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#walking in the madman's wood
derangedrhythms · 2 years
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Margaret Atwood, Dearly; from 'Walking in the Madman's Wood'
TEXT ID: mine, mine, mine, mine.
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gremlingottoosilly · 4 months
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The horror and the wild [!emperor!Konig x fem!Reader] ch.5
You had a nice, simple life. Serve the princess, obey the princess, protect the princess with your life. You never thought that this nice, simple life would bring you to be kidnapped by the infamous Northern Emperor. Konig never thought that kidnapping a wife would be much easier than courting one.
CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2| Chapter 3| Chapter 4| Chapter 5l you're here! AO3
Word count: 3188 Tags/Warnings: Medieval fantasy/Alternative European history AU, Age gap, Enemies(one-sided)to lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Forced marriage, Size difference(Konig is absolutely huge), Somewhat one-sided slow burn, Yandere Konig
Warnings for this chapter: Predator/Prey kink, mild choking
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Little princess doesn’t know what’s good for her. Little princess is dumb and naive and oh, so deliciously weak, it makes Konig sick just how much he adores her pouty face, her aggressive expressions, and that squeak in her voice every time he does something to embarrass her – which he does, a lot, in fact. Quite aware of how his war dog lingo would affect an innocent young lady like his precious dearest darling illustrious wife, he uses it to hi advantage – when you have your lady cornered, heavy panting and cumming from your tongue and your fingers in her tight royal cunt, she wouldn’t be able to open her mouth for something meaningless, right? Thou shall not think as thou would be a sin against god. 
Emperor is a sinner, but he still believes that you shall always follow the religious instructions – as if not ever trying to oppose him and speak like you have the right to think in his presence. Perhaps, his devotion to making you weak and pliable in his arms is what led to this situation. 
Little princess doesn’t know what’s good for her, so little princess runs. 
You might brag about your best education and most elegant courses for women you attended in the palace – but he knows just how empty your adorable little head is, because you had no idea how much the thrill of the hunt turns him on. 
You’re nowhere to be found, escaped through the window of the room you were stationed in – it was his mistake, assigning you a place from which you could jump so easily. Next time, he will cuff you to his bedpost, like a loyal palace dog lying on his legs. Next time, he will make sure to love you so eagerly that your legs won’t work for at least a few days. 
He doesn’t even need his hunting dogs to catch you. Horangi offers his help, Tiger so eager to come out and play with a little princess, perhaps maul her a bit, showing the royal cunt what she deserves for disrespecting her emperor and his subjects – but oh no, this won’t do. König needs to discipline you himself, track your scent like the hound he is, and get you back to your wedding bed with your body in his teeth. 
Woe on you, dumb little princess, as your emperor considers escape attempts the richest form of courting. 
Following you through the forest near the castle, your footsteps are clear in the mud and dirt – a piece of your dress serves as a grinding light. Your scent, delicious sweetness, and fresh flower oils maid had infused you with made it laughably easier to find you. He can almost see the glimpses of your body running through the woods – god, he knew that he wanted you and was right about taking you away. 
How can he resist a wedding gift from his bride who wants to play tag? He follows you like a madman, a dog, he sees through trees, trying to see where you could run. The deep golden brown of your dress almost made you look like a forest spirit standing in the depths of the woods – if it weren’t for König’s trained eye, he would rather mistake you for a tree. Or a particularly precious deer. 
He licks his lips, a wolf approaching the bunny he was hunting for so long – you run away, still try to. These dumb skirts aren’t made for running away from your fiancee in a forest – you can barely walk in those, poor thing. You take a step back, panicking, squawking from fear, as he approaches you as slowly as possible. 
Perhaps, if he gives you one more chance to run, it would make the chase even more precious. 
He is used to hunting with his royal hounds, with a group of his closest friends by his side – war hawks helping hunt for prey, the animal snifters making the whole process laughably easy. He doesn’t have anyone for the company now. 
Only you, him, and wilderness – and his adoring love for everything you do. 
— Stop resisting, little princess.
You whimper, but your little annoyed expression makes him only harder. Hell, how he adores your frown, how much he wants to kiss your face right now – god knows he is holding himself back these days. Little princess doesn’t deserve to get her innocence taken on her back, legs open on the dirt of the royal forest – but sometimes you act like a good lashing, and some passionate mating is the only thing that would keep you in line. 
He yells in your direction, hoping that even that dumb head of yours has some sense in it – the chase is fun, and he would continue it more until you’re completely unraveled under him, exhausted and defeated – but, oh, your silly desire to be free has led you to the edge of the lake. Dancing on the shaky, soft sands and warm mud of the pond, your clothes leave you with very small chances of getting out of here in one piece. 
He doesn’t want to be the bringer of doom, but just one sleep, a nervous movement that you can’t control – and the little princess of his dreams will come flying in the dark waters. Even if your royal majesty knows how to swim, the heavy fabrics of your garments would be declared as your executioners. 
You look so fragile like this – your skirt is lifted, showing your pretty ankles, as you’re trying to jump from stone to stone, as far away from him as possible. You’re scared, only reminding him more of the bunnies he used to hunt as a kid – and he is almost offended that you’d prefer that risk of drowning over getting in the hands of your husband again, but alas, princesses are usually not the smartest creatures on the planet. 
— I’d rather die, Your Majesty. 
You bite your lips and look at him, so stubborn and cute – the feelings in him rise, your arrogant expression making the thrill of the hint ever sweeter. God, he cannot control himself around you like this – you should stop trying to make yourself sweeter for him, he already wants to keep you chained in his bed and never let you go. 
You’re so…
Ach. 
His path of thought is stopped by the splash of water. 
Dumb thing, you really decided to make the most of your words – like a cornered animal, you jumped in the lake, getting to the bottom almost immediately. Your dress is heavy and expensive, all the weight of the fabrics pinning you down in elaborate execution. Your emperor stands on the small beach, looking at the water circles going from where you fell…and then he jumps straight after you. 
The last thing you remembered before the world went dark was the scream of a man who, for the first time in his life, had experienced genuine fear. 
*** You wake up warm – and naked. 
No wet clothes, no heavy dress lingering on your skin like a soft coffin. 
You’re as naked as the day you were born, shivering despite the warmness of the room and the crackling of fire somewhere near you. You remember this room – a royal bedroom, quickly made as your quarters when you moved to this god-forsaken castle. Empire has some horribly extensive architecture, and this room, big, stony, and expelled of any decor, has only made you feel regret ever waking up. 
You wished to wake up in the cold embrace of your Princess – but you open your eyes and see this room over and over again. Why couldn’t death come sooner? 
— It was incredibly stupid even for you, little princess. 
König sits on the edge of the bed. A future husband shouldn’t sit like this, resembling a servant who is scared for the health of his misstress. His eyes are filled with cold fury and other emotions that you can’t quite grasp – you don’t want to look at his face too much as even the mere glimpse is making you uncomfortable. God knows you are not in the mood for trying to talk to your captor. 
God knows he doesn’t care about your wishes. 
— If you can only provide me freedom in case of my death…
— You will not be free after your death. 
You sigh, shocked – your brain isn’t nearly ready for this information when you just almost died. You shift in your bed, trying to pretend that you accidentally fell asleep – but the emperor pushes his hand on your cheek, warm fingers lingering on the cold skin. You sigh quietly, sealing his warmth. 
You fight the desire to nuzzle in his palm like an obedient little pet. 
— It’s not for you to decide, Your Majesty. I should be allowed to die on my own accord. 
— I'm entitled to your life, my bride. Don’t make me remind you of this, ja? 
— I would rather… 
— I can deliver death to you, little one. In a verdammt heartbeat. 
His hand goes from a warm presence on your cheek to an angry squeeze of your neck – you cough when he continues to shut your breath, fluttering of your neck in his grasp only makes your defeat even sweeter. König has you right where he wants it – under him, holding firmly in his grasp like some exotic bird he picked up from his travels. 
Lack of air makes you dizzy – as ironic as it sounds, you feel airheaded, hands clinging to his massive palm in a poor attempt to make him let you go. You whimper, you cry, you feel death all too soon – you want to die, of course, maybe, willingly meeting in hell with the royalty you had sworn to serve, but you don’t want to be killed. Tears run down your cheeks when you finally see the other side of him – out of control, angry, worse even than the conqueror you saw when you first met. 
You feel replaceable and small – he squeezes your throat like you aren’t his bride like you don’t mean anything to him, and, yes, it makes you feel hurt. Vulnerable as ever, your manicured nails have zero power over him – he only laughs at your helpless expression. For a second, it makes you think this is it – the last thing you would ever see is the cold anger in the eyes of your emperor. 
When your vision finally got blurry enough so you could not see anything anymore, König softly lowered his face closer to you, lifting the bottom part of his weird, strange hood. Smothering you with his lips, delivering the air you were craving for – if only to make himself feel even more in control. You’re lightheaded and a bit dumb, still, your mind is too delirious to actually understand anything that is happening around you. 
His lips are warm and dry, you steal air from his lungs with each second – you feel the energy feeling you up again, eyes are finally set enough to see at least some part of his face. Chiseled chin, covered in scars, tanned skin – you’re surprised that he is not as pale as you thought he must be, with his love for the masks. 
His veins are dark and rotten – you don’t understand how he can survive with his blood looking like this, but the dark tendrils of his body almost make him more of a curiosity than an actual human being. It’s only his lips that are still holding you in realms of the living. You don’t want to think of the implications and gossip you heard from some servants that were allowed to go out – allowed to witness the growth of the empire that was soon to eat you all. 
König finally lets go of your mouth when you start falling asleep again. You don’t allow him to simply cover his lips with his hood again though – your hands are heading to lend on his neck, fingers tracing the outlines of his veins. 
A medical curiosity, this emperor – you squeeze the rot of his neck, and he moans like you just did something that he liked too much. 
It’s only fitting that he has the body of a monster – for all he is done, you wouldn't be surprised if his head actually resembles the one of an octopus from silly books you were reading or a mess of dark tendrils, wiggling and swarming. Your delirious, oxygen-deprived mind still wants to touch him more, to satisfy your curiosity in all the more fitting ways. Maybe take your research a bit further down to see if he truly is a man down there. 
But oh well, you saw his body before – although you never as much as paid attention to that detail. Did he change in a few days that passed? Does his veins start to spew out darkness because he is…
He crushed your hand in his, almost making you feel a crack in your dainty lady fingers. God forbid you feel like your hands are being torn apart. 
— Never try to defy me like this again. 
He spews the words with anger than would be fitting for the enemy – and he is, for you, but you were sure that he didn’t consider you one of them. The contrast with his soft actions earlier, you can feel tears collecting in your eyes as he slowly lets go of your hand. 
Not knowing what to do, you roll to the side, burning desire to never see his face – or lack thereof – ever again. Like an angry cat that doesn’t know how to stop biting, you feel like you’re going to cry again and again. 
You whimper, trying to escape the haunting gaze of his eyes – and his face softens, if only for a bit. He presses his hand against your damp forehead, checking the temperature. You don’t want to forgive him just yet – for anything at this matter, but he is soft at this moment, and somehow, it is almost enough. Somehow, you almost feel like you can breathe again. 
— I was so scared, little princess. I don’t like being scared. 
You laugh dryly, your face is still deep in the pillow. You are trying to ignore the beast, but the beast decided that you’re his best option for a nice free snack. Beast decided to take off some of his clothes – you don’t see it, but you hear the sound of fabric hitting the floor, and you don’t want to even think how much it cost. 
You try to cover your naked body with the silk sheets of your bed, but soft fabric only entices your desires in a way that can only be called sinful. You remember the sensation of his tongue between your legs, your desire to simply run out of your skin because of how good it felt – each stroke made you strive further and further away from your duties. Like a good little maid you are, a perfect lady in waiting, waiting for her demise, you have to ignore all the mortal pleasures. 
