#trouble right here in river city | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hornyjorny · 28 days

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following the river

summary: almost a frame-by-frame fanfic of river's scene in-game, but better :3 ish!! an- guys i am so fucking sorry i haven't posted in fucking AGES i've been absolutely dogged with work n shit and i'm depressed as fuck. anyway. here's to my loyal river fans (all twelve of us) hashtag justice for river ward ive literally spent months on this for no reason warnings- smut (18+ mdni), cowgirl, first time, you're both nervous as fuck, multiple positions, switch!v, switch!river, fucking the police, johnny ment, oral (f receiving and very brief lol), missionary, mild angst with cavity-inducing sweetness at the end, river and v are very much in love, cuddles

wc: 9.2k

If you had told yourself you’d be spending the night with an NCPD badge a month ago, you woulda’ laughed in your very own fuckin’ face. But between those heated kisses and those soft, hushed whispers, River Ward leads you by the hand into the silence of his bedroom— and it all feels far too unreal.

But the truth is, reality is a bitch. And now here you are, tangled in a contradiction of your own making. Guess you misunderstood the whole “FUCK THE POLICE” thing.

He oughtta be chasing you down, not holding you close. But fuck, this whole situation with River is just so thrilling, and it’s absolutely undeniable that he’s more than just some badge.

There’s kindness, there’s goodness in him that transcends that old, dumbass uniform he used to wear. Night City may be bleeding, and Johnny Silverhand may be a relentless presence in your head, but River offers something more—a promise of a future beyond the consistent chaos as he leads you into the quietness of the trailer.

To be honest, you’re not sure if you’re entirely in love with River— sure, you’re attracted, and sure, your heart beats a million times faster when he’s around, and sure, you think about him all the fucking time, but shit, you don’t know love. But fuck, whether you deserve it or not, there’s just something about him, you don’t know what feels… safe.

River represents something you’ve never really had: hope. The hope for a promise of an actual future— a real-ass life. Not just surviving but living— happily, at that.

And for tonight, that’s enough.

Never before have you encountered someone as gentle, as fucking sweet as River. His kindness, his sincerity, it's like a lifeline amid chaos. But with each tender moment, each stolen kiss, you can't shake the gnawing feeling of guilt eating away at you. Oh, how you don’t want to feel this way, but here you are regardless, falling and falling for River, and allowing yourself to embrace the sensation of being vulnerable in more ways than one. And oh— is it such a bad time to catch feelings; your time on this earth is limited.

You’re a merc, one with a ticking timebomb of a narcissistic rockerboy lodged into your head, just waiting to take over your body, waiting for you to finally kick the bucket so he can take control. You’re not exactly girlfriend material. You’re neither beautiful nor are you admirable. You are tired. You are bruised.

You're a mercenary, a killer by trade, and here you are, falling for a cop—a man dedicated to upholding the law you so often break.

You know you should push River away, distance yourself before it's too late. But goddamn it, you can't bring yourself to do it.

It’s almost funny, you think. Funny to have found a love oh-so-precious—oh-so beautiful, only to have it ripped away from you by a little piece of plastic nestled in your skull. River’s warmth, his unwavering support, it's all both a blessing and a curse. You desperately want to hold onto this love, to cherish every moment you have left, but the knowledge that your time is running out gnaws at your very soul.

You sigh. Fuck, you know you can’t think about this now— you know it’s best to enjoy the moment rather than to trouble yourself with the moral implications of it all right now. You’ll destroy yourself otherwise.

And little do you know, but River’s thoughts are mirroring your own. He's fucking scared, terrified of the way you've woven yourself into the fabric of his life. As a detective, he's seen the darkest corners of Night City, the horrors that lurk in the shadows. But when it comes to you, he's lost, unsure of how to navigate the maze of emotions that swirl within him.

You're the very embodiment of everything he's sworn to protect the city against. And yet, he can't help but fall for you. Behind the walls you've erected to shield yourself from the world, he sees the vulnerability, the genuine warmth that draws him to you like a moth to a flame. But there's a part of him that fears the truth, that fears what he might discover if he delves too deep into your world. And as you stand together in the silence of the night, wrapped in each other's arms, you can't help but wonder if this fragile bubble of happiness is destined to burst, leaving nothing but broken pieces in its wake.

The linoleum floor creaks beneath your steps as River leads you further, navigating the narrow hallway. Anxiety continues to brew within him—shit, he just hopes you like him back.

He hopes his choice is right. He hopes he made the right choice by bringing you around.

But all of the chaos, all the fear building within, completely evaporates away when his eyes finally meet yours, his anxiety dissipating into nothingness. Tonight, all he wants is for the two of you to be one, where nothing in the world matters. It makes everything else seem so distant and minuscule, and that, oh, it’s the closest thing to heaven that he’s ever known.

Nothin’ else matters—except for the moment.

River pauses at one of the entryways, silently gesturing to his niece and nephew, sleeping peacefully. You understand what he’s communicating to you immediately.

You two need to be quiet tonight.

Tonight is the perfect time to forget that you’re a mercenary and he’s a cop. No badges, no guns, no uniforms—and no parasitic rockstar in your head, either. Just you and him.

So you nod your head in acknowledgment as you ease past the kids and follow him into the silence of his bedroom. Your stomach flutters in your chest; oh, fuck, you feel like a couple of giddy-ass teenagers.

You’re relentless, in all the right ways. Your desperation to feel River, to kiss him— it’s intoxicating. Once the door clicks shut, you immediately rise up on your tippy-toes with zero hesitation to press your lips against his; you could do nothing else.

Fucking finally.

One kiss, and you know you’re addicted to the taste of his lips on your own. You know then, that nothing else could give you such a natural high. You must confess, that your thoughts are impure, and the fire is burning within your bones. Shit, it excites you so much, just the idea of riding him absolutely senseless— you’re gonna fuck away his entire moral compass by the end of the night.

It’s as your lips press together, with all the desire arousal, and heat you have to offer, a wave of cruel exhaustion washes over you as River embraces you, finally making its way to the forefront of your mind. His warmth almost feels like a blanket, of sorts, soft and comforting.

A soft pleased hum escapes River’s lips as he presses himself against you, moving his hands to grip the back of your head tightly, returning your kiss with the same raw passion. His arms are wrapped around your waist, his body pressing against yours— fuck, it feels so nice to be held by a body that feels like home.

And for once, it's not Johnny who takes over your thoughts, but River. You need him—now. The heat of his lips on yours is fucking intense. It's like everything else in the city fades away, and for once, even Johnny’s presence is just a distant buzz in your mind.

And all there is, that's all that matters—River, you, and the rest warmth of his lips pressed against yours.

Your fingers claw at the fabric of his tank top, holding onto him tightly as you kiss him with every ounce of passion that’s been building up within you for entirely too long. You’ve wanted this—you’ve fucking needed this, needed to feel the warmth of another in a world so dauntingly cold.

Every breath feels new, every sensation is amplified, and all you can focus on is River. River, River, River. He’s real, and you feel him like never before. He’s yours, and you’re his.

Your breath is getting shorter, and your thoughts are being consumed with just one word: more. More, more, more. You need to feel his love.

How good it feels to have something real. And fuck, is it nice to have something else on your mind except for your impending and unavoidable death. No Johnny, no Arasaka, no Relic. Just you. Just him. Just two desperate people wanting desperately to cling to the idea of feeling alive for just one night.

You practically moan into his mouth as you lean back, letting his strong, secure arms wrap around your body. You press your body up into his, craving his warmth, craving his presence, craving him. It’s like you’re slipping into a deep trance-like state, one where all that matters in this very instant is River, this one fucking detective, this one stupid badge.

“River,” you whine quietly. “I need you.”

The words slip out before you even have time to stop them, the sound of them leaving your ears ringing.

Fuck, does he feel like the luckiest person alive when you utter those little words, the sound of them barely audible against the city’s distant hum? For such a tough merc, you sound so cute—so needy, that it makes his heart jump in his chest. It’s such an unexpected, quick change for you, and you swear you catch his mechanical eye shining a little brighter as his rough hands graze against your hips. His body presses tightly against yours, lowering his voice to a whisper that makes your tummy flutter.

“Shhh… I know ya do, V…”

The words feel so foreign slipping from his lips, but god, he can’t help it. River leans even closer to you until you can feel the warm breath of his body tingling inside your ear—his lips press up against your neck softly, trailing little wet kisses up and down the sensitive skin there.

“Just let go…”

River whispers again, moving his hand down your back and caressing the skin that he can feel through the thin fabric of your shirt. His lips flutter up and down along your neck, nibbling gently on your skin. Rough, calloused hands trace down your body, before pulling your hips to his so there’s no space between you.

River’s voice turns deep; husky.

“Just let go of everything but me…”

After all, he’s done for the city, for the world, no one has ever wanted him in such a way that they wanted him, not just his title, his body, but the person behind the piercing glow of his mechanical eye.

River’s ganic hand trails gingerly up and down your torso, his fingers playing gently with the fabric of your shirt as his lips press against your neck. The delicate sensation sends ripples of pleasure through your core— fuck— you’re getting wet.

His words trigger an immediate response from you. Excitedly, you push back against him as you moan quietly in his ear, fingers digging into the fabric of his red tank top— breath halting in your chest, growing shorter and more agitated. You raise on your tippy toes, attempting to return the favor by kissing his neck.

As you push yourself forward, pressing yourself against him, pushing a hand behind his neck, your fingers grip tight along the back of his neck. Slowly, you brace one hand on his chest, your thumb rubbing along the hard muscle that hides below his shirt, your other hand falling to fidget with the neckline of his tank.

You can feel it— he’s muscular; he’s strong and hard. He’s aboutta be all yours, and the thought alone makes you feel weak, weak in the knees with how hot he is.

When you’re slipping your hands below his shirt to feel the skin beneath, River’s steadiness finally falters. Unknowingly, he backs up into his desk, causing an empty beer bottle to topple over— crashing to the floor in the silence of the trailer.

Fuck.

For a brief moment, panic seizes over your entire being. Shit. Your heart pounds in your chest, shit, shit, shit— what if you woke everyone up with the crash? What if he’s upset with you for pulling such a gonk move, fuckin’ shoving him into his desk? What about the mess?

You swear you’re doomed.

But to your surprise, River's expression softens, a hint of amusement dancing in his mechanical stare. Was his amn fault for being so clumsy, anyway.

When the warmth of his lips caress yours, you feel a deep wave of relief. Thank fuck— you think to yourself as you realize that your actions didn’t cause all hell to break loose.

Instead, he’s too amused by your excitement, and that only serves to turn you on all the more. Hell— River finds it adorable how badly you want him. He can deal with the mess later. He’s too lost in you, too lost in the tide of passion to give a shit. Instead, his focus is entirely on you, and all rational thought is overshadowed.

His hands find their way to either side of your face, his touch gentle yet possessive, as if he's determined to memorize every curve and contour of your face. River stops, an urgent whisper, his voice barely above a breathy murmur.

“You've got me. Don't let go. Don't let this moment, this feeling—this feeling of you and me, don't let it end.”

But before you can even process the full weight of River’s words, his lips crash into yours with a fervor that leaves you breathless. It’s like a tidal wave, consuming you with its intensity, and you find yourself melting into his embrace without hesitation. You’re safe.

In turn, you respond eagerly, matching his passion with your own, hands roaming freely across his back, pulling him closer with every passing moment. River hums to himself when your smooth lips part upon the brush of his tongue against you— feeling just right. You feel a surge of electricity coursing through your veins, fueling that consuming lust that just keeps on burning brighter and hotter in your lower tummy.

You guide his strong hands, urging him to explore every inch of your being, to revel in the depths of your desire as you surrender yourself completely to the intoxicating bliss of the moment. You need him. The feeling of his sends shivers down your spine, you realize that this—this connection, this unspoken bond—is what you've been searching for all along. In River's arms, you find solace. In his kiss, you find passion. And in that little bit of love between you, you find home.

Like you, River’s mind has started to go hazy, his body filled with heat as he pulls you in tighter, desperate to feel everything at once.

The embrace of your lips turns heated, desperate, his teeth brushing against your bottom lip. Shit, he can’t believe you’re allowing him to touch you like this— he feels like the luckiest fucker in the world. The heat rising in his body is nothing short of intense, it feels so right.

But he needs more.

River pulls away to break the kiss, his gaze slides across your body, admiring you silently, taking note of every little curve, burning through you, silently admitting how lucky he is. Oh, how he never realized desire could be so engulfing until this moment, with you staring right up into his eyes with a vulnerability he cannot ignore. It makes him feel fuckin’ stupid— like he could live in this moment forever.

His movements are slow and deliberate. It's enough to send your heart pumping, your chest heaving, your breath coming in short gasps. When you meet his steely gaze, it feels like his mechanical eye is bearing into your soul.

River moves a palm up to cup your cheek lovingly, before nodding his head in the direction of his bed— a silent command. You immediately know what he’s attempting to communicate. You know what comes next.

And you’re just dying to see it through.

A little rush of pure excitement overtakes you as you rush to the bed, while River turns around for a brief moment. Without a second thought, without any semblance of hesitation, you’re immediately beginning to fumble with the straps of your gear, allowing it to fall all to the ground. Every movement of yours feels like a wave of electric pulsing through your body, a rush of adrenaline that leaves you panting— leaving your mind blurry with need.

While he’s got his back turned, you rip off your sweats, letting them fall to the ground. Immediately after, you’re ripping off the thin tank you’re wearing, slipping your bra right off with it, fully exposing your bare chest to the coolness of the night air. A little excited shiver runs down your spine, your nipples perking up and stiffening as a result of the temperature drop.

And before you know it, you’re almost naked— wearing nothing but a soaked, think pair of panties, wanting him, needing to have him—not Johnny, but River, just River…

You catch the soft mechanical glow of his eye in the mirror on the closet door. For a brief moment, your breath catches in your throat.

The glow in the reflection dims as he stares. Your heart beats so fast you feel dizzy from the rush. You know he’s watching you just as you’re watching him. And without saying a word, you both know what you want— he finally turns around.

Fuck—you, the most dangerous mercenary in the whole fuckin’ city, is laying before this dumbass detective, wearing nothing but your panties. And oh, you’re so helplessly wet over some cop to the point where you can already feel the moisture soaking through them. You can’t control yourself, you can’t control the way your fingers keep on trailing lower, beginning to push away the dampened strip of fabric in between your legs.

A breath breaks from your mouth as you toss your panties aside. It’s sudden, a bit of a surprise even. But you’re done wasting time. The air feels cold on your exposed cunt, but fuck, you don’t care—besides, the heat he’s making you feel is enough to keep ya’ warm.

Gently, your lips tremble with each passing moment... your body is fuckin’ craving him more and more with every moment that passes with him staring directly at your messy pussy. You can’t take it. You allow yourself to be completely vulnerable, your arms trailing behind you as he draws near. Your eyes flutter as you anticipate him being near, letting him take you completely... letting him take you in.

River’s eyes are locked onto your body— he’s in shock. Fuck. Jesus Christ, every second you’re up looking at him with pathetic, needy eyes makes his cock tremble in his pants. Both of River’s eyes, amber and mechanical pierce through you, just craving you in ways he's never craved fuckin’ anyone. And oh, you love the euphoric burning feeling that rises in your tummy when you feel him stare. A little blush settles across your face, you feel some wetness slide down from your aching cunt. You arch your back a little as River approaches you.

Fuck. You can’t wait. You reach out, pulling your fingers tight around his hips as you pull him down to the bed with you. You can't wait another second to be with him and you pull him down with you on the bed. Before he can even process what’s happening, you’re beginning to lift his tanktop, and by Christ, you’re not disappointed when you finally reveal what’s underneath.

You’re not religious, but in the darkness of his bedroom, you’ve found something holy. Immediately, your eyes trail down, taking note of every little freckle and scar that litters his tan skin. Fuck— he’s perfect. You press your lips against his chest, trailing little wet kisses down his body... each kiss burning into both of you, each kiss driving you both that much closer to desperation. You’re unaware of the self-restraint he's exercising to keep himself from pushing you onto the bed and just fucking you right then and there. River’s working every ounce of self-control he has as you trail your lips down his chest, letting each kiss linger just enough to tease him.

In the dark room, you worship him with your touch, with a love that’s so undoubtedly wrong.

Your eyes drift up to his, and it’s over for you both. Gently, you slide your hands slooowly down River’s torso, making him squirm as your hand trails lower and lower, fingers beginning to move to slowly undo his pants. And fuck, It takes him every little bit of lasting resistance and strength he has to let you touch without intervening.

But shit— you aren’t gonna let River off that easy, no fucking way. You’re gonna fuckin’ savor this—every second of it all. Your lips trail down his clothed thigh with a subtle grin, wrapping your fingers around the waistband of his boxers, slowly pulling them down inch by inch. He wants you to pull them off immediately but you're going slow, savoring every little cute expression he’s pulling, savoring the way he bites into his lip, hard.

River’s getting more and more frustrated by the second but damn you're just enjoying the thrill of it all, watching your most favorite detective bend to your whims like an obedient, well-trained dog. You're teasing him and savoring each and every second of it, every little moment of him letting out pathetic heavy sighs, every moment of his cock straining against the fabric of his jeans.

But you’re growing impatient.

You begin to tug at his waistband, attempting to pull his jeans down his thighs with a not-so-secret smug-ass grin. You’ve got him wrapped around your fuckin’ finger, you feel confident—you’re gonna fuck the badge outta him— you’re gonna ride him till the goddamn sun rises.

But when his cock springs free from the confines of his pants, your ego is absolutely fucking wiped. He’s fucking huge.

Prominent veins run up the side of the thick shaft throbbing with pure anticipation. Your eyes trail up to the leaky, swollen tip where little beads of precum threaten to spill. Pure perfection. Everything about your actions up until now has been so confident and so sure, so controlled and so certain you could handle anything. But now that he's here— that he's out, free, and soooo clearly ready for you — you feel an intense wave of doubt.

You're the best, most badass fuckin’ merc in all of Night City—and yet here you are, with his dick in front of your face and you're speechless. River’s enjoying how you're staring at him, your eyes fixated on his shaft. Secretly, he loves the brief sense of control this is giving him, even with you on top. Fuck, it does good for his ego.

By Christ— he finds your reaction to his size nothing short of fucking adorable. River gives a sharp inhale through his teeth and his lips curve into a mischievous smile, his ego swelling with the realization that he's a lot more than you expected...and he loves it. He knows all the right words to say, all the right tones to take, and he knows exactly how to play with you, right down to the way you're staring at him.

Nonetheless, you set your thoughts aside as you mount the detective’s strong bronze thighs, his eyes locking onto yours.

You briefly question your safety as you tenderly wrap your fingers around the base of his thick shaft, feeling him jolt beneath you.

But it's okay. You've got this. You can do this. You take a deep breath and try to ignore the size, your hands still stroking him gently, your touch sending shivers of anticipation up and down his body…

His hand wraps around your thigh in silent reassurance, a giant grasp that feels like it was molded entirely for you to fit perfectly into it; and the other falls to your hip, slowly tracing a path across your bare skin. The little gesture sends you fucking wild. River needs you to be comfortable.

You press the tip of his cock against your dripping entrance, a little shiver runs through you when River stifles a groan underneath.

This all feels so right, this all feels so real, and River wants you to know that. He wants to take all of your fears and worries away, to show you that he's got you, and he's here for you. And when you take your first tentative slide onto him, the tip entering you, River’s jaw hangs agape, a little squeak leaving your lips as the thick head enters you.

You both recognize the need to be silent, and so for now the only sounds in the room are the soft moans and subtle whimpers coming from River's mouth as he's pressed against you...as you're pressed against him, two bodies entwined, one in the other. Nothing else exists at this very moment but this feeling... the intense, overwhelming feeling of his heavy cock throbbing inside of your tight walls. And oh, does the thought of making this dumbass detective whimper and struggle beneath you motivate you all the more.

When you finally sink down, filling yourself to the brim, a cute little gasp! is forced from your parted saliva-coated lips. River’s stretching you out so so nicely— it’s a sweet type of burn. You dig your teeth into your bottom lip hard, biting back a pathetic moan as your eyes scrunch shut.

A low growl escapes River’s lips as you suddenly take him whole in one go.

Your wet walls constrict and clench around him, your achy, needy clit pressing against his groin. Oh fuck, it’s hard for him not to start moving his hips, to just start thrusting into your pathetic mess of a pussy without mercy. But no, he’s waiting for you, waiting for you to guide the speed. This is your night, it’s River’s chance to show how much he fuckin’ adores you.

He's big— and you know you need to take it slow at first. But fuck, you’re not gonna stop, not now, not ever, not when he’s looking up at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes upon— it’s sending little waves of euphoric bliss throughout your entire body.

River watches you take another deep breath before you begin to raise your hips again, pumping yourself full despite the stretch.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. You continue this rhythm slowly, taking your own sweet time to thoroughly feel each inch of his sweet cock rubbing against your soaked walls.

In, out. In, out. You continue this rhythm.

You work through that burn— you work through the pain of the stretch. Take your own sweet time, inhaling, exhaling, breathing in between each movement, each wave of pleasure that ripples through your body with each bounce. Soon, you no longer feel the pain that comes with each slide down; you’ve melded to the shape of his cock.

Shit, he underestimated you.

River’s breathing heavily now, huffing and biting into his lip—as he takes his time, taking care of you. And the moment he finds your rhythm, he won't be letting up even for a second, he’s gonna make you suffer just the damn same.

But when you begin to speed up your pace, suddenly slamming your hips down into him, you’ve got him locked.

Then and there, River swears he’s in fucking heaven.

You’re so tight— so fucking soft… so fucking heavenly, that he can’t do anything except look up at you and purely just admire as you struggle to take him—as he himself struggles to keep up with the pace of your hips.

River’s pussywhipped already, turning his head to the side to hide the adorable little faces he’s pulling.

But fuck, you’re not gonna let that happen.

“Look at me,” you whisper into the silence of the night. You force his jaw upwards, wrapping your hands around his throat. “Only me, Riv.”

River’s caught off guard by your sudden display of dominance; but oh, how he loves it regardless. ‘Looks like his little mercenary finally gained the courage to take control,’ he thinks to himself.

You catch a little mischievous glimmer in his mechanical eye, shining into the darkness. He’s enjoying this, you can tell.

You stare into his gaze for just a brief moment; almost mesmerized, before suddenly pulling his face to yours and kissing him fiercely, your tongue slipping into his mouth.

River’s strong grip on your thigh releases as his body begins to tremble underneath you; it all just feels too fucking good. It’s all too too much, the intensity of your hips rocking back and forth, the way you’re squeezing him and bouncing on his dick like it’s nothing compared to before.

He knows you’re a merc, knows you’re a tough girl. You’re V— you don’t take shit from anyone, you take the reigns no matter what; he shoulda’ expected this from you. But oh, how he loves being bested by his lil’ merc.

River’s eyes roll back as he holds you tightly to him, his hands moving up to your lower back and supporting you, he’s lost all self-control, and can’t stop what's about to happen as his breath grows heavier, lips parting. You’re fucking wet, clenching so so tight around him—he can’t help the groan that juuusst barely escapes his lips…

But luckily for you, you cover his mouth just in time, your body still moving with such intensity. You're taking total control here, not letting him make a sound. You cover his mouth before he has the chance to protest, silencing him in an almost aggressive, dominating way, your breath hot against his lips.

At this moment, the detective is yours. Every muscle in his body belongs to you and every beat of his heart is for you. River is yours, he needs you, and when you cover his mouth, you can feel the rush going through his throat as it contracts with an effort to muffle any sound he might unintentionally let slip as your hips refuse to relent.

