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daechwitatamic · 5 months

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The Price || MYG

banner by @/itaeewon

The Price

Rating: NSWF - minors do not have my consent to interact Genre: Snow White and the Huntsman!au, angst, smut, unhappy ending WC: 8k

Summary: The Queen is responsible for everything you call yours: your home, your job, your freedom. You live without laying claim to anything else, lest the Queen leverage more in exchange for her grace. But the Queen has just named her latest price: the life of the young blacksmith, Min Yoongi.

Warnings: language, drinking, there’s a plague and it’s a problem, reader’s parents died (see the previous warning lol) and there are scenes of her grieving process, reader is a hunter so there’s mentions of animal carcasses and hides, lots of mentions of reader’s big fancy knife, a murder attempt, kissing, nip stim, groping, fingering, clit stim, penetrative sex (protection not mentioned either way), reader on top, angst, unhappy/ambiguous ending

A/N: Part of the Make Me Your Villain collab! Please give the other authors a lot of love!!! Huge huge huge thank you to @/here2bbtstrash for beta-ing!

Mirror, mirror - look and see. Who might take this throne from me? Mirror, mirror - who's the threat? Show me which boy's blood to let.

There are pros and cons to living outside the village. The pros are that you’re mostly left alone - you live by your own laws, most of the time. It’s better this way; you come and go as you please, you don’t worry about latest fashions or gossip, you aren’t under the thumb of any societal niceties or norms. You concern yourself more with what the forest tells you. Bad weather, humans who don’t belong, sickness on the horizon - the forest knows it all, and you know how to listen.

You knew about the plague - in a vague, something isn’t right here kind of way - days before the first villager fell sick. You didn’t see anything bigger than a possum for three days - you knew something was in the air. It was the baker first, then his wife. Now it’s made its way into the castle, the guards and servants falling like flies.

Another pro - you won’t pick up illness from the baker if you make your own bread in your tiny cabin in the woods.

The main con - the only con, really - is that when you make your weekly trek to the castle to present the King and Queen with your scores (deer, mostly, but usually a few fowl too) it takes so damn long to get there.

It would be faster on foot, much faster, but you have to load your kills onto a cart and take the dirt road, which winds and twists and takes its time. Today your cart is loaded: venison, fowl, a few rabbits, even a fox. That had been a good score. The Queen likes furs - she’ll pay you well for it.

But the trip into town once a week is a fair price for your freedom, you think.

A few vendors through the heart of town wave hello as you pass. You lift your hand in response but don’t stop. You’ll shop after, when your cart is empty and your purse is full. For now, you stay on the main road until it changes over from tamped-down dirt to cobblestone to, eventually, flat stone that leads to the bridge over the castle’s moat.

The usual guard, the one who knows your face and always waves you through, isn’t there. You wonder if the plague reached him, if he’ll recover or if they’ll send his body to the sea like all the others.

You show identification, the card nearly illegible due to how many times it’s been folded and stuffed into your shoe for safekeeping, and this new guard waves you on.

As usual, you stop in the courtyard just inside the first set of walls. You hop down and start undoing the straps of the fabric you have over the top of the cart. Two guards join you, and they begin moving your scores down from the cart. Each is weighed and given a quick once-over as a scribe stands to the side recording it all.

“Make sure you mention how nice that hide is,” you tell him, pointing at the fox. “I got that one special, for her.”

The scribe rolls his eyes a little, but you see him peer at the fox and scribble something on his little parchment. When they’re done, your cart empty, the scribe rolls his paper up and leads you up the steps towards the main doors to the castle. You flip one of the guards a silver coin and follow the scribe. As you head up the steps, you hear the sound of your horse’s feet moving across the stone, the cart creaking and groaning behind him, as the guard you paid takes him to be cared for.

Inside, you follow the thick, red carpet into the throne room. You’re surprised to see only the Queen present, but you school your face and drop into a bow anyway, your forehead brushing the soft carpeting.

When you rise, you see the scribe has handed her the parchment, and she reads over the report of your goods. You wait, knowing better than to speak until she has.

“A good week,” she observes.

“Yes, your Grace,” you say, eyes on the carpet. “I was pleased as well.”

“Are you well?” she asks as she signals for her Chief of Coin, who scurries close to the throne and lowers his head to hear her whispers.

“Quite well,” you say automatically, though you’re not sure what exactly she’s asking. Does she mean your health? Your home?

The Chief of Coin makes his way to you and you pull your practically-empty purse from your back pocket.

“You have need of nothing?” she asks.

This would be your opportunity to ask after anything major - repairs on your home, medicine, anything you couldn’t get during your walk back through town.

“No, your Grace,” you say. “I had need of a new blade, but the local smith took my request.”

The local smith and your new blade are one of your stops on your way home.

“I’ve heard from the citadel,” she tells you, and you pull your eyes away from the Chief of Coin to look at her. “They say your brother is doing well. He’s applying himself to his studies.”

When you’d lost your parents, you’d begged to keep your brother yourself, desperate to keep him away from the citadel’s orphanage. You were of age, could handle yourself. You could handle him, too, you’d argued.

The King had considered this. Your family was well-known in the village, and your father had hunted for the crown for many years. Your brother was only about five years out from finishing his schooling.

You were investments, you and your brother.

In the end, the deal had been struck - the crown would see to the rest of his education under the condition that when he finished he’d work for the crown, pay back his debt, begin to build his own name.

And, in the meantime, you’d take over the hunting. You could keep your family’s little cabin out in the woods, away from town. Your brother wouldn’t be apprenticed off to a stranger.

It was an easy deal to agree to.

“We’re grateful for the opportunity,” you say to the Queen. “If the report said anything less, I’d travel there to knock sense into him, myself. He’s at that age. You know.”

You try to bite back a cringe. The Queen might not know. She’d never been able to bear a child for the King.

She smiles at this, thinly. “Very well,” she says, and you take back your now-heavy purse from the Chief of Coin. “Then I shall see you next week. I wish you continued health in the upcoming days.”

You nod your head. “I wish the crown health and longevity,” you say. Head bowed, you miss the way her eyes tighten.

–

You pick up the goods you need - eggs, flour, and the like - on your way through town. You eye the tavern, tempted to stop for a pint. Alas, you are embarrassingly excited to get your new blade, so instead you carry on down the road towards the smithy.

After tying up your horse - though he’s a lazy thing and probably wouldn’t wonder anyway, not with the cart hitched up - you head inside, following the sounds of a hammer striking metal.

You wait until there’s a break in the noise and then shout a hey back towards the open door to let the team know they have a customer.

There’s the sound of a heavy instrument being dropped to the ground, and you catch yourself smoothing your hair back. Stop it, you scold yourself, scowling.

That’s the face that greets the youngest of the smithing team, Min Yoongi, as he steps into the shop, blinking as his eyes adjust to the light.

“Ah,” he says, lips curling into a smirk. “Is it Thursday already?”

“Is my blade ready?” you ask, ignoring both his self-satisfied grin and his question. “Park Jihoon said I could get it today.”

At his boss’s name, Yoongi’s smirk fades until he’s all business again. He turns to the wall, where special orders are tacked. He searches until he finds yours.

“It’s ready,” he grunts, reading the slip of parchment. “Wait here.”

He disappears into the back again, returning with a hefty-looking blade, sheathed in a leather case.

He places it on the counter between you, pulls the blade from its case and turns it over so you can see each side.

You frown. “I didn’t order engraving on the case,” you say, jutting your chin towards the delicate design at the top. It curls in and around itself, all the way around. “I’d better not have to pay extra for that.”

“Ah, but he worked so hard on it!” Park Jihoon says cheerfully, appearing out of the back and clapping Yoongi on the shoulder. You keep your eyes on the knife; Yoongi looks steadfastly at the wall with the orders, a pink flush working up his neck.

“It’s not extra,” he mutters.

“I’m heading to Bridgeport,” the senior blacksmith tells Yoongi. “I’ll be back before sundown. You’ll be okay here?”

“Of course I will,” Yoongi says, disgruntled. Jihoon nods goodbye at you both and moves through the door, leaving you in silence.

“What’s the price?” you ask, placing your purse on the counter and digging for coins. He turns the paper over so you can see what his boss wrote, and you slide him the payment. You work on attaching the blade’s sheath to your belt, ignoring how Yoongi watches you through heavy-hooded eyes.

You know that look. You are ignoring that look.

“Lovely,” you say, once you’re situated and ready to go. You swipe up your purse and toss it once, catching it deftly. “Have fun pounding on metal, or whatever.”

His grin is razor-sharp. “I’d be happy to pound something else, if you want.”

The laugh rips out of you, unbidden and unwanted. “Disgusting,” you tell him, but the laughter takes the bite out of the words. “My God, you ought to throw yourself down the well for that.”

He lifts a brow, his smile turning less dangerous and more open.

You laugh again, shaking your head. “None of that today, thanks. I’ll be off.”

“Come on,” he cajoles, coming around the counter to follow you to the door. “You know you want some. It’ll be such a long ride back here when you change your mind later.”

“Keep dreaming, blacksmith,” you tell him, lips pursing in amusement.

He lays a hand over his heart like he’s wounded. “Blacksmith? You remembered my name just fine last week when you were -.”

“Well, I seem to have forgotten it again!” you blurt before he can finish the thought, pulling the door open. Over your shoulder you call, “Good day!”

His laughter rings out onto the street, following you home.

Regretfully, you have to admit that out of everyone who lives in this village, built out from the castle’s western gate, you know the most about Min Yoongi.

You knew him in passing, of course - before. When you’d ride through this same village on this same cart, your little brother squeezed between you and your father. When you’d stand silently, peeking around your father’s side, while he took payment from the King for his scores. When you’d greet the peddlers and the shop-keepers politely before climbing back on the cart and riding all the way back home.

Yoongi was just an apprentice then. You hadn’t paid him any mind. He was quiet, a bit scruffy, stayed close to Park Jihoon. He was no more interesting to you than the apprentice for the bakery, the tannery, the copywrite. Wasn’t even the best looking out of the bunch, honestly.

He was just there, unassuming. He was there when you’d pass through town on the cart full of your father’s scores, there whenever your family had business with the blacksmith, there when the holidays rolled through and your mother dragged you into town in a dress you hated and shoes that pinched.

There the day your parents’ bodies, along with six others, were loaded onto a barge headed for the sea. There the day your brother joined four more young people from the village as they climbed into a deep blue carriage headed for the citadel.