If you want the royal family to truly forgive you in their graves, you would have to join them. Perhaps, you gave up on drowning too fast. 
— It wasn’t my intention. 
He shifts, the bed is too small for someone like him. You feel his legs, clothed, thank god, touching your naked thighs – and you immediately stir to the further side. You keep your arms and legs in check, getting into a small ball of limbs as you’re trying to comfort yourself without his touch. You don’t want to admit it, but König is warm, warmer than you thought he had the right to be, and you’re freezing. The phantom feeling of cold water on your skin is making you shiver. 
— What were your intentions then? 
If the emperor knows about manners and how a fiancee should behave around his bride that he didn’t even consummate the marriage, he is ignoring that knowledge. Large hands pinning you to his chest, warm and firm – to your utter dread, he took off the armor plates and even the simple shirt under it, making you helplessly squish your cheek against his muscles. He smells like a man, and you never knew you’d feel that smell in your life. 
You don’t hate it. 
— You killed by parents, Your Majesty. 
He only laughs, his hand goes to stroke your back. This is a contrast with his coldness before – he is soft and warm with you, and you hate that you don’t hate it. Gigantic palm goes to settle between your shoulder blades and you simply sigh, trying to get used to his touches. You don’t want to, but a good servant should adapt to everything, so you do just that. Adapting, deforming, melding yourself in something you never knew you even could be. 
Your head hurts, and you whimper when his gentle massage relaxes your sore muscles. You hate his gentleness, you hate his firmness. 
You want him to let you go, but you don’t even know where you would go. 
— Your parents, little princess? Really? 
There is a vile mockery in his voice, and you immediately remember who this man is. Not some devoted lover and slightly obsessive romanticist – he is dangerous, horrible, he is the conqueror of your country. You may not have warm feelings about the royal family, but he doesn’t know this – his laugh and mockery of your “family” must be real. It has to be, or else you’re going to die after your deceiving has been opened. 
He pushes you even closer to him, and you whimper like a dumb little dog without any means of stopping him from touching you. There is some freedom from being exposed like this, but you still don’t like it. Still feel like he is going to murder you, given the reason. 
— If anything, my men did it. That dog you called a father did not deserve my sword. 
Anger fills your whole body – not because you were particularly close with the king, but because König is parading his mockery of your supposed family. He hugs you with hands that are covered in blood, no matter if he is just the one to give orders. 
You try to get out of his grasp, but apathy fills you. What’s the point if the royal family is dead? What’s the point if you aren’t even the real princess. 
— You will not call my father…
He makes you shut your mouth when he kisses your head. Sweet and soft, you do not understand his intentions. If anything, it feels like yet another mockery. 
— I will call him like I want, meine Liebe. And you will still be mine. 
— I won’t just take it, Your Majesty. 
He laughs again. You feel sick. 
— With our wedding tomorrow, little flower, you will have to take it. Not the last thing you’ll take on that day, little princess. 
You feel like you are going to be sick. 
König kisses you again, forcing you to sleep in his hands. 
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allyeardepression · 2 months
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@jegulus-microfic | feb 6 murder | words: 472
„I’m going to fucking LOSE IT!” James heard as he entered the flat. There was some more cursing, giggles here and there and then a loud thud of something hitting the wall.
Panicked and a little confused, James didn’t even bother to take off his shoes or jacket as he rushed to the living room. He was far more confused at what he saw there: Barty and Evan were rolling on the carpet with breathless laughter, while Regulus threw another water bottle in their direction. And it wasn’t even the confusing part - that he was familiar with. What got him shocked was Regulus’ hair color – instead of his normal jet black waves, sitting on his head was something like malachite afro.
“Crouch you’re dead! I swear, I’m going to murder you! How could you do that to me?!” Regulus shouted like a madman, and to be perfectly honest with you, he had every right to act that way. Anyone who knew Reg, knew his hair were untouchable for the whole humankind, with a few exceptions. James had a feeling the list of exceptions was changed while he was at Sirius’.
Barty and Evan didn’t stop laughing when Reg took a mug from the nearby table and started aiming at them. That was James’ call to move from his safe space at the living room’s entry and catch his boyfriend’s hand before anyone got hurt any more.
The moment James touched Regulus, the shorter man whipped his head at the lightspeed towards him. His eyes were shooting daggers at first, but as soon as he realized who he is looking at, the storms in those gray eyes turned softer, then horrified and finally sad. Tears gathered in them, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a thick swallow.
“James…” Regulus choked out like he actually was about to lose it.
James just smiled at him sweetly, putting down the still held mug. He took Reg’s face into his hands, wiping away the lonely tear that got out of its prison in black-haired green-haired man’s eye.
“I really like that color” James said quietly before kissing his boyfriend’s nose. Regulus just smiled wobbly at him. The sweet moment didn’t last long, though.
“You two – get out of my flat before I kill you” Regulus said coldly to his friends, who by the way, still laid on the floor. Barty snickered at him and Evan just smiled, a little apologetic, before they gathered themselves and went to the door. “Don’t bother coming anytime soon!”
“Love you too, Reggie!” was heard before the doors closed.
“So…” James started slowly, still holding his boyfriend close. “How exactly did that happen?”
“The green” Regulus started “because I’ve lost a bet. The perm” his face twisted “because they’re mean.”
James just laughed a little at that. “Thank god for Elle Woods, than” he said, walking Reg straight to the bathroom.
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catsfor2 · 1 year
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out west (ellie x reader)
warnings: guns/firearms
a/n: howdy guys. not sure if this is what everyone was picturing but this was SO MUCH FUN to write ☺️😋☺️. i definitely do not think they used the word “daddy” in the wild west but i wanted to use it soooo😩😩😩😩also here are the random bits of western slang i used (taradiddles - lies, rumours. sage hen - woman, lady. ‘at sea’ - scared/confused. bellyache - worry. flannel mouth - shithead politician basically) im sorry if i effed this up 0_0 -j
His oversized poncho was black. So was the bandanna covering his mouth, and the large hat hiding his eyes. His revolver, resting like a small child in his gloved hand, stares you down mercilessly.
The figure looked of a ghost. A silent, lifeless bundle of fabrics, rippling in the wind. No face. No skin. No humanity.
And he matched the description of the poster exactly.
“No—no, please, my—my Daddy, he’s the sheriff! It’s more trouble than I’m worth, I’m tellin’ you, please!” You beg, eyes beginning to water and voice already panicked.
He says nothing, boot-clad feet pounding the wood floor carelessly as he walks towards you.
“If you do this he’ll find you! He won’t stop until he finds you! Please don’t!”
It was like talking to a pile of bricks.
The outlaw continues to charge ahead, wordlessly, and you find yourself desperately trying to see where his eyes would land under his hat. He approaches, big and brooding, until you’re face to face with that soulless bandana and downright trembling.
“I—I’d make a real good wife, really, I’ve learned all the—the sewin’, the cookin’ and—and ranchin’! I know it all I promise! It’d be a waste!” You plea, knowing it’s a last resort, knowing this man does not care.
In an instant, his hands clutch your shoulders and forcibly shove you to the side and out of his way, sending you stumbling. His attention lands and focuses on the wall that was behind you.
The poster?
Suddenly, his arm thrusts out and snatches it, like the crack of a whip, before frantically tearing the paper into tiny little pieces.
You watch as they all float down to the floor, feathery and weightless.
You see the brim of his hat turn to you first, and then his head, slowly, like he’s noticing your presence for the first time.
The hand not holding his revolver rises calmly, loosening the edges of his bandanna just a touch. He clears his throat.
“Girl like you knows how to ranch?”
Your eyes almost pop out of your head.
“You’re—”
“Sorry, these damn posters—always…writin’ up taradiddles. Got people thinkin’ I’m some madman, when really,” a finger flicks the rim of the hat, flipping it off of his head and into his grasp. “I’m no man at all.”
You feel yourself reeling, barely able to understand his words, or, her words. The hat had covered up her blue eyes, almost oceanic in color. The bandanna, hiding her soft thin lips. Basically criminal, all the fabric denying you sight of her face.
She went against almost everything Daddy had taught you. It was as terrifying as it was alluring.
“Well you look a bit at sea, darlin’. Why so scared?” She asks, placing her revolver in its holster and walking a bit closer to you.
“I—I don’t get how,”
“How? How what? How a sage hen can shoot? I can tell you right now I cut a cleaner whistle than your Daddy.” She grins, palm now itching closer to her weapon.
“No I—I believe you, it’s alright. Please don’t bring that back out.” You rush, the fear starting to sink back into you.
“Oh, honey, I don’t hunt the good ones. You’ve nothin’ to be scared of,” She assures you, her hand reaching out and feeling some of your hair. “now that sheriff Daddy of yours? Can’t say the same for him.”
You pause, hands balling into fists.
“You know what? My Daddy told me all about you and what you’ve done. I wouldn’t be speakin' so kindly of yourself.” You bite, slightly catching the gunslinger off guard with your tone.
“Oh, did he? Well your Daddy clearly don’t know me too well,” she rebukes, gesturing to the torn pieces of poster under her boots. “do you always believe everythin’ Daddy says?”
“Of course not—”
“I bet Daddy told you that storks bring the babies, right? Did he tell you that?”
“When I was young, but—”
“I bet he also told you about marriage then? One man and one woman?”
You stop talking.
What was wrong about that? Isn’t that how marriage is?
“Most of all, I bet he done told you all about the perfect husband you’re gonna get. Some flannel mouth he works with. Daddy’s girl only gets the best, right? That what he say?”
“I—” You turn your head, a little defeated. “I ain’t marryin’ no flannel mouth,”
“Oh yeah? That’s what’ll happen if you keep listenin’ to Daddy.”
“You don’t know jack. Just a crazy woman with a shootin’ iron. You won’t ever find a husband, I know it.” You spit, not even really believing your own words.
She laughs, rather abruptly, hands rested in the loops of her gun holster.
“Got no bellyaches about that, darlin’. I promise you.” She says knowingly, eyes unwilling to break their gaze from you.
You don’t quite understand what she means by it, especially the way she’s grinning, so you say nothing. Her eyes watch you darkly, following your movements and sending messages you can't translate.
Before she can speak, you remember.
“Oh—my Daddy’s gonna be back soon. I don’t want you to be here when he does.” You tell her, glancing at the doorway behind the both of you.
“I won’t be.”
“Alright—will…will I see you again?”
“Oh sweetheart, you want to?” She questions, starting to re-tie the black bandanna around her mouth.
You blush, sweetly, and the outlaw basks in it. She takes her hat back off, kisses it gently, and places it in your hands.
Her head moves to your neck, barely getting close enough to your ear and whispering faintly.
“Tell Daddy it’s from a suitor, yeah?”
Your cheeks heat, sheerly from how close she is, but also at her words, which feel so much dirtier than they should be to you.
Following that, her leather-covered hands grab your face, and she places a warm kiss on your cheek through the bandanna.
Only lightly could you feel the outline of her lips in the fabric, and it sets you on fire nonetheless.
“Thank you,” you murmur, unsure of how to respond and dizzy with excitement.
“Don’t thank me yet,” she warns, voice a bit muffled. She pulls down the bandanna one last time, and with a wink, tells you,
“I’ll be back for my hat.”
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ricc3rodeo · 11 months
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Chapter Nineteen
“We have never seen the devil’s side of the story, seeing as god wrote the book”
word count: 17.1k
warnings: mentions of sexual harassment, explicit language, drinking, motorsport accidents, mentions of sex, mention of sex, mentions of death, mature themes
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It had been two hours since Sam walked out of Daniel Ricciardo’s hotel room. He’d been sitting in the exact same place ever since he heeded the warning his knees gave him that they were threatening to give out from under him. The first place he could find to sit was at the edge of his bed, which was one step up from the floor in his opinion, and ever since the back of his legs hit the mattress, time seemed to have stopped. He’d had no idea how long he’d sat there, eyes trained on the floor, mind replaying their last conversation like a broken record. 