The feeling of control that you've been so desperately seeking is finally yours, all yours, your hands are on the wheel— and you’re the one sending this poor fucker into a tailspin of pleasure and lust. River feels so much better than you possibly could’ve imagined, and shit, you’ve finally accomplished your goal to fuck him senseless, leaving him a complete and utter mess in your control — a mess that feels so good, as you keep pumping against him, feeling him inside you.

Every movement you make is met with his equally intense counter-response, his cock beginning to throb. Fuck. He’s close.

But River’s not going to let you get ahead of him— nuh-fucking-uh. He’s had enough of your teasing; he can’t take it anymore— he’s not about to let himself cum before you, not when there’s so much fun still left to be had. He’ll drive himself to the edge— and he’ll take you with him.

Strong hands take hold of your hips, hammering his hips into your sweet, messy cunt at the pace he desires. Just like that, all the control in your hands, all that dominance, and power beforehand, is gone in an instant.

He wants to let you ride him, he really does. Wants to let you take control— but fuck, it’s not enough. He needs more, not just to ride, but to have you in his arms, and in return, you let him take control and show you exactly how he feels for you.

And so you give up your control, giving up your dominance, allowing River to manhandle you into position, guiding you to the edge of the bed. Your breath catches in your chest as River trails his lips down to your collarbone and slowly reaches down to latch onto your nipple. You dig your teeth into your lip as he suckles at it tenderly, keeping your reaction a secret as you try to keep it together. Inside of you, you feel your tummy flutter with adrenaline as your heart rate picks up.

He knows you’re enjoying this, but oh, he’s got other plans for you.

With strong yet gentle hands, he’s hoisting you up into his arms. His amber eye meets yours, and he’s gazing at you like you’re the most precious thing in the whole world. He lifts you, and you let yourself go limp in his hold— you know you’re safe, after all.

You bury your head into his neck, pressing tight against him as you cling like your life depends on it. Everything feels so good when you’re in River’s arms when he loosens his grip to trail a path of wet kisses down the center of your chest. The way he feels so warm and safe makes you feel like the whole world isn’t crumbling down on you— instead, it feels like you can finally rest.

Honestly, it’s just entirely him that makes you feel this way. He’s a stark contrast to any of your past lovers; a genuine shining light in a world so filled to the brim with darkness, a genuine positive change compared to the ways apparent in all of your exes.

Shit, you know Johnny’s gonna hate you even more for this, but you know you love this— you love River.

Before you can think about it for any longer than you already have, he’s cutting your thoughts short to pull you to your feet, pinning you against the cool glass of his bedroom window.

Fuck, you’re adorable to him. River just can’t help but slide his palms up against your soft skin, all the way up to cup at your titties, cupping them softly in each hand.

You let out a sharp gasp as he slips in, a deep inhale following quickly after— his hips pressing into your ass. You feel the heat of his breath against your neck as you cling to the cool glass of the window. You want him close, you want to feel him all against you. Your thoughts fill with nothing but him, and his cock begins to roll into you again, forcing a pathetic little squeak out of you.

But there’s a sudden thought that pops into your head— shit, what if someone sees this, sees you, pressed against the window, getting your insides rearranged like there’s no tomorrow? Fuck.

Shit, you feel more vulnerable than ever with River pressing himself into you, hands locked around your waist, his breath hot and heavy in your ear as he drives himself deeper into your sopping cunt. Him, the detective, fucking the brains outta’ a dangerous lil’ merc like you. Shit, it’s so thrilling that the thoughts in your head disappear entirely, and you're completely overcome with the sensation of his thick member moving in and out of you.

God damn. Your breath becomes shallow and your chest is rising and falling with every hard press of his hips into your ass. You're literally pressed against the glass with your face to the window, your eyes beginning to close.

Even though your brain screams for common sense, your body craves otherwise.

Oh god, you love this. Fuck your common sense. Fuck whatever Johnny has to say about it— you’ll deal with him later.

You feel like you're falling into a trance, drowning in pleasure. Every thrust fills you with more and more heat and waves of pleasure, overwhelming your body and leaving you feeling like you're drifting away into nothingness.

Your vision blurs and the sounds slowly fade into the background. River is everything, your entire world, and right now the only thing you can concentrate on is his body and how good he makes you feel— he’s stretching out your cunt fucking delightfully. It feels like you're drowning in pleasure and you love it, absolutely love this feeling of complete submission to him. Normally, you’d fucking never let somebody, anybody, do this to you.

But River Ward is the exception.

You love the feeling of his breath on your neck, the soft, warm comfort it gives you, like a blanket wrapping itself against you. Your body relaxes as he gently moves his hands along your ribs, his gentle touch sending a shiver of excitement down your body. Then you hear his voice, a whisper that makes your toes curl with the touch.

River’s attention is set on suppressing his little groans of pleasure by lowering his head to your shoulder, biting down gently. Shit, you’re almost too much to handle, he notes your breathlessness and sense of being soo overwhelmed- he can tell you’re ready for anything and everything from this moment on. Your walls constrict tightly around him, arousal fluids spilling from your hole with each mean thrust.

Your breath is heavy and unfocused. River’s touch is perfectly balanced between soft and rough, squeezing your waist as his other hand digs into your breast, hips still deliciously rolling into you, still deliciously fucking you.

You can't even remember the last time you've felt this.. good.

Despite the burn of the stretch of his cock, you steady your legs back, rocking your ass back against him to match the pace of his thrusts.

River’s eyes shoot open when he feels your tight cunt starting to move up and down his length again, this time without his influence. Both his intimidating gaze and his large hands immediately fall to the fat of your ass as a groan rips out from his throat.

He’s just enjoying the show as his pretty needy little merc attempts to get herself off. It’s cute— pathetic, the way you take him whole, the way you’re desperate for more.

You feel the cool press of his metal hand against the back of your neck, using you as leverage to pump his hot cock in and out.

Your lips curl against the force of your teeth, the heat of your breath fogging against the glass, legs beginning to violently shake under the weight of his thrusts.

Both hands move to grab your plush thighs with a tight grip, your breathless sighs and tight cunt squeezing around him let him know just how much you really need him.

You wanna moan. You wanna whine out his name, you wanna beg for more— but you can't. Not this time. So, you bite into your lip hard, your open palms set on the glass of the window briefly curling into fists. Instead of submitting to yourself, you focus on the brightness of neon lights and towering buildings right before your eyes, you focus on the way his hands dig into the soft flesh of your hips, driving deep inside.

But it’s all too much for you.

"Fuck, V, you're good…” His voice is hot as it trails down your neck and along your jawline. Gentle hands begin to trail down your thighs, fingers tracing along your skin. Oh, it’s heavenly.

River’s eyes open when he doesn’t hear you respond past weak, breathy little sighs. A teasing remark sits on his tongue, his lips curling into a smirk, but his throat goes parched the moment his eyes trail all the way down to where his large, swollen cock disappeared in and out of you, just stretching you oh-so-well.

You look utterly and completely debauched in the reflection of the glass, eyes closed, cheek pressed up against the window, your mouth slightly agape, lips reddened and bruised from rough kisses. River finds the way your chest heaves and the way you let out broken whines oh-so-adorable, as his eyes trail down to the plethora of lovebites and hickies left strewn across your chest. At this point, you’re far too fucked-out to think.

Before you can even process what’s going on, River’s slipping himself out of you, making you let out a soft, yet audible little defeated whine. “Hey, hey…” Big arms lock around your waist, pulling you gently down onto the soft mattress below. “Stay with me, V…”

His voice is hot and hoarse right now— but fuck, you’d be damned if you didn’t find him to be so fuckin’ sweet— so fuckin’ adorable in the way he talks dirty to you— so damn possessive, yet so soft and tender at the same time. The sweet burn of lust ignites deeper within your stomach as you refuse to lose sight of his gaze. You nod your head; you follow his orders obediently. The feeling of being vulnerable like this for him feels so... right, so natural.

When your glassy eyes flicker up to meet his stare, his heart flutters a little in his chest. You look so so desperate, it’s beautiful.

River swears he’s truly gone feral. It’s all too much— your cute little face, your quiet whimpers, wet pathetic pussy so in need of being fucking destroyed… god. He can’t handle it anymore.

He drops to his knees on the bed— it feels natural, it feels right. Your breath halts a little in your chest, your pulse quickening when the detective begins to lower his head in between your thighs.

The world around you spins as your cunt squeezes around nothing. His rough fingertips grace over your clit, and you can’t hold back the little moan that escapes your lips. But he’s focused on something different— his cybernetic eyes are locked onto your cunt— your folds are soaked, your arousal coating your inner thighs in little tendrils.

“Wan’it?”

You nod again. Like an obedient dog.

River grins, mechanical eye gleaming in the darkness mischievously as his metal hand helps his cock press against your entrance. Something about his gravelly words made your cunt clench around nothing, making you drip onto his sheets below. His tip brushes against your sensitive sloppy folds, before he nudges your clit with his cockhead, drawing out the cutest little gasp from your lips. River chuckles at your reaction— fuck, you’re goddamn adorable. He uses his free ganic hand to caress your cheek, looking down at you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever seen.

The feeling of his palm pressed against you is soothing, comforting even. You nuzzle into his touch instinctively.

It’s all a sweet, tender moment before River begins folding your legs up to your shoulders. You don’t have a second to think back on it before his thighs spread wider beneath you, the girth of his large cock sliding in deep, pressing thickly against your fluttering walls.

Fuck. You almost lose yourself, then— lips falling agape, nails biting into the curvature of his bicep as his hips press flush with your own. You want to moan. You wanna cry out— so so fucking bad.

But you know you can’t.

Shit, River swears he could bust on the spot from the way you pathetically look at him, pupils blown and watery, eyes halfway shut. “Awh,” he whispers near silently before he braces himself and pulling your hips up to his waist, leaving your back arched gorgeously. You feel completely full again.

His hips are finally still, giving you both a moment to recuperate. This time around, your cunt clenches down extra tight, your body seeming extra sensitive. He can read your reactions like a book— and he’s enjoying every little cute reaction he’s pulling out of you.

River hums to himself, before straightening back again. He pulls out all the way— till just his aching tip is left throbbing inside of you.

And all you can do is watch when he rocks back in and out again and again as if testing how deep he’s claimed his pretty little killer.

But with a muddled mind and blurry eyes, you’re more focused on how he’s moving, the way his body moves back and forth inside you, claiming you. Your instincts kick in as this strong man overpowers you and takes control of you most dangerously, but you accept it all. Just the feeling of his hands on your hips, his touch all over you as you look at him...fuck, you feel complete. You’re a dangerous merc in her prime, and yet here you are, fucked absolutely dumb by River Ward. Fuck, old man’s got some goddamn stamina, it’s impressive.

But secretly, he’s not sure if he can take it anymore— the pace of his hips falter for a second. Fuckkkkk. He grasps onto the meat of your thighs, his hips beginning to falter, slow down; his thighs beginning to tremble.

The overstimulation that comes with dragging his cock in and out of your tight pussy might just be the catalyst for him. He uses his remaining strength to hold himself deep inside of his lil’ merc, relishing the way you dig your nails into the curve of his bicep as he fucks into you steadfastly.

Now, it's you who's not sure if you can take it anymore. You can feel his hips slowing down, his grip on you faltering as he struggles to pull himself together. Your nails dig into his arms, digging deeper each time you feel that familiar feeling building up within you. Your thighs start trembling as your entire body is quaking underneath his...it's about to be all over for you.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to control yourself like he had when you were trying to lure him deeper into you, but the build-up of pressure inside of you is too much to contain...it's beginning to spill over as the tension between you two builds up even higher. Your eyes continue to flutter with each slide in, and you’re panting at the burning euphoric release beginning to bubble in your chest. It’s all too much for you— far too much.

River’s dick knocks against your plushy walls over and over again, making your breaths ragged and short, making you spew out little high-pitched hoarse sighs as he claims you as his own after waiting for sooo long.

Every thrust inside of you has you trembling, panting, trembling again—your body can't take this anymore, the build-up is beginning to turn into a burst within you. You close your eyes, squeezing them shut tightly as this burning euphoric release inside of you is simply too much....too much for you to handle. Your entire body feels like it's boiling over, the pressure inside of you reaching an all-time high.

The pressure building up in your tummy is too much to handle. You’ve resisted your orgasm, you’ve fought it, but suddenly the need for release becomes too difficult to hold back. Your body jolts up and you press your chest against him as you release, panting and whimpering as the pressure inside you is finally releasing. Finally, you cum, coating River’s cock in a ring of opaque white liquid.

The feeling of relief spreads through your entire body as you release, feeling your body tense and shudder with your inner pleasure flowing out of you as you moan out his name and you feel his grip tightening the harder that you bite into his arm, holding back from saying anymore even though you know you can’t keep it in anymore. Your lips quiver with anticipation as you feel the build-up of pleasure rise inside of you, and it’s so hard not to just explode but you hold back as he thrusts faster inside you.

His hands are shaky under the weight of your trembling thighs, underneath the weight of your explosive climax. His thrusts slow down to a halt, both his mechanical and ganic hands gripping your waist tight.

Deliberately, he slides himself all the way out, making you feel every inch of his cock down to the last vein, before slamming himself back inside one last time.

No longer can he stand the feeling of holding back— he needs to cum.

Every pump of his hips is accompanied by a short shudder and an exhale of your name as he’s losing himself to you, to the grip and clutch of your nails digging deeper into his arms. You know he’s close. And oh, is every little sign of his oncoming orgasm so so heavenly— the way his cock noticeably throbs within your constricting, gummy, tight walls— the way he’s allowing the occasional whimper to slip from his parted lips.

Your entire body’s trembling and quaking as he pulls away from you, both in the act of withdrawal and the satisfaction of fulfilling what he’s sought after for so long now. You’re breathless from his touch, quivering in your body, your eyes unable to focus on anything but the sight of him biting his lip…he's so so close to cumming— it’s all so damn delicious.

His mechanical hand presses into your thigh, the heat of his grip burning deep against your skin as he strokes his length, his breath shallow as he looks down at you, his eyes focused. River’s metal hand grips meanly into your thigh as his ganic’ one strokes his length, biting down hard into his lip to suppress himself.

Instead of gazing back into his eyes, you’re gazing down at his glistening dick as he finally cums— the liquid is thick, warm, and milky, all splattering onto your lower stomach.

The feel of his release all over you leaves you gasping as reality sets in. Once the heat disappears and the sensation finally dies down, you’re left with a whole new wave of emotions that you haven’t ever experienced before. Your body is still shaking from the release, and his breath is heavy as he looks down at you. You two are a mess.

River lays down there next to you, panting heavily as he stares over at you. His breathing is quick and heavy, and he's completely out of breath from the entire night, but he's smiling slightly, a look in his eyes that seems almost...relieved and content. You can’t help but to just admire how fuckin’ adorable he is before he reaches over to brush your hair aside, wiping the sweat from your forehead.

River’s soft with you— in your line of work, there’s no room for this much tenderness. You melt underneath his touch, a satisfied little sigh escaping you as your eyes flutter shut. You’re finally feeling comfortable enough to relax with him, to let your guard down and allow yourself to be a little soft with him. You feel at ease with him— finally at peace with not having to constantly be on high alert. You can relax.

But River’s all too aware of the mess he’s left you with. Gently, he lowers himself to you, softly murmuring in your ear.

“Just one sec, V… gotta get you cleaned up.”

As he stands, you're left helpless and vulnerable. The warmth of his touch is gone, replaced by a chill that leaves you feeling a little empty. Rivers' footsteps echo in the silent space between you as you lie there, alone in your thoughts.

The intimacy between the two of you may have faded, but the lingering after-effects remain. Your body is still trembling from the release, and your mind is clouded with the remnants of ecstasy. You’re left feeling vulnerable and exposed. A mess.

As River's footsteps echo through the room, you feel helpless and weak. Your body has been taken by him, and you’re left behind. To be cleaned up. You're his.

When he returns, he has a soft, warm towel in one hand, and one of his tanktops in the other. He places the tank top down on the bed right next to you. River's hand reaches out and starts to gently wipe down your body with the cloth, working to clean up the mess left behind. His touch is gentle, tender, and caring. You appreciate his efforts to clean up the mess he's left you with.

You feel like a mess, his mess. His hands are gentle and meticulous as he cleans you up, his touch different from the rough grip you felt during the night. His soft touch is comforting, reassuring, and so at odds with the intensity of the night. Yet, at the same time, it shows the other side of the intense man you know so well. The delicate one, hidden from the world.

He’s not squeezing or gripping tightly— just gently wiping you down, making sure not to squeeze too hard as he does his best to get you clean. His touch is tender he begins wiping you down, making sure to avoid the more sensitive areas like your inner thighs, and before making his way up with the soft cloth.

You feel yourself close to slipping away into a deep sleep, only for his warm voice to pull you back into the present.

“Hey…V,” River murmurs softly. “Got a shirt for you…” He’s grinning as he holds up a crumpled-up tank top he had set aside earlier— a small grin forming around your lips as you see the words “FUCK THE POLICE” printed across the front.

”Figured you’d like it…” he chuckles faintly, holding it up for you to take.

Despite your exhaustion, a little giggle leaves your lips at the sight of the printing on the front. Fuck, he’s adorable. River’s smile is contagious, filling you with a type of fondness you haven’t experienced in a long goddamn time. You graciously accept the shirt, sliding it over your head, a soft sigh escaping you as it settles over your frame. The fabric is soft, and it keeps you covered from the coolness of the night air. It’s a little big on you, but you like it that way— it’s comfy, and you’re beyond grateful for the little gesture.

River slides into bed next to you, remaining silent as he watches settle. His eyes wander up and down your body, appreciating the way the fabric of his shirt hangs loosely around your frame. He likes the look, and it’s cute. It’s not something he’s used to, but the sight of you like this— it’s endearing to him.

You can feel the exhaustion creeping in, settling into your bones after the long day's events. As he watches you settle in, you can sense his silent appreciation and affection, his gaze tracing the lines of your body with a softness you haven't often encountered.

"Thanks for tonight," River murmurs, his voice filled with gratitude and a hint of weariness as a yawn interrupts his words. He briefly presses a little kiss to your forehead, before rolling over. "Goodnight, V."

His words linger in the air, carrying a sense of appreciation and tenderness that touches your heart. With a soft smile, you reply, "Goodnight, River…" before snuggling closer to him, seeking his warmth as the chill of the night settles in around you.

The two of you lay there, entangled in the silence of your first night together. All you can hear is the sound of his breath against your throat, the silent rustle of his sheets, and the faint thrum of his heart. You feel so safe, so warm, so loved in his arms. River radiates a sense of peace within you, one that you hadn't felt on your own. And with him comes a feeling of protection, a feeling of belonging.

#joce writes #river ward #river ward x reader #river ward x v #cyberpunk 2077 #fem v #cyberpunk smut #cyberpunk2077 #river ward romance #river ward x fem v #cyberpunk2077 fanfic #cyberpunk2077 writing

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dira333 · 3 months

Text

In every other Universe - Zoro x Reader

2. Cartography

Tectonic plates are shifting beneath my skin

and there’s a new continent in my chest

that I want to call by your name

From the moment you opened your eyes and saw the string, its vibrant mossy green tied to your pinky, you’d known the trouble ahead.

Vibrant colors stood for those from the higher society and you were merely the daughter of farmers, born to the hills of Shimotsuki.

You didn’t know anyone who wore green in the high court, but you did not dare to ask for revealing the color of your string was dangerous. So you claimed it was a muddy brown, the color all farmers usually wore.

You still remember the first time you realized how far away from the kingdom you lived.

Your class had taken a trip, leading you up the tallest of the hills where you could see Shimotsuki and other villages splay out in front of you. So much green, so many people.

“Where’s the palace?” You asked, innocent as the little kid you were. “Can we see it from here?”

Your teacher laughed loudly. “No, dear, you’d have to walk over even taller hills and cross rivers and forests to see it. With the fastest horse, you’d need at least five days to the outer wall of the palace.”

“So can we go there?” You asked. “As a trip?”

“Oh, no, dear.” The smile on your teacher’s lips did not feel nice anymore. “Farmers never go to the palace.”

- - -

There is no knight as loyal as him.

Roronoa Zoro, first knight to King Luffy of the Kingdom of Merry.

His green hair is known by many, the swiftness of his sword feared by more.

The palace and the city of Merry have been kind to him ever since he’s proven himself worthy of protecting the crown.

But he still longs for the hills of Shimotsuki on days like this. He’d been too young when he left, to remember much more of it than the way the sun lights up the fields, turning the green into gold.

“Such a bad mood.” Nobelwoman Nami coos from the other side of the throne. “Did another woman ask for your hand in marriage?”

“Shut up.” He grumbles and stands a little taller when the doors open to yet another person asking for help.

Luffy had started doing this only six months ago and while the morale of the people around him had significantly increased, Zoro’s mood had suffered just as much.

It’s not that he did not like listening to the problems of other people - he liked to help, after all. But he could do better with his time than stand guard when nothing ever happened.

“Greetings!” Luffy called out. “What brings you here?”

“I am…” There’s a soft stutter, a hectic breath. “I come from Shimotsuki village…”

Zoro stops breathing.

“Oh, the Farm village.” Luffy nods in eager understanding. “You deliver my food.”

“Yes, I… Well, I’m not a farmer.” Luffy deflates visibly and in any other situation, Zoro might have found his King's insatiable hunger amusing. But not right now.

He steps closer, needing to know if Shimotsuki is safe, still the same as it was when he left.

From beneath your hood, your eyes meet his. Something sings in him as if a sword struck another, the tone vibrating through and through.

He takes a step back, blinks against the pull you seem to have on him. He can’t forget his resolve.

“Well, how can I help?” Luffy’s voice pulls your focus away. The room falls dark with the light of your eyes gone.

“I want to be a medic!” You declare, your voice quivering slightly. Are you as affected as he is?

“A medic? Why?”

“I-” You stop, wet your lips, try again. “I believe that I’m meant for more than farming. I’m the best student in my village. I made it to the kingdom on my own accord. All I need is a chance.”

Silence fills the courtroom. Zoro has turned, his eyes now roaming the city outside through one of the narrow windows. If he pretends he can’t see you, his foolish heart might stop caring. When did it start to beat like this anyway?

“I guess we can try,” Luffy announces eventually, a tone in his voice that Zoro knows how to place. It means risk. Danger. But something worth risking everything will await them in the end.

“Zoro, bring her to our dear Medic. She should start learning right away.”

“Why me?” Zoro asks, anger rising. Can’t Luffy see he’s trying not to care?

“Because I say so.” Luffy grins. “Now, chop-chop. And bring me back a snack when you’re on it. I’m hungry.”

The air hangs heavy with fog when he steps outside. He regrets not wearing a jacket like you, his hair and skin immediately soaking up the moisture.

You shuffle along quietly, your face hidden again.

“Zoro.” Eventually, you address him. There’s an urgency in your voice that he does not like.

“To you, it’s First Knight Roronoa!”

You seem to hesitate at his harsh tone. But then you move, push the sleeve back to present your hand - for what, he doesn’t know.

“Don’t you see?” You ask, moving your hand in front of his face. “The string?”

He huffs.

“Good for you to have one. But you should know it’s rude to push it into everyone’s face. Have some class.”

- - -

Roronoa Zoro, First Knight of the Kingdom of Merry.

You like to whisper his name when you’re all alone, taste the vowels on your tongue as if in search of a deeper meaning.

Six months into living here, studying under the First Medic Chopper and his assistant Robin, you’re not closer to him than you were on your first day.

There’s a string, attached to your pinky as well as his, but he just won’t see it.

There are the whispers, the well-meaning rumors, of “Have you heard” and “Don’t you know”, that tell you that he’s from Shimotsuki too. That he likes the hills and yearns for home as much as you.

