#I KNOW THESE RANGE FROM UNLIKELY TO IMPOSSIBLE

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

THE SOUND OF SILENT GRAVES (X)

NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER XI

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 15.5k

WARNINGS: Angst, threats, exploitation, stalking behavior, very dark/toxic modeling standards/expectations, body issues, scar descriptions, mentions of past intimacy, broody/stubborn Nikto, brief smut, etc. (Series 18+)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Your mind doesn’t remember the first time you looked in the mirror and saw the beginnings of the flaws. Perhaps your nose was a bit too strange—lips a bit too…there the second you turned thirteen. Maybe fourteen. Fifteen. You know it started slow, like all poison does; the point to where you actually begin to pay attention to the chains around your neck. 

Your eyes hadn’t left where Nikto’s sweatpants sat so well over your hips for at least five minutes. Usually, you’d pick at those flaws here, on the cold bathroom tile with the black and white wash of nothingness. But this is distraction enough to block it out, at least for now. 

You smell like him. 

You’d noticed after you had woken up for the second time and had found Nikto gone—his thigh no longer the firm pillow to your skull. It startled you, admittingly, and you thought it was unlike him, but then your ears had picked up on the barked Russian sentences outside the bedroom door, drifting in from under the wood as your haze cleared. Best guess? He was on the phone with someone while you kept getting the rest he said you needed; you could only speculate how he got out from under you without making your eyes snap open. But, yes, it was undeniable that every ounce of your skin was bathed in his scent; marked, branded as if a sheep. 

Rotting wood coated in gunpowder, and gnawing metal that peels back flesh. 

It’s stuck in your nostrils as you itch at the side of your nose, blinking away from your reflected visage as if it’s on fire. 

Focus, you plead, and you don’t even know to whom. 

So much had happened, that the thought of your brain calming down was impossible. Nikto knew. He knew about the purpose of the parties, he knew about your doubts and fears, he knew your body. 

As you exit the bathroom, your mind slips into a dark thought—maybe learning to care about someone turns you into a bit of a stalker of your own. No one else could say they knew you as well as Nikto now does: your fears and your hopes. Not even Alyona, you flatten your lips at the realization, and you consider her your best friend. 

“Jesus,” you groan quietly after a moment, pushing your palms into your eyes with a heavy sigh. 

It can’t be past noon now, and you can’t run from this forever. 

The phone on your nightstand is taken up, and, sitting back on the bed, your eyes dart and skate past the tossed party dress on the floor, wishing someone would go out and burn it already. As the visible tear in the lace catches your attention, along with the slashed corset, there’s an unmistakable twitch at your lips, that only makes your chest tighten immediately after.

Clearing your throat, you turn back on the device and try to give it your undivided, though anxious, attention. The sound of sharp Russian beyond the door gives a sliver of comfort. 

But still…why hadn’t he woken you up? There’s a sliver of confusion that takes place in your mind, but you push it back softly.

The first wave of notifications is expected, and exactly the same as it had been before breakfast. 

Kliment Fedorov, Alyona, your Mom, even the investigators—texts and calls, ranging from clipped sentences to long paragraphs. Thumb hovering over the screen, you raise your opposite hand and rub at the base of your skull, a low sound in the back of your throat. There was so much, you didn’t even know where to begin. You should be worrying about the stalker, not your job. 

But…when had you not been worried about your job?

Just another thing to make me lose my mind faster, you think. God, this is getting to a point where I’m starting to not care if they get rid of me—at least then I’d be able to make my own decisions. You start with Aly, and you quickly slap the call icon just to ease your shaky fingers of the stuttered typing they would have had to do otherwise. Phone to ear, the ringing only persists for two seconds before there’s the hurried panic of static and a frantic voice. 

“Seraph!” 

“Aly—” You try to quickly calm her down, mouth open with the half-formation of speech.

“Bastard! Why did you not call me?!” The woman snaps, and your ears twitch, your body flinching at the guilt that grows. “I have been up all night and worried most of the morning—damn you. Everyone at AMA is silent and Fedorov won’t let me into his office.” 

That’s right, you had told her you’d call her after the party—when you’d talked to her after seeing Nikto’s back tattoo. 

After you’d touched his ravaged flesh. 

Your face heats slowly, head tilting to the floor as you clear your throat. It was all wrapped in tissue paper, those memories. The storage room, the way those pale eyes had dug into your form in that damned dress, wanting to try and compliment you in his own strange way but being unable when you degraded yourself so consistently—unsure of himself. It was addictive seeing such a frenzied and numb man walking on cracking ice.

But that doesn’t make you any more sure of yourself.

“I meant to,” you hurry into your explanation, waving a hand even if she can’t see it. “You know I wouldn’t leave you wondering unless I had a good reason.” 

Alyona huffs over the line, silence falling as her anger tapers into a line. “...I need to put a bell on you, Солнышко.”

You close your eyes and sigh, fingers moving to push into your nose bridge. 

“Yeah,” your mouth utters. “Honestly, it’s not a bad idea, Aly.” 

It isn’t long before there’s the low plea—that heavy insinuation. You know she’s still now, waiting for you to begin. “Tell me, then.”

Face tightening, you pause and listen for Nikto. You still hear the muted conversation, and occasionally, the stomp of heavy boots along the floors. He’s pacing. 

What’s going on out there? Who was he talking to? You wonder silently, perplexed. Nikto had made many phone calls before, and while he preferred to be in a nearby area and speak in his mother tongue, they hadn’t been as long as this—nor as snappy. Shaking your head, you suppose it’s a problem for later, and in the back of your mind, every word that he’d ever spoken to you rattles like rocks. 

You were nervous around Nikto now, and that doesn’t make any sense to you.

Doesn’t the nervous part come before getting touched in the back of some dark storage room? 

You grunt under your breath, clenching your jaw; becoming more and more like Nikto as the days pass, it seemed. 

“I didn’t sleep with Tarkovsky,” your words are breathy and low. Trying to hide. “...Nikto stopped it.” The heavy pause is enough to make your palms sweat. “Aly?”

“Perhaps I judged the beast of man too early.” You blink, tilting your head as your eyebrows draw in. “Christ, Seraph. I’m relieved, of course I am, but what will Fedorov do once he finds out?”

“He already knows,” you relay. “Nikto wasn’t…subtle about his refusal to let me go.”

“Blood?” Aly asks.

“And bone,” you sigh. 

“Shit,” the woman over the line grumbles. “Do you…” she trails off slowly. “Do you think AMA will keep you on?”

“This hasn’t happened before,” you shrug to yourself, hearing Nikto speaking louder. Your eyes dart to the door, and as you blink, your fingers run your thigh in a self-soothing motion. “I don’t know. Right now I’m debating if it’s even worth it.” A painful chuckle. “Any advice?”

“Keep the bastard around long enough to break someone else's bones.” Aly’s laugh is sharp and smooth. “Show them what happens when they do anything he doesn’t like.”

“The night wasn’t all bad,” you try to defend his personality a smidge. “He’s not some monster, Aly.”

“I wasn’t implying that,” there’s the sound of moving fabric from over the call, and Alyona is most likely in a fitting room herself, taking up your call as she rushed out of a photographer’s shoot at light speed. “...You like him, then? Truly? Or are you just enamored by his capacity for violence?”

Your body slows at the obvious jest, taking it seriously. Face stilling, you blink at the wall across from you. Everything else blurs for a moment, memories slashing to every opened car door and meal made with expert hands. Organized magazines on your tables and cleaned dishes. There was something funny about the way you enjoyed the stretch of his sin coating you like blood over the visible flesh of a masked face.

Nikto wasn’t a good person. You knew that.

“Yes,” you whisper regardless, feet shifting below you. “How can I spend so much time with someone and not like them?” Your words try to reason.

“Very easily,” the Russian woman scoffs, not wasting time. “You know what I mean, Little Seraph. Don’t try to push me off like I am stupid.” A low hum. “When you talk about him, your breath goes light.”

“It does not,” your voice tightens. 

“Denial,” Aly sighs. “The first sign.”

“Oh, shut the hell up,” you groan, standing up and beginning to walk the room casually. You enjoyed the banter—the teasing: you two were good at that. 

As soft chuckles waft around, your lips twitch into a smile. “He’s not horrible. That’s all I’ll say.” 

“No beast?”

“No, no beast. A stubborn brute of a dogish ex-soldier?” You roll your eyes, and the commotion outside of the door takes on a different tone. You pay it no mind. “One hundred percent.”

“You like strays, yes, Seraph?” Alyona’s line crackles.

“I was burdened with a good heart,” you joke with a chuckle, nodding. As the second of silence draws, you reluctantly push out, “I need to check in with everything else.”

“Then I’ll leave you to it,” is the easy reply. The next sentence is troubled. “...If you’re kept, will you have to go to the rest of the parties?”

You don’t get to reply, because there isn’t a moment to think above the sinking in your gut and the sudden shove of the door. Head snapping up, the phone is tilted from your face as your eyes bug wildly. 

Iakov makes it three steps into the room, searching for you, before a growled shout and a ruthless hand connected with his suit’s collar. Watching wide-eyed, you see the way the pale-haired man is dragged out with a loud call of alarm.

Mouth agape, all you utter is a quick, “I’ll call you later,” before rapidly hanging up and moving as fast as you can to the door.

Shoulder hitting the frame, you stutter as you right yourself swiftly. “Nikto?”

“Go back to bed,” the black void grunts, gloved hand releasing Iakov with a violent shove. The two men are in the living room, your guard glaring with venom at your media coordinator as he stumbles back, nearly falling to the floor. 

“She can’t!” Iakov meets that fire with fire, strengthening himself. His face is a tone darker—eyes sharply snapping. “Fedorov has been waiting all day to have a meeting, and I won’t have my job on the line because of some entitled bra—!”

Nikto’s hand re-wraps itself around the man’s collar, jerking the fabric, and in turn, the smaller body forward until the rough fabric of the lower half of his mask is nearly brushing Iakov’s nose.

“I will cut out your tongue,” Nikto eases out far smoother than you’d heard thus far in your many days together. 

Your heart skips a beat.

“...Okay,” you say under your breath, face on fire as your coordinator freezes like a bird under a cat, a flash of rage simmering in his expression. The tension was palpable.

Truth be told, you’d never seen Iakov so unmanaged before—hair this way and that, suit ruffled not only from Nikto but from the apparent running of hands. He was always so put together. You swallow down your shaky worry. 

You’d never known him to be anything but respectful. It was like a knife to the chest to see such a rabid switch of emotions—of personality. Christ, it was damn near wrong.

“Nikto,” you say quickly, and the brute only tilts his head your way, not looking at you as his fingers tighten. Your tongue darts to wet your lips. “Please.”

Iakov is pushed back once more, and your guard grunts, light gaze unwavering as he backs up only a half-step nearer to you, widening his shoulders as the trunks of his arms cross his chest. Suddenly, thoughts of sex, power, and a stalker boil down to the sight in front of you instead, and the great confusion gets larger still.

Nikto is back in full gear, and here you are in sweatpants and an oversized shirt. When had your Russian bear managed to change? Had he left the bedroom far sooner than you’d thought? And…why? Keeping the Russian in the side of your narrowed eye, you take a breath and quickly address the greater problem. 

I thought Nikto was only on a phone call.

“How did you get in here?” Your voice is low, riddled with exasperation and a tinge of stiffness. Would Nikto even have let someone in without talking to you first? It seemed unlikely.

Iakov sneers, clenching his jaw—the void beside you is silent. 

“Key.” Long fingers disappear into his suit, peeling out the gray face of a hotel room key and holding it between two fingers. Eyes pierce you, narrowed with a wave of horrible anger and swirling contempt that makes your breath hitch as if under the scrutiny of a wolf.

Your lungs hold themselves in your ribs like prisoners at the confession; eyes widening. 

Key?

Nikto levels out slowly, shifting with canid-like movements. “Walked in when we were speaking to the investigators over call.” He breathes out a rumble. “Nearly shot his head off.”

“You would have had a harder time than that, Хуй,” Iakov barks, dress shoes clicking as he slaps a foot forward. 

Heart hammering, your anxiety dances—questions muddling. Paranoia. Why would Iakov be allowed to have a key to your room? Had he always had one when you were sent out to parties?

What if he’d walked in before….?

Shaking your head at the implication, you step in before Nikto has a chance to jump the man, snapping out in a fashion that was unlike you, but came from both a place of desperation and nervousness. Your face pulls into a sharp display of panicked anger.

“Both of you shut up and listen!” Nikto freezes, eyes flashing instantly to shock. After a moment, any discernible emotion vanishes from his pale eyes, and he blinks down to you; shoulders lowering as if a display of submission.

While you can’t see it, Nikto’s heart sputters. He hadn’t expected that from you. 

Even back in Yekaterinburg, you were more prone to letting the course go calm—letting others lay themselves over you to avoid confrontation. You were still like that, of course; that was plainly seen in your unwillingness to explain before the party what was going on, but an outburst like that Nikto had never seen before. 

He watches you closely but remains mute even if his throat cages in a grunt of surprise.

Iakov freezes as well, neck snapping over like a fish on a hook. He was rageful and arrogant, you could now see it plainly. Even if he was always composed, you weren’t blind to the looks he would give you when he passed you in AMA—the discreet touches to the back of your shoulders or arms when you’d be given schedules face-to-face. 

You were stuck in a circle of distrust and lustful eyes, and the only reprieve was a man with more blood on his hands than a butcher holding a pig’s heart. 

Trying to calm yourself, you shake your head softly.

“Iakov,” you utter at the glaring face, hate and disgust stuck behind pupils. “Explain it to me.”

“You fucked it all up,” he growls, and Nikto’s gaze snaps to return to a pale face. Yet he still doesn’t interfere, hanging around like a puppy lacking his needle teeth. Muzzled. It doesn’t stop his eyes from sparking, however. “There is no deal with Tarkovsky! You know what that means, Seraph?” His hair is flattened down by a fast hand, tongue licking at his lips. “No money. Fedorov is wringing my neck! Why have you not answered the phone?!” 

“I was resting,” you mutter stiffly, face a tension-ridden mess. Glancing at Nikto and his tight pupils, the Russian doesn’t look over, only his hips moving in a small shuffle. You clear your throat with a small ache starting to form at the base of your skull. “Just got up.”

“It is past noon,” the shorter man barks. “This is absurd!” 

“Lower your tone,” Nikto utters. 

“I will speak what I will,” Iakov’s expression is like a knife as you stuff your shaky hands into your pockets. “Seraph needs to listen to what I tell her to do before—”

“Before what,” your guard interrupts, tilting his head. Around him is a false calm that somehow seems more violent than if he was yowling like a mutt. Your lips thin into a line. “Hm? Speak. You were doing it not a second ago.” 

Your coordinator stills and he wisely keeps his tongue from flapping.

“We will say it only once more,” you watch Nikto from the corner of your eye, breath trapped in your throat as his hips tighten and arms slip to hang by them; gloved hand flexing where the lack of a digit is glaring at you. “Watch your tongue.”

“I’ll call him,” you comply to Iakov’s complaints after a moment of heavy silence, face on fire and your chest being hit by every palpitation of your heart. Your mind is airy, and that scent of rotten wood is back as your legs push in on themselves. “I’ll explain what I can and—”

“Too late,” is the hissed answer. “He already gave me my workload. You’re going out tonight if you still want your job.” Your spine goes rail-straight. “This is the last chance, Seraph,” the pale-haired man spits. “This is it—you’ll put on what I have for you to wear, you’ll give yourself to the man who wants to invest into AMA, and you’ll keep doing what I tell you to. Your dog,” Iakov stares at Nikto for a long while, opening and closing his hands like he wants to say more, but only growls, “will do as he is ordered.” 

Nikto is about to punch him, you can tell by the roll and shake of his wrist. In an instant, you have your hand grabbing at his bicep, barely applying pressure beyond the initial grasp and yank. It does the trick though. 

Nikto’s body halts.

“Give me the key and get out,” you say in a monotone to the raging coordinator. 

Iakov looks like he’s going to fight on that, and your unease at his presence gets larger. The knowledge that he had access to your hotel room the entire time makes your muscles writhe with something dangerous—alarm bells. But the stalker isn’t here with you, is he? He’s back in Yekaterinburg unless there’s something you don’t know about.

Before you can pull on your guard’s arm again, Nikto pounces and slaps the key to the floor, which skids along the white tile as you gasp softly. Great hand connecting with a shouting Iakov’s collar, Nikto doesn’t let go as he begins dragging the man away like a toddler with ease, dress shoes scuffing the floor. 

Face loose, your eyes follow as the Russian grasps the door handle, yanks the barrier open, and tosses the coordinator out with a snarl. 

“You need to obey what I tell you—!” The scream is cut off as the door is slammed shut in Iakov’s face ruthlessly. A lock clicks in place, and that’s the end of it. 

Nikto stays to stare through the peephole, eyes beady and chest heaving with heavy breaths. Under the mask, his skin is taut with feral tension. 

In his youth, the Russian had been unswayable in his anger—a fact that resulted in many a school fight and bloodied faces, usually not only his own. It’s what brought him to the military, to be completely honest with himself. A lust for something he could control like a pocket knife in his hand, but bigger than two teenagers wailing on each other in some field while a gaggle cheered them on. Split knuckles and cut lips. One thing never got any easier, though. 

That damn spark of animalistic loyalty.

He’d formed some bond with you, that was certain. Mutual gain? Who knows. Bodily need? Maybe. Actual care? …Curse him, but perhaps. Yet, hold his toes over a fire if he didn’t feel a horrific rage at some man he could break over his thigh speaking to you like that. 

He feels your gaze on the back of his head even now, as he watches that media coordinator scurry off like a rat, and he flashes to the ongoing gag the two of you had formed. 

Looks like a Shrew. Little rodent.

Nikto sighs under his breath, fingers coming up to rub at his covered chin, scraping gloves against the thick canvas. He backs up with a scoff and stalks away. 

“The man is weak,” Nikto says to you, keeping a tight side-eye. “Get a better one before we dispose of him.”

You strangle down a quick laugh, mouth slowly opening as you think over your words. The comment, said in that rough and sandpaper-like accent, flows through you like water. You should be put off by it, you think to yourself in the back of your brain, especially after the explosion in the bakery and the death of your three previous guards; of Yefim.

Yet…

Your throat tightens. “You think he was being serious?” You ask. “About the party tonight? My job?”

“You are not going.” It’s immediate. 

“Nikto,” you frown, stepping forward as he brushes past you to grab his phone that was sitting on the coffee table. “There are parts that I won’t be a part of again, but I know that you know, that I need to keep my position at AMA. With any hope, showing up will be enough—I can speak, persuade, the person who—”

“Why?” he spits, shoving the device away as his pale eyes glare, head tilting. 

If you knew any better, you’d compare this to a boy pouting. Just perhaps a bit more serious. 

“Oh,” you vaguely motion with a hand, sarcastically uttering as your heart slows now that it’s only the two of you. “I don’t know—food, rent, the ability to live comfortably. You know, the usual.”

Nikto huffs, taking out his baretta and placing it on the table before the cleaning rag is slipped from his belt. He sits down near the neatly folded blanket and perfect pillows, silent. You’d have to keep this conversation going later, there was a low curiosity in your stomach. His phone—the speaking you’d heard from the bedroom. 

“Who were you talking to before I came out?” Walking forward, you listen to the click of dark metal as Nikto takes apart his gun piece by piece, setting them all down in a well-thought-out order. He glances up, and you see his lashes dip in a blink. As usual, his expression is unreadable while behind that mask. You almost missed the balaclava—at least you could see the outline of his lips that way.

“Anything important?”

“Investigators,” Nikto grumbles. “They have taken Sergi into custody, but can get nothing out of him,” he pauses, troubled though you can’t see it as your eyes widen, body going to sit beside his own before intently listening. 

“That’s perfect!” You speak, a smile overtaking your lips. “Maybe that’s why I haven’t gotten any more texts from the stalker. Do you think that they’ll keep him there?”

“No,” you still, smile freezing. “They cannot.” Pale eyes stare into your own smoothly before they break away. Nikto clears his throat, fingers twitching as more bits and bobs are polished. “DNA does not match those found on the letters from your lockbox. It is illegal to falsely detain someone for over forty-eight hours. He will be released unless further evidence is discovered.” 

It’s a slow moment before you swallow down the sharp disappointment in your gut, attention darting from the silent Russian to the table. 

“Oh.”

Nikto’s muscles tense the longer this silence permeates, eyes unconsciously darting back from his gun to you. After a long while, he sighs aggressively, dropping the rag and the slide he had been polishing without thought as it thumps to the table.

“Птичка,” he turns, and you blink back to him just to notice the instant tension as your eyes lock. 

Such grays and blacks make up his being, that you wonder if color even mattered when it came to him—you already know those shades of in-between things, and Nikto could certainly be described as in-between. The activities of the storage room flash behind your vision, and your lips part softly. 

But something isn’t right. 

You’d thought that maybe Nikto would always be something of a blank slate to you—obviously, you could tell when he was frustrated and such, but anything beyond that was still up to your imagination. But it’s especially telling when you can understand the way he hesitates to touch you when his hand rises. 

The limb moves to your bicep before the Russian drops it back down, turning back to his rag, and gets back to work with the lines beside his eyes visible as if grimacing. Beyond the anxiety, and the paranoia, you find the hurt burns sharper than those two ever could.

Not to mention the uncertainty. 

You stare openly for upwards of three minutes, hesitant with the white noise in your brain overtaking your thoughts. 

Nikto’s head is thumping—attacking every ounce of common sense to be found. The picture on his phone; the implications. The stalker wasn’t Sergi, because Sergi was at this very moment still detained and had been since last night…how could he tell you that? A man who was already horrible with words, so used to barking out his true feelings to soldiers and civilians alike. He can’t be that with you. Not anymore. He doesn’t want to be. But he’s stubborn—he’s prideful. Arrogant. It’s easier for him to figure it out himself than burden you, and in many ways, you were the same beast.

Mutt, mutt, mutt. Golden chains around supple flesh.

Nikto opens and closes his mouth many times, not knowing how your heart is cracking piece by piece; so averse to speaking about yourself. He’d left while you were still asleep to make the phone call himself to your investigators, not able to stare at your face any longer or feel your flesh. It had made his attention slip, and his focus fail. 

The lack of control where he already had so little. He couldn’t take it, and in that, he felt dirty. Tainted. 

The knowledge that someone had a picture of you in perhaps the most vulnerable moment he’d ever seen you in was worse, still. Like the blood on his hands was smearing itself over you, dipping along your waist and hips; sinking its dripping knuckles into the tight clutch of your welcoming walls. Fingerprint marks over your navel, clawing. 

Nikto flinches subtly in his seat, a low sound echoing in the back of his throat. He wishes he’d never known the color of blood if only to not be able to imagine it along your pretty skin. 

The Russian had only been thinking about it when you were sleeping, a slow infection seeping in as it always did—the stalker had been just behind him and he hadn’t heard a thing. The thought was enough to nearly make him vomit.

It was an utter disgrace to his skills. 

He can’t be distracted anymore; not now. Not when he feels the fingers digging into his scars, the cuts, the drags of knives, and the burn of fire. He needs that control back. Some semblance of stability. 

You try not to show how much you’re taken aback—how much Nikto’s sudden distance is a physical pain to you. The dead air settles, and you feel your pulse through your skin like a wound. 

“...Anything else, Nikto?” Your voice is deathly still. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe you had pushed something too far. 

“...Нет.” The Russian’s fingers are hovering over the pieces of his gun, dismantled and laid bare to the overhead light of the blinding hotel. This place is cold; sterile. You’d said it before and you’d say it again—this was not a place you’d want to live. Now…even less so. Nikto clears his throat as you stand jerkily, sending a glance that lands on your throat and not your eyes. “There is nothing.”

You nod quickly. 

“Good. I’m, uh,” your tongue wets your lips, and pale eyes try not to follow the motion even as he finds it like a siren call. Control. “I’m glad. I’ll figure out the details about the party tonight and get back to you.” 

Nikto’s shoulders froze, but by the time his damaged brain had caught up with his mouth, you were already back in the bedroom and shutting the door with a soft hand. 

A blue gaze sticks to the barrier, but not a single sound creates so much of an echo as the seconds draw into minutes. 

“Enough,” Nikto orders himself, turning back to the table. Lips shifting into a deep frown, there’s little in the way of understanding his own actions, but wasn’t that the norm? Distance lets him think—thinking means solutions. Solutions for you; solutions for him. 

But the feeling of your warm flesh is addictive, and there are moments in between the flashes of bloodshed that circulate when your brushing fingertips scrape down his back—a bear to a deer, but now he’s not too sure which is which. There’s a need to consume and eat down sustenance until his face is bloody and raw again, that half of a Glasgow smile ripped open and hanging, brutality ingrained into his psyche by way of pain and pleasure. 

You touching him was both.

Being near you was both.

Knowing about that picture he’d been sent was worse than the former.

Nikto had thought to tell you, he’d been getting better with that, but then he’d truly thought it over and in his own way wanted you to be safe from just one more violation. It was how he was—a silent, brutish, mutt-like hired gun. He was smart, though. 

And, damn him, he liked it when you smiled. 

“Focus on the task,” he grunts, his knuckles under his gloves surely white from how hard he handles the metal of his beretta, stress cleaning even if he doesn’t know it—doesn’t acknowledge it.

His tight-pupiled eyes keep dragging themselves back to the door.

—

The hotel stayed in a suffocating silence even as the stylists came and went. They didn’t say a word as the hours lengthened—nervous, if you had to guess. The story of ‘the guard who snapped a man’s wrist in one motion’ had made its rounds quickly; gossip always on loose tongues. 

You’d had a call with Fedorov. You think you had only gotten through it because you’d dug your nails so hard into your hand, that the initial scrape of cartilage had distracted you from the threat of being fired. The beady-eyed CEO had been less than pleased, and that was all you wanted to comment on; to even think about.

“I’ve heard troubling things, Seraph. Very troubling. What is this about your guard? I had thought we had come to an understanding about it. Tight leash, yes?” 

Your fingers skate the smooth front of the newest dress you’ve been given, and you play with the dangle of cold metal around your fingers. Rings. You don’t know if they’re gold or silver, nor the gems set into them, but you know they’re elegant—just as the fabric you wear is.

