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halcyone-of-the-sea · 9 months

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FLOWERS FOR THE SICK AND GONE (II)

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

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 6.3k

WARNINGS: Angst, mentions of stalking, talks of death, weapons, explosives, violence, gore, strained mother-daughter relationship, suggestive thoughts, mentions of sex, toxic modeling standards, etc. (Series 18+)

A/N: I started this before Nikto was confirmed for MWII multi., but I'll be using the 'Powercell' skin as his main attire now because it's literally so attractive.

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

You look at your hands as they rest in your lap, right foot jumping up and down in a display of internal anxiety under the table in your Mom’s office. It was cold, and the AC was turned all the way up; the floors barely helped—tile covered by thin rugs and windows open to the chilly morning. Like the opposite of Hellfire.

Two days had passed since the explosion and you’d only just gotten the ability to leave the hospital. The doctors had wanted to keep you longer, but you had turned in a favor from your matriarch to have them ease off with their prodding and poking.

The fact that they had been more interested in your permanent colorblindness had tipped you off that all the help you were going to be given had already been passed out. As a whole, that had been in the form of pain medication and surgical glue to the minuscule cut on your temple.

The head bleeds a lot, you know, even if the injury is minor. You weren’t overly surprised the gash had been tiny; you know what a violent wound to that part of the skull looks like.

Feels like.

Your lips thin at the thought of the nurses and their curious and narrowed eyes—the doctor wanting to do more in-depth tests as if you hadn’t gone through a slew of them before.

There was a reason you hated hospitals.

Shivering, you take a deep breath to calm down right as the door behind you opens with the sound of heeled feet and a hurried sigh. The door automatically shuts with a slam and a click of metal hinges.

“Thank God nothing happened to your face!” A hand sets itself on your shoulder and you restrain a flinch, looking to the side to the familiar face of your mom as her head tilts to look you up and down in your seat. “Stand up, let me see you.”

You open your mouth to speak but you’re quickly cut off by her serious expression.

Standing, you steady yourself by placing a hand on the side of the seat, knuckles tight as your casual sneakers take your weight. “It’s just a scratch Mom, promise. I got lucky.” When you can stand without the fear of falling over, you release it and study your mother’s fancy attire.

Dress pants, blouse, and pounds of extravagant jewelry around her neck and wrists like shackles. She looks just the same as you’d always seen her. Cold.

In some ways, she was more suited to this city than you were.

“I’ll say—you could have damaged your skin.” She motions to your body, shaking her head and sighing before moving behind her desk to sit down. A large window is behind her—shining in chilled light. “We’ll have to hope and pray that the cut heals before the next photoshoot you have scheduled. Have they told you when you’ll be back in the Agency?”

“...three people are dead, and you’re worried about me?” you say quietly, gut-twisting. “What about them?”

She pauses, her hand half holding a piece of paper from her pile. She glances up at you and thinks for a moment. Your eyes dig into hers, dejected. But she doesn’t think much of this, judging by the confused emotion that swirls behind her gray pigment.

“I’m sorry, Beauty,” no, she’s not. Your face pulls at the nickname, but you say nothing until she’s done talking. “But their job was to keep you safe. They succeeded, it’s unfortunate, I know, but if they had to…pass,” she strains through the word, not wanting to say the other. For your benefit or hers, you know not. “To keep you alive, then I say it was an even trade.”

It’s nearly like a slap to your face as your body goes tight, sitting back down into the seat with a puff of air. Like you’d just been slipped poison, your throat starts to fizzle with bile.

Yefim’s dead body slashes in the back of your mind; the lower half gone and the rest spilling out. Confused eyes and burned skin that smells like something out of a kitchen no matter how morbid the thought was.

She wasn’t there, you tell yourself. She doesn’t know how bad it was.

Screaming mixed in with crying and Alyona’s insistent barks of orders. Her hands pulled you up and shielded you from the disintegrated ash of Petya and Aleksandr. One splayed out the broken window and the other lay in an unrecognizable heap a foot from the bakery.

The only people to survive were the Baker’s boy and the two of you, but then again that was half.

“I don’t think that’s right—”

“If you were a mother, then you’d be agreeing with me,” the Consul explains, shaking her head. “But that’s not why I wanted to bring you here.” With your mom, sometimes it was better just to let things go and have them disappear into the past; you’d gotten good at brushing past comments just to satisfy her. It was just easier.

“Okay,” you whisper, looking down at your lap before closing your eyes. Looking back up, the woman is signing papers and doesn’t glance at you before speaking.

“There was a break-in at the bakery an hour before you went there,” your body stills, a strange feeling in your gut as it tightens. “Nothing was stolen but Mr. Morozov,” the owner, “says the locks were broken off; he never told authorities until now because it was minor. I think that leaves us with the answer about how that explosive got under the floorboards.” The scribble of a pen before it’s placed down and your mom’s eyes settle back on you with a frown on her lips. Her makeup makes her look like a stone statue you’d see in a museum; blank with an undertone of something else.

You stutter in broken intervals, repeatedly tapping your finger on your wrist, “How do you know about this?”

“I’m paid to know,” your mother mutters but offers more. “One of the employees is American. He’s here and planning to extend his visa for four years to care for his dying father.” Her voice drops. “Thank God that he wasn’t working.”

Being one of the two American Consulate Generals in Russia, your mother’s job was to, officially, “...Preserve and protect the relationship, and be a point of contact, between the United States of America and Russia.”

It also meant that any American citizens in Yekaterinburg were under her watchful eyes. This Consulate building provides a multitude of services—issuing visas, and renewing passports were the big ones, while registering births and deaths was also added to that chart. You’d never looked much into it, but knew it was intensive work. Everything ‘American’ going on in this city, your mom knows about.

“I’ve got a landfill of paperwork, so I’ll have to cut this off at the base,” she continues and you rub at the base of your cut with a flinching hand. You carefully tense as if a bombshell is going to be dropped on you, thighs shifting on the seat and feet unconsciously putting themselves farther under the chair.

The woman blinks at you and folds her hands on the table, knuckles tight.

“The Russian government is eager to keep lines of communication open with the USA, which means me.” You don’t like where this is going—certainly not with that folder that your mother was grabbing from out of her top drawer; having to unlock it with the name tag around her neck. A small beep echoes over the large room. “I don’t think I need to explain how much this puts me in a hole now that a stalker is after a Consul’s daughter and everyone knows about it.” You feel guilty but you don’t know why. This wasn’t your fault….right?

“I have meetings planned into next week from the second the sun rises until it peaks its stupid ass back up on the other end.” She speaks low, running a hand over her head but still keeping you in her sight. She slaps a bulging manila folder onto the desk and leans back with a sigh.

Your eyes meet in a locking of wills and you restrain yourself from apologizing. In your lap your hands clench.

“Any weapon,” she speaks slowly so you take in every word—as if you were a toddler. You hate when she gets like this. “Any goes through so many hoops to be owned it’s practically not worth it, and the same goes for possible parts used to make them. Whoever did this either has connections or a pile of money to use for bribes; I don’t know which I’d prefer, but based on his presents I have a good guess.”

“But why would someone do that?” You have to speak—to ask. How could someone be so cruel and malicious? Kill someone—multiple someones? To you, it was just unthinkable. Even just being a part of it had wreaked your sleep schedule, left you writhing in bed from an inability to sleep out of fear of seeing Yefim’s face again—gray blood; colorless gore. It was a chore to get up in the morning and eat what little you could.

Being unable to see color had never left you more terrified than when that pretty boy’s eyes had stared into yours until everything was snuffed out like a matchstick.

“Because this person,” the Consul states, answering you firmly. “He doesn’t care about you as an individual. To him, Beauty…you’re just an object that he wants to own. Your picture is all he thinks about and everyone else needs to be out of the background, do you understand?”

You go lightheaded, face quickly tilting down and contorting into itself.

Your mother sits straighter and reaches a hand across the table, lightly saying your name with the voice she would use to read stories in your youth. Skin burning, you look at it, but after a moment you weakly place your own into hers, heart hammering and brain laced with a primal fear. Though the woman’s grip tightens and squeezes lightly, you get no warmth from the gesture. Yet still, it’s better than nothing.

Alyona was away with her relatives and fiance since she’d been released from the hospital earlier; you’d spoken there briefly, but it wasn’t the same as it would have been if you’d had her here.

“We’re going to get this figured out, okay?” You nod, trying to smile as she studies your face—lingering on your temple before she frowns deeply and pulls back. Loudly, she states, “I’ll order some scar cream to your penthouse when we’re done.”

“Alright,” your lips mumble, ribs like iron cages for too-large lungs.

“But now into the important part. I need you to pick one.” She pushes the folder closer to you, and your hand snaps out to grab it. It instead punches the desk and you hiss, bringing it back to your chest. Your mother minutely blinks in shock, eyes confused. “Still with that Spatial Awareness? I thought you said it was getting better?”

“I’m…still working through it,” you grumble. You wanted to tell her there wasn’t any ‘getting better’ from this. It was just another problem you’d have to deal with your entire life. But, again, it’s easier.

She huffs as you correctly locate the folder and pick it up, placing it gently into your lap and flipping it open. Inside you find file after file, taking the first one into your fingers and propping it up before blinking in confusion at the black ink and tiny picture of a man.

You briefly look at the name, processing, before gazing back up at the woman with a furrow in your brows.

“Mom?”

She smiles.

“I have three men of Russian descent who are candidates to be your next around-the-clock guard.” Your matriarch is oblivious to your apparent hesitation to take on another person into your life, your shoulders hunching in. “All part of a PMC group called KorTac. I’d ask for a broader scale, but being born here and previously serving in the military would give them far more privileges than any others.”

You’re already shaking your head, “I don’t want anyone else to get hurt. I still have to send my apologies to all the others’ families. I–I,” your voice cuts before you can let the tears weigh your sentence down with emotion.

Your mother didn’t do that kind of thing.

“Sweetheart,” the woman draws out, shaking her head, “they don’t want to hear from you, you know that.” Her voice hardens. “You’re my responsibility. Now, look at the options.”

Gritting your teeth, you want to stand and stalk out, say to hell with her PMCs and her bland eyes. The way she talks with care but hides it behind a wall of knives like some protective barrier; like she needs to do that.

But you stay your voice and look back down, brushing past pages to have all of the pictures lined up right next to each other.

Blinking, you ask, numbly, “What kind of privileges?”

Your mother smiles though a thankful breath. “Weapons, body armor; they’ll be allowed to enter and go about business as they see fit without normal blockades. People here trust their own.”

Fire races through your mind, all-consuming black smoke and the bland ash of a burning building. Trust their own? One of their own had just killed three people and injured three more just to get your attention. How was that trust?

Your eyes gloss over words, or what little of them you could read beyond inked-out sections. Names smudge and achievements blurr; medals with no hold on you and a list of missions accomplished with what you assumed to be perfect records.

“These men have killed people,” you say, shifting to the last file as you don’t look at it right away, instead leveling the Consul with a pleading twist to your lips. “A lot of people.”

As an individual, you wouldn’t say you were very confrontational or quick to jump to violence—you did damage control and appeased more than antagonized. There was less stress when everyone could get a portion of what they wanted.

You just didn’t like senseless brutality.

“Then there’s no one better for the job.” Sometimes you wonder if your mother even raised you at all.

Forehead creased, you shift back to the papers, staring at the last man of the three in a moment of flickering orbs. His intimidating appearance makes your eyes go slightly wider with shock as you focus in.

Nikto is all that was given for the man’s name—Russian: Никто—and the individual was shrouded in so much black you wondered if he might create a void of energy around him; some kind of gruff and grueling cloud. Even from the picture, the pale, contrasted, eyes dug into you, even brighter than Petya’s had once been. Though, these eyes were inlaid into some strange mask, the top of the covering a type of Kevlar and the bottom covered in rough canvas that pulls back and completely covers the rest of the head. There are straps that extend to hold his chin and on the sides of his nose…

Your face pulls with mild disgust. Are those two screws? What the hell…?

This Russian was, plainly put, the face of death. Perhaps even something worse.

The theme of black continued, as it was the only color besides white you could identify. Strapped vest of armor plates, arms and hands that rest behind his back covered by long sleeves. Ammo was clipped at the sides of his upper chest and a large collar of armor stamped with the letters and number of ‘MP-0’. Your eyes slide to what you can read about him, morbidly intrigued as you frown at his belt full of grenades and knives. An assault rifle hangs from his chest by a long strap, limp as a dead limb.

But as you look, there was even less information available about this beast than there was visible skin behind the face-paint smeared into his sockets. Not even an age.

“Nikto,” you murmur. You wondered why you liked how it slipped off the tongue.

But you’ll also wonder in the future why you choose him at all.

Maybe it was the way for the first time in two days you’d felt something other than fear and regret; something that spread like water into the lines of your face to make them smooth. Maybe it was because out of the others, he would be the type to do his job and then leave entirely without a trace.

A blink and then…gone.

You can't have anyone else die on you—and Nikto seems the only one able to take death by the throat and throttle him with the handle of his own scythe.

Maybe.

Your head tilted, and you blinked.

“This one,” you toss the file to your mother’s desk and watch it hit off-center. the woman’s face twitches at the monster-esc profile. It’s like she ages ten years.

“...Lovely.”

—

One day later you meet Nikto, but before you do, you make a quick visit to the hospital with a bundle of fresh flowers. You’d brokenly asked for blue and white, but you can’t verify if that was really what you were holding.

At the front desk, you ask for room three and are simply pointed down the hallway without a word. A small smile is handed over, but no one answers as you slink away, guiding your legs along the lines of the tile on the ground. Standing outside you knock softly and grasp the handle, pushing it open after a deep breath.

The Baker’s Boy lays in a bed and his dark eyes snap to yours immediately, widening. His curls are crisped and shorter now, singed at the ends. Arms taped with bandages and gauze, his wounds are not wide-spread but severe enough to keep him for longer than you and Alyona.

