#Despite his initial wariness he was pleased by the display | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

whereireid · 1 year

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𝐃𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐃 - 2/2

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 - 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 | 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨

pairing: dark!ex-boss!steve rogers x fem!reader

WORDCOUNT: 4.6k warnings: dubious consent ! - sexually naive reader, rough p in v, oral sex [m + f receiving] - height difference [6'6 steve, 5'3 reader] -, misogyny, sexism: breeding kinks -daddy kink, captain kink. choking, pregnant!reader: spanking, gaslighting- especially shein at the end LOL - emotional abuse, assimilation, kidnapping slight mention - steve gets his happy ending

PSA: YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN MEDIA CONSUMPTION. THIS CONTENT IS CONSIDERED MATURE. 18+ ! If any of these topics trigger you, please do not indulge in this content! This is a DARK!FIC, and is intended to come across as such. Minors, please dni - this content is 18+ and is under my #WOMNSFW tag.

summary: Once Captain America's assistant, you're now the up-coming mother of his child. After Steve's jealousy finally becomes out of hand, you snap at him, only to realise that's the very last thing you should do to a Super Soldier. He decides that your defiance lights a match to spark the fire of you being a brilliant mother.

It’s not like Steve to get this riled up. It’s just difficult watching you discuss initiative with a rookie rather than paying attention to him. He watches as your small hand falls down to brush over your stomach, wondering if your fingers splay over it as a means to reassure yourself that the baby growing inside of you is okay.

Jealousy isn’t a good look on Steve. He’s not a complete airhead - he knows dames usually don’t like it when a man gets stupidly possessive and starts trying to control them, but he just can’t help it. You’re his - literally. Not only are you literally his personal assistant, but you’re also his fiancé and the mother of his child.

“Sweetheart, don’t you think it’s time we get home now?” His voice booms across the training room, his thick hands coming up to massage your shoulders softly. “This much standing can’t be too good for the baby.”

You're terrible at analysis, Steve realizes. You hadn't even noticed he had approached you - evident by how his touch makes you flinch. He feels your nerves jolt beneath him, but to the regular human eye, nothing appears wrong. Steve admits that you’ve grown incredibly wary of his touch recently, only engaging in displays of affection when around other people. In the comfort of your shared home, though, it’s like when he touches you, your body slithers with disgust.

“I am growing slightly tired.” You throw an apologetic smile over at the rookie you were speaking to, all whilst leaning into Steve's touch willingly. He doesn’t miss the prickles of goosebumps that ripple up your skin, the fear which prickles at the back of your neck. He frowns - has his touch ever been unloving, unkind? “I think it’s best I go home and rest up."

Your mutter a few apologies, which forces an eye roll from Steve. Why are you apologizing to people who aren't even worth your time? Frustrated, he begins to steer you out of the compound quickly, irritated as you shuffle away from his touch as though his mere skin is poison.

The drive back to your shared home is silent. Steve is seething as he drives, his grip on the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles are beginning to turn white. He’s tried to be patient and understanding - he really has. But he’s blessed you and he doesn’t understand why you’re so hell-bent on rejecting him and then repenting as though he's a curse. You’re throwing tantrums similarly to what a toddler would, sitting next to him in silence and stewing in unspoken anger, and Steve can’t help but feel slightly hurt by your actions.

Is he not good enough for you? Is that it? Or have you grown tired of him? He has been more than kind, allowing you to still attend work despite the fact you’re growing his child. He has bent and adapted so you do not break, shrugging away every single urge to force tradition upon you.

Perhaps what you need is a sense of tradition. Maybe that will stop the fiery defiance you display, both in public and at home.

“We’re home.” Steve’s voice booms loudly in the car, and you stir from your position, your eyes fluttering open at him.

“Good. I’m tired,” you sigh heavily, forcing yourself out of the car quickly before Steve could come around and open your door for you. “Today’s been exhausting.”

“How so?” Steve almost sneers, grabbing your bag from the car and slamming the driver’s side door shut loudly. “All you do all day is make appointments for me and flirt with other men. It can’t be that difficult.”

You groan, waiting for Steve to unlock the front door before following him into your home. “I don’t flirt with other men, Steve. Stop being so delusional."

You drawl his name out with such annoyance it makes Steve’s jaw twitch. “Really? So you weren't all over that rookie earlier today?” He turns away in annoyance, flicking the light to the living area on. The house keys sway in his fingers, and he chuckles dryly, “give me a break, sweetheart. You were practically begging him to fuck you.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, sighing exasperatedly. “So what if I was begging him to fuck me, Steve?" Your hands fall to your stomach, holding it protectively whilst staring at him with furrowed brows.

Holding something he made.

He stills. “Excuse me?”

The calmness in Steve’s tone makes your blood run cold. You try to ignore how he stops still in the archway of the living area; how his large frame tenses and his fists clench. You suddenly feel as though all the air has been sucked out of the room, and you stumble out (in one last act of pitiful defiance), “so what if I was begging him to fuck me, Steve?“

The drawl of his name is what finally makes him snap. It’s like he sees red - like he can’t believe how you’re actually treating him, despite everything that he’s done for you. Steve’s palm is quickly splayed across your throat, and he growls, sounding similar to that of a wild animal as he begins to try and force you to your knees.

It's not like you don't go down without a fight. You try to resist, somewhat, anyway, but you can’t, because he is so, so much stronger than you are and it’s fucking scary. His hands are so strong that they diminish any force of fight you had within you, as trying to resist him makes you actually feel like your shoulders are going to snap. You whimper pathetically as you kneel before him, staring up at his pupils, which are blown and blackened.

You know better than to irritate him by now, so why do you keep doing it?

“You’re mine,” Steve snaps, his blue eyes icy as he pulls his zipper down. The sharp noise makes you flinch beneath him, trying to shuffle away, but the grip he has on the nape of your neck is tight and holds you in place. “You must be fucking crazy if you think I’d ever let another man touch you. If you think I’ll ever let another man look at you again without consequence.”

His fingers grab at your jaw, forcing your mouth open and you cry out. Steve is visibly angry - furious is perhaps a better word, given the fact he’s practically shaking as grips your face whilst also aggressively pulling his thick, hard cock out of his boxers. “You’re going to have to learn how to put that mouth of yours to better use, doll. It's wasted on those shitty opinions of yours, anyway."

Hands roughly grabbing at your hair, pulling your face towards his cock, you have not much choice but to take him in your mouth. It’s intrusive - terribly so, and Steve manhandles you so roughly it makes your tears prick with tears, but it shamefully sends a throbbing to your pussy. You clench your legs together as you take him, choking as he slides in and out of your mouth until you’re a blubbering mess below him, spit and tears painting your cheeks as he fucks your throat relentlessly.

“Who do you belong to?” He grunts out, pulling so hard at your hair your head pulses. Steve’s hips stutter as you choke around him, your eyes doe-like and wide, covered in wet mascara. “Who the fuck do you belong to?”

“Y-you, Steve,” you choke out as he pulls out of your mouth with an uncomfortable POP!, relishing in the breaths he’s allowing you. “I belong to you.”

Steve's cock is so big it's actually painful. Your throat constricts around his cock as he forces your head down again, grumbling out, “I bet that rookie couldn’t treat you like this. I bet he couldn’t fuck you full of his babies like I have, doll.”

You whine beneath him as he continues to use your throat. Steve is driven entirely by his own pleasure, tiring quickly of your pathetic crying around his cock. With angry thrusts of his hips, Steve watched you gag around him, his cock twitching in your throat as you take all of him in; every inch, and his length is actually somewhat visible in your neck. And it’s driving him crazy- so crazy that he can’t hold back anymore, his rough hands grasping at your hair as he finishes, painting your tongue with his cum.

Steve watches as you choke and thrash against him in an attempt to get away, because his cock and his cum is stuffing your mouth in ways it’s never been stuffed before. It’s suffocating you, and blackness pricks at the corner of your vision - you’re just about to pass out before you Steve mercifully pulls his cock out of your mouth with a disgusting squelch and delivers you a hard slap.

The stinging from his hand sends a sheepish insatiable throbbing to your core that you know will never be satisfied. The tingle which tickles your core makes you clench your thighs, knowing no matter how hard you repent, tonight he will not forgive you.

“This throat is mine to use,” he seethes, his tip still leaking as he presses his cock against your cheek, satisfied with the discomfort that flutters throughout your features. “Say it.”

“This throat is yours to use,” your bottom lip quivers, your eyes spilling tears, some of which fall on Steve’s cock. And it’s shameful how wet you are - how the heat between your legs has grown uncomfortable and how you’re certain your pussy is slick with arousal because somehow it’s all you can focus on. You melt into a weeping puddle, your hands tiny compared to Steve’s cock, desperately trying to push his length away during your tantrum.

It doesn’t work. If anything, it makes him much so much harder - his cock throbs against the skin of your face, and you sniffle as he speaks. “Good girl,” Steve’s praises, his fingers curling in your hair, watching as your eyebrows contort in pain as he tugs gentler than you deserve. “Look at your pretty little face. Covered all over with cum and tears.” He coos, smoothing your hair down gently, a soft pang of love throbbing within his heart.

Your face flushes red, and you blink up, your wet, long lashes batting up at him ridiculously. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, your throat incredibly sore from his invasion, your hands desperately clasping at his thighs, and he watches you in amusement, unable to bite back the excitement as you brush your lips over his length meekly. “Please forgive me, Steve, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know if I can, honey,” he tells you, his big hands making gentle, loving motions in your hair. It’s a sharp contrast to the aggressiveness of his touch moments beforehand, but you bask in it nonetheless. “You were flirting with that rookie, baby, you said you wanted to fuck him. How am I supposed to forgive you for that?”

“I didn’t say I wanted to fuck him!” you whine, and Steve shakes his head.

“That’s what I heard, baby.”

You sniffle, and Steve shakes his head. Why do you have to lie to him? He doesn’t like making you upset - he certainly doesn’t like hurting you. His pretty girl, sitting in front of him with raw, red knees and an even rawer throat, whose ass is yet to be spanked until the pain renders you unable to move. He hates it, and he wishes this pain on nobody, especially not his little girl. Steve is meant to protect you, not hurt you. He’s your saviour, the one man in your life you can rely on and trust with all of your secrets, and yet you lie to him, again and again and again.

Steve hates making you upset, but he loves watching you cry. Conflict tugs at him from the inside, his thumb making gentle strokes in your hair as you speak to him. “I’m sorry, I really am,” you finally say, sinking beneath him obediently. “I didn’t mean any of it. It’s - its probably just the hormones.”

Steve hums in agreement. “It probably is, doll, but just in case it isn’t…I’m going to have to teach you a lesson.” He sucks in a breath, muttering, “let’s see how sorry you really are, doll.”

It takes everything in Steve not to finish all over again when he pulls you atop of him and you gasp in shock, his big hands forcing your hips down, and before you’re even aware of it, your walls are sheathed around his cock. Tight - so tight, and wet, too: ridiculously so. Shameful squelching sounds flood the living room as Steve fucks up into you with long, even thrusts.

The mewls that escape your throat as your small fingers dig into Steve's frame makes him want to impregnate you al over again. If he could, he would - your pussy is addicting, gripping him just right. You’re like Goldilocks. Your walls are so tight that you're practically milking his cock for his cum -, and he bites your neck slightly as you shake and tremble against him, your first orgasm crashing over you like a wave. Hot flashes come over you as your core tightens, the coil inside of you snapping- your little legs shake and you hold onto Steve for support, who rides you through your orgasm.

“This pussy is mine,” he practically growls, his fingers clawing around your throat, palm splayed against it uncomfortably. You thrash wildly when he squeezes, but Steve doesn’t care: you don’t deserve him, not at all, not one bit - he is Captain America! He can do what he wants!

“This pussy is yours,” you rasp as his cock nestles against the spongy spot inside of your pussy, your hips desperately rolling to get any source of friction. “Please, Steve! It’s all yours! Wanna cum again! Wanna cum!”

As you cry desperately, your frame pressing up against his, Steve grins, thrusting up into you painfully slow. The motion is enough, though. It sends sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine, and your coil tightens - it grows tighter every single time he moves, the brush of his cock against the insanely sensitive spot inside of you making your legs quiver.

“You love it. I know you love it, sweetheart. Being filled with my baby. It makes you real wet, doesn’t it, doll?" His voice is gentle, and he peppers soft kisses against your neck, eradicating the pain he had left behind earlier.

"Mhm. I love it and I love you, Steve," you agree eagerly, your hands digging into his shoulders, your timid body taking every slow, dragged thrust of his. “I’m so close.”

Your whimpers make his cock twitch inside of you. You sound heavenly - angelic, the gentle moans that slip past your lips making him wish he could just give you his baby all over again. And he will, after you’ve had this one - god, he can’t wait to pump you full of his babies again and again and again. Steve's hands grip your hips gently, his eyes fluttering shut as your velvety walls squeeze him again, so soft and perfect, and he lets out a hearty moan which makes the knot inside of you tighten.

"I want it," you whimper, your nose brushing against his, and you gaze up at him through wet lashes. “Please.”

Your begging makes Steve bloom with pride, and at your words, he thrusts up into you harder. It's not long before you're bouncing quickly atop him, mewls and cries of pleasure slipping past your lips. Your curls fall messily in front of your eyes, and he sucks in a breath at the ecstatic state of you: you’re desperate - so close to your edge, again. Your cheeks are warm and messy, and the sounds of slick bouncing off of the living room walls makes you feel more cockdrunk than you already are.

And then you begin to come undone atop of him.

He does, too. Steve loves it. Your velvet walls squeeze him so tightly that you’re milking him - you take in every drop of his cum, and as his hips still inside of you, Steve places gentle kisses against your nose.

Your big, beautiful eyes stare back at him, your hips juddering against his. You pant, your nails digging into his chest as you steady yourself atop of him. For a second, you can’t believe it - you really let Steve use you again.

But he loves you. And then conflict tugs at you all over again, because he is a good guy, incredibly so! He’s Captain America, his job is literally to protect you - and hasn’t he done exactly that? You’re the most protected person in America right now, considering the fact you’re pumped full of his babies.

“Do you trust me, sweetheart?”

You nod. “I- I do, Steve.” Your voice trembles, leaning your body weight against his, unable to hold yourself up.

“Good girl.” He brushes his nose against yours, smiling as you tremble against him. “That’s all you’ll ever have to do.”

As Steve carries you to bed, tucking you in tightly, he smiles down at you. He’s glad he’s finally changed the locks, and he’s glad that you don’t have one of the new keys.

He can keep you here now until he thinks you’re ready to go. Until you’re ready to accept your place as Mrs. America.

—

What you used to call kidnapping, Steve called assimilation.

You’re not locked in his house, unable to go home, unable to contact any family or friends. No, you’re just in an educational program, learning how to be a perfect housewife. That’s what Steve says, anyway, snickering away to himself as he does.

It’s lonely, and it’s scary. Yet you have nothing to fear, especially when Steve comes home. He wraps you in his arms, engulfing you in his scent, pressing you against his brawny body as though you’re his world. You breathe him in, clutching at him desperately, thankful that he’s coming home safe and sound.

It’s been so long the thought of escaping no longer even brushes your thoughts, but still, Steve wonders if you have realised your place. He can’t risk letting you out if you haven’t - but then again, who would believe you? A pregnant woman whose husband represents all of the stars and stripes?

Still, he can’t help but worry about you. Have you assimilated? Have you learnt? It’s a question that Steve isn’t sure of the answer, but as you curl into his big frame, he believes that you have. Perhaps you’ve finally learnt it’s easier to comply with the Captain’s orders than to defy them.

“How has your day been, Steve?” you ask, nudging your head into the corner of his neck as he presses his palms against your stomach. He’s big and warm, comforting and strong, peppering gentle kisses against your face, praising you for being such a gorgeous girl.

You’re bulging now. Practically ready to give birth at any second. It sends a gentle ache to Steve’s length, his lips pressing lovingly against your stomach. He loves coming home to you. He always has, even when you defied him and cried and begged him to just treat you like a colleague again. It’s selfish - Steve knows it’s selfish - but he just couldn’t ever go back to not knowing you. Now that he has you, he can’t let you go. Ever.

“Work was fine. Buck and I had to do introduction training with some rookies. They didn’t even leave a scratch.” Steve laughs, hooking his fingers in your sweatpants, tugging them down slightly so your entire stomach is on display. “How was your day, mama? Productive?”

It is slightly distracting as Steve kisses your belly. You scrunch your eyebrows in concentration, your fingers resting in his blond locks. “I painted some of the nursery.” You say shyly, face flushing as he begins to murmur sweet nothings to your stomach. “Just did the trims. There was a few deliveries that came, too, but they were too heavy for me to move. Didn’t wanna hurt myself.”

“Good girl.” Steve’s breath fans against your stomach, his head nestling against you, his hands tugging your sweatpants down some more. “I’ll move them after dinner, get ‘em all sorted,” he tells you, eyes eagerly trained in on your panties as your sweatpants drop to the floor.

It takes everything in him not to let an audible groan crawl out of his mouth. The panties you’re wearing are lacy and baby pink - similar to the ones you wore the first time he fucked you, and it sends another terrible ache to his cock. You squeal as Steve presses a soft kiss to your clothed pussy, and he can hear how quickly your heart begins to race in your chest.

“Steve - Steve, stop, I have a question. Steve, it’s serious!” He stops, looking up at you with his big blue eyes which glisten with mischief. You almost don’t want to ask because he seems so giddy - but then you have caught him in a good mood, so you’ll risk it anyway. Your heart tightens in your chest, and your lips set into a frown when you ask, “I was wondering - uh, when I have our baby - could I - could I go back to work?”

Steve reacts like you’ve just slapped him across the face. His smile drops, and his eyebrows furrow. Just when he thinks you've learned, when he thinks he’s finally flushed you out of this ridiculous twenty-first-century feminist bullshit, it drags you back in.

A woman’s place is not at work. It’s in the home.

"Why do you need to work when you have me?" Steve's voice is eerily calm, and his stubble brushes against your inner thigh. You still against him, tense as your fingers stop in his hair, and he can hear your heart gently racing in your chest.

"It's - it's just something I'd like to do. To keep myself occupied."

Steve groans, rubbing his nose into your skin. "You will be occupied, doll. You'll have a baby to raise."

You gnaw at your lip. Steve’s eyes are intense, and he tries not to bark out an order for you to stop. gnawing on your lips. He despises it when you do that. “We could always get a babysitter so I could go back to work,” you suggest, voice faltering when you notice his eyes darken slightly.

"No. It is your job as a mother to look after our children, sweetheart.” He shakes his head. “Besides, I don’t trust anybody else to raise them.”

"Steve-"

"I don't want to talk about this anymore." Steve grunts from below you, his blue eyes darkening as he gazes up at you. "In fact, I don't want this mentioned again - ever - do I make myself clear?"

“Steve-“

“Do I make myself clear?”

You pout, nodding silently, and Steve lets out an exasperated sigh. His cool breath fans against your thigh, and his thumb doesn’t stop brushing your stomach. He wonders where he ever went wrong with you. You’ve been so good recently, and he ponders on why you have to ruin it. Steve thinks you do it on purpose, rile him up as a way to show one last act of fiery defiance.

He’ll be the bigger person today.

“I can work for us. I can provide for us. Your job as my personal assistant is irrelevant now that you’re carrying our baby.” Steve peppers another gentle kiss against your clothed pussy, and you shudder, your eyes fluttering shut slightly as his fingers hook around the waistband of your underwear, gently beginning pulling them down. “You’ll have everything you’ve ever wanted. Everything you’ve ever needed. Put your faith in me, doll, that’s all I ask.”

“Okay, Steve.” Your throat feels tight when you swallow, your knees buckling slightly as Steve’s tongue licks a stripe up your pussy. It sends you by surprise - a hot white flash shoots up through your spine as you tighten your grip in his hair.

“You're soaking, doll,” he murmurs as he parts your thighs with his hands, pressing gentle kisses against your heat. It does feel good - Steve's entire focus is you, and he gently rolls his tongue against your nub, circling his tongue from your clit to your hole and then back up to your clit. "Do you just love the thought of having my babies and taking care of them, baby? Does it get you as riled up as it does me?”

It's embarrassing that Steve's words make your pussy throb. It's even more embarrassing that he knows, a satisfied smirk painting his lips as he dips his tongue into your sweet nectar again. His tongue darts around your clit, and your knees wobble slightly at the action, your hands gripping onto him for support. "Roll against my face, baby, it's okay. I know you want to." His words of encouragement make you mewl, and you do just that - roll your hips against his face, your vision going starry as his tongue swirls against your clit perfectly, the stimulation making the knot in your stomach tighten.

"Steve," you whimper out, your eyes fluttering shut as your legs wobble, his large hands coming up to hold them in place. The feeling of his fingers darting across your thighs sends butterflies to your stomach, and you whine as his tongue keeps flicking against you, making sure to hit every angle of yours he knows that you like.

You hate how much he knows you. You hate how he knows that you're about to cum as your legs give way. Steve hums, the vibrations sending shocks to your pussy, your fingers curling in his hair, the grip tight. You see stars, and hot flashes shoot through you - the knot inside of you tightens and tightens until you feel it snap, to which you cry out, flooding Steve's face with your wetness. And he loves it - he fucking loves it, soothing praises escaping his lips as he quite literally licks your clean, his fingers rubbing soft circles on your thighs.

It's terrible how much you ache when he pulls away from you, how much you miss the feeling of his hot breath fanning against your pussy. Steve stands, his head nestling in your neck, his hands rubbing smooth circles against your stomach. You pant against him, still coming down from your high when you hear a timer ding in the distance of your kitchen.

"Dinner's ready," you murmur, looking up at Steve, flushing as his deep blue eyes stare down at you.

"Dessert before dinner. Not my usual go-to," he comments, to which you laugh.

When he enters the kitchen, the table is already set. You both eat with no mention of your old job - it’s like all defiance within you has melted away, opting to believe that Steve is right. Opting to believe that Steve will do right by you.

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chickenparm · 1 year

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By Choice or By Accident (Wanderer/Reader)

Spoilers for Interlude Chapter: Act III Inversion of Genesis

i made the executive decision that the traveler fucks around a bit and takes a good while longer to decipher what scara changed with irminsul and wow, that's a convenient amount of time for him to get real soft on someone huh-

(also i believe scara says he doesn't like sweets only because ei DOES like sweets and he secretly loves them you cannot change my mind, back off)

AO3 LINK

Wanderer/Reader

5,258 Words - SFW

Nothing heinous. Fluff, 2 seconds of Angst, meandering narrative, skipping time a little bit, Reader is a candy maker. Very indulgent, don't take this seriously.

---

Despite its status as a hub of commerce, it’s rather obvious when a new face arrives in the Grand Bazaar. Even more so when they’re dressed like that - soft blues against striking azure, a wide hat and carefully placed body armor to show martial skill.

When the grocer across the way brings home a straggler, your initial thought is to be wary. There’s an unsettled quiet around him as he keeps his head ducked low and his face carefully hidden. The protection on his arms and shins suggests some martial skill, yet there’s no vision to be seen on his person.

In the beginning, you’re wary - and rightfully so. Then his head lifts and his eyes move around the bazaar before he realizes you’re staring, and something fundamental changes in that split second. The air around him shifts, the guarded expression in his eyes bleeds away, and you’re left staring at excited eyes and a smile that shines with both anticipation and trepidation.

The grocer’s new stray becomes a fixture. One that you quietly watch from your stall of handmade sweets, your gaze occasionally broken by the excited child or curious adult, all of whom are the sources of your livelihood here. But even your regulars find it hard to keep your attention when something so interesting is just across the way.