Yoongi’s dark eyes, cool and undemanding, had been on you as you stood fully alone for the first time in your life.

You hadn’t paid him any attention then, either. You couldn’t pay mind to anything then except dragging yourself through dark day after dark day until, finally, the clouds seemed to part and your new life seemed bearable. And bearable turned into decent. And decent turned into enjoyable.

The seasons turned. The hurts faded.

And you began to pay mind to Min Yoongi.

You began to learn things about him, then - after.

In your time around town, you learned first that he was good at his work - his blades were made well, easily as well as his master’s blades. You learned that he scowled and grunted but hardly ever meant it. You learned that he had a good reputation around the village - was known for helping his neighbors without being asked, known for being polite and keeping to himself. You learned that he had no family either, that the master blacksmith who’d taken him as an apprentice had more or less raised him, too.

Alone with him, you learned that his smile could be razor sharp, one side lifting and eyes glinting in a way that made your pulse sing. You learned that when he meant it, his eyes squeezed shut and his gums showed. His shoulders shook when he laughed. He made the funniest faces when someone said anything he didn’t agree with or didn’t understand. He’d grown strong, his craft shaping his arms and roughening his hands.

You learned that he took whiskey neat at the tavern when he was done working for the day. You learned that he had a smart mouth behind his quiet demeanor, and opinions about everything. You learned what he was willing and able to do with that mouth when he pressed you against the rough wood of the tavern’s side alley, and then later, back in his rooms behind the smithy.

You learned that he fucked rough but loved soft.

And that was where it had to stop.

Because it couldn’t be - but this you knew the whole time.

When he pressed his mouth to yours sweetly, stretching to reach you, brushed one lovely finger down your cheek and whispered, I want you, you knew this: it couldn’t be.

There was no life for you in the village. There was no life for you as someone’s wife. There was no future for you as someone’s homemaker.

Even if he could somehow give you partnership and love without taking away the wildness of your lifestyle - there was no love ready to bloom and grow behind your iron ribs. You had nothing you could give him back. You knew only survival. Only killing and coin. Only the forest and its secrets.

“You can’t have me,” you’d whispered back. “I am not to be had.”

You were surprised when he didn’t fight it. He hadn’t pushed back. He hadn’t held it against you, hadn’t been wounded. He’d accepted exactly what you were willing to give him and asked for nothing more.

You know this, above all else: he’s sweet, and conscientious, and good. Yoongi is good.

You - forest-dweller, hunter, orphan, unmannered, uneducated - don’t deserve him. You aren’t enough for how good he is.

The royal physician’s face says it all.

The Queen purses her lips, her eyes on her husband’s prone form. He meets her gaze weakly, too far gone to mask any of it.

“How long?” she asks, the words clipped.

The physician spreads his hands before him. “Impossible to say, your Majesty. Days, maybe. Weeks, if he can be strong.”

She scoffs. “Days it shall be, then.” She dismisses him with the wave of a hand.

No one is surprised, she thinks. The plague would breach their walls eventually. Only the strong survive - of course it would be her husband who would succumb first, and quickly. He’d never been strong, not like her.

After all, she was the one who tried all these years. She looked and acted the part of a partner. She was faithful. She focused on the crown, on the realm.

Not like him.

He coughs as he shifts on the bed, and she looks at him again. Weak, she thinks again. She can only feel disgust for him, for everything he never gave her.

“You’ll finally get what you always wanted,” he croaks.

She turns to look out the window. The day is grey, dreary.

“It seems I shall,” she agrees. Then she turns and walks closer to her husband’s sickbed - deathbed, perhaps. She drops delicately into the chair at his side and takes his clammy hand in hers.

It might look as if she doted on him. It might look as if she mourned.

“What became of him?” she asks, voice even and unbending. “The boy.”

Her husband’s eyes crinkle with amusement, and the chuckle that rumbles from his chest is accompanied by pained coughing.

“You truly are something, my Queen,” he says, shaking his head. “The boy doesn’t even know.”

He will say nothing else.

The Queen is delivered two things at once, not a week later.

The first, a gilded mirror, promised to possess magical ability.

The second, the expected news of her husband’s passing.

The realm begins its period of mourning, flags lowering, shutters closing. The Queen begins her incantations, alone in the southernmost tower of the keep.

The frame is made of ornately twisted gold, so heavy it takes two of her men to hang it for her. When they pull the dust cover off, she steps back to appraise it.

“Pretty,” she observes, watching her own reflection in the glass - unmagical, unextraordinary.

The swirling, green-hued mist doesn’t appear before her reflection until her men are dismissed, the door closing and leaving her alone.

Your Majesty, the mirror intones, the voice coming from the depth of the mist. Your wish is my command.

The Queen pauses, considering. The throne, the throne - hers, finally, only hers.

Unless.

The King’s last words to her ring through her head - the boy doesn’t even know.

She raises her chin and chants,

“Mirror, mirror, look and see…

Who could take this throne from me?

Mirror, mirror, who’s the threat?

Show me which boy’s blood to let.”

The mist, green and growing, takes over the glass. The Queen’s fists clench tightly at her sides.

The mist clears. The Queen lets out a laugh, short and bitter.

The blacksmith’s boy smiles shyly in the glass, one hand coming up as if to hide his face.

The blacksmith’s boy. The king’s bastard. Her only threat, the only other claim to her throne.

Your next trip into town isn’t with a cart full of venison and fowl. Instead it rings more true to the holidays of old, with your mother in charge. You wear black and a scowl, just as you did then.

The funeral services for the King threaten to last the full day, maybe into the night. You wish you could abstain, but if ever there was an event you were obligated to attend - this would be it.

You’re not sure what the King’s death means for you - for your brother. Will the Queen uphold the bargain? Does she still want your brother’s counsel, someday, when he’s of age? Without the King’s affection for your father, will she continue to allow you to live freely as part of the arrangement?

You sit alone in the church pew; rather, you’re surrounded on either side by strangers. You know Yoongi’s in the crowd somewhere - you can feel his eyes burning holes in the back of your head. You don’t turn to look for him. What good would it do?

It’s well after dark when the town begins to file out into the night. Your stomach growls, and you ponder if you should stop for a hot meal at the tavern before making the trek back through the woods or if you can hold out until you’re safely back at home.

You’re stopped on your way out the door by a guard reaching across you, blocking your path.

“Her Majesty requests your audience,” he says gruffly, and you feel the hairs on your neck stand at attention. Your audience?

It can’t be good. You’re sure of it.

You don’t meet her in the throne room as you have in the past. Instead, the guard leads you to a small chamber off the chapel, a nondescript little room with no decor, only a table with a candelabra lit in the center.

She’s seated, and it’s so cramped in the room that it’s hard to properly bow, but you do your best.

“Is my brother well?” you blurt out as soon as the guard has closed the door behind you. It was the first, biggest concern you had - you couldn’t hold it in. Had something happened in the citadel?

She inclines her head, shrouded in darkness. “I asked you here because I need something done. You seem, somehow, to be my best option.”

You duck your head, flooded with relief. “I’m at your service, as always.”

And you are. You owe the crown everything - the home you were allowed to keep, your brother’s education, your income. Your freedom, as conditional as it is.

The Queen seems to think before she speaks, and when she does each word is short and deliberate.

“There’s someone I need gone,” she says, her voice giving away no emotion. No sign of grief from the widow, no sign of trepidation from the new ruler, no sign of regret from the human asking you to take a life. “A threat to my throne. I’ll pay five times our normal scale. And I’ll pay you for your discretion, as well, on an ongoing basis.”

You respond with silence. You can’t process quickly enough - you don’t know what to tell her.

The only thing you can tell her is yes. She holds your whole world in her hands.

But if you tell her yes, then you have to do it. Can you kill a person, can you pretend it’s no different from cutting a rabbit’s throat?

Could you tell her yes and then leave? Vanish into the forest? What would become of your brother, if you did? Would he be responsible for your sins?

Five times your normal price could do a lot for you. You could send finer clothes to your brother, help pay for his books, maybe even a little spending money. You could fix up the cabin - patch the roof where it leaks, reinforce the cellar the way you’ve thought about for years.

And payment for your silence - ongoing? For how long, forever?

None of it matters. You can’t say no to the Queen.

“Yes, your Majesty,” you hear yourself say. Your stomach is a block of ice, turning over and over with the tide. “I am yours to command.”

You know it. She knows it.

“The blacksmith’s boy,” she says coolly, and you aren’t even surprised. It’s like part of you knew, somehow. Part of you has been waiting for this ending all along. Isn’t this exactly why you’d never let him get too close? There was never a happy ending in the stars - not for you.

She accepts your silence as acquiescence and adds, “Tonight.”

“Tonight?” you repeat, voice coming out too wispy.

She meets your gaze, still cold. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” you say, the only correct answer. But your mind is scrambling far away, getting ahead - what weapons do you have on hand, how will you do this -

“You didn’t strike me as softhearted,” she says, full of disdain.

“I’m not,” you defend. It’s just that it’s Yoongi. Yoongi, who sees your sharp edges and smiles because he knows firsthand how much sharp edges are worth. How - how - how can you? How can you pretend it’s just a hunt, just a necessity, when you know how his mouth tastes, how he looks at you like you’re something?

Her even look turns darker, a shade closer to a frown. “I know you have the stomach and skill to kill. And I know you dally with him. He’ll follow you - take him to the woods and be done with it.”

You haven’t been as discrete as you thought you had. You wonder who else in town knows about whom you dally with.

Not that it will matter, after tonight. Not if you follow orders.

Not when you follow orders.

“Yes, your Majesty,” you say, head bowed.

There’s no other correct answer. Your freedom had always had a price.

–

There’s some poetic irony, you think, in killing Min Yoongi with the blade he made just for you.

Your mind is stuck on this, circling it, unable to let go, as you approach the smithy.

The lights are out - there’ll be no late-night projects, not during the official mourning for the King. You hope Park Jihoon, whose quarters are above the smithy, just across the yard from Yoongi’s tiny cabin, sleeps deeply.

You know Yoongi keeps a key in the eaves above his front window; you’ve seen him retrieve it no less than a half-dozen times - usually he’s reaching for it, his shirt rising and showing a slip of belly that you can’t help but run your hands across as he laughs and tells you to be patient.