“Sergei?” You ask, standing in the doorway and plastering a soft smile on your face. You’d gotten his name through a text with Aly, where she asked you to give him a kind word as you dropped off your gift.

Sergi blinks quickly at you, and something like fear slashes his face. You raise your hands rapidly, flowers in the crook of your elbow.

“N-no, I’m sorry. I know you’ve probably heard a lot about me, the news has been…uh…” Your words trail to a fake chuff of laughter, looking to the side wall for a moment. “Well, it’s not right of me to take no blame.” The man only stares and stays silent, sitting up straighter in bed and thinning his lips. His body is tense.

“I’m sorry, I just wanted to drop these off. I-I’ll leave.” Walking quickly to the side table, you place down the flowers and clear your throat, sending him a very guilty glance. “The woman I was with gives her well-wishes for your recovery. I’m sorry,” you say again, nodding your head and locking your hands in front of your abdomen.

Turning on your feet like an elite track star, you dart quickly back to the door.

“Girl.” You halt in the doorway, one arm quivering just as it had before the explosion. Your head swivels, surprised.

Sergi gazes at you, his dark eyes large and serious, tinged with unease. His English is barely understandable, and he struggles through the words with an accent so deep it’s a series of throaty grunts.

“Do not come back.”

Your lungs tighten as if someone squeezes them in a ruthless fist. Nodding shakily, you dash out and don’t stop until you’re back outside, breathing in gasps and putting a hand to your mouth to stifle your ragged breaths. People who come and go look at you as you lean heavily into the wall, some concernedly furrowing their brows but ultimately walking past.

You suppose they didn’t recognize you in all of the normal clothes—a thick turtleneck under a jacket and sweatpants. No makeup with a ball cap atop your head. Clearing your dry throat, you get a hold of yourself and keep your face down-cast, slithering off with a zig-zag pattern of feet.

It’s okay. It’s okay. He has a right to feel like that. It’s going to be okay.

But it doesn’t stop the pit in your heart from growing until it threatens to swallow you whole.

It’s only when you’re five minutes late to the Consulate building that your mother levels you with an unimpressed look, standing at the entrance with her arms crossed. You walk quickly to hide the rings around your eyes from her, not wanting to start an argument about what went wrong.

“He’s been here for half an hour, Seraph,” you cringe, waving to the woman at the front desk who nods and gives a pitying tilt of her head.

Half an hour? Talk about a time freak.

“I know, I’m sorry, I just lost track of time.” Hands take you by the side of your arms and swivel you back around as you hang up your jacket, making you flinch but go along with the action.

Your mother levels you with a stare that the long it goes on, eases. It mingles on the border of comfort and concern before she awkwardly squeezes and lets go of you, eyelids blinking to study the trash can near the door.

“Stop…apologizing, Beauty.” The curtain re-falls and your mom stands straighter, brushing down her fitted blouse and clearing her throat. “It’s unbecoming. Now, remember to smile—everyone loves your smile.”

You hide your yearning and plaster on a fake grin, feeling nervousness infecting your blood.

In your career, meeting new people was a requirement. Photographers, other models, business associates who reach out for brand deals; the list was long. Beyond a desirable body and the mask of provocative expressions, physical image was only a part of it—being good at playing sales broker added to appeal. At the parties AMA shipped you off to, especially.

Alyona often called the two of you exceptionally well-paid and up-standing sex workers, but withholding the intimacy of sheets and panting breath. You sold the idea of sex just by being there, which, oftentimes, is far better than the sin of flesh itself. Your agency knows it well.

Your face was an asset; just like your body and expressions—a tool.

But somehow you knew that whatever face you put on, model or the woman who’d just seen immense horror, it wouldn’t matter in the slightest. Just on a picture alone, Nikto had ingrained himself in your mind as an idol of seriousness and blunt orders. Not like Yefim, but somehow that made you feel better about this situation. It was even the reason you had chosen him in the first place.

No getting close to this one, you reason as your mother guides you down a hallway, hand firm on your back.

“Is there anything I can know besides his name?” Watching room after room passes you, you’re brought to the far back of the Consulate building. You study the large wooden door.

It’s a moment before your mom responds, rubbing lightly along your spine. “I’ve heard he’s a former FSB Agent. Spetsnaz as well. He has an extensive record, but no...concerns to worry about. You’re in exceptionally good hands.”

“Concerns?” A huff. “Like if he’ll kill me before the creep has the chance,” you’re leveled with a stiff look.

“No one is going to die, Seraph.” People already have.

With a frown, you grasp the handle and shrug off your mother’s touch, entering the room and letting the door shut behind you with a thump as you pad through. It’s only a millisecond, but you plaster back on a content expression and loosen your muscles; the internal warfare of constant tension makes everything ache.

You lock eyes with a standing absence of light.

In person, he was even more dark…and you didn’t just mean the outfit. Staring, bright eyes dig into your soul with no emotions—so departed from normal expression it’s like looking into a corpse.

Nikto’s standing with his hands behind his back, his shoulders loose but pulled with soldier-like authority. He’s tall, and the large bulk of his chest and thighs make you swallow down saliva as you stand still and blink quickly. His stomach bulges with muscle from under his armor—the same you’d seen in his profile.

The Russian was all the same except for the lack of weapons, though, the duffel bag at his side certainly held them in its inky depths.

He’s built like a damn brick wall, your mind blanks, not lying with the feelings of slight unease. Nikto was just…still. Not blinking. Watching you with a gleam of something strange. The Russian man’s eyes narrow with…disgust? Maybe you were reading too much into that, but one thing was certain.

He was studying you... aggressively. Prodding.

A second passes like this.

Oh, your face remains a plastered calm but your heart skips a beat, he’s waiting for me to introduce myself. You quickly clear your throat and walk forward, not seeing the way he tenses and sets his feet harder into the ground.

“Umh,” scolding yourself for your hesitation, you shakily put out a hand for him to shake, keeping a respectable distance away.

Finally, a slight movement; a dart of his eyes down to your limb.

“I’m Seraph, nice to meet you. You go by Nikto, right? Just Nikto…? I’m sorry, that was all I was able to read on your file.” You’re blinked at slowly, left gazing up into this beast's covered face and his terrifying mask of fabric and rigid material.

How tall can a man be before it becomes insulting to be standing next to him?

As the silence continues, your hand stutters before you let it fall, awkwardly stuffing it into your pocket.

Alright.

“There was…” You lick your lips, glancing off to a gray picture on the far wall. “A lot of black ink, to be honest. Quite the record, huh?”

A strained chuckle bounces off the small space.

Nikto doesn’t respond and you blink quickly through confusion and growing embarrassment. Your face burns like a heat gun was set on it. A highly uncomfortable silence falls, but you very much doubt that the man in front of you even feels it like you do—a slow deterioration of your confidence.

And why in the hell was he still looking at you like that?! All you’d done is walk through the damn door and lock eyes with him!

But then he speaks as you’re just about to turn away and walk out of the room with your tail between your legs, mentally exhausted and needing to put ice on your forehead.

“Seraph, like angel?” Broken English, but better than Sergi’s. What caught you was the depth of it—the rough scrape of vocal cords and raspy grit. Sandpaper, nearly. You restrain yourself from cringing. Nikto scoffs and he looks away from you, stance immobile. “You do not look like angel.”

Your mind takes a moment to latch onto the words, jaw slackening in shock and lashes fluttering for a second. “E…excuse me?”

Nikto grunts and glares at the door.

It’s your turn to stare, mouth opening and closing with small smacks of lips with a sudden blankness to your brain. Your ability to speak seems to leave you in a small instant between the stab of insult and brief anger. While you felt yourself above the base instinct of vexation, Nikto’s words had soaked you in their substance of prodding bluntness.

Your beauty was all you had, certainly, he hadn’t meant that. Surely it was just a translation error. Your lips darken with a frown, eyes flashing.

But something else pierces you in the chest, too.

Without another exchange, you turn around and begin walking to the exit, hands in your pockets clenched into your palms. There’s a silent padding of feet right behind you and the shuffle of a duffel bag. Your body freezes and you slowly look over your shoulder.

The Void follows, bag in hand and dead eyes peeling back your psyche as if this was normal; you find him a few steps forward from where he was, like your own personal shadow.

He freezes as you do, but this is more… purposeful. Both of you lock gazes, nothingness and veiled discourse flaring.

But you were better than that.

You had to be better.

So you soften your expression and, under your breath, sigh heavily. “I’ll write you up my schedule,” Nikto blinks, brows barely pulling in. “Get you a copy from AMA or something.”

“Already acquired.” His hulking figure seems to always be tense and ready to strike. For a second you’re reminded of Petya with a sharp slap to your face. But Nikto’s bark is far sterner if that was even possible. Almost like a single sound.

You bring a hand to itch at your temple, stopping before you can peel at the soft skin covered in scar cream.

“...Right,” at a slight loss of what to do, you shuffle your feet and open the door—leaving the room and holding the thing partially open behind you for the Russian. “Of course.” Your grumble only meets your ears, put off.

Nikto moves out of the doorway, having to slightly tilt his shoulders to fit through the opening without slamming into the frame. He does so fluidly and almost robotically.

“Has anyone ever told you that you walk like a scary dog?” You let go of the door and pull ahead, smiling somewhat more real as the light eyes snap down at you. There’s a brief grunt of breath from behind his mask.

Nikto is silent for a long while, growling out, “Hет.” Formal. Brisk.

No.

You get the feeling that you’re annoying him, but you can’t help but slightly enjoy it. Finally, some semblance of normality you could cling to. “Well, they should,” you admit, studying the loping walk—a slightly tilted pace that would suit a wolf or a bear, even. Making sure your own hand slides against the wall to keep you in a straight line, you continue, cheekily. “Because you do.”

Nikto stares straight ahead and stays silent, something akin to irritation in his visible portions; free hand twitching. You tilt your head.

“Y’know, this would be better if you could hold a conversation.”

“Да.” You smile wider.

“So you’ll have a conversation with me?”

“Hет.” Nikto glares from a side-eye, the words hissed through clenched teeth. If he was this easy to rile up, this would be more fun than you thought.

Your eyes linger on his form, the biceps, and the forearms that strain behind padded pieces of thick material. Combat boots and loose black cargo pants shoved into them.

This might be a good distraction, at the very least. Let the authorities work in the background and keep this cut of the crop. No feelings, of course. Not like Yefim, you remind yourself again. Never again like Yefim.

The dead man’s face slips behind your eyelids and you blink your face forward.

“Are you only going to say ‘yes’ or ‘no?’” Nikto’s bulk enshrouds you heavily as you take a right back to the lobby where your mother waits. He hums in his throat, before muttering something under his breath in harsh Russian. You have no idea what that means or if you even want to decipher it, you shrug and shut up.

It was probably a curse anyway. Or a plea for reassignment.

Your mother’s face pulls tight as Nikto shows himself beside you, his sights locking onto the Consul as you grab your jacket, missing the hook once before you grasp it firmly and slip it on.

“If everything is in order…?” She trails, before frowning at the man and coming over to you.

“We can always find a way to bring you back to the States,” you blink, her face serious as it slashes through you. “Get your passport up to date and find a different modeling agency.”

What’s with the change in attitude? You ask yourself, brows pulling in and studying your mom’s expression. She’s older, but maybe you’re only realizing it now that you care to look. Wrinkles and a certain film to her gaze that parents seem to grow when they’re trying to convince you of something.

Nikto watches and listens closely a few feet from the door, duffel bag still in hand.

“You know that’s not an option. Allurement is exclusive—I won’t get a better deal than the one I have.” Your words come out confused. “Weren’t you the one that told me this was the best option, that they would be the only ones to take me?” You pause. “Especially with the way I am?”

Her face twists, shaking her head instantly with a scrunched nose and flashing orbs. Even mentioning what happened made her act like water near the brim of a glass; one shake and the liquid would seep over and pool to the counter. “I don’t remember saying that.”

You close your mouth before changing the subject, offering an easy, yet strained, smile.

“I’m going to be okay, Mom. Besides, the guy’ll get caught before we know it. All of them do. Petya, Aleksandr, and Yefim,” your voice tightens, “will get to rest easy.”

Your matriarch gives a small twitch of her lips back, kisses your forehead, and says, “Alright, Beauty,” you hide your cringe, “I’m one call away.”

She walks off with a click of her heels.

“Girl,” you look up from zipping your jacket. Nikto glares at you. “быстро. Hurry up.”

“Hurry up?” Your voice bounces as you make your way to the exit, sending a thinly hidden face of amusement. “I’m just going home, there’s no rush to things.”

“We need to secure the premises.”

We? You nearly ask, wondering what he meant. Obviously, he didn’t mean you and him, based on general attitude right now. Maybe that was just a strange quirk of his.

“Around my penthouse?” Nikto’s shoulder presses on the barrier and he’s outside before you can finish your sentence. You narrowly catch the door and slip past like a horrible snake, elbow slapping the frame—you hold back a hiss and enter the street. “I…I don’t think it’s overly necessary, the police move through that area a lot—”

“Not the penthouse, Whelp,” you struggle along, feet rapid to stay at his side and multitask by staying in a line. He walks in long strides, parting people away from him with only a sharp glance and a scoff. “Inside.”

Your body halts before you blink back to your senses and make a noise in the back of your throat.

“I-inside, Nikto? I’m sorry, I’m not following.” You huff under your breath and stick beside him, using his presence as a sort of barrier. He walks near the road. “I never agreed to that. And Whelp? What the hell, man?”

“I do not care.”

“You’re just a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” You grumble, sighing.

I guess I’m having guests.

Has your mother given permission for that? A stranger with weapons thumping inside of your penthouse like he was your live-in boy toy? Eating in your kitchen and putting his feet up on the coffee table? God, the public would have a field day with it when they saw him walking down with you in the morning to go to work.

He couldn’t have been put in the building across the street? But you suppose there are worse things that can happen—you have the space for it. With a dejected expression, you sigh; you seem to be doing that a lot recently.