Initially, the first word you’d use to describe him is untouchable. Like something priceless to be placed on a shelf. Only to look at, never to hold in your hands and sully it with your touch. Even as he works diligently at the grocer and displays less than fragile tendencies, you still can’t keep yourself from marveling at the otherworldly sort of perfection.

Then, just like that, it’s swept away in the span of a short interaction.

While you’ve overheard his quiet arguments with the grocer about not accepting pay, you know for certain he’s been tipped on deliveries to their customers. It’s what gives him the means to tentatively cross the walkway to your stall, stand a respectful distance away, and let pretty violet eyes wander over what you have on display for the day.

And they are pretty. A color you’ve never seen before, even in a city like Sumeru where fabrics in all manner of hues are commonplace. You’re not entirely sure that someone could accurately recreate such a shade of purple.

Quietly, as if to keep from imposing on you, he steps a little closer and squeezes the pouch of mora in front of him with a grip so tight his knuckles turn just a little lighter than the rest of his pale skin. It’s painfully obvious that he’s nervous, but his chin lifts and his chest expands with an inhale, and you’re impressed with the bravery he’s showing to simply peruse a candy stall.

“Please recommend something to me!”

He says it like he’s about to run into battle - and your heart that was wary at first melts. Any caution is thrown to the wind as your shoulders relax, and a smile spreads across your face, and you ask, “What do you like?”

To your surprise, he clams up for a moment, twisting at the ties of the mora pouch until you’re certain the ropes are going to unravel. The last thing you expect is a quiet, “...I’m not sure.”

Okay. You can handle that, as strange as it is. Going into your usual sales pitch with gusto, you try your hardest not to be distracted by the way he cocks his head and leans in, listening with rapt attention as you point out each little piece, which were handmade and which you had brought him, which were your favorites and which ones most people seemed to gravitate toward.

“These ones aren’t popular, but I like them. They’re sour, but once you get to the middle, there’s a sweetness that chases it away. Just don’t eat too many, they’ll make your mouth sore!”

“It’s sour, but you say they’re good?” His fingers pinch his chin in thought as he looks at each flavor you have of the small selection. It’s no use keeping a large stock when its audience is few and far between. “Sour on the outside, sweet on the inside, huh?”

“It makes the sweetness that much nicer if you can make it through the tough bit. It’s kind of like life, isn’t it? Once you make it through the difficult parts, the moments that are softer are that much better when you’re in them.”

Violet eyes watch you in wonder, lips gently parted as he mulls over your impromptu advice. With warm cheeks, you busy yourself with straightening the rows, the smallest bit of embarrassment making your fingers shake. They don’t look any neater when you’ve finished.

He picks one of everything you indicate as your preference, carefully counting out the coins and giving a little extra that you try to place back in his hand. But he grasps your wrist until your palm is up, pushing the extra coins there and using his free hand to curl your fingers around them securely. The smile on his face is wider than any you’ve seen, cutting into his cheeks and making the corners of his eyes squint in its wake.

“Just for being kind, that’s all.” And his touch lingers for a moment long enough to make your heart skip, your fingers itching to grasp at his own so he could stay just a little longer. “Can I come back tomorrow?”

“I don’t think you’ll get through all that candy in a night.” Or he could, you’re in no place to judge him for it. Certainly, children much smaller than him have performed that feat before.

In return, he smiles sheepishly and focuses on his hands holding yours, his thumb pressing against the pulse point of your wrist. There’s no doubt he can feel your heart racing from his touch and his presence, his soft grin and the slight flush on the apples of his cheeks. “Maybe not. But… just to talk to you? I’d like to know you if you’d let me.”

If he notices your persistent giddiness for the remainder of the bazaar’s open hours, he mercifully doesn’t make any comment on it. He simply returns the next day with praises over what you’d sold him the day before, exclaiming that the sour candies were his favorite, and an earnest question.

“Could you teach me how to make this?”

And how could you say no? When his hands were fisted at his sides to hide how they shake at the prospect of such a simple question, there’s no way you could deny something so… sweet.

That evening, after he closes up with the grocer, he crosses the pathway that separates you and offers to help you carry your goods home for the day. It’s with great pleasure you gesture to a house just two doors down - your home and workshop all in one. He doesn’t let you carry your goods, anyway.

“It must be nice, living so close. I’m glad to see it.”

“Glad?” You ask, watching carefully at how he carries a box with one arm that you often have to drag across the ground on a nightly basis. He must be deceptively strong. The hat he wears is tucked beneath his other arm, leaving his smooth hair a little mussed after a day of wearing it.

His head bobs as he watches you unlock the door with a key from your pocket, the hinges groaning as you step inside and urge him to follow as you work to light the lamps. The answer you asked for comes as the room illuminates. “I’d hate for you to have to walk so far at night. It’s not very safe.”

“True, but the bazaar is one of the safest places in the city. And I’ve lived here all my life.”

“Spending your life somewhere doesn’t always make it safe,” he pauses, just long enough to set the box of goods down on the table that dominates the center of your home, “but it’s not really my place to be overbearing about your safety. I’m sorry if that was too much.”

“No! It was… nice. Thank you for caring.” The words strike him into stillness, his hand resting on the lid of the box, thumb curling around the edge to press into the wood. His other hand rubs over his chest, just beneath the dangling ornament and pinion that jingle slightly in the comfortable silence.

The swallow he makes is audible, a show of that nervousness that comes when he seems to be faced with sincerity he doesn’t know what to do with. To his credit, his voice doesn’t waver, even a little. “You’ve been nothing but nice to me. Of course I’d care, even a little.” And that endearing pink comes back again, barely visible in the lights that are just beginning to grow stronger as the flame catches the wicks.

“You’ve been nice, too. Give yourself a little credit.”

Outside, other merchants are making their way home. The sound of carts and laughter trickles into the room, breaking the tension that’s somehow formed despite such an innocuous topic. Clearing your throat, you ask, “You know, I don’t actually know your name. You’ve never told me.”

While the tension is gone for you, it doubles down on him as his shoulders clench, and he pointedly looks away. The far corner of the room suddenly becomes impossibly interesting to him, at least compared to how you begin to move closer to unpack the box.

“That’s because… I don’t have one. I’m just a wanderer. Any name I might’ve had, I don’t remember it anymore.”

“Do you not remember by choice, or by accident?”

You don’t miss the way his eyes follow your movements as you bring the sour candies out. Pointedly, you pull a few from their bag and push them across the table to him. As if he were afraid they’d disappear, his fingers wrap around them and drag them closer. One pops in his mouth, and he waits until the sweetness makes itself known before he finally answers.

“A little of both, I think.” The candy clacks against his teeth, running along his molars from one side to the other, as if he’s preventing a single spot from being scoured by the sourness. Perhaps it’s also a tactic to delay what comes next, something you only realize when he says it. “You should know… I’m not exactly human. I’m-... I’m a puppet.”

“Okay.”

“...Okay?”

Giving him time to ruminate over that, you finish unloading the box before stowing it away beneath the table. It gives you enough time to formulate a tactful response. Palms on the table, you lean to get the weight off your feet from standing all day, and explain yourself. “That doesn’t change anything. I still like you, I’ll still teach you. You must’ve lived a long time then, huh?”

He doesn’t give you a number, and you don’t exactly ask, but the way he exhales until his lungs are empty tells you that in his mind, it might have been a few too many years to walk through. Has he wandered all that time? Alone? It doesn’t feel right to ask - so you don’t.

Instead, as you begin to lay out supplies for tomorrow’s stock, you quietly make a promise to yourself that if you can help it, perhaps he won’t need to use the term lonely to describe himself ever again.

—

When you first opened your stall, it was commonplace for you to grow sick after contacting so many people on a daily basis. It was just expected, it came with the territory, and you only needed a handful of months for your body to grow used to it. Nowadays, you hardly find yourself feeling ill at all.

Then there were days like today, where the world is too bright, and your skin feels too hot and too cold, uncomfortable no matter your position. The softness of your bed curls around you, cradling your aching joints as you struggle to maintain a comfortable body temperature. The windows facing the street show that the sun is already risen, though at this time of day, not as much of it makes it down to the bazaar, even at the outskirts as you are.

Wrapped in your blankets in the throes of a cold chill is how the wanderer finds you. His steps into your home are tentative - you’d given him a key, and you thank yourself for the foresight. Looking into your bedroom, his expression goes from curiosity to something that couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than fear.

“What’s wrong? Look at me-”

“I’m okay.” Talking makes your head feel thick and muddled, stuffed too full of the meager thoughts it requires to get words out. But he’s kneeling next to your head now, hands hovering over you but not quite touching, like he’s unsure of what to do next. It lightens your mood a little, seeing him fret like this. “Just a little sick - it goes around this time of year.”

“What do you need me to do? Do you need food? Have you had anything to drink today? Hang on, let me get a washcloth.”

And he’s on his feet, moving to your kitchen and out of your ability to call him back. A quiet laugh leaves you as you roll onto your back, snuggling beneath blankets and listening as he sifts through your cabinets to find a bowl, then fill it with cool water to bring back to you. His eyes are more focused on the bowl as he enters, determined not to spill it until he’s able to set it down on your bedside table.

Before you can say a word, the back of his fingers press to your forehead, and he hisses through his teeth. There’s no need to say that you’re burning up, not with how he hurriedly wrings out the cloth and folds it delicately on your forehead. Even chilled as you are, it feels like heaven, and you all but melt into the blankets as the fingers of his hand linger along your brow.

“Better?”

“Mm… yes, thank you.”

“Okay. It’s okay.” He sounds more like he’s reassuring himself, rather than you. There’s something haunted in his eyes, something that’s clawing at the back of his mind. Far be it from your place to ask, but the fever has lowered your inhibitions, and you can’t help but lick the chapped dryness of your lips before asking what you wish to know.

“Why are you afraid? Look at you, you’re terrified.”

The answer is immediate, maybe even instinctual. “I don’t know.” His eyes linger over your face, trailing over the dark circles beneath your eyes and the weariness that lingers. “My mind is telling me terrible things, almost like I’ve… lost someone like this. But I’ve never-... I haven’t been around anyone long enough to care. Not like this.”

He cares. About you. Sure, that was obvious enough at this point, but the fact that he puts it into words so candidly makes your heart flutter nervously. It’s been a long time since anyone would go to these lengths for you in your time of need, and for it to be him… It makes you feel leagues better already.

“I’m… I’ll make you something to eat. And get you something to drink. I’ll be back.”

The words tumble out of him, one after another, with little control. He’s nearly out the door by the time you comprehend that he’d been pink in the cheeks, fingers nervously twirling the golden feather on his chest. He cares. What a novel thought.

It doesn’t take him terribly long to return. Just long enough for your eyes to droop closed and your mind to wander off into dreams of pretty violet eyes and the faint scent of flowers that you’ve never come across before. Soft smiles, a hand running down your arm, a thumb across your cheek as a familiar voice urges you to reawaken.

“Just a few bites, then you can sleep.”

Easy enough, when the spoon finds its way to your mouth of its own accord. Yet it’s not sentient - it’s held by lithe fingers that guide it steadily. At your back is his arm, helping you sit up so you don’t spill over your sheets. Quietly, you shift a little closer and bask in that faint floral smell that’s like nothing in Sumeru. The only way you can explain it is if you were describing the wanderer himself.

Drinking is an easy affair, thanks to the straw he’d somehow found you, and once he’s satisfied you’ve completed the tasks he’s laid out, so too does he lay you back on your bed. With distance comes a stark loneliness, and you reach for his hand as he stands from where he’d been kneeling. “Stay? Please?”

“Let me grab a chair at least. Your floor hurts.”

You want to tell him to just climb in your bed. To let you curl around him for all the comfort he can offer, greedily taking and taking because he’s always so willing to give. But the last bit of your self-control pulls you back in, releasing your grip to allow him to drag a chair across the floor to sit at your bedside with an exasperated smile.

“Sleep now. I’ll be here when you wake.”

“Hm… Promise?”

“I swear it on my life. I’m not going anywhere.”

The last thought before you drift off is a quiet murmur of your heart repeating that he cares. About you, about your wellbeing. He’ll be here when your eyes open, hopefully with less of that fear he’s still holding onto. The washcloth on your forehead is changed, slim fingers wipe away stray water droplets, and all the while he hums a tune under his breath that sounds like the sweetest song.

—

The wanderer has only one devastating, debilitating flaw - he’s a worrier.

Whether it’s after a long day and you’re bone tired, or you were too busy to eat lunch, or even if you’re just feeling a little ill, he has an incessant need to coddle. On anyone else, it wouldn’t be a good look. You’re a grown adult, you can take care of yourself, keep yourself safe and cared for.

But something about the way he does it soothes any outrage you could possibly feel. Insistent, quiet, offered with a smile that seems almost pleading. And you know that while he’s making you dinner and taking on the duty of meticulously creating fruit-shaped candies for tomorrow’s weekend sale, it’s for his own sake as much as it is yours.

And so, if it keeps him smiling as he carefully pours soup into a bowl for you, you’re more than willing to let him get away with it.

Chin propped on your hand, elbow on the table, you let your eyes drift closed as the weariness of the day catches up to you. The festival over the weekend was one of the biggest in a long time, and your preparations were wearing you impossibly thin. It meant longer evenings to finish creating stock, longer days to account for new tourists, and all the stress that comes with it.

Not to mention the last straggling bits of your illness that had kept you homebound for days, still lingering after two long weeks. Your muscles still felt weak, your head still fuzzy.

But the wanderer had been a huge help, especially as the grocer had all but kicked him out of his stall to send over to yours. The grocer had been trying to foist him off on you for weeks now, and he hadn’t really needed to try that hard at all.

The sound of ceramic sliding across the table in front of you is the indication he’s dropped your food off, and you crack your eyes open just in time to see the golden pinion of his ornament dangling in front of your face as he presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

Both of you freeze.

But he doesn’t pull away, and neither do you. Instead, you reach with a shaking hand to the golden feather, grasping it lightly with your fingertips and rubbing your thumb along the subtle ridges. Your curiosity serves an alternate purpose; it keeps him close, prevents him from backing away from you.

A sigh breezes along your scalp, humid from his breath, and a shiver from you breaks you both out of the odd trance.

“I’m so sorry-”

“It’s okay.” You cut him off, already anticipating the unwarranted apology for something you desperately wanted him to do again. Even standing above you, he looks incredibly small as his hands clutch at the opening of his kimono, worrying at the edges without a care for the wrinkles he’s creating.

Letting the feather drop back to his chest, you reach for one of his fretting hands and hold it tight enough in your own that you can’t tell if the tremors come from you or him. It could even be both. Suddenly you’re filled with anticipation so strong it makes your stomach turn painfully.

But it’s not bad. It’s welcomed, wanted. The only relief you know of is sought after with a simple question. “Could you do it again?”

“...Again?”

“If you’d like to. If it wasn’t a regretful accident.”

His lower lip disappears between his teeth for a moment, then pops out with a pink hue from the abuse. You’re only allowed a second to admire the shade before the only thing you can see is alabaster and violet, your view of the world cut off as he presses his lips to yours with a clumsiness that is borne from inexperience.

A thud rocks the table from his palm hitting it, an attempt to brace himself as he leans further into you until he’s nearly climbed into your lap. A whine brushes across your cheek through his nose - a high-pitched, cracking sort of sound that’s sweeter to your ears than any song could be, any candy could taste.

That evening, the wanderer becomes your wanderer.

And the world seems more vibrant, the music of the festival is more joyous than anything you’ve ever heard. Your wanderer closes your stall and guides you to the theatre to watch Nilou spin and sway. Her movements are nothing short of hypnotic, but hardly enough to catch your attention as you lean against him and let your eyes follow the cut of his jawline, the brush of his hair against his ear, the subtle pink of his blush as he catches you staring from the corner of his eye.

For an evening, the entirety of Teyvat feels like it’s in harmony. He smiles down at you, and the stars above shine just a little bit brighter. An arm winds around your waist to hold you closer, and the lyrics to the music lose their meaning, the tune grows meandering and unimportant compared to how he smiles so, so gently.

If asked, you’re not sure that you’d be able to think of a single thing you wouldn’t give up to recklessly chase after this feeling with him. Safe, warm, loved. It’d been there from the beginning, quietly growing subtle roots until it ingrained itself too deep to remove - as if you’d want to.

That night, you nearly tell him you love him. Something stays your tongue, but you’re not quite sure what it might have been. Tomorrow, you promise yourself as he brings you to your door and kisses you so sweetly that you can do nothing but melt in his hold. Tomorrow, you resolve as you watch him backpedal down the street, giving you that smile you favor so much.

Tomorrow, you promise the following day as the market quiets following such a busy event, unwilling to break the peace for a confession you’re not entirely confident he’s ready for. Instead, you prop your elbow on your stall’s counter and watch as he smiles at the grocer. As he squats to the level of a child that’s examining fruits, and offers one of the familiar candies from your stall to him.

Over the child’s head, he catches your eye, and the placating smile turns to one that’s teeth and pink cheeks, embarrassment at having been caught with such softness but not ashamed enough to stop. In the heat of the afternoon, the quiet murmur of the bazaar, the daylight stretching the shadows long as the sun crosses its apex and begins to descend, everything feels the closest to perfection you could ever achieve.

Tomorrow doesn’t come.

Or rather, it does, but he’s missing. The grocer mentions he’d stepped out of the city to make a run for sunsettias, then left on an errand with a golden-haired newcomer and their floating companion. The Traveler, you recognize vaguely from gossip through the grapevine. They’d keep him safe, surely, but you can’t help but feel a looming sense of dread when he doesn’t return that evening.

For the first time in months, you eat your dinner alone.

—

The tables are turned, for once. It’s you that worries over his well-being, so much so that you close your stand for the day and pace around your home like a caged animal. Certainly he must be fine, but he would’ve mentioned it to you if he were leaving, wouldn’t he? It feels wrong to not be aware of his presence, to not simply turn your head and have him at the corner of your vision as a steady presence.

The grocer stops by to drop a few pieces of produce off, an attempt to check on you and reassure you of the wanderer’s safety with the Traveler. It does little to assuage your fears - nothing does, until the door opens and it’s filled with a familiar silhouette.

Except it’s… not.

There’s a different set to his shoulders. A tension that lingers for a moment too long before it bleeds away at the sight of you. But his eyes are still the same, taking you in with immeasurable reverence that doesn’t fade even as he steps into your home that’s dimmer than the midday market outside. One, two, three long strides bring him to you, close enough to yank you to his chest and hold you impossibly tight with both arms.

“I’m sorry.”

Even the tone is different. It’s lower, more tentative, almost as if he expects you to refuse him. Adamant, you wrap your arms tight around his waist and link your hands together, squeezing with everything you can muster as you mumble into the fabric over his chest. “You should be. You had me so worried.”

“That’s… I’m sorry for that, too.”

“You’re sorry for something else?” Pulling your head back, you look up at him. Nothing could have prepared you for the way his face falls, his lip drawing between his teeth as he takes in the sight of your confusion and weariness.

There is no stalling further. His hand comes to the back of your head, bringing you back close again as he speaks over your shoulder. “I need to ask you something. Don’t be afraid to tell me the truth. Even if you think it will hurt me.”

“And if it will hurt me?”

“It’ll hurt more if I don’t ask it at all.” His chest beneath your cheek shudders with his exhalation, its wavering shaking you to your core as you realize it’s tinged with tears once he continues. “If someone walked in here that looked and sounded just like me, but they were inarguably an evil person… would you still want to stay with them?”

“Looks and sounds like you…?”

“If you couldn’t tell the difference, beyond the knowledge that for the entirety of their existence, so many of the actions they’d taken were for horrible, inexcusable reasons.”

It shouldn’t be a simple answer. The question he’s posed to you has so many layers despite its surface-level simplicity. But with the way he looks at you - wild, desperate, clinging to the hope for an answer that lets him stay close to you - it only takes you a moment to come to a conclusion that settles into place like a key turning a lock. Smooth, easy, with a satisfying click.

“Whoever that person might’ve been… they’re not who you are now.” His breath hitches, stilling under where you rest your head. Whether that’s the right answer or the wrong, you’re unsure, but you’re too far to backtrack now. “I know who you are. People are allowed to change, that’s just what humans do.”

“I’m not human.”

He’s not. He’s told you so himself that he was created, not born. But it’s easy enough to forget that fact when he’s here in front of you, trembling in your arms and clinging desperately to the normalcy you’ve unknowingly provided. The front he puts up is so convincing that you’re not sure it’s even false anymore - he’s experienced all there is to being a human.

“But you’re close enough, aren’t you? You laugh, and you hurt. You’re hurting right now. And the most important part of being a human is love.” Pulling back enough to look at him, to note the shine of tears and the harshness of his bite on his bottom lip to hide its quivering, you ask, “Do you feel love?”

“Yes. So much, it’s killing me.”

“Ah, you just need to let it out then. Of course, I’d stay with you. If it’s like you say, then there’s a long road ahead, and I’m happy to walk it with you, if you’ll let me.”

Choked laughter leaves him, high-pitched and disbelieving. It signals the floodgates of his tears falling, and he releases one arm from you to rub at his eyes to catch them before they fall. It’s a futile effort, one you’re happy to see, even as he surges forward to kiss you, wetting your cheeks with his own.

Against your lips he murmurs, muffled and sloppy, “Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou-”

As if you would have left him after coming to know him like this. It only hurts for a second that the thought had even crossed his mind to doubt - and perhaps that doubt will creep back in over the coming days. When things are difficult or when stirrings of a life past-lived come back to rear its head, threatening the tenuous peace he’s found.

There are times that he looks at you with eyes that aren’t as familiar. They’re darker, edged sharply, but it’s still him. A different facet shining in the light, but if you tilt your head, you can see the core of him that lies beneath. Still the same, no matter how he refracts it. As he comes and goes, it feels as if a new page turns each time - some new, some old. A wildness exists that seeps through, visible only when he holds you a little too tight, kisses you a little too hard.

Unsteadiness is something he’s worn since the first day you’ve met him, and with the return of memories he’d lost, it doesn’t settle over him as often as it once had. Only when you notice the shift does he avoid your gaze, the sheepish little smile lifting the weight on your heart, and his in turn.

He’s trying. That’s enough, you think.

#scaramouche #wanderer #genshin impact #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #scaramouche x reader #wanderer x reader #just self-indulgent fluff #technically gender neutral i guess but i lean toward F-coded readers so take from that what you will

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dixbolik-lovers · 1 year

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Could you please make the nightmare req homunculus au but for the sakamakis?

Here's the first one~ Kanato was included in it, so he won't be in this second part. :3

. . .

Shuu

Not wanting to cause trouble for himself, Shuu forces his panic attacks to be quiet and contained. It's a pain if people get mad at him, so it's easier to bite down on his wrist, stifle the sobs, and force himself to stay quiet. When you figure out that he's upset and then go out of your way to comfort him, he's confused... and more than a little wary. Still, when you're letting him lean up against your side and enjoy the warmth of human contact while he tries to calm down, it's too much of an effort to resist.

Reiji

He's terrified of you seeing him at anything less than his best, so being reduced to tears from a mere dream is the exact kind of thing he'd much rather hide. Considering that the nightmare was about you disposing of him for not being good enough, your attempts to comfort him are almost more distressing than anything. Reiji is too panicked to contain himself, though, so he ends up just sobbing harder over your efforts. He can't stop apologizing, and is only spiraling more when you're kind.

Ayato

When you first find him in this state of panic, Ayato is certain it's going to end very badly for him. He can't imagine you being anything but disappointed in how pathetic he's acting... and that only makes him panic more. Despite his frantic insistence that he's fine, that he'll shut up and calm down and stop being so noisy, though, he'll still cling to you the second it's clearly acceptable. Reassurance does wonders when he's like this, but he's still going to be sobbing into your chest for a while.

