, biting his lip in concentration. 
“Wanna skip the rest of the day?”
“God, yes.”
Th next day, Thomas Reed had a busted lip and a black eye. 
495 notes · View notes
the7thcrow · 10 months
Text
Not all that Glitters is Gold -> 10
series pairing: (fem) princess!reader x seonghwa x san x wooyoung. eventual polyamory.
series masterlist | previous chapter
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Part Ten: a relic from the past, confession, and dark magic.
series rating: 16+
series genre: action and adventure. romance. angst. fluff. suggestive. fantasy au.
series warnings: character death, blood and violence, weaponry, injury, suggestive content, mxm content, elements of misogyny, language, monsters. (will only be using chapter specific warnings for things not included on this list.)
summary: as a princess fleeing a royal assassination attempt, you have no choice but to put your trust in a band of three thieves in order to reach the kingdom of kuroku alive. however, amongst magic, deceit, and the bounty hunters that are hot on your trail, you realize that you might have stumbled upon a relationship far more complicated than what meets the eye.
chapter details beneath the cut ->
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wc: 15.3k
extra chapter warnings: panic attack, a non-consensual kiss, non-consensual drug use (but magical? idk?).
chapter summary:
“It is you!” The stranger exclaims, their voice light and feminine.
Feminine and familiar. You narrow your eyes.
“Do I…” You start, swallowing down the bile that has arisen in your throat, as well as the tremble of fear in your voice. “Do I know you?”
a/n: guess who’s back :3 sorry this took me a million years to write, hopefully i can be a bit more consistent in the next coming months. hope you enjoy, and don’t be shy to let me know what you think! love y’all, thanks to everyone who has not abandoned this story after this massive hiatus LMAO <3
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Seonghwa has never believed anger to suit him.
While Woo wears his anger like a loaded cannon, and San - like most other things - buries it until it inevitably rises to the surface, Seonghwa has tried to avoid fury when he can.
After all, anger is often the replacement of a different emotion. It comes easier than understanding, quicker than resolution. It’s the nasty, winding short-cut off the high road, and Seonghwa has learned that the high road is almost always the safer path in the long term.
Anger is ugly. It’s nonsensical and he doesn’t like how it looks on him. It’s why he prefers the cold shoulder to blind rage, sorting out his feelings on his own rather than lashing out on others. It’s the kind thing to do. The empathetic thing to do.
It’s never been overly difficult for him to settle this rage until now.
It festers in his mind every morning, as well as in the night before he falls asleep. Everytime he accidentally catches your eye over breakfast, letting his gaze drift away in hopes that you will think that his eyes were trailing by rather than staring.
He is so unbelievably angry with you, and he hates it.
From the moment the truth was revealed in the forest, it’s as if someone wrapped a hand around his lungs and began to squeeze, then never let go. A hot, burning fire in his chest that’s smoke rises up his throat, choking him with rage. It stings his eyes, fogs his senses. It feels unbeatable, indestructible. Blinding.
He knows that anger is just an emotion. A bad one, one that he’s had to expel from others countless times before. From San, after The Desert Lotus. It’s just another entity, another plague on the body. Settle down, feel it, think better of it, then let it be gone.
And yet now that feels an impossible task. Seonghwa doesn’t know the last time he was so angry. Perhaps it was the night in the kitchen with his mother, learning of the heights of human greed, the one he relives every time he uses his gift to expel the anger from someone else.
He supposes this memory may replace that one.
When he found out the truth about you it was like the last few weeks came crashing down around him. The closeness, the trust and understanding, the mutual respect and admiration.
All lies. All of it. And he feels like such a fucking idiot.
There was no trust, and by the gods, there was certainly no respect. He was a mere pawn in your game, a part of the plan, and all he can do is beat himself up about being too naive to not see it earlier. Woo has always harped on him for being too nice to people, or as the elemental would put it, “not behaving like an actual person, but more like a rock on a walkway that people like to kick around”. Seonghwa thought that Woo was just being grouchy, the pessimist he always is. But hell, maybe he was right.
After all, Seonghwa should have seen it coming. There was so much he could have done. If he had questioned why a beautiful stranger would have so much immediate interest in him in the first place, or why you constantly asked him questions while dismissing any deeper ones about yourself. If he wasn’t so passive about the parasitic emotions practically radiating off of you. If he looked past the ideal he so desperately wanted and dared to dig up the reality of what was underneath.
He’s not an idiot. The reality is that for you, it was never about him. It was about getting to Kuroku. For him it was about the journey, but for you it was always in the name of the destination.
And well, he certainly did his part in getting you there. He shared his gift with you as a token of trust, he took your pain away and made it his own, he vouched for you against Woo’s constant doubt.
All for a girl who’s name he didn’t even know.
The thought makes more anger - ugly, volatile, and oh-so-unflattering - surge within his chest, and he throws a rock into the lake before him. It doesn’t skip as he intended, and instead sinks with a loud plunk.
Seonghwa frowns. He grabs another rock to throw.
After being met with an even louder plunk, he groans, before creeping further up onto the shoreline to grab a flatter rock. His toes dip in the water, which feels colder than yesterday now that he’s no longer fueled by sheer terror and adrenaline.
The coolness brings him back to Maralya, when he and Yunho would sit on the fishing dock. Feet in the water, even though Seonghwa was older, Yunho was the one who had taught him to skip rocks. His half-brother always had a knack for things like that, or well, for everything it seemed. From medical skills, to scaling buildings, to setting a fishing line; Yunho could master whatever he picked up. He must have inherited it from his father, a man Seonghwa doesn’t really remember, as he died when they were young.
Seonghwa doesn’t remember his own father either, as he disappeared on an escapade to The Mainland directly after he was born. His mother told him that his ship was lost at sea, but Seonghwa is pretty sure he just left and never came back.
It doesn’t really matter, he’s never had much of a desire to know the man. After all, the only thing Seonghwa inherited from him was his foolishness. And maybe his nose.
Seonghwa sighs. Picking up another rock, this one flat and polished, he recalls the steps in his mind. Yunho's voice runs through his head as he goes through the form, before bringing his hand back and letting it fly.
Plunk.
He stares at the ripples surrounding the sinking stone for a moment, before sitting down. He must have forgotten a step. It was a long time ago.
He lays back so that his head presses into the sand, the little grains cold and damp against his scalp. It’s familiar. It’s a little like the shore at home, although the sand isn’t as white, and the water’s colder, nor as blue. There’s no sound of hustle and bustle from back in the village, or his mother yelling at him to take a dip in the ocean before coming back inside because he’s covered in sand and he can’t track that into the house.
So maybe it’s not so similar, but he will pretend.
Seonghwa sighs, grabbing a handful of sand, letting it fall between his fingers. It’s times like these, ones where he’s dejected, broken-down, and lonely, that he wants nothing more than to go home. Only then does he remember that there’s no home for him to return to.
He sighs, his anger drifting to sadness, and yet he doesn’t mind. He believes that at the very least, it suits him better.
Footsteps approach from far off behind him, and he knows that it’s you. Woo walks faster, heavier footed, and he likely wouldn’t have heard San until he was closer. Besides, you’ve been walking with a slight limp since the fall, and he can hear it in the thump of every second step.
A part of him wants to ask what happened, what hurts. If you’re okay.
The angry part of him won’t let the other speak.
He hears your steps stutter, coming to a sudden halt from what he assumes is about a dozen feet off. Silence follows, and he wonders what you’re thinking. If you’re nervous to approach him, taking the time to contemplate your words before you say them.
Eventually, you do come closer. “San and Woo want to head towards Bebbanburg,” you call out from behind him. “I said that I’d come get you.”
“Thanks,” Seonghwa says flatly, making no motion to move. He will, of course, but not until you head back to camp. He’d like to avoid the awkwardness of walking in a strained silence, pretending not to notice as you try to meet his eye.
Although when he doesn’t hear you leave, it seems as if he doesn’t have much of a choice.
Sighing, he pushes himself up into a seated position. Glancing back at you, he has to place a hand over his forehead to block out the rising sun blinding his vision.
You stand with your arms wrapped around yourself, watching him with a dampened expression. Your tunic billows in the wind, torn around the waist and covered in dirt and dust. Chewing on your bottom lip as your fingers tap along your arm, you appear on edge. As if you wish to say something.
Seonghwa hates the way he wishes to know what it is. He hates how he wants to smooth your hair that is violently blown by the wind and wipe away the smudge of mud that has hardened against your cheek.
He hates how even now, after everything, he yearns for you.
Perhaps this is how it always would have ended, anyway. Having grown more attached then he ever should, not ready to lose what he knew was never his.
“Seonghwa,” you say finally, although it’s a little strained. Rigid. “About yesterday, by the fire.”
Ah yes, that. You and San hadn’t noticed him at the time, but when neither he or Woo came back to the fire, the two of you went out looking for them. It only took a moment, finding them sitting against the caves outer wall. Quiet and avoidant. Woo had fallen asleep, but Seonghwa had met your gaze. He held it for only a moment, watching your own eyes widen as you realized he’d seen the whole thing. He looked away when your lips parted to speak.