There’s no great slit here, not in this form-fitting sleeve of white. Two pieces of fabric move up to cover your breasts and meet at a collar around your neck of the same silk, the train extending from the back of that collar that trails the ground. Lace, of course. Your shoulders are bare, just as a good ninety percent of your back is; only stopping at the small of your back where the fabric is once more tight to you. Pearls and feathers create a beaded version of a corset, tantalizingly caressing your bare flesh. 

Your first thought is that you’ll freeze in this, but the second is how you’re going to walk in the heels—a silk strap looping your ankle before a big bow meets your eyes.

And the third is even worse.

“I think I’m losing my job tonight,” you whisper, blank-faced and knowledgeable of Nikto once more waiting where he had been before. A vicious repeat, a hopeless deja vu. 

A pawn in someone else's game.

Your fingers tap your abdomen in broken intervals. There had to be a way out of this, you try to tell yourself. 

Think. 

But your mind always drifts back to the damn ex-soldier that’s in the living room. His attitude today—his distance from you was like taking a bullet to the gut. You should be celebrating the detainment of Sergi, of possible breakthroughs even if the DNA didn’t match. 

The baker’s boy knew something, that was a fact. 

But nothing. No joy—no jokes or sarcasm. 

As you look at yourself now, you can only now recognize the expression of utter defeat you wear so plainly like a burial shroud. This was a cruel game. But there was something truly frightening about how close you and Nikto had become in such a relatively short period. Akin to soulmates finding one another, except for the simple fact you didn’t believe that was what the two of you were anymore. 

It had been a brief hope, truly. But one that you’d wanted more than anything, and you don’t know why. You don’t know why you let him touch you; let him be so near—it runs around your brain to speak itself in tongues just like the rest. Problem after problem. 

One at a time, you turn and exit the room, not looking at yourself longer than you have to. 

Nikto stands stiff by the door, already in his suit and balaclava—M13 and Beretta back where they belong respectively. The knife, you have no clue, though you know it’s somewhere. 

There are no compliments from the two of you. No speaking. So quickly something flipped on its head. Pale eyes dart, but when they meet yours, drip and drag away to the coat rack as you grab for your jacket. As your attention tries not to linger, you see him momentarily peel back his eyelids at the sight of your elegant dress but say nothing beyond a garbled sigh.

The air was so thick, that it was nearly enough to display how idiotic and childish the two of you were for acting like this.

You open your mouth and push out, “Ready to go?” 

In the hours you’d taken to get ready, the Russian had come up with a plan. 

He nods to you now and opens the door, allowing you out as he stays behind, making sure the lock clicks as you glance over your shoulder. Beginning to walk with him just a foot away, Nikto runs over his idea once more. 

With any hope, the stalker now had a personal vendetta against him for getting physically involved with you—he’d been looking up studies in his spare time while you were getting dressed; tapping his fingers along his phone stiffly. 

Only one sentence stood out to him, and it still stands out now as you go to wait in the elevator ahead of his looming form, eyes to the ground and hand massaging the back of your head. 

‘Stalkers like to get their target isolated; they’re selfish. They want the person all to themselves and dislike anyone who can possibly get in the way of that. Whether it’s a romantic partner, family, or friends, if they pose a roadblock for the stalker it can result in added stress or an urgency to act.’

Nikto moves to stand beside you, shoving a firm finger to the ground floor button and glaring at the wall, lips stiff from under fabric. 

If the man would come after him, then it would get you out of the spotlight at least for a short amount of time—perhaps it would even be enough to catch him. 

Maybe tonight, Nikto wonders silently, eyes narrowing as his feet settle. He will be there. We need to be ready. 

Your lungs breathe down a slow breath, taking in oxygen until your chest rises with the swell like a bag in the wind. This feeling is something you don’t know if you’ve experienced before beyond the sensation of having to relearn your limbs after your accident; an expectation and a draw, something just there but out of sight. 

Inebriating instability. 

Instead of your hands being shaky, now your mind was. 

Nikto is so close—so there beside you. You wanted to reach out to him, to hang off of his arm. To be something. It was pathetic of you, especially after he’d already assured you that you both would deal with the uncomfortableness of your prior affair. 

Was this his way of dealing with it? Avoidance? He didn’t seem the type, and you’d already known that he wasn’t. 

So it’s bigger, your face pulls in. But what? Why this…hesitation?

Your eyes spark. 

Hesitation, no. In the elevator, your arms tense as the small sound of the metal box meeting the ground floor echoes; Nikto also darts his head up, deep in his thoughts. You both share an unexpected side-eye, before the doors open and you hurry out on unstable feet as your face burns. This is fear. 

“What are you afraid of?” You whisper to yourself, hearing those boots behind you. 

At the Russian’s unease, you find your own doubling just as simply. 

Who could make a bear afraid of the forest?

—

As you enter the party, you go about business and try not to stay on the fact that you have just gone through one of the most uncomfortable car rides you’ve ever experienced.

Passing off your jacket and hearing the doors close behind you, your curated smile dims to an imitation of happiness, shoulders drooping. 

Nikto had only touched your arm to guide you along the sidewalk to this more humble residence—not at all like the previous party you’d been to. Every step and click off your heels had welcomed the same nervousness, however. 

You still didn’t know what you were going to do, but right now, it was more important to just calm yourself to a state of taking it moment by moment. If it all came down to it, would you need Nikto to guard you again? Order him to break more bones? Welcome the spray of black fluid and gray meat? 

“Nikto,” you address the Russian as he blinks over, fixing his hold on his M13. He doesn’t like this either—he doesn’t understand why you don’t listen to him and go to events like this. Nonetheless, he’ll follow and steer you clear of any situations you shouldn’t be in. It was his job to watch you, not force your hand.

Pale eyes level with you before they go to survey the foyer. “What is it?” 

“When all of this is over,” you utter, walking forward. “What will you do?”

The Russian pauses, heart stuttering. What would he do? That wasn’t the question he thought you were going to ask, but it’s a welcome distraction from the mess of his head. 

“Go back to KorTac,” he breathes, elbow brushing yours with his voice like rocks. “The contract will be over. I will not be needed anymore, да?”

You tilt your head, licking at the corner of your lips to push back the bead of fear that had settled into your stomach. “That makes sense,” your mind pulls a flat-falling tease. “But who will tell me what color of the paintings on the wall?”

Nikto’s hidden face is a stiff reflection of your own, scars tight. It’s a strange thing, he understands, the pressure on his chest that grows stronger. He’s so used to keeping secrets…why was this so hard for him?

“The blonde woman will be at your side, no doubt,” he grumbles, looking away from the image of your beauty and the silk of your dress. “She will tell you. I am not the only one able to understand the need for it.” Those feathers and pearls make a strung corset of utter angelic purity. 

Blood on my hands. 

He’d already tainted you enough, hadn’t he? When did sex suddenly become important to him? Weighted with…with care. There were so many times he could carelessly get his fill and leave with nothing mattering to him—just another way to get off and forget the formalities of waking up next to someone and making breakfast. 

But wasn’t that exactly what Nikto had willingly done with you? Willingly sat near you for breakfast, willingly allowed you to coax him into bed to be a pillow, willingly touched you? Like a loyal beast, he had. He had. 

You were a horrible creature. A beautiful, lovely, creature. Disgusting. Awe-inducing. As holy and as blasphemous as all of the monsters that sit on his shoulders; the ones he cannot name.

Nikto’s fingers pull into soft fists, and his gloves stretch. He grunts as your face falls a bit at his reply, your head nodding as he clenches his jaw until his molars scream. 

You were messing with his head again. It wasn’t like he wanted you to not understand his motives—he needed to focus. 

“I didn’t think Iakov was like that,” you change the subject as you both awkwardly move into the party, voices moving along the airwaves as you enter the large living room. “I’ve never seen him so angry.”

“Men like that care about money and power,” Nikto answers, keeping your body nearest to the wall as he sticks to your right. “He will never forgive you for letting him lose it.” Pale eyes jump from one set of curious gazes to another. “It is not in his nature. Waste of skill.”

“Isn’t money what everyone wants?” You mutter, staying close to him and nodding politely at those who look your way with digging gazes. “That's why I’m here.”

“You are not the same,” is the swift answer, shifting vision stilling on a man with blond hair that moves through the crowd, camera sitting around his neck as dark eyes meet Nikto’s own. The guard blinks, and the individual is lost to the crowd.

Looking at you, the Russian’s eyes narrow. “You are not selfish, did we not explain ourselves enough earlier?” 

“You said I was good,” you explain slowly. Not good enough to keep?

“I did,” Nikto grunts. “I say what I mean. We do not lie.”

“Too prideful for that,” your mouth pulls into a smile. “Aren’t you, Big Guy?”

His eyes swirl, low amusements littering the pale orbs like a sly cat. “Да, вот именно.” 

You huff, not understanding the words, but knowing they’re agreeing with you. It’s as if a glass wall is dissecting the space between your bodies. You can see Nikto—hear him and feel his presence, but you can’t touch him; can’t get the smudges off without a rag. A blurry mess of black and white, not a slash of color to be understood. 

This separation was thin but still there.

“What aren’t you telling me?” You have to finally push as you stop near the back of the room, as far away from anyone as possible, but it isn’t at all private. Eyes turn and fingers shift over wine glasses. It was quieter here, too. Not so blatant in its display of choking wealth, but still rich if decor was anything to go off of. 

Nikto’s amusement vanishes instantly, and he’s back to a careful blankness.

Stopping as well, he only waits a second before uttering, “I do not tell you many things, Seraph.” 

“You know that’s not what I mean,” you bounce off of him, hands moving up to motion softly as your face twists. Shame hits you in the chest, and you take a shaking breath. “...I knew it would end up being like this if you found out about all of it. All your job stated was a simple protection contract, not some—”

You stop yourself. 

Pale eyes don’t blink once as they keep themselves tight to you. Nikto lets his mind calm before he speaks. “Why are we here?” 

Your brows shift, and you open and close your mouth. “I don’t know. I’m hoping my boss might give me some credit for just showing up and not—”

“Then we are going now,” he growls, attention flying from one prying person to the next. There are too many eyes here—too many ears. Nikto knows who might be lurking. 

“Why,” you lightly push back, chuckling sarcastically. “I’m not in any danger, Nikto. At every turn, there aren’t any stop signs at the side of the road—at least here I have a grab at good wine and company that doesn’t hide the truth from me.”

Pale eyes flare. People start to turn your way. There’s a pause as if there’s something the Russian wants to state, but it fails on lips that you barely see rise from under his balaclava.

“I told you I do not lie, woman,” Nikto grunts, stature ridgid from where it spreads like a steady corruption; a shadow lengthening. 

You had always avoided confrontation—always. You hated it, and, currently, you hated this as well. But the stress was getting to you, the threat of losing everything on top of your own life. Nikto had become a lifeline, and now he was trying to pull back. 

Why?

Your face turns, and you stalk away. “Then do me a favor and stop telling me half-truths.”

—

If steam were able to come out of your ears, you would have filled the room with that heavy layer of your anger. Nikto was still stapled to you—unable to leave after what he now understood might come to fruition at these events if he did. 

So, you both stood. 

Silent.

Stoic.

Unsatisfied.

A dog without a bone left longingly glancing as if its eyes could speak all the words that needed to be explained on a human tongue. 

Your hands push at the base of your skull, massaging the forming headache that had grown from when Iakov had let himself into your hotel. You can’t wait until these parties are over—until you can get another call from the investigators saying that your stalker has been apprehended with Sergi’s statements. There needed to be a happy ending to this; needed. 

This can’t be all your life is meant to be. 

You didn’t come here thinking that you would be sleeping with someone. Currently, as you’re sipping down the second glass of wine brought to you, you can see the head of the man you’re supposed to be attending to. 

Borya Belov, or something close to that. Your coordinator had sent a text, but you’d barely looked at it and the picture attached. Large and middle-aged, he was up and coming in the city, generating impressive amounts of money and influence through his iron and steel plants. He knew your CEO, too—old family friends. 

Your eyes tear themselves away before he can look in your direction, frowning heavily. A rock and a hard place. 

You were foolish if you thought that by you being here it would allow you to keep your job without handing yourself over. It seems you’ve been foolish a lot lately. Your gaze sneaks to look at Nikto and only finds a rigid pole in his place. No under-the-breath jokes or knowing glances. No indecipherable emotions. It was just blank.

Shaking your head lightly, you bring the wine glass to your lips and take a large sip, letting the swell of it fill your mouth before it slips into your throat; tasting the bitter edge. With all of the blatant mess of emotions, it wasn’t any wonder why anyone hadn’t come over to talk to you. 

“All of these things are the same,” you speak to yourself quietly, trying not to sweat as Nikto’s body shifts closer when Iakov walks past the two of you stiffly. The pale-haired man sends you a dark look and you bite your tongue, eyelids narrowing with unease. 

Get dressed, speak gossip, get used, repeat. 

Already the trap had settled, routine following like a pet. 

Your fingers run over the glass in your hand, nails dragging as Nikto’s eyes stare from the side, thighs tightening before he rips his attention back to the party. He grunts and tilts his head, shoulders rolling. 

Focus.

It’s in the atmosphere of a taut rope that you hear the thin conversation from not that far away. 

“Look at him.”

Your ears quirk, but you don’t think of it much as you drink down the last dredges of your wine, licking at the corner of your mouth—careful of the lipstick. It was a group of women all turned into one another, muttering quickly and giggling even more so. 

“Which one?”

“The big bastard, obviously. How much do you think he eats, hm? I’m betting an entire kitchens worth a day.”

Pausing, your spine slowly begins to straighten up, face stuck staring into the wall far across the room. 

“I bet he’s hideous under all of that. Look at the mask—see?”

The round of muffled laughter behind silken gloves makes your heart jerk inside of your ribs as one of the photographers passes by Nikto and you, fiddling with his camera in his hands.

Beside you, the Russian either hears what’s going on and ignores it, or can’t and is simply not moving because he found someone in the crowd to pay attention to. 

Looking over now, you’d place your bet on the first. 

Nikto’s eyes are void, tiny pupils stuck in on themselves as he stares at nothing—his M13 is strangled under the grip of black gloves, and that little sliver of skin you see from his wrist has visible tension in it. He cracks his neck silently, sets his feet, and pretends.

Watching as he’s so apt to do to you, your anger-ridden face steadily freezes the longer your ears strain themselves to hear above the clink of glasses and useless chatter. Work and pleasure are zapped from your mind.

“You think so?”

“I am willing to bet on it—a thing like that is hiding its face because it has to. No soulmate, either. Go up and speak to him; I want to see.”

“But…what if he does have a soulmate? That woman beside him, isn’t that the one from Yekaterinburg? They could be—”

Nikto’s fingers twitch, eyes flashing. 

“If I had a soulmate that had to hide his face from me, I would think he was a beast. No one would want to be within five feet of that.”

Few things made you angry. 

Liars, cruelty, and the rest of the normal points that were on the list everyone keeps. But there was something particularly special about how you hated someone talking about Nikto like that. Forget him hiding something from you, forget his distance and his inability to speak about his emotions—you still cared about him deeply. The words he’d said to you, how he carries himself; his blunt honesty. 

Your heels are hitting the ground before you can remember you’re here to not make a scene.

“Excuse me,” you say, slipping into an easy smile as you nearly trip over your own feet as you settle near the group. All of their eyes widen, some turning around to lock gazes with the sudden arrival. “Could you repeat yourself for me?” You chuckle without humor. “I swear I had thought I heard you talking about my guard over here.”

Your chin moves to allow your eyes to settle over your shoulder, looking back at Nikto who had walked two steps after you initially before seeing where it was you were stomping to. His wide eyelids are snapped back like book covers, darting from you to the women as if utterly confused.

“That one,” you point casually before turning back. “The, uh,” your body leans a bit closer, hand coming up to your grinning mouth, “beast.” 

The gray shade on some of their faces darkened, a few stuttering through a Russian and English jumble of words. 

You blink at them as a familiar shadow begins to sit over you, heavy boots connecting to the floor. Your face burns, but there’s truth in your words—in your conviction. 

“Seraph,” Nikto says quietly in warning. 

“One moment,” is the response he gets. Pale eyes are stuck to the back of your head. He doesn’t know what to do, but in his throat, there’s an airy feeling stuck there that he can’t describe. It swells in his chest first, spreading through his veins.

Nikto was always used to being the one to stand in front of you. 

His heart is pounding, and he doesn’t know how to tell you to stop—that it doesn’t matter. The bigger question he should be asking is if he wants you to. The man wasn’t unused to comments. He can take it. But that fire behind your eyes rendered him speechless.

“His name is Nikto,” you say firmly. “Not that I expect you to remember it,” you tilt your head, looking them up and down. “In fact, I think it would be better if you didn’t.”

Huffing, you’re acutely aware of everyone watching, and your previous anxiety over your work is null. Disgust breeds like death flies. 

None of this was worth it. 

“Nikto,” you utter purposefully, setting your glass down on a side table and stepping behind. One of the Russian’s hands hovers over your back, the weapon resting on his chest clicking as it shifts. “We’re leaving. I don’t know why we came in the first place. There are more important things to worry about.”

“...Understood,” he levels, voice deep. Nikto blinks a few times, face under his mask layered with heat. There was no focusing when it came to you—his iron will was being smoothed down like a rock in water. 

You push past Borya Belov without a glance, looking to the side to see a shock-stricken Iakov burning you with his orbs. There was nothing for you here. 

Heels clicking over the floor, your dress ripples out behind you, unable to think beyond the deep insult you had taken on Nikto’s behalf. What gave those women the right to say anything? Especially about his appearance. 

When physical looks meant so much to you, you dreaded that being placed on someone else as well. Even if it was apparently obvious that Nikto suffered just as you did.

“You did not have to do that, Птичка.” A hand grasps your upper arm and guides you away from the table you were about to run into as you both enter the hallway stiffly. “It does not affect us. Useless opinions—they do not reflect my character.” Jumping only slightly from being ripped from your thoughts, your head darts over. 

You frown into a hidden face, Nikto stuck on the site of your pulled expression. 

Cute, he silently thinks in that jumbled mess of a brain before his memories flash to the sight of that picture on his phone. The hand leaves you in an instant, moving back to his M13.

“I know I didn’t,” you breathe sharply, shaking your head. Closing your eyes, your shoes halt as you stop.

Nikto follows suit, pausing before turning back with a furrow of his brows.

It’s a special thing, the way your desperation bleeds into your sentence. “Will you tell me what’s going on with you, or not?”

He stares, body pausing under your attention. 

“Nikto,” you breathe, far enough away from the main living room to indulge in a bit of horrific truth. “I like being with you,” your words slip. “I mean with you, with you. Y’know? I like you near me—watching over me. I don’t want this to become something that jeopardizes what we’ve built up. I’m not asking for a relationship, or even for you to tell me that you care about me, I just…” you fail to finish, eyes breaking off to glare at the floor; fighting against the sting. “You’re making my head spin,” your words dip lower, and Nikto flinches. “Just…tell me what’s wrong. You’re not acting right, and you’re worrying me.”

You don’t think you’ve been looked at this intently before now. Not by boyfriends, not by flings, or crushes. It’s a bare thing, Nikto’s eyes. A landscape of pale gray tundras and white snow—you don’t know what he’s thinking as he stands there like some Greek statue; Aries personified and dropped right in front of you.

You want that blood of his, that malice and incurable damage. Not to fix it—not to change what’s already scored into flesh—but just to see those eyes soften as they had a handful of times before.  

A war god and a white bird. 

Nikto’s throat bobs in a slow swallow as you finish, pulse hammering as his gloves suddenly constrict his hands far too much. He doesn’t want to tell you. He doesn’t want to explain why his distance is more for his benefit than yours. 

You push once more.

“What are you so afraid of?” 

“You.” He grunts stoic-like, and all of it falls into a swift silence thereafter. Your breath is taken on one great rapturous theft. Nikto stares as your jaw slackens, mind going blank. 

He darts his eyes away and tilts his head. 

“...Come. We do not want to be here any longer.” The Russian’s body is next to yours and in a fast movement, you find yourself being gently prodded along to the front door, jacket grabbed from the side of it and settled over your shoulders. 

Grasping at the corners, this moment is verging on irreparable—you’ve never found yourself so thrown off course besides when the inevitable advances from the stalker had come to you. 

Your hands shake in unsteady intervals as you blankly stare ahead. 

Me? 

The car is cold when you get into it, pulling your jacket closer as you slip across the seat—Nikto grabbing the long trail of your dress and making sure it stays inside. The man sits next to you, grabbing and slamming the door with a fist thumping the window twice. 

Under you both, the engine starts up and the tires push against the concrete. 

Your eyes ogle Nikto, and not once do they leave them even as the Russian pointedly ignores you by keeping his head locked forward. His body moves to the turning of the car, and your phone in your jacket pocket is going wild with call after call as his feet shift to steady himself unconsciously. It’s all a blur of needless sound and emotion. 

“Me?” Your voice finally finds itself; breathless. 

Nikto doesn’t react, spine so straight, the seats of the vehicle don’t touch anything. His fingers over his gun twitch before he grasps the cold metal harder to stop them. 

The Russian tries to halt the way his eyes want to gravitate to meet yours, trying to think over every face from the party and who had made any attempts to get near to you; just in case something pops up tonight. Yet, the hitting pain in his ribs is akin to something ripping them open with a fork, mutilating an entrance to his heart just to take and grasp it in soft hands.

He was never taught gentle love. Nikto was taught to grab and rip at it, to claw into it with fangs until there was blood on his face, seeping down his throat to settle in his stomach—hoping it might find a way to spread to his soul. 

Iakov had a key, the man catalogs, trying to fight his quivering fingers as you just can’t seem to look away from him with those eyes of yours. Does he have motive? Perhaps. We need to add him to the list regardless. I did not see any repeating faces from last night here unless they were in another room or waiting outside. 

Pale attention briefly pauses to the driver of the car, strong jaw clenching.

Drivers? Stylists? Who else could be here and not be noticed even by me? 

Eyes flash to the previous party again, back to the crunch of bone under his grip. Hands trailing flesh, ripped lace, and silk that pools at his dress shoes. The feral rubbing of a gun between two panting bodies. It should have been enough stress relief for the both of you—Nikto wasn’t lying when he equated the affair to something he could look past. He wasn’t new to flings; he considered himself a master of them in his youth. It wouldn’t have made him think any differently about the job, except for that one pin-pointed problem:

He was right behind us. 

Nikto’s mouth goes dry, anger brewing. He blinks to stare out the window, and your gaze is still present as if a knife to his throat.

It doesn’t leave once.

—

The hotel room is seeped in an eerie level of silence. 

You’d long since called Iakov—said a firm and swift answer of, “I’m done with the parties,” and hung up before the yelling could start again. 

You’re not even sure if you still have your job at AMA, but that’s for a later date, it seems. Not having an income was worse than the emotional turmoil that had settled right on your chest.

Leaning in the window seat of the bedroom, you keep your legs tucked in close to you with the curtain stuck at your back, head resting against the glass. White lights twinkle, but the places that aren’t illuminated are too dark to focus on—an amalgamation of shadows like a veil. The night was always difficult for you and your sight, but right now you think it’s best to just sit here and stare, even if it’s at nothing. 

Your eyes drag slowly along the thin view of the street below, feeling the cold seep in through the glass, softly easing the headache that pulses at your temple. 

“He’s…afraid of me?” The door to the room is slightly ajar, a sliver of light from the living room making its way in. Your face twists. “What does that mean?” 

You pose no threat to him without something like a gun, so it couldn’t be that. And what had changed since this morning? He’d let you lay next to him—see a part of his face. You’d traced his tattoo with willing fingers; Nikto hadn’t pushed you away then. 

What had happened? 

There’s a small squeak of the metal hinges of the bedroom door, and your head rises quickly. 

Nikto stands there, in only a white button-down shirt and his dress pants; normal mask re-stiuated. Blinking gently, a thick pause emanates before you glance down at his hands and see a soft display of an olive branch. 

The gruff hired gun holds a tiny, white, tea-cup. 

“Magnolia,” he huffs, not moving an inch as he motions with his hand, the ceramic material clinking. 

You stare, oversized shirt all to cover you besides your undergarments. You’d long since lost the sense of embarrassment of bare skin—particularly yours. 

Pale eyes slip to caress the image of your flesh bathed in the sliver of warm light, your curious eyes stuck on him as his feet re-situated themselves. 

“You remembered?” You ask, trying to sound casual beyond the surprise. 

Nikto blinks, voice muffled. “I do not forget when it comes to you,” he hums, accent thick. “Drink.”

Softly standing, your bare feet hit the coldness of the floor, yet you feel it little. Walking over to stand in front of him, your hand reaches only to bounce off the small tea plate instead, fingers flinching back lightly from the miscalculation. Your face heats, and you’re about to utter a quick apology before Nikto’s hand captures yours. 

Gasping under your breath, the warmth that seeps through his glove goes bone-deep as he manually wraps your digits around the handle. Nikto grunts in satisfaction and lets you take it to you, keeping the plate which he lowers his hand with.

After a moment, you clear your throat and say while staring down at the liquid, “Where did you get this?”

“Bag.” Your brows tighten.

He sighs gently. “We packed it. You forgot, yes?” 

“Oh,” you nod. “Yeah, I didn’t even realize I had left it behind. Thank you, Nikto.”

The Russian nods once, and then pivots to walk back to the living room, leaving you standing there as the sound of rummaging items in the kitchen echoes. Holding the mug, the tea rippling under your unsteady grasp, your head shakes itself in slow exasperation. The man wouldn’t talk about this unless you pushed him…but would that break the unsteady relationship you’d been trying to build?

“All of this is so confusing,” your lips mutter before your body follows after Nikto, slipping out into the light of the room as you blink rapidly in response. 

Locking sights on Nikto as he cleans up the counter, your form is wracked with an impending sense of nervousness. Damn him and his mask—you didn’t have something you could hide your emotions behind. 

It was times like these when you wished your mother was warm enough to ask advice from, that your father wasn’t back in the USA with limited involvement due to the peaceful contact order. You were alone here, except for Aly. But this was something that only a parent could help you with, and you were fresh out of those. You doubted that your mom knew everything going on—you weren’t about to tell her you’d allowed a ruthless killer to get you off in a storage room after you’d seen him snap a man's wrist back. 

Nor that you enjoyed it. 