Laito

After the nightmare he had, he's almost more afraid of you touching him than the dream itself. When all he can think about is being changed against his will and used until there's nothing left of worth, touch feels like a threat. Laito hates having any part of himself out of his control, but he's too panicked to contain the tears and too frightened to pull himself together and put on a smile, as usual. You wind up just sitting in the room with him, talking about silly things until he's calm enough to think again.

Subaru

He's painfully ashamed of himself for acting so stupid and weak, and even when you try to comfort him, all he's thinking about is how this pitiful display gives you even more reason to get rid of him. Whatever he broke in his initial panic only makes him more self-conscious and terrified, and he can't stop thinking that you're only here to punish him for making a scene. When you're gentle with him, though, he breaks. Crying so hard it hurts, he just wants to curl up and hide from all of this— from you, and everything.

Kino

If you touch him while he's panicking so badly, Kino is only going to spiral more. The nightmare left him terrified of wasting away, of you deciding that he's not worth the trouble to keep alive— he's desperate to take a little bit of your energy just to feel more secure, but he's so deep in his meltdown that he can't imagine that being allowed. He'll struggle and try to push away from you, but only cries harder if you back off or try to leave. He knows he's causing you trouble, but he's too scared to make himself stop—

#Diabolik Lovers #Dialovers #Sakamaki Shuu #Sakamaki Reiji #Sakamaki Ayato #Sakamaki Laito #Sakamaki Subaru #Kino #Headcanon #Reader #Homunculus Au

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stardustaces · 4 months

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grabs you. hi <3 i wanna see you write more of your hcs in the open, so!!

what are Sei's and Kyu's thoughts on Dr. Ratio? how did their opinion of him differ between first impression to the end of the 1.6 mission?

“Great, another of you insufferable geniuses.”

That was the first thing that came to Kyu’s mind, encountering this strange masked man talking to himself as he played chess- against himself. This opinion only sunk upon meeting him face to face for the first time.

Kyu, put simply, isn’t a fan of people who make her look stupid. That’s her job. The way he talked (Aeons, did she find his cadence obnoxious), the way he carried himself, the way he referred to himself as an ‘actual genius’ as if almost everyone she’d met who said that didn’t all carry the same attitude- all of it rubbed her entirely the wrong way, and being interrogated as though she had something to do with the attack on Herta didn’t help matters. Were she not wary of embarrassing Asta in front of a colleague, she’d probably have sternum-checked him straightaway. Her attitude was very much on the defensive, and despite her best efforts she very nearly lost her cool.

As the 1.6 mission progressed, she began to develop a greater respect for Ratio’s way of thinking, and as a fellow combatant- maybe he wasn’t so bad, when he wasn’t carrying a preconceived bias against her. His actions, to her, spoke far louder than his initial accusatory words (and his speech pattern, which she'd come to be less grated by over time). To say nothing of the kind of thinking he displayed in their DMs- I can’t express to tell you how Absolutely On Board Kyu was with the idea of retrofitting the Astral Express into a giant mecha before she realized what Himeko would have in store for her.

"Pleased to meet you, Doctor. I’m sorry we had to meet like this.”

Sei, however, being much more rational and cool-headed by comparison, immediately saw the Doctor as someone he could stand to learn something from, regardless of what his attitude on him was. Whether he rubbed him the wrong way or not, there’s always a takeaway to learn from everyone. Dr. Ratio was no different, even if he’s starting to grow weary of the antics of people from the Intelligentsia Guild and the Genius Society. There is respect, make no mistake- mixed with a healthy dose of skepticism.

Sei grew to think of Ratio in a similar regard to Kyu, respecting his combat prowess and no-nonsense attitude, even looking to him as another teacher to learn from (something he feels Ratio might not appreciate, for some reason he can't place) but was far less gung-ho about retrofitting the Express into a war machine.

@everlastiingiimmortals

#ꜱᴇɪ. [m!trailblazer]#ᴋʏᴜ. [f!trailblazer]#ɪ ʜᴀʀᴅʟʏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡʜᴏ ɪ ᴀᴍ. [musings]#ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪꜱ ꜱᴏ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴡᴀɴᴛɪɴɢ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀꜱ? [asks]#everlastiingiimmortals #ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɢʜᴛꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴋʏ ᴀʀᴇ ꜱᴛᴀʀꜱ. [headcanons]#{ holy fuck this is late but heyyyy }

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proxis-shattered-expectations · 2 years

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the haven't done this is a year, but have any hc on the horseman meeting a young (well younger then them anyway) Nephilim Reader? But said Nephilim is very untrusting of the horsemen. If that's okay please.

Of course, love writing headcanons of my favorite horsemen!!

Death

. First time seeing a young Nephilim after the battle, he is completely and utterly shocked

. It would usually be followed by a sense of relief, but if the Nephilim is distrustful of him considering the circumstances, he would hesitate to approach

. And of course, a great sense of guilt and remorse comes crashing down.

. Because despite what he convinces himself , after all these years, and his journey with the amulet of Nephilim souls clawing to escape....he regrets what he had to do.

. Understandably so, Death does not try to justify his actions even in the name of balance. He focuses more on trying to show this young Nephilim that he means no harm to them.

. He is not really focused on how they survived, but tries to be as nonthreatening to them as possible. They are here now and not a threat to him. To him, considering their youth, he sees them as innocent.

. Depending on the younger nephilim's nature and awareness, Death does not try and force anything like kinship or responsibility on them. He keeps his distance and let's them ask the questions. The last thing he would want is to be the cause of anymore animosity between kin.

. He has spent so long trying to cope with the guilt, he has his walls to protect himself from that pain, but seeing a young one alive and defensive causes it to crack a bit. He will never fully show just how much it affects him though.

. In all, due to his regret he will most likely shut himself away unless the Nephilim makes that decision to understand and possibly forgive.

War

. Ever the dutiful warrior, he will react defensively as well. He refuses to believe that there was a survivor so young that appears out of nowhere. Initially he will be distrustful as well.

. He thinks it might be some trap to get him to lower his guard, and so does not immediately trust them.

. After sometime though of gauging out the equally distrustful Nephilim, of their intentions and behavior. It could go one of two ways.

. Since the beginning of his servitude to the Charred Council, War had always been convinced that no matter how drastic the decision, it was in service to the balance and peace. In a way it could have been his way of coping with the bloodshed of brethren, or his way of finding a new purpose. Either way, he stood steadfast by his beliefs despite some regret.

. The appearance of this new Nephilim would not so easily sway him or immediately cause him to doubt. But he would be torn between two options.

. One would be that considering how wary the young Nephilim is of him, he might just leave them alone. He would not want to invade on their boundary and since he is one of the four that the council allowed to exist in their service, he might just keep their existence a secret and thus pretend he never saw them. In his mind it would be for their safety.

. The other option is that seeing as how War is technically the youngest of the four, he could try and connect somewhat to this young one. He is not the best at detailed words or displays of being non-lethal, but if given the chance, could try and speak with them.

. He isn't gonna try and push his reasonings for what he did on them, but at the same time, be sympathetic to their attitude towards him. Like Death, would leave it up to them if they want to hear him out or not.

. Like I said, it entirely depends on the situation and circumstances of meeting

Strife

. If you have played or seen Genesis, then you know just how verbal strife is about his role in the massacre.

. While with time he learned to channel his grief and regret, the appearance of a young Nephilim could very well be the breaking point for him.

. While he also can't believe his eyes, he is left troubled and conflicted.

. He can't blame them for their distrust of him, and he feels responsible for this. Thus Strife would immediately try his hardest to put them at ease.

. He would probably try and treat it like this is his chance of redeeming himself for his sins, and of course would jump at every opportunity to help them or build some semblance of trust between them.

. He feels that he is at fault for it, and while doesn't outright apologize, he finds ways to show that he means them no harm. In no way shape or form was he ever a fully good person before and after the horde, but what he had to do left him traumatised.

. Strife unlike his brothers would not hesitate to help this young Nephilim directly. In his own way, doing whatever he could to help them was a small atonement for him even though he felt it was never enough.

. Seeing a young nephilim survivor gives him hope again after the millennia of despair, and if this Nephilim responds positive to his efforts, it goes a long way.

Fury

. Out of the four, the most stubborn of them all.

. Whether it be before or after her fight with the sins, Fury is not so eager to believe or be welcoming.

. Not to say she doesn't feel guilty as well, her way of coping had been different for her. Mostly just be distracting herself from it. But seeing this young Nephilim is troubling.

. Is more than likely to just leave them alone, but it depends. She out of her brothers would be more verbal about justifying her actions, and wouldn't be shy about being blunt about the nephilim and their actions.

. Especially if they are young and distrusting of her, it's all the more reason for her to at first to not coddle them. But given time, she would lay off on convincing them of her sincerity.

. In a way, the sudden appearance of this young one takes her off guard and she reacts very defensively, but unlike War doesn't concern herself with trying to gain their trust until later.

. Her view is that they survived, and so they must be more focused on the future instead of the past. They are alive, and so they should put their energy on making something of themselves. Whether it be with her help or not.

Thanks for the ask

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jesuisgourde · 2 years

Text

(in which squash waxes poetic about carl barat)

lately i’ve just been thinking about carl and how incredible his love and loyalty to peter is. i mean peter’s pretty vocal about his love for carl but carl’s actions just blow me away with how strongly he must feel for peter. they always mention how they already bickering even when they first met and stuff but like the whole “throwing himself in the canal so peter will have to rescue him” is so dramatic and absurd but also such a massive display of love for someone. like you’re not going to toss yourself in a river when you can’t swim if you don’t desperately want to see that person as being dedicated to you. and all the stories about the antics they got up to together. and really you just have to look at the music video for waterloo to see how carl saw their relationship, which is just incredible and mindblowing that he saw peter as that much of a protector or comfort. and then later after the robbery like that is some incredible loyalty. your best friend steals from you and instead of getting furious you show up to pick him up from prison and hug each other and then go play a blistering show together, that’s just amazing. and even after the breakup, every time carl talks about peter or when they’re around each other during that weird time, he never seems properly angry, he just seems like he really really wants things to change but doesn’t know how to make it happen. that reunion interview with the sun is amazing because carl’s being so completely honest there about peter being someone who gets and completes him and how he misses him, which is really not something you see very often, and in carl who seemed so reticent when he was younger. and i mean christ the way he talks about peter in tanib, with so much affection. and instead of ever giving up and completely estranging himself from peter despite all the ups and downs and relapses and bad press and peter making songs being all pissed off at him directly and all that stuff, he just hung on until peter was ready to do rehab properly and then went and supported him. and peter has said now that he got properly clean this last time for carl, that carl made the effort of encouraging him to do it. it’s just amazing that it seems as though carl has never ever lost that love and loyalty for peter. and it’s amazing to look at carl’s interactions with peter onstage, too, because he just seems so eager to be hanging on to peter or leaning against him or whatever, and he’s usually the one to initiate that. lately it seems he’s the one initiating the mic shares a lot of the time too, wandering over during katie with body language that definitely says “please share with me.” and the way he looks at peter onstage it’s like he’s utterly delighted and amazed to be looking at him and have them both be happy and healthy. he clearly loves peter a lot and it seems like he’s really basking in being able to love peter without being wary of future problems. like it’s amazing and wonderful to see how much peter has changed and how happy and healthy he is but also seeing how much carl has changed is amazing too, because you look at footage from the early days and how aggressive and closed-off he seemed compared to how open and happy he seems now, it’s really nice that he’s able to be that way now. it’s just so wonderful and sweet that he’s been so loyal and solid for so long, and it must be great for him to be able to express that love now that they’re on much more stable ground.

#squash rambles #idk like i'm definitely more of a peter person like peter's art & literary & musical style appeal more to me #but i really like carl and he his love for peter is just amazingly strong #ahem pardon my wall of text

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blacklister214 · 2 years

Text

Reflections in Shadow Pond: (Ch. 2) A Second Opinion

Chapter 2 of my Boris POV Between the Scenes Fic. Enjoy!

Boris whipped his pen across what felt like the thousandth document that morning, completing the final stroke with a flourish. He lay the writing implement on his desk, grateful to be finished with the most tedious part of his day. He flexed his hand experimentally. No weakness or tremors. Nothing to cause concern. Still he knew the day was soon coming when that would no longer be so. Boris pulled his mind from the morbid thought. Dwelling on the issue solved nothing. He directed his mind to something more stimulating. Dr. Hank Lawson.

His mercy to the gate crasher had been rewarded in the most unexpected of ways. At a few minutes past eleven security had approached Boris, carrying the news of a medical crisis. One of the models, April, had collapsed. As Boris approached the room he’d found himself passing a stream of exiting bystanders. They’d flitted away from the scene of crisis, excitedly whispering to one another about Dr. Silver’s dreadful mistake. Apparently Boris’ personal physician had misidentified the cause of the girl's ailment, and a good samaritan had intervened.

Upon entering the room he’d recognised the second figure kneeling over the body of the young woman. Dr Henry Lawson. Surprisingly Silver had seceded authority over the emergency, letting the newcomer conduct the exam and interview. Had it been the shock of nearly committing malpractice? Or had it been the instinctual awareness of his relative inferiority? Boris had quietly observed as Dr. Lawson diagnosed and treated the young woman’s condition within a matter of moments. It was impressive to say the least.

Dr. Lawson’s ability as a physician hadn’t been the only intriguing thing about him. There was also the complete lack of awe he’d displayed for Boris. Even society’s upper echelons treated him very carefully. The good doctor did not. Instead he’d exhibited mild disdain and hostility. It was exceptionally rare for Boris to discover someone who neither feared him, nor sought to profit from him. The man’s attitude was doubly strange when one accounted for the fact that Dr. Lawson was currently buried under crushing debt, with lawsuits pending. When Boris had received that bit of intelligence this morning, he’d felt quite pleased rather about the garish parting gift he’d bestowed the night before.

It had been impulsive certainly, having his team deposit a gold bar into the backseat of Dr. Lawson’s dated automobile. Initially he’d only planned to write the man a check for $5000. That had changed with Hank’s presumption that Boris’ “thanking him” meant the verbal exchange of civilities. He had neither expected, nor accepted financial compensation for his work. “Hank” as the man apparently prefered had refused payment on ethical grounds and then proceeded to scold Boris. No one had done that in years. Even Dieter, his long standing retainer, contented himself with the rare passive aggressive remark. The novelty was quite something.

Scouring his memory Boris realized that the last person to directly criticize his behavior was Marissa. He closed his eyes a moment, breathing through the brief, but agonizing stab in his chest. Five years and he still felt her absence. Perhaps that explained his favorable reaction to Dr. Lawson, despite the fact his regard was clearly not yet reciprocated. He missed having someone in his orbit who would speak the truth, regardless of self-interest.

At that moment the door to his office opened revealing Dieter and a wary-looking Dr. Silver. Right on time. No point in beating about the bush.

“Dr. Silver. I regret to inform you your medical services will no longer be required at Shadow Pond. I must ask you to vacate the guest house by 9 am tomorrow morning.” He watched the blood pool in the doctor’s face. He’d hoped the man would go quietly, but it seemed that was not to be.

“You can’t be serious! It was one mistake, which I didn’t even make-” Boris cut him off mid sentence, unwilling to endure the man’s blustering.

“Only because you were prevented.” Boris’ interjection brought on a flash of chagrin, followed by sullen resentment to Silver’s face.

“By the hotshot, yeah. I presume he’s who you’re planning to replace me with? I heard he announced to the entire room that he was fired for letting a rich patient die. Not someone I would have thought you wanted on your payroll.” Yes, that might have been troubling, except for the fact Dr. Lawson HAD told Boris as well as a room of gossip mongers about the incident. It suggested the event caused him no shame. Boris had trouble believing that a man of conscience, as Dr. Lawson seemed to be, would be so cavalier had he actually been responsible for the patient’s death. Still a second opinion never hurt medical matters.

“That is actually the primary reason I summoned you today.” Boris opened a drawer and withdrew two folders that had been delivered to him that morning. His investigators really were quite efficient. He set the small stack onto the desktop. “I have the files regarding the incident. I’d like your opinion.” Silver’s eyes narrowed at the folders in question, making no move to pick them up.

“You want my opinion on the guy who's stealing my job?” Boris shrugged nonchalantly, none too worried about Silver eventual compliance. The man was arrogant, but not a complete fool.

“Regardless of your error last evening, I continue to respect your years of experience. Besides, Doctor Lawson is not the reason you’ll be relocating your practice. He’s the reason you’ll still have one.”

Silver had made a nearly fatal mistake and had done so publicly before a swarm of socialites. His time as a Hamptons concierge doctor had ended the moment he’d misdiagnosed the model. It was only thanks to the younger doctor’s intervention that Dr. Silver wasn’t facing lawsuits and a license review. He could start over in a new city with little trouble, particularly if he had a reference from Boris. If the man proved uncooperative however, then his prospects would be far worse.

Silver broke their staring contest first, as Boris knew he would. He waited expectantly while the experienced physician flipped through pages of what Boris had found to be largely incomprehensible medical jargon. At last Silver looked up.

“You don’t want him.” The doctor tossed both files back on the desk.

“Explain.” Boris scanned the man’s face carefully, unwilling to accept Silver’s pronouncement at face value.

“Two patients. Random basketball player and VIP. Lawson came in with the basketball player on his day off and his admin reassigned him to the VIP. After he finished with the VIP, he returned to the basketball player and performed some very impressive medicine. The basketball player lived and is expected to make a full recovery. Complications ensued with the VIP while Lawson’s out of the room. He dies.”

“Was Dr. Lawson at fault?” Silver shrugged.

“Depends on your point of view. From this limited snapshot, I’d say the hotshot is good enough that if he’d stayed with the VIP, he might have been able to save him. But Lawson didn’t stay with the VIP, despite the orders of his boss. To him your life and the life of the guy that scrubs your toilets are equally important. You want someone who puts your needs first, last, and everything in between.” Boris ignored Silver’s assessment about the qualities he required in his personal physician. He needed more data.

“What were the odds the complications would occur with Mr. Gardener?”

Silver’s lips tightened briefly before reluctantly replying, “Less than 1%.”

“And the chances the basketball player would have perished without Lawson’s care?”

“90%, give or take.”

“And in his place you would have…”

“Remained with the VIP, because that is what you people expect.” Ah, yes, his ‘people.’ The uber wealthy. How Boris adored being lumped in with every selfish entitled member of his tax bracket.

“Thank you Dr. Silver. You have been most helpful.” He nodded at Dieter, who passed Dr. Silver his final check. “Dieter will be by the guest house tomorrow to provide any final assistance you may require.” For a moment Boris thought Silver would attempt to gain the last word. Instead the man wisely chose to swallow his final retort and march out the way he came.

Boris drummed his fingers on his desk. It seemed his instincts about Dr. Hank Lawson were vindicated. A brilliant doctor with integrity had fallen into his lap, just at the point in his life when he required a trustworthy medical professional. Karma, it seemed, had chosen to favor him, at least in this matter. True, Dr. Lawson seemed reluctant to remain in the Hamptons, but Boris had already taken steps to change the man’s mind.

Last night he had instructed Dieter to circulate the doctor’s cell phone number and temporary address. With any luck Dr. Lawson would find himself with several new patients before the weekend’s conclusion. If the financial advantages of establishing himself as a Hampton’s concierge doctor weren’t enough to sway him, then perhaps practicing medicine once more would. No one achieved excellence in a field without an intrinsic passion for that field. Even if the clientele private physicians attracted weren’t precisely to his taste, the Gardeners punitive blackballing meant Dr. Lawson’s choices were rather limited. All in all Boris felt his odds of success were more than fair. All that was left was to wait and see.

#royal pains #boris #hank #fanfiction #friendship

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ddarker-dreams · 3 years

Text

Yan Childe, Diluc, Kaeya, Zhongli, Beidou & Ningguang / Courting Darling.

Warnings: Stalking, implied blackmail, kidnapping, and gaslighting. Note: this is a bit of an amalgamation from different asks i’ve gotten, put into one thing bc i thirst for these six characters so hard .

Childe:

“What’s life without a little adventure? You can stand to miss work for a day or two, it’ll still be there waiting for you when we get back. People have even gone so far as to say I’m an absolute joy to be around. You want to know who said that? Sorry, that source is staying a secret.”

Childe is an erratic whirlwind of highs and lows. You never know what to expect from him, and he likes it that way, always keeping you on your toes. He doesn’t bother with having his friendliness appear genuine. If you want to doubt his goodwill, then so be it, he won’t stop you. It just makes it all the more interesting to keep you around should you be wary of his presence.

He doesn’t care for the traditional conventions surrounding romance. It isn’t his thing, and he’s used to being considered the odd one out of every crowd, so why stop now? Childe doesn’t tone down any aspects of his bloodthirsty personality in your presence. It’s difficult to tell how serious he’s being since most of it takes the form of jokes or other lighthearted jests. In his mind, the fact he’s even spending so much time with you should make it obvious he’s interested. Whether that’s good or not.

You’re going to be dragged all over the place. Childe’s stamina is seemingly an infinite well, as he takes you from activity to activity. By the end of the day, you’ll be exhausted. Unfortunately, he doesn’t take no for an answer, weaseling his way into your schedule despite your protests. Childe is particularly fond of getting into situations where a fight is inevitable, purposefully taking you to areas with monsters to show off his combat prowess.

“Did you get a look at that, [First]? Aha, I haven’t had this much fun in ages! You already want to head back? Hm, I don’t know, the night is still young. Stop dragging your feet or I might just have to carry you. Not that I’m complaining, should that be the outcome. It’s up to you. Oh! Now that’s the spirit! I’ll try not to be hurt by how fast you’re moving now.”

Diluc:

“Ah, [First], I take it you’re doing well. I couldn’t help but notice you eyeing this book at the market earlier. I’ve had a copy of it for ages, but with how busy things are, rarely do I have time to read. I’d be appreciative should you accept this and give it a better home.”

Diluc is self-assured in many areas of his life, romance is not one of them. He knows how to carry himself in the company of businessmen, staying polite and vigilant, but this rigid method doesn’t work in his favor when it comes to wooing you. To soften the blow on his side, Diluc tells himself that it was never about a relationship anyway. That his main priority was and will always be to ensure your safety. He tells himself this, but... isn’t sure if he really believes it.

He’s a perfect example of pining from afar. Subconsciously, he’ll drift towards areas you tend to linger around, hoping to spot you amidst the bustling crowds. Each time he tells himself that this’ll finally be the time he approaches you. The opportunity is set before him, waiting to be taken advantage of, but he rarely follows through with his desire.

It frustrates Diluc to no end how easily others flock to you. He’ll stand there, still as a statue, eyes boring into whatever pest currently holds your attention. This would be the push to finally send him your way. It’s a surprise to you both when Mondstadt’s wine tycoon materializes by your side, politely asking to speak in private. Truth be told, he just can’t stand the thought of another person holding your attention that isn’t him.

“I apologize for my abruptness back there. There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you about for some time, and well... would you consider having dinner with me tonight? I’d appreciate your company.”

Kaeya:

“It’s a funny thing, really. How we keep bumping into one another like this. Ah... that suspicious expression, it wounds me deep, sweetheart. When did you start looking at me like that, I wonder?”

There’s no doubting Kaeya’s interest in you, from the first time he sauntered over to you and started a conversation. The problem you have is deciding how genuine his advances are. While Kaeya might not be the textbook definition of a heart-wrenching playboy, you’re familiar enough with the many rumors surrounding him to be wary. It doesn’t help that he’ll point this out to you when guessing the source of your apprehension.