That was until somebody started banging on his door like a madman. 
He didn’t want to get up at first. No, there was no point. Not when there was no chance the only person he wanted to see was the one knocking. But it didn’t go away, and he preferred silence when he sulked, it made it that much more punishing. 
Slowly he rose to his feet, taking a moment to make sure his knees were sturdy enough to carry his weight that seemed to multiply tenfold in the last few hours. The knocking didn’t let up, and step by step he approached the door. 
He wasn’t in a rush. No, not until he heard a familiar voice from behind the wood. It wasn’t the voice he wanted to hear, but it was one he hoped could offer him something as close to an answer that was available. 
“Open the damn door, Daniel!”
The pleading tone in Molly’s voice terrified him. If Sam’s best friend sounded this desperate to get him to open the door, he wasn’t so sure she had the answer he was looking for. And once he opened the door and saw her tear-stained face, he was absolutely positive she came to him looking for that exact same answer. 
Their eyes met and for a moment, there was silence. The girl was breathing heavily, eyes glossy and threatening to spill over with tears. Daniel just stood there, wondering if he looked the same; wondering if she was feeling the same utter sense of helplessness at the sight before her that he was. 
“Please tell me she’s here,” she whispered desperately, as if she already knew the answer but was hoping she was wrong.
He shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he whispered back. There was nothing he should have been apologizing for except giving her the answer she didn't want. But a small part of Daniel felt like it was his fault. Maybe if he had done something different she would have stayed. Maybe if he had done something different she wouldn’t have left in the first place. 
It wasn’t inherently his fault, and a part of him knew that, but he couldn’t help but feel like it was. 
And Molly saw right through him. 
She walked forward and embraced Daniel in a hug. She buried her head into his chest with a muffled sob once his arms tightened around her. He was sure if he had any tears left a few would have escaped, but now all that he could bring himself to do was revel in the empty feeling occupying the entirety of his chest. 
He softly lifted one of his hands from Molly to reach around and give his door a shove so it would swing closed. At the sound of the lock clicking shut, the girl lifted her head and took a step back. 
With a sniffle, she wiped her nose and reached forward to try and wipe off some of the tear stains she’d left on his hoodie. 
“God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to— I just—”
Daniel took a step forward, softly putting his hands on the girl’s shoulders in hopes to try to calm her down. The pit of concern in the depth of his chest was tripling in size. He was confused, but he didn’t want to start panicking alongside her, so he took a deep breath. “It’s fine Molly. What’s going on? Is Sam alright?”
But his efforts were futile because Molly was still freaking out. Her mind was racing a hundred miles an hour and he could see she was trying to process her own overwhelming emotions on the spot. 
“I just feel so stupid! I saw all the red flags and ignored them. I knew something was wrong and me and Mick just ignored it because we thought she’d push us away if we tried to talk to her about it. Did she say anything in your letter?”
“What are you talking about? What letter?”
“Me and Mick got letters, so I assumed you did too.”
She whipped out a folded white envelope from her back pocket 
“I left her be after the race. I wanted to let her cool down and I knew she wouldn’t want to talk. She never does with stuff like this, so I stayed after with Mick and got back a few hours ago. I finally went to check on her about half an hour ago but when I opened two envelopes fell out. One addressed to me and one addressed to Mick.”
She took a deep breath, “It explains everything. Well, everything except where she is right now.”
“Explain what, exactly?”
Molly's letter
She folded her envelope back up, leaving Daniel’s question unanswered. “Sam needs to be the one to tell you herself. We need to find out where she left your letter, maybe with the front desk—”
“Molly, she didn’t give me one.”
The way he said it came across much angrier than he intended. Daniel knew Molly was only trying to help, but the hope she had that he lacked was starting to increase his heartache. 
Molly shook her head in protest, adamant she was right. She had to be right. She needed to be right. 
“She had to leave you one, there’s no way she wouldn’t.” 
Her words were sincere, and she said them without an ounce of doubt. But Daniel just sat there, eyes locked on his hands intertwined in his lap. 
Molly affectionately put a hand on his knee, and he looked at her with eyes full of empathy “Daniel, she really cares about you. I haven’t seen her act that way with anybody, ever. You just bring out this side of her I haven’t seen since she started racing. I don’t know what drugs seep out from your pores but she’s so comfortable with you so easily, it’s like she’s known you for years. The uncrackable hard-candy shell was cracked and in record time."
For some reason, he found no solace in her words, he couldn’t even let out a small laugh at the girl's words he knew he would normally find amusing. If what she was saying were true, Sam wouldn’t have left. He shook his head. “There’s definitely a way. You didn’t hear what she said to me tonight. I thought—”
Molly interrupted, “She was here? When?”
Daniel nodded, unsure what the wide-eyed hopeful look on the girl’s face meant. 
“She left a few hours ago,” he replied nonchalantly. 
Instantly, Molly stood from her seat and began to look all around Daniels room for a matching envelope. He couldn’t bring himself to get up, let alone help her. He was somewhat envious of the potential she thought this situation held. So for a moment he just watched her frantically look around his room for something he was sure she wouldn’t find. 
“Molly, she didn’t give me one,” he finally said as she continued to rummage through his things on the table. 
She opened his backpack and dumped its contents onto the floor with no remorse before she dropped to her knees and mumbled, “Well that doesn’t mean she didn’t leave it for you to find somewhere.”
Now Daniel stood, feeling awful for the desperation he was witnessing. He wanted to help Molly move past it any way he could… he wished somebody would be able to help him do the same. 
“In your letter… did she explicitly tell you she wrote me one?”
He tried to put his hand on her shoulder but she brushed it off without even a glance in his direction. 
“No,” Molly said plainly, moving on from the pile of papers on the floor over to Daniel’s nightstand. 
He hesitated before saying something else, not sure if Molly could be stopped by anything except disappointment. But a small part of him was morbidly curious, while the rest of him wanted to have Molly hear herself say it out loud so she would realize it wasn’t an absolute possibility. 
“So how can you be so sure?”
She opened and closed the drawer with a slam before she turned to Daniel, finally looking at him and breaking free from her tunnel vision but brushing past him to look on the desk. She huffed in exhaustion or anxiety, he couldn't tell. “Like I said, she cares for you. A lot. More than I’ve seen her care for anybody else in a long time.”
Daniel stood there, eyes begging for an explanation against his will. 
Molly abruptly stopped digging around in his things, her mind racing. 
“That night in Hungary, after you guys kissed, she came to my room. She was freaking out like she’d just killed a man; face ghastly, speechless, damn near catatonic. And then she sat on my couch and spilled her guts to me. Everything from that night, all this about how much she enjoyed spending time with you even though she thought she should steer clear of you, and how she felt like she was betraying herself because despite everything horrible she thought you said about her, she still felt drawn to you. And then the kiss, the way she described how it made her feel was straight out of a romance novel, except it ran past her lips like it was the worst thing to possibly happen to her. She couldn’t put it into words— she’s horrible at describing her emotions, truly— but everything she was describing was just the fact that she was falling for you. The worst part is, that whole conversation, I knew she had no reason to hate you; I’d already known that Lando had lied to you both. Sure I played wingman for you a bit, told her she was being ridiculous and just needed to accept her feelings. But I sat there and let her believe you were a bad guy, I didn’t tell her, didn’t clear it up, nothing. And sitting here, I’m realizing I apologized to her, but I never apologized to you. So I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you guys.”
“It’s alright—” 
“It’s not. But we’re going to fix this. I’ll forgive myself when she’s back here with us. Back…” she trailed off remembering Daniel hadn’t read his hypothetical letter yet, and that she knew he should find out for himself before she tells him anything. So she just resumed rummaging through the clutter spread out across his desk. 
Daniel could see how much this meant to her; Molly was determined to get her friend back and it seems like she wanted Sam back for more than herself. She had read her letter and was clued in to what had actually happened, and Daniel was starting to think something Sam had written was giving Molly hope that it was possible. This was hope he was interested in, not hope he was scared of or jealous of; hope that motivated him. For himself. For Molly. For Sam. And so he decided to give it all a chance and began to look around his things for a single white envelope. His mind and his chest were on a seesaw. He’d think back to earlier that night, retracing her steps in his room, but then his chest would start to tighten at the words exchanged on every corner he thought of. The door, the edge of the bed, the dresser—
The dresser. 
He starts rummaging through the heavy layer of clutter along the piece of furniture. Under folders, beneath bags, hats, loose papers and inside of folded clothing until he reached his fingers inside a folded up polo and they landed on a thick, white envelope which once he pulled it out, was decorated with his name and a small phrase scribbled across the front. 
For when it happens
“This has got to be it,” he mumbled into the silent room. 
Molly dropped what she was doing and made her way over to him. She grabbed her own envelope from her pocket and unfolded it as she brought it up to compare the two. 
The exact same phrase. The exact same handwriting. 
He noticed how the envelope was nearly bursting at the seams in comparison to Molly’s. Anxiety wrapped its hands around his neck and squeezed. He forced himself to swallow any fear of the unknown and replace it with anticipation.
“This whole situation is a lot bigger than I thought, isn’t it?” he asked, turning to the girl standing beside him for moral support. 
She nodded softly. 
“I’ll give you some space while you read it. I’m going to go check on Mick. He went to see if George got a letter too,” she walked over to the bedside table and grabbed the complementary pen and pad of paper, “Here’s my number. Just shoot me a text when you’re ready to talk about it.”
He nodded with gratitude and watched her walk out the door.  
The room went silent. It was heavy. Charged. There was tension between him and the envelope, despite it being an inanimate object. Suddenly, he was terrified. A part of him felt like throwing up. He had no idea what the letter contained, or what any of this meant, but he knew it could go one of two ways. 
It was either going to break his heart even more, or make him wish he’d never let her walk out that door. 
He inhaled, and broke the seal which had been keeping it closed. 
Daniel’s letter
It was somewhere in the middle of the third page of his second re-read when he was yet again interrupted by banging on his door. 
Again, he heard shouting on the other side. Not shouting directed at him like before— these people were shouting at each other. He heard Molly’s thick accent in a shrill tone, and even through the wood of the door he could tell she wasn’t as caught in turmoil as before. No, she was angry. Before he had the chance to ask himself who she could possibly be upset at, especially when her best friend had just been banned from racing, he got an answer in the form of cries of annoyance and pain. 
He swung the door open and Molly wasted no time dragging George Russell into the room by his ear. 
A small part of Daniel wanted to feel bad that George was obviously in pain, but ever since Austin, the British driver had left a poor taste in his mouth. Of course, Sam had told him she and George weren’t an item all the way back in Russia. Yet their history was always what lingered over Daniel’s head. Every small moment between the two exes had managed to catch Daniel’s eye and cause him to overthink it for hours after. The unanswered question he asked her that night at the carnival still weighed heavy on his conscience all the way up to when he’d finished the letter still clutched in his grip. Sam may have had no romantic feelings for George anymore, but Daniel hadn’t been sure the same could be said for her future teammate who should have been her future teammate. 