“With San. I hadn’t expected it to happen,” you say, calling loudly over the wind, and yet somehow your voice still seems quiet. Trapped and tight. “I… I don’t regret it. But after everything, it feels unfair to you-”
“I don’t care about you and San,” Seonghwa butts in. Not aggressively, or overly angry, merely factual. After all, that’s not what he’s angry about. He doesn’t care about you and San. That’s your business.
He wants San to be happy. Whatever it takes, the swordsman deserves a bit of peace.
Besides, now that he will not, perhaps San will wipe the mud from your cheek.
“Oh,” you say, followed by a pause. “You just seem upset.”
“I’m not angry about that,” Seonghwa replies, lips pursing together. He swallows hard. “Just about everything you did before it.”
Your expression falls. Mouth dropping open into a small part, your eyes fill with a sudden sense of shame and hurt. Your hands grip your elbows, hugging yourself tighter, even if only slightly.
Your expression settles like stone in his gut, and he knows that what he said has made you hurt. He has made you feel that same pain that tightens in his chest and floods up his throat.
Seonghwa wishes he hadn’t said that.
No matter his anger, no matter the pain, Seonghwa has never wished to pass an entity on to another.
“I’ll meet you back at the cave in a moment,” he says, because he doesn’t want to say anything else that he’ll regret. He doesn’t want to force his gaze from yours while at the same time feeling a pull towards you like a beacon, begging him to take it away. Take it all away. All the horrible entities that radiate from you like a plague, a blackened sickness.
Turning back towards the lake, he waits. When he hears the sound of your footsteps - fading away, not growing louder - he lets out a sigh of relief.
He doesn’t like what this has made him into. The anger that has filled him, strangles him, stops him from drifting towards you like a moth to a flame. Sure to be burned, but the glow will be glorious.
No, anger doesn’t suit him. And yet he wears it, draping over him, akin to a stranger’s jacket.
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If there is any luck to be found following your fall from the cliff, it’s in that at least you’ve found yourselves closer to Bebbanburg.
The journey to the small kingdom only took a few hours, the fact that you had nothing to carry but the clothes on your back having sped up the trek. It was spent in silence.
You know there’s certain to be some of the black-clad men poking around in such a populous city, so upon reaching the kingdom, the first order of business was to purchase you a cloak, as Mingi’s own had remained within a satchel on the horse’s back.
It weighs down on your shoulders, knowing that it’s gone, the final piece of him you had left. You’ve tried to view it as for the better, as the cloak of a Libaiyan Royal Guard could have attracted the attention of the wrong pair of eyes.
Even so, it hurts.
The cloak you wear now isn’t nearly as nice, a tattered brown fabric that’s itchy in the spots where it touches your bare skin, but it only cost a few bronze pieces. Considering that all the group of you have to your name is the pouch of coins attached to San’s waste, you have to know where to ration your spendings.
This is only on the necessities. San is trying to locate a cheap blacksmith to fashion him a new sword. Meanwhile, Woo and Seonghwa are searching if there’s anywhere for your group to stay that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg. Bebbanburg is an expensive kingdom, and so long as you find a place with a roof and walls that doesn’t blow through all of your savings, you’ll consider yourselves lucky.
With all the men on their own errands and a new cloak purchased, you’ve had about an hour to kill before now, as you currently make your way to meet them back at the city center. You’ve spent it wandering, peering into shop windows but never making your way inside. You don’t have the money to spend, nor do you want the undivided attention of a shop-keeper when you’re trying to lay low.
You’ve passed a few of your wanted posters strown up about the town, plastered to bulletin boards, poles, and shop windows alike. On top of being newly adorned with a far more accurate portrait of yourself, they’ve also added the detail of your recent scars. Printed along the bottom is the following: “Last spotted travelling with three young men. Potentially dangerous. Approach with caution.”
As an incentive due to what you assume is the elevated danger risk, they’ve increased the reward for your capture or demise to 300,000 gold pieces.
Apparently, someone at the tavern ratted the group of you out. Likely Yeosang and his band of not-so-merry men, or perhaps the poor shop-keeper desperate for a bribe.
Either way, someone is on your tail. Considering the new addition to the posters, that someone is in this city.
You haven’t seen them yet, but you know that it’s the black-clad men. They have to be lurking around here somewhere, they’re just being quiet about it.
You swallow hard, pulling the hood of your cloak further down.
Fortunately, the street’s are bustling with people. Bebbanburg, while not quite as big as the four major kingdoms, is still a hub for tourism. With money to spend, the streets are clean, the buildings well-kept. Despite being a narrow path in the merchant’s district in town, the air smells fresh.
It doesn’t feel quite right, in your opinion. Between the few towns you’ve visited these past few weeks, there was a certain scent to the air that felt more…natural. A strange concoction of smells as different taverns and homes didn’t agree on a pre-set menu for the night, dirt and pebbles aligning the trails as hunters dragged home their latest catch, or the muddy hoof-prints left by horses that stick to the bottoms of your shoes.
Bebbanburg feels too polished. The sort of polished that takes an effort, that works extra hard to rid itself of anything it deems unclean.
Trying not to obsess too much over the fact, you do your best to retrace your steps in order to return to the city center, taking a turn down another street. A slight limp to your step, ankle still not having fully recovered from your fall off the cliff, you count the shop doors that you pass along the alley’s stone wall. You kept count on your way here in order to know which alley to take back.
Counting down the doors, you pass by a butcher’s shop, cafe, and Zarian boutique for rare gems, all of which you’d passed along the way here. Gaze fluttering passively over the alley next to the boutique, you nearly miss the pair of eyes that lock on your own. Cat-like gaze fixated on yours, the bottom half of the figure's face is covered by a black cloth, their head shrouded in a dark cloak.
You pause. Hesitant, you retrace your last few steps, peering back down the alley.
The figure’s cloak follows behind them as they disappear behind a winding turn.
Swallowing down the bile that arises in your throat as an unsettled chill creeps down your spine, you keep moving along your original route. It was just a stranger. You’re paranoid, on edge, searching to find shadows and enemies in places in which they are not there.
Nevermind how something about the stranger's gaze felt oddly…familiar. Although you cannot place from where.
You continue along your original path, turning down the alley that will take you back to the city center. Glancing over your shoulder, you see nobody behind you, just the bustle of people continuing their way down the mainstreet. You mentally scold yourself. You’re being ridiculous, and casting lingering glances as you loiter in one place for too long is only going to attract attention.
When you turn forward, you catch a glimpse of movement, as something disappears behind a wall up ahead of you. “Shit,” you think to yourself, rushing forward as you place your back against the stone wall, peeking an eye out to see if you can spot them.
All you can manage is the tail end of the dark cloak disappearing down another alleyway. You wait a moment, as if contemplating how daring - or foolish - you’re willing to be, before heading after them.
“This is a bad idea,” you whisper to yourself, hand drifting to the hilt of the sword at your waist as you follow after the mysterious figure. However, even if unwise, you’d rather know your enemy and have them right in front of you compared to being stalked like prey. You’ll get slain in a fair fight any day before getting your throat slit from behind.
It’s a morbid thought, something San would likely say during combat practice, and you wonder if you’ve been spending too much time with these men.
Following the stranger, you keep quiet on your feet. Pulling the sword out from its sheath, you tread carefully, slowing your pace as you near the corner that the cloak had disappeared behind. Holding the sword firm in your grasp, you take a deep and shaky breath, before jumping to face your attacker.
Only to find there is nobody there, just another barren alleyway. Another alleyway that leads to nothing but a dead end, a stone wall looming tall before you.
You frown, confused at how this is possible. Your gaze darts around the narrow alleyway, searching for a cloaked figure, but it remains entirely empty.
Letting out a troubled sigh, you resheath your sword and turn back around.
Only to be met face first with the masked stranger.
Your breath dies in your throat, and you instinctively pull an arm back, aiming to strike them. However, as you swing forward, they narrowly dodge your strike, managing to grab your wrist instead. They twist it, not so hard as to dislodge anything, but enough that it disarms you. Then, using their free hand to push you backwards, they press you up against the stone wall. Elbow against your chest and hand gripping your upper arm, their spare hand grips tightly around your other wrist, rending you immobile.
Your chest heaves, not from tiredness but scheer panic. They’ve got you. Your gaze flickers up, to scan the face of your assailant. The person that will turn you in to the black-clad men, or is perhaps one themself.
The strangers' dark eyes meet yours from beneath their thick cloak, black orbs dancing as they move to scan over your face. Cat-like in their shape, with thick eye-lashes and brows.
Then the stranger laughs.
It’s not a menacing laugh, nor one you would expect from someone who is about to kill you. Instead it’s joyous, almost disbelieving.
“It is you!” The stranger exclaims, their voice light and feminine.
Feminine and familiar. You narrow your eyes.
“Do I…” You start, swallowing down the bile that has arisen in your throat, as well as the tremble of fear in your voice. “Do I know you?”
The stranger’s eyebrows furrow together into a look of confusion, before lighting up in realization. “Oh!” They say, before doing the last thing you would have ever expected of removing their hands from you entirely. “Of course!”
The stranger pulls off the hood of their cloak, revealing a head of long, thick red hair. They follow the removal of their hood by doing the same with their mask, and with it, you are hit with a wave of not only relief, but scheer and unadulterated joy.
“Yeji!” You nearly shout, pulling your back from the wall and wrapping your arms around your old laundress.