His methods are, oddly enough, effective. Kaeya balances the various aspects of seduction with ease. He reveals just enough about himself to draw out your attention, before focusing the conversation back onto you. You’ll never get to stop and realize how little you know about the man sitting in front of you, he makes certain of that.

Kaeya might hide certain aspects of himself, but his dubious morality is never concealed. He has you entirely wrapped around his finger, words validating his actions falling from his lips with the utmost ease; he’s a force to be reckoned with. You’ll start a conversation heated about something you’ve learned, only for it to end wondering why you were ever upset in the first place.

“Now, now, there’s no need to get all riled up over something like this. Don’t you trust me by now? When have I ever given you reason to doubt me? You need to take a look at the bigger picture. Hey, take a seat. I’ll sit here all night explaining to you if it’s necessary.”

→[More underneath the cut].

Zhongli:

“There must be something that I can assist you with. It may not look it, but I’m familiar with many fields of work, even obscure ones. Please allow me to lend a hand.”

Zhongli, despite having been around for many centuries, is somewhat clueless in romantic pursuits. He’s aware of his fondness for you, but doesn’t know what to do with it. This leads him to becoming your shadow for some time. He focuses on what he knows best: observation and processing new information. Your every little movement will be analyzed and tuck into the back of his mind for later usage.

Zhongli’s soft over the idea of you coming to rely on him for everything. He prides himself on his wealth of knowledge and work ethic, believing it a strong appeal, one that he puts on full display when you’re around. It’s not rare for you to overhear neighbors and friends speak highly about Zhongli. They’ll mention in passing how they were having difficulty with something, only for Zhongli to come around and help without asking for anything in return.

This is exactly what he’s been hoping and waiting for. Zhongli has patience and sets himself up to be a desirable partner in your eyes, the efforts from his labor coming into fruition. Before you even speak to him for the first time, you’re likely to think highly of him, having heard all the ways he’s helped people close to you. Now that the stage is properly set, he’s ready to make his interest in you more evident.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, [First]. Oh? You can say the same for me? Well, I hope I can live up to your expectations. I had just been on my way to Yanshang Teahouse, would you care to join me? My treat, of course.”

Beidou:

“You haven’t lived until you’ve experienced a voyage with my crew and I. I’ll set up a nice cabin just for you, how does that sound? Hm? Special treatment? Don’t worry your pretty little head about that, lass.”

Beidou’s attention is overwhelming and oftentimes dangerous. Traditional social conventions are nothing but a waste of time for her, meaning that common courtesy is disregarded in favor of always speaking her mind. Which might not be so bad if she wasn’t so amorous. Even the most oblivious person couldn’t miss Beidou’s overt favor towards you.

This reverent display of affection is only exacerbated when she’s drunk, face flushed and an arm swung tightly around your shoulder. She doesn’t care who sees, who’s judging, or what gossip will be born from her actions. Beidou makes a point of showing everyone in the vicinity that even if you aren’t officially partners yet, a claim has been staked on you.

Whether it be coercion or some other unsightly method, Beidou is intent on bringing you on her ship at least once. Or that’s how she initially phrased it to you. Imagine your surprise, that when you finally caved so she’d drop the subject, her crew was untying the ropes keeping the boat at port.

“The fun’s just getting started, you haven’t seen anything yet. Don’t get all teary-eyed yet, sweetheart, I know you’ll come around. This’ll be a story sung by sailors for generations to come.”

Ningguang:

“If I’m being honest, not many are given the opportunity to speak to me outside of business-related ventures. I never thought I’d find it this... pleasant. I hope you’ll continue to entertain me as you do now.”

Ningguang starts off her wooing in a subtle, almost coquettish manner. She is confident in her charm and brilliance. Not many have been gifted in the art of conversation to the same extent Ningguang has, her silver tongue paired with quick intellect making it difficult for you to escape. She’ll corner you verbally without you even noticing it.

Ningguang finds amusement in how you stumble over your words, pure of heart and not chained down by special interests. Your forthright but considerate demeanor intoxicates her. She’s used to people cowering in her presence or trying too hard to pursue their goals. You might even earn a rare compliment or two, disguised as politeness, that doesn’t register for hours.

She is a lady of fine taste. The sky’s the limit when it comes to her wealth, which is unrivaled throughout Tevyat, and you’ll be quick to notice this. Ningguang is most partial to sending you traditional Liyue adornments, believing the rich culture behind each piece suits your beauty. She’s also fond of the fact that when you wear her gifts, everyone in the vicinity will know it’s from her, due to its extraordinarily high cost.

“Do you like my latest gift, little dove? It was made custom with you in mind, an unrivaled display of craftmanship, if I may add. Wear this and carry me with you... always.”

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thranduilsperkybutt · 3 years

Photo

Killer

Gif sources: 1 | 2 | 3

Pairings: Baron Helmut Zemo/Reader

Warnings: TFATWS Spoilers! Hurt/comfort, slight angst but hopeful ending, a little bit of spice 🤏 but it’s still solidly SFW and mostly near the end; insignificant character death; canon violence; Zemo being a menace not only to my heart but my mental health

Word Count: 11,932 words

Reader Gender: Female

Author: Meg

Summary: While tracking the Flag Smashers across Europe alongside Sam and Bucky, you suddenly find yourself in need of a hero. The man who comes to your rescue, however, is the villain of too many people’s stories to ever be mistaken for one. The lines between what is and what should be become blurrier, making it too easy to forget that you aren’t supposed to like Baron Helmut Zemo at all.

A/N: Based on a simple sentence my friend said in the middle of us both simping over Zemo together, which inspired a novel lolol 😂 Whoops! Sorry I’m so long-winded, but I hope you guys like this anyway!

Oh, this was not good.

So very, very not good.

A twisting grip on your arm, pain shooting up your shoulder and from the side where the knee of the supersoldier atop you digs into the flesh of your hip, pinning you down. Cement bites into your cheek like a taunt of the predicament you’ve gotten yourself into when he slams you into the ground. Wind knocked out of you, you feel the painful strain in your joints, and know that if your arm is pushed too much further at this sharp angle, it’s likely your shoulder will come out of socket.

A whimpered yelp that you can’t bite down escapes just as the supersoldier’s grip tightens when you struggle beneath him, desperate panic lacing your blood as you realize you can’t escape his grip. You remember the sight of the back of Sam and Bucky’s heads when they went off towards the east side of this warehouse, and for a brief moment you wonder if that’s the last you’ll see of them. Splitting up had been the last thing you wanted to do, but the maze of this place made it a necessity if you were to do the thorough sweep of the area for the group of Flag Smashers rumored to be taking shelter here.

Well, you found them, alright.

Why did you have to be the one to get stuck searching the west side with Zemo?

The reluctance you’d displayed when Sam initially split you up with Zemo wasn’t exactly one-hundred percent truthful, though, was it? God, maybe it made you stupid and foolish, but a secret, cursed part of your stomach had flipped with nervous anticipation at the thought of being entirely alone with him. Something which had only been accomplished briefly over these past few days of tracking the Smashers all over Europe.

A subtle glance in Zemo’s direction had revealed no such similar reaction on his part, his stare meeting yours. Distant and unreadable, is what he was.

Except for when he wasn’t. Distant, that is.

Except for when he treated you with a modicum of civility. No, you couldn’t even fool yourself into believing it was simple civility, or even whatever traditional ingrained gentlemanliness that a Baron of Sokovia would have been taught in his youth.

Zemo had treated you with something more than that, especially when no one else was looking.

Sometimes, even if they were, and you still hadn’t decided if that dangerous toeing of the line between animosity and flirtation was a manufactured tactic to manipulate you or not. Uncertain if you should be offended that Zemo figured you the weakest link of your companions, or if, in the case that his interest was genuine… it wasn’t, so no use dwelling on what you would do in that case.

What you should do, when he set upon you with that look in his eye, like he knew something about you that you didn’t.

Like at the end of Sam’s introductory speech detailing the plan of the warehouse sweep, where that lingering glance in Zemo’s direction had ended with a slight curve of his lips upwards. Looking bizarrely satisfied with the announcement of Sam’s plan, and you couldn’t tell if it was at the thought of hunting supersoldiers, or the strange, treacherous feeling swimming in your own gut--- that Zemo’s pleasure was even minimally at the truth of another opportunity to have you, all to himself.

It had been enough to make you tear your eyes away, but not enough to get his lingering stare to stop itching the back of your neck. Enough to make Bucky raise a brow at you, a wary look in his eyes as he observed the one member of your party who seemed at all pleased with the fact that you were all likely heading into a fight, or worse, nothing at all, in mere moments. A warning simmered in blue, Bucky’s unspoken, “be careful,” resting on the solemn line of his frown.

You’d been told it enough in the past few days, to be careful of Zemo. Terrorist, criminal, killer--- a portion of the words they’d used to describe Zemo.

At first, you were acutely aware of the warnings you’d been given, of the story they’d told you. The same one you’d heard pieces of from different sources. What had happened in Bucharest was national news, but to think that the man who had sat across from you on his private plane, tension thick in the air while a smile rested on his own lips, had been responsible… it had churned your stomach at first. Sitting there in his finery, attended by a footman, he seemed a strange visual for the description that predated your formal introduction to him.

And you had excused yourself to the bathroom, if only to escape the feeling. The animosity of Bucky’s conversation and the tension in Sam’s shoulders, the weight of curious eyes, which always seemed to glance back towards you.

He was unnerving, if only because of how peculiarly normal he seemed in certain moments. Approachable. Amiable, even. A predator’s façade, meant for you to wonder if he had truly been the kind of man capable of terrorizing Bucharest and your friends the way he had.

Which was how he looked at you, just like a predator sizing up new prey.

The quaint jet washroom could not be your solace forever, and you were inevitably forced to emerge, or face the embarrassment of worrying your companions with an abnormally long bathroom break. When you emerged, however, you found the murmured conversation to be of a slightly lighter tone, and soon discovered the reason for it when you nearly walked straight into the chest of the man you’d gone to the restroom to escape.

“Apologies,” he had said, as if you were not the one who almost ran straight into him, amusement dancing in his eyes as his body easily blocked the narrow aisle towards where Sam and Bucky sat further in. They’d not yet noticed your emergence from the restroom, and your hoped your quick glance towards them had not looked too desperate. Torn back to Zemo with the startling shock that he would even offer, “Would you enjoy a drink? I was just on my way to get a refill, you see,” he raised the short glass in his hand, ice clinking, empty otherwise. Your pause was pregnant enough that he eventually teased, “I promise not to poison you, if that is your concern, my dear.”

“No, thank you,” had been your curt answer, pushing down the heat that threatened to burn your cheeks at his familiarity with you when you attempted to move around him, forced by the narrow aisle to graze his chest with yours in order to return to the attention of your companions, ignoring the additional attention which had followed you from the aisle.

The outfit you discovered he had chosen for you upon landing on the outskirts of Madripoor was… just another reason to dislike him. The one relief was that it was comfortable enough to fight or run in, if need be, but nothing about it was sensible in the least. What the outfit lacked in cleavage, it made up for in its form-fitting style, leaving little to the imagination otherwise. You felt as if every inch was on display for the perusal of whoever simply cast their eyes upon you, regardless of how you would tug and pull at the fabric in an attempt to make certain areas less focal.

And then there was what he’d said about it, humming appreciatively when you emerged from the jet just after Bucky and Sam to be offered a hand by Zemo at the last step, if only to scrutinize you in this ridiculous outfit as you equally scrutinized him, donned in a fur-trimmed jacket that you reluctantly had to admit made him look… handsome, “Good. In that, you shall make a believable lover.”

You’d almost tripped that last step at his words, despite the firm grip keeping you upright, eyes wide as you heard Bucky choke on his own spit before collecting himself.

Zemo paused long enough that you think he simply enjoyed watching whatever conclusions you were jumping to flash upon your face until he clarified, just as you opened your mouth to demand an explanation, wishing there was some way to wipe the smirk from his lips, “Not my lover, of course,” a gesture towards Sam, “but that of our friend, the Smiling Tiger.” His smirk broke out into a proper grin as you snatched your hand from his, realizing your form complimented Sam’s own ridiculous outfit, as Zemo addressed him, “The source of your alias is known for philandering various women. Seeing the Smiling Tiger with another woman has become somewhat expected.”

“He takes different women with him, even to do business?” Sam raised a brow.

Zemo chuckled slightly, “Certainly not.”

“What am I supposed to be doing tonight if I’m not going to meet the contact with the rest of you?” jutting your chin out, you cross your arms over your chest, if only to attempt to appear as if Zemo didn’t utterly disarm you with the slip of his attention back to you, “I’m not here to stand around and look pretty, you know.”

“Although I’m certain you would excel at that,” Zemo had purred, your poker face almost breaking under the shock of his forwardness, wondering if he simply enjoyed toying with you--- if perhaps you were an easier read than you thought, “Madripoor is full of dangers, but no one would dare bother a woman who belonged to the Smiling Tiger. It is typically assumed that these women pose no threat in and of themselves, considering his habit of picking shallow, frivolous women who rarely realize they are not the only of their kind in his orbit. This assumption will offer you the perfect position to scout the outskirts of our interaction for anyone unsavory, who might try and interrupt us during our business tonight.” He reached out, pushing your hair from your shoulder, and you took effort not to flinch back at the ghost of a touch on your bare skin, “While you will undoubtedly draw the eyes of many, none who are searching for a potential threat will linger on you long.” Zemo’s teeth flashed with his smile, his hand returning to his side, delving into the pocket of his coat leisurely when he shrugged, “You are simply another beautiful woman on the arm of a dangerous man tonight. That is nothing new in Madripoor.”

“And just how loving is Smiling Tiger with his girlfriends?” Sam huffs, and you wondered if the apologetic look he cast your way was for Zemo’s behavior, or what would undoubtedly be his own tonight.

Striding forward towards the waiting car, Zemo glanced over his shoulder as he passed your companion, “Very. You might want to warm up to each other rather quickly, if that is to be an issue.”

But you’d done worse undercover before, and a night of flirting on the arm of Sam Wilson was the least of your worries, so you mimicked the shrug Zemo had given you, and fell into step beside Sam, “No problem.”

Sam nodded, “None for me, either.”

“Let’s just get this over with,” Bucky agreed with a clench of his jaw, marching after Zemo towards the car, and you remembered that whatever you had to endure tonight, would probably be only a fraction of the discomfort Bucky would feel at reliving his Winter Soldier days.

Even if it wasn’t real.

Part of you yearned for the weight of Sam’s hand in yours, his breath tickling your neck where he had kissed it for show, upon being left alone at the bar in this strange Babylon that was the Low Town of Madripoor. Not that you were incapable of defending yourself, but you were outnumbered--- really, you all were.

And you preferred for your only intel on the region to not have come from the single man in your company who you knew you couldn’t trust. Zemo’s word that no one would bother you, alone, in this ridiculous outfit, simply because they’d seen Sam--- or, the Smiling Tiger, as he was tonight--- all over you? Well, it wasn’t enough to put your mind at ease.

You tried to hide that unease behind the drink in your hand, thankful that you’d been given something fruitier and less daring than the drink Zemo had ordered for Sam, as your eyes scanned the bar, catching where the three of them had disappeared into the unknown of the one area you could not enter.

Technically, you could, but you’d have to take out the four--- no, five--- guards lingering in the main chamber of the bar, before doing so. You couldn’t do that without starting a scene, though, and there was no reason to do so until absolutely necessary.

Pushing away from the bar, your only indication of what was going on past those burly statues of guards flanking the way beyond was the sound of the earpiece in your ear, shaded from view by your hair. A whisper, compared to the throbbing music around you, but just loud enough with its closeness to make out the conversation you weren’t otherwise privy to. It was going well enough, as you moved throughout the bar, ensuring your counted five guards remained in their positions, with their relaxed posture, and counting a sixth one as he returned from the direction of the restrooms.

Some tried to stop you, to get you to dance with them, but a simple name of your alleged lover had sent them on their way easily enough. So perhaps Zemo had not been entirely untruthful, it seemed.

Then, the meeting had turned sour. Going south fast, and you watched as the two guards flanking your companion’s escape tilted towards their bulky earpieces, but you were on them before they could go further within, to where you now heard fighting in your own subtle earpiece.

Doing your best to sound like a bubbly drunk, you draped yourself between them, obstructing their path, “Oh, is this the way to the bathroom?” You were two steps into the hall, when one grabbed you by the arm, the other attempting to walk around you, but you easily blocked the way as you tumbled yourself into his arms, apparently losing your footing at the tug on your arm, “You don’t have to be so rough!”

“Get out the way, lady, this isn’t the bathroom,” the one whose arms you were haphazardly steadied with grunted, and you watched as the other slipped past you towards the beyond, his partner following close behind.

But by then you were halfway across the bar in a quick stride, hearing the hushed, “Meet us outside, we’re going out the back,” that Bucky murmured, just for you.

“No weapons,” Zemo added curtly. “We are not ready to cause a scene, my dear.”

The threatening chime of the phones around as you hit the front doors and pushed beyond, only to find that the clinging followed you even there, lifted up by the chill and stink of Madripoor’s Low Town air, had you growling out, “Looks like that scene’s already started, whether or not you want it to, Baron.”

You caught sight of them up ahead, walking just as briskly down the side-street, and nearly had to run to catch up to their pace. By the time you did fall into step beside Sam, the neon glow of the bar at your back went black with a heart-stopping shunt, right before the gunfire started.

Your only relief as Sam pushed you down with his ducking, was that whoever was firing the automatic weapon was not a good shot. Then, you ran.

But, from the corner of your eye, you saw the flap of a long coat, the swivel on firm calves, as Zemo turned to the side, and escaped beyond the adjacent alley, and, right then, you thought that would be the last you saw of him. Yet, you couldn’t be concerned with hunting him down, what with the gunfire coming from all directions, straight at you, Sam, and Bucky. Allowing the perfect moment for Zemo to slip away.

As you ran, heart pounding and barely registering the sound of your companion’s voices, you almost laughed bitterly with the hysteria of the chaos around you, and the thought that maybe Zemo had created it just to escape. Whether he did or not, it certainly worked to his advantage, and the rev of motorcycle engines biting at your heels reminded you that, like it or not, you couldn’t worry about where he had gone, down that side-street, at the current moment.

Blindly following Sam, who was blindly following Bucky, down the alleys of Low Town, you turned the next corner as a shot rang out. Not the same, quick bursts of an automatic, but rather, the loud, resounding hollowness of a sniper’s bullet.

Air brushing against your cheek, the deathly kiss of wind as the bullet moved past your head, and straight into the motorcyclist behind you. You barely breathed as the second, then third shot rang true, and your pursuers fell dead on the slick, black wetness that was Madripoor’s alley streets.

Just as Zemo emerged from the opposite end of the street, catching your bewildered stare as his own, matching confusion, accompanied a breathless, “You seem to have a guardian angel.”

Even by looking at her, you could tell Sharon Carter was anything but your guardian angel.

Madripoor had changed her. The events which had trapped her here had done even worse. Something bitter and estranged lingered under each word the former agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. said as she presented her story for the four of you. Enough to make you wary of her intentions, regardless of how helpful she may have seemed.

Despite the fact you had known her, when you, too, once worked for S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Well, this is just too perfect,” were her first words, when she’d come upon the four of you in that alleyway.

Too perfect, was right. Her High Town home, her art gallery full of stolen things, the undisclosed clientele she apparently kept, and expected, resulting in your hasty changing of clothes. It all was too perfect, even down to her tragic story of exile from the States. Something was off, but you had too much to worry about to concern yourself with picking apart the story of your host, your momentary refuge provided by her hand.

You wondered if Bucky could sense it, too, when he said, “She’s kind of awful now,” following her abrasive callousness in detailing the hypocrisy of heroism.

If not him, then perhaps the look Zemo sent your way could confirm your suspicions, but he buried it down behind the glass of whatever hard liquor he had acquired in her too perfect home. Nagel, Wilfred Nagel was who you should have been focusing on, rather than the question you nearly dared to ask Zemo right there, as Sam offered Sharon a pardon that you all knew relied on too many bureaucrats to ever be a certain promise.

The longer Zemo held your gaze, the less you concentrated on the conversation around you, until something of a party was mentioned, and the low promise of the, “Trouble,” that Sharon would find parted Zemo’s lips. You could believe that, more than whatever Sam had promised her.

The art gallery had taken on the atmosphere of a club, rather than some simple party. Music throbbed, louder than that of the bar earlier in the night, pulsing bodies to move in tandem with the beat of the sound. Veins, stretching out from the same, beating heart.

But further in, past the stage and the DJ, was a viewing of priceless art, which was certain to be priced and sold tonight. The business Sharon was conducting, the contacts she’d said she would work for information on Nagel’s location, were undoubtedly among the people gathered there.

Waiting around was rarely enjoyable.

Your group moved towards the open bar, but none of you looked to the bartender for a drink. Zemo’s eyes affixed along the dancefloor, surveying, as much as Sam or Bucky were. If someone were to look closely enough, in that moment, that simple glance would give away their training. Your eyes, however, traveled past them, catching the questioning glance Bucky sent your way as you moved to separate and disperse into the crowd of writhing bodies around you.

“I’m going to dance,” was your only explanation. If the three of them had not seen some potential threat in those few moments of surveying, then it likely wasn’t there.

Either way, Sharon had said, “Lay low, blend in, enjoy the party,” before sending you on your way.

That much, you could oblige her with.

Considering the dancefloor was a great percentage of the party, dancing also allowed you to survey the room without looking like you were gawking. Thankful to be back in your own clothes, the black on black and buckles of your light tactical wear fit in appropriately with the variety of party-goers around you. Tempo flaring, sweat and alcohol, adrenaline rushing your veins, for a moment you found you were enjoying yourself, after the initial sweep of the dancefloor had come up empty of threats. Or, well, anything that was immediately threatening to you.

Which is why you could have kicked yourself for letting what might have been the biggest threat in the room creep up on you, in that brief moment of thrumming ecstasy.

His hand caught in the buckled strap at your waist, pulling you into a firm back, not unlike other dancers around you had, but his breath smelled of bourbon as it ghosted your cheek, and the accented voice at his lips was enough to have you whirling in his arms, “Do you mind if I dance with you?”

In your defense, the last you’d seen of Zemo had been moments ago, across the bar as he perused the artwork with Sam and Bucky. You could hardly believe he’d crossed the room as quick as he had--- quick enough to catch you off-guard.

“What?” you question blandly, the mixture of unease and shock churning into something else that you wouldn’t dare admit as he offered a dazzling smile, and you suddenly realized you were still standing far too close, with the growing crowd around you.

He mistook your confusion for difficulty hearing over the blaring music, and leaned closer, to catch you by the ear, “Dance with me.” Not a question, this time.

He was close enough you could smell his cologne--- a rich scent, peppered with cinnamon, which had you wondering just how much he had paid for the bottle of whatever it was, or if it had been something Sokovian from before the fall. It was unlike anything you’d scented before. He even smelled expensive.

For a second time, you almost jumbled his question, though not from shock. The heat rising to your cheeks and the skip in your chest, you couldn’t convince yourself was entirely from the dancing or the light drink you’d had earlier in the evening.

His own cheeks were faintly pink, upon closer inspection, but otherwise there was no evidence in his smooth posture of the multiple glasses of liquor he’d had tonight, yet it’s enough to make him look warm--- perhaps not as cold as he once had appeared.

Human.

“We are to enjoy ourselves, are we not?” he suggested, as if that would push you toward one answer over another, and it worked.

“Yes,” your lips said it before your mind caught up with them, and his smile widened into a grin, as brief as it was.

“Then, dance, my dear.”