You reach it on your own, tonight. You let yourself in as silently as possible, closing the door behind you, placing the key gently on his tiny, wooden table. His bed is in the far corner of the room, and although the fire in the hearth has gone out, you can see the lump of blankets through the darkness that show you his form.

You approach quietly, as you would approach a potential score, letting yourself slip into the mindset of surviving the forest.

You hesitate when you stand over him. He sleeps on his back, the light from the streetlamps outside casting flickering yellow over his delicate features. His eyelids flutter. Next to his head, his fingers twitch.

If you strike true, this could be over in an instant.

His eyes slide open, and a hazy smile drifts over his face. “Am I having a very good dream?” he murmurs. His eyes trail down your form and freeze on the knife in your hand. The smile fades, and his eyes meet yours again, a question in them. “Or perhaps a very bad one?”

“I’m sorry,” you tell him. Then, you move at the same time - you lunging and plunging the blade into the spot where his heart lay, and him rolling sideways and hitting the floor with a thud.

You yank your blade free from where it pierced Yoongi’s empty mattress and wheel to follow him as he scrambles upright and towards the door.

You should’ve locked it. You shouldn’t have apologized, your voice and your regret giving him the split second to bolt.

You follow him at a sprint, panting hard, as the fool runs barefoot through the smithy’s yard, heading for the forest.

Your forest.

It’s overcast tonight, threatening rain. No moon or stars to guide you, you follow Yoongi as he zigs and zags blindly through the trees. You have the advantage. You know where you are, even in the dark.

It’s primal, as you forge deeper and deeper through the underbrush, just sinew and silence as you run. Wind whistles around you as you focus on breathing, focus on following the crunch of Yoongi’s wild path. The earth seems to rise up to meet each footfall with a jolting slap. The darkness seems to spur you on like it knows you need this, pressing you onward, telling you, hurry, hurry.

If you can herd him towards the east, you can cut him off at the ravine - he won’t be able to do it barefoot, not without stumbling, not without cutting those bare feet on the sharp rocks. You pick up the pace, emboldened by the plan, knees and elbows pumping as you close in.

Without warning, Yoongi stops short and wheels around on you, feet skidding a little on the loose needles that coat the forest floor. It’s so unexpected that the inertia carries you to him before you can tell your legs to quit. Before you can slow, before you can turn, he grabs you by the arms and slams you backwards into the thick trunk of an oak tree, hard enough to knock the wind out of you with an audible gasp.

You’re surprised enough that the knife drops from your fingers, and he wastes no time gripping you even tighter and throwing you to the ground, instantly dropping his body over yours and holding you down as best he can as you struggle. The blade lies just out of reach, taunting you, and you reach up and stretch as hard as you can to wiggle your fingers closer, but Yoongi roughly jerks your arm away.

You’re gasping for breath as you struggle beneath his weight, trying to keep your vision clear. This wasn’t part of the plan. You weren’t supposed to have to chase him, have to fight him. You aren’t used to this - the deer don’t fight back.

“Why?” he pants heavily, his whole body heaving with each inhale and exhale. Sweat runs down his neck from the curled, damp edges of his hair. His eyes are wild, confused above you.

“Do you know who your father is?” you respond in answer, and the question surprises him so much that he leans back, like he’s trying to get a better look at you.

It’s all you need. You use your feet and your core strength to stretch just past where you couldn’t reach with his full weight on you, and your fingers close around the blade’s handle. In a flash, you have the sharp side pressing to the pulse point on Yoongi’s neck, hard enough that you know he can feel the sting, your other hand curling in his shirt and holding him still. His eyes widen and he freezes, straining to hold himself up and away from you.

“If you move I’ll do it, and it won’t be quick,” you hiss, teeth gritted so hard you’re sure they’ll crack. Your heart slams in your chest, adrenaline sending tingles clear down to your toes. You’re dizzy with fear. You aren’t sure what’s scarier - actually doing what you’re meant to, or having to report that you didn’t.

You’re both stuck there - a tableau, an oil painting, frozen for eternity, never moving on from this moment. A million possibilities stretch on as Yoongi’s pulse beats visibly against the knife he’d sharpened for you just days ago.

You feel like you’re floating outside your body; you can’t feel any of it - not the knife’s handle against your palm, not Yoongi’s hips still pinning yours, not the sticks and stones beneath your spine, not the sticky humidity of a night on the precipice of storm. Not your own thrumming, frightened heartbeat.

You know you can’t do it - not this way. Not like this, not with his eyes on yours, steady, as if he’s not staring down his death. Not like this, looking into his face and remembering the first time you were under him this way, remembering every time after that. Your hand trembles as you will yourself not to pull the blade away.

But he knows. Yoongi’s always called your every bluff, has always been perfectly capable of shooting you a knowing half-smile and pushing right past your blustering, always able to find the person on the other side of the facade - the person who’s scared,confused, alone.

“No you won’t,” he murmurs, low, and there’s nothing accusing or mocking in it. He’s simply telling you what he knows.

Slowly, carefully, he lowers his face closer to yours, so deliberately that the knife slides harmlessly along his skin until he’s clear of it. He presses his lips to yours, uncertain at first, then with more insistence when you don’t push him away.

The fear and adrenaline crash through you in time with a not-so-distant crack of thunder, blinding you, rendering you thoughtless and animalistic. You drop the knife with a thud, barely aware that you’re doing it, your hand coming instead to tangle in his loose hair, clutching it tightly at the base of his neck and pressing his head closer to yours, kissing him deeper, needing to absolutely drown in his kiss.

He grunts at your enthusiasm, nipping at your bottom lip before diving into you again, licking deep into your mouth and pressing his hips down into yours in rhythm with the kiss. You move with him desperately, the quiet of the woods scattered by your combined gasping breaths, tiny sounds of pleasure slipping through the cracks in your armor, the wet sounds of your mouths coming apart and meeting again hungrily. Despite the earth solid beneath you, you feel like you’re spinning. You clutch him tightly, one hand in his hair and the other arm coming around his shoulders, tethering him to you.

He’s the only thing keeping you here, in the present, not skittering off to somewhere safe inside your head.

You let him hold you there, pressed between him and the unyielding ground below you, channel all the rushing adrenaline into how you meet his fiery kisses, pressing your mouth hard back against his like it’s a battle, into how you roll your hips against his, thrilling at feeling him hard and ready for you. But for all the intensity, for the dizziness sweeping over you, neither of you rushes - you kiss for so long that your lips tingle, your core throbs, the night grows blacker, the thunder tiptoes closer.

You swipe your tongue over his familiar lips, whining in your throat when he opens for you again, welcomes you in, rocks against you and closes his eyes against the sting as you unconsciously tighten your fingers in his hair.

Then he breaks the kiss, pulls himself free of your grasp, nudges his nose to the underside of your jaw until you lean your head back, breathing hard, giving him room to attach teeth and lips to the skin of your neck.

He gathers a bit of skin and worries it between his teeth, muttering, “You won’t kill me. No one else can make you come undone like I do.”

The sound that tears out of you is half laugh and half desperate groan. “Prove it, then,” you goad, fingers finding the hem of his shirt and pulling the edge towards you. He releases the spot on your neck long enough to let you pull the material over his head. Then he sits back on his knees between your legs and looks you over, one hand absently sliding down the front of his trousers, pressing relief into his waiting cock.

“Yours,” he says, tone steely. You find your own hem with shaking fingers. Distantly, there’s a flash of lightning, illuminating the canopy of tree branches above you before plunging you into darkness again. You pull your top over your head and drop it next to his, leaning back on your elbows.

All thoughts of what you’re supposed to do here have left you; there’s only hands-shaking adrenaline and instinct driving you to give in to your desires and pursue what you want - Yoongi, Yoongi, more of Yoongi.

“Trousers, too,” Yoongi tells you, voice quiet. His fingers are on the string of his own trousers, but his eyes are on your exposed chest. Hungry.

You do as he says, untying your bottoms and pushing them away with your feet and waiting for his next move. The night isn’t cold, but you shiver. The forest, your forest, feels like a sanctuary, like it’s wrapping around the two of you and keeping you safe from everything outside. Like if you stayed in here, together, you might be safe from her after all.

But you know that’s a lie.

You push the thought away by coming up on your knees and approaching Yoongi, who’s still kneeling, too. You press your chest to him with a shudder as you reach to kiss him again. He gives a quiet, happy noise low in his throat and you answer with a hum as you lick into him again.

You slip a hand between your bodies and find him heavy and leaking. He presses into your touch with a nearly-silent keen that you manage to catch, and you trace your fingertips up his length, playing in the wetness you find waiting for you at the tip, then pulling that wetness down to the base again. You repeat the motion, touch featherlight, and listen to Yoongi’s breathing hitch and catch and sigh as he closes his eyes and enjoys it. He’s silky against your fingertips, skin like satin even here.

Yoongi trails kisses down your jaw, making a clear path towards your neck, and he skims a hand up your side and past your ribs, cupping one breast and rubbing his thumb roughly over your hardening nipple. You gasp, fingers twitching against his length, which spurs him on. He runs his knuckles lightly over the bud, then takes it gently between his thumb and forefinger, giving it an experimental roll. Your gasped ah turns into a liquid moan and he does it again, harder. You keen, a note of complaint in it, as he repeats the movement that is somehow both too much and not enough.

You wrap your hand fully around him, done teasing him with barely-there strokes, and roll your wrist once, twice, three times, his low grumbling reply music to your ears. He’s still mouthing at your neck and he switches hands, igniting sparks as he gently pinches the other nipple instead. Then he reaches and bumps your wrist out of his way as he cups your sex and spears you on his middle finger.

“Fuck, Yoongi,” you whine, rocking into his hand, trying to take the digit just a little deeper.

He must hear the desperation in your tone or sense it in the way you clench around his single finger, because he takes mercy on you and presses a second finger in beside the first. You sigh, still rocking against his hand, as he fucks into the spot in your front wall that makes your eyes drift closed and your toes curl up. You abandon his cock, bringing your hands to his shoulders, hanging on to keep yourself upright. When he presses his thumb against your clit you groan, loud and long, no one to hear you, and let your head fall back.

“That’s right,” he murmurs, plunging his fingers in and out of your wet heat. You can hear it each time he pushes them back in, the sound ringing in the silent woods, the only competition the approaching rolls of gentle thunder.