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Nikto stares down at you as your feet stutter along, seeming to raise a brow in annoyed question as to why you were struggling to keep up.

You wondered how much he had been told beyond some rich Consul's daughter needed a new bodyguard. Did he know any of it?

“What?” Your lips twist, smile flicking out. “See something you like?”

“No. You’re slow.” You hide your groan and face forward, brows falling into a line.

But you’re not oblivious to the way his piercing eyes survey the crowd, and while the mask is drawing attention, random people peeping break off like sticks as he’s clocked by you, darting to make room. How his large shoulders span and block the road from you, pace pulling back to fit right behind you with a low grunt as your arms brush.

A grunter too—he really is a scary dog.

“Why do you walk like this,” Nikto growls. “Are you unable to feel your feet? It is pathetic.”

“Are you going to stop insulting me?” You glare ahead and cross your arms. “Or are you going to keep playing the jerk until this is over?”

His eyes burn into yours for a moment, before he places such a heavy hand on your shoulder that you almost squeak at the pressure. It nearly slants you forward before your back tightens.

“Keep quiet. Walk.”

“Well, now I don’t think I’m going to,” his eyes flash, those colorless films going into themselves with tiny flecks of surprise. You suppose no one’s ever had banter like this with him before, being in a PMC…or really just being him as a whole. He doesn’t seem the joking type over a back-handed sarcastic comment.

“So, how has your day been, Nikto?” Your voice is smug and your smile large, perfect and bright, and ravishing. “Today I woke up at five AM and ate an apple with yogurt. Then I—”

Nikto growls deeply and forces you on through a gawking crowd.

The rest of the walk is filled with a one-sided conversation coming from a grinning face, pale, boiling eyes, and the shadow across the street who watches through the thin glass of a bookstore. The perfect view.

A hat on his head.

A slight distance to his addled expression.

A medium slip-joint knife in his pocket.

TAGS:

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cissyenthusiast010155 · 1 year

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Sex Pollen~ Severus Snape x Fem Reader

Hellooooo. I had seen a lot of sex pollen fics for other characters out there, so I wrote my own for Severus Snape.

Warnings: NSFW, 18+ only!!!, smut, sex, implied chocking kink, implied sexual positions, p in v, severus being hot af lol

About 1800 words

enjoy (;

Y/N had started working at Hogwarts just this year as the assistant herbology teacher, as Professor Sprout had been in need of an extra hand with all her greenhouses and classes. She had just finished her pre-lunch class of fourth years and was making her way to the great hall. She made it through the hall and to her usual seat. Shortly, Professor Snape sat down to her left and she uttered a “Professor.”, in recognition of his arrival. She never really understood what all the hate about Snape was. He could be quite harsh at times, yes, but she thought it was just because he was so lonely. But certainly not her type. No. That would be terribly inappropriate. He responded with a quick “Miss L/N.” also in recognition of his colleague.

Once lunch and the remaining classes had finished, she went to dinner. Eventually dinner was finished as well, so she made her way back to the greenhouses and her study. As she went to sit down at her desk, she noticed a mysterious silver vial with emerald green liquid sitting right in the middle of her desk. No note. No explanation. Nothing. Puzzled, she decided that a trip to the potions master would be appropriate. She made her way back to the school, down all the corridors, and into the depths of Hogwarts where Professor Snape’s office lie. She knocked on his classroom door and after what felt like hours, he finally opened the door. “What is it?” Snape asked in his usual monotone bordering reprimanding tone. Suddenly, she froze up a bit. It became hard to use words as she was staring at him. “Um… I found this vial on my desk and was wondering if you knew what it was?” The whole time she was saying this, he was making direct, piercing eye contact which did not help her at all. He rolled his eyes the slightest and then opened the door, beckoning her inside the classroom. “Let me see the vial.” he monotonically said, and she gave it to him. He then walked off into his storage room without another word. She stood there in his classroom for what felt like another few hours, before he returned.

But before Snape could say another word, there was a large yellow explosion of what seemed like clouds or pollen. Y/N immediately ducked in fear of being hit. But as soon as the cloud was there, it disappeared. She looked up and Snape just stood there with a mixture of puzzlement and annoyance on his face. Fuuuuuck, to sit on that face would be heavenly. She jolted herself out of that thought. She usually held her thoughts on a better leash than that… Then all of a sudden, her body began to heat up bit by bit. It started to become painful to touch anything around her. She looked at Snape and he had his hands gripped on the edge of a desk while emitting faint grunts. Ughhhhhh… I want those hands around my neck. At this thought, she finally realized what was going on. How could she have been so dumb… By now, her body was rejecting her own clothing, and she just felt like stripping down completely. “It’s sex pollen.” She said. Snape looked up at her, and said nothing for a minute. “How long?” he asked. She has been to busy thinking about his massive nose and Oh, how I want him underneath me! To even receive his question. “Sorry?” she responded. Snape grunted again whether from frustration or something else and repeated his previous statement in annoyance: “How long will it last?”. Now she got real flustered once she heard his question. “Um… Around a few hours if we're lucky and the dose was low” “And if we’re not lucky?” he asked rather impatiently this time. Now the tension was building more and more in the room. “A few days if the dosage was fully potent” she whimpered from all the physical burning her body was experiencing. Now Snape truly grunted and loud. And she had to hold back a bit of a moan which had started to form in the back of her throat. “There is one way to treat the symptoms…” she said reluctantly. “No” was all he said. Fuck, I want him to directly command me like that… She really needed to get her thoughts under control, but it was hard enough with her body burning up like a wildfire in need of dousing. “Ok… I understand, it’s inappropriate. We can just wait it out, I guess?” she finally successfully uttered through her clouded head of Snape in some not so appropriate positions with her. He grunted again, this time even louder; his knuckles were now fully white against the desk. “Fuck…” he muttered. And this time she couldn’t control her moan, though it was small, he most definitely heard it. Snape’s head shot up a bit at the sound of her, and she immediately bit her tongue, absolutely regretting what her body had just done to her. He looked at her with eyes of restraint, and she could tell he was in the same pain she was. He quickly looked back down again. SHiiiiit, please make me scream so loud that I could never regret it… She winced at the thought, images, and growing pain which was not slowing down in the least. That’s when Snape finally said something. “I think it’s painfully obvious… that we cannot live like this for hours…let alone days…” he uttered this through his grunts and heavy breathing. “What are you suggesting?” he meekly asked, knowing full well in her mind what he was saying Yes, please fuck me!! Fuck me so hard, pleaseeeeee!! “I am suggesting we get this over with and never speak of it again” he said through strained speech. In that moment, a spike of courage ran through her veins and she made her way over to him. Inches away from Snape's face, she whimpered “only this once?”. And he breathily responded “just this once” before clashing into her body with a needy and lustful kiss. Within the second, his tongue was fucking her mouth, making her moan again but he cut her off by pushing her against the desk and kissing her even harder. Breathless, he paused to catch his breath. “Snaaape…” she whimpered, in desperate need of some kind of contact. His eyes meet hers again, but this time they were lustful red. He moved in and grabbed her waist, “Severus. God, Call me Severus…” he practically begged. The grip of Severus’ hands on her waist made her so dizzy her legs could collapse. “Fuck Severus Ok, just touch me… please!” Her words met his with the same amount of desperation and need. And just like that his lips we’re on hers again, all hot and sticky. She went to take off his cloak and unbutton his shirt as quickly as possible and he just groaned and began peppering her neck and collar bone with kisses and soon to be hickeys. This really drew a moan out of her. “Fuuuck…” she whimpered even louder. As soon as his top was off, Severus began quickly stripping her of her top to reveal her green bra. He stood there for a second, looking at her with an intense hunger. In him doing this, she got impatient. She went up to Severus and for the first (but certainly not the last…) time stroked his clothed, hard dick. “Please Severus…” she begged as she greedily stroked his cock through his trousers. Now it was Severus’ turn to moan, and he did so with his head rolling back as she edged him on. “ I swear to God Y/N, if you don’t stop, I’ll cum right here in my trousers” he moaned. Her response was an even louder moan, Fuck, please just destroy me already… As she backed off his hard, pre-cum leaking dick, he grunted “on the desk, now.” She complied so quickly, she couldn’t wait. Severus met her at the edge of the desk and placed his hands on her thighs, slowly riding her skirt up more and more. She mewled in impatience and anticipation. Suddenly, he reached her soaked knickers and ripped them off. She yelped and moaned together in response to this. He then quickly took his trousers and then boxers off. “Fuuuuuck, you look so heavenly” she thought as she drooled at his cock. He chuckled and growled in response, “Why thank you”. Fuck, she hadn’t realized that she had said that aloud, and it it showed on her shocked face. He just chuckled in amusement and went to her ear and whispered “Come on, that’s not even the beginning of what you’ve thought about me” He withdrew with a sly grin, as she sat on the desk legs open just stunned. He then took her thighs again and lined himself up with her pussy. She desperately moaned at the needed attention her pussy was craving. That’s when he thrusted into her for the first time. And god did it feel heavenly… And he didn’t stop, like a starved man. He hadn’t even given her time to adjust, but fuck, the pain made it so much better… She just couldn’t stop moaning as he thrusted into her. Her hands were in his hair and on his back like she was clinging on to him with her life. Strings of “Fuuuck”, “Please Severus”, and “Yes! Right there, please don’t stop!!” flowed consistently from her mouth which only spurred Severus on even more. She could feel her stomach clenching faster and faster. “Shit Severus, I’m gonna cum” she almost screamed through the ecstasy she was experiencing. And he was right there with her, about to explode and fill her with his cum. “Fuck, Do it. Cum on my cock” Severus growled, as he greedily thrusted into her harder. And that’s what did it for her. She came with her vision going white and her loudest moan of “Severus” yet. And he soon followed, cum spurting into her pussy and leaking out the sides. He eventually pulled out, as they both were catching their breaths. Severus left the storage room and came back with a towel to clean up his mess all over her thighs. He then muttered a spell and both of them were fully dressed again. As she went to stand up from the desk, her legs caved in on her and Severus quickly caught her with a small chuckle. “I guess I should have prepared you” he chuckled. “Nothing could have prepared me for that” she said chuckling as Severus looked at her for the first time (but certainly not the last) with a small smile.

#severus snape smut #severus snape #snape smut #snape #snape x reader #severus snapexreader #harry potter smut #smut #snaddy

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pumpkincurryelote · 1 year

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Men have what's called "explosive" strength. Power + speed. The price of this type of strength is tiring quickly and tissue injury. If a man can't overwhelm you in the first few minutes, he's lost his "advantage". They also have low pain tolerance. Strikes are loudly telegraphed and slow compared to maneuvering and grappling. Most men don't train legs at all.

Learning how to fight with a woman's strengths is a game changer. Endurance, flexibility, joint manipulation, reflexes, environmental awareness, marksmanship. The disparity in strength that exists between a man's upper body and a woman's upper body, exists between a woman's hips and a man's hips. Regardless, women need to do full body heavy strength training to shore up what socialization has depleted-- strength training also increases your bone density. Hormonal birth control weakens you.

Eyes, ears, nose, tendons, small joints. Men fight for fun and status/ego. Women fight for survival. If a fight cannot be avoided, you must move to kill/cripple first and without mercy. The more meaty/fat the neck, the more your chokes will hurt. A properly applied choke kills in approximately two minutes or less. Men are especially susceptible to foot, ankle and knee manipulation. If you can hook his balls with your fingers and bust them, there's a strong chance of him choking to death on his own vomit.

I've spent most my life getting in fights. Men are sloppy, stupid, overemotional, and weak. Their strengths have nothing on ours. But you do need to start navigating the world as if we at war. An isolated woman is a woman in danger. Failure to cultivate your woman body and instincts can cost you your life at worst, your self assurance at least.

#radblr #radfem safe

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kyber-crystal · 9 months

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learning to warm cold hands || ethan hunt

summary: after a particular mission, sunshine isn’t sunshine anymore, and it worries him. (aka a cliche angst to fluff fic with the following tropes: slightly sunshine and super sunshine, who did this to you, etc)

words: ~1.4k

warnings: angst, brief descriptions of violence, ethan being overly concerned for reader, but not much else asides from that

a/n: first ethan fic (requested by a lovely anon, thank you!!) and second mission impossible fic! btw, this fic is kind of an AU? i don't have a specific timeline for when it happens, so you can squeeze it in wherever :)

“Y/N, status update?”

“Northwest exit, 430 meters. I have one on my tail. But you know I’m Usain Bolt 2.0! I can definitely outrun this doofus, I mean, I bet my mile time is way better than his. I could've gone to the Olympics, for God’s sake. The Olympics! Where are you?”

“Stay there, I’ll come find you.”

“Ethan, wait, you can't just tell me to—“ You don’t even get to finish before a an explosive sound echoes across the narrow alleyway. You make a sharp left turn but find that you’d just hit a dead end. The door was locked. Shit. You only had one bullet left and there was a guy who was definitely at least twice your weight—and over a foot taller, too—coming after you. You wouldn't even have enough time to reload.

“Y/N. Y/N—“

You don’t get to hear the rest of what he’s saying before the static fizzes out and you lose connection.

“Hey there!” You give the beefy man who’s now mere meters away from you a cheerful smile. “Lovely weather today, don’t you think? Too bad it’s going to rain tomorrow. I love the rain but I hate lightning, because I almost got struck a year ago.”

He doesn't look too happy at this, whipping his gun out without a moment’s hesitation. You squeeze your eyes shut and pray as you slide the bullet in and he pins you against the wall by your neck.

He brings the gun to your head, and your weapon clatters to the ground. You curse under your breath. You can feel your airways constricting and there's a searing pain working its way through you.

“You're not going anywhere, princess.”

There's a split-second; a microsecond in which he pauses. Very briefly. You don't think, just do—you knee him in the groin, hard, and quickly grab the knife that's sheathed in your boot.

Saying one last prayer, you plunge the blade in, not even looking to see if you'd aimed right. He falls to the floor, stumbling, and you then lunge forward to disarm him.