She chuckles, and then you are both laughing. In happiness, in relief, in sheer and utter disbelief. You pull away, placing both of your hands along her jaw to cup her face. You scan every detail, to ensure that she is real and actually standing before you, not some sort of trick or illusion.
But is her, just as you had seen her last at the castle. Maybe not exactly the same, wearing far different clothes than the modest beige dress she had adorned as your laundress, hair worn loosely, and eyes holding more of an edge than they ever had before.
Still, it is Yeji.
Yeji with the shimmering grin and freckle on her nose. Yeji who you know, and knows you in return. Yeji from your castle. Your home.
Yeji, a relic from the past that has not been destroyed.
“You nearly gave me a heart attack, following me around like that,” you laugh, taking one of your hands and giving her a slap on the shoulder, playful and not hard enough to actually hurt.
“Sorry,” she grins. “I didn’t want to attract any attention on the street. Figured it would be safer to lure you somewhere quiet, and you know, I also wanted to make sure it was actually you first.”
She then scoffs, returning the slap onto your own shoulder. “I didn’t expect you to pull out a sword on me! Where did you even get one of those?”
You consider answering, but a heavy cloud of unanswered questions hangs over the two of you, its presence loud and rattling like thunder. The jovial nature to your reunion cannot last long, not when there’s so much at stake, not when your world has crumbled to ash since you last spoke.
“What are you doing in Bebbanburg?” You ask, before realizing there’s a far more pressing question at hand. “How did you get out of the castle?”
Yeji smiles, placing her hand over one of your own along her cheek. “After what happened with the king in the ball-room, it was chaos,” she explains. “The Dark Army were rounding up and capturing all those who worked in the castle and may have been close to you.”
Your heart seizes at the statement, and your voice is quiet as you speak again. “Did they hurt them?”
“I don’t know,” Yeji replies, tone equally as somber. “A group of us laundresses escaped together using the underground tunnel system. I didn’t see what happened to those they had rounded up, but…”
She swallows hard, eyes pitiful as they meet your own. “But with how The Dark Army were talking, and the screams that followed behind us…I don’t think it would have ended well for them, Princess.”
Your throat swells at her admission, and it becomes more difficult to breathe as your eyes fill with the remnants of tears. Your mind is flooded with the unwelcome image of all of your old servants - your friends, as they had far surpassed their job description - tortured to try and probe them for information regarding you.
You wipe at your eyes with your hands, stuffing down the rising guilt and pain, placing a lid on these horrible thoughts. You will mourn later, when you have the time to properly grieve and honour all that they have lost because of you. For now, you must keep moving, deal with what is right in front of you.
“You keep calling them The Dark Army,” you begin, changing the subject. “Is that a made up title, or something they’ve defined themselves as? Do we know who they are?”
Yeji shakes her head. “Nobody knows who they are, it’s just what we’ve been calling them because of their armour. Not to mention the fact that they are about the sourest men I’ve ever met.”
“You’ve spoken to them?” You ask, scolding yourself for the fear that seizes in your chest at the thought of it. Of them being anywhere near her, or anyone you care about, for that matter.
She nods. “They’re poking around the city. Trying to keep a low profile, because Bebbanburg doesn’t like any semblance of war or conflict contaminating their streets, but they’re here. We try to keep to ourselves by not causing any trouble or disturbances and they mostly leave us alone.”
Your head buzzes at the confirmation that they are here, within the walls and perhaps a mere alley-way over, which is far, far too close.
“You keep saying we,” you note. “There’s more of you?”
Yeji nods, a soft smile grazing her lips. “Lot’s of us. We’ve set up a refugee camp on the outskirts of the city. Bebbanburg doesn’t want us here, because of course they don’t, but at least it’s safe. Not much crime or Anti-Libaiyan extremists in the city, so even if it’s not much, it’s all that we can really ask for.”
If she had told you this a couple weeks ago, you’d have been startled to know that there were Anti-Libaiyan extremists at all. However, having been given insight into the monstrosities your father was capable of, this no longer comes as a surprise, but rather expected.
“Can you take me to them?” You ask, and Yeji nods.
“Of course,” she says, grabbing your hand as she begins to walk back up the alley-way. “Although, I’d recommend keeping a low-profile, seeing that you're alive might cause a little too much excitement. Draw attention.”
You nod in agreement, following behind her through the winding alley-ways. It’s not until you’re almost back on the main city street that you remember why exactly you were trekking through the alleyways in the first place.
“Wait,” you say, stopping. Yeji turns to face you, raising a quizzical eyebrow. “There’s some people I need you to meet first.”
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“Where have you been?” Woo asks as you approach. The three men have gathered around the fountain within the center of the city square, water spouting from the tall and golden statue into a small pond embedded with various coloured jewels along its rim. The falling water casts a veil of mist around them, as well as the various other groups gathered beside it. Many of them are tourists from different kingdoms, which you can recognize by the various types of clothing they wear, such as the vibrant coloured patchwork of the group next to you that is distinctly Zarian. It seems a prime spot to talk, the definition of hiding in plain sight.
“You were supposed to meet us here a half-hour ago,” Woo says with a scowl, before he notices Yeji beside you. His gaze flickers up and down, as if assessing her potential danger. “Who is this?”
You take a deep breath, preparing yourself, before motioning to her. “You guys, this is Yeji.”
She gives them a smile to which none of the men return, and for a moment you stand in silence.
“We’ve heard that one before,” Woo says.
Your face warms with embarrassment, and you clear your throat before beginning to explain. “This is the real Yeji, the girl whose name I used. She was one of my laundresses back at the castle, as well as a close friend.”
Another moment of silence follows, as none of the men appear to know what to say, or how to approach the appearance of a stranger.
Eventually, Seonghwa speaks, tone polite. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says, to which Yeji returns the sentiment. Although he isn’t looking at you to see it, you cast Seonghwa a grateful smile all the same.
“This is Seonghwa, San, and Woo,” you say, pointing to each of them in turn. “They have been helping me get to Kuroku.”
“Thank you for aiding Her Highness,” Yeji says, placing a hand on her chest while delivering a curtsy. A sign of respect. Although…exceedingly formal respect.
San’s lips pull together into a stifled smile, and Woo raises an eyebrow.
“You, um, don’t have to do that,” you say, placing a hand on Yeji’s shoulder and gently tugging her upwards. “It’s not really like that.”
“Oh,” she says, straightening herself as her eyebrows raise in surprise. There’s a silence that follows, as well as a sense of discomfort that hangs in the air, as Yeji chews nervously on her lower lip.
And for all the love that you have for her, you know exactly what she’s thinking, as it’s been drilled into her since the moment she began to work at the castle: The demands of Libaiyan proprietary.
She ponders that if the relationship with this group of men escorting you is not formal, then what is it, and how far have you stretched the rules of etiquette that bind you?
You wouldn’t even know how to answer that question even if she asked.
Instead of dwelling on the subject and the lingering discomfort, you turn to Woo and Seonghwa. “Did the two of you find a place for us to stay the night?”
Woo scoffs in annoyance while Seonghwa shakes his head, defeated.
“Not anywhere reasonable,” Seonghwa says. “There’s a few places we can go if nightfall comes, but we honestly might be better off sleeping in the woods. It should be a clear night, and at least it won’t cost us an arm and a leg.”
You frown, not fond of the idea of spending yet another night on the ground, especially without a tarp or blanket to shield you from the elements.
Fortunately, Yeji pipes up from beside you. “If you’re looking for a place to stay, we’ve formed a refuge on the outskirts of the city. I believe we have an extra tent to spare.”
Now this finally causes the men’s expression to shift, the discomfort and wariness on each of their faces replaced with a glimpse of relief.
“Alright,” San says, gaze shifting over to you even as he speaks to Yeji, and his expression is difficult to read. He appears almost bemused. “Lead the way.”
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The refuge, while about as bleak as you expected it to be, fills you with an undeniable sense of glee. Mostly due to how big it is, meaning that even if the mass size of the refuge indicates that there have been hundreds driven from the Libaiyan kingdom, there are also far more people who survived and escaped the castle than you’d originally thought.
Gathered just outside of Bebbanburg’s walls, dozens of the beige and tattered fabric tents are clumped together, creating a sort of maze as people make their way between the narrow passages. Head shrouded beneath your hood, the five of you pass through the different camps, ducking beneath laundry lines hanging between tent poles and maneuvering through the small groups gathered around make-shift fire pits as they roast small rodents and birds for dinner.
You watch their faces, searching amidst them for anger, for loss and resentment. While some are quiet, dark circles of tiredness hanging beneath their eyes, others are not so beaten down. There is the sound of laughter in the air, and a group of children nearly bump into you as they recklessly chase each other through the labyrinth of tents.
You smile. All is not lost.
You’d been so focused on your own survival, of getting to Kuroku alive and fighting to give your kingdom a chance, that you hadn’t realized the fear you had of there being no kingdom to fight for. Of not only the castle being besieged, but the entire kingdom being left in ashes.
Yet, even if this is so, there are still Libaiyans left. There is still a nation, full of life, that will not let themselves be stripped of their pride so easily.