He works you up until you’re panting, your forehead dropping to rest against his collarbone, your hips in constant motion as you seek more. Your arms are looped around his neck, though you don’t remember starting to hold him, and your fingers find the ends of his long hair, tugging lightly in time with his motions. Occasionally his thumb circles your clit, causing your hips to jerk, but the angle stops him from keeping it constant. He pulls his hand away, and you take a bracing breath, coming back to your senses as the sensations fade.

He drops back from his knees, one arm behind his head as he lays back. He locks his eyes on yours as he strokes himself, his teeth toying with his bottom lip.

“Come on, then,” he prompts, his hand languid and lazy on his cock. Your body buzzes as you climb over him and sink down, letting him fill you, stretch you, break you into pieces. You ride him hard, one hand splayed on his flushed chest for balance, as around you the wind picks up, the leaves on the trees fluttering.

Yoongi’s eyes screw closed and his head tips back, even as his hands continue to guide your hips through each rise and fall.

You slow, savoring the drag against your walls, savoring his pretty skin beneath your fingers, savoring the grunts and hitched breaths he’s trying to hold back.

You could have loved Yoongi. In another life, where you had chips to bargain with. In a life where you fit into place within the village, where wild wasn’t as necessary to you as air. Even if the Queen had never called for Yoongi’s head - this life never meant for you to love him.

This is what you think about as you lightly rake your nails down his chest, watching him squirm beneath you. You think about all the times he’d been on the edge of saying it.

You think about all the times the feeling had risen up in you, as warm as a patch of sunlit floor, and you’d had to blow it away like an errant dandelion seed.

Maybe you do love him. You just can’t forget - not for a second - how little it matters.

The knife sits where you’d dropped it before undressing, just past Yoongi’s head.

You could probably reach it now.

Yoongi seems to sense the change in your motions and cracks an eye open, his fingers on your hips loosening.

His gaze follows yours. A flash of lightning makes the metal shine for a split second, and then you’re surrounded by the sudden patter of falling rain.

“Guess we better hurry,” Yoongi mutters, reaching up to grip the back of your neck and pulling you down so your chest is flush with his.

All thoughts leave your mind as he hammers into you from below - the knife is forgotten. Your feelings are forgotten. The rain, starting to muddy up the ground around you, forgotten.

You cum around him in silence, jaw clenched, fingers digging into his biceps. The groan he lets out as you squeeze around him in waves is drowned out by a growl of thunder that feels like it’s right above you, all around you.

Yoongi pumps into you with abandon, suddenly losing the rhythm he’d created. He gives two more shuddery thrusts and then lets his arms flop to the ground with a contented sigh.

For a second, you both lay there, sweat-slick and panting. Another lightning splits the sky, and the rain comes harder. He slides out of you and you wiggle until you’re laying just next to him instead of on top of him.

You can’t stop looking at him. He seems determined not to look at you.

The rain washes everything away - the smell of sex, your sweat, your affection, your sadness, your pride.

“My father,” he murmurs beneath you, and you go deathly still. “Yes, I knew.”

You swallow, brush rainwater from your brow. “So does the Queen,” you say back. An explanation, and an answer to the why he’d leveled at you an hour ago.

He nods slowly, expression clearing with understanding.

You feel no absolution for it.

Finally, he leans his head back again, his bangs flopping heavily now that they’re saturated with rainwater, and eyes the knife.

You sit up. He brings his eyes to you and watches silently - as if he accepts whatever move you make. As if, should you reach for the metal, he wouldn’t fight you this time.

“Go.” The word tumbles roughly onto the inch of mud between you. You don’t remember making the decision to say it.

He sits up, elbows and shoulders caked with mud. But all he does is watch you, wait for you to change your mind.

“Go,” you repeat, meaning it. Now that you’ve said it once, now that the decision was made, you know it’s the right one. “I’ll tell her it’s done.”

You could never kill him. You both knew it all along.

He dresses wordlessly, and you do the same, pulling your top back over your head and tying up your trouser string. When you look up, he’s standing in the rain, watching you.

You stoop and grab the knife he’d made you. You grip it tightly in your hand, refuse to meet his eyes.

He’s not challenging you, not questioning you - and that, in itself, feels like a slap.

“You can’t come back,” you say, as evenly as you can muster. When he just looks at you, infuriatingly silent, you add, “You can’t. Okay? If she - she can never know.”

“I know,” he says, and then he gives you a long, searching look. He’s drenched now, and your hands itch to push his set hair away from his face, to use your thumbs to chase raindrops - you think - away from his lashline.

Then, choked, he offers, “You could -”

“Don’t,” you bite out, stopping him before he can make you any kind of offer. You can’t. You can’t go with him. You can’t disappear into the night. Your brother is counting on you. You won’t let him pay for your sins.

Yoongi shakes his head. He takes another step closer. Your fingers tighten on the knife’s handle.

“Y/N, I -”

You raise the knife above your head in a flash, eyes going wide in fury.

“Fucking go!” you bark.

He holds up his hands, takes a few steps backwards, giving up his quest to make this harder than it needs to be. Lightning illuminates him and above your head, the blade shines for a split second before everything is cast into inky darkness again.

When your eyes adjust to the darkness, trees around you forming a shape again, he’s gone.

You don’t follow him, and you don’t return to your cabin. You sink to your knees in the mud, dropping the knife onto the ground, and sob into your hands, the noise swallowed by the flurry of rain and the intermittent cracks of thunder.

—

You sleep. You hunt. When the time comes, you bring your scores to the Queen atop your wagon.

She doesn’t ask you about Yoongi. You don’t offer her anything, just thank her for her grace routinely when she orders your purse to be filled.

You don’t stop at the tavern on the way back home. You don’t stop at any of the shops - not this time. You don’t trust yourself to act right if Yoongi’s disappearance gets brought up. You don’t trust that no one will do the math that he vanished four nights ago, and now you’re a hollowed shell who can’t form words.

The townspeople have seen you grieve before. They’d know what they were seeing.

The next trip is easier, and the one after that even more. The Queen never thanks you, not that you expected it, but you start finding an extra purse of coins in your wagon each time you return to it after bringing in your kills.

The price for your silence. The price for what she thinks you’ve done.

It hurts the most when your wagon passes the smithy, but you keep your eyes on the cobblestones and your hands on the reins and eventually the hurt fades along with the village as you get farther and farther away.

The seasons turn. The hurts fade. You send extra money to your brother. You sleep. You hunt.

Eventually, you stop waking up from nightmares that feature the glint of metal. You stop waking up trying desperately to cling to your dreams as fruitlessly as clinging to smoke, left with only damp places on your pillow and the memory of a low, throaty chuckle ringing in your ears.

Eventually, you can ride past the smithy without the pang in your chest. You can stop for a pint without watching the shadows for the appearance of a gummy smile. You can laugh when the bartender cracks a joke, can sound like yourself when you ask the baker’s daughter how she’s been faring.

It is after one of these trips, deep into color-saturated autumn, that you return to your cabin with wagon empty and purses full.

Something isn’t right. You freeze, casting your eyes around the forest, but it holds its secrets tight.

On the ground in front of your door, illuminated by the late afternoon sunlight, is a brand new, shining blade.

thank you so much for reading!!! i really really like this one and i hope you do too!! <3

#bts x reader #bts fanfic #bts fic #yoongi fanfic #yoongi fic #yoongi x reader #yoongi smut #yoongi angst #yoongi x you #yoongi x y/n #min yoongi fic #min yoongi fanfic #min yoongi smut #min yoongi angst #fairy tale au #fic: the price

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multifariousqueer · 1 year

Note

hear me out— crazy and openly flirty! reader with her crazy and jealous bf Miles 42. Expand on that however you want

Okay so I had a thought...

A/n: Keep requesting fics as always. I’m not gonna be as active but I’ll post as often as I can bc I’m going on vacation for a week but idk, ill prolly still post a ton 💀

Warnings: Mentions of blood, implied murd3r, you being a flirt and Miles being crazy asf, lmk if I forgot some

It seemed like a pretty normal day, you were designing some stuff for one of your classes and y/f/n(your crush/friend) decided to tag along. Y’all weren’t that close but everyone could tell there were sparks between you two, even more so than your boyfriend Miles.

Everyone(even y/f/n) knew that you two were dating and were happy but they still interfered. People claimed you were a slut and you were insane and you were forcing Miles into a relationship even though, people close to y’all claimed it to be the opposite. You never really broke the habit of flirting for fun and this pissed Miles off to no end:

“Y/n he thinks you’re single” Miles would say

“Well I’m not. I’m just naturally flirty” you would defend

“You’re also beautiful mami and people want to take advantage of that” Miles said

“Well thats why I have you” you would say, standing on your tiptoes to kiss Miles

“Mmm he better watch himself, let’s just say that next time he pulls that shit, I might not be so nice"

Miles was a wonderful boyfriend but your exact opposite. Where you were bright, happy, always had a smile on your face and friendly; Miles was dark, nonchalant, cold and walked around like his opps were around the corner, about to kill you. You two shared a few things though, you were both crazy and possessive of each other. If Miles spoke to a girl you didn’t know, you would come over and kiss him, touch him, and flirt with him; making him flustered

“Miles, te necisito, papi” you would flirt while tilting your head and rubbing his lower back

“Oh! Who is this?” the girl asked, with a hint of venom in her voice

“I’m Y/n but you can call me his wife” you said, putting out your hand for her to shake

“Girl chill, we’re 16. He ain’t marrying you anytime soon” the girl clapped back

“You don’t know me.” Miles would say coldly to the girl

“And you won’t get the chance to” you would finish and smile at the girl

The girl walked away in a huff after that and Miles smirked at you:

“You jealous ma?"

“No. I just don’t want people pushing up on my man” you said

He chuckled and said:

“Don’t worry, Mami; I’m not feeling no one else but you."

After this little escapade; You and Miles had the mutual agreement to stop flirting with other people and you held up your end of that well until y/f/n came along and kept pressuring you to go out with them and give them a chance:

“You know, if you were with me, I’d never let you out of my sight. Anywhere you go, I’d go. Class? I’ll carry your books. Home? I’m right behind you. The Bathroom? I’m-“ they started

“You’re what? No. Go ahead and continue that sentence, I dare you” Miles said suddenly

“MILES!!! Thank God you’re here, I was so scared” you said, clapping your hands together like a prayer had been answered(because it had).