It falls on me, your breath is thin as you breathe it down, steadily moving to set the teacup to one of the many tables holding useless decorations. You scowl at the boring interior design unconsciously before your focus locks in. 

What you had to do was bring up your points clearly and smoothly—

“Why are you standing there doing nothing,” your eyes widen as Nikto fluidly turns to look over his shoulder directly at you. His gaze narrows behind Kevlar and canvas. “If you want to say something, speak.”

“I want you to tell me what’s gotten you acting like a constipated bear,” you blurt out. 

It’s almost funny the way his eyes flinch. 

Nitko grinds out, “We do not understand.”

“You do,” you huff, crossing your arms as your voice bounces off the walls. “I don’t have infinite patience, believe it or not.” Inside of your sockets, you feel your gaze soften; voice lowering to the level you’d raised it. “I think I’ve been honest with you, Nikto. I’m not trying to push you into a corner. You know that. I need an explanation,” you take a breath, “and you’re going to give it to me.” 

Pale eyes move to the side, and you visibly see the large Russian’s body fighting itself both internally and externally. You had noticed a few things from the time you’d come under his protection, some obvious—Nikto valued cooking and a clean place to rest; he liked reading, and a silence built on mutual respect. Nikto’s fingers twitched when he was either nervous or trying to focus. He tilted his head when he needed to think. 

You liked to think that you knew him quite well, despite it all. You especially knew his fraying patience. 

Nikto’s shoulders roll, bones cracking from under the button-up. His masked face is the only thing he feels gives him protection. A cover. 

“It is not something,” the man begins slowly, trying to convince you, “that you need to concern yourself with.” 

Your lips thin out, feet taking you forward as you shiver from the cold of the hotel. 

“Nikto,” you utter again, softly knocking your side into the counter before you can stand in front of him yourself. He looks down at you, chest moving up and down in slow breaths. 

You know the horrors that live under that fabric. The great scars—the burns that had slipped into your dreams as you’d laid on his thigh like a child afraid of the dark. You can remember the dips of them under your fingertips; the trauma that bleeds still. 

You’d called him beautiful, and of course you had, but the very base of it still left you cold with a betraying sense of sickness. Same with the lower half of his face, which you’d only chosen to see a glance of. It was a deep rolling of your stomach. You cared more for the marks he had put on, willingly, himself; the tattoos. Dark ink.

But that didn’t stop you from reaching out to him—responding to that addictive pull that had always seemed to be there from the moment you’d first met him in the Consulate Building. 

Your fingers hover over Nikto’s pec, right above his heart as you swallow saliva and stare with parted lips. Piercing eyes give way to nothing, but there’s a knowledge in the heart that beats above your waiting touch. 

You tilt your head and wait silently.

Nikto’s pulse moves his flesh, and he can feel every drop of blood under his skin. 

“It does not need to be explained to you,” he tries again, his firm words now only comparable to the sensation of rocks thrown along the sand. Salt-stained throat raw as your fingers brush his shirt. “Seraph,” Nikto attempts a tone of authority.

“Call me by the other one,” you mutter, and it’s pathetic the way he responds to your request in that hotel kitchen. Like a soldier following an order. A whining little dog beholden to a white-lace collar.

“Птичка.”

Your smile makes him want to rip himself away from you and take a cold shower, maybe stare at his scars; even break his mind again before it slips away to thoughts of your curling lips and your shining eyes. 

“That’s it,” you whisper, and your hand flattens over his heart as his gaze breaks away to the simple contact, blinking in confusion as his flesh pulls tight. “That’s the one.” 

But he was more surprised when he didn’t flinch rather than when he shivered. 

It’s only after a small moment of nothing that he lets himself bathe in the warmth of your skin and the scent of your perfume as it slips under his mask. A mask that has seen far too much death for you to bear. Then he’d want you to bear.

Your words make his bones ache.

“Tell me,” you urge, as perfect as a bird’s dew-coated feathers.

Nikto’s vision is stuck only to you, and his greatest fear is that this is all it will ever be bound to—not by honor, the man had no such thing, but by utter devotion. There was no lying about it now as his lips parted, those cut and torn-up things like a ragged jigsaw puzzle of pain. He cares not about soulmates or brain trauma. Blood or bile.

He cares about the sound a silent grave will make when his bones are the ones that chain themselves to rest beside yours. 

Mutt.

Now that, maybe, would seem an honor-coated title to carve into his corpse, but only if it was in reference to his affection for you.

“Picture,” Nikto grinds out, fighting to step closer to the addictive sensation of your touch. The warmth. The pound of blood. You listen silently, and not once do those eyes separate.

“Sent to my phone.” He pauses, and suddenly his voice is very low—you can feel it in your chest as it rumbles the walls, the floors; the bedroom door. It’s difficult to say how you feel when he explains it to you, there’s something relieving in knowing, though. Yet, it still makes your throat close in on itself. “Of us.”

“From the stalker?” You ask, already knowing the answer but hoping it might have just been a fluke. 

Pale eyes don’t blink.

“Да. From him.”

You take a large breath, nodding as your fingers quiver over Nikto’s dress shirt, creasing the fabric slightly. He takes a quick glance down at them again, and his own twitch at his sides.

“...Don’t tell me the details?”

“Never,” the Russian sighs, clenching his jaw. “Я бы э��ого не сделал. We did not want to explain, regardless.” 

You shrug as well as you’re able, hand beginning to slowly slide off of him. “Still,” your lips pull into a steady smirk, though it lacks enough amusement to make it convincing. “I’m glad you told me—I was getting worried that it might have been by fault you were acting strange.” 

“My emotions are,” Nikto struggles for the correct word in English, grunting as his mouth closes under his mask. He glares at the wall behind you as if a toddler without a snack.

You tilt your skull, tiny chuckles wafting out of your mouth. 

“Stuck, Big Guy?”

“Enough,” he grumbles, feet re-situating themselves from under him. 

Your hand is only a millimeter away from his flesh before his grip finds your wrist and brings it back, digits caressing to press into your pulse. You blink quickly, air getting stalled in your nose. 

Nikto’s eyes slowly dip to stare at your hand, and you notice the shades even more clearly now that you’re so close to him—though they’d always just be pale gray to you, there were moments when you wondered the true color. A silly dream, seeing as you wouldn’t know how that color would look anyway, but, still. 

The Russian’s large fingers turn your wrist. 

“Your heart is racing,” he mutters. If having your bodyguard check your pulse was something that you found attractive, now was only the realization of it. 

Your face suddenly feels like you’re walking on the sun, and a small noise in the back of your throat makes Nikto’s attention leave the fast thump of your blood.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Your breathless question eases out past your lips like a soft flutter of wings. 

“Hm,” Nikto hums, and you can also see his throat bobbing. His hold squeezes, his face looming just the tiniest bit closer to yours. 

The Russian takes a chest-rising inhale and speaks.

“I am not good,” he mutters, eyes moving the dips and drags of your face—it feels like his gaze is touching you when he stares like that; studying your visage as if he’d be tested on it. “We are not…” He blinks, and his pupils are small voids of inky corruption. “Perfect.” 

You wonder how often he’d found you in his mind, and feel both foolish and hopelessly lost in his shadow.

“I never said you were,” you murmur back, seeing the wickedness in his heart. Painted on his skin. “I think it’s lovely.” 

Here is where this should end—you’d both had your fun previously. You’d been sipping your sugar water like a little hummingbird; reveling in the intimacy of that storage room. You should be thinking about the stalker, about your job, about what will happen tomorrow when you open your eyelids to light through the curtains. 

Not about how Nikto’s fingers would feel digging into your hips. Not the panting of fast breaths. Not how the color of his eyes would be, perhaps, the most beautiful shade you could ever hope to imagine in your damaged brain. 

“Nikto,” you breathe, body light. He’s as still as a statue above you, not saying a thing. “What color are your eyes?”

“Blue.”

And then you’re being picked up as if a doll by the back of your thighs and hefted up with a throaty huff akin to a boar. Your forehead connects with his, and your arms wrap his neck to hang off with crossed wrists. 

“Blue?” Your legs tighten around his waist, squeezing as the man’s nose pushes into yours. Breath bounces off the mask, your eyes flutter at the firm press of fabric prodding at your underwear. You fight a small whine, bodies tight to one another. “Your hair?”

“Brown,” is the puff from under the mask, and tiny pupils dilate the longer you hold eye contact.

Your hips roll, and Nikto’s strained grunt reverberates against your chest. “Tell me it in Russian.”

“Карие.” He growls, fingertips digging into your flesh like the teeth of a bear trap. Nikto thumps past the place where you’d set your tea, completely forgotten by everyone just like the previous tension was. 

When the two of you were together, things managed to get out of hand quickly—at least, emotionally-wise. You both were utterly hopeless, just as the room was now far from the cold monochrome wash of white. It was bathed in spraying sparks lit behind your eyes when one of Nikto’s hands staples itself to the base of your back, just above the curve of your tailbone, and angles your core further into the growing prod of his erection. 

You gasp as your pelvis jerks, face twisting up with your pulse impossibly increasing. 

“You are curious,” Nikto pants, pushing past the bedroom door with a shoulder as the handle smashes into the wall. Not that you care. “You push me, Woman. Leave my head loose and my body aching.” You feel the way your core burns, aches, nearly, as your underwear gets wet with the anticipation of flesh. 

Your lips sear Nikto’s soul when they push to the canvas of his mask—just as they had in the storage room though now it’s harder to feel. 

“Don’t act like you don’t like it, Big Guy,” you whisper, tongue darting out to lick at your lips, eyes half-lidded. 

That pull between the two of you only seems to increase as you’re dropped back to the bed, head pointedly planned to slap a pillow as you involuntarily gasp. Your shirt is ruffled up to your breasts, and the sheets are around you like a cocoon of expensive finery—eyes darting to Nikto, you find his gaze easily standing beside the bed. 

He stares at you like you’re the greatest meal ever placed in front of him. Forget the items he cooks, forget the things he’d eaten, even forget the way it satisfies him; nothing could compare to even the thought of what he now has. 

You’re staring at a man with blood on his hands and wishing he would spread you open already. 

Nikto’s chest bounces with a pleased noise, gaze shifting to study your bare legs and arms—the stain that coats your underwear, spreading by the second as your thighs tighten in on themselves to trap the chill. Your face is on fire, and your lungs heave.

His ravaged hand grasps at your knee, coaxing them back open as he says a simple order with a raw voice, “Keep them open.” 

You’re not embarrassed with how you listen, letting the limbs be forced back to display your instinctual need to the large Russian. Your thin whine is choked back as his fingers run up and down your clothed core, teasing. 

Nikto chuckles, and you shiver. 

“We do like it,” he breathes out in response to your previous comment. Pale eyes dart to find and lock with yours—not leaving as his index and middle finger find your clit, pressing firmly and lightly rocking up and down. Your hips jerk as you bite on a shocked moan, relishing in the sudden ricochets of electricity that run your bones. 

Head tilting back, you bite your lip and pant out, “Nikto, yes.”

His fingers leave just as quickly as the words do you, and your desperate eyes move with near pain until your hand darts to grapple onto Nikto’s wrist like a cat. He lets you try and guide him back firmly, to no avail, before you grit your teeth and glare at him, opening your mouth.

Yet, the Russian’s hidden face finds your ear with no trouble and leaves your upcoming words frozen.

“But we like it better when you are too choked on pleasure to think at all.” 

Nikto moves back, taking his other hand and making yours release him before he steps away. He blinks, watching your aroused state as you stutter over your sentence; smirking to himself and tilting his head as if you’re an exhibit in a museum. The man grunts, now free grip able to slide to his belt slowly and fiddle with the buckle.

“Y-you’re horrible,” you grumble, eyes unable to stay on the image for long before you have to slash it away so you can breathe. The clinking of metal

“We did warn you,” Nikto pauses, his voice so laced with smugness that it seemed an insult. “Птичка.” 

Your lower body shifts, trying to satiate the urge for stimulation. 

Breathing heavily, you raise your forearm and put it over your eyes, expression tight as you try and focus. Your ears twitch to Nikto’s steady undressing, hearing the pull of dress pants and the unclipping of a thigh holster. Each sound sends a pulse directly to your weeping slit, and it becomes so strong that Nikto can only watch as your other hand slips under the elastic of your panties. 

He stops himself instantly, his eyes pulling back as he pauses. Slipped out of everything besides his shirt, boxers, and obviously his mask, Nikto’s shoulders tense wildly at the sight in front of him.

Your body is tight as you begin to breathe heavier, lips slightly open as your fingers idly roll your bundle of nerves a bit harder. Hips jerking every so often, your fingers stretch the fabric of your garment as your toes curl. 

“Fuck,” you breathe, jaw clenching and eyes closed from under your forearm. 

Nikto is firmly planted, the firmness in his boxers now seemingly to a point of no return—his fingers twitched to dig into your skin, his eyes stuck to how you were playing with yourself. Clothed in only a large shirt that was bunching up further to allow a glimpse of your breasts and hearing those tiny little noises escape your mouth…

“Harder,” Nikto grunts, his own hand slipping into his boxers as he hisses in pleasure at the state of himself. Firm in his grip as he wraps his fingers around the hot pulse of his cock, groaning when his thumb slips along his tip to collect the beads of pre-cum.

Your breath hitches and through your soft pants, you sigh as your arm slides, “I think I know how to—”

Your fingers twitch harshly as your eyes flutter open to lock onto the scene in front of you, causing you to moan before it strangles off with a quick noise in your throat. Eyes wide, you watch Nikto begin jerking himself off one slow stroke at a time, his thighs tense as his other hand moves to unbutton his shirt one at a time.

There was something so inherently intimate about seeing the other in the throws of self-pleasure, half-clothed and desperate for something that can’t be named. The chain of events was building, and some concerns needed to be addressed, but it isn’t fair to have to put your life on hold for them—necessary, yes, eventually. But Nikto’s eyes were so hellishly pale, and your hands were shaking, and the scent of sex was permeating inside of your nose. It’s different than the storage room, it’s hinged on the knowledge that this bear of a man is afraid of you, which in and of itself is unfathomable, and that he was in such a sour mood simply because he had been trying, once more, to spare you from the unseen threat. 

He had done it with the birds in the box, he’d done it when you’d gotten the first pictures sent to you, and he did it every time he let you hang off of his arm. 

You push your digits across your clit harder and whine out as Nikto’s open dress shirt slips to his waist, the cuffs rolled up as bare skin meets the darkness of the room. That sliver of light from the door was all that was needed, the barrier having slowly crawled its way back from where the Russian had shoved it, to witness the bulge and dip of scar tissue—the shades of hyperpigmentation. 

And you wanted to drag your nails along all of them.

“Смотреть на себя,” Nikto’s chest heaves, the bulk of his frame just the same as when you’d touched along his back. His hand inside of his boxers stutters, and his eyes flinch closed for a moment, masked face tilted. “Хорошим слушателем. Good for us, hm?”

“Touch me,” you ask, unconsciously mirroring Nikto’s pace as the sensitivity of your core heightens, leaking out to stain your underwear to the point it’s no use to keep them after this. Your spine is tight—begging to be arched just as your cunt begs to be filled. It tightens over nothing, and you whimper with a push of thin breath. “Please, Nikto, you filled me so well last time.”

His eyes glint, that Russian pride bleeding to fill the cup in his abdomen. Nikto smirks, but you can’t see it above the large hand that goes to grip your face, angling it to him as his other hand continues with the wet slapping of his cock. You want to see it—you want to watch it. Damn him he’s making this into a game of cat and mouse.

“What is that? You like when we fill your tight cunt, Птичка?”

Your face burns, and your eyes study his own as your pace below increases—rotting wood taking root beside sweat and pheromones. 

Nikto’s grip squeezes and you hear the rutting of flooded skin more clearly as he looms over your body, both fucking yourselves for no other reason than liking the sight and the sounds of the other.

“Answer.”

“Yes,” you stutter, unable to stop the thin noises from your mouth that follow—the cord in your abdomen pulling until taunt. “God, yes.”

“Not God,” the Russian chuckles before he groans, forehead connecting with yours as it rocks to the rabid abuse of his own hand, trying to imagine the sensation of your walls against them instead of his calloused fist. Your flesh would be softer than his ever could be, and the knowledge of that is enough to reduce him to a mindless beast. His breath hitches tightly, his hand moving rapidly, unconcerned about how fast his release is finding him just by hearing your little pleas. “No, Seraph, there is no God in this room.”

When he drinks down the sounds you give him he feels your body tense one final time, your lips flattening as your eyes flutter—only seconds away from your orgasm, perhaps. 

Nikto’s hands leave your face, and so does his forehead. You barely notice, truth be told until it’s not a second later that fingers are gripping the hand down your panties and dragging it out just as your hips begin rising off the bed. 

“No!” Your desperate keen echoes off the walls, eyes snapping open to rip your head down to the scene. Nikto was lacking his shirt, boxers are gone, and as he staples your arm beside your head, his body drags itself atop yours until his weight is as firm as stone. “Nikto, why did you—?”

“Hush,” he utters, knocking your leg up over his hip in a swift thrust that leaves the leaking tip of his dick prodding against your sopping cunt. Your eyelids flutter at the sensation, painting only to have your breasts shove into a sweaty chest.

“So close,” you beg, the feeling of your release draining away, leaving you irritated and unsatisfied. 

Your hips roll in a play to find friction, and the feeling of Nikto’s happy trail seems promising as you grind up into it, but there’s only so much you can do when the man’s other hand snags your waist and pushes you down.

You glare heatedly up into blown and smug eyes. 

You know better than to ask him to remove the mask, and now that you look at it, maybe that wasn’t the worst thing in the world. There was something alluring in those eyes, set into the dark void around them, deadly and numb, yet showing more emotions than anyone else would be able to tell besides you. 

“Let us help,” Nikto pushes himself up, grinding into your core as your glare breaks away into blown need. “I have something better than fingers. Show you how good it can be, yes? Show how you are supposed to be treated, Little Bird.”

Your hands slide up to his shoulder blades and he groans under his breath, taking in the sensation of nails along flesh, catching on the scars until they settle. Had he not imagined this before? Had he not fantasized? Desired? Sinful, yes, but he’d do it again if he could still feel the wet fluids of your arousal coating his abdomen. If this was the outcome of Nikto becoming locked in his own stoic emotions, there was a part of him that was greedy because of it.

There was no possible way that this was going to continue…right? 

His ears twitch to your voice as your legs shift to wrap the top of his hips, dragging his pelvis ever closer until he’s fighting the wave of agony by not having your cunt pulse around him. 

On your part, there wasn’t an ounce of hesitation.

“Then show me.”

It’s easy to slip the tip of himself inside of you—there’s enough fluid to render even the thought of dry friction impossible. Nikto's body shudders at the sensation, though it’s only a small portion of what you both need.

Your head rocks back, fingertips digging into the Russian’s shoulders as you both curse at the stretch of your folds. You hadn’t been able to gawk at the build of the man tonight—both too desperate for release—but thinking about how he gives small thrusts to help himself along, his eyes not moving from you unless to blink, you’d safely say he was well-endowed.

“Fuck,” your lips quiver, sweat at your brow. Through the whimper, you moan, a large thumb finding your clit and rolling as the sound of squelching echoes between the groans and whines. You’re both nothing but damn animals. “Could have,” you gasp, and Nikto stops before you shake your head and pull him closer. “Could have given a girl a warning, Big Guy.”

His strained chuckle only makes your core welcome him more, and the feeling of textured veins and warm flesh steadily driving itself home was addicting. Sex had never felt as fun as this. As safe.

Nikto made it safe.

“Apologies,” he grunts out, great form above you before you feel the nested base of his pelvis connect with yours. 

You both shake and your face is open with a pleasure-driven emotion as the Russian slides his head to your shoulder, his breath echoing from under his mask into your ear. He licks his lips, grip on your waist and arm pulsing with steady intervals of—tense, release, tense, release…

“Are you—”

“Fucking hell, please start moving,” you gasp out, grinding into him as the string on Nikto’s caution flees like a loose animal. 

His hand travels back from your waist to your hip, the other to the back of your neck, and as he staples his forehead to yours, he grinds out a quiet, “да,” and moves himself out of you nearly all the way as your eyes roll to the feeling. 

When the bed starts knocking the wall, there’s little to the imagination as to what’s taking place, and the steadily rising sounds mean nothing as sheets rustle and skin slaps faster, both sensitive from such near releases earlier. There are mutters in Russian, fast, harsh things that hold no venom—slow mutters that make your legs go numb long after both of you had finished. 

Nikto was right: for such a brute, he did know how to treat a woman. Well, maybe he just knew how to treat you right. 

Multiple times.

TAGS:

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[qqueenofhades]

Hi! This question has been noodling in my head for a few weeks, and I’ve been really curious to hear your opinion. I’ve appreciated your very thoughtful commentary on the ways the online left in particular have hurt the real and concerted efforts that have been made to navigate through the Gaza war in support of Palestine. I’ve seen a lot of outrage online about Biden bypassing congress in order to make another emergency weapons sale to Israel, which does indeed read as counter to helping to the Palestinians facing endless and indiscriminate violence. I understand that you might not want to answer this ask, because the work that you already do in your life offline and the work that you do here on tumblr to respond to and explain these issues is exhausting enough. Thanks so much for your time and your thoughtful contributions! It’s always really helped me remember to slow down and think critically about the media I consume.

Because you have asked this thoughtfully and in good faith, I will return the favor and give you a careful and extensive answer to the best of my ability. However, obligatory top-of-post disclaimer that I will disable reblogs at the first hint of any wankery in the notes and I will not answer any follow-ups or secondary asks at this time (unless I decide to do so, but I engage with this topic sparingly, judiciously, and only in small doses, so don't count on it).

First, let me say that the moment, I disagree with substantial portions of how Biden is handling the two main foreign-policy crises (Ukraine and Gaza). In regard to Ukraine, I think he's backed off, taken his foot off the gas, and otherwise given Republicans ammunition to keep delaying or watering down a new aid bill, is refusing to disburse military aid packages from the $4 billion of funding remaining that was previously approved by Congress, hasn't sent long-range ATACMS and other critical military hardware that might bring the war to an end sooner, and is not (as of the moment, though recent reporting suggests this might change) pushing hard enough for frozen Russian assets to be transferred to Ukraine for military and/or humanitarian financial assistance. However, I am also aware (unlike, it seems, much of the left-leaning internet) that I am basing these judgments only on my personal impressions, on what is reported (or not reported) in the media (which has plenty of its own problems) and otherwise what is formed in my role as an ordinary American citizen without any kind of special, classified, high-level, or government access. I know nothing more than any of you, and I also know that a lot of what goes on behind closed doors does not appear on Political Twitter and/or the Washington Post or the Guardian or Daily Kos or whatever other aggregate sources of information I or any left-leaning person typically consumes. So it's highly possible (and this is my cautious academic instinct speaking) that I do not, in fact, have a full picture of events. There are also contributing factors that Biden cannot simply handwave aside, even if he did, say, dip back into the $4 billion pot in the meantime. Congress will need to pass a new funding bill for Ukraine aid and the MAGA Republicans have been enthusiastically blocking it to the point where Putin's cronies on Russian state TV praise them effusively for it. We all know about the Republicans and Russia's mutual love affair. So.

The same goes for Gaza, and even more because we have already had reporting about how the Biden administration is walking a behind-the-scenes tightrope in a number of seemingly impossible tasks: keeping the war from spreading to a larger theater, pressuring Netanyahu to dial down, y'know, the rampant genocide (when Netanyahu notoriously doesn't like Biden, was very close with Trump, and would be happy to keep the war going in order to boost Trump's chances of being re-elected and save Netanyahu himself from his own criminal prosecutions), and pursuing a complex policy toward the state of Israel that does not follow the antisemitic Western Online Left's fever dream of "Israel suddenly disappears overnight and falls into the ocean and all Jews die or disappear." We have had multiple credibly sourced reports about this. Blinken is back in the Middle East right now trying to keep the war from spreading. The US under Biden has criticized Israel's essentially empty policy document for post-war Gaza as not being remotely feasible (because it's so vague) and gone so far as to voice support for a two-state solution with Palestinian self-determination (which is itself quite radically different from previous administrations). However, they have also vetoed UN ceasefire resolutions and other essentially meaningless political theater (the UN as a whole has been ruthlessly exposed in the last few years for being completely useless) that are easy to gin up outrage about, and that's what the internet focuses on, rather than any of the other complicated actions taking place.

All of this is to say that no, in fact, I don't blindly support everything the Biden administration is doing in regard to either Ukraine or Israel right now, but I actually have a sense of real-world perspective about it and understand that there are certain immutable realities that we are working with and which will not be erased by some absolute jackasses yelling at Biden in a historically black church at the commemoration of an anti-black terrorist attack. Likewise, as I've said it before and I'll say it again, and as plenty of other people have noticed and pointed out, the Western left is using this as an orgy of pseudo-revolutionary fervor that focuses on using Hamas as a proxy for their own fantasies of violent uprising against their own governments. Because while yes, anti-zionism and antisemitism are two distinct things and represent different aims and goals, it's become more or less irrelevant in allegedly pro-Palestine Western leftist spaces. It's just increasingly rabid, accelerationist, and nihilistic antisemitism all the time, or the obvious usage of "Zionist" to mean "Jew." It's not good. There is no concept of actual restorative justice for Palestinians or other people, such as Ukrainians, Syrians, Uyghurs, Taiwanese, etc, either undergoing genocide or facing the threat of it, because Western leftists have latched onto this cause solely as a stick to beat the Democratic Party with and have no actual moral interest or concern in stopping genocide elsewhere in the world or repudiating it as a method overall. They just want the state of Israel (which they characterize as a "proxy state for white western colonialism" despite the many, many things historically, religiously, and politically wrong with that statement, because it means it now Contains the Right Buzzwords to Oppose It) to be destroyed altogether in the name of "opposing colonialism," but it really seems to be all about opposing Jews. Hmm.