But Austin… Austin was a turning point for Daniel. All of the longing glances and lingering touches from George had only raised concerns in an ugly shade of green; they’d always been out of his control because Daniel and Sam had only been friends. But things changed after Sam told her friends about her and Daniel. Everything angsty and affectionate George had been doing only amplified, and to Daniel, it felt as though it was out of spite. It wasn’t like he was doing it all behind Daniel’s back. No, he was doing all these small nuances with him standing a few feet away. Not to mention George purposefully forgetting to invite Daniel to Sam’s surprise, stepping in front of him to hug her before him after her Mercedes announcement, and then their argument when Sam had been in the back of the police car. They hadn’t spoken about it, not to anybody, but since then, there had been an awkward tension between the two old friends. Daniel wasn’t even sure he’d spoken to George since Austin. And seeing him comfort Sam after the qualifying session only made him more upset. Both at her and at the man now stumbling to his feet in the middle of his hotel room. 
He gripped his letter tighter at his presence. 
So he would never say it, but he didn’t mind that Molly was inflicting pain like an enraged mother. To be honest, he would’ve laughed under different circumstances. 
“Ow!” George yelped as Molly threw him forward by his ear. 
“Talk,” she spat without an ounce of sympathy in her tone. She folded her arms across her chest and Mick appeared from the doorway to stand behind her. Daniel watched as the boy’s hands found her shoulders and the girl became the slightest bit less tense in an instant. He tore his eyes away when Mick pulled her back against his chest; something about seeing something so affectionate right now shot a pain through his heart. 
George stood straight, rubbing the ear that had just been violated by a 5’6’ petite blonde woman as if she was a bodybuilder or something. He tried to play dumb, “What do you want me to—”
Molly scoffed. “You’ve always been a horrible liar George Russell, tell us what you really know about Sam leaving.”
Daniel’s eyes whipped over to George. So not only was he hiding feelings for Sam, he was hiding the truth about why she left? The emptiness in his chest was slowly filling with rage. 
George looked around at everybody in the room. They all stared back at him waiting, impatient. He took a deep breath and started to explain, “She wrote us all letters—”
Mick, Molly and Daniel simultaneously whipped out the white envelopes they had been holding onto since they had been opened. They held them up incredulously for George to see, not an ounce of amusement in sight. 
“Yeah we got that part. Fast forward,” Mick finally chimed in. 
He took a deep breath, preparing himself for the hell he was about to unleash. “I found mine in Mexico and read it. I’ve known about her plan since then and—”
At the same time, each of them broke out into shouting, louder and more aggressive than George had expected. Instantly the room was filled with angry, confused yells. George was bombarded from every direction. He couldn’t tell what any of them were saying in the chaos, but he heard bits and pieces here and there. 
Unbelievable
Maybe violence is the answer
Inconsiderate
What was going through your head
Selfish
You let her down again
Molly’s southern accent was the loudest of the three as she was shouting possibly empty threats at George. She was fighting Mick’s grasp trying to close the space between them, her finger accusatory and pointing at him as her inhibitions were clouded by rage. 
As he fought off his own urge to beat George to a pulp at this revelation, he knew he needed to hold his girlfriend back. The only thing keeping Mick’s mind on Molly rather than George was Sam’s letter. His anger was getting the better of him, but he chose to take a deep breath, focus on what he promised himself he would do, and stopped shouting at George to shift his focus on getting Molly relaxed. 
Mick’s letter 
Molly had finally stopped trying to lunge at George and responded to Mick’s futile pleas to calm down. Yet unexpectedly, Mick saw something flicker in Daniel across the room. The younger driver watched as the Aussie’s fists clenched and his jaw tensed. He noticed the weight shift from Daniel’s heels to his toes, which allowed him to anticipate what was about to happen next. 
Mick jumped between the two drivers just in time to put a firm hand on Daniel’s chest to keep him back. But that wasn’t enough, and he ended up using both hands and a lot of his upper body strength to keep the two apart. Still trying to push against Daniel, he turned around to see a retreating George with wide eyes. The rage in Mick’s chest flared, but he pushed it down, preferring to ask a question rather than lunge at George himself, “you knew she was going to choose to get her third strike this whole time?”
“What? No! Of course not. I only knew about her plan to run off if the strike thingy ever happened. You both knew about the contract this whole time and never said anything, don’t get mad at just me!” He pointed between Mick and Molly, the former scoffing to defend himself and his girlfriend. 
“We knew the basics. There was a contract and she had three chances. We all just assumed they meant three strikes every season. Don’t try to turn this around on us!”
The men in the room started to argue even more intensely with one another, but as Molly was trying to collect her rage and put herself back together, she felt her phone buzz in her pocket. In an instant, she pulled it out, hoping it was a text or message from her best friend. But in reality, it would turn out to be much, much worse. 
haasf1team posted a new video
“Guys,” Molly said into the loud room, finger hovering over the notification. They guys didn’t hear her over their arguing. 
Her eyes were still locked on the screen, finger getting dangerously close to pressing. And then she let it.
“Guys,” she repeated louder with more conviction as her instagram feed refreshed. Mick looked over, unsure of if he’d heard her at all. 
But when Sam’s vacant face appeared on her phone screen, encapsulated in the little white box of her Instagram feed, she finally found it within herself to shout. 
“Guys!” That grabbed everyone’s attention. “Put your dicks away. I think HAAS just dropped a statement about Sam, but it’s a video.”
The three men flocked over and huddled around Molly’s phone. Silence fell over the room as she refreshed the post so it would start over and turned her volume up to full max. 
Hi guys. Uhm, pretty unfortunate end to my race here in Saudi Arabia. Got shown the black flag before the end of the first lap and that was it. And with that, I’m actually turning in my metaphorical keys and stepping down from racing all together. This was my last race for HAAS F1 Team, and my last race as a Formula 1 driver. I’ve appreciated the support you’ve all given me this season and the way you welcomed me to the team with open arms. I’ve loved every second of racing here and I’ll always look back on this season with a smile on my face. Thanks for everything. This is Sam, signing off.
“What the fuck,” Molly said plainly. 
“That’s got to be scripted. She would never say half of that stuff; it’s not even true! It’s got to be some sort of agreement with the team and the contract ending…” Mick was trying to rationalize the horribly out-of-character video they’d just watched.
“Yeah,” Daniel said quietly, “she doesn’t even sound like she believes what she’s saying.”
George looked over at Mick, “Have you heard anything from your team about this since the end of the race?”
He shook his head, “Not a word.”
“We’ve got to do something, we can’t just sit here while she’s off god knows where, and the FIA is just getting away with this like nothing even happened!”
“And Guenther. We can’t let Guenther get away with it either” Mick added painfully to George’s statement.
Everyone’s eyes locked on the man, confusion riddled in their expressions, waiting for him to explain. 
“In my letter, Sam told me not to trust Guenther. She didn’t say why, but I have a feeling we should believe her.”
They stood around stunned for a moment, trying to process this new, key piece of information. Finally, Molly spoke up, “Is there anything else in anybody’s letter that might be helpful in figuring out the whole story?”
George and Mick shook their heads. Aside from the personal message to each of them, their letters hadn’t contained any vital information as to where Sam could be, or any way to help her situation that hadn’t already been shared amongst the four of them.  
But Daniel, who had taken a seat on the edge of his bed moments ago, didn’t respond— verbally or with a shake of his head. He was avoiding eye contact with everyone, unsure if he wasn’t responding because he didn’t want to break the promise he’d made to himself once he’d read her letter, or if he was just too zoned out to realize the question wasn’t rhetorical. His mind was racing like it was wheel to wheel down a final straight before the checkered flag was waved. He could barely form a coherent thought, let alone decide how he should tell the people staring at him expectantly what had happened in this exact room only hours ago. 
The silence was deafening, everyone just staring at Daniel as they watched him fight some form of internal demon eating away at him. 
“I told her I was falling in love with her tonight and she still walked out that door,” he said out of nowhere, staring at his hands. 
George’s eyes went wide, Mick’s eyebrows raised and jaw fell open a few centimeters, and Molly wasn’t sure the gasp she’d let out was quiet enough to have gone unnoticed.
“She told me we were a disaster waiting to happen, that whatever we were was doomed from the start and she wouldn’t be able to love me back if we kept it going.”
Daniel wasn’t sure why he was telling them this. It wasn’t integral to them finding her, or figuring out what to do; it was personal, deeply personal. Yet a part of him felt like in his hypnotic state, he’d missed something; that in a way, when he got it off his chest— which he knew he needed to at some point— maybe they could catch something he’d missed in the small details.
His eyes remained locked on the floor beneath him, “But she also was talking about next season, about a future in the sport that apparently doesn’t exist as of a few hours ago. She told me she had to—” he picked up his letter to find the right line, “inflict lasting damage so it would be easier to leave.” His eyes lingered on the paper in his hands. For the first time that night, at the sight of her words in her own handwriting, he imagined Sam sitting down to write these letters, and how difficult it must've been to go through by herself. And now each line, each word, each individual character held an intimacy it hadn’t before. 
But then, when he read those characters and the words they were strung together to form, and the specific order those words were arranged in to create sentences, that intimacy vanished and was replaced with hurt. Daniel rubbed a corner of the paper between his thumb and index finger, finally looking up to meet the eyes of the three people standing in front of him.
“So I don't know what's true and what's not, but I know for sure that she still left. I watched her walk out that door, and I just let her. I’m angry at her, that’s no secret. For lying, for leaving, but most of all for telling me that I’m the only person who knows where she is and then asking me not to come and find her.”
The last sentence he spoke fell onto the silence with a boom. Everyone stood in shock at how casual Daniel said it, and then George spoke up.
“Mate, fucking tell us where she is so we can go and fix this together,” he said it as if he were confused why Daniel hadn’t continued talking. But when his expected answer never came, his chest began to rise and fall quicker. 
Daniel said nothing, only staring at George with a hard expression and full intent to keep the wordless promise he made to Sam that he would do what she asked. He wasn’t going to go and find her. 
George started toward him, long limbs moving swiftly in anger, but Molly stepped between them. 
“You’re a lousy friend if you're not going to help us go get her,” he spat trying to shove past Molly toward Daniel the best he could while still trying to be polite and not to push too hard against the girl. 
Daniel couldn’t help but scoff, his anger at George finally escaping, “Lousy friend? Just like I was back in Austin while I was laying into some rando for touching her? You think you’re the hero for stepping in to argue with the police? Well you only got to do it after you pushed me out of the way when I had it under control.”
Mick and Molly turned to look at eachother, wildly confused as to what the two drivers were arguing about. They hadn’t witnessed George and Daniel get into an argument outside of the bar in Austin: Molly had already ran off and pulled Mick with her in the direction of the Uber pickup line to rush to the sheriff’s station. 
George scoffed right back, surging against Molly again. “Under control? She was still in the back of the police car in handcuffs! If you would have just let me handle it from the beginning—”
“Why, so you could rescue the damsel in distress and be her knight in shining armor?” 
Daniel’s words stunned George, the Brit looking like a deer caught in headlights. The Aussie took a step forward, but was blocked by Mick yet again. At this point, they were arguing with each other over Mick and Molly’s heads. 
“Yeah, I know you guys have a history. And don’t think I don’t notice how you look at Sam, or how you pretend I don't exist when we’re all together. The glares when you think I’m not looking, the ‘accidentally’ forgetting to invite me to the surprise for her birthday, the little one on one talks you guys have, all of it. However much you want to deny it, I know Sam pretty damn well too. I might not have known her for as long as all of you have, but I know that if we just show up, she’s going to resent us for it. We would blatantly be ignoring the one consistent thing she asked each of us in our letters. So no, as much as it fucking hurts me to do, I’m not going to tell you where she is. Not without a plan first anyway.”
Molly could feel the small part of George’s neck that her hand was touching heat up; he was getting angry. But the lack of a response from him meant he was taking into consideration what Daniel had said. A moment of clarity, of sorts. She took the silence as her own opportunity to speak, looking George in the eye as she did.