“Dude, chill; I was just joking. Y/n knows I’d never overstep like that, bro” y/f/n said, holding out a hand in an attempt to dap your boyfriend up

“I’m not your ‘bro’ homeboy, watch how you step, it might be your last if you keep fucking with my girl like that” Miles said taking a step towards the person. They were almost equal height but Miles was slightly taller(6’2 yes ik its not canon and idc)

It seemed like they would fight right there in the hallway with the way Miles was staring at y/f/n and while y/f/n was a bit intimidated, they weren’t backing down. They were another one of your victims of over-flirtation but unlike the others, they were persistent and tried the friend angle in order to get to you but they didn’t sound on your boyfriend being jealous and possessive. Eventually, they walked away and Miles pulled you aside:

“Don’t fucking talk to them again, you understand ma?” Miles said

“I understand. I am so so sorry, they just came up to me and cornered me.” you explained with watery eyes

“It’s fine, ma. Don’t let it happen again, tu entiendes?” he said, grabbing your chin to look him in the eye

“Si, papi. Te amo” you said

The next few days were quiet. Miles stayed closer than usual to you, y/f/n stayed away but they stared at you constantly and smirked at you. It was one faithful Saturday that would change all of that in a flash.

Miles was away doing Prowler stuff and you were designing possible suit, mask and gauntlet combos when you heard a knock on your dorm. You opened the door and were shocked to see y/f/n:

“Hey, y/n. Can we talk?"

“Uhm I should wait for Miles. He’ll be back shortly” you lied. Prowler shit took four hours min because Miles would carry stuff out in bulk so he could spend more time with you

“We can talk without him right?” Y/f/n said, pushing into your dorm. Your dorm mate was away for the weekend, visiting her parents in nantucket.

“Oh. I guess” You said

“so what you drawing?’ they asked

“stuff” you giggled

“Fuck I love your laugh.” they smiled

“um thanks” you replied

“a pretty laugh for a pretty girl” they said, grabbing your chin and staring at your lips

“thanks. You caught me at a bad time, I’m just about to go shower” you said pushing their hand away

“Oh can I join, haha?” they joked

“hahaha.” you said, silently praying Miles was outside your window witnessing all of this and waiting to strike

“You know, I’ve had a huge crush on you since you first came here? You were genuinely sweet and kind and pretty. Miles doesn’t know how lucky he is to have someone like you” They confessed, closing the gap between y’all

“Yeah but I can tell he appreciates me. He never makes me feel uncomfortable” you said with a hint of venom

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” they asked, approaching your lips

“Yeah, very” you said trying to back away. At this point, you were praying for a miracle when all of a sudden, you hear a slashing noise and see blood on your floor

“I told you to stay away from her. I gave you a warning, this is on you homeboy”

“Who are you?” they spluttered out.

A mask opened up and suddenly he appeared

“I’m Miles Morales, but you You can call me the Prowler. Right, Amor?” Miles looked at you

“Right, baby. You said, kissing your man as the person in front of you, fades away.

#mcu fanfiction #miles morales x reader #miles morales x y/n #miles morales headcannons #miles morales #miles x reader #across the spiderverse #spiderman #spider man: across the spider verse #across the spiderverse fanart #across the spiderverse spoilers #spiderman into the spiderverse #into the spider verse #spiderverse #earth 42 #earth42!miles #earth42!miles smut #prowler!miles #foryou

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mrsjellymunson · 3 months

Text

KNOCK AT THE CABIN | Prologue

Written for @bettyfrommars, @allthingsjoeq and @somnambulic-thing’s Stranger Prompts, Prompt 1. He shows up at your house covered in mud in the rain, but the problem is, he died two months ago.

Series Summary: After the events of the previous months, everyone is shocked by the unexpected return of an old friend. But is it really him?

Chapter Summary: On a stormy night, an unexpected visitor arrives.

WC: 1.14k

Series C/W: 🔞 18+, MDNI, NSFW. I mean it, if you’re under 18, git! Post-S4, Upside Down exists, dark/supernatural themes. Eventual Eddie Munson x fem!reader smut. Swearing. Not much to caution about in this part, unless you don’t like rain, or bad decor.

A/N: This series contains a lot of things I haven’t written for before, so I’d love to know what you think! Please comment and reblog, it means the world to writers, and reblogs mean work gets seen. This series has a taglist so if you’d like to be on either it, or my general list, lemme know in a comment, ask or message 🙏💗

Skip to Part One

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You’re holed up in an old farmhouse on the outskirts of Hawkins. It’s not exactly remote, but the nearest building is little more than a speck on the horizon so you feel pretty isolated. Owens organised it, explaining it would be a good idea for the older members of the party to lay low for a little while. Nancy had put forward an excellent argument for remaining with her family, but you, Robin and Steve had reluctantly packed up some of your belongings and relocated here. For how long, you don’t know.

It’s no palace. The wood-built building is certainly past its best, the yellowing 50s kitchen barely functional and the faded decor not to anyone's taste. But it’s (mostly) warm, (usually) dry, and most importantly, it feels safe. Which is something you all need after the events of the past few months.

You’re all acutely aware of the obvious gap in your merry band. Owens had insisted that the three of you didn’t attend the funeral, but he’d involved you as much as he could, ferrying messages between you and the kids and Wayne, discussing what he would’ve wanted to wear (you all agreed on his spare Hellfire shirt and leather jacket, knowing he’d never want to be separated from either, plus a brand new, government-funded pair of black 501s), and sneaking mementoes to you with Wayne’s approval.

Mike and Will have taken charge of his D&D paraphernalia, Dustin got his wallet chain (and wears it with literally everything, even his Weird Al shirts and colourful shorts), and Lucas opted for a small pocket knife. You, Steve and Robin each have one of his rings. Steve and Robin keep theirs in their rooms, but you wear the silver skull every day. It’s too big for your fingers, and is even a little loose on your thumb, but that’s where you keep it, spinning it to ease your anxiety, and smoothing the pads of your fingers over its bumpy surface to remind you of the friend you’ve lost. Rueing the fact that you always wanted him to be more than that, but never had the chance to find out whether he felt the same.

The kids visit periodically, even staying over sometimes, nobody expecting anyone to be watching the comings and goings of a bunch of nerdy teens. Nancy drops them off, sometimes staying, sometimes not. On this occasion she’d dropped and run, explaining that she was going to visit Max in the hospital tomorrow, spending some quality girly time with her. Lucas, who usually spent every spare moment by her bedside, was going to spend the weekend here, after Max, still seriously ill but now well enough to communicate, insisted that he needed to spend at least a bit of time with his old friends.

Tonight, you’d had a movie marathon, Keith developing an uncharacteristically generous side since everything kicked off and periodically dropping off and collecting piles of VHS tapes. Not quite generous enough to bring you any brand new releases, but even things you’ve seen before are better than the ‘sweet FA’ you’d have available given the nonexistent TV reception around here.

Popcorn litters the floor and the saggy furniture, as do gangly boys and a long-haired girl. Jane has commandeered the sole armchair, sitting in it cross-legged, and you, Steve and Robin are squashed onto the sofa with an equally squashed Dustin, the latter insisting that there was definitely room for one more.

Mike and Will are on the floor between the sofa and the old, battered coffee table. Mike’s hunched over a bowl of chips that he’s shovelling in, and Will is leaning against your legs, you stroking his hair in a way you know he finds comforting. Lucas is lounging on the floor at the side of the table, his long body stretched out and his head supported on threadbare throw pillows.

The gentle patter of drizzly rain against the windows and roof, and the crackle of the open fire, one of your only sources of heating, gives the evening a cosy feel, though you hope the rain doesn’t get any heavier as you don’t entirely trust the roof over the rear extension to cope with much more meteorological abuse.

You’ve just finished Raiders Of the Lost Ark and Steve has got up to swap it out for The Stuff, when there’s a strong gust of wind and the rainfall picks up significantly. Great, you think, the weather gods definitely weren’t listening to your silent pleas.

None of you notice Jane stiffening in her seat and shifting uncomfortably.

Under the lashing of the wind and rain there’s a sudden noise at the front door. Not urgent, not loud, just two soft thuds. If the kids had been roughhousing or the film had been on you may even have missed them.

You all look at each other, instantly and equally on edge, and all hoping that somebody, anybody, will provide a simple explanation for this.

Steve’s the first to speak. Jaw slack and brow furrowed, he asks the room, “Uhh, did anyone order takeout?”

There’s a cacophony of ‘no’s’ and shaken heads, before another soft thud is heard, just one this time.

Steve steels himself, not for the first time realising that it’s his responsibility to investigate the possibly terrifying, and potentially life-threatening, situation. He stands from his position by the video player and moves towards the door, fingertips skimming the top of the bat that’s always to the side of it, before closing his hand softly around the handle.

He pulls back the sliding bolts before twisting the lock and pulling the door open just a crack, leaving the chain on. The noise of the weather increases in volume, but other than that there’s no indication of what’s on the other side.

Steve has his back to you so you don’t see his eyes go wide, but you do hear a soft, “Wh- What the fuck?”

Robin being Robin, and perpetually thinking about her stomach, she says,

“What is it, doofus? Pleeease tell me it’s Jonathon and Argyle dropping by from Cali with some delicious Surfer Boy pizza??”

“Uh, no, it’s, uh- You know what? Maybe you should just come and see for yourself. Wait, scratch that, just the adults.”

Knowing this will unwittingly pique the interest of the kids more than if he’d just allowed everyone to come look, you and Robin glance at each other before quickly rising and moving to the door.

Steve closes it and takes off the chain, opening it wide as the three of you arrive, the kids following close behind and trying to look between you.

There, hunched, shivering, soaking wet and covered in mud, is your friend. The one who’d died saving the town. The one they’d buried only a few days ago, after he’d been lying on a slab in a lab somewhere for weeks.

Eddie.

Continue to Part One

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Thanks so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed this. Lemme know if you’d like to be tagged in future parts.

Extra tags: @jamdoughnutmagician @joejoequinnquinn

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minnesota-fats · 2 years

Text

So I LOVE the idea of a meet the parents fic where Danny is dating one of the bat kids and he is invited over to meet the rest of the family.

Whatever batkid you like (i personally like Tim x Danny)

And dinner is going GREAT, danny is charming the hell out of everyone when he says something vaguely concerning about his home life that borders neglect (or even just straight abuse) and Danny doesnt know what he said was wrong and just keeps eating without a thought.