Another deafening gunshot rings out just as Ethan rounds the corner and finds you there, standing over the man’s dead body like the angel of death. A pool of blood surrounds your feet, and he doesn't think he wants to know if that's yours or his.

“You made it out alive. Good job out there.”

Glancing over at him, you nod, but don't say anything. You toss him the data files without another word, and board the plane.

“I'm proud of you.”

More strained silence. Huh, weird… he thinks.

“Y/N, are you alright?”

No response. Ethan repeats himself again, “Are you alright? Did something happen?”

You strap yourself into your seat and tilt your head back, digging your nails into your wrist. Anything was better than being awake right now…

“Well, someone's uncharacteristically quiet.”

Still no response. Not even a snarky quip like you'd typically reply with. No nicknames, no bickering, no random fun fact you googled on the way over here. “Did you know that a pig can digest an entire human body, bones and all? That makes me think a little extra every time we pass through the European countryside and see one of them.”

All he gets is silence from your end, and it starts to worry him.

That’s when he follows your gaze downwards. You're clutching the left side of your abdomen, trying your best not to make a sound.

His blood runs cold and his eyes darken. You can feel the pure rage radiating off him.

“Did he hurt you?”

“No…shit…Sherlock…” you croak out.

“You're hurt.”

No response again.

“Y/N, what the hell happened out there and who did this to you?”

More silence.

“Y/N, what did he do to you? How did he hurt you?”

After several more questions and several more failed replies, he forcefully moves your hand aside. Your shirt is stained a deep red and there's a gaping hole much bigger than Ethan wanted to see.

“You got shot.” He sighs. “Luther, how much longer?”

“Hour and five, but we can get there in 38.”

“Hurry.”

“On it.”

Ilsa brings him a thick roll of bandages. He tries to be as careful as possible as he disinfects and wraps up your torso, but every so often, you wince in pain.

“I'm sorry, sweetheart, just a few more minutes,” Ethan hurriedly apologizes. “Hang in there for me, okay?”

Once he's done, he sits down next to you and laces your fingers together, giving your hand a squeeze. You let out a shuddering sigh and slumped against him.

He pretends not to notice your watering eyes, or the crescent-shaped marks in your wrist. Or the way your left foot nervously taps out the rhythm to yours and his favorite song. Or the way your tears leave faint red tracks behind as they slip down your cheeks.

“I'm so sorry,” he repeats over and over again, “I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.”

You don't sleep a wink that night. On any other day in Paris, you'd walk down to the farmer’s market below. You’d pick out Ethan’s favorite fruit and a new beret to have him wear jokingly, and maybe grab a croissant or two. Then you’d drag him along to the Louvre and point out each painting one by one and explain in great detail why you loved them so much. And he’d listen, because he could live purely off the sound of your voice for the rest of his life. He was never one for museums, but you loved them, and because he loved you, he started to love them, too.

But it's dark out, and after what had just happened the other day, you don't feel safe enough to leave the apartment. You tossed and turned for over half an hour before falling asleep, but jolted awake just a few minutes later, shivering violently. There was no way you were going to try and go to sleep again.

Ethan stirs awake, rubbing his eyes to see a dark figure slipping out the door.

He's quick to follow you up the staircase and to the rooftop. You're standing there in just a T-shirt (was that his?) and shorts, and it's freezing cold out, but you're sweating and fanning yourself.

“Y/N?”

You turn around at the sound of his voice. “Ethan…”

“What are you doing up here? I was worried about you.” He makes his way over to you and puts a hand on your shoulder, obvious concern on his face.

You bit your lip and started digging your nails into your wrist again.

“Talk to me, Y/N,” he pleaded. “Tell me what's wrong.”

You shook your head, feeling the skin of your wrist beginning to sting.

“Y/N, please. I want to help you. But I can’t do that when you won't talk to me, so please…tell me what’s going on.”

“I’m so tired, Ethan,” you finally spoke after a long pause, voice hoarse. “I should’ve—I shouldn’t be here right now, I should be dead because I panicked and I…I almost died. The man, he put the gun to my head and I saw my entire life flash before my eyes. I could’ve sworn to God that the whole ‘thing’ about you seeing your life flash by like a film reel was just a myth but it wasn’t. It scared the shit out of me because I kept seeing the same thing over and over. I thought…”

“What did you see?” he asked, voice gentle.

“I kept seeing your face. All I saw was your face.” You looked away, suddenly unable to make eye contact with him. Heat spreads across your cheeks. “I know I care about the whole damn team, but you—you’re my future, Ethan.”

He doesn’t say anything in response and instead, leans down to kiss you.

The sudden rush of warmth from his lips being pressed against yours makes you want to forget everything in the world and completely drown in him. This was home, you realized, and this is where I’m supposed to be.

And as the sun rises and spreads a brilliant pale glow over the horizon, Ethan can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this was also exactly where he was meant to be. Not fighting bad guys, but rather, standing on the rooftop of a tiny building in the 4th arrondissement with you in his arms and your head against his heart. He thinks he could have a lifetime of this.

“You’re my future, too.”

tags (including those who may be interested! add yourself via this form, if you’d like): @mitchellpete @voguesir @fl0ating @lady-elena-adeline @the-multiverse-of-fandoms @ilsastrenchcoat @joyfullyswimmingface

#mission impossible #mission impossible fic #ethan hunt #tom cruise #ethan hunt x reader #ethan hunt x you #ethan hunt fic #ethan hunt imagine #mission impossible fanfic #mission impossible: rogue nation #mission impossible: fallout #mission impossible: dead reckoning #dead reckoning part one

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multifan2022 · 11 months

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*Prewarning.. this is my first attempt at writing again.. I haven't touched my laptop since January so bare with me lol*

You could feel the warm wetness running down the side of your neck as you sat pinned at a weird angle. There was a sharp and hot pain every time you took a breath as you tried to remember where you were. What was the last thing you did? You couldn't remember getting in the bronco. Didnt remember driving away from the house. All you could remember was fighting with Bradley.

“Why would you say that to him Brad?! You know how devastated he was when Goose died! You're not the only person that hurt Rooster! FUCK!” You slammed your hands down onto the counter, having a hard time even looking at your husband. While you and your dad were not close, you never blamed him for what happened with Goose. Sure you blamed him for the short break up between you and Bradley as young adults but clearly that was in the past. All you wanted now was for them to figure it out, you wanted to be a family, have a family. But now as Bradley stood here looking at you the same way he looks at Mav.. You were questioning things..

You hadn't even noticed that you called him Rooster.. A thing that just started after the move back to Fightertown. Because you had always known Bradley, he wasn't Rooster too you.. But every night when he came home, a little more mad, and a little more distant, your Bradley was being replaced by Rooster. The aviator who was the best of the best, who was part of the 1%. But was also the aviator who had taken the anger and trauma Bradley had and used it to mold himself.

“No one to mourn you when you burn in… Really Bradley, because last time I checked, I am the one and only emergency contact for BOTH OF YOU!”

That if your rattled brain could remember correctly was the spark that lit the match. You and Bradley did not fight often, but when you did it was explosive. The kind of fights that left people in tears, the kind that led to words that should've been left unspoken. One of you always ended up on the couch for a few hours, normally both in tears until one of you couldnt take it anymore. Tonight was the first night that one of you actually left.

You didn't even know which part it was that pushed Bradley over the edge. Was it you telling him you couldn't have kids with him if he couldn't get his anger under better control? That you refused to keep Mavs grandkids from him one day over some pulled papers? Was it when you said that you had sacrificed enough to be with him, that you had to draw the line? Was it when you told him Goose and Carol would be disappointed in how he treated Mav today?

No matter what it was, the words he spoke as he left stung enough to leave you standing in the same spot for at least 30 minutes after he left. When you blinked and everything caught up with you, you realized the quietness of the house was turning your stomach. Without thinking you slipped shoes on and grabbed your keys. Originally you wanted to just drive your jeep around, clear your head since Bradley had just taken the doors and top off. But when you noticed the bronco still in the drive you couldn't resist being just a little close to Bradley.

That's how two hours later you ended up driving down some road next to some beach. Honestly at this point you weren't even sure where you were. All you could think about was how hard you were crying as Tim McGraw and Tswift came on. Highway don't care, it seemed poetic, if a song was ever written for the aftermath of this fight, it was this one. When it ended, you had decided it was past time to call Bradley, to find out where he was and at least get you both home. Unfortunately you accidentally knocked your phone out of the old cup holder and onto the passenger floor. One last attempt to save it before it flew out the open door was made.

You should've let it fly out the door. Because as you stretched across the cab, a car full of intoxicated teenagers came down the middle of the road. You could've sworn you heard someone yell your name as you sat straight up, jerking the wheel way too harshly in your panic to try and miss them. You desperately tried to keep control of the bronco as you skid sideways, unable to get control before it flipped down the side of the bank.

That's where you were now, wondering how much more Bradley would hate you for crashing his late fathers baby. In your concussed mind, this would be the feather that shattered your relationship. The nail in the proverbial coffin. Part of you registered how long you had been hanging sideways in your seat, the truck having stopped on the passenger side after flipping a few times. You registered that you were struggling to breathe, and definitely were bleeding. You didn't hear any sirens, knew that the teens had not stopped. But thankfully, as one Amelia Benjamin, was dropped off at home her conscience overran her fear of being in trouble.

So she told her mother and her boyfriend how she had been out drinking. How there had been a vehicle, one she swore she knew, that ended up off the road and she couldn't get anyone to stop. The two adults reassured her that while she was in trouble, she made a good choice in telling them. That maybe she saved someone's life. Little did they know how closely this would hit their little family.

Jake was over Bradley, the new found friendship they had was great. But it was two in the morning, and Jake honestly just didn't get it. He couldn't imagine having a lifelong love. A childhood best friend turned into the love of his life. So he couldn't wrap his brain around why Rooster was sitting in his kitchen right now. He also couldn't figure out who Rooster was mad at, himself or you? He told him as much and was surprised and worried when big brown eyes lifted from the floor with tears in them.

“Myself, I think.” Roosters voice croaked “Because she's right ya know.. How can I ask her to give me a family when I cant even be nice to her dad? You know I didn't even ask for his blessing? Not because I thought he would say no, but because I thought it would be a slap in the face to him.. I've always used her as a way to hurt him..” Rooster broke off in a sob. It hurt Hangman's heart to see how hard of a time his wingman was having. But if he knew you, and he felt like he did, you were going through it worse.

Taking a deep breath he pushed off his counter, annoyed that he was pulling his boots on with his impromptu sweat pants and grabbing his truck keys. Roosters watery eyes followed him before he jumped from his stool, understanding what was happening. When the two were finally in the truck Jake spoke, “Look Bradshaw, I know we aren't great friends or whatever, but I'm gonna tell you something that's gonna suck to hear.” Without looking he clicked the radio off before he continued. “Y/n.. She's a once in a lifetime kinda woman. The kind that will put up with just about anything to make things work. But once she draws a line in the sand, its there forever. Not just for you, but for the next guy too.”

The hair on Rooster's arms stood on end, not only because of Jakes words but he swore he heard another male voice whisper his name. “What do you mean.. The next guy..” Jake scoffed at how soft and confused Rooster's words were. “My man.. Do you think she will stick around if the one thing she asks of you, is something you refuse to do? She has already given up her father walking her down the aisle.. He wasn't even at the wedding right? She's moved all over to be with you. The only long term roots she has are from when she lived with you as a kid. When was the last time she asked something big of you?”

Rooster couldn't recall, causing Jake to just sigh and shake his head “I'm telling you this as your friend.. Fix this.. Because I wont fuck up where Maverick is concerned” Jake smirked at Bradley as they pulled into the driveway of your shared home. Rooster was practically out of the truck before it was in park, neither of them registering that the Bronco was gone. Jake watched as Bradley yelled your name, panicking more and more as he cleared each room. When he made it back to the living room he was already pulling his phone out. His thumb didn't even hesitate to click the call button as he tried to get ahold of you.