Still, he turns the other way whenever you enter, pretends not to hear when you greet him in passing.

You could ask Lady Nami about it, but you’re a little scared of her.

King Luffy would know, but you fear he’d eat you first and tell you second.

And there’s Robin, whose knowing smirk tells you that she’s already figured everything out anyway, but wouldn’t it be cheating to go to her for answers?

Maybe you will, you tell yourself, and chicken out soon after.

It’s the cook who tells you in the end, or rather, his companion.

“Another love confession?” Sanji asks when Usopp brings in a bowl of candy, heart-shaped most of them and all of them green. You’re in the corner picking out the ingredients Chopper will need, smuggling a handful of fresh strawberries out while Sanji’s not looking.

You’d kill for some of those any day of the week.

“I don’t know why they bother, but I certainly don’t complain.” Usopp pops a handful into his mouth and chews loudly. “He vowed not to marry before he could avenge Kuina. What’s so hard to understand about that?”

“They all think he’ll take one look at them and be unable to resist. But I tell you, all he needs to do is see his Soulmate and it’s over for him.”

“So you do think he has one?” There’s a tone to Usopp’s voice that stills your movement as you strain your ears. You cannot miss Sanji’s answer over the clatter of pots and pans.

“Of course, he has one. And if you’d take your eyes from Kaya for a second, you’d see that he’s changing. I’m pretty sure she’s near enough that his icy heart has begun to melt.”

One wrong movement and the bowl of Pera Berries clatters to the floor. The men turn toward you, scrambling over the floor in a quest to gather them up again.

“You’re the medic scholar, right?” Sanji’s voice is thick like honey. It sends shivers down your spine. “Can you deliver this to First Knight Mosshead?”

You look up. Sanji’s presenting you the bowl of Candy Usopp brought in, rearranged to hide the missing pieces.

“I thought he didn’t want it.”

“Oh, we normally just don’t bring it to him,” Usopp exclaims. “So if he’s not interested in it like I thought he’d be, bring it right back, okay?”

Your heart’s in your throat as you climb up the steps.

Does Sanji know something? Or is this just your punishment for listening in?

“Come in.” Zoro’s voice drips with annoyance. His face darkens when he spots you. Is it your face or the bowl of Candy?

“Really?” He asks. “You’re confessing like this?”

“I’m not-”

“Take a hint.” He scoffs. “I am not available.”

Maybe it’s the tone of his voice or the heat of his gaze, but it sets a spark to the tinder of your mood.

“Like I’d confess to someone like you.” You tell him. “Do you think you’re worth leaving Shimotsuki behind?”

“Like you didn’t?”

“Not just for you!” Your voice is loud and leaves you breathless. You stare down at the assortment of Candy in your hands, wanting to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“So what if there’s a string that attaches me to you? You can do whatever you want with your life and I’ll do whatever I want with mine. It just so happens that no farmer can ever become a medic in that little village we called home. I know I’m meant for something more.”

“I-”

“Save it.” You push the bowl of Candy into his hands. “Eat this shit or get it back to Usopp. See if I care.”

- - -

No day goes by without him pondering the most essential questions of his life.

What do I have to do to get stronger?

How can I find the man who took Kuina’s life, Dracule Mihawk?

And, as of lately… What is happening to me?

There’s a certain lightness to his breathing, like something made room inside his chest. Sometimes, when he turns his head too quickly, he can see the blurry outline of something green, pointing away from him like an arrow leading him home.

And, when you’re near, his mind falls quiet, and his focus shifts, until he’s unable to hear anyone but you.

If he’d believe in magic, he’d say you cursed him.

But since he doesn’t, there’s only one other possible reason: Poison.

You’ve poisoned his mind with the thing they call love.

Leaving him with no other choice but to become a fool.

A fool that loses you, or a fool that admits his wrongs.

Quietly he places a single, bright red strawberry on top of the book you’re reading.

You still but you don’t look up.

There’s no one here but you and him. Robin had agreed to keep Medic Chopper away for an hour if paid accordingly - he’s already dreading the favor she will ask of him.

“I have been a fool.” He admits when you still don’t look up.

“So I’ve heard.” You mutter.

“I’ve noticed the string.”

“Good for you.”

“What do we do?” Zoro asks and there must something be in his words, in his tone of voice, that tells you he’s as helpless as they come because you look up and your eyes meet his.

Maybe he really is a fool.

How could he have pretended not to care about you when your eyes along make his heart stir again, come to life like the green hills in spring?

His hand reaches out, for what he doesn’t know until yours meets his, fingers entangling.

For the first time, he can clearly see the green of a string bleeding into his skin.

It was always meant to be there, even when he closed his eyes against the sight.

“What do we do?” He asks again because he cannot break his promise to Kuina and cannot fail his King.

“Whatever we want to do.” You answer.

And isn’t that the truth?

Part 3 - Absinthe poem

Dedicated to: @revasserium

#my writing #Zoro x reader #Opla Zoro #Opla Zoro x Reader #Opla Zoro fluff #Zoro fluff #One Piece Zoro #One Piece x reader #One Piece fluff #One Piece Live action #Roronoa Zoro x Reader #Roronoa Zoro

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aldbooks · 10 months

Note

For the writing prompts- "I don't think you realize just how much trouble we're in right now." For Elucien? If it inspires you!

Prompt list

This one is partially inspired by this scene:

This gets a little spicy 🌶

---

Elain was awoken by a noise that didn't fully register until she heard a voice calling up to her from the floor below.

"Elain?"

Gasping, she sat bolt upright, coming fully awake at the sound of her sister entering the town house. What was the point of moving out of the River House to "gain some independence" if people were just going to show up unannounced whenever they felt like it? Never mind that her sister technically owned the house.

Clutching the sheets to her chest, she reached out and smacked the warm body laying beside her. Lucien made a sound of protest, but didn't other wise stir until she wedged a foot against his side and shoved him unceremoniously to the floor.

Wincing at the thud of his body hitting the floor, and his groaned curse, she lunged over the side of the bed and slapped a hand over his mouth. "Feyre's here," she hissed. "You need to hide."

Lucien gave her an indignant look from where he lay naked on the floor, followed by an expression that clearly said, "why? she's going to know anyway."

Which was true. The room reeked of him. Of the two of them together. Still, she wasn't ready yet for the entire circle to know about the two of them yet, even if they already knew they were mates. She was enjoying the intrigue and secrecy of them sneaking about the last few weeks. She didn't want to share him yet.

Scowling at her mate, who simply rolled his eyes at her and shifted his massive body under the bed, Elain leaped to her feet and threw a robe over herself before hurrying out of the bedroom to meet her sister on the stairs where, hopefully, Lucien's scent wasn't as strong.

Halting, Feyre gave her a curious once over, pausing on her hair, which she belatedly realized had to be an absolute mess after their rather... strenuous activities the night before.

"Morning," Elain said brightly.

Feyre arched a brow. "Morning... I knocked a few times, but you didn't answer."

You could've just come back later, Elain muttered in her head. She'd been hoping to spend a bit more time in bed with Lucien... whose scent she was also just realizing covered not just her bedroom, but her. Shit.

Feeling herself blush, she tightened the belt on her robe and cleared her throat. "I was still sleeping. I didn't hear you. What's up?"

What the hell was so important it couldn't wait until I actually answered the door? She thought, rather peevishly.

As though hearing her thoughts, Feyre cocked her head, smirking slightly. "Mor and I were going into the city for brunch. I was going to see if you'd like to join us... Lucien can come too if he's not otherwise occupied..." At this last, Feyre raised her voice enough that Lucien would hear her, glancing up the stairs. And though they both paused to listen, no reply came from that quarter.

Feyre's smirk grew in proportion to the blush on Elain's face. "Of course, if the two of you have better things to do today... I suppose we'll see you both at dinner?"

There was a pause before Lucien's muttered reply drifted down the stairs. "Sounds great."

Winking, her sister turned and sauntered back down the stairs. "Have fun," she tossed over her shoulder before disappearing out the front door.

As soon as Elain was sure she was gone, she sprinted back up the stairs. Slamming the door behind her, she leaned heavily against it and groaned at the sight of Lucien, still gloriously naked, sprawled on her bed once again, hands behind his head without a care in the world.

She shook her head, mortification flooding her even as her belly clenched and heated at the sight of him, waiting for her. "I don't think you realize how much trouble we're in."

Lucien laughed, a rough, lazy sound that made her knees weak. "Why? Because it's no longer a secret? Lady, I'm quite sure they already know. Though, if the scent of me all over you wasn't enough to tip them off by now, perhaps I should try marking you..."

He looked her over with predatory intent and, suddenly, a band of fire encircled her waist, pulling her towards him like a leash. Stumbling forward on shaky legs, she allowed him to pull her back into bed with him.

Rolling her onto her back, the band of fire now encircled her wrists, holding them over her head as he tugged the belt of her robe loose and parted the fabric, exposing her for his gaze. trailing a warm finger down her cheek, he hummed to himself as he surveyed her.

"What do you think, mate?" he purred. "Shall I mark you so the whole world knows you're mine?"

Fighting the urge to squirm and press her thighs together, her voice was hoarse as she answered, "Only if I can mark you."

Fire flashed in his one russet eye, a delighted smirk gracing his beautiful face. "Feeling a bit territorial?"

"It's only fair," she said sweetly.

"So it is..." Lucien leaned down, drawing her lip between his teeth. "You may mark me as many times as you like, mate. I am yours."

She shivered at his words. She hadn't officially accepted the bond yet, but truthfully, it was only a matter of time.

Returning to his previous task, he pulled back, once again surveying her naked body. "Where shall I mark you?" he asked, trailing a finger down to her collar bone. "Here?"

Drifting further down, he circle one nipple. "Here?" She pressed her lips together to stifle a whimper.

A bit further and his palm grazed her hip. "Here?" The backs of his finger brushed the inside of her thighs finally and she spread them automatically, earning her a pleased grin. "Or perhaps here?"

At the thought of bearing his mark in such an intimate place, her entire body ignited. Smelling her arousal, Lucien's grin turned devilish and he repositioned himself between her legs, throwing them over his shoulder. "As you wish."

Arching her back when she felt him suckle the delicate skin between his teeth, Elain felt the mate bond between them purr with satisfaction. And when his growl skittered over her body before his tongue delved into her core, she thought yes... they were indeed in trouble.

#anon ask #prompts #elucien #lucien and elain #elain and lucien #elain x lucien

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stupid-sloot-headcanons · 3 months

Note

(For the RP event, if you're still accepting ofc!!)

Reiner, can you please let me go outside and talk to people. Just for a little bit?? I promise I'll give you a nice blowjob later and let you suck on my tits if you want.

His cheeks turn pink. "H-Hey, you shouldn't say something so, you know, crude," he says hastily. "And you don't have to pay me back for something with...you know, that. It makes me feel like I'm just using you for sex. You're so much more than that to me, you know that, right?"

Reiner takes your hand and squeezes it gently. "You've been cooped up here for a while, haven't you. I guess we can go out from now on, but at first you'd need to go with me. It's a big city and if I'm not there, you might wander into a place Eldians can't usually go; I don't want you to get into trouble. If you're with me though, you can go...well, almost anywhere you want!" He smiles and takes you to the window, pointing around the city skyline.

"There's a nice bakery over there. And there's a little river that cuts through the shopping district nearby. We can go there tomorrow after breakfast, if you want. It can be like a--well, it can be a date! Our first real one." He beams at you and holds you close, rubbing circles into your skin. "I know I said you don't have to pay me back for letting you go out, but...what if it wasn't paying me back?" His stubble rubs against your cheek as he kisses you. "What if we were a happy, loving couple going to bed together?" He gently pushes you down onto the bed and hastily pulls off his belt as he starts to grind against your thighs. "Lemme show you how much I love you..."

#rp ask game #.reiner #.aot #yandere reiner #yandere aot

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girlwiththepapatattoo · 9 months

Text

The Unlikely Similarities Between Kittens and Vampires

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Pairing: Astarion x Female!Tav

Warnings: an almost kiss, some sexual tension, Astarion being himself

Summary: Very early into their adventure, the city-raised druid Sable and her new companion Astarion have an interesting conversation at camp.

Notes: Yes I'm part of the Astarion simp pile, but I never asked for this! Anyway, have a one shot. (That I managed to keep a reasonable length, go me!)

Read on Ao3 here!

The firelight dances, creating shadows that flit in and out of the campsite, playing along tents, keeping those that sleep under the stars company. Crickets chirp cheerily, owls hoot in the distance; the night is peaceful.

Which is why Sable is away from her post on the first watch. Instead of at the campfire, she’s down by the river, sitting on a rock and dipping her sore feet in the river. She knows that there’s only trouble when the nocturnal sounds stop.

Or, well, so she’s read.

The elf leans back on her hands, looking up at the gorgeous night sky. The novelty of a crystal clear sky hasn’t worn off yet, a riot of white and bright blue pinpricks, with the occasional rare red thrown in. She traces constellations she’s only seen in books and swishes her toes through the gentle current below.

“Well, you’ve certainly taken to nature rather well,” a voice simpers behind her. She doesn’t need to turn around to see who it is, even though her traveling companions are very new. That incredibly smooth tone could only belong to Astarion, the elf with the red eyes and rather prominent canine teeth. “I’m almost jealous.”

Sable can’t help but smile faintly. Despite his propensity for selfishness so far, she can’t help but like the man. Which she knows is a problem, even if she knows that he doesn’t know she knows yet. “Almost being the key word.”

A soft chuckle graces her ears, and she hears him step up next to the rock she’s sitting on. “Of course. Jealousy is such an ugly emotion. I want no part of it.”

She hums in acknowledgement. “I agree.”

“Ah. I knew you were sensible.” He watches as the cool river water flows past his companion’s toes, his eyebrow arching. “Does that…feel good?”

“It does, yes,” is her soft response. “Helps ease the ache after walking all day. I can move over if you’d like to join in.”

He hesitates, looking at the running water trepidatiously, before rolling his eyes at himself and nodding. “Oh, very well.” She grins faintly and moves over as he pulls his boots and socks off. He rolls up his pant legs, and she has to quickly tear her eyes away from slender ankles, shapely and defined calves. Two spots of heat blossom in her cheeks, which of course he notices as he turns around. “Getting flustered at the flash of an ankle?” he purrs, even as he tentatively dips his big toe into the water. When there’s no sizzling of skin, he slips both feet into the river with a moan of delight (that definitely doesn’t make her stomach flip) and leans back much like she was. “Positively archaic of you.”

She rolls her eyes, her blush deepening at his words. The rock is large, but not large enough that there’s much space between them, the outside of their thighs nearly touching. “Hilarious. Why aren’t you in your trance?”

“Darling, this is only my second night in the great outdoors,” is the reply, sounding vaguely annoyed, but not necessarily at her. “I’m used to a proper mattress, not…whatever that thing is they try to tell me is a bedroll.”

“Well, we’ll have to adapt,” she replies.

“Adapt,” he says flatly, not even framing it as a question.

“Adapt,” she confirms. She continues to watch the water flow past as she adds, “vampires are supposed to be good at that, right?”

For a long moment, it’s dead silent. He stares at her in shock that not only does she know, she hasn’t tried to stake him. “...I won’t do you the disservice of pretending to be otherwise,” he finally says with a little amused huff.

Her lips curl again in a faint smile. “Appreciated.”

“How long have you known?”

She hums in thought, turning her eyes back to her toes, his own quite close now. “I had my suspicions from the first time I saw you, honestly,” she admits. “Elves don’t really have red eyes, unless they’re drow. I thought at first that maybe some ancestor of yours could have been Lolth-sworn…then I saw your teeth.” She chuckles, leaning forward and bracing her elbows on her thighs. “Even then, I was willing to chalk it up to natural discrepancies.” She pauses, remembering… “But then you caught my hand when I tripped over a root. That’s when I knew. Your skin was–or is, rather–so cold.” She huffs at herself, and finally looks at him. “Long story short, I’ve known from the first day.”

“But you…haven’t said anything?” he asks, confused. The look on his face, so thrown off guard, almost makes her laugh.

“Well…no. We all have our secrets, Astarion. You haven’t tried to kill one of us in our sleep…” She leaves the ‘yet’ hanging unspoken in the air. “...and as long as you continue to not do that, I have no problems with what you are.”

He stares at her again, trying to settle on some sort of reaction, something to say. “...well,” he finally says, tilting his head slightly as he considers her. “That’s very kind of you. A little too trusting, if I might say, but considering it’s towards myself I’ll let it slide.”

She snorts inelegantly. “Generous of you.”

“It is, isn’t it?” he says, smug. She can’t help but laugh, knowing he’s messing with her, and he chuckles right along with her.

She turns her head to look at him, and whatever she was about to say dies on her lips when their eyes meet. A spark of something shoots through her, settling behind her navel. They’re so close, less than a foot separating their faces. Even in the dark he can count the smattering of freckles across her cheeks, see the different glints of color swimming in her hazel eyes.

His own crimson orbs darken faintly. His lids lower halfway, his beautiful lips curling into a sly smile. Her breath hitches as his fingers brush over her jaw, lifting her chin…and she knows her body obeys, that he had to use no strength to move her where he wants her: the perfect angle for a kiss.

Her face heats, and when he starts to bend down to her, she all but throws herself off the rock. He freezes as she stares at him, now from a good ten feet away. “...darling, if you didn’t want a kiss, you could have simply said so,” he drawls, but his eyes are sharp on her. “That was a little dramatic.”

She swallows hard. “S-Sorry. I’m sorry, I…didn’t mean to react so strongly.”

He watches her, and the look on his face is so unreadable that it makes her nervous. “And why did you react so strongly? I know you find me attractive, my dear Sable. You blush if I so much as glance your way.”

“I…” Speaking of blushing… “Yes, I do. But…” She tries to gather her words to explain, before just blurting out, “You’re a kitten!”

For the first time in a long, long time, he finds himself speechless. “...I beg your pardon?” he finally replies, his voice a little more high pitched in his astonishment. “Did you really just call a two hundred year old vampire a kitten?!”

She very nearly flails her hands. “I–no, wait–that’s not what I–look, just listen, okay?!” She takes a deep breath, trying to pull that calm she always has around her back on. “I didn’t mean that you literally are a kitten. What I meant was…” Her lips purse as she finds the words. “...Back in Baldur’s Gate, I worked with my parents as a veterinarian, taking care of people’s pets. Mostly rich people’s. You don’t spend decades working with animals and not pick up some interesting facts.” Another pause, and she meets his eyes again. “Do you know why some animals are cute?”

“I haven’t the slightest,” he replies, and by his tone she would have thought he was bored…if it weren’t for the intense look in his eyes.

“It’s a defense mechanism,” she says firmly. “With most people, they see something adorable and helpless-looking, they’re much less likely to attack it and much more likely to try and nurture and take care of it. It’s a biological instinct, and unless a person has no sense of empathy at all, they’ll certainly feel it. You…you have something similar, but it’s less for defense and more for offense.” She’s quiet for a long moment, and he watches her eyes roam his form before settling back meeting his. “You are…the most breathtakingly beautiful man I’ve ever seen. But I’m biologically wired to think that, and your vampiric nature takes advantage of it. Your beauty lures people in. Were we not in the situation we’re in now…” She shrugs. “I’d be easy prey.”

Dead silence greets her ears. He’s staring at her as if considering a particularly interesting puzzle. She has to fight not to fidget.

Finally, he sighs, and his look is torn between amusement and ruefulness. He slips off the rock, grabbing his boots and socks with one hand before prowling up to her. He stares down into her eyes, before giving her a slow, sly smile and a playful pinch to her chin. “Perhaps not so easy, darling. You’re much smarter than I gave you credit for.” Then he leans in, his lips just barely brushing the shell of her ear, and his voice goes low, smooth, as sensual as the slide of silk over bare skin. “Besides, contrary to what your mind is thinking, your body knows…there are much more interesting things I’d like to use my mouth for than simply sucking your blood.”

He pulls away and shifts around her, before turning to walk backwards to give her a cheeky grin as if she were not currently losing her mind in a sudden arousal she’s not sure how to handle. “Or at least, in addition to. Sleep tight, darling,” he calls teasingly, before sauntering back to his tent.

But as he dries off his legs and sits down for his evening’s rest, his mind is filled with thoughts of just how surprising his new companion is…

…and how uncomfortable it is to be read so easily.

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion x tav #my writing

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notoverjoyed · 1 year

Text

Blame the Cat

I'm not late, I swear. Anyway here's the last of my Phic Phight fics, for the honorable @five-rivers

Prompt: For centuries, the cult has anticipated the glorious rise and return of Lord Phantom. That time is at hand. All they need to bring him fully into the mortal world is the perfect sacrifice: Danny Fenton.

Summary: A story in which Danny really needs to stop getting in trouble on purpose.

Ivan Petrovitch wouldn’t normally field calls from mayors of small American towns, even those as wealthy as Vlad Masters. After all, an individual like that is unlikely to have a legitimate interest in his own illegitimate business. Facilitating the sale of endangered fish is a rather niche profession. None the less, he did a cursory internet search of the man. Nothing caught his eye until he saw an image of the man.

It wasn’t Vlad himself that caught his eye, however. The photo depicted the Mayor, a man in a suit with long grey hair in a low ponytail, standing in front of a large building. Ivan wasn’t looking at the mayor, his eye was instead drawn to the boy whose shoulders Vlad had his arm around in a fatherly fashion. The boy looked uncomfortable, and familiar.

He had to check to be sure, but his soul was certain; This boy was the key.

You see, selling endangered fish was just Ivan’s profession. It was how he made a living, not his calling. It was his more esoteric interests that gained that honor. Ivan was a member of an international group of individuals dedicated to the study an veneration of a figure most thought mythical, if they knew he existed at all. And this boy looked almost exactly like him. A change in hair and eye color, and the boy would be identical.

In the past decades, this group had toyed with the idea of summoning this being, a god really, to the mortal plane. This would serve the purpose of bringing the being closer to his disciples so that they may worship him more closely, and make requests of him more directly. He was told to have incredible powers, and many sought to be rewarded for their faith.

With that goal in mind, many of the groups members began to develop various strategies to summon their god. The ritual and material needed in each plan varied wildly, but most agreed that one thing was essential. A sacrifice.

Ivan read the caption to the photo. ‘Mayor Vlad Masters (left) accompanied by his godson Daniel Fenton (right) celebrating the renovation of Amity Park’s historic City Hall building on Wednesday.’

“Daniel Fenton,” Ivan murmured. Yes, he’d have to send a message to the group. They would see if there were any members in this ‘Amity Park’ that could investigate further. In the meantime, perhaps he should give Mr. Master’s a call. Far greater things than money could come of working with him.

. . .

Okay, so Danny probably shouldn’t be letting this guy lead him away from the main crowd at Vlad’s party to. He also shouldn’t have accepted the drink of sparking juice the guy handed him. He was pretty sure that he was all but immune to most poisons at this point, but it was still bad practice.

And he definitely shouldn’t have played along with this guy’s attempt to get him out of the ballroom by acting woozy and disoriented. Sue him, he wanted to see where this was going.

“It looks like the poor boy must have gotten the sparkling wine rather than the juice, it’s a bit strong isn’t it,” he heard the man say as he led him Danny toward one of the doors near the kitchen. He pulled out a key and unlocked it before dragging Danny through.

If this Ivan dude was interested in him in that way, then Danny could easily kick they guys ass, get him arrested, and ruin Vlad’s party in the process. If he interested in Danny in some other way, then Danny would still take the option to get away from the fruitloop’s flirting with his mom.

On the other side of the was a short hallway with only two doors: an all gender restroom, and an elevator. Ivan tugged a staggering Danny toward the elevator.