Maybe he complimented Alfred’s cooking and said, “man this is great! Even better when it doesn’t get reanimated by your parents experiments” or “wow, I wish my folks cooked meals for me and my sister like this.”

and Bruce just gets that look in his eye. you know the one! And whoever is next to Bruce kicks him in the shin and glares at him like, “I know what your thinking! Don’t you dare!” And bruce just looks at them like, “but I cant not adopt him!” And danny is blissfully unaware of this whole conversation.

But if damien was the one who brought danny he would immediately offer for danny to stay without consulting ANYONE. like after he says vaguely concerning things damien is just like, “move here and you don’t have to go hungry ever again.” Or “live with me and i will protect you forever.” Or even just, “bring your sister next time, i am concerned for your health if your parents can reanimate food.”

—

On the flip side: Danny bringing one of the bats home with HIM!

Jazz would be SO excited to meet Danny’s significant other! Danny had been dreading bringing his bat home with him because his parents were EMBARRASSING (absent or explosive) so there they are sitting around the table waiting for jack and maddie and eventually danny sighs and just says its ok and to start eating. Jazz almost gets up to go hound their parents about this but danny stops her and smiles. Then like a hour later an explosion in the basement shakes the house and up from the basement Jack and Maddie wearing full hazmat suits burst through the basement doors as smoke bellows out. In the possess maddie greets them and goes back to doing what she was doing. The whole time the bat is mentally cataloging very problematic behavior the Fenton’s are showing as well as thinking of ways to bring danny and his sister somewhere safe.

Jack and Maddie cause a fire in the kitchen while Danny’s bat is over and the fenton kids sigh like this has happened before, danny turns to jazz “ill go get the fire extinguisher.” And jazz nods, “Ill order takeout, any preferences?”

Danny comes home with their bat to Jazz looking nervous and when danny sees her he immediately realizes that it is his parents doing the cooking tonight and is about to walk right back out the door with their bat but his dad walks out and stops him with a bright smile.

The bat is intimidated by Jack’s sheer size (he is a very large man and they never thought that someone could be taller than Superman but here was Jack Fenton) and then when they sit down to eat after Jack spent an hour talking at them. But then the food is reanimated and starts to attack and so the bat fights back and impresses the fenton parents with their fighting skills.

Either way both would be a disaster and i am LIVING for it!!!!!

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imaginesmai · 3 months

Note

could i request azriel with t (time) from your angst alphabet?

T for Time: you're ill and you don't have much time together, from my Angst Alphabet

Since I don't think fae can get ill, I changed this a little bit. This is sad and heartbreaking and please forgive me. Send in your requests if you have them!

Warning: pregnancy gone wrong, death during labor, descriptions of pregnancy injuries.

Time you take for granted - Azriel

2nd month

The night had brought an intense rain over Velaris, that had soaked the streets and threatened its villagers into their houses. Even cats and dogs had found shelter between the containers and hallways. Fires burned in almost every home, families laughing around it and sharing stories about their days.

Azriel could only guess their days had been better than his, than yours. There was no fire in your house that night, and he wouldn’t be lighting one. Not when darkness helped him disguise the terror stuck in his face, the tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.

“We will have to talk about this, my love. Eventually” you broke the silence from your sitting place in bed, across from his couch. “You can’t close off”

He had been doing that since you two received the news hours away, when the sun still warmed the streets. When he thought his life was at his peak, with a loving mate who walked wrapped around his left arm.

He could do that for a little bit longer. Pretend Madja had just sent you off with some medical prescriptions for the nausea and two weeks leave for your job. Pretend Rhysand would grimace but allow him to disappear those two weeks with you.

“Please, Az. I’m scared too. I don’t want to do this alone” your voice sounded too at the brim of panic. “I need you”

Those words made him look up from the stain of the carpet. Azriel had been sitting in the couch, quiet and unmoving, for a long hour. Enough time to process the information, the fears and doubts. He guessed that was enough time for him, given the news were mainly about and for you.

It wasn’t about him.

Azriel rose up and took the few steps that separated you. The bed dipped under his weight, and you shifted until one of your legs was on his lap. Until you could wrap both your arms around his own and make sure he wouldn’t leave. He tried to give you a comforting smile, that came out crooked.

“I know we weren’t planning this. But it could be good. We can’t be sure it’ll be a problem, Madja can be wrong. She even said there’s a long way to go” you assured him.

“What about not starting it?” Azriel proposed for the first time, his fears getting the best out of him. “It can be a problem. We know how hard it was for Feyre and for Nyx, maybe we should… contemplate other options”

“No, Az. We’re going to have a baby. And it’s going to be alright”

Azriel would remember your determination for days, the confidence in your words watering down his worries and Madja’s warnings about a pregnancy in a non-winged female. He found in them the excitement to share the news with his family, to go through that first month by your side with an easy smile.

He even allowed himself to believe that his life was about to get better. Azriel let your words and confidence become his, and ignored the bad feeling in his gut.

3rd month

“What do you think it will be? A boy or a girl?”

Azriel didn’t bother looking at you, not when his whole body was touching some part of yours. You were laying in his arms looking up the sky, both your hands wrapped around your middle. Where, shortly, you would start showing signs of your pregnancy.

It was a sunny day, and the memory of the announcement and Madja’s words were far away. You had decided to have a picnic in the mountains. It was cold, and windy, yet looking up at the morning sky with his mate safe between his arms was beyond weather problems.

He thought about your question for a second, trying to decide what he wanted more. Cassian was a girls’ dad, and he wouldn’t stop trying for one until Nesta and him had at least three. Rhysand, though, liked to dress baby Nyx in the finest clothes and buy him the most elegant little-bowties.

“I don’t care. I just hope they look like you” he smiled against your nose that brushed his neck. “That they have ten little toes. Ten tiny fingers. Pointy ears. A button nose”

“Glad you want a baby and not a dog”

He chuckled and you laughed with him, and he was happy. Azriel hummed softly, with the certainty that he didn’t care about the gender. Either boy or girl would have him wrapped around their pinky – he or she already had, given the amount of stupid baby stuff he had bought in just one month.

Your face appeared and broke his thoughts apart. Pregnancy seemed to make you glow, not only your scent sweetened but your face brightened. Your cheeks were rosy from the cold, and while your head was covered with a thick hat, some locks fell over his face and ticked his nose.

He scrunched it and tried to brush them away.

Leaning down, you captured his lips on a kiss and his hands tightened on your waist. He let himself relax under your, years of training and feeling unsafe gone when you were in his arms. The kiss was slow, your lips moving against his lazily. Both your noses nuzzled each other, and you squirmed with a soft chuckle when he pressed his fingers against your ribs.

“I love you” you whispered against his mouth, not opening your eyes.

“I love you more. Both of you”

Azriel let his hands explore every inch of your body in that forgotten mountain, let his heart roar in happiness when you broke away and stared into his eyes with so much love his bones threatened to melt.

He pushed the lasts of his worries away before kissing you.

4th month

It wasn’t unusual for you to find your place on Azriel’s lap. He never complained about it, but lately he found a particular joy in it. With your bump showing, he could have both his worlds close to his soul.

You were just in that position when the first worrying question came through. After a game night where you had lost three times, you had declined the next round. Azriel was playfully biting your earlobe, loving how you squirmed on his lap. He couldn’t help the growing hardness in his pants, and like a growing teenager, found himself pushing you to move more.

He was minutes away from dragging you both to your rooms when he caught on the conversation between you and Feyre.

“It must be wonderful, knowing you’re so close to the third trimester” Feyre was saying, ignoring her own mate’s hand trying to sneak under her dress. “How is the nausea going? Mine never left”

“I’m doing fine now, at least I can have breakfast and keep it inside” you shifted in his lap when Azriel ran his tongue through your pulse point. “The worst part are the clothes. I can’t keep anything for more than a few weeks”

“I had a whole new wardrobe by the time I had that belly” she pointed with her chin to your bulge. “The sixth month is hard”

“I’m… it’s been four. Not six”

You smiled at her with innocence, but the whole room fell quiet and your smile dropped. Feyre’s own face paled a little as she looked at your belly. Looking down, you wondered what they saw that made them fell silent. You weren’t a big person, compared to fae’s and coming from the continent, where your kind were shorter than other people.

And sure, the belly looked big on you. But you were pregnant, and you thought that was normal.

Azriel tensed under you and, for the first time in two months, realized that your pregnancy was looking a little too different from Feyre’s. He always kept track on details, on things people didn’t usually notice. And when Feyre mentioned, he realized that you were far bigger.

His arousal and joy died down when he felt a rush of fear down the bond. It was normal, right? Different people, different pregnancies. Azriel was bigger than Rhysand, taller and broader, and his wings were certainly wider too.

Feyre ended up dismissing the mistake with a hesitant smile, and Morgan chipped in to ask for more wine. The conversation returned shortly after, but that time, there were no playful bites or kisses. You leaned back farther into his embrace and he let his shadows caress your hair, your belly, your fingers. Anything to erase the first spec of worry in that beautiful journey.

5th month

The news were hard to digest, and that time, Azriel didn’t let your cheerful words dig in. He smiled at your excitement, he held you as you jumped in joy and gleamed with the new information. Azriel didn’t say anything until you were asleep in bed, laying on your back with your belly on display.

Only when he was sure you wouldn’t wake up, he winnowed away to Rhysand’s office, when he and Cassian were already waiting for him. They both wore worried faces, and perked up at his presence. After all, it had been him who had asked them to meet him.

Azriel needed to share his worries, to acknowledge the risk, and he couldn’t do it with you, not when the pregnancy pains were already taking a toll on your days.

“Madja admitted she’s indeed too big for only five months. That she looks ready to give birth, not to be halfway a pregnancy” Azriel said, slumping down on the comfy chair. He rested his elbows on his knees and hid his face. He was exhausted. “We’re… having twins. A boy and a girl”

“That’s good news, Az. A son and a daughter”

Cassian’s words did nothing to subdue his worries. He tugged at the end of his hair, not knowing what else to say. Madja’s face had said it all – the tightness of her shoulders, the paleness in her face, the shakiness in her hands. Fae pregnancies were already rare, but twins? Azriel didn’t know any twins, let alone whose mother wasn’t winger and whose father was.