Simply put, Biden is not ever going to pursue a policy of "let's totally abandon Israel tomorrow, never sell it any weapons or allow it to defend its own civilians, and agree that Hamas is actually a good representation or advocate for the Palestinian people" in the way a number of Western Online Leftists seem to think he should do. There is still the fact that Israeli civilians do exist and that Hamas has continued to launch missiles at them daily, inconvenient as that fact might be for the Hamas fanboys (and fangirls) who now populate much of what passes for Western leftist discourse spaces. (Either that or they don't care, because in their view, Israeli civilians are fully acceptable collateral damage by virtue of simply living in Israel in the first place, which -- yikes. Fucking yikes. That is all.) The number of people professing to be lifelong leftists who are Just Shocked at all the antisemitism, or thinking that any and all antisemitism is just artificially introduced into leftist spaces by bad-faith right-wing/Nazi psyops either has not spent any actual time around leftists, or (more likely) simply does not listen to what they openly say. The antisemitism is virulent, constant, and only getting worse. On the most basic level, regardless of the other difficulties around the founding of Israel as a state in 1948 and the fact that doing so on some of the most bitterly religiously, politically, ethnically, and culturally contested territory in the world for over two thousand years was always going to be a massive clusterfuck, the fact of its immediate post-Holocaust creation simply cannot be ignored the way many Online Leftists do. Israel exists because of the worst antisemitic mass murder in recorded history (and that's a high bar). That fact must be incorporated into any actual discussions about its right either to exist or to protect its own civilians. But this gets turned into "Israel exists only as a puppet state of white western colonialists" which is just bad on so, so many levels.

The collective Western Online Leftist feeling seems to be that Hamas are innocent and wronged freedom fighters who are begging for a ceasefire and the cruel Israelis aren't granting them one. This is not true. Hamas has rejected multiple ceasefire opportunities, and continued to launch missiles and retaliatory attacks, because they are terrorists and they do not want or represent any serious opportunity to negotiate in the framework of western liberal democracy. They are treated as helpless woobified blorbos by much of the Western leftist-leaning internet. They are not. In that case, Biden bypassing Congress to sell Israel weapons (which was just something like 100 million of artillery shells, which is not nothing but still not a huge systematic thing like, say, Reagan's Iran-Contra scandal) is not great. I do not support anything Israel is doing to Gaza. It is abhorrent. However, there are reasons for Biden to provide some limited amount of weapons to Israel without congressional approval that do not automatically and mindlessly equate to BIDEN SUPPORTS TOTAL GENOCIDE IN GAZA!!!!!!1 Especially when as I've said, the Online Leftists only care about stopping genocide when it fits their political self-righteousness, and absolutely not at all the rest of the time.

This is representative of the fact that Western Online Leftism has now completed its all-out descent into blind Noam Chomskyism. Chomsky has never met a "leftist" or "anti-Western" genocide he couldn't deny, excuse, or openly cheerlead (going all the way back to the 1970s and Pol Pot/the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia and going up to the minute with Russia/Ukraine and Israel/Palestine). Noam Chomsky is the leftist Henry Kissinger. His ethics and morals are equally abhorrent, he's just as willing to justify total genocide in the name of advancing his preferred political ideology, and while there were (justifiably) celebrations and gloating memes across Tumblr when Kissinger finally bit the dust, Chomsky's beliefs are replicated with slavish adoration in many other Tumblr spaces and spread in some form or another to the rest of the website, which now takes them as leftist gospel (and let's not even talk about Twitter). This represents my absolute frustration with the fact that Western Online Leftism has devolved to such a degraded, mindless, useless, and malevolent level that "cheerlead for any anti-western/Leftist TM terrorist group or state" is taken to be the be-all and end-all of their moral philosophy. Someone remarked that ISIS peaked too early; if they were still at the height of their powers today, they would have a legion of devoted white so-called progressive Twitter users shilling earnestly and angrily for them, and Christ, isn't that the fucking truth.

I know we live in a hard, frightening, complex, and difficult world, and it's hard to sort out what our moral responsibility and action should be at any given time, especially since the answer is always so frustratingly partial and incomplete. Nobody of basic good sense and decency wants to see Gaza leveled while the Israeli state continues to apply a number of violently cruel collective punishments even outside the actual daily bombing of civilians. But for the love of god, let's get rid of the idea that the continued mindless violence doesn't benefit Hamas (because it does; unsurprisingly, sympathy for their cause has soared in Gaza) as much as it does Israel, or that Hamas is some kind of benevolent peacemaker that is being thwarted by the cruel imperialist US/West. And going back to the incident that prompted you to send me this ask: white leftists have often and repeatedly demonstrated their withering disdain for black people, Democratic voters, "mainstream" Americans, and anyone else doesn't buy into the twisted tankie fantasy land where getting rid of Biden would somehow be a massive coup for social justice (by getting Trump, now openly announcing at every turn that he will be a dictator, back into office! Very praxis, much justice. Wow.)

In short: if you, a white person, stand up in Mother Emanuel AME -- one of the most sacred sites for Black churchgoers, who are indeed often heavily Democratic voters -- in the middle of a remembrance service for victims of white supremacist terrorism, after the Black pastor has asked you not to protest inside the church out of respect for the Black community coming together to relive its trauma -- just so you can heckle Biden and feel good about yourself, then Jesus Christ. You don't care about restorative justice for people of color, or literally any justice at all, much less "stopping genocide." You just want to use them as props for your Chomsky cosplay revolutionary fantasies and your sense of self-righteous superiority over literally everyone else, regardless of the real-world consequences. So I have no hesitation whatsoever in telling those people to get fucked. Often and repeatedly.

#anonymous #ask #politics for ts #israel hamas war #russia ukraine war #history #long post

[gyusrose]

➵ smarty -> c.s

⚠︎ fluff ? angst? little bit of both

✎ high-school au! academic rivals to lovers

summary: Soobin and you have been at each other’s throats since forever. being the two most smart students in the school brings out the competitive side within the two of you and maybe… hidden feelings?

soobin x fem. reader

wc: 3.9k

you bounced your leg nervously as the teacher passed out the exam you took last week. you’ve studied your ass off for it, so if you get anything less than an A, you’ll be fuming.

your heart started beating rapidly as she got closer to your seat.

“good job Soobin, the highest score in the class.” she said handing it to him.

the highest score?

that means…

“so close _______, almost a perfect score.” she said handing you the mediocre paper.

97%

you peaked to see Soobin’s score, reading 100%

“how’s that possible? that’s not how the grading scale goes.” you asked evidently confused.

“you forgot the date sweetheart.” she softly said, making you almost burst right on the spot.

you’ve missed the fucking date?

you wanted to slap her after she said those words.

‘can’t she just check the fucking calendar for fucks sake?’ you whispered silently to yourself.

you the heard a chuckle from in front of you.

the ‘Mr. perfect score’ turned to look at you teasingly.

“must suck _______, it’s always something isn’t it?”

“oh shut up, you’re not smarter since i didn’t get a question wrong so lower your damn ego.”

“sureeee…don’t be surprised when i’m the one that gets into Yale and not you.” he said before turning back into his seat.

that fucking asshole. it’s not fair, he probably doesn’t even work as hard as you, pulling all nighters before an exam, wether it’s worth 5% or 50%.

the bell finally rang and you were the first one up your seat on your way to lunch.

sitting down in the patio of the school under a tree, you took out your notebook and laptop.

every spare time was an academic advantage for you, you didn’t waste in friends, too focused on your grades , you never bothered making them, even less on a boyfriend.

you could care less what people thought of you, a bitch, stuck-up, a know-it-all, whatever.

you simply care about your future.

and no, you weren’t forced by your parents or anything, since you only had your mom ( since your dad was unknown to you) she never forced you into being a ‘star student’ she was pretty chilled back and was pleased as long as you weren’t failing.

you were just immensely smart, and competing with Soobin drew you in even more.

talking about Soobin…

a soccer ball threw down your hydro flask making you snap your head up, knowing exactly who it was.

“ayo, pass the ball!” Soobin said smirking.

to make it even worse, Soobin was the soccer team’s captain, of fucking course.

you ignored him and went back to your laptop, putting your headphones back on.

you could feel him coming your way. he tapped your head for which you annoyingly looked up at him.

“the ball.”

“get it yourself, you threw it.”

“still annoyed at that 97% ?” he chuckled.

you didn’t respond making Soobin unknowingly angry. the one thing he hated the most was being ignored, specially by you.

“you know , you should join a sport, universities like that.” he said knowing this would grab your attention.

“ew no, sports are gross so i don’t do them. i prefer killing myself doing every academically possible than that.”

Soobin chuckled in disbelief. god you’re impossible.

unlike you, Soobin was an extrovert to the maximum. he was extremely popular, threw parties all the time and had fun, yet he was somehow just as smart as you were.

he didn’t seem to put too much work into studying either, he just had a picturesque memory.

“do you realize that schools want a personality? you getting perfect grades in classes isn’t enough.”

“i do a hell of a lot of volunteering and got a internship these past two summers.”

“you know what’s cooler though? being captain of the soccer team.” he threw a laugh but you remained expressionless.

he loved to annoy you, he loved the fact that you wouldn’t pay attention to anyone else but him.

truth be told, he had the fattest crush on you. ever since freshman year when this whole competition started. you were easily the prettiest girl on campus. the only way to get your attention was to challenge you and drive you insane he guessed.

sure you knew you were pretty since you get asked out by multiple guys every year, by that didn’t get to you. who cares if you’re pretty if you fail your finals? (gilmore girls who?)

this may sound cheesy but there was truly no girl like you. you were independent and committed, and that was hard to find.

thankfully he left grabbing the ball and kicking it to his friends who were waiting for it.

you rolled your eyes going back to what you were doing.

meanwhile as Soobin went back to his friends..

“bro when are you going to finally tell her?” Taehyun asked the taller boy.

“never, she’ll never know.”

“but what if she also likes you back and you’re just overthinking it? you’re gonna let that opportunity go to waste?” another one of his friend, Yeonjun said.

“will you guys stop? i’m not going to embarrass myself like that.”

>>

“yes mom, i’ll be back by 5.” you said before heading outside to your car.

you just found this volunteering opportunity nearby, at a church. pretty much just helping around which is great for you because this will only add to the great amount of volunteer hours you already had.

you obviously didn’t only do it for the hours, you liked helping around, you’ve been at hospitals, food banks etc.

as you got there you introduced yourself to the employees and they gave you something to do immediately.

as you were helping picking the trash from outside, you heard that annoying deep voice that could only belong to one person and one person only.

“thank you, i’ll start right now” Soobin said grabbing one of the trash bags and heading outside.

he saw another figure which was already looking at his direction.

isn’t this fun?

Soobin didn’t mind it, at all. but he could tell you did.

“you’ve got to be fucking kidding me, you?” she said in between her gritted teeth.

“aw c’mon it’s not that bad! i know you secretly enjoy.” he does, that’s for sure.

“you wish, i’d rather be alone.”

“let’s try to get along, for once?”

“or….you know what? you could just not talk to me. problem solved!” she said smiling at her own response.

“nah that’d be too boring, you’re fun to annoy.”

“just pick the damn trash up.”

Soobin, not wanting to start you up, for once obeyed and started picking up alongside of you.

suddenly a young woman came up to the both of you, asking you if you’re willing to look over the little kids in the daycare served inside the church for a couple of minutes.

“the two of us?” Soobin asked.

the lady nodded in desperation.

both Soobin and yourself looked at each other thinking if you’re going to be able to handle each other’s presence.

“sure we’ll do it.” you said without having confirmation from Soobin.

it’s only a couple of minutes right? besides it seems like an easy job.

oh how wrong you were…

when you thought kids, you didn’t think they would be acting like literal toddlers. they looked old enough to know what they’re doing, so why are they acting like two-year-olds?

they were running, screaming, fighting, throwing stuff. whoever does this job regularly doesn’t get paid enough.

Soobin and you were trying all you can to ‘calm them down’ as much as possible.

“Soobin they’re crying.”

“_______ they’re fighting.”

“Soobin they’re running.”

“_______ they’re hungry.”

the both of you almost forgot about the fact that y’all were at each other’s throats in the beginning.

the lady that initially told us it was only going to be a ‘couple of minutes’ has already been gone for half an hour.

“_______! i found the solution to this.” Soobin

you snapped your head at his direction, desperate to find one .

“Look.” he pointed at the small group of toddlers sitting in front of him while he held a book reading it. they seemed the calmest one could get.

how on earth did Choi Soobin find a solution faster than you?

you mama he to gather the rest of the kids towards the small group turning it into a whole group reading .

you started in awe, as Soobin softly read the book. his voice, was….calming? you never noticed til’ now.

for once you were admiring him.

“_______, you wanna read now?”

you thoughts snapped out of you and grabbed the book and read a few pages as well.

Soobin would never say this out loud but god how smitten you had him. he kept thinking about his friend’s remarks .

should he confess to you?

i mean y’all were seniors already, technically the last chance to do it.

but the thought of rejection blew it. he knew you were aggressively and bluntly honest, it scared him thinking about what your response could be.

“i’m back! sorry for the long wait, you guys can go now.” the lady that left you here with the mini monsters came back making you sigh in relief.

you didn’t even respond and headed out. although you initially wanted to stay the whole day, the kids sucked the energy out of you, now all you wanted to do was to go home.

“_______!” lord.

“why are you going in such a hurry, i’d thought you’d want to stay longer and help?” Soobin said catching up to you.

“well i’m not, i just want to go home, that’s it.”

before you could go he spoke once again.

“you want to catch some lunch? my treat.”

“please Soobin, just let me go home, my bed is waiting.”

Soobin watched as you walked away from him. sometimes it occurred to him that you were just cold-blooded or something.

>>

“HA! look at my perfect 100% compared to your lame 95%” you said almost shoving your paper down Soobin’s face.

he rolled you eyes at your words. “you just got lucky, i don’t care.”

he did.

this was very much intentional. he purposefully got a question wrong, hoping the fact that you got a higher grade than him would lighten your mood and drag you out of your sulkiness.

“aw, don’t get a grumpy Binnie, you’ll get there.” you said getting dangerously close to his face making Soobin panic.

you had no idea of your impact as you happily grabbed your backpack and exit the classroom.

Soobin let out the breath he’s been holding in as you walked out.

his heart rate was going crazy.

once he calmed down, he got up from his seat but was soon stopped by his teacher.

“Soobin’ may i have a word with you?”

shit. what did he do?

Soobin stood in front of him as he grabbed the test from his hands, showing him the problem he got ‘wrong’.

“you know i’m curious, how come you got this problem wrong when we learned it in the first unit and is by far the easiest one here? what’s weirder is that all your work is right and only the answer is wrong..”

caught. what does he respond to that?

“erm… i just forgot to find the final answer and guessed..”

“really? you’ve always aced this class, it surprised me, is it something to do with ________?”

HOW DID HE GET TO THAT CONCLUSION SO FAST? WAS HE THAT OBVIOUS?

“NO! i mean, no why would you think that?” he tried his best to deny it, although we all know..

“you’re always making her be second best in class and suddenly you get a question ‘wrong’ which you could do with you eyes closed and now she’s first.”

he should’ve just left the question blank.

“professor trust me, she’s the last reason regarding my performance.”

>>

meanwhile, you were in your monthly meeting with your college counselor.

you’ve already done your whole application for Yale done, you just had to check in to get your counselor’s blessing to send it.

“very very well _______, you took my corrections and applied them flawlessly, i truly believe you have a really big shot at this.” she told you making you squeal in excitement.

since you’re going for early decision, it urged you to send it right away.

“thank you so much! i spent most of my nights trying to perfect it, oh and by the way, do you know if Choi Soobin has already submitted his application?” you knew it was some sort of invasion of privacy but you were curious.

“i don’t believe so, many student do regular decision so you’re one of the first.”

“guess who just sent their application to Yale?” you said as you approached Soobin.

you would most definitely never do this but the anticipation to make him feel less than drew you in.

“you did?! someone’s eager i see.”

“when are you doing it?”

“my appointment with my counselor is tomorrow, so i guess that’s when.”

Soobin loved seeing you so ‘uplifted’ he tried as hard as he could to not stare at your stunning eyes, he could tell how much this meant to you.

“i might go to your room at night and delete your whole essay so you can’t apply haha.” she said before walking away.

‘shit’ he thought to himself, he shouldn’t feel this much affection towards you, knowing you probably don’t like him back, he’s trying to let his little crush go, but how can he when you’re everywhere, impossible to not think about.

>>

december came in a blink, and the early decisions are coming out tomorrow , although you were confident in yourself, a part of you was still in doubt. with Soobin applying as well, he could easily take your spot knowing how selective the university was.

you were walking to a meeting you had with a teacher while Soobin was preparing for the last game of the season.

running onto the field while the rest of the team trailed behind him. the audience was packed as usual. he looked around seeing if you were around.

and as always, no sight of you. he’s not surprised but he did want at least for you to come at the last game , but knowing you that’s asking for snow in a desert.

gosh why was he even worrying about it? you guys are barely even considering ‘friends’ why would you be here. he was thinking so much about it that he didn’t even notice the game starting as he saw the ball pass right through him, earning a scream from his coach.

Soobin was clearly bothered. he was playing differently than how he usually does and everyone on the field noticed it. he was aggressive for the first time in his life, shoving pushing and doing intentional fouls.

it went down when an opposing player took it very personal. Soobin caused him to trip and fall to his face, making the other player mad as hell and shoved him harshly earning a harder shove from Soobin, soon a big fight started on the field causing both Soobin and the other player get a red card.

Soobin was livid. as soon as he left the field he looking for the player and started throwing punches.

it wasn’t until the coaches came over and separated the two.

“SOOBIN ARE YOU INSANE WHATS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

Soobin didn’t respond, he just shook the coach’s hands off him and walked away from the scene.

he wasn’t looking at where he was going, all he wanted was to get away from everyone .

that was until…

“the hell is- SOOBIN?” of course it’s you.

Soobin tried to hide his bloody nose but failed miserably as you already saw it all.

“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK WHO DID THAT TO YOU?” you couldn’t believe it, Soobin? in a fight? he was a lot of things but violent wasn’t one of them.

“just leave me alone.”

“no! come one let me clean you up, those cuts could get infected!”

you grabbed his hand and led him to the nurse’s office, since it was after school, no one was there.

you quickly found a first aid kit as Soobin sat down with his head down, not wanting to look at you in the eyes.

“don’t put your head down, that’ll make more blood come out.” you said grabbing his chin, lifting his head up.

even in the state he was in right now, he still felt his heart almost explode at your touch.

“now can you tell me what happened ?”

“i guess i was just very overwhelmed and started to play dirty and got what i deserved.”

you frowned, wasn’t this his last game? how could he throw it away like that?

“what was making you act like that?”

Soobin hesitated, he couldn’t just say ‘you’ even though that was the clear answer.

“just school and college decisions i guess” you frowned once again, Soobin never was the one to ‘stress’ about school like that, he was smart, specially to the point where it affects his performance on the field.

he could feel you don’t believe him, but what else can he say?

you kept cleaning up his wounds and put a cute little bandaid over them.

“there, we’re done.”

you said putting away the first aid kit.

“thank you _______, i really appreciate it.” he said grabbing your wrists and turning you to him.

you two were now dangerously close.

and for the first time, you couldn’t speak. like words were caught in your throat at the closeness of his face.

you both stared at each other with out anyone saying a word. Soobin leaned closer and closer, to the point where you could feel his breath.

just as you were about to kiss, you snapped out of it. moving away completely.

“erm..i uh have to leave.” you quickly said before grabbing your bag and leaving.

Soobin sat there, frozen. what did he just do?

he fucked up.

>>

you laid in you bed, the scene replaying in your head. why did you actually want the kiss him? why did you secretly hope that he would’ve just smothered you into a kiss?

urghh, you were conflicted. you’ve never felt like this, literally.

no guy has made you speechless like he did. and you hated it, how could you fall for him?

no you didn’t, you’re not falling for him. it was just in the moment, yeah that’s it.

you knew it wasn’t. completely forgetting how your future’s revealed tomorrow.

>>

shitshitshitshit

one click and you’ll know. your heart is almost beating out of your chest. your confidence nowhere to be found.

‘relax, if i don’t get in, there’s still other options.’

you swallowed your breath and hit refresh.

you slowly opened your eyes and read the first sentence.

Dear ______,

Welcome to Yale University…

YOU GOT IN!!!!

“I GOT IN” you screamed in enthusiasm making the whole cafeteria look at you in confusion.

you ran out of there and into your counselors office.

“I GOT IN I GOT IN I GOT IN!!!!”

“congratulations sweetheart i knew you could do it!” she said engulfing you into a hug.

trying to catch your breath for a couple of minutes you sat in her office talking about it. you texted your mom earning another congratulations from her as well.

there was another person you wanted to tell, but you didn’t have the balls to.

wait? he didn’t get in or did he? they would accept the both of us, specially in early decision. but how? he’s literally the ‘it’ student.

“do you um.. know if Soobin got in by any chance? we’re the only two applying early…”

the counselor looked at you in confusion.

“i’m sorry, but i can’t display that type of information since it’s personal.”

shit now you have to ask him yourself.

you looked for hi everywhere, until finally founding him in a bench near the tree he once threw a ball at you.

you took a deep sigh and tapped his shoulders.

he looked up and widened his eyes.

he wasn’t expecting you to come up to him, not at all.

“hey um, have you checked the ivy decisions? how did it go?” this was the nicest you’ve ever been to him, stunning the both of you.

“well…i’m actually..i got a scholarship..to Princeton.” he calmly said making you eyes widened.

of course he did, if anyone did it would be him.

“holy shit that amazing! i got into Yale as well, so good for the both of us!” you couldn’t believe you’ve beat him.

in reality Soobin didn’t even apply to Yale, he knew how much of dream it was to go there and he realized that he was going to apply, your chances would’ve slimmed so he didn’t. it wasn’t like it was his dream school anyway, he only said it to have something to talk to you about, something in common.

“still beat you though.” you teased trying to forget whatever happened yesterday .

“i actually didn’t even apply to be honest.” your looked at him flabbergasted. he didn’t? isn’t that what we’ve been fighting for years?

“wait what ?why?”

“you dreamed of going to Yale and me applying would just add more competition, so i didn’t and now you’re going.”

you couldn’t believe it. he did that for you?

“thank you Soobin, for not taking my place.” you softly laughed as well as he.

you don’t know what came over you, but your emotions were all over the place and this just did enough of it.

you kissed him. yes, you kissed Soobin.

you grabbed his face connecting both of your lips.

Soobin was confused, very shocked, but easily gave in.

he’s been dreaming of this for years, it’s finally coming true. his whole mood changed in a split second.

soon you hands were now on his neck while his at you waist. forgetting the fact that y’all were in public, it kept going as he depend the kiss driving you harder.

soon to the cause of oxygen, you pulled away.

you looked at each other in pure bliss. you saw different now, before he was an annoying prick, menace to society and now he was a gorgeous man that made your legs weak.

“______, i know this could be too soon but fuck it, it’s my last chance, would you maybe want to be mine? like my girlfriend?” he nervously said, even though y’all just had a full make out session, he wanted to make sure you felt what he did too.

“are you kidding? of course Soobin, i’d love to be yours.” you said giving him a peck, showing his bunny smile making you melt.

“i see i’m going to be making many trips to Connecticut and you to New Jersey now.”

#soobin x reader #soobin #txt imagines #txt post #yeonjun x reader #beomgyu x reader #taehyun x reader #hueningkai x reader #txt x reader #kpop #txt angst #txt smut #txt fluff #soobin angst #soobin smut #soobin fluff #soobin imagines #soobin oneshot

[evalevaeva]

hELLO are requests open? 😽😽 if it's okie, i'd like to request an ahn sooho × reader fic ( I HAVEN'T SEEN ANY FIC OF HIM I'M SO SAD 😭 )

Hero | Ahn Sooho

my first sooho fic :] thank you anon! also here's to @slytherinshua and hannie , no angst this time

Meeting Ahn Sooho was the most unexpected occurrence in your life. It was almost like he was your hero.

You had your earpieces in, music blasting as you read the book in your hand. It wasn't every day that you were this interested in a book. The words seemed to swirl in your mind as you imagined each word, taking in each detail of every movement of every character.

That was until you were knocked down, hard. Your bottom slammed onto the concrete floor as your book fell onto the floor right after you, covered in soda. Your right earpiece went flying out of your ear, song stopping. Your eyes widened as you looked at your book, the words blending in with the soda, unclear.

You looked up, eyebrows furrowed as you looked at the culprit who had one hand extended out while the other was at the back of his neck.

"Ahn Sooho?" You asked, like a question, as he looked at you in surprise. "You know me?" Sooho replied as you looked at him, scoffing.

"Why wouldn't I?" You responded as you took his hand, standing up as you looked at the stain on your white uniform, starting to feel annoyed by your situation. "The infamous Ahn Sooho who nearly got his ass beaten by the baseball team over a girl. You're a playboy aren't you?".

Sooho's eyes widened as he took off his red jacket, revealing his white uniform that was unbuttoned to show his red work uniform.

"I wouldn't call myself a playboy, maybe everyone's just attracted to my charm?" Sooho responded as he winked, placing the jacket over your shoulders before picking up the soaked book and placing it on the locker near the window.

"I'll replace your book. By tomorrow, the same book will arrive at your table, sergeant!" Sooho said as he saluted you, picking up the empty soda can and continuing to run down the hallway.

You looked at the jacket on your shoulders, putting your arms through it as you zipped it, covering the stain on your uniform.

Sooho delivered his promise. You entered the classroom and walked to your seat near the middle as you saw the same exact book, this time with a sticky note on the first page.

"I'm sorry for bumping into you and ruining your uniform and book. I still feel like this isn't enough to make up for it. Would you want to eat lunch together? I'm in Class 1!" The messy handwriting read as you couldn't help but form a small smile on your lips as you grazed the yellow paper with your fingertips. Why was he like a puppy?

The bell for lunch rang, and unlike yesterday, you found yourself making your way to class 1, walking the back door to see Ahn Sooho fast asleep at his desk. His head rested on a pink bunny pillow, and his chest rose and fell deeply. You contemplated as you held the washed jacket in your arms, wondering if you should really wake the boy up.

"Ahn Sooho, it's lunchtime... and there's a girl here waiting for you. Sooho, Sooho, Sooho, wake up," The boy sitting in front of Sooho turned and shook the boy awake as Sooho jolted awake, eyebrows furrowed as he squinted. The boy let out a big yawn as he turned in his chair to stretch, but turned to see you standing with his jacket, waiting for him.

"Oh! Were you waiting for me?" Sooho asked as he stood up from his seat, finally awake. You handed him the jacket as you bowed slightly, "Thank you for lending it to me. It was a big help."