‘Door number two it is,’ He thought to himself, almost sad about losing the opportunity to make Vlad look bad.

Once he got Danny in the elevator and leaning against one wall, Ivan pressed the button marked B. The doors closed, and the elevator went down.

. . .

“Danny?” Tucker said again. “Danny! Sam, where’s Danny.”

“I’m sorry, I have to go to the restroom,” he heard Sam say through the Fenton phones. She must be extricating herself from her parent’s friends. He waited a few minutes to give her time to get away, then Sam responded.”

“Last I saw he was talking to Vlad and Vlad’s shady business partner.”

“Is he still with Vlad?”

“Vlad’s hitting on Mrs. Fenton again. Alone though. Danny and the other guy are . . .” She paused, and he guessed she was looking around the ballroom. “Nowhere,” she finally said.

Tucker took a moment to activate the tracker function he’d added to the Fenton phones. Sam’s had her firmly in the North corner of the ballroom, while Danny’s had him outside it entirely.

“Not nowhere, actually. Tracker has him in what I think is a staff passage. Can you take a look.”

“And miss this wonderful party?” She said sarcastically. “Yeah, give me a couple minutes.”

She made her way across the ballroom at Tucker’s direction and found the staff exit he was talking about. The door was unlocked, so she just walked through.

“Is Danny in the bathroom?” she said, mostly to herself. There were nicer bathrooms in the main hallway, so unless he needed to transform there’d be no reason for him to go this out of the way.

“You can check, but I don’t think so. Danny’s tracker went offline. What else is over there?”

“An elevator,” she said, then realized what that meant. “So he’s underground?”

“That would explain the Fenton phones cutting out,” he said. Despite being made to withstand unholy amounts of radiation, a few feet of concrete could block the Fenton phones’ signal entirely.

Tucker was about to suggest that she follow him down, when Sam spoke.

“Where are the stairs?” she asked.

“Why not just follow him down?”

“Because he was probably taken down by that Ivan guy. Who knows what this elevator opens up to? I need a back way.”

“Point. There should be a staircase near the front entrance. That should lead to the parking garage in the basement.”

“This place has a parking garage?” Sam asked, and Tucker could hear the noise of the party resume as she walked through the ballroom.

“I know, right?”

. . .

He could hardly contain his excitement. Weeks of planning had let to this moment. First, convincing the other higher ups of his theory, then sucking up to that insipid mayor, and finally getting local members in place to perform the ritual. And now here Ivan was, sacrifice in tow, ready to usher the being he has so long venerated into the mortal world. And perhaps, gain his favor.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened. What was normally an inky expanse of darkness was lit by dozens of candles. They might normally have lit the underground parking garage with bright LEDs, but the designers of this particular ritual insisted on keeping things traditional.

“Here he is, the man of the hour!” a voice said excitedly. It was one of the locals. Apparently this town had the fasted growing group membership in North America. In the world really.

“I’m Nolan,” the local man said as he began to usher Ivan and the boy further into the garage.

“A pleasure.” Ivan said.

Nolan gestured toward a large circle drawn on the ground with a smaller circle inside of it. Intricate symbols were drawn between the two circles. Several other people meandered about, setting up candles, talking in hushed tones, or just gawking at Ivan and the boy.

“Just put him right here.” Nolan said, indicating the inner circle. Ivan set the boy, now fully unconscious, carefully on the concrete floor.

“Oh lord he is perfect,” Nolan said. Before Ivan could respond, he continued.

“When Phantom first came to our town I knew we had been blessed by our god to see his form in this world. But he always disappeared before we could speak with him.”

Ivan stood stoically, but scoffed inwardly. He’d heard about this heretic offshoot of the group claiming to see their god in the mortal world. They would have been barred from the international group if they weren’t the single largest source of new members.

“And to think, someone from outside the country would discover what we had overlooked this whole time. The perfect sacrifice for our god. A mortal, human, host.”

For a moment, Ivan thought he heard a muffled snort coming from the boy, but when he looked down at him the boy was a still as ever. He dismissed the thought, then walked over to one of the supporting pillars of the garage and leaned against it. Just a little while longer until his god arrived, and Ivan planned to become his most favored disciple.

. . .

Sam’s phone lit the way as she took the stairs in twos and threes going down to the basement. It was hard with the shoes her mother had made her wear for this party, but she couldn’t waste the breath to curse. It had been mere minutes since Danny’s tracker went offline, but she was almost down to the basement.

‘There,’ she thought, and stumbled to a stop in front of the door. Panting a little, she checked in one last time.

“Tucker, can you hear me?”

His response came laced with static, but was still understandable.

“Yeah, but not for long. You got what you need.”

Sam pulled a Fenton wrist-ray from the pocket of her dress.

“Always,” she said, and she opened the door.

She turned off her phone’s flashlight and lit her path by the light of the screen. It was harder to see, but less noticeable as she walked into the basement. It looks like Tucker was right. The floor, ceiling, and supporting pillars were all the same gray concrete you’d find in a parking garage. You could even see the lines marking out parking spots, faint as they were through the dust.

There were footprints in the dust, two pairs. Sam sucked in a breath then slowly followed the footsteps, keeping an ear out for anything suspicious. Soon she started to hear the faint noise of people moving around and talking, and see two figures silhouetted against a faint light.

She drew up close to the pair and was about to do something violent when she heard a voice gasp out.

“Danny!”

“Jazz?” Sam hissed out. What was she doing here?

. . .

It was all Danny could do not to bust out laughing. This group didn’t seem to really know what they wanted. They wanted to sacrifice him, to summon himself. Or to have him possess himself, it was hard to tell.

He kinda wanted to see what else they wanted, but he didn’t like the look of those symbols. Just because they didn’t seem to know what they were doing doesn’t mean they wouldn’t do something. He was just about to make himself invisible the moment everyone looked away and hang out to see everyone panic, when he heard a familiar voice. Two voices, actually.

‘Jazz? And Sam? What are they doing here?’ He opened his eyes just enough to see.

Apparently he wasn’t the only one that had heard them. Vlad’s creepy business partner shouted, “Who’s there,” and someone make a high pitched squeak. A flashlight shined at the noise and illuminated three figures.

He could see Sam, Jazz, and Jazz’s friend Spike. Spike had his hands clasped over his mouth, making it obvious where the squeak had come from.

‘Crap,’ Danny thought,’So much for ghosting out of here.’ Spike was looking right at him.

Everyone froze for a moment. Danny held his breath, ready to intervene if necessary, secret identity be damned.

Then Jazz looked at Danny, and seemed to come to a decision. She bolted back toward the stairs, dragging the other two with her. Danny felt a little betrayed for a moment. Was she going to leave him to be sacrificed! Then he realized; she was drawing their attention and giving him an opportunity to go ghost in private.

Everyone started chasing the three teens, so Danny took his chance. He went invisible and changed into phantom, leaving the magic summoning circle. He didn’t go after everyone else though. Instead he went to the elevator he came down in and broke a few important looking wires and cables. He didn’t want anyone to think of beating the three teens by taking the fast way up.

. . .

Sam, Danny, and Jazz met on the steps of the ballroom. Spike had gone home. Apparently he managed to snap a picture of Danny lying in the summoning circle with the old-school film camera he had on him and wanted to develop it tonight. Something about how it was perfect for his project.

Jazz had just finished lecturing Danny on his stupid decision to play along with the guy about to sacrifice him, and Sam had Tucker on speakerphone ready to talk about what just happened.

“So you and Jazz barricaded the door to the stairs,” Tucker said.

“Yep,” Sam replied.

“And Danny killed the elevator?”

“Yep,” Sam said again.

“So Vlad’s creepy business partner is trapped with his creepy cult in the creepy basement of City Hall.”

“You’re three for three.”

“Well that’s convenient,” Tucker says. Danny frowns.

“Why?” he says.

“Because those FBI guys are coming to investigate him.”

As if on cue, a black sedan pulls up to the curb in front of City Hall. Three men come out and start up the steps. The first two are unfamiliar, but Sam seems to recognize them.

“Its the FBI,” she whispers. “You can tell by the shoes.”

All three of them continue up the stairs, and the third one glares a Danny before following the others. The third guy is a GIW agent working under cover at the regional FBI office. They’ve had dealings.

Besides the last guy, none of them spare the three teens a glance as they disappear into City Hall.

“Ooookay,” Jazz says as the door shut behind the men.

“I almost feel sorry for him,” Tucker says

“Who, that Ivan guy? I don’t,” Danny says.

“Did we ever learn why Vlad was working with him?” Sam asked.

“Oh yeah, remember how this guy’s deal is that rare fish?’ Tucker said.

“Yeah.”

“And remember how you told Vlad to get a cat?”

“Ugh, yeah, and he named it after my mom.” Danny made a gagging noise in the back of his throat.

“Well I checked his google history and it was all searches about how to get your picky eater of a cat to eat, then searches of this rare fish . . .,” Tucker trailed of meaningfully.

“You’re serious?” Sam asked with raised eyebrows.

“So it’s all the cat’s fault?” Danny said.

Sam scoffed. “Not the cat’s fault Vlad’s crazy” Neither Danny nor Tucker could refute that.

#danny phantom #phic phight 2023 #fanfiction

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cirilla-fiona-riannon · 8 months

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Birthday Event: My Beloved

Translations may not always capture the exact nuances or tone of the original text. Expect grammatical errors. This is a rough translation.

Blank, and ageless blogs will be blocked.

Mitsuki asked me when my birthday was, and I told her I didn't know. As a result, I recounted a scene from the royal family in the past.

My birthday was something I didn't pay much attention to and just went along with, but Mitsuki seemed to see it in a different way.

Mitsuki: "I made a bento box today. Look!"

Drake: "Wow, that's impressive."

My stomach growled as Mitsuki opened the picnic basket, loaded with delicious dishes.

Mitsuki: "I made various dishes since you like both meat and fish. There's also a thick-cut bacon baguette sandwich, cheese-salmon quiche, and pudding!"

Drake: "Really? Haha, I'm looking forward to it."

Drake: "I don't get to enjoy your cooking as often as I used to, so I'm going to enjoy it with all my heart."

Mitsuki: "Sure! Please enjoy."

I clasped my hands and reached for the baguette sandwich.

Drake: "By the way, Mitsuki, do you like picnics?"

(I'm glad I get to eat her cooking, and it's nice to have a fun first date as lovers, but...)

She was acting kind of strangely excited, so I couldn't help but wonder about it.

Mitsuki: "Not really, but..."

(Is there something else?)

She paused for a moment, then stared at me before speaking.

Mitsuki: "I really went all out today 'cause we're celebrating."

Drake: "We're celebrating?"

Mitsuki: "Yup. It might not be as fancy as those royal parties, but I really wanted to throw a birthday party for you. So, happy birthday!"

Drake: "-----!"

Drake: "Could it be that today is September 7th?"

Mitsuki: "Hehe, that's right."

I finally understood why Mitsuki was so excited.

(Come to think of it, she's probably pretty worried about me after all that talk.)

Especially since she was such a kind-hearted person.

Drake: "Sorry, but I just randomly picked that date on a whim in the past."

She shook her head when I said that.

Mitsuki: "No, it's fine. I'm glad there was a reason to celebrate. But you know, I don't think the date matters."

Mitsuki: "I'm just happy you're here with me, even if I don't know your actual birthday."

Mitsuki: "So, happy birthday. Thank you for being born."

Mitsuki: "That's what I wanted to convey."

Drake: ".........."

(She's so happy that I'm here and is celebrating me.)

At that moment, a faint memory of "happy birthday" and "thank you" from the past crossed my mind.

(Oh, right. I think someone said something like that to me a long time ago.)

Mitsuki: "Today's celebration isn't about taking advantage of the Queen's birthday or showing consideration for your friends. It's purely for you."

Drake: "Just for me?"

Throughout my life, I had only really cared about my birthday during that party. But now, receiving such genuine feelings felt strangely special and embarrassingly heartwarming.

Drake: "Alright, I understand."

Drake: "You've gone through all this trouble, so I'll celebrate it with all my heart."

With that declaration, she smiled, and I took a bite of the sandwich she had prepared.

Drake: "Mmm, it's delicious!"

The voice I unintentionally let out sounded like that of an excited child.

(I don't want to send her home yet.)

Following that selfish emotion, I invited her to the Seine River after sunset.

I sat behind her and embraced her as I observed her expression.

Mitsuki: "It's beautiful."

(Mn, just as I expected.)

She was mesmerized by the city lights reflected in her eyes.

Mitsuki: "I always love the view from your boat."

Drake: "Mhm. Even when I first took you on a boat ride at night, your eyes were sparkling."

Mitsuki: "Hehe, you see right through me. Thank you, Drake."

Drake: "That's my line, you know."

I rested my chin on her shoulder and hugged her tightly.

Drake: "I was really happy today. Thank you, Mitsuki."

Drake: "Wait, just saying thanks doesn't seem like enough."

Drake: "I wanted to do something that would make you happy, so I brought you to this place."

(Although it may not be enough to match the feelings she gave me.)

As I reflected on this day, old memories resurfaced once again.

Drake: "Hey, lil' fawn. Your celebration today made me remember something."

Mitsuki: "What is it?"

Drake: "My friends congratulated me and thanked me at that party."

(I remembered it thanks to her words.)

That was during the Queen's birthday party.

------------Flashback------------

Crewmate 1: "Captain, when is your actual birthday?"

Drake: "I honestly don't remember. I can't even recall the season."

Crewmate 1: "I see. Well, as long as we can drink, every day could be your birthday, Captain!"

Drake: "Haha! Geez. You were so shy just a moment ago, but now you're all in high spirits."

I laughed heartily, and one of my crewmates offered me a glass of wine.

Crewmate 2: "We'll celebrate two, no, three, no, four birthdays if needed."

Crewmate 2: "You showed us that sailing could be fun and that even pirates can compete with royalty. We're glad we followed you, Captain."

Drake: "You guys..."

Crewmate 2: "I know it's an impromptu birthday, but Happy Birthday, Captain. Thank you for leading us!"

---------Flashback Ends---------

(We raised our glasses again, laughed, and made a fuss.)

Now that I remember, those days were so bright that it hurt my eyes.

I never expected that my heart would be painted with despair after the betrayal that followed.

Drake: "Mitsuki, I'm not willing to be betrayed by someone I trust like you are."

Drake: "But the days I spent having fun and the trust they showed by calling me Captain, I think it's safe to believe that those feelings back then were undoubtedly genuine."

(I'm still not used to saying words like 'believe' myself.)

I couldn't find more fitting words. Besides, I didn't mind feeling this way now.

Mitsuki: "You're right. The feelings that existed between you and your comrades were definitely genuine."

Mitsuki: "I believed that too."

I felt my cheeks relax naturally as she spun the same thoughts.

(She's the one who taught me these feelings.)

(She's really amazing.)

An overwhelming feeling welled inside me as I held her in my arms.

Drake: "Alright, it's settled."

Drake: "I'll officially make September 7 my birthday."

Mitsuki: "Okay! I'll celebrate it next year and the year after."

Drake: "Haha, you're getting ahead of yourself. Today isn't over yet, you know?"

Drake: "I know I'm being greedy, but can I ask for one more present?"

Mitsuki: "Of course! You can ask me anything."

I peeked behind her, and she nodded with a smile.

Mitsuki: "Oh, but depending on what it is, I might not be able to give it today."

Drake: "It's okay. It's something you can give right away."

I traced my finger over Mitsuki's soft lips as if to tell her that it was an unnecessary worry.

Perhaps sensing my desire, she took a small breath.

Mitsuki: "Ah, Drake..."

Drake: "Remember when you asked me what I wanted the other day?"

Mitsuki: "Yes. Back then, you teasingly said you wanted me."

Drake: "My answer is still the same."

(A cute, beautiful girl and my destiny.)

(You're someone I can feel like I belong with now.)

Drake: "I want you no matter what."

(I want only you, Mitsuki.)

As I gazed at her, Mitsuki returned my intense stare and smiled gently.

Mitsuki: "Sure. I'll give myself to you, Francis."

Mitsuki: "Because I'm yours and yours alone."

Drake: "I love you, Mitsuki."

Feeling content, I gently pressed my lips against hers, savoring her warmth.

Mitsuki: "Francis, ah...nnn..."

(Being gentle alone is not enough.)

I parted her lips with my tongue and invaded her mouth.

Our tongues danced together, and she let out a muffled moan.

(Damn it, you're so adorable.)

Her desperate response to the kiss only fueled my desire.

Mitsuki: "Mmm... Francis...?"

I traced my fingers from her belly to her chest and started undoing the buttons of her blouse.

The bloodlust began to show itself, turning me into a fierce beast.

Drake: "Mitsuki."

Drake: "Can I continue beyond this point?"

Suppressing my growing desire, I let my fingertips trail along her delicate neck, and she trembled faintly in my arms.

Mitsuki: "It's okay. You can bite me."

Mitsuki: "Take me even deeper."

Drake: "Mitsuki…"

With her permission, my impulses accelerated.

(My body feels hot.)

(I won't be satisfied until I have more than just your blood.)

Following the desires that emerged from the depths of my heart, I brought my lips closer to her skin.

Part 1 ╎ Part 2 ╎ Premium End ╎ Epilogue

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp drake #ikevamp francis #francis drake #ikevamp #ikevamp jp #ikevamp translations #cybird

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shyvioletcat · 10 months

Text

Oh hi! Yes, This is something a little new and different, especially for @sjmcrackshipmonth. For Pirate Day my wonderful friend @sassyhobbits and I came up with a little idea, she came up with this wonderful artwork and I wrote a fic and we had so much fun. So, without further rabbling here is my first official Aelin x Fenrys work.