“Daniel’s right. We can go out to…” she looked at Daniel with his unrelenting posture and firm expression before turning back to George, “wherever she is. But that doesn't mean she’s going to come back with us. She’s stubborn. There’s no doubt in my mind she’d slam the door right in our faces if we showed up. In my letter she asked for time, and said she’d come find me when she was ready.”
The group mulled over what Molly had to say, each thinking about what could possibly be done with yet another roadblock in their way. 
Daniel was the first one to speak. 
“So we make her ready. We make sure she can come back to the paddock, get her seat back, and keep racing. She doesn't need to be here for that. If we can do this before Abu Dhabi, we might have a chance.”
As if it were out of instinct, or just spite, George immediately met Daniel’s statement with retaliation, “And how do you suppose we do that?”
He shrugged, addressing everyone in the room, not just George, and tried to convince them of the initial stages of a potential plan. “I don’t know, we’ll look at her contract. Try and find a loophole or something they missed. Something we can use to read between the lines, a half truth of sorts.” 
He looked back at George, “You’re a leader in the GPDA and know all of our rights and stuff as drivers. Plus you’re good with all that legal jargon; you act like the rules can be read as easily as a picture book, that’s where we can start.”
“Yeah, but I need an actual copy of the contract to go over. In the letter, Sam mentioned it was written specifically for her. New stipulations, new sections, new articles, just for this specific situation. If I want to apply what I know to it, I need to read it first. And if she says we can’t trust Guenther, then I doubt he’d just hand it over if we asked nicely.” 
Now the cogs in George’s mind were starting to turn. The look of jealous rage shifted into one of concentration and perplection. Eyes were locked on him, hoping the driver widely acknowledged for his intelligence would be able to come up with anything. 
“So we don't ask.”
Everyone looked at the girl who had just said something completely out of character as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. She crossed her arms absentmindedly, as if she were preparing herself for a fight. “If there’s one thing Sam has taught me it’s how to get into a precarious situation and not get caught. She’s been dragging me into her mischief since we were in seventh grade, and I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve been caught. We make a plan to distract Guenther, sneak into his office and find the file. The only issue is, I don’t know his computer password and—”
George interrupted her eagerly. “We won’t need it. If she broke her contract, she would have had to sign a copy recognizing she breached its contents. The FIA will have their own, but it’ll be a gamble to assume Guenther has one. And seeing as that was only a few hours ago, we need to get to it before it's finalized. If we can’t, then we have no chance of saving Sam’s career.” “When is it finalized?” Mick asked the question everyone else was afraid to.
“All yearly contracts are finalized at the checkered flag of the last race,” George answered solemnly, the gravity of the situation settling among the group. 
“So we have 6 days to figure out how to outsmart the FIA? We’re fucked,” Molly threw her arms down in defeat, Mick walking over to try and bring her a bit of comfort. 
“Technically we only have 5”, George said matter-of-factly, getting met with glares from around the room. He threw his hands up in defense. “Well, if you factor in the start time of the race and the fact that its 2 am right now it really only—”
“Way to lighten the mood,” Mick held off from rolling his eyes and squeezed a visibly distraught Molly tighter toward him.
Daniel looked around confused, “I don’t get it, why couldn’t she tell us how she was feeling? Why did she have to run off when there are four perfectly capable people standing in this room who would do anything to help her at the drop of a hat?”
“That’s just Sam,” Mick said flatly.
Molly looked to Daniel and spoke up, “To her, asking for help is admitting defeat. I have a feeling if this works out you’re gonna be around for a while, so it’s best you learn that now.”
“We’re wasting time, we need a plan,” George wasted no time interrupting their conversation, letting his jealousy creep back out and end the conversation about Daniel and Sam’s potential future. He walked over to the table in the room and pulled out a chair. With a heavy demeanor, he sunk into it and began to pick his own brain for ideas. 
Everyone else followed suit and took an empty chair for themselves
Daniel looked at George and got the ball rolling with questions, “Look let’s just start simple. In any normal situation, how would a driver go about opposing a formal decision the FIA made?”
“Fuck,” George murmured nearly instantaneously as the innocent question clicked all the pieces into their desired place.  
“What? Share with the class,” Daniel grumbled impatiently. 
George took a deep breath, “A petition. Greater than 51% of drivers must come to an agreement, but unless they get a unanimous vote, the FIA can table the case until a later date, and we don't have a later date.”
Mick and Molly dropped their heads in frustration
But Daniel just looked at the three younger drivers, wondering why a simple petition sent such anguish through each of them. He leaned his elbows on the table, “We can get a unanimous decision. It’s Sam for Christ’s sake.”
The tone in his voice may have very well called Mick, Molly and George dumb. Daniel had no idea why a petition was such a bad sign, or why it seemed so unfathomable to achieve. 
“Yeah well it didn’t work the first time it happened, so I doubt it's going to work this time. Especially not under these circumstances,” Molly leaned back in her chair and dragged her hands down her face dramatically. 
“Of course history had to go and repeat itself,” George shook his head and angrily pushed his chair away from the table to pace the length of the room anxiously. 
Daniel could only quirk an eyebrow, more lost than he had been previously. “What do you mean history is repeating itself? I’m confused,” he asked the question innocently, but from the stunned looks on everyone’s faces it was as if he’d been playing a cruel joke on them. 
They all looked around at each other, first trying to tell if he was serious and then confused as to how Daniel had no idea, especially since he and Sam were so close. 
“2017? When she lost her F2 seat and was kicked from Formula Series racing altogether? Why do you think a talent like hers went to Indycar? By choice?”
George selfishly jumped at the opportunity to make Daniel feel stupid. Sure, he said he’d gotten over him and Sam being together. But he was angry that Daniel apparently knew where she was and wouldn't share, as well as annoyed he’d called him out on what happened in Austin. So his tone came out insulted, offended that he called Sam a friend and didn’t know what had happened at a major point in her life. 
And much to the Brit’s satisfaction, the words landed painfully with Daniel. A part of him felt guilty for not knowing, so he spoke quietly, “I know she lost her seat, but what about that makes you think it’ll happen again?”
Mick was the one to speak this time; he wasn’t too pleased with George at the moment, seeing as he’d not only spoken to Daniel as if he was a child, but also lied to everybody’s faces for weeks. So he took it upon himself to explain the incident to Daniel, and it felt like the right thing to do seeing as George played a rather large part in it. 
“Back in 2017, Sam was racing with Prema in the F2 championship. Charles was her teammate and they’d been in a pretty intense battle for the title all season. She’d just passed him in the standings and was only increasing her lead. During the second to last race in Spain, they were racing each other the entire time, ignoring their strategists and going wheel to wheel, pulling really risky overtakes, and trying to prove themselves for the Sauber seat that was rumored to be going to the F2 champion.”
Molly took over. 
“The only thing is that Sam was fighting for the win— to keep Charles behind her— and Charles was fighting to catch Sam and hopefully retake the lead. She was trying to extend the gap and he was trying to close it.”
Mick took over again to explain the racing incident using words a driver would understand. 
“The circuit in Jerez has a pretty tight hairpin. Not as tight on the entry as Monaco or as heavy on the breaks because it’s not downhill, but practically the same angle in the curve. Sam was in the lead going into the turn, but only by a little bit. She had the racing line, but lost the rear at the apex because she had to brake hard once she realized Charles was trying to overtake on the outside. He was off the racing line into the turn, but tried to regain by changing directions just the slightest. It was far too aggressive on his side. Sam did everything right; her front wheel was ahead of his and should’ve earned her respect of the space. But she tried to evade a collision when she was squeezed, braked hard, and Charles’ front wing pierced her front suspension and sent them both into the wall. It was a pretty nasty crash, and thankfully they were both okay, but when they both got out of their cars, they immediately went over to each other and started arguing—“
Molly interrupted. 
“But before the race that day, they’d already gotten into an argument. Charles had been ignoring Sam recently and she was getting annoyed so she confronted him. Not only was she upset he was being callous with her, but she was also worried the outlets were starting to create some fake rivalry between them because of how distant they’d been in the media. Charles snapped first, yelling something about how the rivalry wasn’t fake, and how Sam would never understand what he was going through. And then Sam snapped right back talking about how he was just getting intimidated by her results and was too worried about getting beat by a girl to focus on working as a team for the constructors championship. It was a pretty ugly fight. The entire Prema team was split down the middle that whole weekend. It was super awkward. They were really good friends before they became teammates, so nobody had expected something like this to blow up.”
Mick took back over. 
“Yeah, so when everyone began to blame Sam for the racing incident, and her whole team just let them, she wasn’t having any of it. She’d really been struggling with the media around then; they weren’t too fond of a woman leading the standings and breaking traditions. This was the last straw. The media ate her alive. Interviews. Publications. Everything. They blamed her for something that could have been considered a racing incident, but was technically Charles’ fault. Called her desperate, reckless, lazy, talentless; if it was an insult, they probably threw it in her direction. To make matters even worse the FIA even tried to penalize her for it in the next race. But if she was going to start from the back like they wanted her to, and Charles would finish 4th or above, he would win the title and get the Sauber seat. So she retaliated. Went to the stewards and pleaded her case. They wouldn’t even hear her out. And then she lost it; all the anger she’d been suppressing all season just came out at the stewards. Name calling. In multiple languages. She got up in their faces, slammed her hands on a desk here and there, and threw some papers for dramatic flare. Of course they were pissed off and went to her team above her head about it.”
Molly took over, knowing the story better from Sam’s perspective seeing as though she was there with her when it all happened. 
“They gave her team CEO a choice. Allow Sam to keep her superlicense but condemn Charles’ actions and upset all of golden legacy boy’s sponsors, which meant they could potentially withdraw their loads of support. Or condemn Sam for an incident she didn’t cause and revoke her superlicense and access to FIA governed motorsports. Obviously, they chose to kick Sam from the team. It was the easy option. She was already being blamed in the media, she was a minority in her series, and her temper had given them a scapegoat. It was blown completely out of proportion. But Sam being Sam didn’t go easily. She took it up with the FIA, they begrudgingly told her to start the petition, get the signatures she needed, and it would be resolved.”
Molly looked over at George, the faintest glint of buried resentment visible in her glare. 
“You want to take it from here?” 
She may have phrased it as a question, but she wasn’t asking. George played a role in the next part of Sam’s story— more specifically the end of it— so she only thought it was right for him to tell it. A punishing reminder of sorts, that even though they had made up and moved on, he still did what he’d done. 
Daniel looked over at George, a confused quirk to his enamored expression. And with a clear of his throat, George continued the story. 
“Like I said, she needed a unanimous vote to get the notion overturned immediately…”
He hesitated before continuing. 
“Any series Prema had a team in was included in the cohort of voters. F2, F3– where me, Alex and Lando were racing, Super Formula, which is where Pierre was racing before he got pulled up to race with Toro Rosso that year, and Italian F4. When the time came, for the drivers to sign, that is, we were briefed on the situation, Sam was given a moment to plead her case to us, and we were given 24 hours to decide our vote. We weren’t allowed to see her in that time period, so I was with a big majority of our friend group out for dinner. And if you haven’t figured it out yet, it was me, Charles, Lando, Pierre and Alex.”
“The fecal five," Molly added confidently. 