His own dancing was rigid, but he kept beat. Small movements which would not draw attention from anyone, yet were somehow the barest ability required to be considered dancing. As if he had little experience dancing to club music like this, though you couldn’t be sure. It was almost comical, yet no-one could laugh at him, since he miraculously managed to pull it off.

Well, you, at least, were able to bite back a chuckle at the sight of him. Something about it, about him, in that moment, dancing so awkwardly yet with so much confidence, brought a genuine smile to your face, as you danced alongside him.

And when he gestured in a round motion with his hand for you to spin, you did that, too, without a second thought. It was easy to forget, for only a second, when your eyes caught his in the strobing light and the smile upon his face, his hands coming together to clap for you in time with the pulsing beat between you, just who he was, and what he’d done.

Far too easy to forget.

But one glance towards the edges of the dance floor has you remembering, as you caught the movement of Bucky and Sam following after the slip of Sharon’s form. Bucky’s eyes bored into you, his jaw clenched. Displeasure written on his face, and you don’t think the sake of blending in would be enough to excuse your dancing with Zemo, or the enjoyment with which you’d done it.

“Perhaps, she has found our missing Doctor Nagel,” Zemo’s form was too close, all over again, and this time you do step away from him, if only a single step. It’s enough to breathe, to clear your head of whatever had overcome you moments before. He’s too busy looking after their three retreating forms to notice the guilt catching at the back of your throat, suffocating you for barely a second.

You ensure any proof of the feeling settling in your gut was gone by the time he cast his eyes towards you, the brown of his irises nearly black in the lowlight of a High Town party, but you didn’t keep his stare long, “Let’s find out.”

The sun was dawning when you emerged onto the street, and reached over your heads by the time you made your way to the water-side lot filled with shipping containers. Sharon’s intel had led you to it, and container four-two-six-one had come to your knowledge with little questioning on Sam and Bucky’s part, if only because she was an old friend.

You still wondered who would give her the location of such a prize as this, and what it had cost her, since you were slowly learning that nothing in Madripoor came free. Regardless of where she had received the information, it had been where Nagel was hidden, along with the remainder of his serum research.

It had also been where the bounty hunters of Madripoor descended upon you.

Dr. Nagel was a young, lanky man who had barely finished his exposition of where to possibly find the Flag Smashers who had stolen his serum when the very man you had danced so happily with not two hours before shot a bullet right through his heart. All you could think, in the stunning moment of realization that Nagel had been dead before he even hit the ground, was how stupid you were to ever let your guard down around this man--- this killer.

“What did you do?” Sharon’s cry rang in your ears as the gun clattered to the ground from Zemo’s hand, jolting you into action from staring at Nagel’s body to turn on them. Catching Zemo’s cold eyes--- no remorse within them--- as Sam and Sharon struggled to pin him to the grated shelves of Nagel’s lab. You think you might hate him, just in time for the blast of an explosion to push you face first into the metal slatted floor of Nagel’s bunker.

That hate was all you had left to fuel you from getting up off the floor, bones creaking as flames danced in your peripheral, a hole blown through the side of the crate. That anger, and the grasp of Sam’s hands on your forearm, pulling you up after he got his own footing.

Zemo had been gone by the time you had enough sense to scan the area, but there would be no searching for him this time, either, as the bounty hunters descended upon your location with the ease of wolves circling their prey. Shooting out from cover, you knew the bullets of your pistol weren’t enough to last you for all of them, and they had you pinned.

Part of you still hated him, even when he saved your asses. Another part wondered why he even bothered.

You hoped you radiated that hatred when you got into the back of that getaway car he’d found, too sullen to even wish Sharon a farewell, let alone offer a smile at the cheeky attitude Zemo had pulled up in it with. After everything, it only made you stew more--- his nonchalance. If you were being truly honest, you were angrier still at yourself, and the thought that he’d played you like a fiddle. If you had kept your guard up and kept an eye on him, perhaps Nagel would still be alive. Perhaps you wouldn’t feel like Zemo was playing this two steps ahead of the rest of you.

Even on the plane out of Madripoor, you had sat in sullen silence, refusing so much as to look at Zemo, even when he offered you food.

You hoped your sharp, “I’m not hungry, thanks,” cut deep, as childish as it may sound. You didn’t bother to look long enough in his direction to see if it had. Speaking exclusively to Sam and Bucky, even when Zemo changed your course to Latvia, you had not spoken a word to him until you landed in Riga, and his conversation turned towards Sokovia.

“Erased from the map,” he clicked his tongue, but his pace didn’t slow, when he spoke in what was as much an accusation as a question, “I don’t suppose any of you bothered to visit the memorial?” Met with silence when he looked upon Sam, he turned his eyes toward Bucky, then you, and it was the longest you’d dared hold his gaze since he killed Nagel, when he scathingly said, “Of course not. Why would you?” Nodding towards an old set of double doors, he drops the subject as suddenly as he’d brought it up, “We are here.”

Your traitorous heart clenched as you watched him disappear beyond them, Bucky remaining by your side while you lingered at the bottom of the steps leading into the residence.

“I’ll be back,” Bucky murmured, glancing your way, to which you silently nodded, too troubled by the fact that you felt anything at all akin to pity for that horrible man to worry where your friend might have to wander to in the middle of Latvia. Zemo was, undeniably, horrible, wasn’t he?

A huff of annoyance blew past your lips as you marched the steps towards where Sam and that man had disappeared beyond. Maybe you were just getting soft in your old age, or something.

Yeah, that had to be it.

What you hadn’t expected was for Sam to meet you at the doorway to Zemo’s… loft? Loft.

“I’m gonna’ hit the corner store, if you’re alright to watch you-know-who,” Sam murmured low, and you scrambled for words to say aside from the hell no which threatened to spill from your lips. “He’s in the shower, so maybe he’ll be a while anyway.” Glancing over your shoulder, Sam’s brow furrowed, “Where’s Bucky?”

“Said he’d be back,” you looked behind yourself, as if expecting to find him there. “Don’t know where he ran off to, though.”

A questioning breath was sucked through Sam’s teeth, before he let it out in a sigh, affixing you with a, “You good?”

With babysitting Zemo?

No.

“Yeah, go,” you had ushered him out the door despite your current feeling towards the subject, and by the time you shut the door behind him and rummaged into the kitchen area to ransack the refrigerator, you realized why Sam was going to the corner store. This place was positively barren of the necessities. Groaning in disappointment, you lean your head back in a silent cry to the heavens. Why was nothing going right on this mission? You were starving, and hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep on the plane over.

Standing there for a moment, you let the cold air hit your skin, daring it to keep you awake.

The door to the washroom pushing open grasps your reluctant attention, head lulling to the side slightly as you shut the empty refrigerator. There he was, the bastard, clad only in a robe and lounge pants, pushing a folded towel along his neck, catching the water there which dripped from his semi-dry hair.

Footsteps softened by the slippers at his feet, he asks upon taking a look around the room to find only your presence there, “And where have your soldiers run off to?”

You grit your teeth, forced to answer him, “Sam went to the store, because you don’t keep your safe houses stocked with food.”

“This is not a safe house,” he murmurs, coming close enough that the sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows catches along something gold glinting at his throat. Large hands lower the towel and fold it neatly, as your gaze lingers, observing the necklace where it delves into his chest, a view allowed by the robe’s relaxed fit, just open enough to reveal the soft hairs there. You snap your eyes back up before you can stay there for too long, and Zemo is smiling slightly. Bastard caught you.

“What is it then?”

“A vacation home.” For a pitiful instant, your mind sent you images of the family he’d lost in Sokovia. The last thing you needed was to feel sorry for him, so you clear your throat, shaking off the thought of what was missing. What had led to who he’d become. Your pity thankfully didn’t show as he moved ever closer into the kitchen, feet stopping just before your own so that he could look you down. You couldn’t help but grasp the counter you leant yourself upon until your knuckles blanched under his scrutiny, nearly on the verge of demanding he explain what his problem was, until he nodded to the cabinet beside your head, “Excuse me.”

You almost jumped out of his way.

Watching, desperately clawing for the anger that had been so comfortingly oppressive in your chest earlier in the morning, because anything was better than lingering on the cut of his jawline, or the way his robe dipped as he reached for that very cabinet you had been standing in the way of a moment before. Anything else, focus on anything else.

When he opened it, your eyes snapped to the few jars within. Olives and fruit lined the shelves in twistable jars, flanked by large bottles of that same dark liquor he seemed to favor, and a tin of coffee beans. In the back, nestled away for a rainy day, was a box of Turkish delight.

“Ah,” he breathed pleasantly, shooting you a cheshire grin, “so it is not entirely as empty as you thought.”

Bastard, bastard, bastard---

The word rings in your head like a mantra as you feel the anger crumbling, fading away with each second he looked at you like that. What was wrong with you, to be this easy? Something had to be.

His eyes were thankfully torn away when he looked into the cabinet once more, plucking the fruit--- peaches, looked like--- from the shelf, along with the coffee and candy, “I doubt you would like to eat pickled olives alone.” He says it, right before he closes the cabinet, and reaches out with the jar of peaches towards you.

Blinking up at him, you don’t dare take them, genuinely curious, “They’re not for you?”

“You did not eat on the plane, and it has been hours, now; you must be starving.”

You’re surprised he even cared, or made the appearance of caring, but that shrivel of spiteful anger you clutched onto with all your might refused to take them from his hand, despite the growl in your stomach, “Sam will be back soon enough with food.” Turning on your heel to keep yourself from going back and snatching them away like a starving animal, you move to the other side of the kitchen.

His jaw is set when you look back at him at the sharp tap of glass and metal along the countertop. Zemo’s fingers clutched the jar and coffee tin with a fury that was only revealed in the depths of his dark eyes, watching you move across the living room without so much as a word.

Until you sat down, and he breathed calmly, so calmly, that you knew it was the calm before the storm, “Am I to expect you to act as a petulant child for the remainder of the mission, or shall I ready myself for you to come to your senses?”

You scoffed at him, “Excuse me?”

“Please do not make me repeat myself, my dear.”

“I’m sorry, Baron,” you grit with as little remorse as possible, that once-simmering anger nearly boiling again, “that I don’t want to trade peaches with a man who murdered someone not two feet from where I stood.”

“Try again.”

“What?”

“Try, again,” he breathed slowly, as if he had to do so to keep himself from breaking into some fit of rage. You’d never seen him enraged, even when he fought and killed, he was always a deathly calm, and some sick, twisted part of you wanted to see him truly, frightfully angry, “You don’t treat Wilson and Barnes with this childish disdain, despite them killing countless people in your presence.”

“Don’t even compare yourself to them. You killed an unarmed man!”

“I do not wish to litigate the details of what may or may not have happened---”

“‘Litigate?’” you rose to your feet from the couch, not even realizing that he had half-way crossed the room by the time you did, “Do you even hear yourself? You put a bullet in his heart! What is there to litigate?”

“He was a threat.”

“He could have been arrested, or---”

“Criminals can escape prisons,” he bit, nearly in each other’s faces by the time you laughed at your own bitter answer.

“What? Like you?”

“Precisely,” he agreed, and you met his glare with one just as heated, until something shifted in his gaze. A sort of dawning understanding that muddled his glare, until a raise of his brow accompanied the easing tension in his shoulders, and you already knew you weren’t going to like what he was going to say before he’d even said it, “Is that what bothers you?”

“What?” you ask warily.

“That I am considered a criminal.”

“You’re a killer.”

“My question stands, regardless.”

“I’ve worked with criminals before,” you shook your head, making to turn back to the couch, but a fast grip at your upper arm stopped you in your tracks, and he was far too close all over again. Suffocating you with his closeness, with the oppressive cleanliness and water his scent still carried from his recent shower. Ungloved, his fingers were warm, radiating through the sleeve of your shirt, digging firmly into the pliant flesh of your bicep.

His breath carried the faint smell of mint that comes after a fresh brushing as it wafted past your skin alongside his demanding amusement, and your stomach dropped dreadfully when he teased, “Ah, but you danced with me.”

Have you ever let someone you didn’t trust get too close?

The question seemed to dance in the black endlessness of his dilated pupils, rimmed with the deceptive warm brown of his irises. You were so close that you could notice the gold flecks in them which caught in the sunlight streaming from the window, something you otherwise would have missed. A dare in the dangerous flick of his lashes, he glanced to your lips and back; was he all too aware of your closeness, too?

The reflexive dart of your tongue to wet your lips gave you away, face burning hot with anger and embarrassment, and you ripped yourself from his grip, “I don’t know what you’re implying.”

“I’m sure you’re clever enough to figure it out,” is his sarcastic counter, a satisfied smirk which said he had all the answer he needed already left you wishing there were some way to rip it from his face, because were you really that obvious? Or was he just that good at reading people?

This time, when you headed to sit back on the couch, he simply stood there, allowing you to be unobstructed. You plopped down upon the couch with all the defeat you felt at his satisfaction, lying down in the hope that if you ignored him, he’d simply go away.

When you hear the sound of his slippers along the floor, signaling his departure from your side, the distant shuffle paused in their tracks when you couldn’t help yourself from asking, “Why did you come back?”

“Hmm?”

“When we were in Madripoor,” you breathed slowly, curiosity overcoming your anger, “you had escaped us twice. It was the perfect chance to run for your freedom. Why come back?”

You don’t dare open your eyes, even with the length of his pause, before he answers, a solemn honesty in his voice, “This is not a mission which I can abandon. I must see it through.”

You almost asked him why, once again, but thought better of it. Something told you he wouldn’t have given you a straight answer, either way.

Just when you think he’d gone on his way, the shuffling sound of his slippers closed in once more. Tempted to look, your curiosity at his approach was answered with the sharp sound of glass clicking against the wooden coffee table.

“Feel for me as you will, but eat,” his voice is low, soft. You don’t know if it was the straining of your ears to make up for what you would not see, but you could have sworn you heard an apologetic tone when he added, “You’re no use if you lack the strength to fight your enemies. As you are now, anyone could overpower you if they wished.”

That earns him a peek of a glare from out of the corner of your eye, and you earn a stern look in return as he nods towards the canned peaches on the table.

You couldn’t help yourself from asking sarcastically, before cracking a small smile, “So, are the Flag Smashers about to propel from the ceilings to catch us unaware, or is it you I should be worried about overpowering me?”

No apologies, from either party, but his dark chuckle is enough to set your soul aflame when he teases, sounding too much like a promise, “I would only overpower you, should you to ask me to.”

And that was when you realized how your question had come across. The burning in your face only increases as you sat up sharply at his words, about to protest that it had not been what you meant by them, but the doors to the loft opened, saving you the embarrassment of that conversation.

“Where’s Sam?” Bucky asks, and Zemo leans away from the coffee table, freeing you from the sweltering scrutiny of his gaze.

“I’m afraid we are running low on groceries, and he was so kind as to do the shopping for us,” Zemo explained innocently enough, but Bucky’s eyes narrowed at him regardless.

“Speaking of going out,” you reached for the jar of peaches, feeling Zemo’s glance upon you as you popped the top open, “where’ve you been?”

“I saw an old friend,” Bucky grumbled, shrugging off your question as he moved towards the washroom, “I’ll tell you when Sam gets back.”

The door closed behind him with a certain finality on the subject, at least until Sam returned. By the time you looked back towards Zemo, he was fiddling with the box of candy.

“I shall put the coffee on,” he announced, glancing to catch your eye with the flick of a candy wrapper glinting between his fingertips, offering, “Turkish delight?”

Upon Sam’s return, the news that Bucky’s old friend had been a warrior of Wakanda was a bad one, at least for Zemo. But with bad news came good news, and soon enough you were following the trail of the Flag Smashers once again, even if that meant the Wakandans were following your trail.

Hours turned to days, and by the end of a weeklong trek across Europe filled with close-quarters and even closer encounters with your Sokovian prisoner, you were standing in front of the dingy warehouse which had found you in this final, terrifying predicament.

Wondering if it had all been pointless, to be snuffed out at the hand of the supersoldier above you, pushing you into the dirty concrete. He wouldn’t need a gun to end you, and you both knew it. So you might have been panicking, with how savagely you pulled in his grasp. A trapped animal, fighting to get free.

Blood rushing to your head fills your ears, catching the first sight of the man pushing you into the ground just barely out of the corner of your eye, and the dark mask covering his face with a handprint. You could make out that he was light-skinned, dark hair pushing down past his chin, young enough to make you wonder just how old he was, and if yours would be the first life he’d take.

His voice is softer than you expected, for someone who sounded so terrifying when he began his order of, “Stop struggli---”

The bullet that rips through his neck tears his grip away from your body, ringing off the hollow echo of the room for just the moment it took the eyes beyond the frame of his mask to widen and dilate as they looked into your own. Green.

His eyes were green.

Silence far too sudden for the adrenaline of the close gunshot not to shake you to your core.

The supersoldier is dead before he hits the ground, and you’re pushing yourself up on aching joints to get on your feet as quickly as possible, until the familiar voice of your companion meets your ears in a thick, Sokovian accent, “He did not hurt you.” It’s flat, not hitching into a recognizable question at the end, but the dark eyes of your savior seem to question you despite the cracking disinterest of his tone.

There was no denying you were happy to see him.

“Zemo,” it’s breathless, and sounds too much like a hoarse relief for your own liking, so you focus instead on rolling your bruised shoulder and avoiding the searing gaze upon you, trying not to appear as shaken as you truly were, “Not anything I can’t walk off.” The sound of something muttered in Sokovian under his breath brings you to look upon him again, finding that his gun lingers along his hip, locked in the tight, leather-gloved grip. He looks displeased, lips set into a tight line that suggests he’s angry, even, but not in the same way he had been in Latvia. This was worse, a colder, solemn anger that threatened the fire behind his eyes, threatening to burn this whole place to the ground, and you can only question, “What is it?”

“Undoubtedly any others remaining here have been alerted by the noise,” Zemo says curtly, turning towards the hallway from whence you came. He is angry, you manage to confirm, when he bites across his shoulder, “Mind your surroundings this time, so that you don’t find yourself pathetically helpless again.”

His words were scathing, but they’re meant to be. Even worse, you know he’s right. This dead one, whose blood was splattered over the top half of your tactical gear, had crept up on you too softly, and was too strong to shake off once he’d gotten hold of you.

Constructed to kill, thanks to the serum.

Even going into a fully aware fight, you were at a disadvantage, especially in close quarters. It was something he understood. Something he used repeatedly in his own strategy against opponents which were physically stronger in every way.

Your only hope of an upper hand had to come from either distance, or subterfuge. At least, if you weren’t accompanied by Bucky or Sam.

You’re lucky, despite the burning ache in your side and back, that it hadn’t been worse than it was, and that Zemo had come upon you as he did.

“Remain close,” he murmurs, as you emerge out into the hall, and you don’t dare to argue with him on it, even if you might have had the situation which just transpired not done so. Clearing the upper west floors were methodical, swift, and it became apparent by the third that whoever had been here was gone, either before or after Zemo’s gunshot had rung true.

Bucky and Sam appeared winded when you regrouped at the designated meeting point, and you didn’t have to wait for Bucky’s explanation to guess what had occurred, “We tangled with a few of them. They got away, but we got another lead from what they left behind…” Bucky trailed off, swapping a glance with Sam at the sight of your disheveled state.

“What happened to you two?” Sam’s eyes dart between your torn clothes and the scrapes along your skin towards Zemo’s tense, rigid frame.

“I was jumped by one,” you grit, embarrassed enough that he’d caught you off-guard without even verbalizing it, “he had me on my stomach, but Zemo, he---” you clear your throat, remembering the vacant green stare and splash of deep, vibrant red that had accompanied your rescue.

“It has been handled,” Zemo supplies for you, and before Sam could question him further, he adds, “the man is dead.”

The blood along your black tactical gear has dried by now, but it’s black stickiness must be ever apparent for them now, as Bucky sighs a weary, “Well, shit.”

“Are you okay?”

You open your mouth to answer Sam, but Zemo gruffly responds, “She’ll live,” before brushing past the two of them towards where the car which would take you back into the heart of the city was waiting.

“What’s wrong with him?” Sam wonders, when Zemo is far enough ahead that he can’t hear the question.

“You want a list?” Bucky grumbles dismissively, stretching his metal arm in a wide circle that suggested it had set peculiarly after his last fight.

Your throat tightens, and you try your best to keep from remembering that helpless, desperate feeling which had drenched your soul as the supersoldier pinned you to the concrete.

Forcing a humorless laugh, you offer up a half-hearted explanation, daring it to sound as unbothered as you wished you truly were, “Maybe he regrets the bullet he spent saving me.”

Bucky’s exhale is somewhere between a bitter laugh and sigh, “Who knows, with him.”

As much as you wished for it, you couldn’t be sure if those words you’d spoken didn’t ring true.

“Whatever,” Sam agrees, dismissively rubbing the back of his neck. Redirecting back on the target of chasing the Flag Smashers, you hoped you’d get a step ahead of them soon when Sam instigates your following of Zemo to the car, “We’d better get back to the motel and regroup. Got an early day ahead of us tomorrow.”

The, “yeah,” you supply the back of their heads with, finding yourself following after them, is almost as distant as you felt. Internalized, and thrumming with the melting adrenaline which made way for exhaustion to settle into your bones and take hold.

Yet, you can’t get that deathly, dilating green out of your mind, or the ghost clinging to the ache in your back, where murderous weight had been.

Zemo did not meet your eye the whole ride to the motel--- and it was nothing like the dazzling vacation home Zemo had introduced you all to in Riga. Complete with plain walls and shuttered windows, the view of Prague you received from the window set in the dead center of the narrow bedroom was that of the wall of the building opposite. Utility, over luxury, but privacy had been key, as well.

He had retired to his own room just as soon as you’d set foot before it, bizarrely silent in that same way that you had come to realize could never be a good thing, because it meant Zemo was lost in his own head. Neither Sam nor Bucky made note of it, at least aloud, and so you held your tongue as well, rather than acknowledge the dark cloud which seemed to follow the man as he disappeared beyond the click of the motel room door.

“We can trade,” breaks you from your intense scrutiny of that door, key card clutched firmly in hand as you glance towards where Bucky stiffly supplies, “I don’t blame you if you’re not okay with it. You can stay with Sam instead.”

Your heart clenches, and for a moment you’re brought out of your remembrance of the Flag Smasher’s body atop your own by the offer, somewhat touched that he would take your place as Zemo’s keeper tonight at the sacrifice of his own comfort. Even after all that Zemo had done to him, he would take the bed which you had agreed to sleep in earlier, when the motel owner had explained the issue of limited capacity.

You can see the apprehension behind his eyes, despite his generous offer. He was still unsettled by Zemo, and, if you were being honest, so were you. You won’t make him do that for you, all so that you can avoid whatever tension lingering between you and Zemo.

Instead, you pat Bucky in the chest gently with the palm of your hand and swallow down the nauseous churn of your stomach, forcing a light tone, “I’m a big girl, Bucky, but if he gives me any trouble, I’ll shout for you guys. How’s that sound?”

“If he gives you a chance to shout,” Bucky frowns.

“Well, if he suffocates me in my sleep, I’ll haunt him forever,” it’s meant to be teasing, but it comes out dry.

“Our side will be unlocked, just in case,” Sam mentions, lingering in the open doorway of the adjoining room, “might wanna’ unlock yours, too.”

“Or else I’ll just have to break through it if anything happens,” Bucky’s tone is just as dry. Tired. This chase was wearing on you all, and you could only hope that tomorrow would be different than today.

Slipping the key card along the door, it whirs to life with a click. The acceptance of your entry indicated by the green glow of the lock’s internal light. Slipping into the room, you rest your back against the shut door, willing the green remembrance of your attacker’s eyes to shake from your head.