Madja had asked you to see her each week. She had sent you into mandatory rest for the rest of your pregnancy, and Azriel wouldn’t be leaving your side for that time. It wasn’t his job that worried him. Not even his training. If staying with you meant everything would be okay, he wouldn’t sleep nor blink.

“What about… other options?” Rhysand proposed, earning a wary look from Cassian.

“She doesn’t want to hear about them. Shuts down when she sees me coming. Since Feyre’s comment on her size, I’ve been testing the waters” he felts his eyes water at your negative. “Y/N wants to continue the pregnancy and I don’t know what to do anymore”

“It doesn’t have to go wrong, brother” Cassian knelt on his right and squeezed his forearm. Rhysand��s hand fell on his shoulders. “You can get through this, she’s a strong female. Don’t think the worst yet”

“I’m afraid”

Those words were the last thing Azriel said before breaking down in front of his brothers. He would be strong for you, would offer you kind words and support when you needed him because he had to. But he let himself drown in anguish at the bad feeling of his gut that was coming alive little by little.

That night, Azriel let his brother hug him and soaked into his fake comforts. There was nothing any of them could do about it, yet they tried to believe against it. When he went back home, he dried his tears and laid down in time to watch you wake up, a sleepy grin on his face.

Azriel repeated that routine many times in the months to come.

6th month

Entering the third trimester brought along the first problems.

Azriel didn’t let you get out of bed without him, only allowing what Madja called ‘stretching your legs for circulations’. You complained and complained until Azriel threatened to shut you up with a gag, and that led to other activities.

Through all of it, Azriel held himself back and refused to bury himself where he needed. Instead, he let his hands and mouth do all the work gladly. You slept soundly after that, and as Azriel followed you with a content sigh, he should have guessed it was too good to be true.

He was a light sleeper, so he couldn’t understand why he only woke up at the sound of muffled sobs in the bathroom. Sheets got tangled between his legs as he ran out of bed, crawling to you while his left foot dragged the whole night cloth with him.

You were sitting in the toilet with your nightgown bundled around your belly, now large enough to make you wobbly while walking. With a fist against your mouth, you cried desperately and looked between your legs, down to the toilet. Azriel didn’t need to feel the bond to know you were panicking and in pain.

“What’s wrong?” he hoisted himself up and stumbled down on his knees in front of you, until you met his widened eyes. “What’s wrong? Where does it hurt?”

“I peed” you managed to hiccup against your closed fist. “I peed”

“You peed?”

You peed all the time. In the toilet, in the kitchen, in bed. He had found himself used to waking up with warm sheets, because you couldn’t make it to the bathroom. With two babies pushing your bladder constantly, he refused to let you feel embarrassed or clean the sheets.

Pee was normal, yet your face screamed at him with an urgency he couldn’t understand, that his soul was roaring for. His hands were uselessly trying to fight an enemy he couldn’t protect you from, that his power couldn’t destroy.

“I peed blood” you admitted quietly, looking down the toilet again.

Azriel followed your gaze and watched the few spots of blood inside the toilet. Inside, a reddish liquid lay. He couldn’t wrap his mind around the idea of you bleeding, of you being hurt. His body went on autopilot as he gathered paper and cleaned you softly.

As you leaned against the wall, he gladly inspected for the origin of the bleeding. Madja had assured you that it was normal a little bleeding, but he listened to his inner voice and kept looking.

You ended up calming down in his arms, as he guided you back to bed with the promise of calling for Madja in the morning.

He tried to convince himself it was normal, as Madja had said. As you tried to tell him while you fell asleep, for your and his sake.

Azriel didn’t believe it, and didn’t sleep that night. When next morning you peed blood again, he just winnowed you to the clinic.

7th month

Madja’s words haunted him for days, and he only slept when he fell unconscious. If he wasn’t unconscious, he stared at you for hours or cried to his brothers more often than not. They were his support, his lifeline, and he was yours.

One winged baby was enough to cause damage to a winged-mother, threatening her life on a normal basis. One winged baby could kill a non-winged mother any day, during labor or during the pregnancy.

Two winged babies on a non-winged mother were tearing your body apart.

One of the talons had ripped through the womb and into your bladder, causing a small tear. Madja had fixed it, yet had deemed appropriate to move into your house and be within reach for the next occasions.

“There might not be any other problems, but just in case I want to be close” she announced, looking into both your eyes to make sure you understood. “We’ve been lucky the talons are still small. But they’re growing”

Two days after the first tear, the same talon reopened the same wound. You peed blood and Azriel held you close as Madja healed you, his own breaths coming in pants at your pain.

She took the decision to try and move the babies a little, which put you in so much pain that you broke two of Azriel’s fingers from squeezing his hand. He didn’t say anything as he switched hands.

That solution was temporary, as a week later, you puked blood. The other baby’s talon had caused an internal injury, and in just two days not even Madja’s protection was enough to keep the bruises off your belly.

Your huge, bruised belly that Azriel caressed every night along with your face.

“Please” he begged you with tears in his eyes, ignoring the pain he was causing you at his petition – he had to, when you suffered every breathing minute. “Please, consider it. I don’t want to lose you”

“There’s a chance they’ll make it, Az. I can’t ignore that chance”

“I can’t lose you, Y/N. I can’t – You’re –“

His words always died down in sobs, and during that month, he wasn’t strong enough to leave to his brothers’ embrace. Azriel broke down in your arms, laying on your collarbone as he begged you to end the pregnancy, to ensure your life while you still could. Maybe you weren’t linked like Feyre and Rhysand were, but if you died, Azriel was sure he would too.

You didn’t change your answer, and he still begged every night.

8th month

Your body was too small, to fragile.

He watched his own children drain the life out of you, but he couldn’t hate anyone but himself. Hate his choices, his brief hopes that had made him careless and put you in that situation. There were no longer walks or laughs, just your body in a bed, with Madja by your side more often than not.

Azriel too was always by your side, so when it happened, he was there.

There was no way of knowing if it was the own weight of the babies, the lack of your strength or one wrong move. One moment you were leaning against him to reach the bathroom and the other you were screaming in pain as your knees buckled. He heard as part of your spine gave up under the weight, as you crumbled down.

Madja and the other healer were by your side in a second, pushing your body to the bed and yelling at him to move.

Azriel couldn’t.

Azriel listened to each and every cry that left your lips, smelt every tear that licked your cheeks, and felt every nail mark you left on his forearm. He didn’t bother begging or crying, he wouldn’t let his emotions leave its cage because then he would be gone too. He would be so far away no one would ever reach him, and you needed him.

Feyre’s presence was just a memory on the edge of his vision, the kind woman in charge of emitting those pointless comfort words he couldn’t get out. Azriel whined when your spine was put back together by four, five, or six healers.

He didn’t need to ask what would happen now, or why they had long faces. He didn’t have to try and change your mind, as you wouldn’t move. He only let another anguish cry.

Until birth, my lady. We can hold it until birth.

9th month

Azriel didn’t register the blood on his face. Maybe it was his, from how hard he had dug his nails against his face. How he had wanted to rip himself apart, and had almost done it. Maybe it was from Cassian, who had tried to avoid his brother entering the birth room. Or from you.

His throat was raw, there was no voice coming out of him. And his clothes were soaked. With tears, with sweat, with blood. With his own sick, that he had thrown over himself.

The sky had opened to cry with him that night, it seemed. Azriel would have been soaking wet if it wasn’t for the roof above his head. He didn’t know which roof it was, where he was. How had they gotten him out of the room once your heart stopped beating.

Once Madja stepped away from your broken body, blood still seeping to the floor. He could still hear the phantom of his own voice before your eyes rolled back. There was no point in trying, in begging, so he had just been there. Holding your body, praising you, swapping the sweaty hair out of your face.

I love you

You’re doing good, I love you

My beautiful mate, I love

How you’ve changed my life, I love you

I love you

He had cried the words but had made sure you had heard each one of them, because for nine months, he had known those would be the last thing you heard.

A rebel tear rolled down his cheek, down his jaw and the column of his neck. Another one hit the bundle, the tiny sweet bundle, that rested in his arms. He had been holding his daughter for three hours, and he wouldn’t be moving for a while.

Azriel stared at the only survivor of the birth, a baby-girl with floppy wings. With then little toes and ten little fingers. With pointy ears and a button nose. He couldn’t say yet if she looked like you or not, if she had your eyes or hair.

What she had, was the stubborn soul of her mother. She had survived the birth while her brother had died with you. Had survived being smaller than her death brother, who took most of the space. Had survived the first hours which Madja had said would be crucial.

He didn’t have more tears to share or more feelings to break over. Azriel felt void, vacant, like the part of his soul had been ripped. He wasn’t sure he was even alive, only the weight on his arms the constant reminder.

The rain hit the windows with an enormous strength, but the baby didn’t notice. She kept sleeping soundly in her father’s arms, unaware of the world she had just entered. Azriel had enough strength to stagger back to the couch before breaking down in a silent cry that shook his body.

The baby still didn’t stir.

Want to read more? Check out my side blog @imaginesmaimasterlists, where I keep all the masterlists! Feedback is always appreciated

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Azriel taglist:

@boygeniuses10 , @tothestarsandwhateverend , @starsinyourseyes

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starryevermore · 4 months

Text

the house of snow (4) ✧ coriolanus snow

the house of snow ✧ a royal coryo au | pinterest board| ao3

pairing: king!coriolanus snow x fem!reader

series summary: the king of panem is in search of a bride. and, for reasons you can never understand, coriolanus snow has set his sights on you. it would never be a happy marriage, you’re sure of that. but none of that matters, because when snow decides he wants something, he will do everything in his power to ensure it is his.

chapter summary: you realize that there is more to this than snow just wanting a bride.

word count: 2,548

series warnings?: 18+ MINORS DNI, royal au, regency au, arranged marriage, rivals to lovers, obsessive!coryo, jealous!coryo, protective!coryo, eventual smut, eventual pregnancy, more tags to be added later

chapter warnings?: jealous!coryo, manipulative!coryo, not proofread

It brought you an inexplicable about of joy to get on Snow’s nerves. This was certainly a positive if you had effectively no choice but to marry him. It was fair, though, wasn’t it? He gets you as a bride, and you get to drive him up the wall. And, oh, how you’ve annoyed him. The way his jaw ticked, the narrowing of his eyes when you declared that the beautiful kitten he got you would be named Coriolanus. Just after you denied calling him by his name! If you weren’t intent on seeing how far you could push him, you might have cackled in that moment.