“This way,” Yeji says softly, trying not to draw too much attention to your party. A group of girls wave to her as you pass by, and you recognize some of them as your kitchen maids, although you were never close enough to have learned their names.
The women are seated around a small fire. With the setting sun, they gather closed together, a blanket stretched over them. Or, upon closer look, a Libaiyan flag, its golden sun bright against its stark white background.
There is a man playing the lute sitting beside them. He has light eyes and a soft voice, fingers dancing as he strums the small wooden instrument in tune with his voice.
The man sings a Libaiyan folk song, one about a man arriving home to a small Libaiyan village after fighting many long years at war. The song doesn’t make clear which war exactly, centuries old and deriving from a time of high conflict, but it doesn’t really matter.
After all, the song is less about the war, and more about coming home. The ghosts of his fallen comrades following him, cane in hand to support his leg that will never heal, and his love having left the village to marry another man from the kingdom city.
The song is normally sung in a minor chord. It’s sad and melancholic, painting a tale of loss and grief.
However, the man currently singing has changed its tune to a major chord.
A message of triumph. Of defiance. Of the man’s survival, even after all else is lost and destroyed.
A song of hope.
You want to join them. To listen to this man sing your nation's song, to let his tune of triumph fill not only the air, but your entire body. Your heart, even your soul. Reignite the reason you started this journey, why you couldn’t give up.
These people need you. Your people need you.
Yeji wraps her arm around your wrist, giving you a gentle tug forward as you linger near the fire for a little too long.
“Don’t worry,” she whispers. “You’ll be able to hear his voice late into the night, even from your tent.”
You aren’t sure how to respond, how to depict your gratitude for all of this. For her taking you in and letting you hear these songs that you weren’t so sure you’d ever hear again, for being alive and granting you hope.
All you can do is reach to give her hand a soft squeeze, and hope she understands.
Yeji stops before a small tent, one that doesn’t seem big enough for two men, let alone three. “I know it isn’t much, but I hope it will do.”
“It’ll do,” Seonghwa answers with a smile.
“Especially considering we have no luggage,” Woo grumbles.
If Yeji hears the dissatisfaction in his voice, she doesn’t show it. “My own tent is just over there,” she says, pointing to what is only a few tents over. It’s a bit larger than the one before you, although not by much. She turns to you. “You can stay with me.”
You’re grateful for the sentiment, considering none of the men - except maybe San - would enjoy being forced to share such close quarters with you.
“There’s a table inside, if you’d all like to sit and regroup. I can catch you up on all that has happened since the siege,” Yeji says.
Her gaze flickers over to the three men, and it is hesitant. Curious, as it returns to you. “And you can do the same.”
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“Scorpion beasts, a mimic, and a dragon-basilisk hybrid all in just a few weeks?” Yeji gapes, hands clutching tight around her mug of hot tea, as if she needs something to hold onto. “And you’re alive?”
“I take it your journey here wasn’t so exciting?” San asks, sipping his own mug. He seems in good spirits today, as he willingly engages in conversation with Yeji. Especially compared to Seonghwa - who is more hesitant, likely less willing to jump the gun on trusting a new stranger - and Woo, who sits with his eyes bearing down into the table, not touching his mug even as the tea inside grows cold.
“No, we took the main path down the Arila River, so far less rural,” Yeji explains. “Although it was a good thing you didn’t do the same. There were Dark Army ports all along its bank. We were stopped and searched at every one of them.”
If there’s one thing you’ve learnt from Yeji’s recollection of the besiegement and the time that followed, it’s that the black-clad men are relentless in their pursuit. They want you, at any cost. You only wish you knew who they were, so at least then you’d know why.
“I really am glad you’re alive, Princess,” Yeji says suddenly, hand drifting to rest on your own atop the table. “Libaiya has a chance to be strong again, so long as your blood sits on the throne. You’ll make the perfect Queen.”
You open your mouth to thank her, albeit bashfully, but are cut off as Woo pushes himself from the table. It rattles in protest, although the elemental does not seem to care, as he stomps towards the tent-flap. He does not meet any of your eyes as he disappears beneath it.
“I’m sorry,” Yeji says, tone worried. “Did I say something to-”
“It’s not you,” San reassures her. “He’s just been dealing with a lot lately.”
“I’ll go talk to him,” you say, because you have a feeling about what may be bothering him. Your blood, as Yeji had said. Although to him, it’s more like poison.
“No,” Seonghwa cuts you off, already rising to his feet. “You shouldn’t, I don’t think he’d take it well. I’ll go.”
You want to protest, as Seonghwa does not know about Woo’s past, about the orphanage. The Libaiyan orphanage, and all the horrors that happened there. But the empath is already heading towards the tent flap, and the words die on your lips.
Even so, maybe he is right. Woo is upset, upset about you and your nation, perhaps you are not the one who should attempt to console him. Besides, Seonghwa has always been far better at that.
Yet, as you watch Seonghwa disappear after Woo, you have the sinking feeling it may not go as the empath plans.
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Wooyoung cannot breathe.
Making his way blindly through the darkness of the refuge, the sun having set over the horizon, he pushes past Libaiyan’s as he heads for the exit. They turn and look at him as he shoves past, and he wonders if they know. If they can smell it on him.
“You were his,” they whisper as he walks by, or is that just in his head? “One of his dogs. Our dogs. A machine for use. Worthless.”
The last word is in Warden’s voice, and Wooyoung places a hand over his ears to try and tune it out. The other clutching his chest.
He can’t breathe. By the god’s, he really can’t breathe.
Each short pant is as unsatisfying as the next. He feels dizzy, wanting to summon a ball of flame to guide him, but he can’t seem to move his hands in front of him. He pushes forward, searching for an exit through the mazes of tents.
Then he’s covered in something. It’s thin, engulfing him, and panic rises hot in his chest. They’ve gotten him. Again. It’s happening again. He opens his mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.
It’s only after nobody attempts to drag him away and he gets a whiff of soap that he realizes that what covers him is not a bag, but someone's laundry. With shaky hands, he untangles himself from the fabric, before glancing down at his captor.
It’s a Libaiyan flag.
The bright, golden, and horrible sun stares back at him. The same one hung in the cafeteria, the one he pledged allegiance to three times a day. The one plastered atop the ceiling of his bedroom, watching him every night. The one deckled on Warden’s shoulder, as he tortured them relentlessly, as he murdered Yeonjun.
Wooyoung throws it to the ground, hands still shaking as he walks over it, the dirt on the bottom of his shoe stark against the flag’s white background.
“Woo!” A voice calls from behind him, but it sounds far away. Maybe it’s also just in his head. He keeps walking.
He can hear the sound of the same man singing as when you’d all entered the camp. He has a nice voice as he sings Libaiyan songs. Songs he’s never heard. Songs that were reserved for Libaiyan citizens, not slaves.
Wooyoung’s throat burns with the taste of Libaiyan tea. Only one sip, and it will not leave his tongue.
It tasted like the infirmary tent after Assessment Day in the orphanage. Before Warden got there, but not before Wooyoung got beaten within the sparring ring. They’d given him the tea to calm him down, try and make him forget the burns lacing up and down his arms.
With the taste on his tongue it’s as if he can feel them again, the searing pain starting in his mind and seeping into his skin.
“Woo, hold on!” The voice calls again, closer than the last. This time Wooyoung knows it’s not in his head, as he recognizes it to be Seonghwa. The sound of foot-steps follows behind him, as the empath chases after him.
He does not turn around. He needs to get out of this place.
Wooyoung begins to run.
Tearing through the refuge, he sees Bebbenburg’s outer walls appear ahead of him, the light emitted from the lanterns hung on the outside fortress drawing him in like a beacon.
When he reaches the wall, he makes sure to take a few steps inside and past the gates, to ensure that he is no longer within Libaiyan territory. Here, he is within the Kuroken realm. Safe.
He pauses to catch his breath, less from the running and more from the panic that has seized him. Hands placed on his knees, Wooyoung lets the foggy haze fade from his mind, although it does not relinquish control so easily. His heart continues to race, ears ringing with a constant buzz.
Wooyoung doesn’t know why this is affecting him so horribly. He’s been to the Libaiyan castle since entering the orphanage, having stolen plenty of Libaiyan treasures and heirlooms on their heists within the castle.
Then again, that was in the dark of the night, when there were no songs to be sung or tea to be drunk. When the flags were shrouded in pure shadow, not wrapped around him like bonds of rope.
That was when he was in control. That was when he was taking from them. That was revenge.
That was before he entangled himself with their princess.
“Woo, what the hell?” Seonghwa asks as he approaches, slightly out of breath from chasing down the elemental. “Where are you going?”
“Away,” Wooyoung says, because it is all he can manage. He doesn’t look up at Seonghwa, instead staring at the cobblestone beneath his shoes, blinking blearily as he tries to direct his focus to its stone patch-work.
“Why did you just storm out of there?” Seonghwa asks. He’s not mad. Not yet. He genuinely wishes to know.
“Because of what that woman said,'' Wooyoung answers in his mind. “Because it’s true, she is the Libaiyan throne. Because it is her blood that’s done all of this. That did this to me.”
Wooyoung, of course, does not actually say any of this out loud. Seonghwa won’t understand. He doesn’t know, not only about Wooyoung’s past, but the orphanages in general. He’s from a small town within Zaria’s realm, far away from any news about Libaiyan political treachery.