Your death-grip on the key card doesn’t ease as the bathroom door opens, and you catch sight of Zemo. He’s shed his jacket, left in that dark turtleneck and slacks. His hair had fallen, ever so slightly, from its perfected part against his forehead. The tips of a few strands there are dark with a dampness which evidenced the water he must have splashed his face with before emerging from the restroom.

His hands are free of his gloves as he flexes them at his sides, pausing for but a moment of acknowledgement at your presence before he goes further into the room, towards the full bed near the window which he must claim as his own. The jacket lies there, until he retrieves it to hang in the closet on one of the wooden hangers provided within.

Not a word. You don’t know if it should make you relieved or concerned, but truthfully, it makes you feel nothing. Because you’re still standing at the door by the time he turns from the closet, staring unfocused at the floor before you and screaming internally to pull yourself together when he does it for you.

“Are you going to stand there for the remainder of the night?” Curtly, “If my presence has you so paralyzed with fear, you may as well take up your soldier’s offer to switch rooms.”

His voice holds an edge, despite the deceptively smooth calmness to it. A taunting, instigating bait hung there. As if he were still angry at you.

And for what? For getting attacked?

The thought sends white-hot, simmering rage swelling in your own chest. Did he think you a nuisance, after having to save you from that brute of a supersoldier this evening? It had been a sneak-attack! You doubt even having your wits about you would have helped catch the silence with which you’d been crept up on in that warehouse, now that you’d had time to replay every second of it in your mind twofold.

Glaring at him with that fire in your eyes, was better than that frightfully distant look you’d held a moment before, he thought.

“What do you want from me?” comes biting from your teeth, bared at him as you bristled under the cold anger of his own stare.

“There is nothing you could possibly offer me that I would want,” he strikes back.

Snake, meet wolf.

“As if I would offer you anything at all after the way you’ve acted,” it’s an effort to keep your voice from rising. You want to fight; to feel something other than the crippling terror that had nearly killed you this evening--- that panic, which had gripped your heart until it felt like it bled.

“The way I’ve acted?” Zemo’s demeanor changes, flaring rage in his eyes as he stalks across the room. It takes everything you have not to wilt in his approach, but to instead glare right back at him, even when he crowds you up against the door, palm coming flat against where your head resides. His voice doesn’t rise with his seething fury, but rather, lowers into a tone that turns your blood cold as it rushes through the heat his closeness spreads through you, “I am not the one who almost got myself killed.”

“Well,” you struggle to remain even, as you breathe all the disdain you can muster into your words, “I’m not going to apologize for you having to save me.”

His head tilts to the side, snarling through his thick accent at the thought, “I do not want an apology for that.”

Standing straight from your leaning on the door, if only to feel as if you were invading his space rather than the other way around, you find that he leans away ever so slightly when you snap, “I’m not going to thank you for it, either.”

“Thank me for---?” he stops himself with a clench of his jaw, breathing slowly through his nose, as if to calm the crackling fire behind his eyes as his glare burns into your own. Too close; he’s still standing much too close.

And he moves so quickly you have zero chance of escaping his path. The hand he didn’t have laid flat on the door pushes you roughly by the shoulder, into it. By the time your mouth is open to even yelp in surprise, it’s suffocated by the hasty press of his lips against yours. Searing, pressing the length of his body firm against your own as he kisses you with all the wild fury his eyes betrayed. Nothing was left of the collected calmness of his posture or voice from before, as his hand on your shoulder digs into the hair at the nape of your neck, tugging you into him.

Not that you needed to be coaxed, with the way your fingers dig and scrape into the fabric along his chest, his shoulders, his throat, his hair. Digging in, his part is destroyed as you nip at his lips, teeth and tongue distracting you from any fragment of sense that was left screaming at you to remember it. To remember who he was, and how things are supposed to be between you.

Which was definitively the opposite of this. His hands were never supposed to find themselves fistfuls of your hair, your hip, your flesh, as they did now. You were never supposed to know that he tasted like something sweet, or felt soft beneath the hard lines of his turtleneck.

He was dragging, pulling, tumbling with you away from the door, as anger and fury melted into a complex, sweltering mixture of something else entirely, heat burning through your core when he tugged at the buckles of your tactical gear.

The world turns sideways, and then you’re falling upon something soft--- the mattress creaking beneath your weight and the weight of him kneeling atop you as you dragged him down to your lips once again. Rough, not gentle, as you arched into him and tugged at his hair, a breathy groan escaping into your mouth from his own.

He inhales sharply, as if suddenly realizing the position you were both in, as his fingertips grazed the bare skin of your waist, where your shirt had become untucked from your pants.

Breaking, parting, breathless, he stares down at you. Brown eyes blown wide and dilated, staring at you like a deer in the headlights--- perhaps the most honest expression you’d ever seen on Zemo’s face.

You were no better, sprawled along the comforter and trying to catch your breath. A single question ringing around your brain in search of an answer, any answer.

What are you doing? What are you doing?

“I,” he breathes softly, in a lilting apologetical tone, and you realize he’s between your legs, hooked along his hips precariously. Your anger dissipates, evaporating like it had been burned away with the roaring flames he’d ignited within you, and he clears his throat slightly. Troubled is how he looks, when his eyes become incapable of holding your own, “I can’t do this.”

No apology, though it may as well be there, in the way he said it.

Though you know he’s keeping you from a terrible mistake, part of you is lying when you murmur, “It’s okay,” back up to him.

“Yane mogu etogo sdelat,” he leans down, as if collapsing under the pressure of whatever he was feeling, right into the curve of your stomach. Sokovian, you register faintly, as another reverent, “I can’t do this,” falls from his lips to be muffled in the fabric between you.

Your hand finds his head, fingers carding through his hair reflexively, and you don’t know if it’s from the shock of your situation or a genuine desire to comfort him, when you repeat, even softer, “It’s okay, Helmut.”

It’s the first time you’ve called him by his first name, you realize.

Maybe it’s the fact that he was still tangled up in you, or the fact that you’d been mere moments away from letting him have his way with you, but you don’t dare move from this spot. From pushing your fingertips against the crown of his scalp, or the weight of him against you. Neither does he, as he breathes raggedly for a moment against your stomach, face buried there.

Breaking the silence almost feels wrong, but you do it anyway. A compulsive, desperate need to do so crawls up your throat, until you can’t contain the words any longer.

Reaching down, finding the curve of his jaw, you pull, until he lifts his head enough to peer over the curve of your chest to meet your eye, questioning after a moment of peering into the lingering want, and tragic grief of his stare, “Are you okay, Helmut?” But you already know the answer; you finally understand that this man is far more broken than you’d ever realized.

“Is anyone ever just, ‘okay?’” is his evasive answer.

You say it before you can think better of it, offering him another piece of you with which you probably shouldn’t have, but you were already neck deep in possible regrets, so what was one more?

“People’ve said I’m a good listener before, if you need to talk about whatever it is that’s troubling you.”

You liked to think he owed you some kind of explanation for all this, but if he’d asked you for the same, you don’t know if you could give him one, either. It had just… happened. No rhyme or reason, but some bizarre, broken part of your own soul had called out to whatever was cracked and frayed in his own. It was all the answer you could think of, for why you were flat on your back beneath him still.

“I would not bother you with my troubles,” Zemo starts, attempting to piece back that calm, collected mask which kept this fragment of him that you had bore witness to hidden.

“If not me, then you should bother someone with them.”

And maybe it’s the soft, bittersweet smile with which you look up at him, or a deep craving to be understood by just one other human being in this world, but his chin remains firmly planted against your chest as he says quietly, sadly, “I have no one left. They are all gone.” He doesn’t flinch away when you brush the hair from his forehead, out of his eyes, catching sight of the confusion, the trouble in his soul.

Trouble, indeed.

Stormy, dark, he stares a hole into your soul, and you ache with the hollow tragedy of it, when he murmurs as firmly as he can, almost worse than if his voice had cracked with emotion, “I have lost them all.”

You want to tell him the reflexive compassions that come at times like these, but sorry feels cheap, and you could never understand the pain he must feel. You hope you never do.

So you breathe out slowly, one word at your lips, “Sokovia?” as if you didn’t already know. As if you had not read his file, years before he joined you for this mission. Back when he had terrorized the Avengers and murdered diplomats at the United Nations hearing. You tried not to think of it, now, when he looked so vulnerable, and sad, as the slight nudge of his chin into the flesh of your skin is all that’s required to acknowledge your question.

“You already bother me enough, Zemo,” you try to add a joking hum to your voice, as you sigh beneath him, but even that sounds bittersweet, “so feel free to bother me more with your troubles, if you like.”

There’s quiet for what feels like a long time after that. Your words permeating the space between you, and you don’t know if he watches you like he does to gauge your sincerity, or because he simply likes looking at you like this.

He gives you a fragment, when his body shifts, and his weight moves up just enough to catch your eye from where you were left staring at the ceiling in this thrumming silence, your fingers slipping from his hair to his shoulder, “I…” he clears his throat softly, “saw you underneath that supersoldier, and I just… could not lose one more.” Zemo doesn’t say he cares about you, not explicitly, “He was going to kill you.”

“I know,” it tastes hollow in your mouth, as you do your best not to go back there, to how he’d found you.

“It,” he breathes, searching for the right word, “frightened me, and so I was furious. Not entirely at you, but because…”

He trails off, and you supply instead, the similar feeling which had buried itself in your own chest, “Because of how it made you feel?”

Zemo nods, his hands smoothing down your back, catching at your waist, “I did not like the way it made me feel,” his gaze flicks along the planes of your face, before returning to your own, that want-mixed-grief once again swirling within them. “The way you make me feel. It is like… a betrayal.” His voice does shake this time, when he breathes, “It is too soon since… I lost my whole world.”

A betrayal, he had called the feeling.

It felt like that for you, too. This swirling, guilty want in your bones for him, when you know it’s the last thing you should want. That he should be the last thing you want. If Bucky or Sam saw you like this--- you think they might hate you for it.

For wanting him.

Your hand rests at the curve of his neck and shoulder, thumb close enough to feel the short stubble which threatened to peek through at his jaw with the late hour of the day, and you agree, “I was angry, too, because of this feeling.”

“The feeling of wanting something you cannot have,” he chuckles, a truce, offered from his body to yours in the vibrations of it which resound in your chest.

“You could say that.”

Perhaps, in a different world, things could be different.

Maybe, if you’d met him at a different time.

But as things were, you were just two broken people, seeking solace in one another when every fiber of your being told you not to. That it was wrong--- despite how comfortably right he felt against you here and now, lingering between your thighs and against your body for as long as he possibly could, despite the guilt that you’d shared, without even knowing it.

It’s not your place, but when he sits up finally, his weight lifting off of you and somehow leaving you feeling more suffocated than when it had been there, you catch his attention with the sound of his name, “Helmut?”

“Hmm?” he wonders, knees pressing into the mattress as he’s halfway detangled from between your legs.

Catching his eye, you hope you look as sincere as it felt within you, the ache in your chest for him, “Anyone who could have loved you, would have wanted you to be happy.” It sounds cliche and generic, but you don’t dare mention his wife specifically, or the terrible emptiness that comes with the loss of a child. Still, you see it in his eyes, in the way he observes you with increased curiosity, that he knows it to be true, despite that desperate, clawing pain you know he must feel within his chest.

Zemo’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes, “That is a sweet sentiment.” And he’s gone, leaving you spread there to watch after him as he crosses the room, towards the restroom, probably for a moment of privacy. Stopping in his path, he glances at you, hand resting on the doorframe, “But they do not have to go on living without them.”

The bathroom door shuts behind him with a definitive click, and you’re left reeling as you piece together the facts of the night. The pieces of his grief, and want, which you’d witnessed. The fragments of yours which only seemed to swell with his own.

A miserable, self-pitying groan slips past your lips.

You were truly in trouble, now.

#baron helmut zemo fanfic #zemo fanfic #marvel fanfic #marvel female reader insert #fanfiction #fanfic by me #author meg #female reader insert #newstuff female reader insert

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piratesfromspace · 3 years

Text

Training Day

Frank Castle (the Punisher) x Reader

Word count: 2k TW: knifeplay, mention of death and violence, gun, sexual tension, mention of alcohol

Female pronouns for reader

Note: Please keep in mind that in real life knifeplay should ALWAYS be discussed with your partner before anything, and that you should play with the safety of your partner being a priority. Stay safe.

“Again”

You scramble up on your feet, with a little bit less enthusiasm than at the beginning of your lesson. It was at least the 6th time you had fallen hard on the ground. You’re starting to seriously question what seemed like a very good idea at first. Who would pass the opportunity to be trained by such a competent fighter? By the Punisher himself? Definitely not you.

You, the little rich girl forced into the streets and into hiding after your estranged father - a shady politician - messed with the wrong mafia boss. Your privileged life had fallen apart in a matter of seconds a year ago, half your family killed in the process, and since then you had learned that any valuable lesson usually came the (very) hard way. So when the vigilante had run into you while investigating said mafia, alone and in dire need of some help, he had wordlessly offered his protection and you had gladly accepted. Despite his brutality in a fight and his very unique moral code, you understood very quickly it wasn’t really the first time he chose to protect a runaway.

And here you are, on the floor of his small modest apartment, trying to apply the self defense techniques he taught you. You’re not the best student and it’s beginning to be a little bit annoying, the feeling of failure gnawing at the edge of your already pretty low self-confidence.

“Come on, try to catch this gun, I know you can do it.”

You take a deep breath through your nose, you shake your head a little, and without any warning you throw yourself toward him with all the strength you’ve got left. He dodges your attack with a surprising speed considering his massive frame, grabs your shoulder and throws you forward. You fall on the floor - again - and before you can get up, he’s on you, both knees on either side of your lean figure, his hips straddling yours. Gun pointed at you. You try to squirm to the side despite his legs caging you and you literally punch into his hand holding the gun. There’s a grunt of surprised pain, and the gun clatters to the floor. A small victory. Although it is kind of a cheat, knowing very well the nasty bruises and cuts already covering his right hand (he earned them in a fight against some tenacious gangsters a couple days ago) gave you an unfair advantage. But you’re not done yet.

Your secret weapon - a small pocket knife - has been hidden in your jacket sleeve, and you finally have the opportunity to take it out. With a grin you press the blade over his jeans against the inside of his thigh, where the artery would be. At the same time there is a metallic sheen in your visual field, and you unexpectedly feel the cold of steel against your throat. Of course, Frank fucking Castle has a knife of his own. And you were too caught in what you thought was the idea of the century to be wary of him striking back.

The blade of his combat knife is resting on your neck, barely touching your skin, but raising goosebumps anyway. He holds the weapon with a steady hand, careful not to hurt you.

“Not fast enough.”

his voice is always so impossibly deep, the tone confident. No trace of effort in it, while you’re trying to catch your breath under him.

“But I like the spirit. Keep it up, little one.”

You expect the exercise to be done, but he doesn’t budge, still straddling your hips, keeping you pinned to the floor. His blade flush against your throat. To anyone else, it would be a deadly threat, but not to you. You find it almost comforting to surrender like this, even though you know it’s not him who has the upper hand in the entirely different kind of game you’re both entangled since you met.

His body so close to yours, the adrenaline of the training, the thrill of the sharp edge of steel against your skin: it’s too much and not enough at the same time. You’re still trying to calm your breath, but now it’s for another reason than earlier. There is a moment of hesitation, you can feel it in the way his jaw clenches while his eyes look for yours. But whatever Castle has in mind, you don’t want him to stop. You bit your lips, raising your chin higher, baring your neck even more, just like animals do when they submit to a stronger one. The primitive display of submission awakens something feral in him.

He grabs slowly your wrist, the one threatening his thigh with the blunt pocket knife, and squeezes, just hard enough to make you let go of your weapon. It falls in a muffled thud on the carpet next to you as Castle lifts your arm above your head until he’s able to pin your wrist against the floor. He’s closer to you now, leaning over you, and you suddenly feel so small under him. He’s taking all your space, filling all your senses with what makes him him .

The heady scent of after-shave and smoke and a faint tangy smell that’s probably gunpowder.

The roughness of his denim and the delicious pressure of his fingers around your wrist.

The way he’s the only thing in the room you’re able to focus on, authority and confidence radiating from him.

The scars adorning his body - they are everywhere, some you can’t see, but others pretty obvious, and your eyes are going from one scar on his face to another, before landing on his lips.

When you meet his gaze, he’s already intently looking at you, and you can feel the dilemma playing in his mind. You’ve known him only for a couple months, but it feels like it’s been your entire life.

Frank Castle is not a very complicated man. He’s been hurt and betrayed in ways you unfortunately can relate to. He’s not a good man, he has killed and tortured too many to deserve to be called “good” - he’s not even interested in doing good himself. But, buried deep under the violence, the misanthropy and the anger, lies a sliver of hopeful belief, almost naive, that some of humanity can still be good. That somehow some of us can shine some light in the darkness of this world, and that those people need to be protected at all costs. Because they’re too pure to do what’s really necessary to fight off evil, he will do it. He will sacrifice his soul if it means a few can be saved. His conscience will never be clear ever again, so the least he can do is put to work his own wicked mind to support the good ones.

And for some misguided reasons, he thinks you’re one of those.

Compared to the fury he unleashes when he fights, the patience and softness he never fails to show you makes your heart flutter. It’s like he’s afraid he could hurt you more than life already did, no matter how many times you assure him he won’t. You’re pretty sure he would do anything you ask him to - he did kiss you that one time you asked, a few nights ago, both of you drunk on cheap whisky. Plush lips finding yours, callused hands gently holding the side of your face, his breath hot on your skin. The memory is brought back at the front of your mind, heat settling low in your belly.

This time it’s different though, he’s the one initiating whatever this is.

He moves his hips ever so slightly, unwillingly bringing your attention to his crotch and you can see how tight the fabric of his jeans has become. He follows your gaze but before he gets embarrassed, your eyes dart to his and in a bold move you lift your free hand to touch his thigh. Your own way to say this is ok. His lips part, and he shifts a bit again, unconsciously, pressing against your pelvic bone, the feeble friction enough to send a pleasant tingle in your body. You admire his calm and his sense of self-control though, because despite the now very visible desire burning in him, the blade on your throat is steadier than ever. Your hand leaves his thigh and slowly but surely wraps around his fingers on the handle of the knife. The tension is thick, the silence is deafening, the only noises your shallow breaths and the sound of fabric each time Castle is grounding your hips harder with his own.

You guide his hand with your own, removing the blade from your throat and as his pupils go wide, you bring it to your lips, pressing a kiss against the smooth steel. The gesture is both obscene and pious at the same time, like you’re paying respect to some holy relic, worshipping his own ability to take lives, revering the dark God he is.

“Fuck, girl…” he lets out in a growl, voice laced with admiration and with something else, something very unholy .

You’re actually surprised he allowed you to move his own arm, letting you take some control. The realization emboldens you. Maybe this will work . Frank Castle is too busy processing the aching fire that consumes him to anticipate your sudden attack. A mean twist of his wrist brings the knife to his own throat. The surprise makes him let go of your other hand, and you’re able to push him hard in the middle of his chest, your upper body surging up, legs coming out from under him. He tumbles backward, he’s swearing and laughing at the same time, like he’s actually amazed you managed to unsettle him. I can do it. You crawl on the floor as fast as you can, quickly grabbing the previously discarded gun and you turn around, aiming at him. I’ve got you Frank Castle, I won . He chuckles and raises his hands, surrendering to you.

“Not fast enough” you taunt him “but I liked the spirit”. You get up on your feet, and lower your aim. “Maybe I’ll teach you a thing or two.” This time you’re pushing your luck and you know it.

Frank smiles, and he gets up as well. He’s not wearing his Punisher gear, just his civilian clothes, a simple black shirt with sleeves rolled up, the thin fabric taut over his firm chest. Even from across the room, even without the kevlar vest, it’s impossible to forget how tall and broad he is, how the muscles of his forearms flex when he rubs the palm of his hand, how the bulge in his jeans leaves nothing to the imagination. You’re not the only one to stare though. Dark eyes are roaming your body, making your cheeks go red under his searing gaze.

A few seconds ago, you thought your training session was over but now you’re afraid your little stunt has done nothing to make him want to stop. And truth be told, you don’t want it to stop. Don’t want him to stop.

“Never lower your gun.” he breaks the silence, husky voice sending shivers down your spine.

“You still have a lot to learn, little girl.” he adds darkly, a smirk on his handsome face.

“Show me, then.” you reply too quickly for your own sake.

In a heartbeat, he’s on you, prying the gun from your hand, crushing you against the wall. There’s a split second of hesitation before his lips are on yours. His strong body pressed flush against your trembling figure, the tight knot of repressed desire finally snapping. And it feels good, so good you’re pretty sure your legs will give up under you. But it doesn’t matter because he’ll catch you, he’ll get you, of that you’re sure.

You know you’ve lost this round. But defeat has never tasted more like victory than now.

#frank castle x reader #the punisher #punisher x reader #frank castle imagine #knifeplay

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rk1kheadcanons · 4 years

Note

I’ve seen Markus get the horny virus, but imagine Connor getting, and Connor is BEGGING to be fuck, although Markus has some doubts about that, when a random guy offers to help Connor, Markus just goes “no I do it” and pushes the guy away and proceeds to fuck Connor within an inch of his life.

OMFG, I HAVE NEEDED THIS PROMPT LIKE FOREVER!!!!

YESSS! GIVE ME THAT BLURRY EYED, FLUSHED, WRITHING CONNOR TRYING TO GET UP OUT OF HIS CLOTHING AND JUST...😤😤😤😤 (y'all I need a moment, okay, OKAY?)

They were just discussing security measures against cyber attacks since they were technology-based sentient beings. Anti- android groups were getting smarter, more persistent in their attacks against Markus as the leader.

What no one expected was Connor's near panicked expression after freezing mid sentence then the anguished scream that poured from his lips as he crumpled to the ground. Everyone was up and moving to help him, Markus at the forefront.

Connor is unresponsive and is immediately taken to the medical bay. Diagnostics show it as a breech of his systems and there are varying levels of worry from the others though Markus is besides himself in guilt- laced worry.

Everyone is on edge, knowing instinctively its Cyberlife as Connor's no stranger to their attacks; they try this monthly, sometimes daily. His will proves stronger everytime, though.

So what does Cyberlife do? They attack him in a area he's most vulnerable, still new at, and typically awkward the most, enhancing emotions that Connor had meticulously hidden away because they were at odds with just him being able to have friends after his initial purpose to android kind.

They've perverted his love for Markus and put it on display as a mockery of everything he's worked hard to gain: their trust. Him being hacked is more than just a personal attack from Cyberlife, it questions whether being around him is safe and Connor cant go through that type of loneliness again.

Connor had felt something hit him full force mentally as Markus spoke to the others listening intently. Maybe he groaned out his discomfort as his temperature had risen he feels so much...

It's like a fire is consuming him from the inside and now its centralizing to his lower stomach and groin area and he has all these new emotions and nuanced feelings sparking and they are intensifying by the moment.

Connor maybe jerked up out of the chair, surprising everyone, a panting, flushing mess. He'd tried to and succeed in getting out the room trying to make it to his own only to fall down, curling his arms around his waist, in a swirl of insane want/need.

Of course Markus would find him first. He wouldn't even delay in picking Connor up bridal style despite Connor's fear below the want and the other's wariness of what's affecting Connor.

As soon as Markus so much as touches Connor, a symphony of sensations and sounds start coming from Connor. They're... Sensual.

Connor starts writhing, begging for some decidedly lewd actions.

Markus stops responding from instant over clock and a handful of squirmyboi.

This is a line. This is a huge line to be crossed neither Connor nor he have spoken about. Sure, they prodded the attraction and acknowledged it, but both were too afraid to take any action, make it official.