CW: it’s smutty, like really smutty. Secondhand embarrassment

FIND THE ACCOMPANYING ARTWORK HERE.

~~~~~

People told Aelin she was mad for running a tavern in a pirate port, and at times she would have to admit that they were right. Brawls were common, there had been damage to the ceilings from more gunshots than she could count, when things truly got out of hand there was an occasional stabbing. Aelin had threatened carousers here and there herself down the barrel of the pistol she kept stowed away in a dark corner of the counter. But for all its trouble the White Stag thrived under her charge. She could never be idle and a tavern in a pirate port like this was a lucrative business. And it wasn’t like she was without protection.

Rhoe Galathynius was the most prominent merchant in Orynth, which made him a veritable king amongst men. Coin was the power in these waters, and their city on the river thrived under his watchful eye and scheming. So the fancy, looping gold lettering of her family name under the wood carved sign of the rearing white stag hanging above her door let patrons know who they were dealing with. It was an assurance for both her and her customers that serious misdeeds would be met with severe punishment, and that kept people coming to her fine establishment night after night.

Tonight was busy, patrons filling nearly every space they could. It was good for business but it was running Aelin off her feet. Usually she was content to watch from the landing above the main floor or slip through the crowd mingling, leaving the bartending to those she hired. But tonight with a barmaid ill that’s where Aelin found herself—pouring pint after pint, the pockets of her skirts full of coin. The gossip was that a few ships had docked over the past few days, bringing an influx of commerce and bodies to the city. Aelin hadn’t caught the names of the ships, but from the energy the city hummed they must have been successful with their seaborn endeavours.

“Lass, two more!” A man weathered by wind and salt called to her. From the way he swayed he probably didn’t need another, let alone two, she would have to cut him off after this.

Aelin grabbed two tankards from below the bar and filled them with beer from the keg behind her. By the second the flow was slowing, a sure sign she’d need to send Ren down to the cellar for another. His main job was to provide muscle when things got out of hand as pirates and their affiliates tended to do. It was just convenient for her that his muscles were useful for other things as well. When she had a moment to breathe she’d have to track him down.

“All clean,” Luca said, setting down a clean crate of tankards. “And more to wash I see, my hands will be shrivelled as prunes by the end of the night.”

“My apologies, but I’ll be sure to compensate you accordingly,” Aelin took a handful of her green overskirt and shook it enough that the coins in her pocket jingled.

Luca’s eyes lit up as the crate of dirty tankards was set in front of him. “I’ll get these cleaned up right away.”

Aelin smiled then started unloading the clean drinkware that would be dirty again all too soon. She didn’t bother to make the arrangement look tidy, on a night like this no one would notice. Feeling sweat gather on her brow Aelin dotted it away with on her sleeve. It wasn’t a particularly hot night but with the amount of bodies in the tavern and how busy it was, her temperature wasn’t surprising. She was glad of the stray breezes that would brush over her shoulders, bare from the way her blouse draped off them.

“Spare a drink for a poor, weary sailor?”

The question came from behind her, smooth and sensuous, the words were nothing but a tempting caress over her skin. Aelin knew that voice and knew its full intent, even though it had been missing from her tavern for months. As pleased as she was to hear it she made sure her smile was hidden away as she turned around slowly, a hand on her hip conveying her feigned displeasure at being interrupted. This is how they would start the game, and if he played along they would both win.

“Fenrys Moonbeam, what brings your sorry arse into my tavern,” Aelin drawled.

Fenrys’ smile was pure taunt and flirtation. “The rum and the company of course.”

“So the rum takes precedence over the company then?” Aelin said, stepping up to be just a little closer.

“Ah, Princess,” Fenrys said, leaning his elbows on the counter that was still between them and not bothering to hide the appreciative sweep his eyes did over her. “You know what the truth of it is.”

Aelin couldn’t help it, she felt the corner of her lips tilt into a crooked smile. But she also wasn’t about to concede, “Do I, though? Nary a word all these long months, for all I knew you had found a more favourable port and run off with a prettier girl.”

“Prettier than you? I think I’d be hard pressed to find someone as lovely as you, Miss Galathynius,” Fenrys said.

“You’re flattering me for a free drink,” Aelin accused.

Fenrys tipped his head back and laughed. “Is it working?”

There was a thunk as the short glass hit wood, and then Aelin was pouring out a measure of her best rum. “Yes.”

Their fingers brushed as Fenrys took the glass and he downed it. While he was occupied Aelin took the opportunity to peruse over him. First she looked for any sign of injury, pirating had its many dangers but from what she could see there were no noticeable hurts. Fenrys looked good, he always did. His golden sunkissed curls were tied back from his face showing off the perpetual smile that seemed to grace his lips. The blue coat he wore was very dashing, with the cut of it accentuating the broadness of his shoulders. Ever the flaunter he’d chosen a white shirt that dipped low, the white of it contrasting the deep bronze of his skin made deeper from the hours he spent in the sun. He’d been gods’ blessed with handsomeness that could only be dreamed of, and an ego to match. Some found him insufferable, mainly those who lacked a sense of humour or any idea of fun. For Aelin, he was an utter delight.

She was called away before they could continue their conversation, but Fenrys didn’t go anywhere. He lingered at the bar, claiming a stool when one became available.

“The next one will cost you,” Aelin said, wiping down the counter so it looked like she had a reason to stop.

“Always such a hard businesswoman.” Fenrys didn’t protest and dropped two coins on the worn wood.

Aelin slid them off into her and then her pocket. “What will it be?”

“That sweet Perranth wine if you have it,” Fenrys requested.

“You’re in luck, my supplier just brought in a delivery yesterday,” Aelin wasted no time, because she didn’t have it, and poured Fenrys a tankard of wine. Glasses were for quiet gatherings, not an overcrowded tavern where it was likely to be knocked out of an unsuspecting hand and shattered on the floor.

“My thanks,” Fenrys tipped his drink at her.

Aelin left him to his wine and tended to the never ending flow of patrons looking for food and drink. Fenrys just stayed sitting there and making sure to catch her eye whenever she passed by. There was no question as to why he was here.

One evening a year or two ago Fenrys had come in with the crew of the Maeve. That night had been vastly different to this, with Fenrys and his crewmates nearly the only customers for the evening. That had allowed an easier night for Aelin with more than enough opportunity for conversation with the charismatic man—not with the others because they were a sullen and broody bunch—and eventual flirting. As the night wore on, she and Fenrys ended up on a low couch by the fire. Along with his staggering handsomeness, he was also highly entertaining. His ludicrous stories had Aelin’s sides hurting with laughter and he was kind enough to ply her with enough compliments to keep her by his side. And when it was just the two of them left basking in the fire’s warmth and Fenrys leaned in, she’d let him kiss her. Which led to Aelin guiding him up the stairs and to her room where they kept each other company in other ways.

Since then, whenever he was in port Fenrys appeared in her tavern and they spent what time they could together until he was called away to the sea again. His captain was a hard bastard and didn’t see the point to lingering on land. The first mate wasn’t much better. Aelin had more than her fair share of run-ins with Rowan Whitethorn—none of them ending well. Their arguments had become legendary. She was more than sure that she hated him and that the feeling was mutual.

Fenrys couldn’t be more different than those men, vivacious and brash, he was more than enough a match for her when it came to wit. It was hard to find a flaw in the man. With so much in his favour, Aelin was still unsure whether or not she was in love with him. He was gone too often and for too long for any real emotion to take root. But at the very least they were friends, and they had fun. Without Fenrys her life would be far more dull and the unexpectedness of his arrival always gave their trysts a thrill. If he ever gave up seafaring maybe she could love him more than she did. There was a wildness to Fenrys that only the sea could soothe. Life on land just might bore him to death.

Despite the lack of attention, Fenrys remained, his thumb running over a loose nail that was poking out of the wooden counter. Aelin made note to fix that, she didn’t need the complaints of an unobservant patron who hurt themselves or ripped their clothing. She had to commend Fenrys for his patience, a lesser man might have run off by now.

“How has your day been, Miss Galathynius?” Fenrys asked when Aelin stopped near him to pour out a measure of rum for another customer.

“As you can see, I’m very busy tonight,” Aelin told him, watching his eyes shine as he sipped.

He didn’t look away as the tankard lowered. “I can wait.”

Aelin wanted to sigh in self pity, but she didn’t. “It’s going to be a long night.”

“You can bet on it,” Fenrys said, his words a sensual promise.

Aelin passed off the tankard to the patron who gave her the money in exchange, when there was a call for more beer it reminded her of the impending problem. “Make yourself useful and I might think about it.”

Fenrys’ head titled, the beaded lock of his hair swaying. “How so?”

“I need another one of these,” Aelin said and slapped the keg behind her, “brought up from the cellar.”

Finishing off his wine far quicker than it deserved Fenrys got up from his stool. “It would be my pleasure.”

Aelin pulled out the ring of keys that she tucked into the wide belt around her waist and handed them over to the pirate. “Do not cause me more trouble than you're worth down there.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Fenrys said with a wink, fingers grazing over the outside of her palm and up her fingers. Despite the heat of the room and the busy fluster Aelin had worked herself into she shivered. That was the first time they had touched and that soft caress had her craving more.

She didn’t have long to dwell on that as she was summoned again and was more than occupied while Fenrys was gone. Drinks were poured one after the other, bowls of Emrys’ chowder went out from the kitchens, the way this was going Aelin wouldn’t be done until the sun came up. Gods knew if Fenrys would be around that long. Aelin groaned, cursing her bad luck. The one night Fenrys would be assuredly in Orynth she would be run off her feet and too busy and too tired to enjoy his company.

Before too long the Fenrys was back, keg on his shoulder to keep it out of the way of the patron’s heads—very considerate. He stepped behind the counter, easing the fresh beer onto the empty stand and expertly fixed the tap. With his job done Fenrys grabbed himself a tankard and helped himself to the first serving. Aelin didn’t bother to stop him, she just gave him a crooked smile and a playful roll of her eyes. He stayed where he was, even though he shouldn’t. Aelin ignored his antics and grabbed two tankards for her own uses. As she leaned over to fill them with beer a broad hand rested on the small of her back, deft fingers tucking her keys back into her belt. With two tankards full, Aelin straightened, one in each hand, and found her path blocked.

“Out of my way, please,” she huffed and then blew at a loose strand of hair. She had tied a scarf around her head in an effort to keep her hair out of her face. The flustering conditions and the humidity weren’t helping the intent.

“Where are you going?” Fenrys asked, standing a little taller but not leaving for where he should be as a paying customer.

Aelin took advantage of the space she could, easing through the small gap Fenrys left between his body and the counter, careful not to spill the beer. “To those people in the corner, I promised I’d bring it over once you had done your job.”

She thought she was free and clear when troublesome hands on her hips stopped her progress. “Do I get a thank you for that?”

The annoyed smirk that lacked the needed irritation was already on her face when she looked up at him. Fenrys was a good head taller than her, his face was full of mirth and all but begging for a kiss as he looked down at her. But Aelin wasn’t ready to give into him just yet.

“Have you bathed since making port, or was the allure of my company too compelling?” She knew the answer, she had noticed the lack of braids he wore while at sea, and she was sure his hair was wet when he first walked in.

That smile fell, an affronted look filled his face. “I’m offended that you would assume that, Aelin.”

“I’m offended that I wasn’t worth skipping a bath over,” Aelin told him.

That was enough of a distraction and when Fenrys laughed Aelin took her chance and stepped out of his hold. Over the commotion of the tavern she swore she could still hear his amusement chasing her through the crowd. Aelin set the foaming tankards down and accepted the generous contribution to the establishment in return. Her pocket was starting to get severely weighed down, she might have to duck up to her rooms to empty it into her coffer.

Her return to her task as barmaid was slower than anticipated, many patrons stopping her for greetings and snippets of gossip. Aelin liked to know what was going on in her city so she listened to all of it, tucking away bits of information that might be useful to herself or her father. Rumours were buzzing that the Maeve had been quite successful on its latest voyage and promised more profit. A hoard of treasure maps was cited as the reason. She might have to ask Fenrys about it.

Eventually Aelin made it back to her post and was surprised to see a small woman with dark hair seated next to Fenrys. They chatted, and the woman laughed at something he said, even touching his forearm that rested on the bar. If Aelin didn’t recognise the woman she might have been jealous. The golden, smiling man was not the company her friend preferred to seek out.

“Elide, hello,” Aelin said, resting her elbow on the other woman’s shoulder.

Elide was dressed in a simple lavender gown, nothing gaudy or to draw attention. She preferred an inconspicuous life where she was the one who made the rules. Her family winery in Perranth was her’s once her parents decided to retire. In the meantime she set about proving just how capable she was.

“I was just chatting to Elide about her wonderful wine,” Fenrys said. “Amongst other things.”

Aelin raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“There was a request for a barrel to be sent to the Maeve and I had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting the captain who was the only one left on the ship,” Elide explained. “Such a sullen bastard. I could barely get three words out of him before he disappeared back into his cabin. Luckily before he did he threw some coins at some boys on the dock and they carried it up the gangway.”

“I don’t know why you don’t find yourself a new captain,” Aelin directed at Fenrys.

The man just shrugged. “He’s good at what he does and I get the benefits. It’s not like I have to talk to him. I leave all that up to Whitethorn.”

“Whitethorn? Isn’t he the one who you threw a glass at that one time?” Elide asked.

Aelin huffed, the sound full of aggravation, and then went back to being behind the counter. “The very same.”

One evening for some reason beyond her, Rowan Whitethorn had graced her tavern with his insufferable presence. Nothing had been to his standards, not the beer, not the music and he had been very vocal about it. Aelin had told him to go elsewhere if the current surroundings were so offensive, he ignored her and chose to stay. When he claimed the beer was cheap and tasted like shit she had lost her temper. She had picked up a nearly empty glass of wine and threw it at him which he had effortlessly dodged, something akin to shock on his face as he watched the red liquid drip down the wall. Her demanding he pay for the damages had been the final straw and with a scowl on his sharp and handsome face he left her tavern. Aelin counted that as a win for her.

“The glass was chipped anyway, it was no loss to me.”

Fenrys looked like he was trying to keep his laughter in and like he was about to say something he’d surely regret.

“Don’t,” Aelin said, pointing a finger at him. “You’ll not say a word if you know what’s good for you.”

Yielding to her request, Fenrys held up his hands, the gold rings on his fingers glinting in the low light. “Understood, Princess. Now if you fine ladies will excuse me.”

He was gone moments later, disappearing into the crowd, but Aelin had no doubt that he would return. Fenrys was far too eager for her company to be dissuaded so easily. There was a call further down the counter for more beer and Aelin saw to that before coming back to her friend who hadn’t left.

“Can I get you anything? On the house of course,” Aelin offered.

Elide gave her a knowing look, her eyebrows raised like she could have been questioning Aelin’s sanity. “What are you doing?”

Aelin felt her own brows narrow in confusion. “Working, as you can see.”

“Aelin, my dearest, most lovely friend,” Elide said leaning forward on the counter. “You have a man here, who is desperate for your company and is more than willing to give you a long night of pleasure, and you’re passing out beers instead?”

“I don’t exactly have a choice here,” Aelin said. “Essar is ill, and you can see how busy we are. I’m not exactly the shrewd business woman I claim to be if I ignore it to take Fenrys to my bed.”

As a timely reminder yet another patron asked for a pour of wine and rum, Aelin saw to it as quickly as she could. Luck was not on her side this evening, at this rate she’d be too tired to do anything once she fell into bed.

“I won’t say that you won’t owe me for this,” Elide said, standing up from her stool, “because you will.”

“What are you…”

With quick fingers Elide braided her hair back, securing the end with a dark piece of ribbon. “Show me where everything is.”

It took Aelin a moment to catch on, her face going slack before she grinned. She showed Elide where everything she might need was, going over it twice more for her own peace of mind than her friend requiring more clarification. Aelin also made sure to inform the other’s working tonight so there wasn’t any confusion as to why Elide was behind the counter.

“Keep the tankard tilted, helps limit the foam and unhappy customers,” Aelin explained and the amber liquid rose higher as she gave a hands-on demonstration. “And I think that’s all you need to know.”

“I think I’ve got it,” Elide said.

“And if you have any trouble, call for Ren. He’ll sort it out,” Aelin added.

“Aye, captain.” Elide flourished that comment with a salute.

“What’s going on here?” Fenrys’ voice cut through the conversation.

“I need to deposit some of tonight’s earnings in my room,” Aelin said, sauntering around to the other side of the counter, a hand raising to even out the collar of Fenrys’ jacket. “Care to join me?”

His dark eyes flashed as he easily read the implications of her invitation. “Lead the way.”

Aelin took his hand, leading him through the crowd to the staircase in the corner. The crowd took up the shanty that was being played. When they passed the small gathering dancing in front of the musicians Fenrys spun her and moved with the music, but still kept them heading towards their destination. Reaching the wooden stairs, Aelin gathered her skirts in her free hand to prevent herself from tripping as they hurried up the steps. On the landing they went left, the right led to a halfway with a handful of rooms she let out. Her private ones were larger and more secluded, the balcony on the outside offering beautiful views of the river port. That door painted a rich green was the last obstacle between her and what she wanted. And in just a few more steps she would be there.

Fenrys was a heavy and welcome presence behind her as she worked on unlocking the door. His hands were on her waist, his lips on the bare skin of her shoulder, it was enough of a distraction that Aelin was struggling to secure the key in the lock. That was only made worse when those godsdamned hands slipped higher, pressing over her bodice until they cupped her breasts. That had Aelin arching onto him, and in return that had Fenrys squeezing before his hands travelled downwards again—fingers catching on the neckline of her blouse. She was desperate to feel those hands on her with nothing to hinder them.

“Fen,” Aelin whispered harshly. He just hummed his response onto her skin. “I would very much like to open the door so that we can continue this more privately.”

“My apologies,” he said, low enough that it had her skin pebbling.

Other than that he let her be, halting his distracting journey over her body. It was a disappointing loss but the sooner Aelin got the door open, the sooner they could start again.

Blocking out everything except the lock and key was the only way that Aelin managed to get the door open. She stepped into the dimly lit space, a single lamp barely glowing on a small table where she dropped her keys. There was a couch and an armchair set in front of a cold fireplace and there was another door that led to a private bathroom. The place could have been tidier, but Aelin hadn’t exactly been expecting guests. Fenrys closing the door redirected her attention, and he all but stalked towards her. To tease and make the trek that much easier, Aelin backed up towards her bedroom. She was caught just as they got to the entrance of it, Fenrys catching her by the waist and cupping her face. The moan at that first press of his lips was undeniable.

For a while that’s all they did, just kiss in the dim light under the doorway. When Fenrys’ thumb dragged down the length of her neck, Aelin got impatient. She angled them so that they entered her room with tangled steps towards her bed. Her hands weren’t idle, searching out what bare skin they could. When there wasn’t much on offer Aelin slid one hand down the centre of his chest, all the way down to palm him through his trousers. Fenrys stumbled forward with enough strength to force Aelin back a couple of steps.

“Still have your sea legs?” Aelin teased through her laughter.

Huffing his own laugh, Fenrys pulled her closer so their noses brushed. “Maybe I’ll be steadier on my knees then.”

Before Aelin could even comment his lips were back on her’s, while his focus shifted to removing her clothes. The belt around her waist was the first to go, then his deft fingers had the laces and buttons of her forest green outer skirt undone and it was dropping over her hips. There was a jingling thud as the coins hit the floor, probably scattering, but that was a problem for later. Fenrys' progress was stalled when he discovered that the laces of her undershirt were hidden beneath her bodice. His groan of frustration was comical, and Aelin would have laughed if it weren’t for the way Fenrys’ hands were playing along the tops of her exposed breasts as his mouth lowered to her neck.

Her body was tugged forward as the laces of her bodice were pulled at. Fenrys struggled, getting clumsier the more desperate he became, and even now Aelin’s patience was running thin. She needed him, now. It seemed Fenrys felt the same because one moment her floral embroidered bodice was tight against her body and the next it was falling away. Confused by the sudden development Aelin looked down to see the metallic glint of a knife and the ribbons in pieces.

“You ruined my laces,” Aelin gasped, shoving the brute back half a step. “You bastard.”

Fenrys just smirked down at her, reaching out to slip the strap of the bodice off one shoulder, “I’ll buy you more,” then he did the same with the other. “The prettiest ribbons you can find.”

Aelin let the useless piece of clothing fall off her arms, Fenrys watching her every movement. She gave him a look that said don’t touch as she saw to the underskirt herself, her untucked blouse falling to the very top of her things. Fenrys’ gaze swept over her from head to toe, once and then twice, his eyes catching on the loose neckline that was revealing just enough to drive him wild. But he didn’t move, just waiting for Aelin to dictate what happened next.

“The prettiest and the most expensive,” Aelin said.

Fenrys nodded, not taking his eyes off her for a second. “Whatever you say.”

She didn’t bother with the buttons of her blouse, instead she just pulled it over her head. When Fenrys reappeared in her vision his eyes were ravenous and his hands twitched at his side, no doubt warring with himself and the need to touch her. Aelin pulled out the head scarf and then she was bare except for the simple underwear at her hips. Her hand draped from her neck, drifting down between the valley of her breasts.

“Do you promise?” Aelin asked, smirking at the man in front of her who looked ready to erupt.

She saw the exact moment his resolve snapped, had her laughing as he rushed forward and gave his breathless answer against her lips. “Yes.”

Aelin found herself seated on the edge of her bed, her senses fleeing as Fenrys kissed her. She was half aware of him shedding his jacket and starting on the buttons of his white shirt. The thought came to her that she should help him so that his hands might be better occupied, but she never got the chance to voice it in the slightest. Because Fenrys dropped to his knees in front of her, large hands inching up her thighs. Aelin shuddered and her underwear was pulled down her legs and thrown away. A single wink was all Fenrys gave before on her.

The first brush of his tongue over Aelin’s core had her gasping, arms quaking where they braced her weight on the bed. Fenrys was one to playfully brag about the wonders for his mouth and Aelin could truly attest to every word. She buried her hand in his curls, ruining the bun he had them tied in, and gave herself over to the feeling of every nip, every press of his tongue. Aelin moaned, loud and unrestrained. It had been too long since someone had made her feel like this. The pleasure built to the point of consuming her when every ministration stopped and Fenrys pulled out of her grasp.

“The hell… what are you doing?” Aelin asked through her laboured breaths. Her heart was pounding, her body screaming to be touched again.

“I’ll never last,” Fenrys said, sounding a little mad at himself. That anger only became more evident as he yanked at his clothes to get them off. If Aelin had the wits she might have helped him, but for now she could only watch as everything was revealed to her. “I have to have you now.”

With his pants gone Aelin could see how much Fenrys meant it. The sight of his cock, hard and ready, had her unconsciously arching towards him with need. Fenrys used that to his advantage, his muscled arm wrapping around her waist and hauling them up the bed. It was Aelin who pulled him in for a kiss and from there she let herself burn.

Fenrys settled on her hips, pressing their bodies as flushed together as they could be. The feel of him was incredible, the weight and heat of his body was something Aelin had absolutely missed. His hands ran over what they could—her sides, hips and thighs—anywhere he could reach without separating them. All the while his hips drove into her’s, the length of him rubbing enough delicious friction to make Aelin dizzy with need. She writhed against him, trying her best to get him to slip inside her, even trying to distract him by biting down on his bottom lip. It didn’t work, for now Fenrys was content to touch her, not surprising considering how long he’d been at sea. Aelin knew a touched starve man when she saw, and had thrown many of them out of her establishment over the years. If this is what Fenrys needed, she would gladly give it to him and surrendered.

One hand ceased its movements on her thigh, fingers digging into her flesh to pull her open just a little wider. Aelin moaned in anticipation, feeling the head of his cock at her entrance. Fenrys continued to tease her, his unoccupied hand pressing into her side and then up, his thumb taking a moment to run hypnotising circles over the side of her breast before heading upwards again. Then he pushed her arm up and extended it above her head, his hand dragging all the way up to meet Aelin’s. It wasn’t until their hands were laced together that his hips thrusted at just the right angle he slid into her. At the feel of him seated so deep Aelin’s body bowed into the sensation instinctually, trying to draw the man above her closer, deeper. It had Fenrys groaning into the skin of her neck as they both took a moment to collect themselves before he started moving.

Aelin had expected it to be hurried and desperate, this was anything but. Each roll of his hips was slow and thorough, enough to make Aelin’s breath catch but not take it away. Maybe Fenrys had the right idea, maybe after being apart for so long he was right to savour this first time. She was sure before morning came they would have time for more than enough rounds to make up for it.

“Talk to me, Princess. Let me know you’re here with me,” he nearly begged in between kisses.

“You feel so good, Fen,” Aelin told him.

“I could say the same.” The thrust that followed that admission was sharper than the others, a sure sign he was slowly unravelling.

“You know how I like it.”

“Like what?” Fenrys asked, voice edged with desperation as Aelin moaned. “How you like what, Aelin?”

He was enough of a bastard that he would taunt and take away what was currently driving her insane until she said it, and Aelin was tired of playing. “How I like to be fucked.”

At her words, the steady pace that Fenrys had set faltered, had his body shuddering. “The things you do to me.”

His hips snapped, the angle perfect. Aelin only knew she needed more. “Gods, I need you closer.”

Fenrys rolled them both, his grip on her arse keeping them intimately connected. Aelin thought he was going to stop then, but she felt one strong thigh bend behind and then he had pushed himself up so his back lent on her headboard. Aelin panted as she sat in Fenrys’ lap, savouring the feeling this position gave her. She wouldn’t last much longer, the coil in her stomach wound with each shift of their hips.

“There you go,” Fenrys said sweetly. “I’m right where you want me.”

“Yes,” Aelin whispered. “Thank you.”

The sass that came out of near delirium earned her a rumbling laugh and lingering kiss, making Aelin’s hips roll on their own accord. That undid Fenrys and he kissed her with more urgency as the hands that hadn’t moved shifted her in his lap dragged her onto him, prompting her to move like that again. Aelin did, her hands on the headboard either side of Fenrys’ head. Once she had her rhythm Fenrys let go of her, but not for long. There was a hand on her breast, the other splayed on her pack to push her closer. The man was indeed desperate for contact, only made clearer by his next request.

“Touch me, Aelin.”

She knew he didn’t mean his cock that was still inside her, there was no way in hell Aelin would be willing to with how close she was to breaking apart. Fenrys was after something softer. Her hands left the headboard, and she touched him like he wanted. Sweet caresses over his face, sweeps over his shoulders. It urged Fenrys to move his hips faster, meeting Aelin in perfect synchronisation. His lips on her neck were not what she wanted, so she angled his face to hers, kissing him fiercely. It was his heady groan on her mouth that had Aelin breaking like a wave, pleasure rushing through every nerve of her body. She nearly screamed from the force of it, they had strung it out so long that this relief was blinding and all consuming, all Aelin could do was keep moving to drag it out as long as she could.

“Fuck,” Fenrys moaned on her mouth, helping her move on him chasing his own pleasure. “Fuck me, Aelin.”

Her over sensitive inner walls felt his cock twitch and then Fenrys was groaning as he came. Aelin kept rocking, wanting to draw it out for the both of them as long as she could. It felt too good to let it fade just yet. The way Fenrys clung to her as he caught his breath was sweet, and as Aelin’s own body calmed she ran a soothing hand over his hair. He hummed contentedly, hugging Aelin tighter against him while his lips wandered aimlessly over her skin.

Aelin chuckled. “Feel better?”

“You are too good to me,” Fenrys murmured onto her skin.

For a while they just sat there, touching and waiting for the other to move. In the end it was Fenrys, kissing Aelin deeply as he lay her down before pulling out. He didn’t bother with pants and Aelin took the opportunity to admire the view. When he was gone entirely she stretched out, feeling sated but willing for more. Aelin missed him while he was away, and it wasn’t just in the bedroom, it was the conversation and companionship as well. And now that they’d had such a gratifying release of tension there was nothing to say that they couldn’t do both at the same time.

Soon enough Fenrys returned, cloth in hand, and moments later they were cleaned up and back in each other’s arms. Aelin lay on her side facing Fenrys, and he did the same, his fingers playing with the ends of her hair. She busied herself with idling tracing the scars on his chest. There were no new pale marks that marred his skin. When she ran her finger over a particularly large one low on his side Fenrys shivered.

“So I hear the Maeve and her crew have fallen into good fortune,” Aelin said.

“That would be true,” Fenrys kissed her forehead before pulling back. “Whitethorn found some maps in an abandoned cave in the Cambrian Mountains. There used to be stories of a creature in the lake that guarded them, so who knows how many years superstition won out. We’ve been more than successful.”

“Good to hear.” It was then that she noticed the blue gem stud in his earlobe. The piercing wasn’t now, Aelin hadn’t seen this earring before. She reached out to flick it. “Is that a sapphire?”

Fenrys nodded his head. “It is. Do you like it?”

Aelin shrugged, and as if she couldn’t help but be drawn to him her body inched closer. “I prefer emeralds.”

“Well,” Fenrys said, voice straining as he used his weight and a hand on her hip to urge Aelin to lie on her back. “Next time I’ll try and bring you some back. Whitethorn usually claims them all first though.”

Aelin scoffed. “Selfish bastard.”

Fenrys’ answer to that was a soft chuckle and an upward sweep of his hand over her body. Instantly Aelin's blood heated again, craving his touch and the release that would inevitably follow. Fenrys read every sign that her body was giving, propped up on an elbow as he watched her try not to writhe. His fingers had claimed the peak of her breast, teasing and pinching until it was hard. When he flicked it Aelin gasped, a hand darting out to hold him by the back of the neck. Then his mouth was on the unattended breast and Aelin gave up fighting her composure.

“You’re not ready yet,” she panted, her body bucking as need pulsed lower.

“Ah, Princess,” Fenrys said, but Aelin barely heard him. She was too focused on the hand that was travelling down her body. “That doesn’t mean we can’t have fun in the meantime.”

The only answer she could offer him was a deep moan as his thumb reached the apex of her thighs, drawing tight circles that were almost too much. Fenrys slowed down, and shifted so that both his hands and his mouth had something to do. When Aelin gasped as his fingers teased her entrance, Fenrys kissed her, his tongue sliding into her mouth. The sensations of his mouth, the hand on her breast and the other between her thighs had Aelin hurtling towards that peak of release. But Fenrys held her there right on the edge, forcing Aelin to open her eyes and look at him.

Fenrys’ dark eyes were full of so many sinful promises that there was no doubt what the rest of the evening would entail. “I made you a promise, Aelin. And I intended to keep it.”

With that declaration his fingers slipped into her, finding that spot and moments later she was unravelling and moaning her pleas to the gods. Aelin was in for a long night indeed.

Soft kisses and wandering hands woke her up the next morning. Her bedroom was barely illuminated by the morning light meaning it must be early. She usually got to sleep late into the morning due to the working hours she kept. But last night it had been Fenrys who had kept her up until the very small hours of the morning. Aelin groaned, this time not in pleasure—at least it wasn’t that way at first. When his hand brushed over her bare breast like that it was hard to maintain her indignation.

“Why are we awake?” Aelin mumbled into her pillow.

Fenrys kissed up her neck. “Still on ship's time.”

He was ready. She could feel the hardness and heat of him pressing into her back. It wasn’t a terrible way to be woken up and Aelin supposed she could sleep later. The White Stag wouldn’t open until after noon anyway. Aelin pushed back into him, but went pliant in his hands, a signal that she was willing to give him the lead this time. Fenrys all but growled, nipping at her shoulder and he urged her onto her stomach.

They were in a tangled mess of sheets and bedding, there was some manoeuvring on Fenrys’ part to free trapped limbs. Opening her eyes, Aelin found herself at the foot end of the bed. It seems they hadn’t bothered to put themselves to bed properly after their escapes the night before. Aelin had simply grabbed a pillow and fallen asleep where she was, the pillow she now tossed away as she was pressed into the mattress. Fenrys ran his hands over her body, stopping at her hips just to angle them how he wanted. The sleep haze fled, and want replaced it, causing a needy whimper to escape Aelin’s lips without her permission.

Fenrys started his trek up her body, his lips leading the way as they trailed up her spine. He brushed her knotted hair over her shoulder and continued to the newly exposed skin. Aelin could feel the heat of his body as he was braced over her now, a hand sneaking its way of the sheets to lay over one of her’s. That little gesture had Aelin smiling, remembering how demanding he had been for small affections last night. This morning was no different.

“I don’t think I’ve told you enough,” Fenrys said by her ear, making her skin pebble. “You’re stunning.”

“You don’t, I want to hear it more,” Aelin snarked back.

Fenrys snorted, making her laugh in turn. “Duly noted, Princess.”

He lined himself up, the swollen head of his cock pressing against her core. Aelin tried to push herself back to take him deeper, but Fenrys held her still, a silent demand to just wait. She did, it might have killed her a little but she did. Then Fenrys slid in with one delicious stroke. Aelin moaned the entirety of it, loving the feeling of having him inside her again.

“You are stunning,” Fenrys whispered, accentuating his words with another thrust. “Absolutely stunning.”

“Fen,” Aelin breathed. “More.”

Fenrys dropped lower, still holding most of his weight himself, and shifted so that they moved in a steady grind. It felt so good that all Aelin could do was let herself be swept away in everything he was giving.

“Stunning.” Fenrys’ breathing was getting harder, the word coming out nearly desperate.

Aelin was about to demand it harder—faster—when her bedroom door was unceremoniously thrown open, hard enough it slammed on her wall. No knocking, no nothing, there was someone else in her room. Fenrys nearly collapsed on top of her, he managed to stop himself before he crushed all the air out of her lungs. Aelin looked up, glaring and ready to spit her best obscenities at the intruder. The unexpectedness of their identity had the words catching on her tongue and her cheeks heating.

Because there, in her doorway was none other than Rowan Whitethorn.

“Shit,” Fenrys said, pushing the sheet her way so she could cover herself. He’s always been considerate like that.

Aelin was the first to recover. “I don’t remember inviting you into my home.”

Rowan ought to be commended for how intently he kept his eyes on her face. “Should have locked your door. Time to go, Moonbeam.”

“Piss off, Whitethorn.” That may have been the first time Aelin had truly heard Fenrys sound angry.

“I gave you orders,” Rowan said, arms crossing over his chest.

Aelin wished she had her pistol, or maybe the dagger in her nightstand, just something to threaten the infuriating man with. “Unless you plan to join us, get out.”

Rowan raised one of eyebrows, the tattoos on his face shifting. “You two should be so lucky.”

Gods, here they were chatting and Fenrys was still inside her.

Fenrys seemed to realise the same moment she did, discreetly separating them and using some of the messy bedding to cover himself. Keeping her eyes locked on the green ones, Aelin took a handful of sheet and held it to her chest as she slowly sat up, not caring what might or might not be covered. From the way that the cold morning air nipped at her skin, Whitethorn was getting at least a little bit of a show.

And right there, Aelin didn’t miss how his eyes finally darted down, just for one lingering moment before he spun around and marching through her living room.

“Now, Moonbeam!” He bellowed over his shoulder as hand racked through his shoulder length silver hair, making sure to slam the other door that opened to the landing as well.

There was a moment of charged silence and then Aelin giggled and fell back on the bed. Fenrys joined in, the intensity of their laughter increasing until they were both struggling to breathe. Fingers on her chin tilted her head to the side to see Fenrys’ dark eyes full of amusement.

“I am so sorry, Aelin.” His voice was still shaking.

Aelin shrugged. “I don’t suppose we could finish up?”

That sobered Fenrys up very quickly. “He’s likely to come back and drag me out naked into the street.”

“That would be quite the end to the story,” Aelin mused like she was considering it.

“You are pure trouble,” Fenrys said, tapping her nose.

Aelin laughed, taking Fenrys’ hand. “I could say the same about you.”

They both knew he had to go, but neither of them were willing to start the goodbye. In the end Fenrys got up with a heavy sigh, picked up his pants and started dressing. Aelin sat up, watching the disaster unfold in front of her. She thought they would have more time—at least today to enjoy themselves together and catch up. It wasn’t to be and it filled Aelin with a sudden feeling of loneliness.

“Hey,” Fenrys said as he tightened his belt. “I’ll be back in no time.”

Aelin nodded. “With my emerald”

With a crooked smirk Fenrys replied, “With your emerald.”

“Even if you have to fight that bastard Whitethorn for it,” Aelin pressed, moving to sit on the edge of the bed.

Fenrys’ hands landed either side of her hips, one last brief moment of closeness. “For you it would be my honour.” He picked up his jacket off the floor, shrugging it onto his shoulders. Fully dressed there was nothing left to delay him and with one final kiss, Fenrys finally said goodbye. “Until next time, Princess.”

Aelin nodded, swallowing against the tightness building in her throat. Fenrys winked then left her room. It was at the final glance of him walking out the deep green door that she finally whispered, “Until next time.”