He called over and over again, not knowing that you were watching as your phone buzzed just a few feet from the car. You could swear you saw a man who looked just like Bradley walk up to the Bronco and give you a sad smile. Your eyes closed just as the bright blue and red lights started flashing close enough to illuminate your accident. Your last thought about how Bradley would get what he wanted. What his final sentence had been to you, come to life.. It just cost him the Bronco.

~~~

The ER was nuts on a good night, but tonight a Nurse named Layla was panicking. She had only met you a few times, being one of Hangman's regulars. At first, when she heard the explanation of the vehicle she was sure it was a Bradshaw, but unfortunately there was no IDS in the car and the police in the rush of trying to save you, had missed your phone. It wasn't until she rushed into the room to help with the CPR rotation that she knew it was you. Your hair was matted back with blood, the number of cuts and bruises amazed her. She was even more amazed that the tattoo on your hip was untouched. The one of a rooster with aviators on, the one that had confirmed who you were.

Quickly announcing that she knew who you were she ran from the room. Slipping sideways as she tried to open her employee locker. She had never dialed Jake's number so quickly.

Jake felt sick after he hung up. He was thankful for Layla, honestly he had always really liked her and this made him feel like he needed to take the whole thing with her seriously. But as he looked at Bradley, who was practically hyperventilating he didn't know how he was going to get him to the hospital. Layla had told him it was bad, bad enough that she didn't know if you were going to make it. Hangman heard the words come out of his mouth before he could stop them. They were harsh and he wanted to take the way he said it back almost immediately. “Bradshaw, looks like I found your wife.. She's in the hospital.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bradleys entire world came crashing down in a matter of nanoseconds. He kept trying to say what by only the wh would come out. He could see Jake's mouth moving as he ushered him back to the truck, and could comprehend that he was on the phone with Mav. But he couldn't grasp anything.

Well that is until the last interaction he had with his wife, the wife who was currently dying, played in his head. The one where he stormed out, didn't tell her he loved her. Didn't give her a kiss. Just said words that want to make him vomit now. Jake didn't fully hear him the first time he spoke, but when he asked Rooster to repeat himself, it took a lot of self control to not hit the man.

“My last words to her.. They were that I'd probably be better off without any of the Mitchells..”

Bradley's mouth tasted sour, his whole body weighed down as he cried silently. Thinking about how much he would hate himself if he couldn't make this right. What if you left him after this? Would you move in the Mav? Get with someone like Jake? God he doesn't think he could watch it. Doesn't think he could handle you even packing an overnight bag to be away from him for a night. Why did he always let this happen?

Why does he always let his anger just blurt out, why does he always take it out on you? When Mav had pulled his papers? It had been you he left. When his mom passed and you were trying to clean the house up for the wake.. It had been you he screamed at, even you whose head was right next to the wall he threw her favorite coffee cup into. But he only ever remembered the parts he liked. The memories where you held him while he cried and tried to pick up the pieces of that cup. Where he found a replacement in the cupboard a few days later. The parts of your story that made him feel loved. Like when he showed up at UVA, standing on your townhouse step with a duffle bag, sad eyes and apologies. It had been pouring rain, you had made him beg on his knees on the front porch before letting him in.

He didn't hear any of Jake's words on the drive, and was out of the car even sooner this time. His feet eat up the distance between him and the front desk attendant. When they tell him you're still unstable and he will have to wait, he almost passes out. Once again Jake leads him to a seat. He doesn't register anything that doesn't have to do with you. He barely notices as the other members of the squad show up. Maverick kneels in front of him trying to catch his eye. But when he does, Bradley loses it. The tears that have been silently streaming down his face are now coming out in full sobs. Bradley keeps apologizing over and over, for not treating his daughter the way he should have. For what he said, for how long he has let this go on. It's like sad but relieving word vomit.

Once Bradleys done, he moves on to reassuring an equally distressed Amelia. Who crying and sobs every word out as she explains to someone she looks at like a big brother, what happened. Bradleys not mad at her, hes not even mad at her friends. He's mad at himself, because had he grown up sooner, had he not been the reason for this fight, you wouldn't have been out on the road anyways. You would've been at home, wrapped up in his arms watching trash tv before having sex and falling asleep. He put you here, he knows that.

When Layla comes out and says a soft hi, it breaks her heart and fills it to see the entire group here. She's surprised when Jake comes and hugs her, kissing the top of her head and thanking her profusely. She spoke as frankly and kindly as she could. “It was touch and go for a while. We lost her a few times.. She was unconscious when the cops found her.. She's got a long road ahead of her. Collapsed lung, small brain bleed, lots of bruises and a handful of broken bones. She's stable for now, but I don't really have good news yet. The first 24 hours are crucial.”

All Bradley could hear as Layla led him and Maverick down the hall was that you had died.. Multiple times. He heard Mav gasp slightly as he entered the room, and it was like glue that forced Bradleys feet to stay in place. Layla paused as your dad walked towards you and turned to your husband. “I know this is hard Rooster.. But Y/ns a fighter.. She fought hard while in the Bronco, fought harder in the ambulance and here to stay with you.. But now she needs you..” Layla squeezed his arm as he took the small step to the doorway.

The scene in front of him was nothing like in the movies. Ones where they show someone who was ‘in an accident’ but is barely bruised up. No, because the woman laying before him couldn't be his wife. Your skin was grayish, instead of the healthy tan glow you had developed under the Cali sun. The multiple leads and wires you had on you helping to sustain your life made him sick. A collar around your neck to keep your head stable. There were gashes across your beautiful face, and bruises on every inch of skin he could see. He knew the next moment he had with you would be make it or break it. You would either wake up, and be happy to see him.. Or you would wake up and ask him to leave..

Now all he could do.. Was wait.

#bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw fic #rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw angst #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradsaw x reader #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw x y/n #Bradley Bradshaw x oc

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heauxvibez · 23 days

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Sex Typhoon

Warning: Smut (18+), this idea was stolen from one of my favorite episodes of My Wife and kids. This is also an old one shot from one of my books from way back when, I just edited the fuck out of this and tailored it to how I like to write Roman. Hope you enjoy this short and sweet read!

"Please, baby... just fuck me already," Nevaeh pleaded, her fingers yanking at Roman's cream-colored button-up shirt with surprising strength. She managed to pull the 265-pound man on top of her petite frame, urgency evident in her eyes. A small, satisfied smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as her words dripped with seduction, a silent acknowledgment of the intense longing between them.

Two Months Earlier:

Neveah's eyes furrowed in concentration as her delicate fingers flipped through the pages of the book.

The book, a gift from a friend a couple of days ago during their move, had remained untouched until Roman's message about working late tonight. It was a modern-day Kama Sutra, filled with positions and techniques that she could only imagine. Excitedly, she made mental notes, eager to add some more passion and excitement to their love life.

Their sex life had never been dull, but with their schedules becoming increasingly hectic, Neveah had made it her mission to ensure that there was always some added spice to their intimacy.

One idea from the book captured her attention above all else: a two-month hiatus from sex. Just two months of tantalizing foreplay without sex. The promise of explosive passion at the end of their self-imposed abstinence, described in the book as a "Sex Typhoon," was enough to surprisingly get both of them on board. Although Roman did put up quite the fight with the idea, he couldn't resist her cute pleas and gave in.

Roman chuckled deeply at her impatience, his hands gently cradling her face as he gazed into her eyes.

It was a rare sight to see her so consumed by her horniness to this degree. From the moment he walked through the door this evening she couldn't keep her hands off of him. Though every fiber of his being wanted to put it in her and stroke her until she melted into his arms, he resisted the temptation, knowing that tonight was about savoring every moment, every caress.

"Baby girl, calm down," he murmured, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of her neck as he whispered sweet nothings.

But how could she possibly calm down when she was in the arms of the Samoan man? His warm breath against her skin, the intoxicating scent of his cologne, his calloused hands roaming her body. It was nearly impossible to not cum when her senses were being overwhelmed like this

"I c-can't... I want you so bad, it's not even funny," she gasped.

Roman's gaze bore into hers almost leaving her breathless.

Taking her hand in his, he brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to her palm. A blush spread across her cheeks, the contrast against her chocolate skin captivating him.

Gosh, she's so beautiful.

His touch traced a path down her body, his fingertips leaving goosebumps wherever they roamed.

"Relax. Savor each and every moment," he seductively whispered, causing her clit to pulsate.

"Each and every touch," his rough hand caressed her curves, teasing her sensitive flesh with gentle strokes and firm pressure.

"Jesus," she gasped again, her voice struggling to escape her throat as she held onto his arms.

The way he touched her, the way she caressed him, they were sending each other into a frenzy.

"Each and every kiss that I place upon your skin," his lips trailed a scorching path between the valley of her chest.

His tongue teased her erect nipple causing her pussy to clench in an almost unbearably painful way. The soft bristles of his beard brushed against her skin adding to the overwhelming of her senses. She was feeling everything at once

Struggling to control her breathing, Nevaeh's fingers danced through his hair, the strands gliding against her fingertips. It was the only way she could keep herself grounded, regain some type of control while Roman was doing everything in his power to make her lose control.

A groan slipped from his throat, he truly savored the way her soft fingers massaged his scalp.

His tongue danced with finesse around her nipple, each swirl and flick almost sure to make her nut right then and there for him.

Returning to her neck, he nestled into the crook once more, their bodies almost melting together with only the thin fabric of his briefs and her panties separating them.

Huskily, he whispered, "Just savor everything for the time being. Let your climax build up... slowly..."

Nevaeh felt Roman's long finger slip into her panties, massaging her bundle of nerves in slow, circles.

"Until you reach your peak, gradually falling apart in my arms,"

The sheets wrinkled beneath her clutching hands. The friction between them was intoxicating, and Nevaeh felt as though she would explode if he didn't fuck her soon.

Sliding his finger down her slick slit, he earned a loud moan from her pretty plump lips. "Lord, help me," she pleaded, her voice a breathless whisper.

With a knowing smirk, Roman inserted his finger, savoring the feeling of her warm wet walls wrapping around him. Normally, he'd use two fingers, but he knew that if he'd enter a second one, she would orgasm.

"You okay, baby?" he asked, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes.

Biting her lip, Nevaeh groaned, "You know I'm not okay, asshole," she whined.

"I know," he agreed.

Chuckling softly, he withdrew his finger before slipping it into his mouth moaning at the sweet taste of her honey.

"You taste so perfect, baby girl," he uttered, his voice husky with desire as he gazed into her eyes.

Butterflies fluttered wildly in Nevaeh's stomach as he spoke, her need for him reaching indescribable heights. The ache between her legs felt like an ocean, a tidal wave of need crashing over her senses. She knew that by the time they were finished, the sheets would be soaked with not only her juices but his too.

Grasping her waist, Roman could feel the heat radiating from her core, her arousal warming his skin. Gripping his pulsating member, he nearly flinched at its sensitivity, the 2 months of no sex was almost the death of him.

Rubbing his dick against her slick folds, he teased her with a wicked grin. "Damn babe, you've got a river down there," he chuckled, his voice low and sexy as ever.

Nevaeh dug her nails into his skin, her impatience taking over.

"Shut up and put it in already," she demanded.

"Patience, princess," Roman teased as he guided himself slowly into her welcoming warmth.

With a low groan, he buried himself deep within her, relishing the sensation of her warm walls inviting him in. As they moved together in what seemed to be perfect harmony, their bodies were consumed by the pleasure they had been denied for months, every touch and caress more intense than what they could've imagined.

"Fuck, Roman.." she moaned. Her legs engulfed his waist, yearning for him to be deeper. A mistake she often made once she realized he was hitting her spot a little too precisely. But this time, she craved it. She craved for him to be in her, to stroke the deep depths of her soul. She didn't plan on tapping out this time.

"Mmm, I'm so proud of you..taking daddy's dick like I know you can.." he praised while taking her jaw into his hand, her lips forming into an 'o' as he did. His praises always did something to her. Her pussy craved his words almost just as much as it craved his body.

Beads of sweat formed down his heated skin, tracing the contours of his muscles before dripping down onto her skin. With every movement, he felt her velvety walls pulling him into a strong embrace the same way he did her.

"Dammit, Nevaeh," he growled, his voice a low rumble as he tightened his grip on her wrists, pinning them above her head. The weight of their anticipation, simmering for the past two months, now hung thick in the air around them making every glance and every touch 10 times more electrifying.

"Daddy..I'm gonna, I'm gonna nut " she panted.

"Go ahead baby girl, I'm right there with you."

He gave her one last mind-numbing stroke, as they hurtled towards their climax. With a deep growl rumbling in his chest and a whimper caught in her throat, they both stiffened before their bodies trembled as they released.

Her juices gushed, coating him in her warm nectar before dripping onto the crumpled sheets.

As he nutted in her, it felt as if their souls intertwined after being deprived of each other for so long.

Breathing heavily, they lay basking in the euphoria. Roman ran a hand down his face, his breath coming in ragged gasps, a satisfied grin spreading across his lips.

"That was beyond amazing," Nevaeh gasped, her fingers clutching at the sheets as waves of pleasure continued to wash over her.

"Hell yeah it was," Roman agreed, his voice full of satisfaction. "But I'm not sure I'm up for that two-month wait again. We'll have to explore something else from another one of your friend's books."

With a laugh, Nevaeh nodded in agreement. "Me either, and I highly doubt she has another book. She's not as adventurous as you."

"You never know," he teased, his fingers trailing teasingly over her skin. "Maybe instead of a Sex Typhoon, she has a Sex Storm or something."

Neveah rolled her eyes, giggling softly at his goofiness. "Anywaysss, let me get to washing these sheet.."

As Nevaeh rose to her feet to clean the sheets, Roman couldn't resist the urge to explore her further. Standing behind her, his touch sent shivers coursing through her body all over again. She tilted her head back, offering herself to him, and he leaned in planting small kisses on her ear. His warm breath igniting the fire they had just put out.