He won’t get it, and Wooyoung isn’t going to even bother to try and explain it to him, especially when his tongue feels three sizes too large and his heart beats at a million times per minute.
“Leave me alone, Hwa,” he mutters, turning away from Seonghwa and heading deeper into Bebbanburg, hoping the empath will take the hint and piss off.
But he doesn’t, because after all, it’s Seonghwa. The blonde follows after him. “Where are you going to go, Woo? You saw the poster, it’s better to stay together, keep a low profile.”
“Leave me alone, Hwa,” Wooyoung repeats, beginning to walk faster, tone a little more pointed.
“Is this about her?” Seonghwa asks, and now his own tone is rising, annoyed as has to jog to catch up to the elemental. “Look I know you’re mad, I am too. But can’t you just push that aside? We’re almost to Kuroku, then we’ll be past it. We can move on.”
“Right. We’ll get to Kuroku. She’ll leave. San will leave. And then inevitably, you will too.”
After being met with silence, Seonghwa lets out a groan of annoyance, continuing to chase after him.
“Woo, stop!” He calls, reaching out to grab Wooyoung’s arm. Wooyoung slaps his hand away, perhaps a little harder than he should have. “Can’t we just talk about this? Can’t we have an actual conversation for once instead of you shoving me away?”
Wooyoung keeps moving, because no, they can’t. Not right now. Not like this. Not when he can’t think straight.
“I don’t get what you have to be so mad about anyway!”
Wooyoung stops at this, finally turning around to face Seonghwa. “What?”
Seonghwa stares at him for a moment, eyes wide and mouth parted with surprise that Wooyoung actually stopped. Then he frowns, eyebrows furrowing together, as if remembering his annoyance.
“Yes, she lied to you,” Seonghwa starts. “And I know it sucks. But it’s San’s money on the line, and clearly he’s been able to forgive her.”
Seonghwa swallows hard. “And even if I haven’t been able to do the same, even after all she’s done to me I’m willing to swallow my own feelings to get this journey done. For them.”
Them. By that Seonghwa means San and you. You, after all that you have done - to Seonghwa, to San, to Wooyoung himself - he’s still choosing you.
“Well maybe you shouldn’t, Hwa!” Wooyoung says, and now he’s shouting. It’s good. The anger provides him comfort, something familiar to latch onto. “She used you! She used all of us! I know you have this deep-seeded issue of thinking everyone and everything has good in them, but open your eyes! Not all that glitters is fucking gold! A pair of pretty eyes doesn’t repair what she’s done, it doesn’t mean that she isn’t rotten inside!”
“Just as you are too,” a voice reminds him within his mind, but he ignores it.
Seonghwa opens his mouth to cut back, but Wooyoung is not finished. “She lied through her teeth, and you’re really just going to let it slide?  Keep quiet because it’ll make things easier for her? For the sake of the gods, grow a spine!”
“Why do you care so much about what I do?” Seonghwa yells back, taking a step towards Wooyoung. Seonghwa’s fist is clenched at his side, and for a moment Wooyoung thinks that Seonghwa might actually hit him. He almost wishes he would.
“Why do you care if I forgive her? Why do you care so much about whether I let people walk all over me? Why do you care?”
Wooyoung doesn’t know why he does it.
Maybe it’s the way his mind still buzzes from moments prior, hazy and foggy and unable to think of anything beyond his anger. Anything beyond the way his heart pounds rapidly and vision blurs with an anxious haze.
Maybe it’s the way Seonghwa’s words sting, more than Wooyoung wants to admit, and he wishes to prove the man wrong. Show him that it’s not so simple. Win, in a strange and possibly fucked up way, but win nonetheless.
Or maybe, more than anything, it’s the way Seonghwa is looking at him. Big brown eyes scanning his face, full of anger, but also passion. Desperately searching for an answer, as if there will be a solution to the enigma that is Wooyoung hidden somewhere on the elemental’s face.
Wooyoung knows what the answer is that Seonghwa seeks.
It’s the part of himself that Wooyoung has never admitted exists. The part that he has shoved down, smothered, pretended wasn’t there. The part that flutters at the sound of Seonghwa whining at his teasing. The part that stalls when Seonghwa lets his hand fall onto Wooyoung’s shoulder, thinking nothing of it, simply trying to get the elemental's attention or leaning in to point out something in the distance.  
The part that broke the first night you and Seonghwa spent together. Defeated, angry, and beaten down, crawling into his bed that night in a drunken stooper, aching at the thought of the elemental being intimate with someone. Well, someone else.
The part that he once again shoved away the next morning, and had every day before and has every day since.
It’s that part of himself that he’s dejected and ignored that now comes crawling to the surface, invited by Seonghwa’s searching eyes, that unleashes its presence in a way that will make itself known. That will ensure it will no longer be forgotten, that it cannot be ignored or subdued again.
That part of Wooyoung unleashes itself in the form of a kiss.
It’s a horrible one, teeth smashing into teeth as Wooyoung grabs onto the collar of Seonghwa’s tunic and roughly pulls the man into him. In fact, it’s less of a kiss compared to two faces smashing together, Seonghwa clearly not prepared for it, but the message is sent all the same.
Wooyoung holds him there for three seconds, which feel far more like an eternity as they pass by.
Then Wooyoung pushes Seonghwa off of him, letting go of the man’s collar as the blonde stumbles back.
For a moment they stand in silence, and it’s a deafening one. Seonghwa’s hand drifts up to his lips, grazing them, eyes wide as he stares at Wooyoung. He’s clearly in a state of shock, as he says nothing, just stares with his mouth parted open in disbelief.
“There,” Wooyoung breathes. “Do you get it?”
Seonghwa continues to stare at him. Then his eyebrows furrow together, and when he begins to speak, Seonghwa’s tone is incredulous. “Woo, what are you-”
“Forget it,” Wooyoung cuts him off, because he doesn’t want to know what Seonghwa is going to say. He doesn’t want to hear the empath call him crazy, ask him what the hell he’s thinking.
Because Wooyoung doesn’t know the answer to that either. The mind-numbing fog has returned to his head, his heart racing even faster than it had before.
He needs to get out of here.
“Just go back to the tent, Hwa,” Wooyoung says, and then his feet are set in motion. He heads deeper into Bebbanburg, away from the Libaiyan tent. Away from you and San. Away from what he’s done, the irreversible mistake he just made.
He runs away, and this time Seonghwa doesn’t follow him.
“What were you thinking, what were you thinking, what were you thinking?” Wooyoung repeats the question to himself over and over again in his head, trying to make sense of what he’s done.
The look of bewilderment on Seonghwa’s face, followed by incredulity. Shock, then disbelief. Almost angry, and why shouldn’t he be? How could Wooyoung do something like this? Something so blatantly stupid and thoughtless?
“What the fuck were you thinking?”
Wooyoung still cannot come up with an answer, because frankly, he wasn’t thinking. And he still can’t.
He turns down one of the many alley’s surrounding him, head buzzing, not a clue of where he’s going. All he knows is that it’s away, and for now, that is enough for him.
Wooyoung closes his eyes, hand trailing along the wall beside him as he runs. He feels silly, running with his eyes closed, but he cannot bring himself to keep them open. This way, the world around him fades. He can simply be moving, feel the air rush past him, and pretend that nothing happened.
There are no Libaiyan refugees a few alleyways over. He does not care for the Liabiyan princess, nor did he lose San a mere night ago. He did not reveal his feelings to a man he loves and ruin their entire friendship in one fell swoop.
He is merely running in the darkness, chest heaving for air, fingers scraping along the cobblestone wall.
Maybe, if he keeps running like this, he’ll actually have escaped it all.
Or maybe, running like this is not such an acceptable option, as it stops him from noticing the figure that has been following after him.
Wooyoung does not notice he is being followed until it is too late. Until he’s already been shoved sideways, face smacking into the stone wall beside him.
At the very least, the blows knock him from his stupor, and his eyes fly open as he stumbles. Whirling to face his attacker, fire ignites immediately within his hand, dancing in between his fingers.
However, the second he turns, he’s met with a swift punch to the jaw that catches him off guard. Mostly because it does not come from where he can feel the man beside him - who now pins Wooyoung’s wrist to the alley-wall - but from the other side.
It’s not one attacker, but many.
“Shit,” Wooyoung thinks to himself, spitting out the blood that fills his mouth, the metallic taste thick on his tongue and gritty between his teeth. Eyes searching the darkness around him, his attackers are nothing more than blurs within the night, and he gives the one in front of him a swift kick to the groin. The man lets out a long string of curses, and Wooyoung uses the opportunity to try and rush forward.
It’s of no use, as another man (or two, maybe even three?) pins his wrists to the wall.
It’s not the most efficient way to capture a person, as it leaves their legs functional to kick and mouth free to spit, bite, or scream for help.
Unless, of course, you’re capturing an elemental.
Wooyoung tries to summon fire into his hands, and while it manages to dance around his fingers, the inability to move his arms stops him from managing anything greater. He tries to summon the flame with only his mind, staring at his hand with sheer determination. He knows it’s possible, he’s done it before. Once. The night Yeonjun died.