~~~~~

I know its not the usual but I had so much fun writing these two!

Tags: @fucking-winchester-trash // @literary-licorice // @galyxsy // @tangledraysofsunshine // @highqueenofelfhame // @3am-reading // @soup-that-is-too-hawt // @aelinfire-bringer // @nalgenewhore // @highladyofthesith // @http-itsrebecca // @sleep-and-books // @alifletcher2012 // @westofmoon // @sleeping-and-books // @ttakeitbacknoww // @armixers-unite // @mariamuses // @chocolate-eating-bitch-queen // @velarian-trash // @queenofxhearts // @heroesofterrasen // @highladyofstoriesandmusic // @empire-of-wildfire // @camerooonchiu // @crackedship // @lowhangingtreebranches // @over300books // @yourwhisperingshadows // @thesirenwashere // @tswaney17 // @impossiblescissorspeachpaper // @cat5313 // @judelovescardan // @flowerspringsea // @chaoticskyy // @the-regal-warrior // @fanfictrash3000 // @blueeyes425 // @starseternalnighttriumphant // @bamchickawowow // @thehuntressofmoon // @giorgia-the-trashpanda // @flora-and-fae // @thereaderandfangirl // @illyrian-bookworm // @chemicha // @meltalgel // @gay-book-nerd // @that-odd-puzzle-piece // @i-love-all-books // @in-love-with-caramel-macchiato // @girl-who-reads-the-books // @hizqueen4life // @the-third-me // @1islessthan3books // @bestmelle // @cursebreaker29 // @b00kworm // @superspiritfestival // @aesthetics-11 // @maastrash // @mynewdreamwasyou // @the-last-apprentice // @charincharge // @firestarsandseneschals // @scarznstars // @absolute-dissapointment // @thesurielships // @df3ndyr // @trinitybailey2003 // @gwynethhberdara // @booknerdproblems // @larisssss // @sevenfreckles-for-sevenloves // @rolltide7 // @scandinavianromantic // @tillyrubes10 // @starwarsslytherin // @minaidss // @paytin77 // @jesstargaryenqueen // @anntheintrovert // @starbornvalkyrie // @loudphantomdragon // @woollycat22 // @claralady // @perseusannabeth // @fangirlprincess09 // @maddymelv // @sierrareads // @more-espresso-less-depresso-xx // @jlinez // @lysandra-ghost-leopard // @rowaelinismyotp // @pullnpeeltwizzlers // @anne-reads // @jadeaffliction // @gracie-rosee // @elriel4life // @rowaelinrambling // @tothestarswholistentodreamers // @thenerdandfandoms // @castielspelvis // @swankii-art-teacher // @grandma-noob-lord // @vanzetanze // @highlady-brittney // @story-scribbler // @linguine-panini // @pastasiren // @surielandiareendgame // @silentquartz // @live-the-fangirl-life // @whimsicallyreading // @goddess-aelin // @s-uppertime //

#sjmcrackshipmonth23 #fenlin #aelin x fenrys #throne of glass fanfiction #it might not be your thing but you might want to skip to the end #ohhh boy i might have created a monster here

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directdogman · 1 year

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why does God Himself stick around in DIALTOWN of all places? im sure he could find some cult somewhere in the world thatd treat all his needs instead of letting him be the filthy hobo he is

there's 2 layers to this question, i think. let's tackle god himself first. You're 100% right in that Dialtown itself isn't the most hospitable place to live and if God really wanted to, he could totally find a cult somewhere else that'd take care of him like a... well, God. But, what's the stop him trying to form a cult like that IN Dialtown? Dialtown, the location, isn't the problem here. God doesn't try to convince anyone of his divinity IN Dialtown itself. Dialtown's residents are so underwhelmed by God not because they're godless heathens but because God is such an underwhelming person. He doesn't lie about his identity, but when people outright rebuke his divinity, the guy dozily replies "cool beans" and walks off, content.

The guy definitely doesn't wanna be worshiped or taken care of, that's for sure. That being said, I 100% think you're correct in questioning why exactly God would hang around Dialtown because it sure as hell isn't a super nice place. He COULD surely just leave town if he wanted, as he isn't stuck wearing an explosive ankle collar that'll go off if he strays outside city limits. Why would God want to wander around Dialtown all day, only stopping to speak to passerbys, day in, day out? Hmmm.

Now, the second layer of the question. Broadly, you could ask this question about any character in DT. It's fair to ask why anyone'd wanna live in Dialtown. I think in a sense, Dialtown's like a river delta, or the pool right below a drain pipe. It's where the sewage flow ends. The trash collects here. Dialtown has a unique ecosystem, and it's home to a lot of unique people, some of whom do truly bizarre things. Realistically, many characters, both in the main and extended cast, would struggle to live day-to-day in more 'normal' places. Imagine Gingi trying to live as a hunter gatherer in downtown Chicago, or Bigfoot hanging out in Florida!

Even Mayor Mingus, Dialtown's most pretentious and sanctimonious resident, someone who feels she is cognitively above almost everyone she has ever met, is truly the same as the rest. She's too self destructive, vindictive and power hungry to sustainably survive anywhere else. She cannot form human relationships and nobody would ever work with her if she went someone desirable.

All of the characters in Dialtown are sliiightly defective and/or majorly troubled in some way. Even the architect of Dialtown, the great Callum Crown, had to physically construct the metallic legs he used to walk with. All of the datable heads are damaged/atypical in some way, with Randy's head being bandaged, Oliver missing an optical sensor, Karen having a printer head, Bigfoot having sticky tape on his head, and Norm's concealed face. Mingus has a cat head, Gingi has a flesh head. NONE of the main cast are 'normal'. But, like Crown's postcard says, Dialtown IS a haven for people who don't fit in elsewhere. It's a place where those who can't survive alone and can't survive anywhere else come and survive together, fundamentally. It's rickety and lousy, but it's home.

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venusswhite · 2 months

Text

Above the Ruins | Seven

Simon Ghost Riley x fem!reader

masterlist

In a world devastated by chaos and the threat of the undead, two destinies intertwine in an unexpected way. Ghost, a hardened ex-military man haunted by the horrors of war, encounters [reader], a lost and desolate young woman. With his experience and determination, Ghost decides to help her, and together they embark on a dangerous journey in search of a refugee center.

notes: English is not my first language, and I initially wrote this fanfic in Portuguese. With the help of online resources, I rewrote it in English.

Six - Eight

[Travel Day to the Refuge]

We were already with our backpacks and ready to go. We would have to pass through the city to get to the forest, the only problem is the amount of freaking zombies roaming the streets.

The plan was to try to pass by them without attracting attention and hope that none of them see us. Another strategy was to go in a line: me, [name], and Soap.

I was good at reconnaissance and the biggest of the group. So, I would choose the least dangerous path since I could see farther. Soap was very attentive, so he would know if something was following us. [Name] stayed in the middle since she hadn't experienced the same things as us, so her senses weren't as sharp as ours and also because I worry. I can't stop looking back to make sure she's okay.

A few minutes later, we were near the city center, where we would head to a preserved forest area. It was a bit longer route, but also safer, as people crowded in cities.

Leading the group, I made a turn to reach the core of the city center when I saw a group of about 5 zombies walking irregularly down the street.

I step back, making [name] bump into my back.

"What happened?", She asks.

"Zombies. Get down!", I speak softly as I crouch and walk towards the rear of a car, followed by the other two.

"Shall we shoot?", Soap asks.

"No. Too risky. We'll have to kill them one by one. Soap takes two on the left, I take two on the right, and [name] deals with one in the middle.", I say, seeing her about to protest. "Show me you're ready for bigger tasks, and then I'll give you a bigger task. For now, no discussion."

So we walk slowly with our knives. I quickly take one down, hitting its skull with my knife, and see another one coming towards me. I quickly retrieve my knife from the first one and throw it at the second.

When I'm done, I see Soap finishing off his second one, and [name] finishing off one with her knife.

"Good job, guys!", Soap says.

Returning to our lineup, we continue down the street, trying to avoid the zombies as much as possible.

After a long walk, going through alleys, choosing longer streets, and crawling under cars and trucks, we finally reach the entrance to the forest area.

"I think we can stand side by side here, but stay alert."

✧˖°₊

We've been walking for hours. Luckily, we hadn't encountered any zombies, which was actually expected.

"I'm hungry. Can't we stop for a bit?", the youngest one asks.

"Just for a few minutes. We can't afford to waste time now."

We choose a tree with a larger shade and quickly eat. We couldn't waste time here.

I take out my map and try to locate us.

"We should reach the next river by nightfall if we keep up the pace. The sound of the water will keep us hidden."

They nod, and we return to the long walk.

It was all long and boring. We didn't talk much to avoid attracting attention and we were always alert.

When night fell, we were already near the river.

"I'll take guard duty first.", [name] says quickly.

"Alright", I say seriously. I still didn't like this idea, but I know I can't make decisions for her. "Any strange movement or trouble, call me."

She nods. We didn't have sleeping bags or tents, but the ground seemed like a 5-star hotel after hours of walking. We light the fire and eat again.

"I'd like to chat, but I'm tired. So good night!", Soap says, already lying down, using his coat as a pillow.

"I'm also going to rest a bit, but if there's any problem, call me, [name]. I'm serious!"

"Don't worry, Ghost. Good rest!"

Then I kiss her forehead and lay down.

✧˖°₊

[name]

The forest was dark, and only owls and crickets could be heard. It was starting to get windy, making me a little colder, so I moved closer to the fire.

Looking around, I try to pay attention to any movement or strange sound. Observing the surroundings again, I noticed Soap sleeping and ended up laughing. The man seemed exhausted. His mouth was slightly open, and he breathed heavily. Now I understood why Ghost wanted us near the river. I laughed at the thought.

He was still asleep, but he was completely quiet. Which wasn't strange to me since it wasn't the first time I saw him sleeping. He still wore the mask, but I imagined what his bare face was like under the balaclava.

He was one of the main reasons I kept going. He was becoming everything to me, and that scared and delighted me at the same time. I had never had anyone like him before.

Talking about family wasn't my forte since I didn't know mine. I bounced from orphanage to orphanage as time passed until I reached adulthood. I never told Ghost about this; he didn't ask, and I didn't think it was necessary to talk about.

Snapping out of my reverie, I noticed movement in a bush nearby. I quickly got up, grabbing my gun and cautiously approaching the noise with small steps. Until the culprit of the movement emerged from where it was, startling me.

It was a rabbit and it didn't seem infected. It hopped around and sniffed the tall grass before munching on it. Its fur was white with small brown spots on its ears.

These were one of those moments when we pretended everything was fine, even when it wasn't. But this little creature gave me hope that everything would be okay soon. After a few minutes, I watched it leave and returned to my position near the fire.

Its warmth comforted me along with the gentle sound of the river. I didn't realize the hours passing until I heard Jhonny calling me to switch shifts.

"Good rest, miss."

"Thank you, Jhonny."

I lay down near Ghost, resting my head on his shoulder and enjoying his warmth. He noticed my presence and pulled me into his arms. Then I ended up falling asleep with both of us facing each other, embraced.

✧˖°₊

I wake up in the morning with the sun starting to rise and some birds beginning to chirp. I look to the side and see Jhonny sleeping while Ghost is heating soup cans on the improvised fire.

"Good morning!", I say stretching.

"Good morning! Are you hungry?"

"Very", I say getting up and sitting next to him near the fire.

"Here. It's hot, be careful."

"Thank you!", I take the can of soup and start eating.

"Good morning!", we hear a sleepy voice behind us.

"Good morning, sergeant!", Ghost says, handing another soup to Jhonny.

"I'm starving", Soap says and then devours the soup.

I took advantage of my shift to find the best route to the refuge. Maybe there's just one problem…

"What?", I ask.

"Do you know how to swim?", I didn't know. I mean, I could manage in pools, but I wasn't the world's best swimmer.", I joke, making Soap laugh.

"That'll have to do", Ghost says, looking at the river.

"Please don't tell me the best route you found is through the river."

"Then I won't tell you", he says, laughing as he stands up and looks at the river not far from us.

"Don't worry, miss. We'll help you if you need it."

"Thanks, Jhonny."

"Alright. The river doesn't seem too deep, and the waters seem calmer than yesterday. Let's get ready!", Ghost says, putting his backpack on. Quickly, Soap and I follow suit.

Ghost goes first, entering the water, with Soap following soon after. I descend slowly, testing the depth, and Ghost notices my discomfort, holding my hands.

Reaching the bottom, I let go of his hands and feel the cold water hitting my shoulders. I was trying to ignore the fact that I couldn't see the riverbed because of its dark color.

"Do you think there are any creatures here?"

"Let's find out!", Soap smiles and starts walking.

"Can you manage on your own?", Ghost asks.

"Yes. Everything's fine!", then we follow Soap.

The river wasn't very wide, and on both sides, there were trees upon trees. The morning sunlight gave us a privileged view of it all. If it weren't for the muddy ground making our walk more difficult, everything would be almost perfect.

✧˖°₊

After half an hour of walking, we noticed the river changing. The water that had previously reached my shoulders was now close to my mouth, making it impossible to look forward without tasting that muddy water. Our bodies, which had previously walked at our own pace, were now forced to walk more due to the increasing force.

"Damn. This is getting dangerous.", Soap spoke loudly, as we felt a strong current passing by us.

The water pulled us with force, making it impossible to walk. Desperation took over me when the ground disappeared from under my feet. I tried to swim or at least not sink, but the water was too strong.

In a moment of panic, I let desperation take over as I felt myself sinking completely and water entering my nose and mouth. I thrash around and manage to resurface, trying to catch my breath, but I'm pulled back down again.

I couldn't think rationally anymore. My brain was screaming danger and my lungs begging for air. While my feet kicked trying to reach the ground and my hands reaching for any salvation out of the water. It felt like the water had swallowed me whole and that it would keep me there forever.

I was about to give up fighting for my life and surrender to the coldness around me when I feel strong arms pulling me and then a strong chest behind me.

Ghost had pulled me and was holding my waist, trying to keep my head above water. I gasp for air quickly, seeking comfort. My thoughts started to clear, and my brain clung to the safety Ghost transmitted.

"[name]!", my eyes opened, and I realized we were still in that shitty situation.

"Shit!", I look ahead seeing Soap swimming along with the current.

"LT, it's a damn waterfall!", Soap shouted, making us widen our eyes.

And there was the reason for all this current…

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon 'ghost' riley x reader #ghost cod #ghost x reader #ghost fanfiction #simon riley smut #simon riley imagine #cod fanfic

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vivelarevolution13 · 2 months

Text

moving like a river of trouble crossing

Rating: M | Word count: 10,260 | Tags: Set in the lead up to and right at the end of CATWS, Character Study, PTSD, Grief/Mourning, Dissociation, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug (And A Friend), Wait No Not That One, Going Down Memory Lane, SHIELD Has Shitty Therapists, Horrible People Still Acting Like People, Captain America Politics, Natasha's Love Language Is Surveillance, Folks Trained For Violence Engaging In You Guessed It: Violence | Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanoff, implied Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers/Brock Rumlow (non-explicit, but still reasonably fucked up by virtue of Rumlow being Rumlow)

(belated) fic for @catws-anniversary, day 2. Thank you so much for putting it together, guys! | march 27th theme: steve rogers | prompts: guilt, "it kind of feels personal" | part of a WIP to be published on AO3

and because I apparently can't help myself with the music-fic thing, playlist for this here

Good morning Captain Rogers. It is 05:15 AM, EST. Up 'n' at 'em. Good morning, Captain Rogers. It is 04:41 AM, EST. Would you like me to set the blinds to a lower density? Don't you nuh-uh at me, sunshine - get your lazy ass out of bed. You're gonna be late. Good morning, Captain Rogers. I understand you are under some duress right now, but please do not be alarmed. It is 2:32 am, EST. The year is 2012. You are in New York City. You are safe. Please try to take a breath. Would you like me to call anyone?

Good morning, Steve. Good morning. You're gonna be late. You awake? You awake yet?

Sure. Sure, he's awake.

That afternoon he packs his bag, the single duffle that fits all of his earthly possessions. He tries to ignore the vaguely smug tone of Fury's voice when he tells him they already have an apartment set up for him in DC: ten minutes from HQ, real convenient, and has he ever been to see Lincoln Memorial? He'll love it, it's a nice spot for a walk, especially in the summers, or so Fury's been told.

Steve's been to DC, but he's never beeen to the memorial, never seen much of the city outside the confines of the hotel the USO booked for them. He thinks he can count the grand total of places he's gotten to see up close on his right hand, and half of them were in the European Theatre. The other half he's running from now.