Was Connor a virgin at these sorts of things? It would be absolutely terrible to have to experience this emotional and physical onslaught as a deviant having never explored sexually and to have to under these conditions...

Incoming call from: Connor 313248317-51

Markus shocked look as the sounds and pleas to be absolutely fucked into oblivion poured from Connor's mouth like he was making a deal with the devil himself shot right to Markus groin. It total at odds with the call obviously from Connor, himself.

Markus answers and Connor sounds as fucked as he looks in his arms.

Markus knows that he has to.

"Please, please you have to. I don't have time to talk before I'm completely overtaken. I-I have to have to...I need, Markus. I trust you. It has to be you. I've never- But if I could show you my thoughts, feelings to help you, you'd understand I do not mind. Markus, please..." It's a garbled mess of a sentence and markus knows what has to be done.

That program is going to have to be worked out of Connor's system the proper way and Markus would be helping.

The call disconnects and Connor is fucking keening in his embrace. Markus runs the rest of the way to his room. He quickly tells the crew that he knows what must be done, that it is a sensitive situation and he'd update them, soon.

Markus tries to slow Connor from stripping his clothes off in a lust-filled haze. It doesn't work as Connor's clothes are discarded like strips of tissue paper.

Connor has this wild look in his eyes, along with curled, unkempt hair, and that look.

Connor had completely stopped moving with the exception of his harsh breathing cooling heated systems and minute shivering. He'd switched tactics.

It wasn't the perfected form, but Markus didn't mistake it either: Connor was hunting Markus. He was going to get what he wanted one way or another.

Markus was so turned on right now and he'd really have to delve into the subject matter at a later date but for now, he knew he was meant to strip.

Once Connor was assured that he was going to be successful in this particular mission, nothing could stop the running jump that had him careening into one very ready Markus.

Connor feels right in his arms, in this type of intimacy and it's what helps him move with the wildcard that is Connor. The kiss isn't gentle initially, all teeth and frayed nerves. Its not until Markus finally gets Connor manhandled into a position with his hand buried in his curly locks and him buried to the hilt in Connor, burning this malware away together, hoping Connor will remember their conversation somewhat, even as he scratches at Markus arms with his back bowed, his mouth dropped open like its the best feelings in his life.

Markus can attest its the best feeling in his as he drapes over Connor's body , moving with purpose and love for this man, ashamed it took this to show it in this form.

After Markus has burned himself into Connor and the malware away, Markus sits with a in stasis Connor. They'll talk about this situation after Connor got his pelvis realigned and a clean bill of "health" on the destroyed malware.

It was was a long time coming but Markus couldn't regret it being him to have been there. He loved Connor.

#rk1k #rk1000 #conkus #ask #anonymous #citrus #long as fuck #small story i guess lol #🌸post #sex pollen #sex malware #marnor #connor x markus