Sooho waved it off as he responded, "It was nothing! Besides, it was my fault since I... you know... dropped the soda".

The both of you made your way to the cafeteria, taking trays of food as Sooho paid for yours too, taking a seat at a table near the corner.

"So what should we talk about?" Sooho asked as he took a spoonful of rice and shoved it into his mouth. He acted as if he'd been starved for a week. It'd be impossible to tell a beast from Sooho.

You hummed as you thought about it for a few seconds.

"What do you like to do after school?" You asked as you used your chopsticks to pinch a piece of kimchi, placing it into your mouth as the taste engulfed your tastebuds.

Sooho thought about it as he responded with a mouth full of food, causing several rice grains to drop from his mouth.

"I work part-time at a barbecue place, and I do deliveries on two days. I don't go home because I'm scared I'll fall asleep and miss school. I can't miss school," Sooho shared as he saw the curious look on your face as you placed a spoonful of soup in your mouth.

"Why can't you miss a day of school?" You asked as Sooho responded, "I need to graduate with a perfect attendance. My grandmother wants me to graduate with a perfect attendance, even if I don't end up going to college. So, what about you? What do you do after school?".

You picked at your food as you shared a little, "I go to cram school and then I go to help my grandparents at their bookstore. Their bookstore has a lot of books so I don't have to go far to get good selections. Cram school, is cram school. There's nothing special about it, just the 7pm to 10pm classes every day,".

Sooho laughed a little, making his eyes crinkle as he joked, "I guess we know which one of us will go to college".

You smiled a little as you scooped a spoonful of rice into your mouth, continuing your conversation with the boy.

To everyone around you, it seemed as if the both of you had just met after being apart for 10 years and were catching up on the many years you'd spent together before that. The both of you seemed to connect very well, talking about everything from games to food to stuff worrying you around the neighbourhood. It seemed like you'd finally found someone for you.

You walked down to the parking lot near the school as Sooho put on his helmet, his bag in the trunk below the seat. You were about to wave goodbye to him when he passed you a helmet, patting the seat behind him as he said, "You told me that the distance from the school to your cram school made it hard for you to eat properly. I'll send you to cram school from now on, so eat properly or I'll start packing you lunches like a cooking club member".

Your mouth was practically hanging open as he took the helmet from you, putting it onto your head as he slid the face shield down, tapping the helmet lightly as he ushered you to get on.

The wind felt comforting for some reason. You weren't sure if it was the weather, the vehicle or the boy with you, but your heart seemed to speed up as fast as the motorcyle as your arms were wrapped around the boy's waist, eyes wandering around as you looked at your surroundings curiously. It wasn't often that you'd get on a motorcycle and definitely not with Sooho.

It wasn't just you who felt the speed up of your heart, Sooho could feel your heart pounding on his back as his eyes were focused on the road, not wanting to injure either of you nor his motorbike. He drove with caution as he smiled to himself every time you saw something cool on the way, 'ooh'ing every time.

Sooho lifted the helmet from your head as your hair dropped down to your shoulders, some strands left, a mess on the top of your head. Sooho reached for the mess as he combed his fingers through your hair, making sure your hair was neat.

"Don't go around alone anymore. Byuksan Middle School might be an elite school, but the schools around us have scary students. If you need to go anywhere after school or after cram school, call me, and I'll pick you up. Don't wander alone anymore," Sooho said as he placed your bag on your shoulders. You look at him, wondering what this sudden feeling blooming in your chest.

You coughed as you excused yourself, cheeks red as you walked to the entrance of the cram school, turning to give the boy a small wave as you walked in, disappearing into the crowd of students. Sooho managed to give a small wave back as he kept the extra helmet in the seat storage, heading to start his delivery gig early so he could get back to the cram school by 10pm.

He was right on time. You excited your cram school as you waved goodbye to some friends you made as per Sooho's suggestion after the mini lunch date you both had. He was leaning on his motorbike, phone in hand as the LED lit his face blue, his eyes focused on the screen. The sound of students exiting seemed to catch his attention as he raised his head to meet eyes with you.

"Sooho? You're here?" You asked as Sooho took your bag from your shoulder, putting it back in the storage box as he reponded, "Why not? I told you I'd be here. My grandmother always says, 'Sooho! Don't let a girl walk by herself! Don't let her carry her own bag, and don't let her spend her own money!' So I'm kind of like... your hero? I'll save you anytime anything happens." Sooho mimicked his grandmother as you couldn't help but laugh at his horrible impersonation.

This became a daily routine as Sooho began to reserve the helmet only for you. He would never come late and would stay true to his word. He would buy you snacks if you had make-up classes at cram school, buy you dessert to go along with your school lunch, and always have an umbrella if the weather was down.

Sooho ran. His motorbike was outside your cram school while you were nowhere to be seen. He initially thought that maybe you had some extra work to do or someone held you up, but when he saw the familiar friends he saw you hanging out with many months ago, he couldn't stop himself.

"We haven't seen her since Physics class. Physics was at 9pm. She looked at her phone and suddenly left, saying she had an emergency. " Your friend informed Sooho as he started to feel tense.

"Which direction did she run to?" Sooho asked as your friends muttered amongst each other, trying to get a definite answer.

"She ran out and ran out the gate towards the Byuksan Alley," Your friend told him as the words 'Byuksan Alley' made him run towards that place as fast as he could.

"Sooho, can I tell you something?" You asked the boy as the both of you sat at lunch as per usual. It had become a norm over the past few months, and the both of you could be considered... best friends? What everyone knew was that both of you were insperable.

Sooho hummed as he looked at you, giving you his unwavering attention.

"I think, with everything happening between you, sieun and beomseok... beomseok sent some girls after me. They didn't do anything, but they said that I better watch out," You told Sooho as his face changed into one with anger. He turned to give the disgusting boy a glance as he responded with false calmness, "If anything ever happens with them, call me first".

Sooho turned the alley as he saw you on the floor, your uniform painted red as girls with white surgical masks on their face, uniform unbuttoned revealing black shirts and skirts at their knees, kicked you repeatedly. By their side, there were guys in school uniforms too, watching the violence as if it were some sick variety show. You were ambushed. You didn't expect them to find your number and threaten you with Sooho's life. You had no choice.

"Sooho!" You called out, trying to alert him in case he was in the area. He said he'd always save you, he will... right?

Sooho ran in, kicking the first guy in the chest, making him fall against the wall with a thud as he elbowed the next guy in the lungs, causing him to cough. Sooho took the chance to punch him in the face, not leaving him any time to recover. He then turned to the last guy, who looked at him, trembling. His eyeballs practically vibrated as Sooho walked up to him. The guy took off running, leaving the three confused girls.

"Baby, why did you run...?" The girl kicking you asked as she turned to see her boyfriend nowhere in sight, and her two friends' boyfriends on the floor, knocked out.

The three girls turned in horror as Sooho spoke, "Why would you do this to her? She didn't even do anything, and here you are, kicking her as if she did something to you. "

The three girls looked at each other as the middle one muttered, "Beomseok asked us to do it. He said that she told on us that we had smokes.".

Sooho scoffed. Just because a liar told them that she told on them for cigarettes? She didn't even know them, much less cared about whether they died early because of chemical sticks.

"Leave, and don't bother her again," Sooho said as he bent down to check your bloodied uniform. Your head had dirt marks from the shoes of the girls and your tears made the dirt coat your cheek. Sooho wiped the dirt off with his thumb as he smiled.

"I told you I'm your hero now, didn't I?"

--

WOAH MY FIRST SOOHO FIC AND ITS LONG(?) WITH ALMOST NO ANGST OHMYGOD GASP OHMYGOD!!

#weak hero #weak hero class 1 #weak hero class one #sieun fic #sooho #ahn sooho #sooho fic #beomseok #oh beomseok

[rottenpumpkin13]

oooooo now you’re making me want to read the scenario you described (Rufus trying to tell Sephiroth he owns him and making him snap.) that sounds absolutely delicious

I tried my best!

• The air in the boardroom that evening is heavy enough to prompt Lazard to loosen his tie before it suffocates him. The board of directors—along with Sephiroth, Lazard, and Tseng—convened urgently following the sudden demise of President Shinra and the takeover of Rufus.

• Sephiroth has his reasons for despising Rufus as it is, and is not at all happy about having to take orders from him from now on.

• Rufus on the other hand is entirely motivated by ambition and a restless desire to assert his authority over everyone—but especially his late father's bastard.

• He proposes a ruthless course of action detrimental to SOLDIERs interests, so rash that it's clear to Lazard and Sephiroth what he's trying to do. Sephiroth can't keep quiet and unbothered this time. He is bothered, and he is angry for so many reasons.

• Sephiroth vehemently opposes Rufus's gross proposal. By the way his voice—usually leveled and collected—now rang angrily throughout the room, the other directors could sense the situation was bound to escalate quickly. Rufus was not one to be reprimanded by someone he deemed inferior to him.

• Sephiroth's determination to put Rufus in his place is fueled by the knowledge that Rufus was the reason why Glenn is dead. He refuses to let him harm his other friends.

• Rufus knows that Sephiroth knows. And it's his reason why he keeps quiet when Sephiroth is finished, letting the SOLDER's words sit in the air, untouched and uncured for by the rest of the room, who are waiting nervously to hear Rufus' response.

• Rufus, in turn, will come to wish he had kept quiet.

• "I own Shinra now, and by extension, I own you. Unlike Glenn, who met his fate due to disobedience, you will learn to toe the line or suffer the consequences." Rufus hums. "Much like Glenn."

• Sephiroth is enraged. He had the fire burning inside him all these years, but Rufus drenched it in gasoline. He unleashes an ugly floor of rage that tears at his throat, where no scream will come out.

• Sephiroth launches himself across the the table, hands gripping closed around Rufus's throat, cutting off his words and his breath in one swift move he had been waiting years to make.

• Chaos erupts in the room as attempts to pry Sephiroth from the president prove futile against the strength of the SOLDIER. Lazard is quick to call for reinforcements, summoning Genesis and Angeal to intervene before tragedy strikes and Sephiroth does something he'll regret.

• The aftermath for Rufus isn't pretty. Sephiroth nearly crushed his wind pipe completely and left wounds that made it impossible to talk or much less breath without aid. The doctors say he'll be fine, but each labored breath serves as a reminder of how Sephiroth is now a danger.

• And so Rufus issues an order to Hojo, commanding him to take whatever measures he can to restrain Sephiroth and make sure he never has the power to come after him ever again.

• Hojo knows his glorious experiment, and is aware that Sephiroth won't agree to restraints or control so easily—if at all. As much of an inconvenience as it is, he admires that the boy has boundaries. It's interesting. All the more opportunity to bypass them without him knowing.

• So Hojo administered sedatives under the guise of medical treatment, telling him the pills and injections are for his anxiety and stress only.

• Sephiroth doesn't regret the attack, but he is frightened by his own strength. He figures the treatment for his anxiety will help him.

• The sedatives render Sephiroth a hollow shell of his former self.

• Sephiroth's existence becomes a haze of medicated numbness, the essence of who he once was stripped from him and leaving a zombie in its place. The days blur together from him, and he has no other desire other than completing his tasks and obligations before crawling into bed.

• Genesis and Angeal refuse to let this continue. They need to find something, anything, that will pull Sephiroth out of this haze. So they turn to the topic of his origins—more specifically, his mother "Jenova"

• This leads them back to Banora, where they raid Hollander's old lab in search of any bit of information.

• There they find a photograph of a woman matching the exact description of Sephiroth's mother. Except this woman is wearing a lab coat with the name " Dr. Lucrecia Crescent"

• They're confused, and are left with more questions than they had to begin with. But this has to be Sephiroth's deceased mother. He deserves to know about this—whatever this is.

• So they present the photograph to Sephiroth, who is numb at first, until it slowly starts to come back to him. His mother, who he had thought he'd never see again. Except....

• The shock and endless questions pounding at his skull are enough to make Sephiroth gain enough consciousness to confront Hojo. He goes to him, demanding answers , demanding the truth, shoving the photographic proof in his father's face.

• Hojo makes no effort to hide anything. He reveals everything, every ugly detail that Sephiroth had always feared about himself, his existence, his humanity and subsequent lack thereof.

• The revelation of Sephiroth's true lineage plunges him into a depression punctuated by the effects of the drugs on his weak mind. But it doesn't stop him from being angry. If anything, this propels him to take action.

• Damned be Shinra, damned be Rufus and Hojo, and the lies and the very city that had become his gilded cage for so many years. He burns it all to the ground.

#ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephiroth #final fantasy vii #ffvii crisis core #genesis rhapsodos #ff7 crisis core #angeal hewley #professor hojo #rufus shinra

[dollysilena]

TRAINING WHEELS

CHAPTER TWO | NICE TO SEE YOU AGAIN

ao3 | series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

five years ago, you stupidly had a fling with inarizaki athlete, miya atsumu– now, present day– he had a son he knew nothing about. you made sure it was going to stay that way, but as fate would have it, he unexpectedly stumbled back into your lives, now as volleyball’s biggest star.

wc & notes: 2.2k words — miya atsumu wrap it before you tap it challenge (level: impossible)

Miya Atsumu is like a sledgehammer going through the glass of your well-protected life. In a blink, everything was in pieces.

You stumbled onto the nearest seat you could find, still clutching Haru protectively to your chest. Unlike you, your son seemed ecstatic over the appearance of Miya Atsumu, one of the beloved players he watched often. He was excitedly babbling into your ear about the famous athlete suddenly walking in, but you couldn’t hear his chatter when you were overwhelmed with your own frantic mind. 

How on earth could he have come in here? Was it a coincidence or… You faltered when you saw Atsumu stand beside Osamu. No, it wasn’t. You remembered where you were, Onigiri Miya. You were wrong earlier, the restaurant did share its namesake with the person in question. The name Miya Osamu now rang clearly in your head. It was the name of the faceless brother you had never met in high school. Your fling with Atsumu was so short that you failed to consider running into his family of all things.

God, why didn’t you remember that Atsumu had a brother? You felt so stupid, how did you not recognize his face, his name, anything? You were so careful the last five years, and it all came crashing down in an instant. One stupid mistake and now your worst nightmare finally came true. 

The air was still and you could hear a pin drop in the restaurant with the nauseating silence surrounding you. Atsumu stood silently with his brother, unsure of what to do. You saw his glance towards Haru, and the look in his eyes was enough to tell you that he knew. And with Osamu standing beside him timidly, it was clear that he somehow must have figured it out and told Atsumu to come.

“(Y/N), I’m here!” A voice suddenly screeched as the door slammed open, disrupting the silence. You looked up to see Naomi panting like a dog at the doorway of the restaurant. Wait, was she holding a taser?

“Aunt Mimi!” Haru gasped. 

“You!” Naomi exclaimed, jabbing a finger at Osamu. “How dare you try to hold my friend hostage!”  

Osamu’s skin turned five shades paler when he made eye contact with the taser Naomi was holding fiercely in her hand. Atsumu stood in front of his brother, sticking an arm out to protect him from your crazed friend.

“Hold on!” Osamu yelped in response. “I can explain!”

“Just because you’re hot and you know how to make some riceballs doesn’t mean!--”

“Naomi, hold on!” you interjected, barely choking out the words.

Naomi paused and turned to you in confusion as to why you weren’t running away given the opportunity. Her face softened when she noticed the grief-stricken expression on your face. “(Y/N), what’s going on?”

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words died on your tongue. You weren’t sure how to respond, because you honestly weren’t sure at all. How the hell were you going to explain that your child’s long lost biological father happened to stumble in?

The silence returned and nobody was sure how to fill it. Osamu approached you slowly, and once he realized you weren’t going to pounce on him, he kneeled beside your seat.

 “I’m sorry for how I approached this, I’m Miya Osamu, Atsumu’s brother. Ya probably don’t know me since we never met in high school, but I recognized you as Atsumu’s ex and…”

You shakily exhaled, realizing that somebody figured it out. Somebody figured out your dirty little secret, and out of everyone it could’ve been, it was Miya Osamu.

“I saw Haru and I realized.” Osamu continued, looking at the little boy looking at him curiously. “I called Atsumu after that.”

You looked back at Atsumu, a man you haven't seen in nearly five years. You saw that he was still wearing his sports uniform and had a fresh sheen of sweat, had he run here straight from practice? You may have seen him in the media, but it was all different when he was infront of you. He looked older now, more mature, he wasn’t the same teenage boy you foolishly had a fling with all those years ago. You had only the memories of a cocky high school boy, one that was impulsive and overly confident, but it was replaced by the new one standing before you. You thought if you were to ever see him again, that he would be standing tall and proud, something inline with his confident nature, but he stood timidly before you, with his head hung low, unable to make eye contact with you.  

“(Y/N),” Atsumu shakily said before a long pause followed.“Could we talk?”

You hesitated for a moment, your nerves locked like steel. His brows knitted together and his face was tense, an unreadable expression washing over his face. You followed his eyes, looking down at you and the little boy you were holding. You looked at Haru in your arms, still blissfully unaware of what was happening. You set him down besides Osamu, who you were feeling much better about now that you realized he wasn’t some sort of crazed serial killer. 

“Can you take him away?” You whispered to him. “He doesn’t know yet.”

Osamu nodded, taking the boy by the hand. “Haru, you’re gonna come with me for a little bit, alright?

Haru tilted his head. “Why can’t I stay with mama?”

He was obviously confused by the situation, and it made your heart drop even lower into the pits of your shame. He had no idea. You swore that one day you were going to tell him, but you wanted to wait until he was older, and more understanding of why things had to be the way they were. But it was too late for that now. The little world you had built for you both came crashing down in an instant.

“It’s okay, baby,” you said shakily, brushing his cheek. “It’s only gonna be for a few minutes while mama deals with some grown-up things, alright?”

“Naomi, can you go with them?” You asked, looking up at your friend. “Osamu can explain.”

She looked worriedly at you, before nodding hesitantly. Osamu led Haru by the hand to the other side of the restaurant, out of earshot, with Naomi following closely behind.

When you were finally alone, Atsumu took a shaky seat across from you at the restaurant table. You didn’t have the nerve to look up at him, and neither did he. You fought back the burn in your eyes, you never thought you would have to be here, facing him. When you ran away all those years ago, you were also running away from this very moment, the moment where you had to face him. Both of you sat in silence before he finally decided to break it.

“He’s mine, isn’t he?”

You swallowed stiffly, the repulsive taste of shame on your tongue. “He is.”

Atsumu looked up at you with pained eyes. You didn’t realize how different he looked now. Even when you saw him on TV, it didn’t give you as detailed of an image as when he sat in front of you. His features were the same, but he seemed to have grown into them. He held himself more seriously, more like an adult unlike the boy you knew in the past. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Atsumu--” you barely stammered. “We were two highschoolers who barely knew each other, we weren’t even dating--” God, how long had you even known Atsumu at that point? A few weeks? A month, at most.

“I would have still wanted to know still,” he replied, the hurt evident in his voice. It made your hands clench, and the guilt burned in your chest like your heart was trying to collapse in on itself.

A beat of silence passed. You stared down at your hands in your lap. 

“I was scared.” 

You could still feel the weight of the dingy plastic pregnancy test in your hands. Two lines. Positive. He didn’t reply.

“Everyone knew you had such a bright future ahead of you,” you continued in a murmur. “You were gonna go pro and be the great athlete everyone knew you’d be. You didn’t need a kid holding you back. It was easier for you not to know, and for me to leave.”

You had carried the shame for years. It piled on your heart every day Haru grew and the more he started to look like his father. Of course you wanted to tell him, you wanted your son to have a father, but it just wasn’t that simple. Some days, you were tired of keeping the secret and you just wanted to burst back into Atsumu’s life to tell him he had a baby boy. 

There were several times where you almost broke. The day you went into labor, the nurse had asked if you planned to invite anyone into the delivery room. You almost said yes. When Haru took his first steps, you almost called Atsumu, whose number you still had saved on your phone. Even something as mundane as a school report card you considered sending to him. But you always stopped yourself. How were you supposed to tell Japan’s rising superstar athlete that he had a family?

You felt the tears pricking your eyes. You felt as if you were back in that dingy convenience store bathroom, still clad in your school uniform, as you realized that you were going to be responsible for a child. You shakily inhaled to stop yourself knowing you had to keep yourself together, for Haru’s sake. You’re not that scared teenage girl anymore. 

“He looks alot like you,” Atsumu commented, making you stop swimming laps in your thoughts. You looked back up to see him looking at Haru from afar, who was being distracted by Osamu and Naomi with a game of rock paper scissors. Haru grinned a toothy smile, familiar to the man across the table. He had a glisten in his eyes, the same eyes Haru shared.

“I always thought he looked more like you,” you chuckled, wiping your eyes with your sleeve. Atsumu smiled softly. You saw the dimple indent he had on his left cheek, that didn’t match on the right. You forgot he had that. You felt a twinge of a smile.

You stopped yourself. You had forgotten Miya Atsumu, and it should stay that way. You dropped your smile and looked back at Atsumu.

“I won’t say a word about me or Haru, not to the press, anyone at all,” you stated as firmly as you could, but it didn’t stop the inevitable tremble in your voice. “I can even sign an NDA if you want me to, you can go back to living your life and I can disappear again, it’ll be easier that way.”

Atsumu looked back at you, and it was clear he was shocked by what you had said. You were taken aback as to why he seemed surprised, surely that’s what he wanted, right?

“What are ya talking about?” He stammered hurriedly, as if you were about to run again. “Disappear? I can’t just let ya leave--”

“Atsumu,” you replied, the name feeling foreign on your lips. “You don’t have to deal with this, you were never meant to find out.”

“But I did. And I’m glad I did.” 

Now it was your turn to be shocked. Atsumu took your hands into his from across the table, and you could feel the warmth reverberating off his calloused fingers. Another thing you forgot was how it felt when he touched you. “Listen, I know ya didn’t want me to know, and this certainly isn’t the way I imagined finding out I was a father,” he started nervously. “But I can’t just go back to living my life knowing ya and my son are out there. I wasn’t there when it mattered and I don’t wanna be some deadbeat and pretend ya don’t exist.” 

There’s a certain bitterness in the last sentence you barely catch. Atsumu looked back at you and you couldn’t ignore the way his eyes burned into yours. You almost forgot how intense they could look.

“Is it too late for me to be a part of his life?”

You sat back, stunned as the words echoed in your ears. You almost thought you didn’t hear him correctly, that you were reliving the daydreams your teenage self dreamt up. But when Atsumu continued to look at you for an answer, you realized what you were hearing was real. 

“A-Atsumu, you realize what you’re asking right?” You stuttered. “You’re agreeing to be a father, which you just found out right now of all things. It’s a commitment, no take backsies.”

“No take backsies?” He snorted. Your cheeks flushed when you realized he’s chuckling at you.

“I hang out with kids a lot, if you couldn’t tell.” You smiled meekly as his hands tightened around yours.

Atsumu looked back at Haru, celebrating that he won another round of rock paper scissors against Osamu while Naomi cheered him on. Osamu pretended to act defeated which only inflated Haru’s little ego, it reminded you of when Atsumu won a point at volleyball games in high school. 

He smiled again, “yeah, I’m sure.”

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#miya atsumu x reader #atsumu x reader #haikyuu x reader #miya atsumu fluff #miya atsumu series #atsumu x you #haikyuu x you #miya atsumu #hq x you #hq x reader #haikyuu fluff #work: training wheels #my writing

[prokopetz]

Brief summary of my thoughts so far now that I've done character creation and played half a session (we broke in the middle but may come back to it):

1) 7 players and a GM is too many. I know you know this already but I want to reaffirm it because that was what we had and it was really hard to understand what was going on.

2) I made my character 100% random and then backsolved an identity from there, and it worked better than it had any right to. The Traits are very evocative and I immediately had ideas of what I wanted my God Eater to look like.

3) I'm not sure the Calamity Clock is explained as clearly as I'd like it to be; to be honest, Tests in general are explained in a pretty convoluted way. It felt like some of the less-experienced TTRPG players at the table struggled with them, especially coming from a 5e-only background.

Sorry if this isn't the most helpful feedback; I'm just getting my thoughts down before any more time passes and I forget how the session went. I'll do a more full writeup if/when we finish the session.

(With reference to this post here.)

I definitely agree that the process of making tests could use a cheat sheet, and that's something that will be present in future revisions. However, it's worth noting that it's probably impossible to boil it down to something that a player with a 5E-only background would find intuitive because of some pretty basic differences in what kind of games they are.

In brief, 5E (and Dungeons & Dragons in general) keeps its conflict resolution mechanics almost entirely GM-facing in order to make it easier to onboard new players. Those mechanics are structured in such a way that it's completely feasible for the GM to figure out the target numbers, the applicable modifiers, the range of plausible outcomes, and the interpretation of the results with no player input whatsoever, with the player's sole responsibility being to roll a die with the correct number of sides (and if push comes to shove, the GM can do that part, too).

Eat God, conversely, is designed from the ground up to readily support GMless play (the specific rules for that will be in a forthcoming revision), which means that its conflict resolution mechanics can't be purely GM-facing. It puts a lot more responsibility on the player in terms of figuring out what the hell is going on, both narratively and mechanically, because its design goals mean it has to.

That said, it might help to frame it for a 5E player like this:

Making a test in Eat God is like playing blackjack: rather than rolling as high as possible, you want to roll as high as possible without going bust; "going bust" means all of your dice came up higher than your relevant Facet.

Everybody gets one die to start. If you can use any of your Traits to help with whatever you're trying to do, you get advantage on the test and roll an extra die. Unlike 5E, advantage stacks, to a maximum of five dice.

Instead of having a separate "damage roll", Eat God gets "did I hit or miss?" and "how much damage did I do?" from a single roll. A test's "damage" is the face value of the highest die that didn't go bust; the rules refer to this "damage" as a capital-R "Result".

You can get bonuses or penalties to a test's "damage" based on how effective the GM thinks your approach is. The GM will generally tell you about these modifiers before rolling. A penalty can't turn a success into a failure, no matter your Result; just like in 5E, a successful hit always inflicts at least one "damage".

Instead of critical hits, Eat God has critical fuckups. These have a range of dice roll values that trigger them, just like conventional crits; for example, you might score a critical fuckup on a roll of 11+, just like a champion archetype fighter in 5E gets a critical hit on a roll of 19+. This range can vary depending on how goofy the GM thinks your approach is.