He's sure it'll be grand, he tells Fury. Beats the smell of moldy brick in the heat and a patchwork city manifesting ghosts out the corner of his eye, he doesn't say. ii.

They get him a therapist as a part of his onboarding at SHIELD. It’s due diligence, they say, in the aftermath of New York – someone to help him transition into his new role. But it’s been almost nine months now, and Steve’s learning their language, the words that get caught up in between all the red tape: saying assistance when they mean overwatch.

“This is supposed to be a safe space, not an interrogation,” the woman says at the start of her first evaluation, meeting all of his unease with a reassuring smile, and something about the misplaced quality of it puts him on a knife’s edge.

He only pieces it together the second time he’s called in to meet with her, when he's a bit more clear-headed and a whole lot more impatient than during their initial encounter. It only takes a few perfunctory exchanges before he starts registering the image as a whole: the painstakingly nonthreatening, gentle demeanor, the conservative clothes she’s wearing; the pale complexion and the sharp features and the unmistakable lilt to her voice, soft and rolling and decidedly more old country than east coast.

It would feel almost perverse, he thinks from a distance, if it wasn’t already painfully transparent and tactically inept to boot: this attempt at the same trick that didn’t work in their favor the first time around. He supposes he can’t blame them for trying to fill in the gaps between what they could scrounge up from paper and old photographs with something predictable and comforting, something expected of his background and what is now probably regarded as an antiquated time period.

He also knows that going off of little information when dealing with a potential threat is dangerous. What’s even more so, he thinks as he nods politely along to the lady's explanation of their work together, is believing you know more than you do, and that’s the easiest mistake to exploit.

Here's a fact probably still recorded somewhere on a faded death certificate: Sarah Rogers never lived long enough to get gray in her hair like that.

Here’s another, probably only still recorded in his memory and nowhere else: his mother had been fiercely caring, yes, and compassionate to a fault, but her kindness had never translated to docility, and it sure as hell had never translated to softspoken dishonesty.

So when the shrink bearing a near-painful resemblance to her starts asking incisive questions enshrouded in unoffensive words and indulgent tones, Steve packs his entire reality into a series of half-truths without batting an eye and doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt.

Yes, he’s eating. Yes, he’s sleeping well. No, he’s not on edge – sure, it gets hard, sometimes, but exercise helps, meditation, music. Going out into the world, meeting new people. Trying new things. Yes, he’s ready to be back in the field. No, not so much so that he’s itching for it. Yes ma’am, he’s doing fine, just fine, thank you for asking. iii.

“I heard Hannah’s single,” Romanoff's saying, and it’s not the first time his brain is latching onto the fact that she’s keeping pace with him without losing too much breath, without any discomfort in the cool air that's just starting to roll in as fall bleeds into the city, painting it in darkening evenings and dimming colors. “You know, from forensics? Glasses, leggy, science-y type. Blonde – you like blondes, right?”

“I’m starting to think you only have one thing on your mind,” Steve pants, pushes harder ahead until his calves start burning, just to see if she'll allow herself to follow. Keep moving, keep moving. You awake yet? “Gotta admit, it’s making it kinda hard to enjoy all this quality time we spend together.”

“What, you’re going to stop inviting me on runs? Aw, Rogers. Break a girl’s heart, why don’t you.”

“It’s not really an invitation if you just show up without me letting you know where I’m going, you know.”

She shrugs. “I needed to burn some energy, and you’re not exactly the most unpredictable person in this city.” Her ponytail whips over his shoulder as she follows his sharp right turn around the War Memorial and passes him towards Constitution Gardens, too close and competitive. “Brunette, then? There’s a girl in operations, real tough, good with a gun – at least your propensity for that type has been well documented, but I guess you didn't really have enough time to enjoy it, y'know, all the way –”

Steve knows she’s talking about Peggy, he does. It doesn’t help the hard-wired alarm bells going off in the back of his head any. He digs his heels in, skids to a stuttering halt over the wet pavement, and somewhere in the back of his consciousness he’s quietly pleased that it catches Romanoff off guard a little.

“What, too far?” she jokes, but her eyes are quick over his face; cataloguing the boundaries, the places she can still push.

He's sure it's well-meaning, as much as a blatant handler can get. But some habits are just harder to shake than others. That, he's intimately familiar with.

“If I say yes, will you stop? Or at least stop tailing me?”

“I don’t tail you. That’s below my paygrade,” she says, mouth quirking up at the corner like that’s all the punchline she needs as she types something into her smartphone. “I’ll text you her number. She likes spicy food and old movies.”

“Sure, fine. Great.”

“It is. You'll see.” The phone disappears back into one of the many hidden pockets of her skin-tight leggings. The marvels of modern technology, Steve thinks. Natasha quirks a challenging brow. “Now can we start the actual run finally or have you reached your limit, grandpa?”

He's all but ready to chicken out of the date all week, fighting the urge to cancel at the last minute, but he figures the girl doesn't deserve his bad manners just because he feels like spiting Romanoff when she tries to play his puppetmaster.

In the end it goes...surprisingly well. As Romanoff described, Lina’s beautiful and sharp and a little closed off, tough as nails and maybe even more rigid in her approach than him, but once they get over the initial hurdle of awkwardness and expectations the conversation flows with relative ease. They swap the basics, they talk interests and habits and what moving to DC's like, fun little stories from growing up; he tells her about the butcher on his block when he was a kid that kept a rooster in the backyard, and she tells him about the kid on her floor at community college that set the dorm on fire trying to boil an egg. They talk SHIELD and her work training the new recruits and there’s a spark in her eye as she dives into giving him a breakdown of what he should look into, BJJ and MMA and gyms around town that would be discreet enough to take him in.

“SHIELD’s got plenty of hand-to-hand experts,” she says in a pensive tone over the dessert, “but it can get a little…”

Steve chuckles around his spoonful of the sticky rice, the sweetness of the mango across the back of his palate soothing the previous burn of the spice. Turns out he likes Thai food, too. Who would’ve thought. “Intense?”

“Testosterone-riddled, I was gonna say,” Lina grins, conspiratory. “And paranoid. Not the best scene if you just want to learn,” and he nods along because it’s true, and because it’s a relief to have someone else say it for him.

So it’s nice, and sweet, and ultimately entirely impersonal. He walks her to her door and she gives him a kiss on the cheek, and when she explains how she’s not really looking for anything right now her dark eyes are warm and honest but not overly apologetic. It’s a gesture he’s grateful for.

“Besides, not to be blunt, but you don’t seem all that…” She trails off, waving her hand.

He winces. “Interested? I am, really, but...” And that’s just it, isn’t it. He’s interested; she’s wonderful, just his type, seems to like him well enough. But.

“Look, I get it. We’ve all been there. Can’t really avoid it in this business.” She shrugs as if to say what can you do, smiles up at him knowingly. “Wrong place, wrong time, right?”

And Steve thinks, yeah. Yeah, something like that. iv.

“–piece of shit, every time, wet sand all up in the fuckin’ thing. Goddamn Kandahar all over again,” Rumlow’s muttering, agitated and half to himself, and Steve doesn’t ask about the last part, just dumps his own gear on the rack and drops down onto the bench. They might be friendly, but they’re not friends – Rumlow doesn’t owe him his history. “I get sent to the fuckin’ desert in this weather one more time, I’m gonna start missing New York winters.”

The jet’s engines hum at his back, adrenaline leaving his body in slow pulls as he watches Rumlow work, notes the intermittent scarring over his hands as they strip the jammed gun down like it’s muscle memory, quick and capable. There's not a spot on him that seems unmarred, really - the scars are a continous, scattered motif up to his face, moving faint in the dim light of the jet.

Loved being in the ring, he'd said once with a wry grin, as far back as I can remember. Might've gotten the shit kicked out of me more than was strictly necessary, though. Accounts for me ending up here, in any case.

He’s drawn this exact scene, it occurs to Steve before he can push it away; down to the boxer's shoulders, down to the complaining, and more than once.

“You from the city?” he offers, an easy distraction that Rumlow seems grateful for.

“Yeah. Yeah, born and raised right off of Arthur Ave.”

“No shit?”

“Yep. Good old Belmont.” He looks up, gaze turning sharp at whatever he catches on Steve’s face before he can look away. “Wouldn’t think you’d know where that is. You ever even been past Central Park?”

Steve gets a flash of washed-out color and brilliant light, of Art and Charlie and the rest of them from the Y dragging him up to Harlem; thinks of the queens with their elaborate glamour and loud, unapologetic laughter and that last wet spring before the cops started shutting everything down, of stumbling tipsy towards the A down 155th Street with empty pockets and Jeanie giggling into his shoulder about some honey-eyed daddy that gave her a sweet kiss goodnight. A well-insulated secret, a fleeting memory of feeling like he could swallow the world whole.

It’s not what Rumlow’s talking about, he knows. He nods anyway.

“Loved that neighborhood. My folks moved us out to Staten when I was in high school, though,” and Steve must make an involuntary face at that because Rumlow chuckles and says, “Alright, tough guy. Not all of us had the privilege of living within two blocks of Prospect Park.”

“Neither did I, but it sure beat Staten," Steve snorts. "And it wasn’t even as much of a privilege, back then.”

“Yeah, I think you’ll notice a lot of things’ve changed.” He tilts his head, scratches contemplative at his stubbled chin. Steve wonders if he’s projecting the bitterness in Rumlow’s voice. “A lotta things’ve gone to shit in that place. Food’s still way better than fuckin’ DC, though. Not nearly enough Italians over here.”

“Yeah. All that white marble and not a single decent, roach-infested deli. Real shithole. Should put that on the tourist brochures,” Steve says after a moment, testing the waters. It gets another laugh out of Rumlow, low and maybe a little surprised, and the sound settles like molten lead in Steve’s stomach, grounding. v.

One morning in November he gets a phone call from a Washington Post journalist asking for his statement on the newly planned Captain America exhibit, and then in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it feat of persuasion it’s three days later and he’s somehow been roped into a grand opening ceremony, a speech and a press conference at the Smithsonian.

It lasts for-fucking-ever.

By the time he's back in his neighborhood his ears are ringing with leftover noise and applause, his cheeks sore from a constant smile that'd felt more like a slashed tire than a friendly gesture even as he was forcing it. He'd reverted back to the Best Foot Forward, Always mentality of the bonds circuit quick enough - but at least back then it felt like it had a marginal purpose, no matter how flimsy or false. Back then it didn't drain him this much, he doesn't think, no matter how frustrating. Best Foot Forward these days feels more like sleepwalking his way off a cliff than anything else.

The second he's through the door he shrugs out of the tie and starched shirt chafing at his neck, tries not to think about how he still would've preferred all the commotion and the pretense to the unfamiliar silence of the otherwise big apartment building. Tries to give the feeling resurfacing in him now that he's got attention enough for it a name other than unbearable.

Here's the thing: pain, Steve knows on an intimate level, is something you get used to. It's not to say you forget it exists completely: you just subsume it, you learn to expect it. It’s less about it becoming a habit and more that it becomes a part of you when you’re not looking: fills up all the empty crevices it can find and creates a mold, and that’s the shape you start to take if you live with it long enough. The problem with that is that the longer it goes on, the less space in you there is for other things.

He was five the first time he got really sick. It'd started simple enough – the winter of ’23 came early and sudden, and New Year’s Eve found him in bed with a fever that earned the dreaded prefix scarlet soon enough when the spread of dotted red started taking up more and more space on his body. He'd spent two weeks feeling like someone's dangling him off the edge of the unknown, and much longer than that after with his mother's watchful eyes following him from the window whenever he left the house, like she couldn't force herself to look away.

But he made it. Despite all indications, little Stevie Rogers didn't die, and it was a miracle with a capital M. All he had to do is make peace with having a somewhat faulty heart as a keepsake of his survival and maybe never playing for the Dodgers, which is not to say it stopped him from trying.

But then next year it was the whooping cough so bad it cracked a rib, then his left ear giving out on him after a prolonged sinus infection, then the asthma he barely even noticed amidst everything else until it layed him out flat midway through a game of stickball bad enough it landed him in the hospital. The minor league dreams dissolved fairly quickly after that.

In ’25 he missed more school than he attended. The kids from down the block came round to call on him less and less, and it wasn't too long before they forgot completely and it was just him and a handful of toy soldiers left, with names like Joe and Jack and occasionally if he allowed himself, Steve. Their neighbors started smiling at him more. The grocer started handing him a fistful of candy under the counter every time they came in, looking at his mother in a way that said sorry for your loss and that Steve hated with a passion, least of all because he couldn't even enjoy the pity because hello, here comes diabetes. Then it was the pernicious goddamn anemia and months and months of the liver-fucking-everything diet followed closely by its sworn enemy the ulcers, and then the growing pains, and then the bad back, and then the bum joints –

Here’s the thing about pain: the longer you carry it, the more you forget you’re doing it in the first place. You ignore it because it’s the only way to survive it, because what the hell else are you supposed to do? And that’s when you start thinking you have it under control. You start to think you’ll be ready when it comes for you again.

Here’s the other thing about pain: you’re never ready. It comes as a surprise each time. He wasn’t ready in ‘30 when the neighborhood suddenly started reeking of despair and death and he wasn’t ready in ’36 when his ma went and he wasn’t ready in ’44 when he got shot in the neck and thought oh, so it can still hurt like this. I can still bleed.

Then '45 rolled around and a new thought followed, a miserable dot at the end of a sentence: maybe bleeding out would've hurt less. At least it would've made us even.

None of that experience and understanding stops him feeling it now, again, still, like an interrupted line from that first fever chill to here, standing in the middle of his living room with a glossy brochure full of dead faces in his hand and an exhaustion so deep it roots him to the spot.

And then there’s the anger, of course: equally familiar but much more muted, less expressive than it used to be, dancing around the edges of everything else. He looks back down at the crumpled pamphlet, to where the folded-unfolded-refolded creases cut through the title:

Captain America’s team: the top tier of the World War II effort and a leading example of integration!

As if they were somehow Captain America's or even the US army’s to begin with; as if it was encouraged and Steve didn’t have to stand around in moldy tents arguing his brand-new, star-spangled ass off with Major Whatshisname and Colonel Whoever-the-fuck for days on end just to keep them eating in the same mess hall and sleeping in the same barracks. Nothing about any of the ugly parts, about the blood and the bureaucracy and the bullshit. Nothing about any of them, either - no mention of Dernier's politics or Gabe's professorship or Morita's writing. Not a single inch of space left for their families or their own stories except as a footnote in Steve's own, a way to make it picture perfect.

Nothing about Bucky other than the barebone facts: he was Steve's friend, he was a good soldier, he died. The meat and blood and soul of the person, left out; the fact of whose fault it ultimately was, conveniently gone.

And that name – the Howling fucking Commandos. The bunch of them would’ve busted a rib laughing at it, laid out all grandiose like that. For one, it’s still as ridiculous as it was back then – sounds more action novel than historical account and distinctly less bureaucratic and arbitrary than the Specialized 107th, which is what they were strictly called in the paperwork. Personally, Steve always thought that out of the variety of nicknames they’ve been awarded, the Invaders was by far the most fitting. Truer to wartime, to what it was they really did, and far more threatening if it ever reached the other side of the line. Then again, from what he’s gathered so far, it seems like America’s done far more than its fair share of invading since. It definitely accounts for the 180 degree change in branding.

Turns out it’s still all about selling comic books and war bonds. And Steve, too caught up in his own sorry wallowing, is just going along with it.

Jesus, he thinks, the tone of it coated in a wry, familiar voice nestled in the back of his brain but much harsher than it ever was in reality, drop the philosophy for one goddamn minute. Anybody ever tell you idle hands are the Devil's playthings? Get moving, Rogers. Trade the speeches in for something useful.

So he does: chucks the paper into the empty white fruit bowl collecting dust on the countertop, turns the TV on to a random channel to break the silence. He doesn’t recognize the title of the movie playing but it’s soothing, the background awash with static and the accents just familiar enough to make for pleasant white noise. He heats up his leftovers, sprawls out on the couch and gets to reading the reports Fury had unloaded on him, tuning in every so often to the witty back-and-forth dialogue. It’s maybe half an hour of squinting at indecipherable bureaucratic jargon before he finally gives up, lifts his head to rub the sleep from his eyes.

One of the men on screen – Nick, Steve thinks, or maybe that one’s Mikey, he hasn’t been following along all that well, to the work or the film – is trying to dissuade the other from visiting his mother’s grave in the dead of night.

It’s 1 in the morning.

That makes it nicer.

It doesn’t make it anything, Nick. A grave is a grave. There’s not a religion in the world that says a person’s soul is buried with them in their grave, the man argues, and it’s like whiplash pulling him out of the serene lull, the memory of a name over a plot in Greenwood he’d never gone to visit, and he thinks, a little disoriented – of course there’d be no soul in that patch of land. The grave itself is empty.

They’d given him reports in the beginning, too: a neat stack of papers, most of them stamped DECEASED in glaring red letters, and the single mocking MISSING IN ACTION. At the very end there’d been a laughably short list of contacts; among them a phone number and address for one Rebecca Barnes-Proctor.

God help us all, he can imagine the voice of George Barnes saying even now, jokingly abject, our Becca’s married a Proddie.

But there had been briefings, then, and the shitshow over Manhattan, and in between all of that the days where he couldn’t even find the will to leave his apartment block, let alone go to Brooklyn. Over and over, he’d given himself the same excuses as with Peggy – it would be too much, too soon, too selfish to usurp her life like that.

Of course, the truth of it all was much simpler. All too cowardly, too, in a way that has the guilt blooming with a vengence somewhere in the pit of his stomach: he didn’t have the guts to look Bucky’s baby sister in the eye, no matter her age, and say, I’m sorry you didn’t get a body to bury. I’m sorry the one time he needed it I didn’t do the job he spent his whole life doing for me. I’m sorry I left him behind when it should have been me down there in the first place.

He watches the two men stumble around in the muddy dark of the graveyard and yell and bicker in a way that strikes Steve as bitterly melancholy, the familiarity of it unmooring.

Mike, y’know what? Now that I’m here, I don’t know what to do, Nick finally admits at the foot of the tombstone, wild-eyed and devolving into a rambling laugh, and ain’t that a kicker. Welcome to the club.

It’s very hard to talk to a dead person, we have nothing in common. Hi, ma.

Nick, you’re making me forget the kaddish, Mike chides with mounting frustration as Nick keeps giggling and it’s not funny, it’s really not, the whole premise of it deeply morbid, but Steve finds himself laughing right along with Nick’s hysterical hiccups, his childlike plea of I don’t wanna die, ma.

You don’t get a choice in the matter, his own mother had told him when he was maybe 8 or 9, faced with the concept of death the first time when Mrs. Kowalski from 4C got sick, if that’s the way the chips fall, then that’s God’s will. But what matters is the middle, what you choose to do with it. Do you understand?

He didn’t, really, not back then, and ten years later when they’d lowered her into the ground all he could think was: what is the point of it, anyway, of all those right choices, if all that happens is you end up dying alone?

Steve hadn’t been, of course. For all of the isolation he’d felt during those last few months of his mother’s illness, he’d never been really alone. There’d been the Barnes’ and the old ladies from church and even some of the folks Sarah had helped treat at the hospital coming by and Bucky, Jesus Christ; Bucky crying at the funeral and saying kaddish for months like Sarah was his own and letting Steve rage and lash out until all the fight had drained out of him, his arms like a vice around Steve’s shaky frame.

And there’s the actual goddamned truth, he thinks, bone-weary. The only truth that matters, the one that’ll never get written on any museum walls: Steve was only ever as strong as the people propping him up.

I think that’s the reason we’re such good friends, Nick is saying to Mike when he tunes back in, and Steve’s not laughing anymore, hasn’t been ever since his throat had gone tight a long few minutes ago, because we remember each other from when we were kids. Things that happened when we were kids that no one else knows about but us. It’s in our heads. That’s how we know they really happened.

What are you talking about? I know what really happened when I was a kid.

Yeah, but no one else does, Nick says, painfully earnest. I mean, everyone we knew as kids is dead.

He shuts the TV off with a soft click, waits a long while before the heartbeat pounding in his ears has settled. Thinks about what it really means, then, to embody the final resting place of all your ghosts.

Maudlin, Bucky’s voice echoes in his head again, fills out the crevices of the silent apartment like a slow bleed. Always gotta be so maudlin, Rogers, like you’re Scarlett O-fucking-Hara. Just get up. Get up, Steve, c'mon.

“Yeah,” Steve sniffs, wipes a rough hand over his eyes; laughs again because it’s a damn joke, all of it, and he can afford to lose the plot in the privacy of his own home. “Yeah, fuck you too, asshole. Go haunt somebody else.” vi.

"Heard you had an eventful weekend," Rumlow comments when they all pile into the locker room the following week, a little roughed up and beat and stinking of iron and sweat but otherwise in decent spirits. "Seemed like a good time, all those pretty girls throwing themselves at you to shake their babies and kiss their hands or whatever."

"Shows how much you know. The pretty ladies were all balding men over the age of 50," Steve says, only half-joking, shrugging into his civvies with a wince. There's a cut on his side where he fell a little too close to a protruding piece of rebar that's already reopened twice by the time they've gotten off the jet, but despite the sharp sting of it he's feeling better than he did just a mere twelve hours ago.

Idle hands turns out to be true enough. Wryly, he thinks he might owe sending an apology up to Sister Andrea, although he figures anyone that enjoyed using a ruler on little kids that much wouldn't have ended up in Heaven, anyway.

"But sure, it was alright. A little too much attention all at once, if I'm being honest."

"Oh yeah?" Rumlow huffs. "Big talk coming from someone who dresses like you do. I hope you didn't show up there wearing that."

Steve frowns down at the faded jeans, the fitted grey shirt – one of many pairs that came with the closet in his apartment. It rubbed him the wrong way, at first, but it's easier in the end; not having all that wide array of choice dumped over his head all the time. "What's wrong with my clothes?"

"Nothing. I just get worried they're gonna start cutting off blood flow at some point, y'know," Rumlow grins, his teeth very white in the bright fluorescent lights. "God forbid we go to a bar one of these days, I'd have to mind every creep from here to Dupont tryna get a peek down your shirt."

"Fuck off," Steve huffs, feeling heat flush down into his neck despite himself. Yeah, blood flow really isn't the problem. He gestures at Rumlow's own undershirt, all slick black and skin-tight, motion packed in. "Look who's talkin'."

"Yeah, but I don't dress like this out there. This is all for you guys," he yawns with a stretch, all exaggerated bravado. "I got one of those, y'know - work-life balances. Out there I clean up nice. You, I imagine you sleep in that shit."

Steve snorts. "You'll be happy to know I clean up just fine. Got the one suit and everything."

"Is that right? They get you decked out in some bespoke threads for the parade, Cap?" He chuckles at the face Steve makes when the word bespoke fully registers. "See if I believe that without any evidence."

Steve digs out his phone reluctantly. He does have pictures, is the thing, woke up the next morning feeling like a sack of potatoes tossed from a great height just to see his phone light up with an email from SHIELD's HR with an attachment sent over for approval - like he was a celebrity ending up in a tabloid, he thinks again with distate, like he should care much either way what he looked like. He thumbs through his email to the one labeled FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION, and shoves it over at Rumlow before he drops onto the bench to sort out the rest of his pack.

"Looking good, you weren't kidding. And the mural's all heroic," Rumlow comments lightly as he scrolls through. "Wait, don't tell me - the little mustachioed, scruffy looking one is the frogeater, yeah?"