The joy, however, was short-lived when Snow actually agreed that Coriolanus the Cat was your first son with him. If you would have known that he’d agree, you certainly never would have made the joke in the first place. Now—with Snow and your mother as witnesses to your agreement—you had to behave when around Snow. Granted, you did make the caveat that you would only behave to the best of your ability, which could be as little or as much as you wanted on any given day. Snow would not let you live the agreement down, though, you knew that much. Any time you could think about stepping a toe out of line, you were sure Snow would be quick to bring up the agreement.

You should have known better.

“What do you think of Snow?” you asked your lady’s maid as she helped you get ready for the day.

She paused as she tied the laces of your corset. “He would take very good care of you, ma’am,” she said.

You hummed, glancing at your reflection in the mirror. Tigris had made you a pale pink dress. Snow favored red, but your mother would kill you if you wore a color as scandalous as red before you were married. Pink, though, was a close alternative. “In the sense that I would want for nothing, yes, he would. But do you think I could grow to love him?”

She bowed her head, but that did not stop you from seeing the face she made. “He can be charming.”

“When it suits him,” you finish. You sighed. “I apologize. I know you cannot speak ill of the King. I just…am so tired of people acting like I should kiss his feet for showing interest in me.”

As she finished helping you into your dress, she said, “I know nothing of marriage, ma’am, but I know enough to say it is not without its struggles. Even if you could have a love match, there would be days you hate him for the most mundane things.”

“But if it was a love match, then it would all be worth it.” A frown settled on your face. “Or perhaps I’m being naïve. Mama and Papa were once a love match, and their scheming to have me married off to Snow is the first time they have truly spoken to each other in years.”

Your lady’s maid squeezed your hand. “All will be well, ma’am. If you can never love His Majesty, you will find something else to pour your affections into. Now, we should head downstairs. His Majesty is never late.”

You laughed. Well, that was certainly not true. Though, you supposed she didn’t know that. “Sometimes he is.”

But, after checking your reflection one last time, you turned and left your room. Your room was at the top of the stairs, so when you walked out, you could see Snow, holding Coriolanus the Cat, as he spoke with your mother. The sight made you giggle. He looked so uncomfortable holding the little kitten. One would think that he had been made to hold a pile of garbage than a sweet kitty.

Almost like he heard you, Snow looked up to where you stood. You clenched your teeth, knowing now that you would have to put on an act. Because of the agreement, you no longer could revel in the private moments where you could do everything in your power to annoy Snow. Now, he expected perfection, and he would receive it.

Slowly, you descended the stairs, your hand dragging along the bannister. The closer you got to him, the more a smirk grew on his face. Oh, you were sure he was reveling in this.

His eyes never left yours. It was unnerving. Any other man in his position would be staring at your body—treating you completely like an object, just a pretty thing to hang off of his arm. But Snow…You weren’t sure. It was almost like he enjoyed tearing you apart, acknowledging your humanity and your independence just so he could squash any hope you had.

Snow passed Coriolanus the Cat off to your mother, who looked even more comfortable than him, when you reached the bottom of the stairs. He held his hand out for you, which you reluctantly took. “That dress looks beautiful on you. Did Tigris make it?”

“She’s the only modiste I trust,” you said.

He smiled. It almost looked twisted. “Then I suppose I should be paying her handsomely for your wedding gown?”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary, Your Majesty—” your mother cut in.

Her words died in her throat as Snow narrowed his eyes at her. At least he also was not fond of her. If you couldn’t like him as a person, at least you might be able to bond over hating your mother. “Do you think you have the authority to tell me how I should and should not spend my money? I shall spoil my bride however I see fit.”

“Of course. I just meant—”

Snow ignored her, and held his arm out for you to take. “Let us promenade?”

A hint of a smile danced across your face. If all of your conversations were limited to despising your mother, then this might not be so awful. You held onto his bicep. “Let’s.”

Snow led you out of the house, letting your mother scramble to pass off Coriolanus the Cat to the butler so that the two of you wouldn’t get too far without a chaperone. “I think she is going to loathe you by the time you propose if you keep this up,” you said.

He snorted. “You think it will take that long?”

“Not all of us are smart enough to despise you at first meeting,” you said. “She likely still has delusions of grandeur, that you are only acting this way in an attempt to sweeten me up to you and after we wed, you will be kinder.”

“Ah. Is it working then?”

You frowned, looking up at him. He was already watching you. Did he ever stop staring? “Is what working?”

“Sweetening you up, as you say,” Snow clarified. He offered you a small smile. “Contrary to what you think, I do not wish for you to be unhappy.”

“No, you only wish for me to be a mindless pawn in your pursuit of power. Snow…If you are trying to make me warm up to you, to even just tolerate your existence as opposed to hating it, you will be disappointed. I will not act out. I will not cause a scene. If you wish for me to provide you an heir, I shall. But I will not, and I cannot, pretend that I am happy with this. You have gotten me a kitten. You have offered me a library. You will give me one of the highest titles in Panem. But you cannot provide me with what I want.”

Snow looked away from you. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. For a moment, you wondered if you touched a nerve. You would not care if you did, but Snow also held your entire life in his hands. He could make you as miserable as he wished. Though you may not like it, this was him being kind in whatever way he could manage. “Would it truly be so awful? Loving me?”

By now, you had reached the square. As your eyes swept through the park, you took note of how well-populated the area was. It was not uncommon at this point in the season for the many courting couples to spend their afternoons in the square. It was certainly better than stuffy teas and tense luncheons. With that, though, came the lack of privacy. Unlike a ball, where the music and the dancing and the overlapping conversations drowned everything out, you were in the open. Anything you said, any wrong move you made, could easily be noticed. It was why, you supposed, Snow liked to ask you to promenade. It was one of the few times you would hold your tongue.

But you could not be silent about your true thoughts now.

Dropping your voice to a near-whisper, you said, “You cannot force love, Snow. It happens organically, with time. With people who do not go at each other’s throats over every disagreement. We are too different. I have told you, I will not sacrifice my ideals to play a happy little wife.”

“I don’t want you to sacrifice who you are. Your ideals, your resoluteness, your inability to ever let something go…That is why I chose you. All I want is your cooperation. If you give me that, I will make everything else worthwhile.”

You nearly rolled your eyes. What more did he want from you? Was it not enough for you to allow him to show you off like you were some doll, to stake his claim on you and say little to anyone about how unwilling a participant you were? “Am I not cooperating now?”

“You are.”

“Then why do you need my love too?”

Snow finally looked at you again. Now, though, his pale blue eyes had darkened. You sucked in a breath. He almost looked…possessed? Was that the right word? He certainly didn’t look himself, the perfect picture of composure. You spared a glance at the couples around you. If anyone saw the way he looked at you, like he might just eat you, no one revealed it.

“I want all of you, and I cannot settle for anything less.”

Why did he insist on this? Why did it matter so much to him? Snow was getting everything he wanted. He would get a wife. He would get an heir. You were from a good family. You were intelligent enough for his standards. You would even refrain from acting out in public. You would play the role he wanted in the eyes of Panem. Why was all of that not enough? What was so important about receiving your love too?

Unless…

You dropped Snow’s arm. He looked at you almost like you slapped him. As the two of you stopped in the middle of the walkway, the other couples started to look more closely. You could hardly blame them. It would certainly be entertaining if you and Snow had a lover’s quarrel (or whatever way they decided to paint this picture) in the middle of the square. But you could hardly focus on them.

“Sejanus was right,” you said.

Snow’s jaw ticked. Oh. You definitely touched a nerve there. But that hardly made any sense. Him and Sejanus were friends. Of course, you supposed in telling Snow that if you had to marry anyone for social status, you would marry Sejanus, it would put a strain on their friendship. Snow sucked in a breath, as if trying to calm himself. Yet, when he spoke, his tone was clipped. “Do not say his name around me.”

“But he, Lord Plinth, I mean, was right,” you repeated. It was hard to take heed in his words when all you could focus on what the revelation at hand.

“I do not care about what he said and whether it was truthful. I would like to promenade, and so that is what we shall do.”

“Snow—”

He grabbed your hand. You nearly jumped away from him. But between his tight grip and the eyes of the ton, you forced yourself to stay still. Snow brought your hand back to his arm, forced your fingers to curl around his bicep. Some of the tension in his shoulders melted away when you touched him.

“There,” he said. He let out another breath. “You promised me you would behave, yes?”

“I—Yes, I did.”

“Then stop talking, and let us promenade.”

Was this the life you were going to live now? Placating a King whose mood could flip at the drop of a name? You had never seen someone become so angry so quickly. All you had done was say Sejanus’s name, and Snow had acted like you committed treason. Was it treason for him? Did he truly view it that way? If you had known he would be so adverse to even hearing you speak about Sejanus, you would have never admitted to him that you thought Sejanus would be an easy man to love. At the time, though, you thought it wouldn’t matter. Snow already had you where he wanted you. The only person truly standing in your way to pursue other matches was Snow himself. Why would you think that admitting your true desires change anything?

Not seeing a way out of this, you bowed your head and did not say another word. You feared what he might do if you stepped out of line. If he was so angry at you saying Sejanus’s name, what could he do if you disobeyed him?

Snow stared at you for a long moment, trying to determine what you might do. When he was satisfied with your compliance, he began walking again, acting as if the spat never occurred. You had been prepared for the rest of the walk to be in silence. You certainly didn’t plan on saying anything else. There was no winning if you did.

“I am going to meet with your father at the end of the week,” Snow said. You sucked in a breath. If he noticed, he didn’t react. “We will need to discuss the terms of our engagement.”

Not knowing what to say, you hummed in acknowledgment.

Snow, however, was not happy with that. “Tell me you cannot wait to marry me.”

Tears began to prick at your eyes. How could your life be stolen from you in just a matter of weeks? How could Coriolanus Snow come in and ruin everything you wanted for yourself? How could he keep demanding more? You considered repeating the same sentence he said, but you knew he would not be satisfied with that.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “I cannot wait to become Mrs. Coriolanus Snow.”

His chest puffed out and a smirk settled on his face. Well, at least you knew the right things to say to placate him. That might at least make the marriage easier to manage.

Snow leaned into you, pressed his nose into your hair. It was hardly appropriate, especially in public, especially between two unmarried people. But he was King, and no one would stop him from doing what he pleased, societal expectations be damned.

“Good girl,” he whispered.

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