Of course, he didn’t exactly mean to, and apparently it isn’t the sort of thing he can do by will, as his hands remain barren of flame.
Instead, he’s left helpless, pulling against the grips of the men that bind him. His eyes dart amongst the shadows that surround them, and he tally’s roughly ten of them, although he’s certain that there’s more as he hears shouts from down the alley-way.
One of the men’s hands digs into Wooyoung’s hair, pulling his head forward before slamming it back into the stone-wall. Hard.
Stars dance before Wooyoung, and a darkness creeps into the corners of his vision. He continues to kick out in front of him, although each swing is far weaker than the last, as the pain leaves him sluggish.
The man yanks on his hair again, before slamming his head back into the wall once more, and suddenly Wooyoung is on the ground.
He doesn’t remember crumpling, but the stone pathway is cold against his back, so he must have passed out for a moment. He opens his eyes, vision swaying as he tries to make out the men surrounding him.
He can vaguely spot the face of the man above him. Middle-aged, with a dark beard and intense eyes. He speaks to someone beside him, although Wooyoung’s mind is too muddled to make out the actual words.
Likely not thugs then, as they aren’t even bothering to hide their identities. Besides, there’s too many of them to be a regular mugging. Too conspicuous, so it must be targeted.
But if it’s targeted, then who are they?
“W-who?” He asks, because the full sentence is far too much effort. His words are slurred and he sounds drunk. Which to be fair is an awful lot like how he feels.
The man above him doesn’t answer, but instead places a hand on Wooyoung’s throat, silencing him. With his other two hands, the man pins Wooyoung’s wrists to the ground.
No, no, that doesn’t make any sense. He can't have three hands. Which means it must be somebody else pinning his wrists to the ground, as well as another that slips the cloth bag over his head. How many were there again?
By the god’s Wooyoung really can’t think right now.
“Knock him out,” one of the men speaks from above him. Now that Wooyoung can make out.
Then the world goes black.
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“And he seriously didn’t tell you where he was going?” San asks, arms crossed as he leans against the training post outside of the men’s tent. It’s covered in grooves, clearly crafted by a sword, and one in the hands of someone not too pleased. A testament to San’s opinion on Woo not returning to the refuge last night.
“I already told you,” Seonghwa replies. His tone is also frustrated as he sits at an outside table, fingers tapping anxiously in rhythm with his jittering leg. “No. He didn’t.”
“He just took off?” San repeats, and you can understand why Seonghwa is becoming a bit annoyed. It’s also the third time you’ve heard San ask, although you have a feeling the swordsman isn’t actually expecting the answer to change. He simply wants to hear it again, to let him fuel the flame of his annoyance. “Without a word? Without a reason? Out into a city we’re currently being hunted in?”
Seonghwa’s eyes shift to the ground. “Yes.”
“And you let him?”
Seonghwa scowls at this. “What did you want me to do? You know Woo, he’s going to do what he wants no matter what anyone says or thinks.”
Seonghwa has been in a sour mood all morning, and something tells you there may be a little more to Woo leaving than he may be letting on. However, now is not the time to ponder what it might be, nor is it the time to start a fight. You simply need to find him.
“Let’s not start bickering with one another just because Woo’s not around to start it,” you say, attempting to remedy the argument before it can start. Fortunately, neither of the men are overly confrontational, at least not with each other.
“You’re right,” San sighs, turning to Seonghwa. “I’m sorry. I’m just stressed, I know it’s not your fault.”
Seonghwa gives San a sort of half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes before staring back down at his shoes. He appears to immediately lose himself in thought, knee bouncing anxiously.
Yeah, something definitely happened last night.
“This isn’t like him,” San says, pulling his sword out from his sheath and spinning it around in his hand. A nervous habit. “Staying out for the night, sure. But he’s always back by the next day. Always.”
With morning long past, the sun high in the sky with the arrival of late noon, San’s statement of “always” is replaced with “until today”, and a sense of uneasiness passes through you.
Something is wrong. You can feel it.
And with both San’s sword spinning in his hand and the sound of Seonghwa’s fingers tapping the table, you know that they can feel it too.
“I think we should go looking for him,” you say, expecting immediate approval. Instead both men look at you, and San shoots Seonghwa a side glance, to which the empath returns.
“What?” You ask, uncomfortable at the fact that it appears they’re both in on something you’re not.
San sighs. “You shouldn’t come.”
“What?” You say, this time with far more anger than confusion. “If Woo’s in danger then of course I’m going to come-”
“If Woo’s in danger then it’s likely because of the men who are looking for you,” San cuts you off, and while his tone is not accusatory, it is pointed.
You prepare a rebuttal, but it dies on your lips. San is right.
If the black-clad men have done something to Woo, then you going looking for him is likely exactly what they would want for you to do. While the stubborn part of you wants to go anyway, put Woo’s safety before your own. Be daring, bold, and perhaps a little stupid, just as Woo is in the face of danger, you know that this is not an option.
You need to get to Kuroku, and if you aren’t yet certain of the danger Woo may be in, you cannot afford to take such blatant risks.
“Alright,” you say, tone defeated as Seonghwa rises to his feet, San making his way towards the path leading outside of the refuge.
You don’t manage the next words until they’ve already left. Leaving you alone, face shrouded by your hood, suddenly aware of the wind’s chill nipping at your skin. The seasons are turning.
“Good luck.”
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They are back sooner than you expected.
You sit at a table with Yeji, playing a game of Skirmish. A traditional Libaiyan game meant for children, due to the fact it has few rules and never really ends, so it can keep them occupied for hours. You didn’t particularly want to play, but Yeji said it might help to keep your mind distracted. You figured it was worth a shot.
It didn’t work.
However, it doesn’t matter, as when both San and Seonghwa approach from down the refuge’s path, the cards are forgotten. Tossing your deck to the side, you give San a look, one that asks: “Any luck?”. Although, you’re fairly certain of the answer, as there is no Woo in tow behind them.
San does not give you a look of his own. In fact, he does nothing. He simply stares back at you, a dead look to his eye.
It’s that look, the emptiness of it, that tells you something has gone wrong.
“What happened?” You ask as he approaches, although San does not reply. Instead he gives Seonghwa a fleeting glance, and the blonde meets it. His own expression is not as empty as San’s. In fact, it is the opposite. Brimming with emotion, Seonghwa’s eyes hold worry, mouth drawn tight, jaw clenched. A look of nothing less than pure fear.
“Seonghwa?” You ask, your own worry settling deep in your chest. Something has gone wrong, but what, and how badly?
The blonde doesn’t answer you with words, instead he moves towards the table. You hadn’t noticed before, but he holds something in his hands. The paper is a light tan colour, the size also familiar, and you recognize it to be one of your wanted posters. Immediately you're confused, as why would Seonghwa show you one of these? You’ve already seen dozens of them plastered all over Bebbanburg.
However, as he lays it down onto the table, the answer is blatantly obvious.
The paper is smeared with blood. The red stark against its light colouring, it doesn’t coat the poster fully, but is rather smothered haphazardly, the semblance of fingerprints notable. It’s testament to a job done quickly, as whoever did this did so with one purpose: to get a message across.
The message is made even more clear by the thick, dark lock of hair tied to the corner of the page.
Woo’s.
Beneath the lock of hair is writing, scrawled in black ink.
The Concursos Mountain Pass.
Three Days.
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Wooyoung awakens to the back of his head pounding in a violent, aching fashion. The world sways in front of him, and it takes him a moment to remember where he is exactly.
However, at the sight of tarps on all sides of him, the tent coated in darkness as only the light of the setting evening sun is able to get through, he remembers.
Right, the Libaiyan refuge.
Wooyoung groans, blinking as he tries to get his eyes to focus, his pounding head making his thoughts difficult to string together.
He moves his hand, attempting to wipe the sweat beading along his forehead, only to realize that he can’t.
His hands are tied.
Eyebrows furrowing together, he looks over his shoulder. The chains that tie his wrists to the chair that he sits in are thick and made of iron. If he tried to melt his bonds with the fire between his fingers, rather than catching fire like rope, they’d heat up and burn his wrists.
“What the…” He croaks out, throat raspy. Who would have tied him to a chair? Surely not Seonghwa or San. Not very likely you, as he couldn't see what good that would do you. Maybe your friend, the Libaiyan patriot? But why?
Wait.
Wooyoung’s brain pauses, mind doing a double-take as he stares at his bonds, noting bruising along his wrist. The massive purple marks are dark against his bronzed skin, and are almost line-shaped, as if someone had been holding him.
No, he’s not in the Libaiyan refuge, he’s somewhere else.
The memories of last night come rushing back to him. Running from the tent. The fight with Seonghwa. The subsequent kiss with Seonghwa.
His capture.
The shock of it is enough to cause Wooyoung to jolt awake, mind finally clearing even if the pain at the back of his head does not subside.
As if sensing Wooyoung’s realization, a man appears from under the tent-flap. He’s older, his face like a worn-glove, leathery and wrinkled in its places most used. His dark hair is cropped short, although his beard remains long, as well as scruffy.
Most notably, he’s dressed entirely in black armour. One of your predators.
“Ah, good. You’re awake,” the man says, and his voice is not as deep as Wooyoung expected.