George held off from rolling his eyes, “Yeah, whatever. But Charles spent all night telling us about what it was like to be Sam’s teammate. All the horror behind the scenes we never saw such as her complaining about unfair regulations, needing special accommodations, always being a downer, and pointing out biases and stereotypes. And at the time, he made it sound awful. He made her sound awful. In a way, Alex, Lando, and I all idolized Charles; he was on the path we all dreamed about: nearly F2 champion with a Formula 1 seat right beneath his fingertips, and he’d told us the only thing standing in his way anymore was Sam. Which he said also meant, she was standing in our way too. Any seat she took was a seat we couldn't. She was a threat to all of our careers. And of course, Pierre and Charles were best friends; they’d follow each other into fire. So we decided that night not to sign. Worst part is, once they announced her campaign had failed, I found out she only needed five more signatures for it to have been a success. Well, greater than fifty-one percent anyway. But knowing Sam she would’ve fought tooth and nail for that case to have been resolved before it was finalized, so we let her down. I let her down. When I looked back over the years, I felt awful and with reason. I know Sam didn’t have it easy, being the only woman and all, but she told me a few months ago that she never talked about it because she didn’t want to feel like she was complaining, or that she was ungrateful for the opportunity. She was well aware that if she complained, it would be blown out of the water. So she grinned and bore it all season. I was so worried about staying on good terms with a bunch of people that could potentially become connections later that I forgot Sam was a close friend. Every day I regret—“
Still in a bit of shock, Daniel cut him off, trying to find a way to sympathize rather than be angry at George for something that happened so long ago. “Don’t waste our time explaining why you did it. It happened. It’s over. And for some reason Sam has obviously forgiven you for what you did, so in some twisted way I feel like I should look past how shitty of a person you were before your balls dropped so we can move on from this. Right now we need to be thinking of how we can prevent this from happening all over again.”
“There’s one problem,” Mick interjected, “Contractually, Sam wasn’t supposed to tell anybody. If we tell everyone that we know now, won’t that just reveal that she broke yet another contract?”
“And contractually,” Molly added on, “those of us who knew about the contract when it was signed,” she gestured between her and Mick, “are also under the same legal obligations.”
Daniel looked at George. For the first time in what felt like ages, the two men seemed to be on the same page. They both even managed to curve their lips upward in the tiniest of smirks. 
“I don’t remember signing any contract… How about you George?”
“No Daniel, I don’t recall that I did.”
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“I don’t see why I have to wait in the car,” George complained from the driver's seat. 
“Because,” Daniel said as he unbuckled his seatbelt, “your role in the plan is being able to read the contract, and you can’t do that until we get it.”
Molly couldn’t help but laugh at Daniel’s slightly humorous tone of voice, which George had held off rolling his eyes in response to. 
But Mick chimed in to offer some reassurance, “Technically you’re the getaway driver. And every secret plan needs a getaway driver. It’s an integral part of the team.”
He patted George’s shoulder from the passenger seat as the car rolled to a stop. 
George put the car in park, not really impressed by the way Mick tried to make him feel important by sitting and waiting in the car. He shifted in his seat so he could address everyone. 
“So we’re all set on the plan?”
Mick, Molly, and Daniel nodded. 
The Aussie spoke up from the back, “I’ll intercept Guenther in the paddock on his way back from the team principal briefing. I’ll start a conversation, and do my best to keep him busy for as long as possible.”
They had initially planned to sneak into his office before he even got to the paddock that morning, but they knew his office would be locked if he had yet to arrive. The admin briefings were roughly around 10-15 minutes every weekend, depending on how many issues needed addressing and questions were asked, so the group was hoping Guenther would leave his office unlocked while he was there.
“I don’t see why I couldn’t distract Guenther and you could have been the getaway driver…” George pouted. 
Daniel let out a laugh as if George had just told the funniest joke ever he’d ever heard. But when he collected himself, he noticed nobody else was laughing. In fact, they were all staring at him— George looked offended and Mick and Molly looked like he’d just cracked a joke at a funeral. 
“You were serious?”
George just sat there trying not to distract from the task at hand with his boyish anger. 
“Mate, not to toot my own horn, but I’m Daniel Ricciardo. Everyone wants to talk to me. And I’m not saying this to gloat, I’m saying this because it has a better chance of distracting Guenther for longer. Plus, I’m not sure you can hold a conversation with somebody longer than a few seconds without them plotting a way to politely leave it.”
Molly sent his shoulder a smack from beside him, which made him chuckle. 
Begrudgingly, George folded his arms across his chest and rolled his eyes. “Just finish going over the plan.”
Mick took the lead. “Since me and Molls are the only people here who technically have access to the HAAS hospitality, or at least wouldn’t look out of place being there, we’re in charge of retrieving the contract. Get in then get out as quickly as possible. No unnecessary stops or detours. I keep watch at the door of Guenther’s office and Molly looks for the contract.”
Molly took over, looking to George as she recited what he’d told her, “it’s going to look similar to the contract we signed during preseason, but it’ll have something along the lines of ‘recognition of breach’ or ‘addendum’ written in bold on the first page.” He nodded, confirming what she’d repeated to him, so she continued. “I’ll look in his desk, in the filing cabinets on the far wall, and if it’s not in there, we bail.”
Everyone nodded. That was the plan. And now it was time to execute it. 
“Alright, meet back here whenever you’re done and—“
“Guys,” Daniel interrupted, pointing out the front windshield toward the turnstiles of the paddock. 
Just past the entrance, team principals from every constructor were seen descending the stairs and heading into the paddock. 
“Shit, the meeting must have gotten pushed up.”
And then Guenther appeared from the base of the stairs. Everyone silently began to panic. This is the only chance they’d have to get this done and it potentially could’ve been ruined by a change in schedule. 
Daniel opened the door and turned to Molly beside him, “time’s ticking.” And with that, he shut the door and jogged to the entrance of the paddock. 
As calmly as they could manage while still rushing to their destination, Mick and Molly exited the car, scanned into the paddock and headed toward the HAAS building. 
It was only Wednesday morning, so there wasn’t any media around— except Netflix— which meant they could get over to the building without being stopped. 
They walked briskly, quietly, hand-in-hand, all the way through the hospitality doors. 
Without a single word being exchanged, they made their way up to Geunther’s office. It’s as if uttering a single syllable would jynx the entire plan, or throw them off, or even just make the very illegal thing they were about to attempt that much more real. So they were silent. 
That was, until they reached the door to Guenther’s office. Mick inhaled loudly and reached for the door handle. The anticipation was palpable. Whether or not this door handle pressed all the way down or was met with resistance determined the course of their plan, Sam’s future potentially along with it. 
His hand hovered over it, waiting. For what, he had no idea. 
Molly put her hand over his and pushed down for him, “we’re a little short on time for dramatic pauses.”
And with that, the handle pressed down completely and they pushed the door inward. 
Relief washed over them.
In an instant, Molly rushed in and headed straight for the cabinets at the back of the room, not even bothering to turn on the light, which Mick flicked on for her not too much later. 
She opened drawers and delicately plucked her way through labeled folders, lifting up contents of the topics that could potentially relate to Sam’s contract. 
Nothing. 
She slammed the last metal drawer closed a little too loud for her liking and moved over to his desk. 
Mick's head swiveled between the hallway and his girlfriend behind him. He knew if he helped this would probably be over quicker, but he also knew there needed to be someone keeping watch, especially now that Guenther was out of the meeting and the only thing keeping him at bay was Daniel downstairs. 
That being said, Daniel had barely intercepted the team principal before he started to head in the direction of the HAAS hospitality. 
He wasn’t sure he could hold the man off for long, because every moment or so, he’d take a few steps in the direction of where he needed him not to go. 
To catch his attention he’d brought up their plans for the last race, fueling the man’s ego by not even mentioning Sam. Daniel was smart and knew that the second he mentioned the driver Guenther had probably had something to do with banning, the conversation would be over. 
So he asked about Pietro, his opinion on their ability to clinch 6th in the constructors championship, and how he was oh so very interested about Mick’s teammate next season. Guenther smiled and entertained the Aussie, even cracking some of his own jokes— which Daniel didn’t particularly find funny— and taking the conversation in a different route. 
But then, he got a phone call. 
“This is Gene, I’ve got to take this. Good talking to you, Daniel.”
And then with a wave, he was gone. 
Daniel waited until the man was facing away from him to pull out his phone and text Mick:
On the move. Just started walking toward the garage. Hurry. 
Mick’s phone pinged and he pulled it from his pocket. He read the text and began to sweat.
“You’ve got about three min—“
“Got it—“ Molly shouted, hoisting a massive stack of papers into the air. But in her excitement, she nearly dropped it, but managed to catch it before it hit the table. 
Luckily, they were secured together and they wouldn’t be caught because of a mess of papers lying everywhere. What made her stop in her tracks is what she saw as a result of her frantic movements bumping the table. 
Guenther’s laptop screen woke up, and there was his home screen. 
It was unlocked. 
She stood there for a moment, frozen in shock. 
So without a word to Mick, she sat down in the chair and started using the mouse and keyboard like this was her own computer at home. 
He was confused to say the least. Not only did she ignore the warning that they had no time to spare, but she already had the contract. What more was there to do? 
“Molly what are you doing?” He asked it in a panicked whisper, but she didn’t flinch. 
“Creating our loophole,” she said quietly as her fingers delicately worked away at the keyboard, face so close to the screen that it cast a white glow across her features . 
“We don’t have time for this. We got the contract and we’ve got to get out of here before someone sees us in here, or worse, Guenther comes back.”
She didn’t look up from the screen to respond.  “Mick, he accidentally left his laptop open. We’re not going to get another chance to cross this part of the plan off our list. I just need a few more seconds.”
He huffed and let her do whatever it was she was doing. His head peeked back out around the corner into the hallway. It stayed like that for a few seconds, then suddenly, Mick’s head came around the corner of the door. He began trying to fold the thick contract up into a hideable size, but it was too big to be discreet. 
“Well you’ve got about 30 seconds before Guenther walks through that door so finish whatever it is you’re doing.”
Without tearing her eyes from the screen she asked, “quick, how does Guenther sign his emails to you”
Mick didn’t hesitate, knowing there was no time to, “Only his first name.” He was still struggling where to hide the copy of the contract he was holding, so he panicked and put it behind his back and under his shirt between his pants and his back. Good enough in a moment's notice. 
He heard the sound of a whoosh come from the laptop, and then the low-pitched ding. Molly then stood from the chair and made her way across the room in record time, taking a seat in one of the empty chairs on the other side of the desk. Mick quickly sat down next to her. 
And just like that Guenther walked through the door. He was taken aback seeing Sam’s best friends in his office, he wasn’t expecting them until closer to media day— and to be fair he wasn’t expecting to see Molly at all now that Sam was gone. 
“I'm not speaking about Samantha, so if that’s why you’re here, I suggest you leave.”
They both bit their tongues; their plan was in too early of stages to say anything to Guenther if they wanted to fly under the radar and draw suspicion away from them. 
So as much as it pained them, all they could bring themselves to do was roll their eyes and walk out the door. But then Mick realized he couldn’t just walk out that door without saying anything. If he was actually as clueless about the situation as he needed to pretend to be, he knew he would never leave like that. 
He kept it simple, “you can’t keep everyone in the dark for long. People are expecting an answer and we’ll be patiently waiting for you to give us one.”
Once they’d turned the corner, they both gave each other a glance, which without words told one another that was too close of a call for comfort. 
With contract in tow and whatever Molly had done on the computer completed, they walked a little quicker than usual back where George had parked their car, the two other drivers already waiting inside with the engine running. 
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Seb and George stood at the front of the conference room they’d reserved in the hotel and asked all the drivers to come to. 
It wasn’t often they called informal meetings of the Grand Prix Drivers Association, so everyone obliged without much protest. 
Seb started, “I’m sorry to ask you all to come on such short notice.” 
That was putting it lightly. It was Wednesday night. He’d only found out about Sam’s contract this afternoon, and they’d all be in the paddock tomorrow afternoon for media day.
The next step of their plan was to talk to two veteran drivers who they knew they could count on— who they knew Sam trusted— and fill them in so they could help. 