Steve laugh comes easier this time. "The little mustachioed, scruffy looking one would've kicked your ass six ways from Sunday if he'd heard you call him that. Yeah, that's Dernier. Gabe, next to him," he lists, trying not to think about how it comes across that he's memorized the order, "Dum Dum - he didn't like that nickname, either - Bucky, Monty, and Morita."

"Sure were big on callin' each other everything other than your names, huh?" The joke is followed by a stretch of quiet, and when Steve looks back up Rumlow's frowning at the phone a little, a flicker of uncertainty over his face that Steve doesn't get to figure out before it's gone. His face smoothes out into a mostly neutral expression, an undercurrent of something unnerved and white-hot, and Steve can't help himself.

"What?"

Rumlow passes him the phone back with a shrug. "Nothing, just - haven't seen those pictures since I was in high school," he says, a little distant like the memory's faded to oblivion since, and hell if Steve'll ever stop finding it strange that all of them ended up in dusty old school books, long obsolete. "Long time ago, now. Guess I just remembered all of you being much older, is all."

He leans back against the wall of lockers, pensive, watches Steve fumble with the zipper of his hoodie where it keeps sticking for a minute. "You must miss it, though. The good old days. Your people."

Steve clears his throat, yanks at the cheap piece of plastic again. The fit and cut, he might've gotten used to - but he'll never get over the waste; just how quickly everything falls right apart in the future. "Yeah, well. Like you said, it was a long time ago."

"It was, wasn't it. Longer for some than others, though," he says cryptically, and Steve really has nothing to say to that that won't land him right back where he was two days ago. He doesn't have to, in the end, because Rumlow throws a curt nod at his front, and it takes a second too long for him to interpret what his zeroed-in expression means, to register the dotting of blood through the thin fabric of his shirt. "You're bleeding all over the place again."

"It's fine. Don't feel it much," Steve says. Something's different. What's different? Wake up.

"Sure. Never do, do you," he says, gesturing to the hoodie with a thoughtful expression that's inching away from the easy banter. "That shit's gonna stain, though."

"I was gonna throw it out anyway."

It should be enough, and in any other situation it would be. Any other situation he'd shrug it off with more conviction, Rumlow'd call him a tough guy with just the right amount of mockery, and the tension would pass. Except that Rumlow had to lead them into uncharted territory and Steve hadn't been quick enough to notice before he was flailing, too exposed.

Except that instead of a quip what he gets is Rumlow's stepping into his space, the casual slouch of his shoulders replaced with something more deliberate when he reaches for where Steve's hand is still holding onto where the teeth of the zipper have gotten all gnarled. In a heartbeat Steve's back to square one: keenly aware of the proximity and every inch of his body in the cramped space; back to that first day in the elevator with Rumlow's dark eyes turned on him with a questioning look and a twist to his mouth that said it's a pleasure, Cap but meant I've been here long enough - you don't impress me any more than any other kid I've seen this place chew up and spit back out.

It'd been enough to get his spine straightening of its own accord back then, too; the sheer challenge of it, pushing at the boundaries of hierarchy. It makes him want to pull away now, want to put the usual distance between them, to get the hell out of this stuffy locker room. Makes him want to push forward until he meets something immovable and solid. Want. want, want - too much and for things that were unreachable. That's always been his problem, hasn't it?

The sound of the zipper is too loud in the mostly empty space when it gets yanked loose, pulled up and over the slow spread of the stain, and Steve realizes with a start that he didn't notice the chatter die down as the few stragglers left the room. Realizes that he hasn't moved a muscle in a good minute, like a butterfly with its wing pinned.

Rumlow's touch lingers, just the barest pressure under his Adam's apple, and Steve's breath catches. Rumlow makes a considering noise.

He snapped a guy's neck with those hands not two hours ago: a thoughtless, instinctive thing in the middle of the ambush that was waiting for them. It's not that Steve's forgotten it; Steve's aware of it to the point of failure. It's just that it got bound up with everything else, the easy reliance and the ribbing bordering on rough and the adrenaline under his skin like a necessity.

Wake up.

Rumlow's eyes on him are sharp, a little curious. Less surprised than they ought to be.

Wake up, get moving, get out of sight. We've been here before.

Steve swallows. "Thanks."

"Sure." Rumlow steps back to hoist his bag over his shoulder and the moment breaks as quick as it came on, the whole uninterruped line of him lax and easy again, surface friendly. "Now you won't scare the guys at the front desk."

And then he's off down the hallway, leaving Steve to lean on the cool metal of the wall and do everything but think about the sudden feeling of being off balance, a little too tight in his skin in a way that only half has to do with the too-quick beat of his blood, the lingering smell of Rumlow's cologne.

vii.

Funnily enough, the Christmas gala almost slips his mind – an extraordinary accomplishment, considering that he spends most of December thinking up viable excuses not to go, dodging Romanoff’s questions and sideways looks with the agility of a man running for his life.

“We can hang out with the civilians. Break the record of how many weapons contractors you can piss off in one night,” she says one brisk and sunny afternoon when she manages to drag him out to a coffee shop barely across from SHIELD, the steam from her tea swirling up in billows to fog her opaque sunglasses. “It’ll be fun.”

“I don’t know any civilians,” he says, deliberately obtuse. It’s a joke; he can’t help that it’s also mostly true.

“What about Kate?”

It’s not a surprise anymore, really, that she knows everything about his life, that she has no problem making that clear to him when she wants to. He’s fine with it, he has to keep reminding himself. Maybe it’s a control thing, like when she acts like she’s not holding back when they spar, a holdover from some other life. Maybe this is the closest they get to trust, and it doesn’t matter. Much like the tails that he pretends not to clock, the check-ins and evaluations and this whole neatly preordained life someone else's drawn up for him – it comes with the package, and what difference does it make, anyway? It’s simpler like this. He can do his job, and if thinking that he’s a situation she has a handle on makes Romanoff feel better, then that’s fine, too.

“What about her?”

“You talk to her yet?”

“I talk to her all the time,” he points out. Natasha cocks her head, the rest of her expression as obscure as her shaded eyes.

“It’s for a charity. The gala.” She keeps switching lanes. Trying to get him to stumble, he thinks.

“Yeah, Ms. Potts said.” Two can play at that game. “You want a date so bad, why don't you pester Barton this much about it?”

“Clint doesn’t need pestering. It’d be good publicity if you showed, you know.”

He scoffs; there it is. “For what, the charity or Stark Industries?”

“So it is about Stark, then.”

He takes a sip of his coffee, over-sweetened and dark. 100% pure Colombian arabica, apparently, and with the price tag to reflect it. The acidic taste sticks at the roof of his mouth. “I don’t have a problem with Tony.”

He doesn’t. Stark’s a good man, he thinks, despite having inherited all of Howard’s arrogance and none of his approachability. Whatever tension was there in the beginning had dissipated, though, the second Tony plummeted thousands of feet from the sky after having, for all intents and purposes, blown himself up to save all their sorry necks. They’d broken bread, shaken hands, parted ways.

For the best, probably. Good man or not, Tony has a singular way of getting under his skin.

And then there’s also the fact that being in Manhattan just doesn’t feel right, not with the destruction still settling over everything like a cloud of noxious dust, the fenced off craters and leftover vigils scattered every few blocks like an improvised graveyard. Good morning, Captain Rogers. It is 4:47 AM EST. It is a new day. Do you see it? Do you see it yet? Are you awake?

It’s not new, this sense of loss: looking at the city and feeling grief, compounded.

“Not what I said.”

“What are you saying, then?”

“I’m saying SHIELD throws shitty office parties.” Natasha frowns and chugs half the scalding cup in one go before pushing up from the table, checking her phone. “I have to go,” she says, gives him a long look that he can’t really decipher, unusually lingering and far too serious by Natasha's standard. “Come to New York, Steve. Or at least think about it.”

viii.

He goes to see Peggy again, because of course he does. She greets him at the door with her most pleasant, polite smile this time, the kind reserved for strangers – Time for my medicine again, is it, darling? – but it’s alright, he understands. They’ve explained it to him, the good and bad days, how there’s rarely any constant. He’s grateful, anyway: just so grateful to have her around, as much as he can. Which is why he doesn’t flinch when she cries, when she calls for him like it’s been another seventy years, why he holds her brittle hand in his until she gets hazy around the eyes again and he feels a nurse’s gentle tap on his shoulder, hears her suggest that he come another time.

He takes the Harley out on the highway and drives aimlessly for the rest of the evening and well into the night, down and out and then back again until the traffic has thinned out to semis and the rare leftover commuter. He watches the speedometer kick up to 80, 90, a 100, the bike struggling, feels the rumble of the engine all the way up his spine when it skids unbalanced over the odd ice patch and thinks, grateful, grateful, grateful.

ix.

“You’re up late.”

“Hey.” Most of the building’s emptied out by now – he’d thought he’d find some privacy in the abandoned atmosphere of the holidays, and instead here Rumlow is when he was meant to be three states over, strolling through his periphery looking like he’s got nothing but time on his hands. “Thought you left with everybody else.”

“Nah. Had some business to take care of.” He settles against the wall opposite Steve, watches him shake out a one-two-three pattern that has the chain of the bag groaning. “Thought you’d be at Stark’s fancy party and putting that suit to good, promotional use.”

He never gets a chance to think about it, it turns out, getting called in two days before Christmas and ending up sending Ms. Potts – Pepper, please, call me Pepper – an overly apologetic, last-minute message excusing himself from the night. It’s a good call, in the end. The last thing he needs tonight is to be stuck in a room full of obscenely drunk, obscenely rich people expecting him to gush over the hors d’oeuvres and play at appearances.

He feels as though what he’s doing right now isn’t much different, though. It takes a whole lot of effort and posturing to dredge up a wry smile for Rumlow, anyway. “Well, it’s been busy here. Couldn’t fit it into my packed schedule.”

Rumlow snorts. He gets that expression on his face, sometimes, that same brand of amusement that makes Steve second-guess whether he’s actually in on the joke or just the punchline of it, that gets him hot under the collar in all the wrong ways. The punching bag chooses this moment to finally release its desperate grip on the physical realm, flying off the chain with one last pitiful creak and sending sand spraying across the floor. Rumlow’s eyes track the movement with unabashed fascination.

He walks over to the neat row of bags Steve’s lined up and picks one up with relative ease, a casual show of strength. “So you gonna talk about it,” he pipes back up, handing Steve the replacement, “or do I have to keep standing around here until you’ve run the rest of ‘em into the ground?”

“Talk about what?”

“Whatever’s got you shredding through these poor fuckin’ things at 11 pm on Christmas Eve.”

He wants to point out that he could be asking the same question – that there really is no reason for Rumlow to be here this late when he’s still technically on medical, to be in his usual tac clothes and looking as wired as Steve’s feeling. You ever take a day off? he considers asking, but that’d be prodding. What’s worse, it’d be hypocritical.

“Nothing, you know how it is – mission ran long. Had some leftover energy.”

“Yeah, Rollins mentioned you guys ran into some kinks.”

It’s not exactly the word Steve would use to describe the shitshow of that morning, utter failure avoided by a narrow margin because it was an old school lab, Christ, still had extracurriculars on the weekends and everything, and they just charged in half-blind.

It’s rigged, naturally. The room blows as he’s getting the janitor out, tears the face of the building open towards the sharp drop below, and all Steve can think is what a stupid, avoidable way to die. The electrical fire smell lingers for a long time after the explosion, the patter of the wet snow through the blown roof nowhere near enough to put the flames out.

They’re told to avoid detailing the collateral in the report, after: SHIELD had no way of knowing the complete situation beforehand, they say, short and brooking no argument, and Steve’s getting real damn tired of hearing that. By the time they wrap up cleanup he’s shivery and exhausted and when he finally dozes off on the long flight back with his ear to the monotonous drone of the engine, it’s to vague, uneasy bursts of the taste of ash in the mouth and many small, cold hands dragging him deep into the frozen ground.

Absurdly, the first thing he thinks of when he startles awake is Dugan’s thick mustache chained solid with frost, lips blue with the cold and grumbling under his breath.

"Gee, you're looking awful familiar there, Dum," Gabe'd say, biting off the ends of his sentences with the chatter of his own teeth. "Made this snowman that looked just like you when I was a kid - all white and lumpy with a great big bush over his lip. 'Cept his carrot nose was half as long and he never ran his fuckin' mouth this much."

And despite the cold and the misery, Dugan would elbow him and Gabe'd elbow back, obstinate. And Bucky'd laugh, Bucky'd call them all a bunch of fucking morons, and do they really want their last to be the Germans hearing them squabbling like two bitter old biddies out on the steps of the church for the whole neighborhood to see? Think of the image of our troops, golly gee. God forbid.

He strips out of his wet suit at the compound by rote and doesn’t think about the numbing cold of December among towering trees, of snow burning his fingers raw, clinging to his lashes. He runs until his lungs burn and it’s nothing like that thin, strangling air of the mountain range, nothing like warm skin sticking to icy metal, muscles all locked up and tears hot like bile in the back of his throat and the wind screaming in his ears, and –

Winters are warmer now, somebody’d told him at some point. Something about northern lights and the ozone in the Earth’s atmosphere.

“Kinks, right.”

He smooths out the edges of the tape that’s come loose over his knuckles, tries to tuck it in where he’s spotted red through the fabric. Suddenly he’s all too aware of the seconds lumbering on in silence, the eerie, empty quiet of the building; Rumlow looking at him with a single-minded intensity that makes the back of his neck prickle with heat, gets him on edge in a way he doesn't want to parse, doesn't have the energy to hide from.

It'd be no use, anyway; sometimes he thinks Rumlow can smell it on him, blood in the water.

“Alright, then.”

He aims a perfunctory jab at the bag and lets it swing back to catch it mid-air, brand-new vinyl creaking under his fingers, and considers ignoring the man altogether. He's not feeling generous with his words tonight. “Alright what?”

When he turns back around Rumlow’s ditching his holstered gun on the bench. Steve didn't even notice he was armed. “You said you got some energy to burn – so let’s go a few rounds.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“Come on,” and it’s his voice in the end, if he’s being honest with himself, that makes Steve fold; the cajoling tone and those long, tightly rolled vowels that curl and hook into the sheltered space behind his ribs. “C’mon, man, it’s been a while. I could stand to let off some steam, too.”

Come on, do it for me, Bucky had said in dozens of different iterations over the years and then only once after when it had meant something, only once when he was really asking, back up against the hard bark of the tree with his hands dangling between his legs like a man who had no more use for them. You gotta promise me, Steve, he’d tried, low and worn thin, and Steve didn’t, couldn’t find the words to that wouldn’t be a complete lie and a betrayal. Instead he’d leaned harder into his side, hand at the back of his neck, and wanted and wanted and wished like hell, not for the first time, that he could drain the misery and exhaustion out of Bucky’s body at every point of contact.

Come on, Rumlow says, and Steve goes, Pavlovian.

He rewraps his hands in silence, waits for the other man to tape up before he steps into the ring.

“Y’know, it could’ve been worse,” he says, circling Steve, tone casual, “No casualties is better than what we get most days. So you might as well stop with all this self-flagellation bullshit, Cap. It’s no good.”

“You wanna keep talking,” Steve goads him because it’s worked in the past, because it really has been a long day, “or do you wanna fight?”

They start off slow, Rumlow testing the waters and Steve pulling his punches by habit by now. He manages to land a few hits that don’t really scratch the surface, doesn’t pull back in time to avoid Rumlow’s hook. His blood rushes at the first, second, third collision, zings up his spine and sharpens everything out, bright Technicolor; it’s good, doesn’t even hurt, he’d almost forgotten –

It gets real brutal real quick, after that.

“C’mon. What, you gettin’ bored already?” Rumlow says the third time he gets past his guard, an edge of something mean and frustrated in it. He strikes out again just to skirt off Steve’s belated block, more provocation than actual intent. “Jesus, you fallin' asleep on me? Fight the fuck back, old man.”

“Look who’s talkin’,” Steve gets out, putting distance between them. “Ain’t you supposed to be passed out drunk on eggnog in Staten Island right now?”

“You ever stop running your mouth? No wonder you were the neighborhood punching bag, kid.”

“I weighed a 100 pounds soaking wet, I had to compensate. What’s your excuse?”

He’s slow this time, too. Rumlow’s not someone who signals. The kick to the plexus sends Steve stumbling back and something pops, loud. He coughs once, twice; shakes it off.

“Aw, there he is. You’re alright,” Rumlow says, deceptively sweet, dismissive. “You’re just fine. Come on, Cap. You gonna quit being a pussy or what?"

Here’s the thing: he’s not sure he likes Rumlow all that much, really, can’t read him all the way to be able to say for sure; isn't sure that he wants to. They don’t know each other, not in a way that counts – it’s only been a handful of times that they’ve even worked on the same team in the time Steve’s been in DC, even less they've gotten to have anything that counts as a real conversation outside the single locker room incident, but he’s been leading men long enough that he can pick up on the patterns. He can see the way Rumlow commands respect among STRIKE, knows the type, besides: collected and confident and purposeful, committed to the cause to the point of failure. Violent, too, sure, shooting for the head when Steve’d still be asking questions; a little too rough around the edges, sometimes, yes, but so what – Steve’s seen his fair share of that. Steve’s lived it, felt it on his own skin, inside and out, been in it for three whole years. So what. He’s not about to run away screaming.

It isn’t even the first time they’ve done this, beaten the shit out of each other after hours in the deserted facility. It’s not the first time he’s seeing Rumlow in this light, eyes dark and focused; liking it a little too much, maybe, liking riling Steve up and drawing blood. A natural progression to all the things about him Steve maybe didn't want to notice and all the things that had his full attention since the second they met.

It’s fine – Steve figures, this body can take it. It’s what it was made for, anyway. Steve figures better here than out there, and out there Rumlow’s all brutal efficiency and casual competence and Steve trusts him to have his back, get the job done, which is the only part that matters. Steve trusts him, is the thing, and that carries more weight likeability ever could.

Rumlow’s fist connects with his jaw and he feels it rattle up into his teeth, the dull pain like a live current through his body, whiting everything else out: you awake, Steve? You awake yet? Is it enough, to still be able to bleed?

So sure, maybe it’s the violence that gets him. Maybe it’s that Rumlow fights just dirty enough and doesn’t pull his punches with Steve, grins at him sharp when he spits blood from his busted lip and squares back up. Maybe it’s just that he’s not afraid to touch him or look at him wrong. Everyone else seems to be.

He blinks sweat out of his eyes and creeps in close, lands a few swings in quick succession that have Rumlow easing off, head snapping to the side.

“Yeah. That’s it, there you go. C’mon,” he laughs, pushes damp hair out of his face in a well-worn afterthought of a move, and Steve –

Steve has to remind himself, is the thing. Every goddamn day of the week he has to keep reminding himself of where he is. Eventually, he thinks, it might stick – but God, he’s sick and tired of it.

They don’t even look alike. For one, Rumlow’s much older than Bucky ever got to be. Has the scars and the experience and the too-mean edge to his voice to prove it.

But in the end, when he's got Steve face down on the floor, breath hot down his neck, it turns out it doesn't really matter all that much.

He bucks anyway, if for no other reason just to prove a point to himself, just to feel his bones grind together. You're still moving, you're still just going forward, heart pumping like it's gonna burst with it. Rumlow twists his arm further up his back, grip iron tight. “I said stay down.”

“Yeah, fuck you,” Steve pants into the mat. “Pretty sure this ain’t within kickboxing rules.”

“Pretty sure there was no talk of rules in the first place. I keep tellin’ you, don’t I, you gotta get that or else people’ll think you’ve gone soft. Someone might take advantage.”

“You ever quit talkin’ shit?” Steve throws back at him.

“Nah.” Rumlow shifts, the weight of him heavy and hot, too close. Steve can’t catch his breath. Rumlow’s knee is still pressing into his back and he can already feel a bruise spreading at the bottom of his ribs that’ll be gone in the morning. He doesn’t even feel it all that much. He never even – “See, I don’t think you’d want that.”

Steve could break the hold with ease. He could throw Rumlow off and still walk away with most of his dignity intact. Steve could do a lot of things.

He’s fucking tired, is the thing. He’s in his body and buzzing hard out of his head and it hurts, Christ, it hurts so bad, has for such a long time now, and it doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t matter one bit.

Keep moving, keep moving. Maybe he doesn't want to. Maybe it's alright if it's not him, anyway; a river of trouble, cross currents, carrying him along.

It’s just easier, in the end, to trust someone on his team. That’s all there is to it. It's easier, it is, it's getting there at least, Steve keeps telling himself as he lets Rumlow take him apart in more ways than one.

Eventually, he thinks, he might even believe it.

He meets Sam Wilson on a humid day in late May when the sun's barely made its way up, the sky an overripe color and all of his bruises already healing or healed or tucked neatly all the way back under the surface. Like many things with him these days, it starts off as muscle memory; then a shot in the dark, then relief when it works.

It still takes all of his willpower not to physically retreat when he's hit with the familiar, tired refrain:

You must miss the good old days, huh?

But then Sam cuts straight through the middle of it: Sam calls his bluff, quick as hell but with kind, serious eyes and an outstreched hand, and by the time the sleek black car rolls up to the curb with a roar Steve's got another title in his little book of the future and a chest that feels slightly lighter than it did when he jolted awake at 3 in the morning.

Romanoff pulls them back out onto the street without a word, and he doesn't even mind the knowing look she casts his way all that much. Just looks out the open window, the spring air whipping past as the speedometer ticks up 40, 50, 60, and thinks about whether the farmer's market will be open when they get back in: having some fruit in that goddamned fruit bowl might be nice for a change.

(epilogue)

When all is said and done, he thinks he really should have seen it coming. There was no talk of rules, and it's Steve's own damn fault for not listening. When the dust settles and the Potomac still reeks of a gasoline fire, when Steve's switched back onto battlefield efficiency despite the nightmares creeping into his subconscious with a vengance, it really shouldn't feel personal.

Except for the memory of Rumlow's slick grin in the too-bright, too-close space of the elevator, except for the phantom feeling that he can still sometimes smell scorched skin on his stomach; except for the way Bucky's horrified expression is burnt into the backs of Steve's eyelids like a brand, like a scar that won't heal fully.

Except that it's nothing but personal, in all the ways that matter.

Sam looks at him in question when he pauses in the middle of breakfast, eyes glued to the closest thing that passes for a modern TV in a roadside diner in Bumfuck, Iowa. Hospital breakout, the breaking news states, three dead, seven injured, dangerous fugitive on the loose. Be advised. Do not engage. Do not engage.

Yeah. Too fucking late for that now, isn't it.

"You alright?"

That's a loaded question, he thinks. I'm not sure what that really means and I don't know if I have for a while, he thinks.

You awake, Steve? You awake? You see it yet?

"Fine," he says, and digs back into the cold, gummy pancakes. "You think they got any blueberries in this place?"

Sam's face cracks into a smile, dubious and slow and then all at once. Sure, if you say so. Sure, I see what you're doing, but I'll trust your lead. Prop me up, I've got you right back. "Man, I don't think they even have hot water, but. Gimme five minutes and a Captain America name drop, I'm sure we can figure something out."

#this got very long jesus christ #I overthought it so now I'm just hoping it fits the event and the prompts??? anyway #so unbeta'd. my apologies and also enjoy! I hope!#catws10 #catws anniversary #steve rogers #brock rumlow #natasha romanoff #don't wanna tag sam because he only shows up for a blink of an eye but. he shows up and also I love him<3 #idk if it’s actually an M rating but. just to be safe #cw: violence #(but only barely)#gaslighting #by sheer virtue of the bastard involved #stevebucky #steve rogers/brock rumlow #I don't know the tag for that and I kind of don't want to know #this was really interesting and challenging and ultimately very painful to write ngl #my fic

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