“Who are you and-”
“Don’t speak. Not everyone has arrived yet,” the man cuts him off dismissively. “Besides, we’ll be the ones asking the questions.”
“Oh, my mistake, I thought-”
Wooyoung doesn’t know why he is surprised by the slap, but he is. Maybe because he hadn’t even had the chance to say the insult he was planning yet. Usually the hit would at least come afterwards.
These men, they aren’t playing around, that is clear.
His cheek stings, and he can imagine the bright red mark appearing along his skin as more men in dark armour appear from under the tent-flap. Wooyoung is surprised by the amount of them that manage to crowd into the space, almost a dozen.Then again, it is a big tent. Mostly empty, other than a small table in the corner, scattered with a variety of knick-knacks and spices that seem non-sensensical. Lunadore pollen, silver beads, Alagor Root, and a bunch of other rare ingredients the Wooyoung does not have time to make sense of, although set him on edge nonetheless.
If they plan to torture him, the table should be full of knives. Hammers. Maybe a few pliers to pull off his fingernails. Not plants.
The man who slapped him - their leader, it seems - clears his throat, and the group of men fall silent. Each of them turn to face Wooyoung, eyes glinting with something dark, something that says that they know more than he does.
Wooyoung makes sure to give each of them in turn a glare.
“I’m sure you know who we are by now,” the man says.
Wooyoung considers playing dumb, maybe earning himself a matching slap on the other cheek. However, he needs information, which means at least for now he must play along.
“You attacked the Libaiyan castle. Killed their king,” Wooyoung answers, meeting the man’s gaze. His eyes are sharp, intimidating, and Wooyoung makes sure not to look away. Not to show any fragility. Even if he has been made into the weakest in the room, he need not show it.
“People have been calling you The Dark Army,” Wooyoung says, and then because he can’t help himself, adds: “Cute name. Very scary. Did you come up with it yourselves?”
The man doesn’t answer his question, but instead smirks. “If you know who we are, I’m sure you also know what we’re looking for.”
You. That’s the answer the man wants. But Wooyoung won’t give that to him. “Power?” He ventures instead. “Glory? Access to the king’s many bejeweled robes?”
The man steps forward, grabbing Wooyoung's face in his hand. His fingers squeeze Wooyoung’s jaw, so much so that it not only hurts, but prevents him from speaking.
“Enough playing coy,” the man says. He still does not seem angry, face blank and tone almost bored as he grips Wooyoung’s face between his fingers. “Tell me where she is.”
He eases his grip just enough to let Wooyoung speak. “Where who is?”
The man’s grip tightens once again, fingernails digging into the elemental’s skin, and Wooyoung forces himself not to wince. “The girl you’ve been running all over Burovia with. The princess turned convict. Ring any bells?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Wooyoung manages. At this the man lets go of his jaw, but it’s only to deliver another slap that burns along his cheek. The man grips his jaw again, and Wooyoung struggles to focus on the man’s face, blinking away the stars that dance across his vision.
“Yes, you do,” the man says, and this time his tone is almost soft, gentle as he attempts to coax out an answer. Somehow it’s far more unsettling than the blankness. “Is she with the refugees? At one of the hostels, or even a tavern?”
“I told you, I don’t know,” Wooyoung says through gritted teeth. This time the man does not slap him, but instead grips his hair as he brings Wooyoung face down into his knee. Pain radiates from his nose through the rest of his face, and when the man lifts him back up, it takes Wooyoung a moment to register the man’s face before him through the blurriness.
It’s not until now that Wooyoung realizes the severity of the danger that he is in.
They want him to hand you over to them, and Wooyoung can’t do that.
But why can’t he do that? It would be the easiest thing to do. Nobody would blame him, after everything that you’ve done, especially if it came down to choosing between his own life or yours. San and Seonghwa would understand.
You are the Libaiyan Princess. Your family sent him to the orphanage. Turning you in would rid himself of the volatile confusion that has plagued him, it would fulfill the dream that his younger self wished for every night and morning. So why can’t he do it?
He knows the answer. How he feels towards you has grown beyond hatred. It’s grown beyond mere toleration for San and Seonghwa’s sake. It’s grown beyond the excuses he’s been telling himself for weeks.
He’s not going to hand you over to them to die, no matter what that may mean for himself. Unfortunately, what that may mean for himself is not looking good.
“You’re going to tell us,” the man states, not to persuade, but to simply state as fact. “It’s just a matter of how much you’re willing to put yourself through before you do.”
“Well I have nothing but time,” Wooyoung answers, grinning, and he knows his teeth are bloody. Can feel the grittiness on his teeth, or maybe that’s still from the night before.
The man smiles back. “You have three days.”
Wooyoung raises an eyebrow. “Because I’m just such lovely company?”
“Because that’s how long we’ve given her to come find you.”
Wooyoung pauses at this, and he knows he’s shown a glimpse of weakness. How did they get a message to you? Is he bluffing?
Would you really be stupid enough to come after him?
“Nobody will come,” Wooyoung says, and even he can hear the uncertainty in his voice. Surely you wouldn’t come after him. Not when you’re so close to Kuroku, to San’s freedom. You have to keep going, there’s no way you, San, and Seonghwa could take on a dozen armed and highly trained men, especially considering there’s more of them out there somewhere. It would be pointless, a suicide mission.
But Wooyoung also knows that none of you would leave him behind to die.
“That’s fine,” the man says with a shrug. “Either she comes to us, or we go to her with the information you’ll give us. It doesn’t matter.”
“You aren’t going to be able to torture anything out of me,” Wooyoung says with a scoff, tilting his chin up, defiant. “Pain? Yeah, I’ve been through my share.”
The corner of the man’s lip curves upward, eyes gleaming. “I know. That’s what they told me.”
Wooyoung frowns. They?
The man chuckles at Wooyoung’s weary expression, finally letting go of his hold on the elemental’s jaw. The group of soldiers step back, creating a pathway for him as the man heads over to the table covered with rare ingredients and spices.
The man begins to fiddle around with them, although what exactly he’s doing Wooyoung can’t make out, his vision obscured by the other men standing before him.
“Do you know what they say about those whose body cannot be broken?” The man calls over his shoulder, and Wooyoung catches a glimpse of what is in his hand: a small bowl and mallet, which he uses to grind down the Alagor Root.
“No,” Wooyoung answers, wary.
“Break their mind instead,” the man states, holding up a small vial of purple liquid that Wooyoung cannot identify, before pouring into the bowl. A strange, dark and odorous smoke wafts up from the concoction. It smells like something burning, although what exactly Wooyoung cannot place. That is, until he can. It’s burnt flesh. It reminds him of the infirmary tent, of his scorched arms.
An inkling of fear settles into Wooyoung’s chest as he becomes increasingly aware of the bonds on his wrist. He can’t move, run, fight back, or do anything, really.
For a man with so much power, he’s grown accustomed to never feeling powerless. For a moment, it’s like he’s thirteen again. At Warden’s disposal and no fire to call his own.
The man places the empty vile back down on the table, before grabbing something else Wooyoung cannot see, although he can hear the sizzling noise it makes as he adds it to the bowl.
Wooyoung cannot take the silence any longer, his curiosity - or better, fear - overtaking him. “What are you doing?” He asks.
Instead of answering him, the man begins to mutter something beneath his breath, making a strange circular motion with his hand above the bowl, which he has set back down on the table. Wooyoung cannot make out what he is saying, but the way the words leave his lips is almost rhythmic, like a priest delivering a chant.
Wooyoung scowls, opening his mouth to interrogate the other men around him as to what the hell is going on, but the words die on his tongue. He knows what the man is doing.
It’s part of the Old Faith. Old Magic.
Dark magic.
Wooyoung has never been a devoted servant to the gods. In fact, for all of his life he’s hated them. He hated them as a child for giving him a gift he could not use. He hated them as a teenager for cursing him with the power to destroy everything he held dear. He hates them as an adult for idly standing by as all of the horrible events of his childhood tumbled down one after the other.
However, even with his hatred towards the gods, he’s always considered worshiping them to be far more understandable than the Old Faith. More particularly, the Old Magic aspect.
It’s a breach of order. If the gods blessed the gifted with their powers, then Old Magic defies that. It’s taking from the earth what was not given to you. It’s blasphemous. Immoral and unnatural. At its very core wrong.
Wooyoung tugs at the chains around his wrists, which clatter in protest. Panic begins to rise in his chest, as one thought fills his head: “What the fuck are they going to do to me?”
The man finishes his chant, before digging into his pocket and pulling out a miniature knife. He uses it to create a small cut along the tip of his finger, holding it above the bowl as a drop of blood collects around the wound, before dropping into the potion.
Smiling to himself in satisfaction, the man takes the bowl with him as he heads back towards Wooyoung. Stopping before him, the man takes a moment to meet the elemental’s eyes, that glimmer of darkness potent within his gaze.
Wooyoung does not look away, but by the gods, he wants to.
“Well,” the man says. “Open up.”
Wooyoung keeps his mouth shut, lips pursing together. He can hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears, feeling its thump throughout his entire body. He can’t drink that. He isn’t sure what it will do, but he knows that its something horrible.
It will break his mind. That is what the man had said.
And while Wooyoung has always had confidence in his abilities, perhaps even relied on himself more than he should, for the first time that confidence falters.