"Or instead of cleaning the sheets, we can get and the shower and have ourselves a little sex tsunami.." he whispered.

---------

Tags: : @harmshake @southerngirl41 @spritelucozade @empressdede @alichesmi @kumapassion @msbigredmachine

#roman reigns #wwe #roman reigns fanfiction #wwefanfic #romanreignsimagine #roman reigns smut #romanreignsoneshot #fanfiction

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jarofstyles · 1 year

Note

A hickey blurb miss jars? 🤲🏼🤲🏼🤲🏼

Hmmm. Yes :) for you. Small Jealousrry 👀👀👀

Check out our Patreon

———-

“I want to give you a hickey, so everyone can see how I feel about you.” The words fell from his mouth without his permission, but he didn’t stop. Lips kissing down the slope of her neck, pinning her against the wall as her leg curled around his waist as he pumped himself inside of her, making her gasp each time he filled her up all the way.

Their secret fling wasn’t really a secret per say- it was more like a friends with benefits and people weren’t privy to it considering they both tried their best to act natural- but it wasn’t what they wanted to broadcast. At least, it had started that way. They both agreed they were attracted to one another, they had explosive, delicious sex, but they weren’t in the market of a serious relationship. Their friend group was big and they’d seen how relationships had ruined some of it sometimes and didn’t want to contribute, so they kept it casual- until it wasn’t.

“W-what?” Her fingers curled into his shoulders, panting as she took every thrust. He was deep inside of her, a rushed pull into the nearest room at the party and a locked door making use of it. It was abrupt and unplanned but sex with Harry wasn’t something she would turn away, so she went with it. The bubbly heat of her tummy made her shakily exhale, holding on to him as he nipped down on her neck.

“Can’t Fuckin’ stand those assholes flirting with you. Wanting t’make you drinks. You’re my fucking girl. That’s my job.” This was the first she had heard of it, but the man was serious. It was evident in the sex. The way he grabbed her and lifted her up, both legs having to grip him as he fucked into her hard and making her eyes roll back into her head. The words should have terrified her but instead, fed a darker part of her that made her even more wet. Soaking him, making the slide easier as he fucked into her cunt like his life depended on it.

“Yeah? That’s your job?” She gasped, feeling his teeth bite down a bit harder and an equally as firm suck making her legs shake slightly around him. A self proclaimed pain slut, she loved the sting it brought. “Fuck- fuck, Harry. Please…” she trembled. It was embarrassing to be this close to cumming from words like that- especially if he didn’t mean them after they finished- but she couldn’t stop it. The harder her sucked on her neck, the pads of his fingers digging into her ass, she was a goner.

Cumming around his cock was the goal, but Harry felt the satisfaction as he pulled away from the mark, sure it would form. The sloppy sounds of their sex, skin hitting skin and the sticky, slick arousal coating his dick from the orgasm fueled him. “It is. My job to make you drinks and to make that cunt cum around me. they can’t do that.” He snarled, moving at the same pace as she clung to him. Sensitive still from her orgasm, he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. “My fucking girl, my fucking cunt.”

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subbyp · 11 months

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I have this idea for an AU wherein Sanji’s physical Germa modifications kick in during his time starving on the rock, and when he’s like 14 Judge finds out and decides to take him back by force, because if the physical modifications took then surely the mental ones will too and if not there’s always psychological conditioning like what he did to Reiju, right? So Germa rocks up to the Baratie, burns it to the waterline, slaughters the crew (almost) to a man, and drags Sanji back. they don’t realize that Zeff survives, and they probably wouldn’t care if they did. (more fool them)

the mental modifications never kick in, but Sanji learns to act like they do, developing this false persona as a vicious shallow hedonist. he also leans hardcore on his growing resemblance to Sora to get Judge to indulge his whims (no, there’s nothing actually sexual about it, but it is deeply uncomfortable and it’s supposed to be). this is because he’s waiting for a very specific kind of opportunity…..

five years later, the Straw Hat Pirates are in Loguetown, getting ready to scale Reverse Mountain when Luffy fucks up the storefront of a shabby little seafood shack off the main square where Roger was once executed and is enlisted into chore boy duty. he gets to talking about dreams and piracy and sailing with the owner.

“do you have any dreams?” he says, failing to mop the floor.

“I used to have a few,” says the owner.

“not anymore?” says Luffy.

“none of your business,” says the owner.

“you should be my cook!” says Luffy.

“not a chance in hell,” says the owner.

then the shit goes down that leads to Luffy being put up on the block and almost executed. when the Straw Hats flee to the Merry they find the owner standing there waiting for them with a book under his arm.

he explains that he can’t be their cook—he’s too old and too broken, he’s had enough of the Grand Line, and besides staying in Loguetown is the best shot he has at achieving his dream (“I knew you had a dream!” yells Luffy. everyone ignores this), but he’s got a cookbook and nutrition guide he’s been working on and the Straw Hats can have the first draft so they don’t totally die of scurvy and shit if they swear to do him one favor—to, if they ever, out there on the sea, meet a nineteen-year-old kid called Sanji, tell him that Red-Leg Zeff is alive.

“yeah! of course!” says Luffy. “if you tell me what your dream is.”

“to see him walk free,” says Zeff.

—

Zeff’s cookbook keeps the Straw Hats properly nourished. but they barely make it to Sabaody in canon, and here they have one less combatant, so Kuma decides to split the team at Thriller Bark, and instead of sending Zoro to Kuraigana, he sends his unconscious just-bore-Luffy’s-pain ass right onto the Germa 66 flagship.

Judge wants to vivisect Zoro to figure out how a regular human non-DF-user could be so freakshow strong and then turn his head in for the bounty, but Sanji recognizes him as one of the Straw Hats (and thus, one of the liberators of Alabasta) and improvs on the spot that he wants him as a swordsmanship coach (“after all, sir, you want me to improve my swordsmanship”) and, he heavily implies, bed-warmer. thus Zoro wakes up in a Germa 66 infirmary, wounds bandaged, swords gone, and explosive collar on his neck, as the third-born Prince of Germa demands to be allowed to see his new toy alone. (“yes, I’ll be careful with him. I don’t want to break him when I’ve just got him!”)

zoro, having deduced what sanji is alluding to, is about ready to kill him with his bare hands on the spot, but as soon as they’re alone in the room together sanji starts immediately and profusely apologizing for being such a creep. he says he’s not into men (“especially not unwilling ones”) but it was the only way he could think of to get them even occasional privacy, and btw he is probably going to have to claim that he’s doing some unsavory stuff or else Judge might possibly have Zoro killed, but he’ll never lay a hand on Zoro without his consent besides what is strictly necessary to fake it around the Vinsmokes—

at this point Zoro starts to wonder what the hell he’s going on about. Sanji explains the whole thing and says that he’s planning on somehow getting Zoro back to the Straw Hats as soon as he can, and in the meantime he’ll make sure Zoro gets food and medical care and that nobody sells off his swords or anything, but he needs Zoro to do something for him in return:

“I’m going to feed you every bit of knowledge I have about Germa 66, and when you leave here, you need to give that information to someone who can destroy us until not even memories remain.”

#So basically it’s a ‘’fake slave and actual hostage of insane relatives to friendly rival to lovers’’ sort of deal #one piece #roronoa zoro #black leg sanji #zoro/sanji #zosan

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flowerandblood · 8 months

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The Impossible Choice (45)

[ Aemond • Targaryen x Baratheon! • female ]

[ warnings: violence, character death ]

[description: Aemond comes to Storm’s End to choose his future consort. However, Lord Borros Baratheon presents him with only four of his five daughters. Being attached to his youngest child, he does not want to marry her. The prince, however, thwarts his and her plans with his decision. This is slow burn, with a lot of dark angst and sexual tension. (Anon Request)]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

______

He spent the last hours before marching off snuggled in her womb, from above his head surrounded by her arms and breasts, from below her thigh placed on his torso. He lay with his eye closed thinking of nothing, feeling only the pounding of her heart, concentrating on the gentle touch of her hand stroking his hair.

He felt safe.

He tried to pretend he couldn't hear his wife's struggling to stop spasms of crying, her whole body trembling around him. Once in a while he kissed her almost invisibly rounded abdomen, hugging his cheek to it again a moment later, and began to wonder what their child might look like.

Would it have his silver hair, or would it be dark like his mother's? What would be the colour of his eyes? The shape of his nose? Would it have a calm, gentle character or explosive and fiery? Would it be a son or a daughter?

He felt a tightness in his throat at the thought that he might not know the answers to these questions.

With his eye closed, he imagined their child in the arms of his beloved wife, singing him a lullaby to sleep. He imagined that he lay with his face cradled in her neck, his hand, his fingers capable of such cruel violence and brutality stroking infant's tiny hand clenched into a fist.

He felt tears under his eyelids at this wonderful vision of the ordinary, peaceful evening where it was just them, the only thing that mattered to him, his wife and his offspring safe in the shelter of his arms.

He wanted that vision to become a reality. He wanted to come back to her. He wanted to see their child.

Part of him regretted his decision, the fact that he had decided they would set out, make the first move. Part of him wished he could wait for the inevitable, not be aware of when it would happen and enjoy her closeness for as long as he could.

He prayed that the time to leave would not come, but finally a servant entered their tent. He immediately looked away embarrassed to see them completely naked and informed him that everything was ready. He heard his wife sobbing loudly, burying her face in her hands.

She was unable to look at him as the boy put on his armour, and he felt pain like he had never known before in his life. He couldn't chase away the thoughts of death, of never seeing her, their child or his mother again. Thoughts of how Daeron might have died with him, without really experiencing any of the joys of life.

When he was ready he ordered a servant to tell the commanders that he would join them immediately. He looked at his wife and saw her looking at him, pale, her eyes and nose red and puffy from crying, her swollen lips parted slightly in heavy breathing.

She was terrified.

He approached her slowly and knelt before her, gripping her cheeks in his hands.

"Remember what I told you." He whispered and placed a warm, sticky kiss on her forehead, then turned and left, regardless her silent cries from which his heart was breaking.

When he came out he was overwhelmed by the sight of so many troops, all the warriors ready to march, in full armour, looking at him uncertainly. The sun was just setting. He merely nodded at Lord Baratheon then looked at his younger brother and the two of them set off for the hill where their dragons rested.

When he saw Tessarion, the blue, slender dragoness lying next to Vhagar she seemed tiny to him and he tightened his lips at the thought.

He thought he was taking his brother to the slaughter.

In a clash with Caraxes, he didn't stand a chance.

He had to protect him at all costs.

He stopped his brother with a hand gesture, placing a hand on his shoulder. Daeron was all pale and looking somewhere in the distance.

"Look at me, brother." He said to him, forcing himself to be calm, but he felt his own voice tremble, betraying his fear as well. His younger brother glanced at him uncertainly, swallowing loudly.

Aemond walked over to him and grasped his face in his hands.

"You are to be my support and stay back. Observe the situation. If more dragons appear than we anticipated, if you realise that the battle is lost, you will withdraw. Do you understand? You will flee. To King's Landing or anywhere else." He said lowly, looking him straight in the eye. Daeron shook his head, swallowing loudly.

"What are you talking about?" He asked in a trembling voice, and his lips tightened.

"Don't try to be a hero. Promise me." He said firmly, looking at him with his lips tightened. Daeron swallowed loudly, and for a long moment answered nothing.

"I won't let you down, brother." He said with a childlike certainty from which his heart fluttered. He leaned over and kissed his hair, his first affectionate gesture towards his sibling that he could remember.

"You're meant to survive." He said and let him go, his brother looking at him in disbelief and horror.

"Let's go." He ordered turning towards Vhagar, climbing with difficulty onto her back.

After a moment, they both lifted themselves into the air with a tremble of earth, complete darkness already falling around them. Aemond saw his army from below, moving behind him, Vhagar and Tessarion gliding across the night sky in complete silence.

They had to maintain the effect of surprise. They couldn't be loud, they couldn't move too fast. The attack on the Eyrie was going to be brutal and merciless, burning everything around it and those inside. He wanted Daemon to feel what he felt when he watched his uncle burn Harrenhal.

When, after several hours, he finally caught sight of the outline of the fortress of House Arryn he glanced distantly at his brother, who nodded to him.

They moved between the hills so as not to be spotted from afar, however the Vhagar was so large that it required great effort and concentration for him to guide her. He could feel the sweat running down his back, his heart pounding in his chest like mad, the bright moon and clear sky over his head.

Suddenly the high fortress seemed at his fingertips, he had the impression that he saw a stir, that several of the guards saw their death approaching silently in the sky.

It was now or never.

"Dracarys!" He heard his own earsplitting shout and then saw Vhagar open her maw, the night flashed with the light of a wave of fire that erupted suddenly from her throat, heard the screams of the guards and the people who were probably inside the fortress now from afar.

Daeron moved to follow him, both of them burning everything they saw around them, tents of the opposite army, their soldiers, their horses, their supplies. The wails and sobs of the people were like music to his ears, the conviction that they had just been slaughtered.

That they had really managed to surprise them.

They were burning not just to destroy the enemy.

They were burning to clear a path for their army, so that they could see what was going on around them and so that they could take advantage of the confusion surrounding them.

Aemond glanced over his shoulder, panting heavily, and saw the cavalry under the command of his uncle and his wife's father moving forward, killing men along the way who had not burned.

Slaughter.

Fire and Blood.

He thought with a beating heart that his plan was working. Daemon really did think he was a coward, had underestimated him and was now paying the price. He glanced quickly at Daeron, wanting to be sure he was safe.

And then he heard it. A loud roar of Caraxes in the distance, her silhouette moving nimbly across the sky in the moonlight. He spotted out of the corner of his eye behind her two other figures of smaller dragons and pressed his lips together.

He ordered Vhagar to turn back, Daeron retreated with him and began circling over his army, which was just crushing their assembled forces of Northern Lords, Velaryons and Arryns. He swallowed loudly when he noticed that Caraxes was accompanied by Vermax and Moondancer.

Jace and Baela.

He smiled at the thought that Rhaenys was not with them. She had stayed in Dragonstone with Rhaenyra, waiting for the sign from Daemon to attack King's Landing when he and his men attacked their army with their new dragon riders.

Not going to happen, he thought.

Several things happened suddenly and his mind could barely keep up with what was going on. Caraxes opened her maw and breathed fire, but Vhagar did the same, the two pillars of fire colliding in mid-air. He only heard something fly past him and turned his head.