Critical fuckups are assessed on a per die basis, so if you're rolling multiple dice, it's possible to generate multiple critical fuckups on the same roll. Yes, this also means that rolling multiple dice makes you more likely to succeed and more likely to fuck up, and creates the possibility of doing both on the same test. This is intentional.

When you roll a critical fuckup, the GM doesn't have to make something bad happen to you right away. They can do that, or they can take the fuckup and bank it toward a countdown to a really big fuckup that affects the whole adventure. You can see this countdown, but the GM is not obligated to tell you what will happen when it hits zero.

#gaming #tabletop roleplaying #tabletop rpgs #eat god #game design #playtesting #swearing

[hogwartslegacyreactions2]

Hello it's me again can I request the hlc students, professor and villians meeting THE VILLAIN AU of MC, (Mc is a dark entity who was stored under wookrook castle after the first ancient magic stop was open they let out !villain! Mc who's a 11ft entity who is sassy, manipulative, playfull/ Mc in this au plays a game with her victims if they lose they lose a limb if they win they get some power (btw this is a discarded au of mine Lol)

A/N: If I'm following your idea correctly, MC is not human but a dark entity that manifested inside the repository under Rookwood Castle? I can roll with that.

HLC REACT TO VILLIAN!MC

WARNING: angst,death, destruction, mayhem, evil!MC

RANROK: Finally. The Rookwood repository was unearthed. This one was the largest by far, he could practically smell the magic buzzing within its cage. In his haste, the magic beam from his hand killed a loyalist that didn't get out of the way fast enough. The repository shattered, releasing the large black and red mass of magic.

Something was different. The magic didn't automatically come to him. It didn't attach itself to his armor or go inside his body. Instead it writhed formless on the ground. He angrily shot another beam of magic, but it had no effect.

The magic did not come to him. Instead it started to rise. Higher and higher until the mass was near the height of the surrounding trolls. The magic swirled in place, gradually forming the silhouette of a human. Two exceptionally bright red lights glow where eyes would be.

The goblins behind him started to back up, looking to him for orders. He stared up at the unknown entity, unsure of the correct action. His magic had done nothing.

His hesitation was his downfall. The creature of undiluted dark magic simply pointed a finger at him and he felt as though his own soul was being ripped from his body. All the magic he had collected from previous repositories flew from him to the entity.

He fell dead while the entity seemed to grow stronger. Its form was more defined, more humanoid. The faceless head split across the front into a gnarled, chaotic smile.

VICTOR ROOKWOOD: He was outside Hogsmeade negotiating his next step with Harlow when the sky above went red. He pulls out his wand, thinking he's ready for what's about to come out of the sky when he sees it.

A large winged creature, not unlike a dragon, swooped down from above. A blast of dark and red energy came from the entity's hands and vaporized entire rows of houses. The protective barrier around Hogsmeade is entirely ineffective in stopping it.

He and Harlow try to flee, but the entity lands within feet of them. The weight of the creature shakes the earth and knocks them to the ground. He rolls onto his back and starts firing every destructive spell he knows, including the killing curse. His magic is merely absorbed.

A low shrill laugh pierces the air, he looks up in terror to see the sound coming from the entity standing over him. An impossibly tall humanoid figure with undefined features was staring down at him. They seem to be made of liquid chaos and fire, their skin constantly shifting and morphing. From the back came four large wings, like those of giant bats. They too seem to be constantly changing shape and definition.

The last thing he heard were his own screams as darkness descended upon him.

~~~

SEBASTIAN SALLOW: The school was in chaos. The alarm bells rang out as professors rushed to collect the students for emergency evacuation. He fought against the crowd to get to the nearest floo powder stantion. He needed to get to Feldcroft.

He nearly reaches one when the wall next to him blasts apart. He's thrown off his feet and half buried in rubble. His ears ring. The screaming of the students around him feel distant when he sees a horrific being approach him. It glares down at him curiously.

He couldn't reach for his wand, his arm was broken. The creature reached down towards him and he tries to shuffle away when he feels a slight tugging inside of his chest, like his own heart was trying to leave through his ribs. An oily black substance oozes from his skin, shining red like blood and he believes he's dying. But then...he feels nothing. Not fear, not anger, not pain. He doesn't need to go to Feldcroft. He doesn't need to do anything...he doesn't want anything.

He's left there in the rubble. The creature absorbed what they took from him and moved on through the school, heading downward.

OMINIS GAUNT: He's lost in the crowd and couldn't find Sebastian, no matter how many times he called. He's forcefully shoved through the hall and to an evacuation point. No matter how much he protested, he was floo-ed away without explanation of what was happening. The best he could tell was at the school was attacked by something. It had to be huge by the sounds of crashing and all the screaming. Whatever it was was horrible and he was slightly grateful he didn't have to lay eyes on it.

It's later he overhears people saying it's the end of the world. An unstoppable monster immune to magic was destroying the wizarding world as they knew it. He never heard from either of the Sallows. He doesn't know what to do or where to go. He's never felt so lost and alone in his life.

ANNE SALLOW: Her uncle rushed her away from Feldcroft without explanation. Only that it was urgent and they needed to leave the valley immediately. She asks repeatedly about Sebastian and Ominis but her uncle insists that the boys will be kept safe by the professors and likely taken to the ministry to be reunited with families.

She never sees her brother or her best friend ever again. No matter how much it hurts her, she screams and spits at her uncle for leaving Sebastian behind. Even if there was no time, he could have at least tried.

IMELDA REYES: She gets escorted away with other students and eventually gets back to her family. With them being well off, they could afford to flee the country. Not that it may matter in the long run. Any bit of news she could get her hands on, wizarding or muggle, talk of the end of days.

NATSAI ONAI: Brave soul that she is, she fights against the flow of panicked students to try and find her mother. She instead finds the monster cornering a group of second years. She casts at it, shouting for the young students to run, and gets the attention of the entity.

It stands to its full height, unfazed by her attempts to attack it. She stares back, showing no fear. The entity shows its horrible grin and echoed words, that sounded like screams of the damned, came from it. "You... look... fun..."

GARRETH WEASLEY: His aunt finds him before he knows what's happening. She shoves an old rag in his hands and he gets pulled away by it. The rag was a portkey back to his home. He sits on the floor, dumbfounded and confused. He doesn't get word until later at Hogwarts had been destroyed. Unknown casualties. He never saw his aunt again.

LEANDER PREWETT: He runs past the hall the monster is down. He only catches a glimpse of Natty in the monster's grasp, black magic being pulled straight out of her throat. He's in a blind panic for the nearest floo. Once he's on the other side of it, far from Hogwarts, he vomits on his own shoes.

AMIT THAKKAR, EVERETT CLOPTON: Both of them make it out together with many other students. The ministry had been alerted to the emergency and sending every auror they had to Hogwarts. The students being rushed in were collected in the main area around the fountain. They stayed together, trying to find comfort in their familiarity amongst the chaos.

POPPY SWEETING: Her only thought was to get home. Get back to her gran. They needed to- CRASH! The wall in front of her caved in as the entity came through it with another person. She didn't have to worry about her gran anymore. Or anything ever again.

~~~

ELEAZAR FIG: He sees the Onais with the monster. NATSAI was on the ground, Professor Onai standing numbly. He fires at the entity and distracts it. His magic doesn't seem to harm it, It just grins and rushes him. He gets shoved through the stone wall behind him. So many of his bones are broken, he can barely breathe. His suffering doesn't last long as the entity inhales and sucks the pain out of him, along with any energy he had left.

MATILDA WEASLEY: She is the one that raises the alarm. She witnesses the attack on Hogsmeade and rushes to get the emergency portkey for her nephew. If she could at least get one person out safely, it would be him. Seconds after he's gone, the ceiling above her collapses. The entity falls through the floor as it continues its destructive path to get to the repository it's senses beneath the school.

CHIYO KOGAWA: She's The first teacher to be evacuated out to the ministry to help guide the students and keep them together. Her voice is still calm and commanding as she tries to maintain order, but she feels the same dread and panic as the scared children around her.

AESOP SHARP: He actively pursues the entity. No matter how many times he fires at it, it doesn't seem to pay attention to him as he chases it through the halls. He and many aurors from the Ministry are the last ones on the grounds when the entity finally decides it's done playing and heads down to the caverns.

He sees it happen. The final transformation. When that thing absorbs every last drop of whatever magic was in the cage. Had no idea what it was or what was happening but it was bad. No matter what he threw at it, it just smiled. It looked at him and the others like they were curious insects.

To his surprise, the thing spoke to him, and it's awful voice. "Such suffering... I can taste it..." It raises one of its arms and he and all the aurors come off the ground. He struggles against the invisible force holding him, but to no avail.

Then he feels the tug in his chest. Black and red magic comes from his body, and the others, and is absorbed by the entity. When it was over, he did not care that he was falling head first to the ground. He didn't feel anything at all. Not even when his neck broke.

ABRAHAM RONEN: His class was one of the first destroyed in the attack. He and the students had no chance to defend themselves, not that there really was any way to defend themselves. For him, it was quick. Shards of glass and stone made for an unceremonious end.

MIRABEL GARLICK: She's at one of the evacuation points, getting students out. She sees the horrible thing come down the grand staircase and she stands between it and the students. The last thing she hears is it's terrible laugh as she and any students remaining have their pain removed.

MUDIWA ONAI: She finds the monster holding her daughter off the ground by her throat. She doesn't hear her own cries as her daughter falls limp to the floor with a sickening thud. She's too stunned to move. She doesn't even hear the entity's laugh as it rejoices in her pain.

BAI HOWIN: She goes through the floo after Kogawa to maintain order with the students they manage to get through to the Ministry. She is not, however, a steel willed as Kogawa so she's on the floor with her head in her hands.

DINAH HECAT: She manages to evacuate most of the defense against the dark arts tower before the monster comes stomping through. She tried to defend the floor the students were using to run, but it fired a black beam of magic and destroyed it. Her analytical eyes scanned the beast as she tried to figure out what it could possibly be. From her time as an unspeakable, perhaps this is an ancient beast that none have seen in centuries. She never figures it out, unfortunately. The monster feasts upon her pain.

CUTHBERT BINNS: He and the other ghosts are trying to Shepherd students to evacuation points. There's nothing he can do for them when the monster comes. Just watch as they become empty husks.

SATYAVATI SHAH: She makes it through a floo with her students. Only seeing two other professors and less than half the student body, the gravity of their situation hits her hard. One being, whatever it was, destroyed Hogwarts and most everyone in it in a matter of minutes. Not days, not even hours, but minutes. This was the end.