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miss-tc-nova · 4 years

Text

Unconventional Wayfinders - Xehanort x Eraqus

I’m not entirely sure how I feel about this one yet. I like the idea, but I’m wary of my execution. Oh well!

~~~~~

Fingers work their magic, gliding through ebony hair. The pampered would absolutely melt into oblivion if he could; instead, he just soaks in the sunlight streaming in through the window and indulges in the feeling of someone playing with his hair. So relaxed is the young man that he begins to drift away—that is, until the magic stops and a digit taps against his nose.

“Eraqus, aren’t you supposed to be reading?” Book aside, silver eyes—sparkling from that afternoon light—peer down at the lap in which the slacker rests his head.

The response is an unashamed grin. “Maybe.” A brow arches at him. “Come on Xehanort. I’m not bothering your studies.”

“So,” the studious replies sharply. “If you don’t study, when the test comes around, you’ll try to get me to cheat for you again and we’ll both get caught and get detention…again.”

Chuckling, Eraqus reaches up to swat silver bangs from the other boy’s face. “Maybe next time you should double check before throwing the most obvious cheat sheet right in front of the Master’s face.”

“Or—” The book snaps shut. “—you could study and do your test without getting me in trouble…again.”

“I thought you liked risk.”

“Sure, but I’m not a fool—you should know; you’re king of that field.” Fingers pinch at a cheek.

The boy in white pushes the fingers from his face, still smiling like the royal fool he is. Then something that’s been dancing through his thoughts for a long time slips past his lips. “Hey, get a piercing with me.”

Understandable is the look of shock on his partner’s face. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Granted, it is a very odd request, but there is certainly a motivation behind his suggestion; he can display his affection all he wants in smooches, snuggles, and sneaky spots, but those are things that can fade in the fleeting moments following said acts. That’s not to say Eraqus will ever forget his beloved’s greedy kisses or the embraces that make him feel like he’s more than just another face in a bloodline of world defenders, but those affections, filled with so much adoration, always leave him anxious that his happiness will one day vanish—all he wants is some physical proof that these moments happened. Having thought long and hard about the decision, this is the solution that emerged.

“Let’s go get our ears pierced,” he repeats, sitting up. “Come on. It’ll be fun!”

“I’m sure it’ll be painful…”

“Only for a while—Urd says it’s not that bad. Even Bragi got one.”

“Okay, first off, Bragi would jump into a hole for a bag of candy. Second, Urd is probably the one who threw the bag down there.”

An attempt to defend his friends is made, “That only happened once!”

“But it happened.”

“Just—come on! Please!”

There’s an initial resistance, but Xehanort cannot withstand his boyfriend’s puppy-eyes for long—Era knows; Era checked. The “simple request” has to be considered a bit longer than an average request but he does inevitably give. “Fine.”

“Yes! Let’s go!” Grabbing his hand, the excited boy drags the other out of the library.

“Now?!”

Yes, he wants to go now.

By the time they arrive at the tattoo parlor that’s been scouted out for a few weeks, Eraqus is sure his companion is only seconds away from reconsidering his life choices. Various art pieces adorn the ruby walls and black furniture is set to accommodate guests. There are tables and chairs behind the show-case counter with a variety of bottles and tools looking ready to torment someone at disposal.

“What can I do for you boys?” the man behind the glass counter.

“Hi.” A wave is added to the greeting. “We’re here to get our ears pierced.”

He’s far more relaxed than expected. “Cool. What do you have in mind?”

And thus they have approached the first obstacle. “Er, actually we haven’t decided yet.”

So the man goes over the variation of ear piercings, shows some example pictures, and explains how to care for new piercings. When there’s still no decision on the type of piercing, there’s a gesture to case, offering a look at the myriad of jewelry they have.

The second his eyes lay on the black bands, Eraqus knows which ones he wants to share with his boyfriend—it seemed like fate to him. His finger points into the glass. “These ones.”

They clink as they fall onto the counter for the two to inspect, but the instigator is already sold. “You sure you want these ones? Cuffs usually go in the cartilage which is a bit more painful than your usual earlobe piercings.”

Xehanort eyes the shorter boy who grins and declares, “Yep. I want these ones—one for each of us.”

“Alright. Who’s going in the chair first?”

Now in the face of imminent pain, Era starts to get cold feet. While he is a key bearer and is no stranger to pain, he’s not exactly a fan of it and prefers to shy away. He’s fully aware his reaction is a little silly, but good ol’ Xe heaves a sigh and announces, “I’ll go first.”

Stone eyes watch on as the first boy speaks with the piercer about placement of the ear décor as casually as talking about the weather on Scala. True to his persona, he shows no apprehensions.

“You wanna hold his hand?” the artist offers the onlooker.

This immediately brings up an objection from the first victim. “Pfft. I don’t need anyone to hold my hand. Let’s just do it.”

A sheepish grin via Era is given; the artist shrugs and turns back on the boy in the chair. The faintest hint of concern finally flashes in those silver eyes, detectable only by the boy who knows him best. Nevertheless, with a simple blink and only the slightest of twinges, the job gets done. Once he’s free, Xehanort looks to Eraqus—ear just starting to react to the piercing.

“How does it look?”

The gleaming metal brings about a strange happiness within the shorter male. In Eraqus’s mind, it’s a mark—a claim—and it makes him absolutely overjoyed. “It looks great…I guess that means it’s my turn?”

The boys swap out and the boy with black hair feels the nerves coil in his gut again. A marker taps against his ear and the placement is confirmed. As the needle is being prepped, his heart beats louder in his chest. His gaze turns on the other boy.

“Guess I’m not quite as brave,” he admits, hand upturned in requisition.

There’s a mock of annoyance but fingers interlock and hold firmly. “It’s not that bad, you wuss.” Nervously, the second victim just smiles.

There’s a warning and the muscles in his body tense, his fist curling tighter around his partner’s. A sharp bite takes hold in his ear but he knows better than to flinch away. Instead, focus goes to the reciprocated squeeze in his hand. It feels like forever but eventually the pain dies down, blood rushing around the spot which is unlikely to die down soon.

Elated and relieved, he hops up. “Phew! I’m glad that’s over!”

“Glad? You’re the one who planned this whole thing,” his boyfriend scolds.

“That doesn’t mean I go around poking needles through my ears in my spare time.”

The good-natured artist chuckles. “Alright.” A mirror is propped up for their viewing. “Wha’chu boys think?”

Once again, Eraqus is very pleased at seeing his shiny, new adornment, but that euphoria is nowhere near the hit he gets from each glance at the matching piece worn by Xehanort. Bleeding through his brain is the thought of how beautiful the mark he’s chosen looks on his dearest.

“It’s perfect. Thanks.”

Xe bounces his shoulders. Several more words of gratitude are given before the couple pays and heads home. The boy in white is more chipper than usual on their trek and his companion’s admiration of the light-heartedness is not missed.

Back at the castle, the pair ambles along the student dorms.

“So we’re supposed to spray this on our ears twice a day?” questions the boy in black, holding up a mini spray bottle.

“That’s what he said.”

A hand riffles through silver hair, only to quickly retract with a grimace; his ear is now notably upset at having been impaled. “Why did you have to pick a helix piercing?”

Despite his beloved’s griping, Era eyes the band with a little smile. “I thought it looked cooler. What? You don’t like the cuffs I picked?”

“Why cuffs?”

This is where the shorter boy feels a bit sheepish in admitting his cheesy reasoning—but if anyone would understand, it would be Xehanort. “Because they have stars in them.”

What Eraqus is referring to is the star-shaped holes in the black metal. Years ago, shortly following the arrival of the non-native boy, he told his classmates about a fruit from his home world that is rumored to bind two people’s destinies should they share one—it grows in the shape of a star. Now Eraqus had no way of finding Xehanort’s home world, let alone this magical fruit; so in hopes the symbolism will be enough—even if it’s just to remind these boys to take control of their own destinies—he chose the jewelry based on a fantasy.

“You’re such a sap.” This is no doubt Xehenort’s attempt to lighten the heavy implications. It’s worth noting the tint of pink bleeding across his nose.

With a childish huff, Era folds his arms and storms ahead into his room. “Fine. Don’t wear it. See what I care. You just had a needle in your ear for nothing.”

Just as he’s shirking off his haori, a pair of arms slips around his waist. “I said you were a sap; I didn’t say I wasn’t gonna wear it,” the taller hums, chin falling on a shoulder. “It’s cute that you believe in such fairy tales.”

Stony eyes roll. “You’re rude.”

He can’t resist the nuzzle against his neck. “You’re adorable.”

There’s little resistance to being pulled around, but Eraqus is in for a surprise when the hands against his shoulders push him down onto the bed. He has just enough time to sit up before the other straddles his lap. It feels like a balloon swelling in his chest as his face is captured and drawn close. However, the normally hunter-like gaze is surprisingly soft and warm.

“Silly, symbolic jewelry or not, no matter where our paths may take us, I’ll always find you in the end.” Even his voice holds that sincere emotion.

Xehanort is not one to blatantly lay himself out for anyone—even his partner sometimes struggles to reach through the indifference. But the moments where he does let his guard down tend to be most cherished by the shorter boy as he knows they are the most important. No matter what happens, he knows Xe will hold true to his words and maybe that’s all Era needed to keep his peace of mind. It’s still going to fill him with happiness to see his little tag on his boyfriend’s ear though.

The sweet instant is short lived, transitioning easily back to the wolfish nature more suitable for the boy in black. With a dangerous gleam, he leans closer. All tension melts in submissive boy’s anticipation.

“On the other hand, if you wanted some sort of proof of your claim, there are certainly other ways you could’ve left a mark,” the instigator whispers against pink lips, putting every strand of black hair on end.

“Wanna demonstrate?” His mind is already lost to the desire for affection.

With slow, deliberate draw of his tongue along the bottom lip, Xehanort lowly replies, “Oh you know I’m going to.”

He pushes his partner down onto the bed and indulges Eraqus in his greed.

#xehanort #eraqus #xehaqus #xehanort x eraqus #young master eraqus #young master xehanort #ymx #yme

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minervacasterly · 4 years

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THE TRAGEDY OF AN INSECURE KING & THE OVERPROTECTIVE QUEEN

The Wars of the Roses was a far more complex civil war that didn’t just bottle down to a power struggle between the two dominant factions of the Plantagenet House: Lancaster & York. While the Duke of York wanted to take control of the country because he believed he could do a better job than all the people working for Henry VI; Margaret was aggresively trying to prevent him from having any influence because she believed that too much power in the hands of someone with a strong claim to the throne, could get ideas that he should be the one wearing the Confessor’s crown. Margaert also came from a line of authoritative women who didn’t shy away from the political scene, and took matters into their own hands to safeguard their families’ fortunes. In Margaret’s eyes, what she was doing was no different. Her prayers had finally been answered. She had a son, succeeded in her primary duty as royal consort. Now all that was left for her to do, was safeguarding her baby boy’s legacy.

“Henry VI may have been on the road to recovery, but he continued to display a lack of interest in the affairs of his realm. He turned more than ever to religion to find solace, leaving Queen Margaret and Somerset holding the reins of power. Her position had been immeasurably strengthened by the birth of her son, which gave her more reason than ever to safeguard the Crown. She turned her attention to trying to rally as much support as possible, as well as persuading her husband that York was vying for the throne. York, meanwhile, knew that his enemies would soon try and move against him and was not prepared to wait for them to strike. Together with Warwick and Salisbury, he began raising an army with which to confront them. All three men owned extensive estates in the north, and combined were a force to be reckoned with. A great meeting of the King’s Council was planned for 21 May at Leicester, but York and his allies were deliberately excluded. Instead, they were all summoned to present themselves in front of the Council, but York was wary. Fearing the consequences now that Somerset was free, and suspecting that charges would be brought against him and his supporters, he took matters into his own hands: he and his army began to march south, intent on securing his own restoration to power and destroying Somerset for good. On 1 May, Jasper Tudor left London with the King on the first stage of their journey to Leicester. When word reached them that York and his supporters were travelling south with an army, Somerset convinced Henry that York was coming to claim the throne. He immediately raised a force in readiness to defend the monarch, fully aware that he, himself, was York’s real target. A violent outcome seemed impossible to avoid: the Wars of the Roses were about to begin. On 22 May, the political tension between the court party and the Duke of York and his supporters finally erupted into violence. Accompanied by Jasper Tudor, Somerset and ‘many lords’, Henry VI had reached St Albans, twenty-two miles north of London, when York intercepted them. Though he had the bigger force, neither he nor the royal party really wanted to fight. Instead, York attempted to persuade Henry to hear his complaints, and in so doing left him in no doubt as to his wishes: chiefly the removal and punishment of Somerset. His efforts were in vain, for the King –however weak- was not prepared to be dictated to and steadfastly refused to hand Somerset over. His men were heavily outnumbered, but his unyielding response made it clear that if York wanted to settle the matter, he would not be able to do peaceably. Feeling that there was no alternative, York made the drastic decision to attack. According to a Milanese envoy, informed by a messenger, when the King’s party ‘were outside the town they were immediately attacked by York’s men’. By taking such an aggressive stance, York was fully aware that many would believe he had taken up arms against his lawfully anointed king –and in so doing committed treason. The King’s forces, led by Humphrey, Duke of Buckingham –a man who would later be closely connected with Margaret Beaufort- were badly prepared and taken aback by the full ferocity of York’s charge. Despite being caught by surprise, the royal party initially held their own, but they were defeated when Warwick managed to lead a force into the town by unguarded back lanes. The result was disaster for the royal army, many of whom fled when they perceived the direction that the battle was taking. Although Henry’s men, including Jasper Tudor, fought valiantly, in less than an hour York had won the day thanks to the Earl of Warwick’s successful routing of the royal forces. The casualties on the King’s side were heavy and included the Earl of Northumberland and Lord Clifford. Many were also badly injured, among them Margaret’s cousin, Henry Beaufort, Somerset’s heir. He would survive his injuries, though his father would not be so fortunate. Realizing that the battle was lost and that York was out for his blood, Margaret’s [Beaufort] uncle Somerset attempted to take refuge at the Castle Inn in the town. It was not long, however, before York’s men had surrounded it: for Somerset –so long protected by the King and Queen- this time there would be no escape. Though he attempted to fight his way out and did so bravely, killing four men in the process, he was soon struck down. As John Benet’s Chronicle reported, ‘all of the Duke of Somerset’s party were killed, wounded or at the least despoiled’. With his death, the battle ceased … But for the King, who had stood watching the violence that was playing out around him, there were to be more direct consequences. On Warwick’s orders, Yorkist archers began to shoot at his bodyguard, killing and injuring several in the process –the injured included Jasper Tudor, the Duke of Buckingham and the King himself. Although Henry ‘was hurt with the shot of an arrow in the neck’, his injuries were not serious, but that was not an end to the matter. More alarming was that York succeeded in capturing him. Having gained control of the King’s person, according to the Milanese ambassador, ‘the Duke of York went to kneel before the king and ask pardon for himself and his followers, as they had not done this in order to inflict any hurt upon his Majesty, but in order to have Somerset. According, the king pardoned them’. York had successfully eliminated his enemy, and in so doing knew that he had taken a huge step in securing his return to power …” - The Uncrowned Queen by Nicola Tallis

Yet, as Nicola Tallis later pointed out in her biography of Margaert Beaufort, Margaret of Anjou’s mistake was expecting that she’d be allowed to play any part in her husband’s government.

England’s contempt for uppity consorts was still not far behind. Since the times of the Angevin kings with the would-be-Queen, Matilda and later with the Plantagenets with Isabella Capet, the lords distrusted any consort who made her ambitions known.

There is no reason to believe that prior to the first Battle of St. Albans (1455), York had any designs on the throne. Like so many other royal relatives, the most he might have aimed for to is reaping the benefits of doing a good job. Margaret’s animosity and suspicious nature, and Henry VI’s incurable indecisiveness, personal insecurites and eagerness to please everyone pushed a man like the Duke of York (who was the entire opposite of Henry VI) on the edge. Before long, BOTH Margaret and the Duke of York reached their breaking point.

In her biography of Henry VI, historian Lauren Johnson points out that the last Lancastrian King was one of the most brilliant minds of his age. Several of his contemporaries remarked in his early teens that he was a treasure trove of knowledge, but his strict upbringing and uncles’ quarrels had made him extremely insecure. It is nearly impossible to say how he would have turned out if Henry V lived. But given the huge emphasis his father put on education, balanced with military instruction, it can be assumed that Henry VI would have been less obsequious towards sycophant courtiers and probably handled the whole animosity towards Margaret of Anjou and the Duke of York (that’s assuming he would have still married Margaret) far better.

#Wars of the Roses #Henry VI #Margaret of Anjou #English History #Richard Duke of York

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razeluxe · 4 years

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Razeluxe’s Top Ten Female Characters

Yep. It’s here. A list of my all time favorite ladies in anime/video games. This list was way harder for me than the male version, after compiling my favorites I had like 20 characters so I had to cut it down... I will shout them out somewhere further down towards the end...warning you right now that this is long...I have a lot of thoughts about these characters and I did my utmost to avoid outright posting spoilers - enjoy!

10) Bianchi (Katekyo Hitman Reborn!)

Once again someone from Reborn makes the list. What can I say, they have great characters and omg Bianchi is incredible. She’s Gokudera’s sister that I was harping about on the male list...she develops from this hyper focused girl to a true mother figure who helps care for her group as well as being a mother figure to some of the younger girls. Later on in the series she’s very attentive and always knows the right things to say...she gave some advice to some of the girls about men, especially in one particular episode that I will not mention but if you know it you know it - I was floored with on the nose she is about things...she can read people and situations extremely well and she serves as like this backbone to her group...there’s stuff between her and her brother that are extremely interesting too - this girl despite being there for others has this considerable weight on her that she tells her brother about at the end of the series - Bianchi is a complicated character who really deserves more love - she doesn’t fight often in this anime but she has proven time and time again that you don’t always have to be out on the front lines in an shounen anime to be a great character and also...she’s hot.

9) Emma Millstein (Trails of Cold Steel)

Emma in ways is similar to Bianchi here, being a mother figure as well as President of Class VII but what I find interesting about her character is what she’s hiding, as well as her insecurities. She spends a really long time hiding things because reasons I will not mention because you need to play the series - when she comes out with what she needs to say she really grapples with her feelings as well as her inferiority complex when she compares herself to her sister. She grows though..man does she grow...she starts to believe in who she is and stops doubting herself as hard and she really shines later on in the series. When you see what she can do... Like I said in the other list I have yet to play the fourth game in the series which is coming soon and I know she plays a major part. I also think she’s a great fit for Rean.

8) Velvet Crowe (Tales of Berseria)

Velvet is a character that has an extremely strong drive, comparable to someone that is yet to come on this list. Velvet is betrayed by someone who has raised her and her heart turns cold and she is motivated by hatred and vengeance for the sake of those who were massacred by this person. Velvet is a raw character whose type is rarely explored in this way, the way her personality shifted from being more upbeat and chipper initially to, post hell breakout, using people to get forward in her goals without giving an fudge. There comes a time when her resolution to revenge falters once something happens, anger and sorrow come together and she makes some interesting decisions...Velvet is a morally gray person whom showcases real struggles and real feelings that I’m able to relate to on a personal level...Velvet knows grief and in a world of black and white, she makes mistakes as a result of her PTSD, some more fatal than others and eventually, she learns. It’s ugly to see, but she learns. Her development is unpleasant to watch compared to a lot of characters, however as a result in my opinion she’s one of the most raw/realistic characters in the Tales of Series currently. I said it. Also she’s hot.

7) Rise Kujikawa (Persona 4)

Here’s a girl I wasn’t expecting to put here. Rise is a girl who is also known as Risette and decides to take a break from showbiz by moving to a small town, going to school, working at her family’s business, you know, doing what she considered to be normal girl things. She is very upfront when it comes to her flirting which I like to think is because of her position as a famous idol. She’s really bubbly and animated, but what made me interested in Rise was her voice and her eyes when you first meet her. She looked and sounded empty...and you learn it’s because she sick and tired of portraying this ‘Risette’ character and not being herself. What I like about Rise is after running away from this persona for so long she eventually acknowledges Risette is also her and she makes the choice to only bring her true self to the public. She’s sassy and just has this ability to brighten an entire room. Originally I favored Yukiko in P4 and while I still do like her a lot, after going through Rise’s social link, well...the rest is history.

6) Milla Maxwell & ‘Fractured’ Milla (Tales of Xillia)

Yep. Both of them. I know they’re different characters however I acknowledge both of them equally and they’re both deserving of this spot on this list.

Starting with Milla Maxwell, what I love about her is her drive. She knows who she is and is willing push herself to fufill her duty. She’s not unlike Velvet who turns away from her emotions to do what she sets out to do, considering emotions to be a distraction from her mission. Made her instantly relatable to me. It makes her come off as uncaring towards other people but her mission is strictly to protect the people in the world. I’ve always imagined Milla as this literal pillar of strength, like when she loses mobility in her legs, she pushes herself even further, nearly killing herself in the process. Heck if you thought Velvet was crazy determined, I mean she is but Milla in my opinion is on a whole other level. What I love about Milla is that she isn’t portrayed as a character who has to second guess or experience things before resolving herself to a choice, she is born with this innately and she does not waver no matter what. She’s not a conventional Tales character who bonds super well with everyone. She has her mission and she’s out to do it. Milla isn’t perfect and her opinion on people is for lack of better word, immature, but she grows to understand people throughout her journey.

Fractured Milla...this character is rife with pain and guilt. This Milla is basically an Alternate Universe version of the actual Milla...on the surface level she’s very aggressive but she carries a different weight compared to the original Milla...she bares a guilt about what happened to another character and her world...she also bears a guilt when it comes to her comparing herself to the original Milla and.. inhibiting the original Milla Maxwell from existing... What I love about Fractured Milla is that she’s a completely different take on a character that I already greatly enjoy, she has her development and her vulnerabilities which the OG Milla didn’t need as much because spoilers, Maxwell stuff. I love her relationship with Elle and Ludger and definitely approve of the LudgerxFractured Milla ship.

Holy Crap this list is getting long, if you need to take a break please do! I’ll wait...you good? Okie doke! Continuing on...

5) Estelle Bright (Trails in the Sky)

I love Estelle so dang much. She’s such a glowing character and a breath of fresh air. She’s tomboyish, she collects sneakers, she’s incredibly headstrong and boy does this girl have a mouth on her lol. Like look at all my Estelle stuff on my tags lol. Oh, I should mention she’s Joshua’s ‘brother’ so you can imagine all sorts of interactions with her hotheadedness and his calm and collectedness. Estelle is such a caring character though, like out of everyone I know in the Trails series, I think Estelle ranks the highest in terms of kindess alone. She doesn’t hide crap for the most part, until...well...oh I’m just gonna say it: she develops and hides her feelings for Joshua. She knows it isn’t right but she can’t help herself...anyway Estelle has this naive outlook when it comes to the world, but when certain heavy things happen Estelle kind of...wakes to the realities of the world and she changes her line of thinking. She becomes more considering of her options during situations for starters and she really starts to become the Bracer she wants to be. I was kind of floored how she allowed her pain and her source of affection (Joshua) to empower her to become a stronger person without being simply lovestruck like how people tend to write ladies. She umm...has this scene with Joshua in SC...and I’m not saying anything more but it to me it’s probably one of her highest signs of development. I’m truly happy with what Falcom has done with this character and I think she’s probably the most developed character in the entire Trails series.

4) Rem (Re: Zero)

I never in my thought I would put a character I only just met this high on my list but wow this character blows me away. Rem is a character who has a major inferiority complex to her sister alongside guilt, yet as a maid she performs her duties and speaks very...proper even though that’s typically not how she truly feels. She’s also a very wary person...one reason she’s so high on this list is because of episode 18 how Subaru gives her a reason to live and fought to save her from herself literally. She becomes this incredibly devoted character towards this goofball Subaru with such tenacity that I have seldom seen. She also falls in love with him and not just because he saved her. Eventually she confesses her feelings at one of Subaru’s lowest points but not due to selfishness. She encourages him through her confession because he failed to stop to realize how much he’s worth to her. She displays a lot of strength in her confession and I think this is one of the most well done confession scenes I’ve ever seen period, even with her insert song playing in the background. That said I’ve only seen up to episode 18 because I honestly don’t know how much better Re: Zero can get from this point. I mean I’ll watch it eventually but I’m in love with these first dozen episodes so much I need an emotional break with all the heartache and the darkness .-. (Also please listen to her insert song omg its so precious https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fV3Fu5csdcA )

Before I list the top three, like my male list I want to at least some other ladies that also did not get into Smash but are still worth mentioning as characters I really like and enjoy, no order here except for the first character because she is hot. Literally. No pictures or additional text here sadly, I mean look how long this post is I don’t even know if all of this will fit ;__;

Lal Mirch (Katekyo Hitman Reborn!)

Athena Cykes (Phoenix Wright Ace Attorney: Dual Destinies)

Primrose (Octopath Traveler)

Midna (Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess

Winry Rockbell (Full Metal Alchemist Brotherhood)

Makoto (Persona 5)

Sinon (Sword Art Online)

Akane Tsunemori (Psycho Pass)

Rikku (Final Fantasy X)

Ruiko Saten (A Certain Scientific Railgun)

Alisa Reinford (Legend of Heroes: Trails of Cold Steel)

Senna (Bleach Memories of Nobody)

Alright, moving on...

3) Sara Valestein (Trails of Cold Steel)

Sara leads off the top three. She’s initially Rean’s instructor. She has a sense of humor, loves all things drinking, and is lax on her instructor duties...for the most part. There’s a lot of backstory involving this character that I won’t pile on here but I will say that despite her goofy nature Sara is ridiculously strong and it always amazes me how someone like Sara be so silly and not only be so stupid strong but also have her own moniker known around the world as ‘The Purple Lightning’. She was initially a top ranked Bracer before becoming a teacher. You eventually learn about her past through Rean and how it isn’t always all as happy go lucky as her personality...what I really like about Sara is how her strength is the culmination of all the things she went through. There’s one scene in CS1 where she tells some of her students that if they don’t like her assignments for a school trip, they’re free to team up and beat her to get her to change her mind. Needless to say they got their butts handed to them.

2) Garnet Til Alexandros (Final Fantasy IX)

Zidane’s other half. Considering I write Zidane I’d like to call her Dagger from this point on if you don’t mind .-. (Dagger is her own decided alias based on Zidane’s weapon) I really love how she can break the norms of your stereotypical princess. When Zidane firsts meets her she’s chasing her down in her castle and she’s trying to leave her castle, something she mentioned had actively trained to do. And she’s leaving because she’s trying to resolve an issue with her mother... Dagger is a very strong character who has no issue taking matters into her own hands when it comes to issues. Holy crap what she does to Zidane at one point...she’s a bold one. She feels really strongly and she goes through a lot of crap, but she comes out stronger for it. She wasn’t one with much experience for the outside world but she takes to it at levels that the well traveled Zidane did not expect...I don’t want say much because of spoilers but she really finds herself as she journeys and goes from strength to strength, really owning her responsibilities. She’s also the main person who helps Zidane in one of his lowest moments... In my opinion these are just some of the many reasons Zidane falls for her more than any other girl...she’s also a Summoner and I love me some Summoners. She and Zidane also go great together and their relationship builds properly in a way that makes sense. Definitely one of my favorite ladies period.

1) Aurica Nestmile (Ar Tonelico: Melodies of Elemia)

Number one is this lovely lady. Aurica is a Reyvateil, Reyvateils are people who have the ability to convert sounds into energy...all Reyvateils are assigned a rank according to how powerful their ability is. Aurica had it rough, being out of her hometown when it was attacked and destroyed, and she took the blame herself, believing she could have made a difference, being a Reyvateil and all...because of all of this she became very withdrawn and her abilties suffered...she was ranked ‘D’ which is one of the lowest classes of Reyvateils. She was picked on and treated like garbage because of her rank...she did make a friend though, a friend that was also a Revytail, one that everyone liked and one Aurica looked up to, which only made her look like more of a shadow than anything else...which did not help her already lacking confidence and low esteem. She has a literal hole in her heart and is emotionally dependent.

I mention all of that because this character for me is extremely relatable to me, she’s had it pretty rough however in terms of development you see her grow like crazy...before she was so deathly scared of people she would instantly shut herself down and repress herself but with some help from her partner Lyner she gets better and starts to believe in herself more...it’s not easy for her though, as she gets stronger and Lyner trusts her with more responsibility she gets attacked through the hole in her heart and her newly built confidence gets shattered and she starts believing she’s defective, that only defective Revytail have these holes in their heart...what I love about Aurica’s story is how real her issues with building up confidence are, she starts from practically ground zero and over time, through a repeat of this vicious cycle I described, goes from being considered one of the weakest Revytail to the strongest 3rd generation Revytail all because someone believed in her.

I think out of both my male and female lists, Aurica was the only one to make me burst into tears at random points. (not gonna lie Rem came close but she’s not number one here :P) This girl here is one of the firsts ladies I ever connected to in my earlier naive years and back then I didn’t even think it was possible for me to relate to a female this much...

If you got to the end, you deserve a cookie. -offers chocolate chip cookie- This took a lot of thought to write out, there’s so many great characters and I look forward to encountering even more down the road. I may eventually do a list for couples...here’s hoping I won’t have to edit this...

RIP 10/25/2020 I HAD TO EDIT TO ADD SATEN TO HONORABLE MENTIONS ;_;

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tsukuna · 4 years

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Side by Side - Ch. 6: Her

Summary: You wandered into Red Grave City to warn the “Legendary Devil Hunter” of a certain… negative shift in the area’s energy. It was an energy you knew to be demonic, and it grew stronger by the day. But on your way to meet with the intermediary, a noisy bird caught your attention. A noisy bird that would bring you to a frail man on the brink of falling apart.

Rated M • Female Reader • Before the Events of DMC V• Under the Cut • Please Support on AO3! • Part 5

The last thing V expected was to hear a woman’s voice after he had collapsed, but before he could interrogate you, Griffon swooped in. The demon vouched for you, letting V know that he would be dead without you. He was wary, however, V gave you a cautious thank you. It was certainly a strange, unexpected beginning to his first companionship since he was a child.

The weight of his likely demise and horrendous decisions were heavy, but your company dulled some of the strain. V didn’t understand why. Was it simply because you could fill in the cracks of his crumbling body? He didn’t believe that to be true, even though it would be easier to think of you as a tool as opposed to an individual he wished to be around. It appeared that the sentiment was reciprocated. Though they had yet to share much of their histories with one another, there was a sense of calm and trust. “How peculiar…” V mumbled, looking away from his book (that he wasn’t really reading) to see you sleeping--cuddled up with Shadow and Griffon. He knew that when you awoke, you would bring about another interesting day. It was only a few hours ago that Griffon was relentlessly attacking you with the worst puns. You said you hated it, but couldn’t stop grinning and laughing. You even exclaimed between fits, “STOP! I’m gonna pee myself Griffon!” A small smile tugged at his lips as he settled in to sleep as beside you. V--no--Vergil always found humans to be weak and of no consequence, yet he found himself enjoying these mundane moments.

It was one of those nights that he dreamt of a little girl outside of a shrine.

She was weeping endlessly, each sob rippling through her small frame. She wore a silken dress, though there were torn areas where he could see fresh blood and burns and her hair was a tangled mess. He could hear her singing, her voice laced with gloom

‘Sanctuary of the light moon, tainted by a crimson hue. Naught save the night shall know of my sorrows, I give unto her my all. No one, no more.’

It was a sad display. V took a step toward her, but stopped, noticing his own small stature. Am I a child once again? With his small hands, he grabbed a strand of hair from his head. White. Before any further confusion could occur, it seemed the little girl was alerted to his presence. He recognized those eyes. V softly said your name (though it came out as Vergil’s).

“Who are you?” You trembled, a wild expression on your face. “No one should be here. I’m not ready.” Your little voice was filled with fear and concern. It saddened him.

“I’m your friend,” he tried to smile. “Vergil.”

You shook your head vigorously. “I do not have friends, I am not allowed. The gods are above friendships,” your eyes went downcast. “That’s what Mama tells me.”

“Well,” he kept walking forward. “Demons don’t typically have friends either, but I think it would be nice to.”

“Demon?” You took a few sniffs. “You do stink…” You turned away from him. “You need to leave, I should kill you if what you say is true. But I don’t want to.”

V continued to press forward. “Well can I at least help clean those cuts up?”

He could see you flinch as you touched one of them. “They’re my lesson though. It will teach me to be a better host. Stronger.” You looked at him over your shoulder. “But they really hurt…”

V could tell you wanted help but didn’t wish to ask, you wanted to be strong. He knew the feeling. Gently, he took your hand and began to walk you to the nearby pond. There was no resistance on your part. In fact, there was nothing at all. As the two of you hit the water’s edge, you sat as softly as a leaf falling. V took his shorts in hand and ripped some of the fabric off then soaked them in water. “Sorry,” he apologized sheepishly. “I don’t have any actual medical stuff.”

“S’okay,” you whispered. He carefully dabbed each wound with some of the bigger ones causing you to wince. Once again, you began to hum, perhaps to hide any nervousness.

It took minutes to clean, there were truly a lot of them. “None of them should get infected at the very least,” V leaned back.

You looked up at him, taking a softer expression. “Thank you, Vergil.”

“What else are friends for?” Your face blushed pink and you gave him a toothy smile. V suddenly felt his book tucked into the back of his pants. Dream logic was incredibly convenient. “Want to read this together?” He showed her the book with a V drawn on the front.

Your eyes lit up and you nodded. “Mhm!” V patted your head, pleased with the response. The rest of the dream was spent reading, the two of you taking turns. It appeared to V that even as children, the both of you could’ve been friends.

The initial day of the Qliphoth mission came and went, ending in utter defeat. Yet you chose to stay beside him in Redgrave instead of following Nero to Fortuna--somewhere that would be much safer and comfortable. “You need me,” you grinned at V, and it truly seemed that he did. He admired your strength, your intelligence and the kindness you showed, despite him being utterly undeserving. It was his sins that caused all this to happen. You were enigmatic to him. For reasons unknown, you worked hard and went out of your way to protect him. Moments like that reminded him of his weakness, reminded him that he could protect nothing. You never appeared to be in danger ( at least not in the waking world ), but if you were, would he even be able to do a thing? It was incredibly irritating, but all she had asked was for them to stay side by side. V agreed immediately in spite of himself.

However, there were moments where you and him had to split to lurk around for resources. Your subconscious pout let him know that you were hesitant to do so, but you were aware of the necessity. You grabbed his hand and shook it. “Stay safe, V.” He thought the little smile on your face was pretty.

“Oh don’t worry,” Griffon called your name. “We’ll keep Shakespeare safe and whole for you!” V shook his head in exasperation then began to ride away, using Shadow as a mode of transport. “I bless your union.”

“I have not a single clue of which you speak,” V side-eyed Griffon.

“Sure you do,” Griffon held out the last sound. “When you’re not thinking of our impending doom, you’re thinking of her!”

“Tch.” V whipped his head the direction opposite quickly, but Griffon maneuvered to be right in his face.

“Hey, hey, don’t get all shy now! Looks like she is into you too!” He blabbered on about you and all the ‘pros.’

The man gave a long sigh. “There is no point in engaging in any sort of relationship beyond this. In fact, this has already gone farther than it should have.” Though he said that, he knew he wouldn’t make any attempt to disengage. Such selfishness. His eyes turned downcast when he thought about it, “I won’t be here for long.”

The crow cackled. “Maybe you won’t be here as you are now, but, in the interest of optimism, you’ll continue to exist!”

V imagined your reaction to his rejoining. It was likely it would happen, he couldn’t imagine that you would suddenly be gone when he needed you most (though he hated to admit it). What would your face look like as you looked upon him--upon Vergil? He finally responded, “I don’t think she would care for him.”

“Care for you, you mean? If she can care for your weak ass right now, I’m sure she’ll be swept off her feet by you when you’re strong, heh, heh!” Griffon stopped chattering for a moment to speculate. “She’ll certainly be confused, but depending on how much you tell her beforehand, she may accept it or do something else first. Like decking you in the face or stabbin’ ya--something out of anger!” V frowned deeply. “But she’d forgive and continue to be there. I am certain of it.”

He put his face in his palm. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

Griffon landed on V’s shoulder. “Chin up princess! I’ll be your wingman. Heh, get it? Wing man?” V shooed him away. “Okay, okay, that was a bad one. But for realsies, I’m sick of hearing your internal pining but watching you do nothing.”

“I am not pining,” V vehemently denied.

Griffon began to mock him, “Oh I wish I could protect her. Oh she’s so pretty and strong and smart. Oh I’m so afraid of what will happen with her after this is over.”

“I get it, you can stop now,” those deep green eyes glared at the bird. “Had we met under different circumstances, had I been a better man, then… perhaps I would have attempted to pursue something.”

The crow rolled his multiple eyes and feigned a yawn. “C’mon now V, haven’t you two practically already pursued something? You’ve been on shitty food dates, you have some similar interests, you guys have shared the same sleeping space since you’ve met.” Griffon sighed at the silence. “Since you’re clearly not going to say something, what if she does? What will you do then?”

“The answer to that question is unclear,” V admitted after a time. It has been such a short amount of time, and yet all the moments spent next to you have been the most fulfilling in his pathetic, misguided life. Every smile you gave him warmed his chest and he tended to smile in spite of himself. “I don’t deserve to accept her feelings if she wished to express them.”

“Oh screw whatever the hell that deserving bullshit is about! There’s no guarantee that we’ll survive this whole Qliphoth business, so why not just have fun with some young love?”

V quirked his brow, “I’m not young.”

“Your romantic maturity is that of a child so let’s just continue to call it that!” V smacked him on the head with his cane.

“I tire of this conversation with you.”

“Just trying to help ya’ out buddy.”

“Truly appreciated,” V mumbled. Have fun, huh? You often talked hopefully about doing fun things together. He fondly remembered you jumping on the bed and chattering about going to an amusement park together after “all this demon shit is over” before taking him by the hand and forcing him to jump with you. V yearned for the ideas you planted in his head. If you were to say something to him… should he forgo any of his concerns and embrace it? V and his familiars began to search abandoned buildings, looking for any sort of nourishment. Much of the area was already so destroyed and infested with roots that it was hard to tell which business did what. He walked through the rubble of one shop when something sparkling caught his eye. V bent down and took the object in his hand. It was a necklace--a crescent moon pendant with amethysts set inside of it. He chuckled to himself at how fitting it would be for you and pocketed it. V imagined your face flushing when he gave it to you, it was a soft thought.

After a time of sifting through both his thoughts and the destruction, Griffon and V managed to scrounge up some snack food, but it seemed like resources were drying up, and he couldn’t help but wonder what the two of you would do to sustain yourselves for the next month.

V was exhausted by the time he met back up with you. Each time he summoned Nightmare, it took a sizable toll on his energy, plus he was still hungry. Griffon broke the news to you about what you were to be surviving on for the time being--demons. It was quite obvious that you were unhappy with the news, but being strong, you would take whatever you could to live. You resigned to the reality of the situation and helped transport the bodies to a safe area where the group would be able to rest for the night. In fact, you made sure of it that you would be able to rest for the night. While he was requested to gather materials for a fire, you began to set up wards around the abandoned courtyard. It was a curious thing, but V remembered you were the daughter of a shrine priestess (at the very least).

Griffon helped start the fire by striking the wood with his lightning and Shadow came trotting back with the butchered meat. He watched you warily eye the roasted meat before taking a bite. Both of you agreed that it was utterly vile, much to the annoyance of the crow who always screamed about the disrespect.

The man felt strange--strange about his interactions with the boy, strange about his fate, strange about you. Upon expressing that, Griffon grabbed him by shirt and unceremoniously dropped him into the fountain, taunting him about stinking like demon blood. His clothes were drenched, so you and his familiars got to work on drying them out. V figured that while he was stuck in there, he may as well try his best to clean out. He sunk into the water, thoughts filled with where he went wrong in his life, his cowardice, his ignorance towards what strength truly is. It was as if he were about to melt away; however he was once again gripped by the demon’s talons. V was scolded and talked down to like a baby, but he was still too lost in thought to really care.

“I’d barely call these dry,” V lightly complained once Griffon brought the clothes to him.

“Sorry,” you shrugged with a dry laugh. “I can only work so hard to clean up the mess of this chatterbox right here.”

“Well, as long as it’s wearable, anything goes,” V responded while pulling up his pants. As he moved by the fire, you began to undress, complaining that you smelled as well. He wanted to give you privacy, but your bare skin was still visible from the peripheral view. A thought or two passed through his tired mind, but he shook them away.

He gave ear to the exchange you and Griffon were having, it sounded like you were revealing more of your life, and V was always curious to learn more. The fire was flickering in his deep green eyes when he noticed the splash of you moving up behind him.

“Here.” His eyes focused on the ring you dangled in his face..

“Your ring?” He questioned. “Do you need me to hold onto it while you are in the water?” V brought his hand up so you could give it to him. “Nope, it’s yours now.” You responded as he felt the ring fall into his open palm. “If you are okay accepting it of course…”

V couldn’t stop himself from turning his head to look you in the face. “Why would you give this to me? Don’t you need it for survival?” With a furrowed brow, he examined your features, searching for any trace of a joke.

“Well,” you began, “I trust you with it, and it will help keep you safe when I can’t be there.” V . “This way, wherever you go, I’ll always be with you,” you smiled.

He closed his hand around the ring, still warm from being around your finger. “I don’t understand you,” he admitted to himself out loud. “Why do you care to help me so much? You have since you met me. Even amongst all the insanity and information I have omitted, you have stuck by my side. And now you wish to give me a piece of you. Why?” The question almost came out like a plea for the answer.

“Well, it’s because I like you of course,” you smiled shyly, “As in like- like.” V heard you giggle as his lips parted in surprise. You reached your hand out of the water and took his hand, plucking the ring from his other palm. “Here,” V watched as you slipped the ring onto his pinky finger. “I was worried it’d be a bit too small, but it’s a perfect fit!” His chest hurt as he stared at it. The last time he was bestowed such a gift was on his birthday--his half of the perfect amulet from his mother. Once again, he was being given a jewel that had responsibility attached to it. “I hope you will accept it.” You said once more as your face took on a nervous expression.

V hesitated but eventually responded. “I… will accept it.” He had grabbed it a couple days ago, but never gave you the necklace. If there was a good time, it was now, and so he shuffled through his pocket. “Here,” he dangled it and you gently grabbed it. Your mouth formed an ‘O’ shape.

“This is my first gift.” He saw tears prick your eyes and was reminded of the child in his dream. Despite being naked, you leaned out of the fountain and threw your arms around his neck, burying your face in the crook of it. Slowly, he reciprocated the embrace, fingers feeling the lines of rough, scarred skin. “Thank you, V.”

“Mm,” he hummed with a nod.

You pulled back and began to stand up, to which he turned back around in response (though it’d be a lie if he denied getting a decent glimpse). V listened to you quickly shuffle back into your clothes before plopping down next to him in front of the fire. “Will you help me with this?” You turned your head away and held up the pendant for him to take.

“Of course.” V did the clasp, letting the moon of the necklace hand a little bit below your collar bones. You seemed… so happy with it.

“I love it.” You affirmed his thoughts and planted a kiss on his cheek, an purposefully intimate gesture he didn’t know how to respond to. You seemed to sense his unease. “It’s okay if you don’t want to say anything just yet. I know that shit is bad right now.”

‘Your romantic maturity is that of a child…’ Griffon’s words rang out irritatingly in V’s head, and he wanted to prove the bird wrong. “Your feelings,” he felt you stiffen, “I won’t deny that they are… reciprocated.”

“V…”

“I care for you.” It felt strange for him to say those words. “But it wouldn’t be right for me to indulge in these feelings. You’d only be hurt.” You were clearly confused. “There’s more to me than I have let on,” V admitted.

“As if I didn’t know that,” you laughed. You clapped your hands on his cheeks and leaned your face towards his with an amused smirk. “Hope you don’t mind this!”

“Mind wh--” You pressed your lips against his and after a second of hesitation, he pressed back.

#v/reader #v/you #v x reader #v x you #Female reader #vitale #vitale x reader #vitale/reader #vitale x you #Devil May Cry 5 #devil may cry #DMC 5 #dmc #ghuoligans #tsukuuyomis #also posted to ao3 #find me on ao3 at Adagium (ghuoligans)

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