Sebastian Vettel and Lewis Hamilton nearly marched over to the FIA offices themselves with flaming torches and pitchforks when they learned about Sam’s contract and what had really happened. Of course, Daniel and George had been the ones to explain the whole thing (with the help of some written notes from Mick and Molly to help fill the gaps) so no other legally binding contracts were broken. So now, they were two more signatures they could count on and we’re helping Mick, Molly Daniel and George complete the plan 
“We came to talk about something that has happened to one of our drivers. One of our friends.”
Seb’s calming, diplomatic voice filled the room as drivers looked left and right to see who they could possibly be referring to. 
George stepped forward to take the lead on explaining the situation, a neat powerpoint presentation popping up on the screen behind him. 
“Sam,” he answered their unasked question. “We were all there when she got the black flag last weekend, and by now I assume we’ve all seen the video HAAS posted.”
George’s stomach turned at the conglomeration of reactions to his mention of the video. Some drivers looked upset, others a bit confused, while others didn’t look sympathetic whatsoever. But nevertheless he continued. 
“Well we’re here to fill in the gaps and tell you why she was banned from racing.”
At his words, almost all the drivers wore a look of pure confusion on their faces. 
“When Sam signed with HAAS, they added an addendum to her contract solely to do with her behavior. Behavior that a group of men would get to decide whether or not was appropriate in accordance to their reasoning to allow Sam to regain her superlicense,” George clicked a button and the slide changed from the photocopied front page of the contract, to the text of certain sections highlighted. Then Seb began to speak, reading word-for-word from the slide behind him. 
“The competitor Samantha Jordan Thompson is aware that the sole purpose of her return is to garner publicity and gain Formula 1 viewership across the globe. Any action which is thought to do the opposite will gain a mark on her contract toward the revoking of her super license.”
The room became even more silent, except for one nearly inaudible chuckle, which George knew was probably from Checo, Fernando or Lando. 
Seb ignored it and moved on. 
“Under protection of an NDA, Sam was given three chances to earn a mark on her contract, strikes as she called them, before her contract was revoked indefinitely. The first noncompliance was when she made the tabloids in Monaco. Photos somebody within the paddock took and then leaked themselves. Photos that many of you were cropped out of in that same state, or had recreated years prior. Inherently, she did nothing wrong. Next was Austin. Being taken into custody under false pretenses when she was defending herself after she was sexually harassed and assaulted. Something which none of us have ever experienced before and probably never will. Again, she did nothing inherently wrong, but the backlash F1 received because of this, garnered her that strike. And finally, last weekend in Saudi Arabia. It’s still unclear to us as to why she received the final mark, but we know it happened this past weekend. Our two biggest theories have been her distress about getting pole position by default, or changing grid positions with Lewis after the formation lap.”
Drivers began to shift in their seats, unsure of how to process this information. But this wasn’t about them. It was about Sam. 
Lewis turned around from the front row and addressed the drivers in the room, “Obviously, this is extremely unfair treatment. Not only is it completely invalidating for them to bring her in here as a publicity stunt, but the things she was given a mark for are completely unethical. I know people in this room who’ve done worse things and gotten away with it. As much as any of you might try or want to deny it, it’s because she’s a woman and has a target on her back in a sport with such a lack of diversity like this one. She’s an incredible driver with a bright future in this sport and we owe it to her to try and fix this.”
Checo was the first of the other drivers to break the silence, “Did she not sign the contract herself? Know all the stipulations beforehand? She still did these things and broke their rules. Why should we have to help her get back in her seat?”
George didn’t even hesitate before he spoke up, “because regardless of what any of you have ever done to her or said about her— whether it was behind her back or to the media— she’d do the same for you if the situation were reversed. She’s one of us whether or not you want to believe it.”
Seb huffed, stepping forward to diffuse the tension in the room. “Look, we aren’t going to force you to sign the petition if you don’t want to. The FIA drivers’ rules, rights, and regulation’s guidebook states that a decision can be overruled by greater than 51% of the majority or unanimous decision. Yet, it never specifies which series, or year, or division. If we don’t all unanimously decide, it’ll be a long shot, but we think our best option is to campaign to drivers across the globe who hold a superliscense and race under the FIA, in hopes of filling in the gaps. And if we bring it to the attention of the public, there’s a better chance at holding Formula 1 and the FIA accountable for their biased treatment of Sam. You don’t all have to participate, or even agree, but all we ask is that you keep this silent until we are able to announce our plan to the public. If you’d like to be a part of our message which we’ll each have to post to our socials, we ask that you stay to help us create and execute it. If you aren’t willing to participate, you’re free to leave.”
There were murmurs among the group, drivers who had just learned of the news turning and talking amongst themselves. The volume was low, as if it were disrespectful to have the conversation out loud despite everyone having been here for the presentation. 
George, Daniel and Mick stood alongside Lewis and Seb. The small group didn’t speak, simply waiting for a decision to be made. Whether that was no driver left, every driver left, or somewhere in between, they couldn’t be sure. 
All was answered when Checo and Fernando stood and left the conference room together. 
Sam’s three friends’ and two mentors’ hearts sank. Sure, they still had faith they could do it, but it was going to be a lot harder now. 
But then, Lando stood to leave. Each of them felt disappointed, watching him approach the door. From next to him, Carlos shook his head silently. Daniel on the other hand, wasn’t keen on staying so silent. 
He rose from his chair and chased after him. Once he reached his teammate, Daniel grabbed his shoulder. 
“Lando,” the young driver turned to face Daniel, “You’re seriously not going to be a part of this?”
He shrugged, “No mate, I’ve got better things to do. Losing a seat is part of the sport.”
He started to walk away, but Daniel held on tighter to his shoulder. The anger in his chest was flickering into a flame. “Did you hear nothing that we said earlier? This isn’t just her losing her seat because of something like money or ability. It’s the FIA going out of their way to discriminate using biased treatment—“
“It’s behavior, which has been the reason people have lost their seats before.” If Daniel didn't know better, he’d have said Lando was holding back a smirk. 
He looked at Lando with astonishment… astonishment that was morphing into the rage he felt inside him. “Seriously, you’re not going to sign it? Not even when you had a part in her losing her seat in the first place?”
At that, Lando’s eyes went wide. He hadn’t expected Molly to say anything about the leaked photos, but maybe Sam losing her seat changed the odds. But hearing Daniel say it, that was something he hadn't expected at all. 
And by letting out the smallest bit of his anger, Daniel had broken the dam and it was flowing like a wild river.  “Look, I know what you did to me and Sam. Everything. The absurd amount of lying, breaking into my phone and changing her number, leaking the photos in Monaco, even more lying, the empty threats. Everything. And despite it all, I’ve tried my best to be nice to you. I’ve kept my mouth shut. I gave you time to admit it. And you sat back and dug the hole even deeper. Every comment to the media, every complaint over the radio, everything. But I'm done letting you get away with being a proper cunt. So you can threaten me—I know it’s not out of your reach, keep shitting on me to the media, or whatever it is you feel so inclined to do. Just do me this one solid and sign the damn petition. You owe me at least that much. You owe her. Don’t let history repeat itself.”
Now the look on Lando’s face was nearly impossible to read. Daniel could tell there was the slightest bit of guilt, but that was shadowed by the continuation of the shock from moments ago. But the final piece that Daniel was struggling to place was something along the lines of… anger? Maybe annoyance? Almost as if he was furious Daniel had finally spoken up about this season and was holding it against him. 
“Just know, I’m only doing this so nobody asks why I wasn’t involved. Not for you, not for her.”
Without another word in return, Lando walked back toward his seat and brushed Daniel’s shoulder a bit harder than accidentally in the process. 
On the other side of the conference room, Charles sat quietly while Pierre talked his ear off. His elbows rested on his knees as his mind flew in every direction about what he’d just learned and what it resurfaced. 
To be honest, his brain wasn’t even processing the utterings of French that Pierre was sending quietly in his direction. His eyes were focused on his hands, absentmindedly messing with his fingers and the jewelry that adorned them; so focused to a point where he didn’t even notice Pierre had stood from his seat with the intention to leave. But he snapped out of it when the Frenchman scoffed in protest. 
“What are you talking about?”
Charles came back to reality, no clue what was happening only inches to his left. 
Yuki sat up straighter in his seat, “I said I’m not going with you.”
Pierre looked incredibly disoriented, and was genuinely unsure what was going on with Yuki. Was he confused? They both disliked Sam, why did he want to stay, especially after everything he’d told him about her. 
“Just because you don’t like Sam, doesn’t mean I have to. She’s really nice, a good driver too, and all season I’ve let you make me think she was some sort of girl with cooties! So I’m staying to help my friend.”
Both Pierre and Charles looked shocked. 
Mick on the other hand, let a small smile form on his lips. He remembered how tentative Yuki had been to accept the invite to Sam’s birthday surprise. Mick himself was even tentative about extending the invite because he knew how close he was with Pierre. But then he remembered just how much fun Yuki had that night, how much he’d come out of his shell and how much Sam had said she enjoyed having him there. 
Pierre didn’t put up a fight, not in front of his 17 coworkers. So he rolled his eyes and brushed it off. 
“It’s fine. Do whatever you please. Let’s go Charles,” he turned to start to leave, but then Charles spoke up. 
“No, I’m going to stay too.”
Multiple heads in the room snapped in his direction. 
Pierre, because he was expecting Charles to come along. They had both been open about their dislike of Sam for as long as they could remember since 2017. He wasn’t sure what had changed. 
Lando, for thinking that Charles would leave and not sign, seeing as he was the ringmaster in a nearly identical plan all those years ago. 
Mick, Molly, George and Daniel, because they had all wholeheartedly expected history to repeat itself. 
“Charles—“ Pierre protested. 
The Monegasque looked up at his best friend, “Do whatever you feel is right but I’m staying. She doesn’t deserve this. I made this mistake once, and I’ve lived with it since then. And recently, I learned that it’s not hard to give your support to somebody even when you don’t want to…”
He trailed off, his mind wandering back to when Sam had told him those exact words back in Monaco earlier this season. A moment when he only thought the worst of her and she’d proved him wrong. And now, as much as he wished he didn’t have to admit it to himself, he was going to take her advice. 
Pierre hesitated, not sure whether to stay with his best friend or leave as he had planned. Charles turned back to the group of drivers at the front of the room, noting Pierre’s choice to stay. 
He took a deep breath, “So, what kind of statement did you guys have in mind?”
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The salty air blew off the water with the tide and then crashed in the rocks along the shore. It did this again and again, the only difference in results being the shape of the crest of the wave when it broke along the surface. The repetitive motion hypnotized Sam, keeping her attention, giving her something to wait for. But what? She didn’t even know. The sea would not part, turn red with blood, form a tsunami or disappear. It would do the same thing it did the last time, and the time before that: crash. 
She’d been sitting on the beach for what felt like hours, but it easily could have been minutes; her focus was elsewhere. Despite being a beach, the Maine December air was frigid. The sweater she bought at a local boutique was doing little to shelter her from the cold. Nonetheless, she sat there and endured it. She thought maybe she deserved a bit of punishment for everything she’d done the last few months. 
Since she stepped off the plane from Saudi Arabia less than a week ago, Sam had taken it upon herself to physically detach herself from that completed chapter of her life. Her suitcases lay untouched in the closet of her temporary hotel room; it wasn’t ideal accommodations, but she’d already been in touch with a real estate agent in hopes of finding something more permanent. 
Because of the weather, the beach was empty. That, and the small town of Kennebunkport had little of their minuscule population to spare during working hours of lobster season. So to Sam’s surprise, someone sat down just a few feet from her. 
She didn’t want to look at the imbecile who had taken a look at an entire empty beach and chosen to sit directly next to her. But she wasn’t going to let them disturb the peace she was so desperately yearning to build. 
Well, that was until they scooted even closer to her. 
Before she could stop herself, something within Sam snapped and she turned to whoever was beside her. 
“Do you mind—“
She cut herself off with a gasp at who was next to her. 