PHINEAS NIGELLUS BLACK: The coward fled when the school was attacked. Abandoning his post and ruining his reputation in the process, but he did not care. Nowhere in the job description was he ever supposed to fight off demons from the darkest pit of hell.

~~~

MC: Oh, what fun they've had! The screaming, the crying, the pleading, the begging! The insurmountable amount of pain they got to experience! They never felt so alive! Now the largest repository of dark magic was theirs! All theirs! They pry the repository apart with their bare hands.

When they consume the magic, they undergo their largest and most drastic transformation. They more than double in size, being about the size of a giant. They grow another set of wings, more demonic seraphim in appearance, and grow another set of arms. Horns burst forth from their skull and another set of glowing red eyes blinks open.

They're horrible cackling laugh echoes from the depths of the crater that was Hogwarts. Everything the ministry tried to throw at them, were now dead and gone. The world was theirs.

#hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy reactions #hogwarts legacy professors #hogwarts legacy villians #sebastian sallow #ominis gaunt #amit thakkar #garreth weasley #anne sallow #everett clopton #imelda reyes #leander prewett #poppy sweeting #natsai onai #villian!mc #angst #tw death

[chickenparm]

Amidst Daydreams(Scaramouche/Reader) - Part Three/End

It takes a village to care for a child, but how many to teach a puppet how to be a human? Just one is all he needs, it seems.

AO3 LINK Previous Part

Kabukimono!Scaramouche/AFAB!Reader 6,359 Words - NSFW m!Masturbation, non-consensual voyeurism, that last tag sounds worse than it is i swear, P in V, fingering, the softest smut this side of the mississippi

The puppet remembers the moment of his birth in startling clarity. The light searing his eyes, the heat burning his skin, every fiber of his being singing with the static euphoria of the lightning’s will. A will strong enough to forge him into being, piece by piece with a single-minded purpose. 

The puppet also remembers the moment that purpose is taken from him. When the impossibly heavy burden that weighs his entire body down is stripped away with fingers that delve into his chest. All at once, the sensation of divinity that could only be understood by someone crafted as its vessel leaves him in a choked sob. 

Or perhaps he’d been crying since the very beginning, since his first breath was taken through shuddering, redundant lungs. 

He remembers something akin to a second birth. His impossibly tiny world shaking and heaving with unknown force before once more his eyes burn. But there is no heat, there is no divinity, there is no gnosis tucked in the empty space at his breast where something should have been beating. There is only the amber light of the only home he’s ever known, wood groaning above and below. 

And footsteps - heavy, unbothered by the racket made as their heels hit the wooden floorboards. 

The puppet’s first birth is something harrowing, a constant stain at the back of his eyelids that he can’t seem to shake. But the second… Only happy memories reside there. Stacked high, one upon the other until the very top of the tower teeters with each new addition. With every ounce of his being, he clings to the hope that it does not fall. 

It doesn’t feel like a home at first. Even as he relishes the scent of tea leaves and something he’d later come to learn was human food. You’d been so patient, so kind when it was well within your right at the time to have denied any responsibility for him. And even as his mind worked sluggishly to piece together everything around him, only one thing felt stable in such a maelstrom. 

You. 

Knowing what he knows now, after an enlightening conversation with Niwa, the Kabukimono isn’t surprised he had latched onto you so quickly. With a little thought, he can pinpoint the exact moment that the emptiness in the cavity of his chest began to fill itself in with something just as powerful as the object that once resided there. 

The evening when he’d fallen apart for the very first time. When the memories of abandonment rang so strongly in his mind that he’s certain you could have felt them yourself - and you must have, because just as swiftly as it descended, so too did you sweep it away like the tears on his cheeks. Your hands were so warm. So unlike his own that hold a frigidness even when pulling blades from the forge. 

The very moment he collapsed against you, leaning into the easy embrace you offered in return, the echoes of his birthright were silenced in his chest. All that’s left is a feeling of fullness, of impossibly tangled thoughts and feelings that he hadn’t been able to decipher nor describe. As it settles between his ribs and among his nerves, he can only cling tightly to its mass and hope that it stays with him. 

It stays nameless and coveted until the frightening morning of your illness. Only then is he allowed the knowledge of what might be fusing with his very being. Love, explained in your own words, the best way he can understand it. Certainly, he has a vague idea of what love might be - he’s seen it in the way Katsuragi cherishes his wife. He’s witnessed it at the end of the day in the village when families come together and share their happiness with one another. 

Niwa’s explanation comes as an uncomfortable shock, but the light it sheds on everything makes the weight on his shoulders a little lighter. With the guidance of his teacher and friend, the Kabukimono is able to finally understand what’s going on.

A yearning to be in your presence, to share the uncertainties with life. The elation he feels at your side, the odd loneliness when he’s at a distance. Even with Niwa and Katsuragi, even with the tentative friends he’d made in the village, no one could ever bring him the solace that fell on his shoulders like the wisps of morning mist. 

And when he comes to a conclusion, murmuring the words in wonder, Niwa can only smile with his hands on his hips and an expression of pride on his face. 

As sudden as it feels from the outside, the Kabukimono knows that without a doubt, he’s been trying to love you this entire time. Now, he simply needs to figure out how.

Therein lies the problem that plagues him when he returns that afternoon to check on you. Unaware of his presence, you lay where he’d left you, buried beneath your blankets and looking so, so comfortable. Would you let him join you, he wonders while kneeling at your side, his palm flush against your forehead. 

Never before have you denied any of his attempts to be close to you. While before it had been an unknown, addictive sensation that he wanted to endlessly chase, now he understands its root cause. The thought of sliding between the sheets of your futon and conforming his body to yours is something he can’t quite shake, even as he’s forced to return to the furnace after the midday break. 

For the first time, he finds himself hopelessly distracted. Niwa seems almost expectant, but when he catches sight of the pinched look on the Kabukimono’s face, he doesn’t broach the topic. At least, not until they’re cleaning up for the evening and are preparing the forge for the work to come in the morning. 

“Are you nervous?”

“Is that what this is?” The puppet pauses in his mindless sweeping, pushing the dust around aimlessly in a way that does nothing to further their progress. Niwa’s hand wraps around the broom, easily tugging it from the Kabukimono’s lax grip. 

This frees the puppet’s hands up to cross his arms, fingertips flexing as he works through the twisting sensation in his gut. As he does, he murmurs his thoughts to Niwa. “My stomach hurts, my skin feels hot. It almost feels like I want to cry, but I know I won’t. Is it normal for my hands to shake like this?”

Holding one aloft, just to prove his point to Niwa, the tremors are easily visible to both males. Leaning on the broom, a fond sort of smile crosses the taller man’s face. “Of course it is. It’s not often that you love someone so deeply. I’d say it’s almost a one-in-a-lifetime sort of thing.”

Neither mention that his lifetime is so very long. It doesn’t feel prudent, considering the lightness of the atmosphere contrasting to the twisting of the Kabukimono’s stomach. Tucking his hand away again, he asks, “What should I do? Should I do what Katsuragi does with his wife-”

“Ah… Kissing them like that might be a little surprising.” The broom nearly hits the floor with how that question startles Niwa, but the man is able to catch it before wood clatters against stone. “The simplest option would be to just tell them. You talked about it, and got sent to me, so it wouldn’t be out of the blue for you to talk about your feelings.”

Even on a primal level, at his freshest in the world, the puppet was acutely aware of the apprehension that comes with facing rejection. After all, his first experience with this world was the bite of abandonment, of being unwanted. To hear something like that from you would likely spell out a death sentence - one that he wouldn’t bother to fight against.

Almost as if he’d read the Kabukimono’s mind, Niwa drops the broom he’d been trying to keep upright and instead claps both hands on the puppet’s shoulders. They don’t even flinch under the added weight, bearing Niwa’s sudden expectations quite easily. “If there’s one thing I know best in this world, it’s that not going after the things you want will only lead to regret. At least you could say you tried - and even if it’s not reciprocated, you know they won’t abandon you over it.”

“I thought you knew bladesmithing the best-”

“Not the point, Kabukimono. You can keep all your feelings for them inside if that’s what you want, but you’ll always be thinking about the possibilities. That’s just going to eat you up inside, turn you bitter and resentful. That’s not fair to either of you.”

Fair. The Kabukimono understood that rather well, one of the first things he’d learned. Not everything was fair, but it was up to the people involved to do their best to make it so. While the time to make his initial experiences right has long since passed, maybe it isn’t too late to try and do things right by you. 

Perhaps if you pushed, he would have. 

On his return home, you’re awake and moving around with the sluggishness of someone that still isn’t quite feeling up to par. At the sight of him leaning a hand against the doorway to remove his shoes one at a time, a smile spreads on your face - slow at first, then all at once when he returns the gesture. If you notice how shaky he is, you don’t make a mention of it. 

In fact, you make no mention of what you’d instructed him to ask Niwa about. It’s almost as if it’s been forgotten, pushed away now that it isn’t at the forefront and he isn’t pestering you about the intricacies of human relationships with one another. Any earlier than this afternoon, he might’ve been hurt at the dismissal, but Niwa’s careful explanation shed a little light on things. 

He’d embarrassed you. It’s a feeling he’s only vaguely familiar with, only recently coming to real terms with it now that he no longer depends solely on you for companionship. There’s no room for that sort of trepidation between the two of you, not while you understand him so completely. 

But it goes both ways, and he’s acutely aware of how you couldn’t even look him in the eye after he’d wheedled at you over rapidly-cooling Chazuke. 

With this knowledge, the Kabukimono carefully compartmentalizes thoughts of running at you full-tilt with the intention of kissing you until you melt in his arms like you do when he’s hugged you in the past. Instead, he focuses on the little joys of his day - success in forging, the new weapon that Katsuragi has been working on, the premise of a real sword dance on the horizon with its completion. 

And after his long-winded recount of the day, he finally notices the way you lean your cheek heavily into your palm, elbow propped on the table. Half-lidded eyes watch him with as much interest as you can muster, quietly asking little questions to keep him going. Even barely-awake, you still humor him and his excitement at simply being alive; yet another reason the cavity of his chest no longer rings hollow. 

When your eyelashes brush the tops of your cheeks for a little too long, he makes the decision to hurry you off to bed. Touching you for the first time since he arrived home is the sweetest joy, better than any candy or tea he could ever hope for. The weight of you leaning into his side as he ushers you back to your futon makes his throat tighten, anticipation for something he can’t place. 

“You know,” you start, letting him help you sit down in the softness of your bedding, “it’s strange. You haven’t hugged me yet - you always do when you come home.”

He supposes he hasn’t. While he wants to rectify that immediately, thoughts of wrapping you so tightly in his arms that the two of you sink together into one being are nearly impossible to fight, so too are there quiet reminders of why it might not be right. Because he just doesn’t know what it means to you, while he is painfully aware of exactly what it means to him.

Then your arms raise, reaching for him with an insistence for such a grave wrong to be corrected, and the Kabukimono falls into them like he was always meant to be there. 

Palms pressing into his back, you sigh pleasantly against his ear as his weight settles against you. All the greed in the world pales in comparison to the way he turns his face to press his nose beneath your ear to breathe in your scent. 

Breathing is unnecessary, initially only done with the purpose of interrupting his unnatural stillness. In this moment it holds a single purpose - the only way he can claim more and more of you in a way that won’t leave you reeling and wary of him. The shoulder his cheek is against shifts with the subtle movement of your head tilting to the side, almost as if you were offering for him to take and take and take and-

Too quickly, he pulls himself from your arms and struggles to find the correct words to explain himself. But you don’t ask for that, nor do you even seem upset. Perhaps it’s your illness, or maybe you don’t understand what he’d been doing, but you look at him with a vague dreaminess full of trust and familiar tenderness. 

Settling for the easiest course, he withdraws enough to have room to stand and murmurs just above his breath, “You should get more sleep. Humans need rest to get healthy again.”

“Thank you for worrying about me.” The slow drawl of your voice as you settle in is like the smoothness of his own blankets that cradle him soon after, wrapping around his body and trapping him with warmth and comfort. 

As he buries his face in his pillows to blot out the world, he has half a mind to burst back into your bedroom and exclaim that he’s quickly becoming convinced that caring about you is his sole purpose in this world. 

Perhaps his birthright was ripped from him because there was a greater task for him out in the world, one that involved him building a life that venerates you at the very center. 

—

The puppet dreams. 

At first it’d been only wisps of color, scents, sensations of warmth and comfort. It’s only after he spends time acclimating to the wide world that the images in his mind come into focus. 

The forge beneath a lavender sky, songs and stories that meld together into a single steady thrum that becomes indistinguishable. The sky radiating out from him in all directions, above and below, listening to his call as if he were meant to be among the clouds. The first sight of the blazing red of a perpetual maple in Autumn, leaves falling and regrowing in one hundred and sixty-eight cycles. 

A weight on his chest that’s painfully familiar in its scent and pressure. The softness of skin beneath his fingertips as he mindlessly drags them down a body that shouldn’t be so known to him. Darkness takes his vision as he relishes in the sensations of touch, scent, sound. It’s your voice, sighing names that he knows belong to him but he doesn’t understand why you refer to him in that way. 

And amidst it all, a pressure builds in him that he tries to grasp at, yet his hands are more occupied with tracing over dips and curves, squeezing at flesh that gives so sweetly between his fingers. Finally, finally he can open his eyes, and there you are. Perched above him, palms pressed to his chest to steady yourself, you look like the deity he might have been in the first moments of his life. 

That unfamiliar pressure shudders with a roll of your hips, searing heat gripping at him as your rhythm stutters. Your nails dig into his chest, unable to break his skin despite your urgency and his sick yearning for you to leave some sort of mark on him. There is already the sign of ownership on him, but perhaps with enough force you could overwrite it and claim him as your own.

The lungs in his chest rattle as he sits up, darkness engulfing once more but with a quiet familiarity. A dream, one that leaves him adrift and yearning for something he’d never experienced. Subconsciously, he gasps for breath to cool his nerves. The room feels stifling, but not nearly as much as the layers of fabric and blankets in his lap. 

Niwa had spared no detail, even as the man’s face grew red, so it’s not as much of a surprise as it might have been. The thought of loving someone physically is that that implanted itself into his brain, burrowing with the intention to wait until this very moment of weakness. The puppet can’t control his dreams, but even as he tentatively reaches for himself with a shaking hand, he doesn’t regret that they’re beyond him. 

The pillows beneath his head protest as he falls back into them, suddenly feeling boneless the moment the skin of his palm touches against the throb of his arousal. Instinctual but hesitant, his fingers wrap around it and squeeze, and a strangled sound tears from his throat against his bidding. 

Even the tentative drag of his hand from base to tip feels as if he’s grown intoxicated, the alcohol that’s never had an effect on him is unable to come close to the muddiness of his thoughts. Swallowing thickly, he spreads the beading moisture of his arousal and wonders if he’s doing something terribly, terribly wrong. 

Because only one thought whirls in his mind, one vision that’s been burned into the back of his eyelids. You, tangled in his lap, rocking your hips and branding him with unfamiliar sensations he just can’t recreate with five fingers and his palm, no matter how hard he squeezes. 

The blankets scatter as he rolls from them, stumbling to his feet with a sick sense of purpose. Your visage in his mind is blurry, the memory of your scent feels so far away. Just a peek, just a glance so he can finish this and find relief amidst the guilt growing in his chest. Niwa’s hesitance speaks volumes of how unwelcome this might be to you; it will be a secret he conceals for the remainder of his life. 

Padding across the hall, he silently pulls the door open just enough for his vision to be filled with your prone form. The blankets have been kicked away in your sleep, leaving you clad in your nightclothes that show a little more skin than he ever expected to see from you. Peace is settled on your features, and as his hand tugs at the strings of his pants to pull himself free, he wonders if you’d hold that same expression if you knew what he’s done. What he’s doing.

Just like before, the first pass of his hand is almost too much. Pain blooms from his lip as he bites down into it, the flesh giving beneath his panic. Waking you would be the worst thing imaginable, but that prospect isn’t enough to stop himself from jerking his hips forward into his curled hand. 

Your head is craned enough to show the line of your shoulder and neck, just where he’d not-so-subtly buried his nose only a few nights prior. The phantom memory of how your skin had smelled, how it had tasted on his lips when he pulled away and swept his tongue across them in the privacy of his bedroom. Both bring a sense of urgency and recklessness, barely stemmed with how his palm slaps over his mouth to stem the uncontrollable sound of his self-pleasure.

Perhaps he could get closer. The tatami would muffle his footsteps, allowing him to approach your form and bask in your presence. The proximity would be too much for his addled brain to handle, nerves already frayed at the mere prospect of gazing at you while touching himself like this. Holding himself back is paramount, and he forces himself to stay in place, even as he leans closer to the space in the door.

The wooden frame digs into his shoulder as he leans into it heavily, depending on the structure to hold him upright as his knees grow weak. The hand on himself is no longer his own, at least in his darkest thoughts. Instead it’s yours, stroking with far more confidence than he does, touching him openly rather than in a dark hallway that reeks of his shame. 

Each fluttering blink of his eyes brings a different image. Your face before his, close enough to share in his breath, your palm dragging along his skin. Your knees on the floor as you use your mouth in ways he can only imagine in this one heated moment. The arch of your back beneath him as he grinds against you, eyes growing hazy and unfocused at the prospect.

Would you make the same sounds he does? Choked-off and strangled in an attempt to hide himself, that is. He desperately wishes it’s the opposite, that you’d be loud and unfettered so he knew that he was making you feel the exact same sort of unknown ecstasy that he suffers from at his own hands now.

The mere thought of bringing you the sort of sensations he struggles through now makes his stomach clench, anticipation building toward the notion of simply making you feel good. He would do whatever you wanted, whatever you needed, so long as you let him chase it alongside you. Knowing your mind could be frayed alongside his own is a prospect that feels sweet on his tongue despite being a far-off notion.

One particularly angled thrust against his palm makes his eyes flutter, vision growing hazy as he loses track of himself for a moment. Desperately, he moans your name against his palm, breath humid against his own lips, and doesn’t register the mistake. All he knows is something is coming quickly upon him, fast enough that it tears through rational thought and reason. 

The scratch in his throat speaks of his wanton abandon, how careless he was in a single instance on top of a mountain of poor choices leading up to this very moment. 

This very moment that your eyes slide open, vision locking on to him in the crack of the door. You look further down and see how tightly he’s holding his mouth shut, how he hunches against the doorframe, how his hand has ceased the furious movements that had brought him so close to being free of this if not but for a single night. 

The Kabukimono doesn’t even shut your door as he stumbles back, tripping over his own feet in his haste to fade back into the darkness. It’s too little, too late - you’ve seen him and what he’s done, and there’s no coming back from something like this. Not with how wide your eyes had grown, how your lips had parted in surprise. 

Tears well in his eyes because of course they do. Once, you told him that they’re the physical manifestation of feelings too strong to be contained. As he makes it into his room and all but drags himself to the furthest corner from the door, they run down his cheeks and one finds its way to the tip of his tongue. These tears could be nothing other than the starkest regret, fear, terror for what’s to come. 

Making himself smaller in that corner is easy. He’s slight of build, capable of bringing his knees to his chest and burying his face into the blissful darkness in an attempt to keep the world at bay. Something so miniscule couldn’t possibly be of scrutiny by the world, yet he feels your eyes on him nonetheless through the door he’d forgotten to close in his haste. 

Sighing quietly beneath your breath, it sounds impossibly loud and akin to the sharpness of a sword cutting the air cleanly in two. It feels like a physical blow, slicing him to the bone as he buries his fingers in his hair to tug painfully. The wetness in his right palm smears across the skin of his forehead with the motion and he isn’t sure he could ever feel as dirty as he does beneath your gaze.

The tatami shifts beneath him, the sign of your approach and subsequent kneel down to his level. If you were to strike him, it would be well within your right, but the only sensation of touch comes in the form of your fingers wrapping around his wrists. With firm pressure, you pull his hands away from where he grips his hair harder and harder, nearly pulling it from the root in his spiraling panic. 

“Look at me.”

Hasn’t he done that enough? This goes unspoken, his unwillingness to acknowledge you seeping into his very being. No, he’s done far too much looking. More than he ever should have dared to do. 

Yet, you still don’t admonish him. Instead, one of your hands releases him temporarily, only to worm its way to his chin and pull him to look up at you. Even now, when he’s convinced that everything has been ruined, the most selfish parts of him take hold for one last lingering gaze at you. Just enough to take with him when he’s forced to leave.

But there’s no malice in your eyes, no anger. Not even annoyance as you blow a sigh from your nose and take in the sight of his tear stained cheeks and mussed hair, cheeks ruddy still in a combination of what he’s done and how he feels about it now. “Listen to me.”

The Kabukimono is always listening. At least, listening to you, that is. 

“What were you doing?”

Of course, you already know. But speaking it aloud must be the penance you’re demanding from him, and it’s with an impossibly shaky voice as he breathes out, “Touching myself.”

“Why?” And when he can’t answer, embarrassment taking hold of him so tightly that he can’t even expand his chest to speak, a visible pang of disappointment crosses your features. Once again, he’s let you down. Undeterred, you try again, “Were you thinking of me?”

So subtly that he’s certain it would’ve gone unnoticed if you still weren’t cupping his chin, he nods. What use is there in denying the obvious? The disappointment fades, and left in its place is a smile. It’s small, almost tentative in nature, but undeniably existing where it shouldn’t. 

“You’re terrified… Do you think I’m upset?”

“Aren’t you? You should be. Upset, angry, disgusted-”

“I’m none of those things.” And with a sideways tilt of your head, the smile on your face grows wider, a balm to his vision that’s still blurred with tears. “I’m actually… relieved.”

What? Relief barely registers in his mind as something you could possibly be feeling at this moment. Nothing that he’s done this evening would warrant you to feel any sort of relaxation, no matter the root source of your tension. His confusion must be palpable in the air, your tongue darting out to wet your lips and surely tasting it there. 

With great mercy, you let him find peace. “Do you feel something for me? Is this a physical reaction, or something more?” 

The Kabukimono has never hidden anything from you up until this moment. The only secret he’s held has been the damning existence of his impossibly heavy feelings. And with your blessing, your plea, he recognizes the only opportunity that will ever be afforded to him. Some might describe him as eccentric, perhaps even a fool if seen in the wrong light, but he’s far from an idiot. 

So with the last chance to fix things laying before him, he snatches it without hesitation. 

“It’s love. It has to be, I have never… will never feel like this toward another person.” When your smile doesn’t fade, neither does his confidence. It grows with each syllable he forces through his trepidation. “I can’t describe it. Without you I feel like I might die. Please don’t send me away, I don’t think I’d make it if you’re not with me.”

“Oh, Kabukimono,” You sigh almost longingly, leaning close enough that the scent he’s been craving overrides all his senses. From this close, your face near enough that he can feel the exhale of your breath across his lips, he’s certain that the only thing that exists now is you. He can feel your words against his mouth as you draw ever closer, “You don’t have to describe it. I understand it more than you could ever know.”

Kissing you feels like that dream of the skies. Weightless, abundantly free, opportunity to explore in every direction. The one he chooses is forward, leaning into you more and more until he’s on his knees and you’re on your backside, until he is the one slotted between your thighs rather than his dreams of you in his lap. 

He’s always been a swift learner, and taking note of how to kiss you is something that comes to him quickly. Mimicking your movements, he finds a steady stride against you that feels eerily natural. More credence to the theory for his existence, his conviction that truly he was made not for the divinity of a gnosis, but the quiet contentment of becoming one with you. 

Emboldened to impossible heights, his hands find purchase wherever he can manage - one at your hip, one curled around your breast and marveling at how he can feel even through your clothing how receptive you are to his fumbling advances. With that hand tugging at fabric, he chases that phantom sensation he remembers of skin-on-skin. 

Arching into his palm, pressing yourself into his hold in an effort to be malleable to his needs, you sigh into the kiss. The puppet feels the first hint of madness, the all-consuming nature of what he’s become in the short span of time he’s been allowed to partake in what he’s yearned for. 

And you let him. With the urging of your tongue pushing past his teeth, tasting something only you can understand, the desire you reflect back at him feels impossibly tangled. 

Unraveling you starts with your clothing falling open, the fastenings flimsy enough that the natural movement of his hand down your body is enough to slide everything free. At your navel he pauses, wetly pulling away from your lips to seek guidance. In theory, he knows what to do, but more than any pleasure he could find for himself, he desperately wants to give it to you. Perhaps if he does, if he can prove that something in him is worth keeping, you’ll be further convinced to keep him close. 

With one arm behind you to prop yourself up, your free hand finds his wrist and encourages him to reach lower. Further and further until your lips part in a gasp and undeniable wetness meets his fingertips. Like a siren song he follows it, pressing into the heat you’re offering and memorizing the way your head rolls back and away from him. 

“Tell me.” he urges you, even as his fingers stroke insistently, searching for something he isn’t sure of. “Show me what to do, how to make you feel good.”

And in response, your hips shift enough for his touch to bump against something that grinds against his fingertips. It’s a wordless instruction, one he understands well enough to latch onto in every way. With swirling fingers, he chases after every little sound he’s able to rub from you. Always generous, you hold nothing back, and vaguely he wonders what your voice would taste like if he were to swallow it whole. 

“Use… use your thumb there and y-your other fingers- ngh- lower. You’ll know, you’ll-”

Unwilling to be skeptical of any direction you give him, he maneuvers just like you demand and his fingers sink into the heat he’d been dreaming of. Your muscles clench around him as he goes further and further, knuckles pressing tight to your entrance. Like you want more, need more, it feels as if you could take him indefinitely. 

He expects you to tell him to stop at some point, to have gotten your fill of what he can offer and grow tired of the sensation. But a sort of frenzy seems to take over you, your hips grinding down on his fingers in tandem with his movements, almost as if you were looking for something. Chasing something - and then you seem to find it with your back hitting the floor and your spine arching almost painfully. 

You don’t tell him to stop, you don’t demand relief from whatever is causing you to buck against him so viciously, so he does the only thing he can. He doesn’t let up, repeating the same motions that reduced you to this. The soft give of you inside grows impossibly tight, clamping down until he can barely move his fingertips against something inside that nearly matches where his thumb is on the outside. 

The only way to describe you is having been reduced to your base components, barely functioning as you writhe against his hold. He can’t help but note that when you’ve fallen apart like this, chest heaving and finally grabbing his wrist to stop his steady movements, that you’re impossibly beautiful. He could easily find himself addicted to this, to you. 

But just as much as he wants to try and break you down further, his own needs are crawling up his spine, boiling a heat in his stomach that is so akin to how he felt in his dream. The Kabukimono wants - recklessly, viciously, so desperately that it leaves him feeling panicked and adrift. 

Even ruined as you are, there’s enough coherency for you to take note of how close he is to falling apart. With infinite mercy, you reach to pull him closer. The right process clicks in his brain, breaking through the haze toward what he needs to do to you, to take from you. With your legs spread to slot his hips so nicely against your own, you offer yourself freely. 

Is it selfish if he wants everything, and that happens to be exactly what you’re willing to give? 

“Be… be gentle. I’m sensitive.”

Maybe he shouldn’t be as proud as he is when hearing that, but the only thing he comprehends is that he’s done well. That’s all that matters, but to keep doing well he wants to follow your instructions to the letter. So, with a gentle hand, he pulls himself out once more to line up against the entrance that once squeezed his fingers so tightly. Surely it would feel better on his cock, better for you, too.

With your wetness, he slides home so easily that he nearly sobs with relief. With taking him in so easily, he’s convinced of exactly how right this is. Lost in the sensation, he doesn’t realize you’re crying until the dim light of the moon outside shines across your cheek. Then, with further inspection, he realizes you’re not crying at all. 

He is, and they fall freely from him to land on you. You don’t seem to care, instead focusing on wiping them from his own face rather than your own. Once more you treat him with unending tenderness, giving and giving until he feels content and complete. The only thing he can do is give in return, taking first by sliding himself free before thrusting back in. 

The sharpness makes you gasp, and an apology bubbles on his lips before he realizes you liked it. So, with an impossible amount of giddiness, he does it again and again. Over and over, savoring the feeling of your body accepting him and refusing to let go until he has to force himself out for a split-second. 

“You’re doing so well.” You pull him close, so much that your forehead bumps against his own and your labored exhales match his greedily inhales. In and out, as if the two of you are sharing a single breath at the pace of his reckless pleasure-seeking. Though, with how close he’d been before, the search doesn’t take too long when it’s found inside you. 

The praise heightens everything, the validation that he’s doing everything you want bringing him to an unfathomable height before you push him over with a sharp tug on his hair. The strands beneath your fingers hold strong as you provide a sensation to keep him grounded, a tether as he pushes impossibly close and sobs brokenly over the all-consuming sensation of release. 

Shaking against you, he can’t be bothered to mind his weight with how he slumps in your hold. So very familiar to how you’ve held him before, when intentions were far more innocent than the things you’ve done tonight, he’s certain something in his chest is beating. It throbs in time with your pulse next to his ear on your chest, forehead pressing into your collarbone. 

Certainly, the two of you can’t reside on the bare tatami for the remainder of the night, but neither of you make any attempt to change this. In fact, one of your arms blindly reaches up to his nearby futon, swiping the pillow to tuck under your head with a pleased sigh. 

In the silence that falls, comfortable and warm like the Summer evening outside, the puppet wonders if perhaps there is some merit to the claim that he’s becoming more human. With something like a heartbeat in his chest, the warmth of your body embracing him, his hand laced with yours against the floor, he can’t help but feel more like a human than he ever has before.

#if you saw me forgot to put a read more break on this #no you didn't #scaramouche #wanderer #wanderer genshin #kabukimono #scaramouche x reader #kabukimono x reader #reader insert #reader #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #mind the a/n for content tags #genshin impact #wanderer x reader

[theloveoftoms]

sittin' on the dock of the bay - jake 'hangman' seresin x reader

Summary: a fun day at the beach with your boyfriend. suntanning, swimming, and shirtless hangman, what more is there to want? ;)

A/N: I had a dream about hangman about a month ago, and I finally found the time to finish editing this piece. I hope you enjoy :D (all of those steamy photos of hangman in my for you tab have been getting to me 😤🤤)

The warmth of the summer breeze rushed through a patch of long wispy grass in a way that was calming and familiar. The ocean, a colour composed of a variety of blues, was calmer than usual today, the waves rolling in like clouds in the night; quietly and gracefully.

Jake Seresin, the man you had been seeing for the past little while, invited you out for a day on the beach. Usually, the San Diego beach in the heat of August wasn't something you were fond of. It was nearly impossible to find a spot in the sand with any privacy on the beach where little children and seagulls alike weren't scavenging through your tote for juice boxes and cookies. However, dating a man in the navy had its perks; there was a private 'on base' beach that members and their families and friends could use, any time they wanted.

it was mid afternoon, about three or four, when you drove up to Hangman's uniformly neat base condo. The sun hung low in the sky and filled the air with its usual tone composed of pinks and blues and tangerine. San Diego sky's were your favourite. You parked your red Toyota in front of the lawn, and walked to the front door, tote bag in hand.

You rang the bell, and noticed your reflection in the glass of the screen door. The fuchsia bikini that you had on was one of your favourite swimsuits. The colour was flattering with both your complexion and your curves. It had a scoop neck with a small keyhole in the centre, revealing a hint of your chest. Atop of your swimsuit, you were wearing an airy white linen top - after all you were on a navy base and wanted to look somewhat presentable. And on your waist, over your matching pink bottoms was a pair of simple denim shorts. And by the time you finished admiring your outfit in the glass, there he was, hangman, grinning at you from the doorframe.

"Wow," he said, putting a hand around your waist, pulling you close, "I didn't know I loved the colour pink so much."

You rolled your eyes in a playful manner and planted a gentle kiss on your boyfriends cheek. "You all ready to go?"

Jake nodded, stepping out into the porch, putting on the pair of aviators that he so carelessly loved. Grabbing a small cooler - filled of beer and doritos no doubt- and closing the door behind him. And in a tone that was more hushed, Jake said, "might have to take that thing off of you later."

You gave your boyfriend a slap on the arm and smirked, "in your dreams hangman."

From Hangman's near seaside apartment, it only took about five minutes until the two of you were seated comfortably on the blanket that you had brought. The sun was brightly shining above and your toes were in the sand. There were a couple of other people on the beach; a family of four, a couple, and people by themselves, suntanning against the backdrop of the sand. Overall, it was pretty private. Not too loud, but not too quiet either. Perfect.

Seated on the blanket, your wavy hair blowing in the wind, Jake opened the cooler, revealing a six pack of vodka coolers and copper-toned beer bottles. "Want anything hon?"

"I'll take a beer," you said, slipping out of your denim shorts, and quickly covering your legs with them bottom hem of your linen shirt.

"Thats my girl," he said, handing you the bottle.

The two of you lay out in the sun, talking and laughing, and enjoying your drinks. This was relaxing and very unlike any date you had ever been on with Jake. Generally, your dates involved a loud bar or some sort of activity you usually wouldn't do, like karaoke singing or axe throwing. It was definitely a change of pace to have some leisure time with Hangman, but it was actually quite nice to simply just relax beneath the sun with him at your side.