Vermax and Moondancer moved on their army, as Borros had predicted one of them would try to distract Vhagar so he could not protect them. He watched with a pounding heart as Daeron came out to face them with courage despite his dragon being much smaller, waves of fire burning in the sky around them.

He wanted Vhagar to turn back, however, she angrily pushed against Caraxes who did a backward turn and retreated, pulling him away from the battlefield at the same time.

"Dohaerās, Vhagar! Rȳbās! (Serve me, Vhagar! Obey!)" He shouted, pulling at the ropes in an attempt to turn her back, but his dragoness went into a fury, chasing after his uncle's dragon with such ferocity that Caraxes could barely keep up to take evasive action against the subsequent flames.

He looked to the side and saw his brother fighting a hopeless two-on-one battle trying with all his might to draw Jace and Baela away from their troops.

Suddenly Caraxes rose high into the air and twisted like a serpentine, turning, and he saw his uncle fly over, leaping down along with his Dark Sister straight at him.

He thought it was over.

There was no way he could have avoided his blow.

He would not keep his promise.

He was going to die.

He grabbed his sword, and then he saw it.

He saw his uncle's neck cut by a crossbow arrow, his face expressed surprise, his body involuntarily beginning to fall to the ground.

He heard the mighty roar of Caraxes, who rushed after her rider's body as if to come to his rescue, however, his body fell from such a height onto a stone hill that he could not have survived.

Vhagar moved down behind her while he looked to the side, trying to retrace the flight of the arrow, and spotted Lord Borros looking up on him on his horse, crossbow in his hand.

Although my mother treats my wife as her daughter, you do not treat me as your son.

He felt a tightness in his throat and an ache in his heart.

He felt like a little boy who wanted to cry with happiness that his father had arrived on time.

As if his father had managed to come to his aid before Luke took his eye from him.

A feeling poured over his heart that he had not known before, though he so painfully craved it.

A feeling of awe, a feeling of gratitude, a feeling of filial love for a father who had stood up for him.

Who had protected him.

And then he heard Baela's scream so loud and heartrending that it echoed throughout the valley.

"DRACARYS!!!!!!"

He saw Borros disappear in a wave of fire and shouted loudly, clasping his hands on his saddle, leaning forward, an exasperated "Angōs!" ripped from his throat.

Vhagar's snout opened, and the screech and howl of Caraxes echoed around him as her fangs literally crushed part of her body, turning back, releasing what was left of her. Beala rushed at him with a yell and ordered Moondancer to breathe fire towards his dragon, but he only laughed out loud.

This fucking bitch.

He thought she would pay him for that.

She would pay him for killing their father.

Moondancer was fast and agile, but she was frightened by the size of Vhagar and turned back despite the desperate cries of her rider.

She had stopped listening to her, he thought with amusement bordering on madness.

Vhagar's snout opened again as he commanded her to breathe fire, but a loud screech caught his attention.

He looked over his shoulder and saw Vermax's maw clamped over Tessarion's throat, wrestling with each other through the skies. He could only watch helplessly as the dragoness, along with his brother, fell from the heavens crashing to the ground.

His heart stopped.

No.

Not him.

Even though he had Beala at his fingertips he changed his direction of flight and thrust at Jace with a furious roar, a pillar of fire left Vhagar's mouth from which Vermax barely managed to dodge. His nephew was sure he had escaped and soared upwards.

And then suddenly a third dragon appeared in front of them.

Sunfyre.

Aegon.

It was his answer to his letter.

Vermax panicked finding himself suddenly between two dragons, he heard Jace shouting, ordering him to dive down, but it was too late, Lord Strong disappeared into the jaws of Sunfyre, whose jaws clamped down on his dragon, tearing it in half.

He could feel it ringing in his ears.

Daemon and Jace were dead.

From that moment the battle was a foregone conclusion. Baela had disappeared between the hills, probably flying to inform the Black Whore of the death of her husband and first-born son. His heart was torn by such extreme emotions that he felt like screaming.

He ordered Vhagar to land where he noticed Tessarion had fallen. He saw that her corpse had crushed body of his younger brother, who was lying beneath her.

He slid down from Vhagar's back, above him again and again the night sky was lit by the glow of Sunfyre fire, burning the remnants of the Black army that had fled.

He fell to his knees feeling that his legs refused to obey him, panting all over and struggling to run up to his brother. He saw that Daeron was breathing, his eyes wide open, his body from the waist down crushed by the dead body of his dragoness.

Aemond tried with all his strength to slide her body off him and when he finally succeeded he saw that his body was broken, blood pouring from under his armour. He stared at this sight as if stupefied and touched his face, his brother still staring ahead.

"Brother. Brother, look at me." He said pleadingly, but he did not speak, a snarl came from his throat.

He saw a ripple of blood come out of his mouth, which he gulped down from his throat as tears trickled from his eyes.

He lifted him higher, holding his head so that he did not suffocate, but the blood did not stop pouring from his mouth. He cried out loudly, not knowing how to help him, so he just pressed his face against his temple, holding him close, feeling his body convulse, and then suddenly he was silent, his body going limp and sprawled in his arms.

He could feel his heart pounding hard, feel his uneven breathing, feel his body panting.

"− Daeron? − brother − please −" He whispered, but it seemed to him that it was not his voice, so squeaky, high-pitched, trembling. He stroked his cheek, his brother's empty eyes looking somewhere to the side. His whole hands were dirty from his blood.

"− brother, wake up −" He said quietly, shaking him slightly, as if he had entered his chamber in the morning and wanted him to get up.

He could not be dead.

He could not.

He combed his soft hair, looking at the boy's face, the child's face, and felt pain, felt shame that it was he who had cooled his cruelty, advised him in his letters with the wisdom of an old man, always ready to support him, always offering his love and devotion.

And he had never told him how much he meant to him. He seemed so small to him now in that great, cold armour.

"− little brother − please −" He called out loudly, helplessly, from deep in his throat. He pressed his fingers to his face and burst into sobs, unable to look at him, at the dead face of his beloved younger brother, the most innocent of them all.

"− forgive me −" He whispered in his ear, cradling him in his arms like a small child. "− forgive me − forgive me − forgive me − forgive me − forgive me −"

He did not know how long he sat like that, did not feel the ground tremble as Sunfyre landed beside Vhagar, Aegon shouting to him, informing him about their triumphant victory.

He did not see how he froze suddenly, standing over him, did not hear him say their brother's name, did not hear him growl and whine like an animal, falling to his knees beside him, pressing his face against Daeron's armour.

In that moment, they were nothing more than brothers.

_____

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hottpinkpenguin · 1 year

Note

Hii, could you do a matthias x reader with the promp "Did I miss the part where you suddenly turned likeable?" where the reader is Grisha and her and matthias HATE, eachother. Like literally loath eachothers existence and they end up jeprodising missions because off it

A/n: loved this idea!!! who doesn't love a good enemies-to-(maybe?) friends story! let me know what you think anon :)

Matthias X Inferni Fem!Reader Word Count: 2,490 Warnings: mentions of disfigurement, burning, cursing, not proofread

The force of the explosion collided with Matthias’ back, throwing him forward like a ragdoll. Heat singed the back of his neck as small shards of rock and glass bit into his skin. He slammed down against the rocky ground, knocking the breath from his chest. Pain and shock kept him immobilized for a few moments as he tried to gasp air into his lungs. His ears rung with a high pitched keening, the world disappearing in a blaze of bright white light for an instant.

When he finally felt his lungs expand with a greedy breath, he opened his eyes to see a pair of leather boots standing in front of him. He looked up at you, your lip curled slightly in a half-snarl, half-smirk.

“Get up, druskelle. I’m not carrying you.” You stood above him, your arms crossed, a look of smug contentment on your face as you watched him struggle to regain his breath and clamber to his hands and knees.

Hatred boiled in his gut as the urge to swipe your ankles out from under you raced through his mind. He knew you were too good a fighter, your reflexes too quick, to actually be caught unawares like that, but the image of you falling to your ass - no matter how unlikely - was so appealing that he couldn’t help himself. He lashed out with his right hand, hoping that a combination of speed and strength might just catch you off your guard.

As he predicted, you were too fast. You lifted one of your feet and slammed it down on his wrist like a cat catching its prey, pinning his wrist against the ground. He grit his teeth against the pain. You’d used just enough force to hurt him without actually injuring him, although he knew that wasn’t for his benefit.

“Saints, you two are going to get us all killed!” Jesper and Kaz strode over from the still smoldering remains of the building you’d blown up. Kaz’s face looked like a thundercloud as he approached you, coming up so close to your face Matthias swore the Bastard of the Barrel was going to spit on you.

“Let him go, Fire Witch.” Kaz’s voice was a low growl, threat laced through every word. Your eyes narrowed in challenge, and Matthias felt your foot grind down a little harder on his wrist before releasing him. You were flicking the shard of flint you used as a fire starter between the fingers of your right hand as you held Kaz’s gaze.

“He shouldn’t be here,” you snarled back. “I don’t work with Grisha killers. He’s lucky I haven’t burned the skin from his bones.” Your eyes were dark and hateful as you watched Matthias rise from the ground. He ignored the threat: however strong your hatred of him, it was returned in kind.

“It’s not your call. Fall in line, or get out of my sight.” Matthias hadn’t known Kaz long, but if there was one thing he’d learned, it was that Kaz Brekker was the leader of every mission. Matthias, for his part, appreciated a strong leader. Kaz’s shrewd if at times shockingly cruel tactics never troubled Matthias, although he’d seen you struggle with taking orders since you’d fallen in with the crew almost a year ago.

So Matthias wasn’t surprised when he saw your hands flit like hummingbirds at your side. He realized now why Kaz was standing so close: it blocked you from being able to use the Small Science. And Kaz knew you well enough to know that you’d never back down from him - literally or figuratively. Matthias made a mental note in his head, although he sincerely doubted if he’d ever tolerate being that close to you. Your and Kaz’s nose were barely a hair’s width from brushing.

“I don’t take orders, either.” Your voice matched Kaz’s in its tone, eagerly rising to the challenge.

Kaz didn’t balk or blink in the slightest. In fact, he smirked smugly at you, like a spider who knows its caught a fly. Jesper stood close to Kaz’s side, his eyes trained on you warily.

“You’ll take orders from me, Witch, or you’ll suffer the consequences. More aptly, you’ll watch someone else suffer the consequences.”

For the first time since Matthias had the misfortune of meeting you, he saw something like real fear in your eyes. Your nostrils flared at Kaz. As the standoff stretched on through a few tense breaths, Matthias realized he never knew how or why you’d come to end up working with Kaz Brekker. He’d never cared enough to wonder. He couldn’t make heads or tails of what Kaz meant by “watching someone else suffer the consequences”, although it clearly struck a chord for you. Whatever Kaz had on you, it was something you didn’t seem willing or able to walk away from.

“You know I won’t do that.” Your chin dropped a half inch, your eyes widening slightly as if to convey to Kaz a sincerity Matthias didn’t know you had.

Sensing victory, Kaz nodded. “I know that. So you’ll fall in line. Stop trying to get the Fjerdan killed.”

You shot Matthias a look of contempt over Kaz’s shoulder. Irritated and emboldened, Kaz thrust the carved crow handle of his cane up under your chin, jerking your head back towards him.

“Fall in line or pay the price.”

Matthias watched as the rest of your headstrong resolve crumbled under whatever Kaz was threatening you with. The tension in the air was so thick Matthias realized he was holding his breath. He shot a quick look over at Jesper, stock still at Kaz’s shoulder with his shooting hand flexed subtly by his holster, as if he thought you might lash out at his boss. Something about Jesper’s defensive posture and Kaz’s overtly bullying behavior was grating on him. For reasons he couldn’t understand, he actually felt like defending you.

“She won’t kill me, Boss.” Three pairs of eyes snapped over to Matthias as he spoke. “She couldn’t if she tried. Fjerdan or not, I’ve gotten under her skin. She likes me, she just doesn’t know it yet.”

Matthias didn’t believe a word he said, but he added just enough smug swagger to his voice that Kaz and Jesper seemed to buy it. The moment broken, Kaz stepped back from you and Jesper’s shooting hand dropped from his holster. Kaz shot you one more warning look before he strode past you, shoving you with his shoulder and leaving you and Matthias alone.

Matthias watched your eyes bore holes in the back of Kaz’s head as he limped over the ridge and out of sight. Finally, you turned back to face him. Usually your eyes were nothing but loathsome pits when you looked at him. Matthias couldn’t be sure if he imagined it, but he swore he saw a flicker of something like gratitude in your face. You opened your mouth and inhaled, ready to speak, but no words came out. Your mouth snapped close, and you looked up at Matthias with a strange flurry of emotion. Then, with a small nod of your head, you turned on your heel and followed Kaz.

It was the first time Matthias could remember that you’d wasted an opportunity to goad him. And the first time you could remember when Matthias had been something other than a thorn in your side.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“What did Brekker mean by ‘someone else will suffer the consequences’?”

You barely looked up from the rabbit you were skinning from across the fire.

“What are you talking about, Druska?” Your new nickname for Matthias. He supposed it was a bit better than druskelle, although you still sounded like you were hexing him every time you spoke.

“A few months ago. After the glass factory job.”

Recognition dawned on your face, but you didn’t respond.

“Kaz told you to step in line or someone else w-”

“I remember,” you interrupted him, an edge of irritation in your voice. “After I threatened to burn the skin off your bones.”

Matthias chuckled. “The very same.”

You still kept silent, studiously avoiding his gaze, although he didn’t miss the violent way you stabbed the skinned rabbit carcass with the spit.

Matthias opened his mouth to press the matter further, but something about the cold glitter in your eyes stopped him. The two of you hadn’t spoken about that day since, although there had been a noticeable change between the two of you. Matthias wouldn’t go so far as to say you were friends. More like non-combative work associates. He figured it was an improvement over borderline murderous adversaries, and he realized he wasn’t willing to risk going back to the way things were.

Befuddled by his own reaction, Matthias shrugged, resolved to drop it.

You spoke so quietly he thought he’d imagined it at first.

“He’s talking about my sister.” Your eyes wide and glassy, the fire dancing in your pupils.

Matthias froze, too shocked to know what to say back. Thankfully, you seemed content to fill the silence.

“Kaz lets her work at the Crow Club in exchange for my services. She’s… she can’t get a lot of jobs. Any jobs, really. On account of the… scars.” You swallowed thickly, tamping down a lump in your throat and swiping away the tears that pooled on your lash line.

Feeling compelled to speak, Matthias blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“What scars?”