“So this is what it takes for you to be quiet,” the man jests, earning a few chuckles from the others around him. “Good to know.”
When Wooyoung doesn’t reply, the man nods to a couple of the soldiers beside him. “Open his mouth.”
Four of the men approach him, and Wooyoung fights against the bonds of his chair, even if he knows it’ll be pointless. The chains against his wrists and ankles hold him still, and as two of the men grab his shoulders to stop the chair from rattling, he’s left with nothing but twisting his face away from the men who grab at him.
Hands blur across his vision as he feels one of the men press an arm to his throat. Another digs into his scalp, pulling his hair in order to bring his head back and face upwards. Fingers claw at the crevices of his face, digging beneath his cheekbones, into his ears, scratching along his lips.
It’s overwhelming, but Wooyoung stays focused, repeating over and over again in his mind, “Don’t open your mouth, don’t open your mouth, don’t open your mouth.”
It’s not until the elbow pressing into his throat has been there for a little too long that Wooyoung registers that he needs to breathe. Black lines creeping into the corners of his vision, head beginning to feel foggy, he does his best to ignore it.
Until he can’t any longer. Against his mind’s will, when the man removes his elbow from the elemental’s throat, Wooyoung gasps for air.
The men do not waste the opportunity.
Fingers dig themselves into his mouth, and while he attempts to bite down on them, their force is too strong as the many hands pull back his cheeks. Limbs bound, hair pinned, and face pulled back, he’s left helpless as the man with the bowl approaches him.
As the man lifts the bowl above the elemental’s face, a smile grazes over his lips, and Wooyoung knows that he is enjoying this.
The liquid burns as it pours down his throat, rubbing like sand-paper along his tongue. It tastes familiar. Like stale bread, but worse. Rotten with mold. Wooyoung gags but the man does not stop, not until the final drops fall from the bowl and into his open mouth.
The men do not release him until he swallows the concoction, and he feels it as it settles down into his gut, twisting and turning like cheap whiskey.
Wooyoung attempts to catch his breath, chest heaving and sweat beading along his forehead as he looks at the man before him. He continues to smile that awful, wretched grin, empty bowl in hand.
“See? Now that wasn’t so hard,” the man says, for no other reason but to rub salt in the wound.
Wooyoung spits on his shoes.
The man does nothing, merely takes a few steps back as he continues to watch Wooyoung with an analytical gaze, as if observing whatever the hell is supposed to happen. For a few moments, Wooyoung feels nothing but the tension that hangs in the room as all of the men stare at him. He feels like a monster in a cage, like one of those griffin’s from a traveling circus he saw passing through Gloria many years ago. Undeniably dangerous, but stripped down to a mere display for people to gawk at.
Then he notices it. It doesn’t start as much, more of a feeling in the back of his mind than anything else. An uncomfortable tingling sensation creeping through him, like an itch beneath his skin, little prickles of worry like ants tunneling through his veins.
He blinks, and his vision goes blurry.
The men in front of him transform into foggy statues and he blinks again, but instead of focusing it only gets worse. He swallows hard, only to find his throat has gone dry, the saliva refusing to go down.
Heat settles itself in his gut, rising into his chest as an aching sensation washes through him. Wooyoung lets out a low whine, one that under any other circumstances would humiliate him, but he can’t bring himself to worry about that right now. Not when his body feels as if it’s rejecting him.
“What did you do to me?” Wooyoung asks, and it comes out as a hoarse whisper. The man hums softly, reaching forward to hold Wooyoung’s chin. This time his grip is gentle, and Wooyoung wants to slap it away, but he doesn’t have the strength. In fact, if it weren’t for the man holding his head up, he’s certain his chin would have fallen down to his chest. Maybe it already had, Wooyoung doesn’t remember.
“This is the easy part, Jung Wooyoung,” the man says, and Wooyoung swears that that is the first time the man has said his name. Although the worry is replaced by agony as another ripple of pain rattles through him.
“Remember. You tell me what I want to know, I’ll make it stop,” the man says. “You’d be wise to accept that offer.”
Wooyoung blinks up at him, and he thinks thaf tears stain his eyes, although his vision is too foggy to notice a difference. “And if I don’t?”
“I don’t know,” the man says, giving a soft, condescending thumb-stroke along his cheek. “They always tend to comply.”
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You cannot sleep.
The tent feels crammed, even though you’re well aware that there’s more than enough space. Yeji sleeps soundly, a few feet away and face turned from you as the peaceful sighs of deep slumber escape her lips. It is dark, only the faintest hint of moonlight seeping through the tent’s thin fabric, and yet it feels too bright.
You do not wish to sleep. There are things to be done. This is no time for rest.
They have Woo.
The men you’ve been fearing this entire journey. The ones that ambushed your father, that killed Mingi, that besieged your castle and robbed your life right out from under your feet. The men that have made you paranoid, always keeping one eye over your shoulder, creating wariness with each new city and step you have taken.
The men you have feared would kill you, they have taken him instead.
And somehow that is so much worse.
It’s not something you’d anticipated, always having assumed that if the black-clad men were to find you, you would be the one to face the consequences. The idea that travelling with the three men was putting them in the crossfire of the mysterious army hadn’t occurred to you. After all, it’s your wanted posters on every city street, not theirs.
How stupid you had been, and now Woo is gone. Captured by your family’s assassins, and only the god’s know what sort of danger he is in.
It’s your fault. It’s you they really want, he is just a pawn in their greater game. You’ve been outplayed, and Woo is the one forced to pay the price of your failure.
They could be torturing him for information. You know the sorts of things powerful men do to prisoners, having heard whispers about it in your halls, the dungeons located deep beneath the castle. Using a whip to lash the back until there's more blood left than flesh, spending hours drowning them within a bucket of water, pouring vials of liquid metal along the skin. Maybe one of them is a sadist, and Woo’s face is blistered and burnt beyond repair.
Maybe he’s already dead.
You roll over, eyes accustomed enough to the darkness that you can make out the ceiling of the tent above you. Although really, what you see is Woo, pleading for mercy as one of the black-clad men delivers the final blow. Woo goes silent, his eyes still open, and you know that it is over. He is gone.
Another person you care for, dead.
You cannot just sit here like this and let that happen. However, while you were prepared to head to the Concursos Mountain Pass the moment Seonghwa placed the message down in front of you, both he and San urged caution.
“This is clearly a trap,” San had said, wrapping a hand around your wrist to stop you from heading down the path towards the refuge’s exit. “They’re going to be prepared, which means we need to be. We need to come up with a plan before we do anything.”
“We have three days,” you snapped back, frustrated. “Yeji said the journey is at the very least a full day’s ride. We don’t have the time to sit here and twiddle our thumbs.”
“Then we have a day and a half to come up with something,” San replied, tone calm but also curt. He was not entertaining the possibility of going now, no matter how much anger you added to your glare. “Maybe we can form a group of some of the other refugees and leave together.”
“There’s only two horse’s between the entire refuge,” you cut back. “We cannot make it in time by foot. There’s no chance of us building our own army, if that’s what you're implying.”
“We’ll figure it out,” San said, still not budging. However, beneath his steady gaze, you could see the faintest hint of worry. Of doubt. Of knowing that there may have been no other option but to go alone, although he was not ready to admit it. Not ready to acknowledge the truth that weighed down on each of your shoulders.
The fact that it may come down to Woo’s life, or your own.
Thus, a second truth sat just as heavy. He would choose Woo. They both would.
It’s not until this moment, staring up at the ceiling of the tent, that you realize you would choose Woo too.
You will not have him die for you. You will not have the black-clad men take anything else from you. Not him. Not like this.
If they are to kill you, let it be your own doing. Not ambushed for the money they have placed on your head, or killed silently in an alley-way along the streets of Bebbanburg. You will not be your father, stabbed at his own celebration, unaware of what was coming. If you are to die, let you come to them with your sword in hand, fighting for a man who - even when you haven’t deserved it - fought for you.
Rising to your feet, you pull the blanket off of you, heading towards the tent flap. Stopping in place, you turn back, watching Yeji’s sleeping silhouette, chest rising and falling peacefully.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and it is not only to her, but to all of them. All of the Libaiyan’s uprooted from their homes, left to wander Burovia with no kingdom to call home. They had finally been reunited with their princess, only for you to leave them once more. It is selfish. It is what your father would consider an abandonment of responsibility.
Maybe you are abandoning your royal duty, or perhaps you are fulfilling your duty to another.
Either way, it must be done.
Slipping out from under the tent flap, you can hear San and Seonghwa talking within their own tent, though you cannot make out what they are saying. Good, they're busy. They will likely not notice you’re gone until morning.
Scanning the field, the man continues to sing by the fire, and it is the same song as before. Lute in hand, he serenades the men and women surrounding him, although the number has depleted under the blanket of the night.
As you approach the horse tied to a nearby tent-pole, you sing along quietly beneath your breath, to the words you have known your entire life.
“My love for whom I do come home,”
“I’ve been bathed in scars, both body and soul,”
“And while I’ve returned beneath darkened gloam,”
“Without you this place may never be whole.”
Although, while you may sing his words, unlike the man within the song you will not be so passive.
You will find Woo, and you will bring him home. Even if you do not come back with him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
next chapter.
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