However, after laying out for nearly thirty minutes, it began to feel a bit too hot for you. Your boyfriend, who was somehow asleep, didn't stir when you whispered his name, I guess it would be a solo swim. You took off the remainder of your accessories, like your sunglasses and woven bracelet, Birkenstocks, and white linen shirt and began a leisurely walk out to the ocean.

The bay was calm, the waves tricking in against your legs as you began to wade slowly into the water, kicking about the waves as they rolled in. The water was colder than you had thought, but it felt refreshing compared to how the sun was baking down onto your skin moments ago.

You swam around until you were cool enough, splashing in the waves, letting the salty water refresh you, until you were almost too cold.

The walk out of the ocean was never as glamorous as the walk in. Your hair, which had been perfectly blown out in a wavy pattern, was now darker and clung together in a way that was not luxurious. Your swimsuit didn't have the same pink shimmer to it as it did before, but soon enough the sun would dry you off and all would be as it was.

Back at the blanket, you had nearly dried off when Jake had finally woken up, grinning up at you. "How was the water?" he asked, shedding his sunglasses.

You folded up the magazine you had been reading, "it was great," you replied, "you looked so relaxed, I didn't want to wake you."

On your stomach, you took the liberty to lean atop of your boyfriend, planting a trail of kisses up the back of his palm, up his forearm, and up to his bicep. Jake's lips, taught in their usual smirk grinned through the process. "And to what do I owe this surprise?" he said as he propped himself up on his arms, his biceps firm, and the muscles of his chest flexing in the act.

You crawled forward, until you were laying nearly atop of your boyfriend. Looking down at him, you took a moment to admire really how gorgeous he was, with his long lashes, his oceanic green eyes, and his somehow perfectly angled jaw. Jake Seresin was here, in front of you, and very very hot. You smiled, and then kissed him gently on the bow of his lips.

The kiss tasted like summer air and a forbidden lust that seemed just out of reach. The kiss was gentle and slow, the kind that was suitable to a lazy day at the beach. But as soon as the waves broke upon the shore, Jake's tongue found its way into your mouth as his hand curled around your waist in a corresponding manner. The kiss got deeper as all you could hear was the sound of the ocean in your ears; the waves and the wind and the birds that flew above the nearby sea.

Noticing how unconfroable you back must feel from literally leaning over him, Jake did the singlee handledly hottest thing imaginable. He proped himself up on his right arm - just a bit more than before - and gently rolled you over onto you back, all while still immersed in the kiss.

Breaking the kiss, Jake, who was now on top, looked down at you, grinning, "god," he sighed, "your beautiful," right before he resumed the hot and gentle kissing pattern.

And beneath the kiss, while you smiled to yourself, Jake's hand found its way to your side, gently trailing itself up the side of your ribcage until the tips of his fingers brushed gently against the underside of your breast. "Is this okay?" he mumbled in-between kisses.

You nodded, "yes," and brought your hands around his torso and began to gently rub his muscular back.

Jake let the kiss linger into something slow and sweet as his hand trailed across your chest. Breaking the kiss, his mouth coming close to your ear, he whispered gently, "we better go back to mine before we get kicked off the beach."

You smirked, kissing him once before he rose to his feet, waisting no time in the act. "Lets see how long it takes us to get back there," you said, slipping on your sandals.

Jake grinned, "race you there."

And off in the heat of the mid-afternoon San Diego sun, you and Jake were running down the beach, back to his condo, the wind in your hair and the love in your hearts.

#jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman x reader #jake hangman x y/n #jake hangman seresin #hangman #hangman x reader #top gun #top gun maverick #tgm #hangman seresin #beach #top gun maverick x reader #jake seresin x you #hangman oneshot #hangman imagine #all of those pics of jake that keep popping up in my for you page have been getting to me 😮‍💨 #Certified hottie

[gracie7209]

Mood board by the lovely, wonderful, and insanely talented @wildemaven

Complete!

Amaryllis Masterlist

Triple Frontier AU

Pairings: Frankie x f!reader, Tom x wife!Reader

A/N: (Reader is of Hispanic descent and is originally from Cuba, but moved at a fairly young age. There are mentions of some ethnic traditions/customs as well etc) This started as a Waitress AU that I completely lost control of and it has now become THIS lol I’ve posted snippets, but have been working on this for the better part of 2 years and I was determined to see it through. Originally had Ana De Armas as a face claim for Reader which is why the character is Cuban. No physical descriptions other than Reader has a light accent.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, smut, fluff, heavy angst, drinking, there are some heavy topics here so please heed chapter warnings, domestic violence, Tom is a piece of SHIT, cheating, infidelity, oral (f & m receiving), pregnancy, pregnant sex, maybe slight lactation kink?? fingering, unprotected PIV sex, therapy mentions, childbirth mentioned (no description), first time (with Tom 🤢 but necessary to the story), Tom is just literally the fucking worst, but Frankie is here to make it all better, leaving out some things so as not to completely spoil the plot. Will update each chapter with more specific warnings

Description:

As a sheltered wife to an emotionally abusive husband, you find yourself in an impossible situation when you learn that you’re pregnant. Up until now, you were content with the way things were, but a child didn’t deserve this life that had been chosen for you. What little outlook you had on life was as good as gone; But then a chance meeting in an unlikely place finds you potentially looking toward a very different future.

That is, until it’s all ripped away from you.

How far are you willing to go to keep a promise you made as a child? And how much are you willing to sacrifice to protect the ones you love most?

A/N: This fic is complete, just doing some finishing touches. There are 12 chapters and an epilogue. Chapter lengths range any where from 1k-9k words. Also, I just have to give my thanks to @just-here-for-the-moment Who basically held my hand and guided me throughout this entire process. I genuinely mean it that I don’t believe I ever would’ve finished this story if it wasn’t for her. Claire you are a Godsend and I appreciate you more than you know!

*******

*Chapters containing smut will be labeled with 🔥

Drabble

Chapter 1

Chapter 2 - Wednesday

Chapter 3 - It’s a…!

Chapter 4 - Tom

Chapter 5 - It’s Been Awhile

Chapter 6 - Want 🔥

Chapter 7 - The Mission

Chapter 8 - The Call

Chapter 9 - The Return 🔥

Chapter 10 - Safe House

Chapter 11 - Stay 🔥

Chapter 12 - Home

Epilogue

A/N: I don’t have an official tag list, but if you would like to be tagged, just let me know!

#frankie 'catfish' morales #frankie x f!reader #frankie x reader #frankie x you #francisco morales x f!reader #frankie triple frontier #triple frontier fic

[bonefall]

Larches

We're talking about Larix decidua, the European Larch, because lads I've got some choices to make.

Why? Because this little slut is a NON-NATIVE CONIFER.

AND A NASTY ONE AT THAT. You know how I mentioned in my Moorland research notes that conifers from nearby plantations have a nasty habit of spreading? Larches are the worst offender of that little quirk, and can be intentionally used to afforest an area to get it ready for new trees.

That's a good thing in certain areas-- damage from mines, intensive farming, and ecological disasters can be fixed with larch. Here in America and other parts of Europe it is a useful tool in conservation (especially in its native range)

But NOT in England. The larch was introduced in the 1600s for lumber purposes and gobbles up moorland like a glutton. It is a voracious pioneer species of low-nutrient soils, much like the two birches, scotch pine, and field maple.

The BB timeline, however, begins around the late 1800s with Hollyleaf's Century. Victorians. Not the ROOT of all evil, just a metastisis of it. The destruction of SkyClan's territory is somewhere in the 1960s.

So while it's not impossible that one of the two plantations encountered in the story are larch, I would like to keep it consistent. Larch plantations aren't the big bad in the modern era-- it's Sitka spruce in 1st place (accounting for a massive percentage of forest cover in the UK) and Douglas fir in a more distant second.

It's unlikely Clan cats would encounter larch, keeping in mind the history of both regions they live in, unless I make up a reason JUST for it to be here.

So I'm thinking about blasting it away in names, in line with my other ecological replacements like changing Hickorynose to Chicorynose. That would mean a major character, Larchkit, Larchface in StarClan, would become Lurchface. A lurch being the split between two major branches of a tree.

(Which makes perfect sense since his secret father, Appledusk (crabapple-sunset in clanmew), is named after a tree that likes to branch like that. Birches tend to grow straight.)

But before I nuke all mentions of larch from orbit, ARE there any objections?

#Me. Evil overlord. Standing at a big red death ray button #Turning over to the minions and creatures like ''does anyone have anything to share before I press this'' #Alternatively. Me about to press the Eschatron 9000 #Ecological overhauls

[landoffreaksandfrogs]

Question for you, what are your thoughts on Aranea? I've seen people view her as a complete villain, i've seen people view her as a poor little woobie, and I've seen people deeply concerned about her adoration of Mindfang. I find her very interesting in the fact for all her manipulative behavior in homestuck, I can't really blame her for wanting to NOT fight lord english and just uncanonize him. But also she mind controlled and killed a lot of ghosts and directly or indirectly got lots killed.

i. adore aranea. not because i think shes good or even really all that nice, but because i think she has such a unique range of depth to her character that simultaneously paints her as a genius and an enormous idiot.

its clear shes very intelligent and cunning, as not only is she more powerful than vriska, but unlike vriska, who has to brute force her way through her conversations with her bravado and with her psychics, aranea can actually properly manipulate people with just her words.

shes smug and she idolizes an abuser because shes been lead to believe by paradox space itself that if she had been more like an alternian, she wouldve succeeded.

the thing with both serkets is that they HATE "losing," and losing can mean a lot of things to them and its impossible for them to let it go. aranea is obsessed with mindfang partially because vriska did, and its obvious that she really did want to connect with vriska on a genuine level, but its clear her normal sensibilities werent vriskas style.

no one takes her seriously, and by virtue of the meta-narrative, no one is SUPPOSED TO. the beforus trolls are jokes. they're flat caricatures of whatever person they might have been. homestucks afterlife is so fucked because not only does it degrade your status in the timeline, but also it degrades YOU, as a person. you have no goals, you have nothing else you can do but dick around in an infinite mish-mash of memories. its purgatory and a huge joke.

its obvious aranea seriously projected hard on the alternian ancestors to try to cope with this reality but until lord english started wrecking shop, she didnt have an outlet for this obsession. she seriously believes she IS mindfang despite the vastly different lives they lead, and the fact that she is still only a teenager.

she takes the end justifies the means to the farthest extent possible, blindly believing that one big damn heroic moment would be enough to make what she did okay. and thats a direct parallel to vriska planning to fight jack noir. she wants so badly to believe that one HUGE good thing will counteract the hundreds of small bad things that built up along the way.

shes. psychologically fascinating. the depths of her character is so immense, she is NOT a good person and on some level, she knows it. she fails horrifically because she was stupid for thinking that her plan to overwrite a doomed timeline would work. but its so fucked up and fascinating that. somehow. her actions and interference indirectly did lead to the alpha timeline. john and roxys survival from [s] game over are a permanent reminder of the mark she left upon the narrative. and we never see her again.

#ask #throwawaymantreads #anyway. no yeah. very. very normal opinions. very just like. yeah i thinks okay i guess. you know . normal.

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

I was reading a story recently where Stiles and the Sheriff were talking about the things that keep happening around them and the Sheriff said something like Stiles talks and acts like veteran soldiers do and after thinking about it that analogy does fit his character so well. It also made me really want to read more stories to do with that idea so I was wondering if you knew any?

Here's some where he has PTSD.

A Little Bit of Encourage-Mint by Mischief_x_Managed

(1/1 I 3,273 I Not Rated I No Pairing)

Stiles goes to a therapist who doesn't try to kill him. Surprisingly it works out well.

Dating and Mating Stiles Stilinski by 1Ginger1Keyboard

(4/? I 4,838 I Teen I Sterek)

Derek isn't used to feeling anything as deeply rooted as the feeling revolving around the hyper teen that goes by the name Stiles Stilinski. It takes Derek a while to wrestle these emotions into a form that allows him to decided he wants to pursue them. Yet, he's normally the one being chased, Derek has never had a problem getting peoples attention, he has a good body and charming looks, so he has to work out how to win the heart of the hyper teen. And to put it gently, Stiles has his very own courting ritual that is unlike any wolf or human ritual. It's just, neither of them knows that. To make it worse, the wolf under Derek's skin is growing impatient.

///What am I?/// by Nel_Lino

(1/? I 6,068 I Explicit I Scallison)

Stiles: Why haven't burnt alive? How could Derek die? Why do I care if he died? *** Scott: I need you to own me, now. Isaac: turn around, little whore. *** Danny: And if you want to try some more of that stuff we did, count on me. *** Young Derek: come here you little superhero! Mietek: I am not a superhero, I am special human!

Dreams Will Be Unified by SilentMagic

(4/? I 16,585 I Mature I Sterek)

When Stiles woke up for his eighteenth birthday, he was expecting a day of celebration and maybe a pack party. He was not expecting to wake up beneath the Nemeton, nor sprouting four furry paws in an alternate reality to learn what it means to be a Guardian. He really should clarify to the universe that he would like a break for at least a whole year before the next supernatural event comes his way.

It Was a Wednesday by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

(2/2 I 80,129 I Mature I Sterek)

“What happened? Where are you? What’s that sound?”

Derek jumped, having momentarily forgotten Scott was on the phone with him because Stiles had started moving. He’d stalked over to the other side of the cave, still eying Derek warily and growling, then settled protectively over a mass of clothes, leaves and animal innards. It was probably where he was sleeping.

Lovely. No wonder he smelled like death.

“Stiles,” Derek said, answering Scott’s question. Or, one of them, at least.

“Stiles? What do you—Stiles is making that noise?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“How fast do you think you can make it to the south lot of the Preserve?”

Daybreak by TheObsidianQuill

(10/10 I 70,382 I Mature I Sterek)

"There . . ." Stiles swallowed and looked down at the bottle in his grasp as he slowly swirled the amber liquid inside. "There's really nothing left. For me. Everyone is . . . gone, and it feels like I haven't thought of tomorrow in years." His words rang in the air like a gunshot, he took another heavy drink. "I would trade every last breath I take to just have another shot—not even a guarantee, just a chance to make things right and bring back even one of them." -----

The pack was gone. He had nothing left. He had no one. With nothing to lose, Stiles puts everything on the line to go back in time to try to prevent the future from becoming his past. Broken, guarded, and haunted by his past, only one overgrown-pup of a wolf seems able to get past his defenses. Changing the future? Easy. Finding a place for himself in the Hale Pack? Impossible.

I'm not real. Am I? by lady emebalia (emebalia)

(64/64 I 127,977 I Explicit I Sterek)

Derek is not real. He's just a pretty form Stiles came up with. At least that's what Stiles keeps telling himself.

You're stronger than you know by Littleredridinghunter

(15/15 I 234,195 I Not Rated I Sterek)

Set at the end of season 2, Stiles survives his encounter with Gerard and his goons, but it isn't easy.

The pack are letting him down again, his dad is not speaking to him, his life is just generally falling apart.

Until he has to get a bronze dagger to kill a siren and his whole world gets flipped on it's head!

Alpha, Mage, Pack by Foxfire2018

(48/? I 480,285 I Explicit I Sterek)

Set at the end of Season 2. Stiles was kidnapped and tortured for hours. Yet no one came for him. Hurt and cast out of the pack by people he thought cared for him, what is he to do? He finds himself accompanied by someone he never expected and someone he is eternally grateful for. Derek feels betrayed and foolish for what he allowed to happen. Out of anger and hurt he forced a valuable member he really started to care for out of his pack. With the pack scattered and people hurt, what will come of them? Will they bond together again in time for the next big bad?

AND

@neverdust suggested this one!

Play It Again by metisket

(3/3 I 53,206 I Teen I Sterek)

In which Stiles goes along with one of Derek’s plans and ends up in an alternate universe as a result. He should’ve known better. He did know better, actually, and that means he has no one to blame but himself.

“Laura wants to lure the kid in with food and kindness and make a pet of him, like a feral cat. Derek wants to have him arrested for stalking. They’re at an impasse. (And the rest of the family is staying emphatically out of it in a way that suggests bets have been placed.)”

#teen wolf #sterek #stiles stilinski #derek hale #ptsd #hurt/comfort #anon

[otterskin]

Otterskin Recs: Blue Eye Samurai

Premise: A 'half-breed' samurai with blue eyes, possessed by an evil spirit of vengeance, cuts her way across the land as she seeks her father - one of only four white men in isolated Japan. For the crime of her own miserable existence, she will execute him.

Oh yeah, it's good. This may be sacrilegious to say, but...

American Cartoons < Anime < American Cartoons trying to be anime

Somehow, that last thing can overcome the problems the first two things are usually crippled by. BES is one such incredible show. It's well-paced, designed for the screen first and foremost, builds on its continuity and has occupied my thoughts for a week.

Thanks to that excellent pacing, it was very hard to not binge the whole thing. I only made it till episode 4 by watching one at a time, and then binged the rest with only a sleep to interrupt it. Its influences range from Samurai Champloo (naturally) to Hellsing Ultimate to Shogun by James Clavell to Kill Bill to maaayybe The Last Samurai. I've no idea how accurate to Japanese history it is, but even with all the ultra-violence and impossible physical feats, I did feel very grounded in its version of 17th century Japan.

The storytelling is compelling, the characters complex, the action exhilarating, and the voice-acting impeccable. Particular kudos given here to Maya Erskine as the titular character, who manages a convincing androgenous voice that is meant to come across to others as emotionless, but must convey all kinds of emotional information to the audience - for an entire show. That is no easy feat! The work of Randall Park as Heiji Shindo was also a favourite, managing to juggle menace and comedy. Even in the character's darkest moments, he is first and foremost entertaining.

Believe it or not, I did not at first realize that Abijah Fowler was played by my own beloved Kenneth Branagh! I should've realized it when this despicable character was so instantly charismatic, ha ha. As good as everyone else is, and they are all excellent, Branagh's menacing Irishman is the most interestingly performed, with small inflections and lilting menace that makes this odd duck out a protagonist of his own terrifying story. In a world of propriety and performance, only he and Mizu, the Blue-Eyed Samurai, are honest about who they are and what they want.

However, my favourite character of the show is probably Akemi. To avoid spoilers, I'll simply say that she's a competing protagonist and much-needed counter-balance to Mizu's story. She enriches the story with her perspective and experiences, which is a necessary thing when the protagonist is so laser-focused on a single goal. It is through Akemi's eyes that we actually come to understand the world and how it works, before Mizu ruthlessly slices through it.

The one fly in the ointment is that the CGI animation can't always keep up with the show's ambition. It's nowhere near as good looking as the impossible Arcane was, but once you accept its limitations, you get used to it. The animation also increases in quality as the show goes on, which means it only gets better! There are all kinds of dynamic camera movements and creative cinematography to make it engaging, too. My favourite was the use of a bunraku puppet show intercut with a flashback, which is interesting on several levels, not the least of which is realizing that since this is in 3D, that these animated characters are also puppets, of a modern kind.

I recommend this show for fans of Claymore and Afro Samurai in particular. It's violent, dark and carnal, but unlike so many anime that are so, it has excellent writing for its female cast and the wider story. This is the rare 'adult animation' that is actually for mature viewers, who expect mature writing and sensibilities.

Give it a go. And let me know what you think!

#TV recs #anime #claymore #blue eye samurai #netflix

[istumpysk]

OPERATION ICEBERG: THE TIER LIST

THEORY:

Tormund Giantsbane x Maege Mormont

TIER:

People's Choice! Great job on Lemongate, I feel more at ease putting my faith in you again.

Possible: These theories could be true, but additional evidence is needed, as different interpretations or errors are possible.

vs.

Under Consideration: These theories haven't garnered strong or extensive evidence, but they're worthy of discussion.

vs.

50/50: These theories are complete toss-ups.

vs.

Low Probability: While not impossible, these theories are unlikely based on the current evidence.

[Tier list overview]

EVIDENCE:

Gather 'round, children. This is a fun one.

The theory:

The Tormund Giantsbane x Maege Mormont theory suggests that they may have had one or several intimate encounters, and Tormund could potentially be the father of one or more of Maege Mormont's daughters.

The proof:

In A Storm of Swords, the character Tormund Giantsbane is introduced, and we learn his various titles, one of which is "Husband to Bears."

Mance Rayder laughed. "As you wish. Jon Snow, before you stands Tormund Giantsbane, Tall-talker, Horn-blower, and Breaker of Ice. And here also Tormund Thunderfist, Husband to Bears, the Mead-king of Ruddy Hall, Speaker to Gods and Father of Hosts." - Jon I, ASOS

The sigil of House Mormont is a black bear. Members of the Mormont family, who hail from Bear Island, are frequently referred to as bears within the story.

The Mormonts of Bear Island were an old house, proud and honorable, but their lands were cold and distant and poor. - Eddard II, AGOT

x

The maester had taught him all the banners: the mailed fist of the Glovers, silver on scarlet; Lady Mormont's black bear; the hideous flayed man that went before Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort; a bull moose for the Hornwoods; a battle-axe for the Cerwyns; three sentinel trees for the Tallharts; and the fearsome sigil of House Umber, a roaring giant in shattered chains. - Bran VI, AGOT

x

"I am touched by your concern, Lord Mormont." The strong drink was making Tyrion light-headed, but not so drunk that he did not realize that the Old Bear wanted something from him. - Tyrion III, AGOT

x

Catelyn smiled despite herself. "You are braver than I am, I fear. Are all your Bear Island women such warriors?" "She-bears, aye," said Lady Maege. - Catelyn V, ASOS

x

"He wants you," said the She-Bear, after his third visit. Her proper name was Alysane of House Mormont, but she wore the other name as easily as she wore her mail. - The King's Prize, ADWD

x

Ser Jorah had been with her then, her gruff old bear. - Daenerys X, ADWD

Maege Mormont, the head of House Mormont, has five daughters: Dacey (now deceased), Alysane, Lyra, Jorelle, and Lyanna.

No one knows the father of Maege's children or if she married. Yet, all her daughters bear (ha!) the Mormont surname, and none appear to be considered bastards.

The tale that's commonly told is that Lady Maege took a bear as her lover, and this bear is the father of her children.

Maege Mormont is called Mormont because no one knows her husband's name, or even if she has one. - So Spake Martin

x

"Aye, Dywen says. And the last time he went ranging, he says he saw a bear fifteen feet tall." Mormont snorted. "My sister is said to have taken a bear for her lover. I'd believe that before I'd believe one fifteen feet tall. Though in a world where dead come walking . . . ah, even so, a man must believe his eyes. I have seen the dead walk. I've not seen any giant bears." - Jon I, ACOK

x

"Whoever the king names will not have an easy time stepping into your armor, I can tell. Lord Mormont faces the same problem." Lord Janos looked puzzled. "I thought she was a lady. Mormont. Beds down with bears, that's the one?" - Tyrion II, ACOK

x

"No. My children were fathered by a bear." Alysane smiled. Her teeth were crooked, but there was something ingratiating about that smile. "Mormont women are skinchangers. We turn into bears and find mates in the woods. Everyone knows." - The King's Prize, ADWD

Tormund is no bear, but you might say he's built like one.

Beside the brazier, a short but immensely broad man sat on a stool, eating a hen off a skewer. Hot grease was running down his chin and into his snow-white beard, but he smiled happily all the same. Thick gold bands graven with runes bound his massive arms, and he wore a heavy shirt of black ringmail that could only have come from a dead ranger. - Jon I, ASOS

x

But as the distance between them diminished Jon saw that the horseman was short and broad, with gold rings glinting on thick arms and a white beard spreading out across his massive chest. - Jon X, ASOS

x

He was not a tall man, Tormund Giantsbane, but the gods had given him a broad chest and massive belly. - Jon XI, ADWD

In the culture of the free folk, men often "steal" women for marriage, demonstrating their strength.

We look up at the same stars, and see such different things. The King's Crown was the Cradle, to hear her tell it; the Stallion was the Horned Lord; the red wanderer that septons preached was sacred to their Smith up here was called the Thief. And when the Thief was in the Moonmaid, that was a propitious time for a man to steal a woman, Ygritte insisted. "Like the night you stole me. The Thief was bright that night." - Jon III, ASOS

x

"He's of my village. You know nothing, Jon Snow. A true man steals a woman from afar, t' strengthen the clan. Women who bed brothers or fathers or clan kin offend the gods, and are cursed with weak and sickly children. Even monsters." - Jon III, ASOS

x

"Harma and the Bag of Bones don't come raiding for fish and apples. They steal swords and axes. Spices, silks, and furs. They grab every coin and ring and jeweled cup they can find, casks of wine in summer and casks of beef in winter, and they take women in any season and carry them off beyond the Wall." - Jon V, ASOS

Bear Island is a secluded island in the north, situated in the Bay of Ice. Due to frequent raids by the free folk and the ironborn, Mormont women have become fierce warriors to prevent being carried off.

Catelyn smiled despite herself. "You are braver than I am, I fear. Are all your Bear Island women such warriors?" "She-bears, aye," said Lady Maege. "We have needed to be. In olden days the ironmen would come raiding in their longboats, or wildlings from the Frozen Shore. The men would be off fishing, like as not. The wives they left behind had to defend themselves and their children, or else be carried off." - Catelyn V, ASOS

(map!)

Now, for the crucial evidence.

In A Storm of Swords, Jon asks Tormund about his titles. Out of all Tormund's designations, the author chooses to delve into the backstory of "Husband of Bears."

We'll dissect this story step by step. However, please remember that Tormund is known for exaggerations and fabrications. Distinguishing fact from fiction and extracting the elements of truth can be tricky.

"Are all crows so curious?" asked Tormund. "Well, here's a tale for you. It were another winter, colder even than the one I spent inside that giant, and snowing day and night, snowflakes as big as your head, not these little things. It snowed so hard the whole village was half buried. I was in me Ruddy Hall, with only a cask o' mead to keep me company and nothing to do but drink it. The more I drank the more I got to thinking about this woman lived close by, a fine strong woman with the biggest pair of teats you ever saw. She had a temper on her, that one, but oh, she could be warm too, and in the deep of winter a man needs his warmth. "The more I drank the more I thought about her, and the more I thought the harder me member got, till I couldn't suffer it no more. Fool that I was, I bundled meself up in furs from head to heels, wrapped a winding wool around me face, and set off to find her. The snow was coming down so hard I got turned around once or twice, and the wind blew right through me and froze me bones, but finally I come on her, all bundled up like I was. "The woman had a terrible temper, and she put up quite the fight when I laid hands on her. It was all I could do to carry her home and get her out o' them furs, but when I did, oh, she was hotter even than I remembered, and we had a fine old time, and then I went to sleep. Next morning when I woke the snow had stopped and the sun was shining, but I was in no fit state to enjoy it. All ripped and torn I was, and half me member bit right off, and there on me floor was a she-bear's pelt. And soon enough the free folk were telling tales o' this bald bear seen in the woods, with the queerest pair o' cubs behind her. Har!" He slapped a meaty thigh. "Would that I could find her again. She was fine to lay with, that bear. Never was a woman gave me such a fight, nor such strong sons neither." - Jon II, ASOS

I was in me Ruddy Hall, with only a cask o' mead to keep me company and nothing to do but drink it.

Tormund is first introduced as Mead-king of Ruddy Hall. Ruddy Hall is beyond the Wall, but we don't know where.

The more I drank the more I got to thinking about this woman lived close by

Regardless of where Ruddy Hall is located beyond the Wall, it wouldn't be near Maege Mormont.

a fine strong woman with the biggest pair of teats you ever saw.

Maege Mormont is short and stout, and likely has large breasts like her daughter Alysane.

The daughter was tall and lean, the mother short and stout, but they dressed alike in mail and leather, with the black bear of House Mormont on shield and surcoat. - Catelyn V, ASOS

x

Her proper name was Alysane of House Mormont, but she wore the other name as easily as she wore her mail. Short, chunky, muscular, the heir to Bear Island had big thighs, big breasts, and big hands ridged with callus. - The King's Prize, ADWD

She had a temper on her, that one, but oh, she could be warm too, and in the deep of winter a man needs his warmth.

Maege Mormont has a temper,

The Old Bear sighed. "You are not the only one touched by this war. Like as not, my sister is marching in your brother's host, her and those daughters of hers, dressed in men's mail. Maege is a hoary old snark, stubborn, short-tempered, and willful. Truth be told, I can hardly stand to be around the wretched woman, but that does not mean my love for her is any less than the love you bear your half sisters." - Jon IX, AGOT

but she can also be warm.

Lady Mormont took her hand and said, "My lady, if Cersei Lannister held two of my daughters, I would have done the same." - Catelyn II, ASOS

x

Catelyn had grown fond of Lady Maege and her eldest daughter, Dacey; they were more understanding than most in the matter of Jaime Lannister, she had found. - Catelyn V, ASOS

Fool that I was, I bundled meself up in furs from head to heels, wrapped a winding wool around me face, and set off to find her. The snow was coming down so hard I got turned around once or twice, and the wind blew right through me and froze me bones, but finally I come on her, all bundled up like I was.

If he started at Ruddy Hall, Tormund would have needed a boat to reach Maege Mormont. He couldn't have walked.

Edit: D'oh. Thank you to @transdimensional-void and @grennseyelashes for pointing out the Bay of Ice could freeze over.

The woman had a terrible temper, and she put up quite the fight when I laid hands on her.

Maege Mormont is a fierce warrior.

Catelyn smiled despite herself. "You are braver than I am, I fear. Are all your Bear Island women such warriors?" "She-bears, aye," said Lady Maege. "We have needed to be. [...]" - Catelyn V, ASOS

x

The daughter was tall and lean, the mother short and stout, but they dressed alike in mail and leather, with the black bear of House Mormont on shield and surcoat. By Catelyn's lights, that was queer garb for a lady, yet Dacey and Lady Maege seemed more comfortable, both as warriors and as women, than ever the girl from Tarth had been. - Catelyn V, ASOS

It was all I could do to carry her home and get her out o' them furs, but when I did, oh, she was hotter even than I remembered, and we had a fine old time, and then I went to sleep.

Again, he couldn't have taken her home without a boat.

Edit: D'oh. Thank you to @transdimensional-void and @grennseyelashes for pointing out the Bay of Ice could freeze over.

All ripped and torn I was, and half me member bit right off, and there on me floor was a she-bear's pelt.

She-bear has only ever been used to describe women associated with House Mormont.

Catelyn smiled despite herself. "You are braver than I am, I fear. Are all your Bear Island women such warriors?" "She-bears, aye," said Lady Maege. - Catelyn V, ASOS

x

Ser Jorah sat up in his hammock. "Befriend her, then. Marry her, for all I care." That left a bad taste in his mouth as well. "Like with like, is that your notion? Do you mean to find a she-bear for yourself, ser?" - Tyrion VIII, ASOS

x

Alysane Mormont, whose men name her the She-Bear, hid fighters inside a gaggle of fishing sloops and took the ironmen unawares where they lay off the strand. - Jon VII, ADWD

And soon enough the free folk were telling tales o' this bald bear seen in the woods

This is a bit goofy, but a She-Bear leaving behind her pelt and wandering around bald is somewhat reminiscent of Alysane Mormont's tale about Mormont women being skinchangers.

"Mormont women are skinchangers. We turn into bears and find mates in the woods. Everyone knows." - The King's Prize, ADWD

with the queerest pair o' cubs behind her. Would that I could find her again. She was fine to lay with, that bear.

Tormund seems to be suggesting that this was a one-time affair, yet he also mentions that it resulted in a pair of children. Tricky.

Lady Mormont has five children with significant age gaps. If he's their father, it would require multiple visits over several decades. If 'cub' shouldn't be plural and he's only the father of one daughter, then which one might it be?

Probably not Dacey Mormont. She was six-foot-tall, pretty, lanky, willowy, and graceful — nothing like Tormund.

The most probable candidate is Alysane Mormont. She shares a build with Tormund (and Maege), is now the heir to Bear Island, and is the most prominently featured Mormont daughter in the story.

Short, chunky, muscular, the heir to Bear Island had big thighs, big breasts, and big hands ridged with callus. - The King's Prize, ADWD

Never was a woman gave me such a fight, nor such strong sons neither.

Sons, plural. After potentially just one encounter. That's a problem.

He might simply be referring to two of his four sons: Toregg, Torwynd, Dryn, and Dormund. Their mother's identity remains unknown.

However, while Maege Mormont has no sons, she does have five daughters with impressively strong characters who comfortably take on traditionally masculine roles.

Stout, grey-haired Maege Mormont, dressed in mail like a man, told Robb bluntly that he was young enough to be her grandson, and had no business giving her commands … but as it happened, she had a granddaughter she would be willing to have him marry. - Bran VI, AGOT

x

Like as not, my sister is marching in your brother's host, her and those daughters of hers, dressed in men's mail. - Jon IX, AGOT

x

One of his companions was even a woman: Dacey Mormont, Lady Maege's eldest daughter and heir to Bear Island, a lanky six-footer who had been given a morningstar at an age when most girls were given dolls. Some of the other lords muttered about that, but Catelyn would not listen to their complaints. - Catelyn X, AGOT

x

"I have fought beside the Young Wolf in every battle," Dacey Mormont said cheerfully. "He has not lost one yet." - Catelyn V, ASOS

x

Smalljon Umber and Robin Flint sat near Robb, to the other side of Fair Walda and Alyx, respectively. Neither of them was drinking; along with Patrek Mallister and Dacey Mormont, they were her son's guards this evening. - Catelyn VII, ASOS

x

Her proper name was Alysane of House Mormont, but she wore the other name as easily as she wore her mail. Short, chunky, muscular, the heir to Bear Island had big thighs, big breasts, and big hands ridged with callus. Even in sleep she wore ringmail under her furs, boiled leather under that, and an old sheepskin under the leather, turned inside out for warmth. All those layers made her look almost as wide as she was tall. And ferocious. Sometimes it was hard for Asha Greyjoy to remember that she and the She-Bear were almost of an age. - The King's Prize, ADWD

x

Stannis read from the letter. "Bear Island knows no king but the King in the North, whose name is STARK. A girl of ten, you say, and she presumes to scold her lawful king." - Jon I, ADWD

But again, there are age gaps between all of them, and this would necessitate multiple trips to Bear Island.

Other things to consider:

It's possible that Tormund's She-Bear is actually Alysane Mormont, who has a son and a daughter and also asserts that their father is a bear. However, considering Alysane's age (mid-twenties), it seems more plausible that the She-Bear is Maege.

Some people believe the title "Breaker of Ice" might allude to the Bay of Ice, but that's a stretch.

Tormund has five other children, and he seems to be actively involved in their lives.

Alysane Mormont is currently headed to Castle Black, so there might be more clues ahead.

STUMPY'S THOUGHTS:

Maege Mormont being carried off by Tormund, only to rise in the middle of the night and take herself back home, is one of the more amusing tales I can think of. I mean, if you ignore the rape part.

Truly, I don't even know what tier to put this in. There are so many issues with that story, but given Tormund's nature, it's hard to discern what's real from what's not.

VOTE:

I welcome discussions. Feel free to reblog, respond, or challenge my perspective—I won't be offended by any of it.

Please note, if "no" is the eventual winner, or if it's competitive, a second poll will be conducted to determine the proper location.

NEXT THEORY:

Theon's bastard

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