For half a moment, he wondered if you would launch yourself at his throat from across the fire. Normally, the two of you didn’t make small talk, even when you were alone on missions - which had been happening a lot, recently. His question stepped over small talk into the realm of personal.

For the second time in as many minutes, he was shocked at your vulnerable response.

“The burns,” you choked out. “We were little… my parents had just figured out I was Grisha. We were playing… she pulled on my hair, yanked some of it out. I just… lost control. I just meant to scare her. Not to hurt her. Just to get her to leave me alone… but… I burned her.”

Matthias could barely breathe, his heart thundering in his chest. He watched as tears slipped loose from your eyes, trailing down your cheeks and dripping off your jaw onto the dirt.

You ignored them, the words falling out of your mouth like water bursting through a dam.

“The burns are… extensive. All over her face, neck. Her arms. There’s nothing wrong with her, she can still do everything you and I can. Her eyesight’s a little worse, but for the most part. She’s OK. It’s just… people look at her and they don’t know what to do. They think she’s a monster. We were banished from our village. Our neighbors said she was marked by demons. Some of them figured out it was me. That I burned her. So they called me a demon. My parents… they did their best, but they didn’t know anything about Grisha. They’d never left Fjerda before.”

Matthias sucked in a breath, his chest tight like a winch.

“You’re Fjerdan?”

You looked up at him like you were coming out of a daze. As if he were seeing you for the first time, he noticed the proud way you held your chin. Your fearlessness. The streak of loyalty you had, the duty to protect those around you, even the ones you hated. How he had not seen it before?

“Yes. I am.”

Your words hung in the air like smoke. Matthias felt his feelings for you turn upside down, a strange and unwelcome feeling of affection blossoming in his chest. Eager to bat it away, he scrambled for something to say, anything.

“I never knew that.”

You chuckled darkly, rolling your eyes.

“I know, Druska. I wanted it that way. Fjerda was… not kind to me.”

Matthias nodded, unable to find a suitable response. He’d been raised to hate Grisha, to hunt them like the dogs he’d been told they were. He’d never stopped to consider the person behind the Small Science.

“So… your sister and you, are you close?”

You shook your head, that coldness flaring to life in your eyes again.

“No. She hates me. Disowned me as soon as she was old enough to live on her own. My parents weren’t too far behind her. They never forgave me for what I did to her.”

You trailed off, only the crackling fire filling the silence for a few breaths. Matthias waited, watching you thoughtfully as you turned the roasting rabbit on its spit.

“I look after her. From a distance. I traded my service as an Inferni with Brekker for her employment. So she wouldn’t have to resort to… other professions, to make a living for herself. It’s the least I can do.”

Matthias felt a second surge of affinity towards you. The pieces began to fit together for him: the reason you resented him so vehemently; the reason Kaz was able to blackmail you so easily; the way you fought with the kind of recklessness that only comes from not truly minding if you live or die.

“Sounds like she is lucky to have you,” he offered.

You quirked one corner of your lips at him in a sarcastic smirk. “Lucky? Luck has nothing to do with it. One of the first things you learn as a Grisha.”

Matthias snorted, shaking his head. You narrowed your eyes at him in question. “That’s not a Grisha lesson, Firedrake,” he told you, using the nickname he’d given you in exchange for ‘Druska’. “That’s a Fjerdan lesson. Only the strong survive. And the strongest save us all. Your sister, she sounds strong. She survived. But you? You have saved her. That makes you the strongest.”

You looked at him across the fire, deep in thought as he watched you take in his words. He could tell you wanted to argue, but for some reason you didn’t. After a few moments, you tipped your head back and laughed. It broke the tension, and Matthias found himself laughing alongside you. For the first time since he’d met you, Matthias wondered if the two of you might actually grow to be friends.

“Druska, did I miss the part where you suddenly turned so likeable?”

He felt a warm flush spread across his cheeks. Grateful for the dim light, he ducked his head down, both of you still chortling.

“Funny what happens when you stop threatening to burn the skin from my bones, isn’t it?”

You smiled, showing your teeth for once. Matthias returned the grin, his heart doing an unfamiliar twirl in his chest. That’s new, he thought to himself.

“I guess it is, Druska. I guess it is…”

For the first time since the two of you had met, neither of you slept uneasily that night…

#matthias helvar #matthias helvar x you #matthias helvar x reader #matthias helvar x y/n #matthias helvar imagine #matthias helvar requests #shadow and bone #shadow and bone requests #shadow and bone imagine #calahan skogman

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wolfjackle-creates · 7 months

Note

Tim Drake and 60 for the ask game!

Number 60: Truth Serum.

This is going to be DC only with no DP. Hope you all enjoy!

I tried something new here and wrote in an omniscient narrator. Hope it comes across okay. I want to practice more because it is a useful POV to write in and I've never really used it before. Not in anything polished, at least.

I'll be honest, this isn't your usual truth serum fic. Hope you all like it anyway!

Word count: 2k

-----

Tim glared at the person who held him captive. Gotham's newest rogue smiled at him as he held up a syringe. Dressed in a long, white lab coat with blue surgical gloves and black boots, he looked like a cartoon scientist.

"Thank you for coming to me, pet. I've finally perfected my serum and can't wait to make a birdie sing." Glee filled the man as he gloated at his prey. This was the night he’d been working towards for years.

"You'll never get anything from me." Tim finally twisted his hand to the proper angle to feel the edge of the razor blade hidden in his sleeve. They hadn’t bothered stripping him when they took his visible weapons and utility belt, much to Tim’s relief.

"Oh, once we get this in your system, we will!" The scientist laughed. "I've spent years on it, you know. And with it running through your veins, you'll answer all my questions!"

And then, before Tim could release the blade and slice through his ropes, the man jabbed the syringe into his neck. The solution burned going in and Tim grit his teeth against the pain.

The man laughed again. This was the best night of his life. "Now, we wait! Just a few minutes and you'll tell me exactly who Batman is. And the rest of your flock. And anything else I want to know."

Tim glared, but focused on sawing through the ropes without making his movements obvious.

Just as the rope split, he heard the sound of a distant explosion. Mad scientist man glared at Tim before speaking into a walkie. "What was that?"

Tim smirked and found himself answering, "My backup," before he could stop himself. Shit. He bit his cheek and launched himself out of the chair.

He punched the man hard, knocking him to the ground. He wanted to ask if there was an antidote or what side effects he could expect, but he couldn't give the man a chance to ask any questions. Instead, he slammed the man's head into the floor, knocking him out.

Maybe he could find a computer on the way out.

Another explosion sounded and Tim cursed under his breath. Nope, he didn't have time to look for information or computers or even the rest of his gear. He had to get out of here now before his family caught up.

On the other side of the warehouse, Jason laughed as he detonated another explosion. For once, Bruce wasn’t scolding him for the unnecessary force. And Dick even helped him set up the explosives. Over the comms, Barbara’s voice was cold as she told him where he would cause the most destruction.

“This guy’s a chemist,” she said. “He’s worked for Scarecrow in the past and he’s been collecting chemicals in large quantities for the past two months. Red Robin was trying to figure out what sort of concoctions he’s been developing, but hadn’t as of last night’s report.”

Damian snorted. “If he were competent, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Dick tsked at him. “That’s enough, baby bat. RR is plenty competent.”

Bruce cleared his throat. “Enough chatter. Oracle, where to next.”

“Go through the second door on your left. Wait, hold on.” More quietly, she said, “What are you doing RR?”

“What’s happened,” demanded Bruce.

“Based on his tracker, Red Robin has left the room he was held in. But instead of reuniting with you, he’s taken a path into the sewers.”

“I’ll follow RR,” said Dick. “The rest of you focus on taking these guys down.”

“Very well,” agreed Bruce. “Report in once you find him.”

“Will do, B!” Dick said as he turned and rushed back into the city, following Babs’ instructions.

Tim, meanwhile, sprinted through the sewers. He had a safe house nearby. He had a protocol for this and it didn’t involve being anywhere near his family. He didn’t look down as his boots splashed through the disgusting water. It wasn’t far now. Not ten minutes later, he was taking an exit into a retired subway station and climbing the fence to the streets.

Two more blocks, and he was on the fire escape and pushing open the window to his safe house. First thing he did was rush to the computer and turn it on. Two minutes later, he hit send on an SOS.

Scattered across the country, three people’s phones rang with an emergency signal.

Unfortunately for Tim, that was the moment Dick caught up to him as well. Tim heard the window open and a voice call out, “Red Robin?” Though really, calling out was a formality. Dick could tell Tim was in by the lights that were on.

“In the bedroom!” replied Tim before he could stop himself. Then he cursed. Apparently the serum would work even if the question wasn’t stated in full. He dove for the closet where he knew a pair of noise-canceling headphones sat. He slapped them on just as Dick entered the bedroom.

Dick relaxed as soon as he had eyes on his brother. “God, Tim. Don’t worry us like that! Why’d you run?”

But Tim was staring at him with wide eyes. “Because I was injected with a truth serum.” He slapped his hands over his mouth as soon as the words were out and closed his eyes tightly. Lip-read questions also counted apparently.

Dick froze. “What?” he asked.

But with his eyes closed and the headphones on, Tim couldn’t hear him. Dick reached out to touch Tim’s shoulder only to be tackled to the ground.

He had his escrima sticks in his hands and his thumb was over the button to electrify them when he recognized Impulse. “Impulse? What are you doing here?”

Tim wished he could see what Dick was doing, but he couldn’t risk seeing another question. He had too many secrets he was keeping from his family to trust himself around them.

Bart glanced at Tim who’d backed up until he was against the wall. “Rob messaged us with an incident CH3874G. And the protocols for that involve immediate extraction.”

“I’m his brother. I’m not going to hurt him!” Dick glared up at Impulse even as his thoughts were with his brother. Who’d refused to even look at him out of fear.

Bart shrugged. “Incident CH3874G means he is to have no contact with anyone other than myself, Superboy, or Wonder Girl until the effects wear off.”

“That’s ridiculous. We can take care of him just fine in the cave.” Dick twisted and managed to push Bart off, but he barely regained his footing before Bart was back pulling back his arms and holding him fast again. “Let me go!” he shouted.

And that moment was when Kon made his own way through the window. “Not gonna happen until we get Rob far away from Gotham. He doesn’t want any of you around him right now.”

“Seriously, what do you think I’m going to do to him?” protested Dick.

“Uh… Isn’t it obvious?” asked Bart. “You’re going to ask him questions. And there’s only five questions Tim will tolerate being asked when he’s under the influence of a truth serum.”

“What questions are those?” asked Dick.

Kon snorted. “If you don’t already know, then you don’t get to know.” He walked past Bart and Dick to stand in front of Tim. Kon blocked Dick’s vision enough that he couldn’t see Tim’s face.

Kon tapped a simple “hey” on Tim’s shoulder in Morse code. “Hey, Rob,” he repeated verbally when Tim opened his eyes.

Tim sagged against the wall in relief when he recongized Kon. And he caught a glimpse of Impulse behind him, too. Good, he’d be getting out of here. He hugged Kon tightly, shutting his eyes again so he wouldn’t be able to see Dick.

Kon chuckled and rubbed his back before pulling away. Making sure to enunciate clearly so Tim could read his lips, he said, “No questions until we get you to the designated place. Cassie’s meeting us there. Climb aboard the Super Express.”

Dick could only watch helplessly as his little brother was carried away into the night. “Why wouldn’t you let me help?”

Bart snorted. “Look, Nightwing, I like you. But I like Tim more. He’s my teammate. And he holds nothing so dear as his secrets. Be honest, would you or Batman or any of your friends and siblings let the chance to question him pass by? Would you let him keep his secrets?”

“Of course I would!” Dick insisted. But he knew his family. Bruce wouldn’t. Jason wouldn’t. Damian absolutely wouldn’t.

Bart snorted in disbelief. “Then maybe you should ask yourself why Tim doesn’t trust you enough to even ask.”

Dick glared at the wall, but didn’t have a retort.

“Now, this has been fun, but I’ve got a best friend to look after. We’ll return him once he’s better!” And Bart rushed off to join his friends. Tim would be trying to find a cure as soon as he had access to a computer, but Bart rather hoped it’d just have to wear off on it’s own. It had been too long since they’d gotten together for a movie marathon in a pillow fort.

In the end, Tim didn’t return to Gotham for three days. Three days over which Dick reconsidered every interaction he’d had with his brother, trying to figure out when he’d lost his trust.

He had to admit that stalking was practically a family love language, though. And Damian didn’t help the situation by loudly and often lamenting the lost opportunity to question Tim on anything and everything.

Bruce merely hummed when Dick reported on the situation. He was just glad his son had freed himself before spilling any family secrets and was currently safe with his own friends. Kon sent periodic updates to Clark who passed them onto Bruce, so he knew his son was safe. Nothing else mattered.

The moment Kon set down on the grounds of Wayne Manor with Tim, half the family rushed out to greet them.

“Tim,” said Bruce. “I’ll expect your report by the time we start patrol.”

Tim laughed, “You know, B, you could just ask me how I am. I’m fine, by the way. Truth serum wore off about twelve hours ago. It had a ridiculously long half life. But don’t worry, I’ve already got ideas for potential reversal agents.”

Before Bruce could reply, Dick was pulling Tim into a tight hug. “Glad to see you doing better, Timmy.” More quietly so only Tim and Kon could hear, he whispered, “And I’m sorry.”

Tim pulled away confused. “For what?”

Dick stared back, mouth agape. “I— because I tried to ask you questions?”

Tim laughed and shook his head. “No hard feelings. I would’ve done the same. That’s why I messaged the people I did.”

Damian sniffed. “It does raise the question of what secrets you are keeping from us.”

Tim shrugged and grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes and hummed. “Would you be willing to have lunch with just me, Tim? It’s been a long time since we had any one-on-one time.”

Tim swallowed. “Oh, uh, I should really write that report, don’t you think?”

Bruce chuckled. “I’ll let you skip it if you have lunch with me.”

Kon pretended he didn’t hear the quiet “fuck” Tim let out. “Well,” he said, “I think that’s my cue to leave. Catch you later, Tim!”

“Bye, Kon!” Tim hugged him quickly, then he was alone with his family. He sighed. “Fine, B. I’ll have lunch with you.”

He only hoped at least half his secrets would survive the meal.

-----

It's easiest to lie to Bruce when he doesn't suspect you're lying. When he knows and is actively trying to figure out what you're hiding? It's a lot harder.

So, I know truth serum implies secrets will be revealed, but I just couldn't believe that Tim didn't have a fail safe in place for one. And his friends are ride-or-die and would help him get away from The Batman if necessary. So they did.

Dick and Tim talk it out later and Dick gets added as a back up to any future Truth Serum incidents.

#dc comics #truth serum #tim drake #bart allen #dick grayson #kon el #conner kent #dc fanfic #its after 2am and i have no idea how to tag right now #my writing #i wanted cassie to show up at tim's safe house too #but it was getting long #and there really wasn't anything for her to do?#so she was getting snacks and queuing up some movies

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