“Corinna?” She whispered the name, as if she said it too loud, the woman with the familiar, bright smile would disappear.
The woman she’d known for years nodded, nostalgia intertwined along her features. 
“Hallo mein engel." Hello my angel
Sam couldn’t control herself and leapt forward and into the open arms of Corinna Schumacher. The woman she’d come to know better than her own mother held her tenderly, a few tears escaping them both. 
“I’m never trusting Daniel with anything ever again,” she chuckled. “ But god, I could kiss him right now. But I’ve also never wanted to slap him more in my entire life,” Sam laughed as the two women pulled away. 
“To be fair, he did tell me to let you know you only asked him not to come and get you. Mick asked me to come instead and I knew I had to. I’ve been walking around this little town for an hour trying to find you.”
The woman laughed and wiped away the tears that had managed to fall. Sam couldn’t help but laugh at the loophole Daniel had managed to find. Now that she had some form of connection to her life with her in Maine, everything she’d done felt so out of sorts, so excessive. 
“I needed to be alone,” Sam shrugged, “I think I’ve convinced myself that I like to be alone,” Sam began, ready to jumpstart the conversation she knew was ahead, “because when you’re alone… nobody can hurt you. But I think it’s also because deep down I’m afraid I won’t ever be capable of returning the love that my friends and family give to me, despite everything.” 
She wasn't sure Corinna making her way across the country for her changed what she knew needed to happen next. 
“I’m happy you’re here, but I can’t go back. Not yet. I need—“
“Time,” Corinna interrupted. “They told me you wanted time…”
Sam looked out into the ocean. She didn’t just want time… she needed time. 
“But what if I told you there was a chance to fix this, and all you had to do was sacrifice that time,” Corinna whispered and laid her hand on Sam’s shoulder. 
“What do you mean fix this? The FIA was clear that if I broke my contract I was done. And I did just that and now I am just that: I broke it and now I’m done,” Sam said matter-of-factly. 
She couldn’t decipher the look on Corinna’s face, but it smelled of anticipation. 
“Yes, well a certain group of people weren’t happy with that choice and took matters into their own hands.” She handed Sam her phone, which she took cautiously. 
On the screen was the F1 Instagram page. 
“Check the most recent post.”
Sam did as she was told, her mind swarmed with the potential of what lay within the singular, tiny square. Her gaze turned to Corinna one last time for reassurance, and with a single nod, Sam pressed the post. 
None other than Corinna’s son and Sam’s best friend and teammate graced the screen first. 
“This is Samantha Thompson,” Mick said plainly. 
Incredible moments of her on track quickly flashed on the screen, intertwined with photos of her in her racing suit in the pit lane, on the podium, and even in press conferences. 
Mick returned to the screen, “And this is also Sam.”
Then a slideshow of horrendously embarrassing videos and photos of her began to play. Her sleeping on the plane with random items stacked on top of her, her taking a game of Dance Dance Revolution far too seriously, clips of her laughing so hard she snorted, moments of being clumsy, silly, just downright herself and so many other clips of her fond memories from other’s prescriptives quickly flashed across the screen. 
They were humanizing her to the public. It was genius.
Next on screen was Sebastian Vettel, who took time and effort explaining her contract situation to whoever cared enough to watch the post thus far. The moment the words began to leave his lips, she was terrified; nobody was supposed to find out— legally Sam was in deep trouble. 
But then it hit her. She thought about what Corinna had said Daniel pointed out about specifics. Technically Sam asked him not to come and find her, she never said he couldn’t send any of their friends to come get her. So that meant…
The contracts her and her team had signed only said they couldn’t share the news, and once they signed it, it became legally binding. But Seb had never signed anything, so technically she wasn’t breaching her NDA. 
Still confused, she still paused the video and turned to Corinna. 
“Someone is going to get in trouble for leaking the contract. I don’t need any of my friends to get in more trouble because of what I—“ Sam began to grow panicked but was quickly interrupted. 
“Molly took care of it. She sent an email from Guenther’s computer with the contract attached to Sebastian. I’m not sure of the specifics but Mick said she made it look as though he accidentally cc’d the GPDA email account while meaning to cc the stewards instead. Than she deleted it from his computer completely. That smart little friend of yours really covered their trail well.”
Sam smiled, relieved. She didn’t want to know the specifics of Molly having access to her boss’s computer— plausible deniability at its finest. With that, she pressed play again and was met with Lewis on her screen. 
The soon-to-be-retired driver was so eloquent and well-spoken with his words, that the way he went about and explained the unfairness and bias within Sam’s situation even made it clearer for her, and she was the one experiencing it. 
Then came George. 
“We’ve decided to campaign to racing drivers across the globe. Those who race under the FIA and those who do not.”
Then, it switched to Valterri, “Veterans and rookies.”
On to Max, “Men and women.”
Antonio was next, “Near and Far”
And to Sam’s shock, a stoic-looking Lando, “Young and old.”
Lance followed, “From any formula series to NASCAR to endurance racing to IndyCar to motocross, all the way to karting. Your voice matters.”
Kimi Raikkonen made an appearance as well, “Your voice helps.”
Yuki came next and Sam couldn’t help but crack a small smile, “Help us take a stand against discrimination.”
Then Carlos, “Help us create a safe space for every racer who steps foot in our paddock.”
Nicholas Latifi was after, “Help us right a wrong.”
Despite being a reserve driver, Alex Albon appeared next. 
“Help our friend come home.”
And an even bigger shock was that Charles followed, “In a time like this your support is not only crucial, but appreciated as well. We ask that you sign the petition linked here to help Sam return to the track.”
Daniel appeared next and her heart dropped. Everything she’d done to him, everything she’d said to him, over the last few weeks fell onto her at the sight of his somber, familiar, brown eyes. Even the sound of his voice sent a shockwave through her. 
“We are all race car drivers. But at the end of the day, when the helmet comes off, we’re humans too. Humans who struggle. Humans with emotions. Humans who deserve to be treated as such. We are not tools, trophies, paydays, or pawns. We are just 20 people doing our job.”
Esteban followed, "If you cannot sign the petition, share this post any way possible and help spread the word and condemn the actions by the FIA, Formula 1, and HAAS F1 Team taken against Sam, before our deadline of Sunday night at 6:59pm Gulf Standard time.”
Another surprise to Sam was to see Pierre, “We were told by our superiors that together, we race as one. It’s time we hold them accountable to see that true.”
The screen went dark and a link appeared, followed by the names of all of the drivers within the video listed under a placard with the words “endorsed by” written in large red letters. 
Sam could barely utter a word after what she’s just watched. She looked at the phone in shock, the screen still frozen on the ending frame. 
“They did all of this, for me?” Her whisper nearly got lost over the crashing of the waves. 
Corinna nodded, “Just like my husband told you all those years ago when he came to see you after your father had passed. There are people out here who care about you… sometimes it’s alright to just let us.”
She smiled, tears brimming in her eyes, and pulled the woman back into another hug. 
“That was posted 3 days ago. The deadline is tomorrow, and they already have 693 signatures.”
Sam’s mouth dropped. 
“Mick and Sebastian called many of Michael’s old racing buddies to get their support. The people over at Mercedes put out a stamens that you still have a seat next year if all works out. George and Lewis sent out a detailed rundown of your situation. And Daniel… Daniel used his charm and called as many of his friends across the globe as possible. The notion and the ban were overruled, and the FIA put out a statement saying that you are welcome to race in Abu Dhabi…” 
“But next season…” Sam said knowingly.
“You’d have to place in the top 3 in this race for them to agree to let you come back. The drivers and teams are trying to protest that as well, but the administration said that this was the only way they were willing to compromise.”
The top 3 was hard, especially in such a shitty car. yes, Sam had done it before, but it wasn’t easy. And after reading headlines, she too was convinced her podiums had been at the hand of luck. It worried her, she didn’t know if she could do it.
Most of all, ater everything she’d done and said, her friends were still trying to help her. But despite the gesture, and the opportunity, she wasn’t sure she should follow through. 
Sam took a deep breath, “I don’t know, Corinna. I don’t think I can go back. It’s exhausting. And I don’t think I can sacrifice my mental health to try and live my dreams and break these barriers people keep preaching about. I love what I do but I don’t know how long I can do it if it’s gonna be anything like last season. The headlines. The rumors. Everything. I just— I just don’t know if I can handle it.”
Corinna just sat quietly and allowed Sam to get everything off her chest. The fact that she hadn’t even needed to facilitate Sam opening up about this just proved to her that the girl she’d known since she was a child needed to just be heard for a change. 
“It sounds dumb, but I’m so exhausted being the outlier. For once in my life I want to blend in and be allowed to. Being the bigger person is the right thing to do but, god I’m so sick of it. Why do I always have to change for others? Why can’t they adapt to me for a change? I just want them to treat me fairly. I want them to understand how hard I’ve worked for this. I want them to see me like any other driver. But at the same time, I want to stop putting on this show for everyone that I’ve been acting in for years. I want to drop my walls and make them hurt, make them pay, make them regret the day they chose to use me as a publicity stunt.”
Her anger was pure but so were the tears beginning to cascade down her face. Sam took a moment to control her breathing and collect herself. She turned to Corinna, her tone genuine and even a bit pleading, “I want them to apologize.”
Now the tears came quicker, but not as quick as the way Corinna pulled Sam into her embrace. 
The woman whispered in Sam’s ear as she pulled her head closer with a mother’s touch, “You have to want something else more.”
Sam’s response was muffled into Corinnas' shoulder before she lifted her head, “I want to be gentle, I want to be kind, I want to be happy. But when life gets hard and people turn their guns at me, I feel like have no other choice than to get harder to match.”
She leaned into the woman’s touch on her shoulder, turning her gaze out into the ocean once again and allowing it to wash the smallest sensation of calm over her, “Everybody always tells me ‘this isn’t how it’s supposed to be’ and ‘it’s not supposed to be like this’. But it is. This is what reality is for me. I never know what I’m going to accomplish in each race, but it has to be perfect. I can’t make any mistakes, I can rarely be involved in raveling incidents. It has to be irreproachable in every way in and off the track…”
Cortina cut her off empathetically, “But why? Why can’t you make mistakes like everybody else?”
“I have to make up for it,” Sam took a deep breath, “I have to make up for the fact that it’s me.”
The older woman stared at the girl, devastated at what the young child she once adored had blossomed into to try and survive. 
“Some people laugh while others try to help. And everybody that surrounds me… they’ve got their hands wrapped around my hope— the hope that maybe they’ll listen, maybe things will change. And they’re tightening their grip and squeezing the life out of it. So I— I don’t know how much longer I can do this. And with this offer, I don’t know what to do now. Do I go back, do what I love surrounded by the people I love, but sacrifice a part of me I care so much about? Or do I leave a life I’ve spent years building behind for the sake of my sanity? It’s just so overwhelming.”
She threw her hands over her face, hoping it would hide her from the word as she hid the world hid from herself.
“Samantha, take a deep breath. When you don’t know where you are going, all you have to do is stand still. I’m so proud of you for sticking around as long as you did. It couldn’t have been easy. This world can be such a cruel place sometimes; that’s why you’re so courageous simply by waking up each day and facing what’s ahead. Think of it like this: being born in a burning house makes you believe that the world is on fire. But it is not. There is so much in store for you outside of these fears. Know that some of your best moments are still waiting for you down the line and there are so many people waiting for you there. Yes, the world is messy, but we must find the beauty among the chaos. There are still so many places to go, races to win, cultures to experience, people to love, words to say, and memories to make.”
Sam’s mind raced, thinking of the possibilities the future held if she were to go back. The races, the places, the opportunities, the people— the person. She fought a smile as she continued to listen to what Corinna had to say, “And I know you Samantha, I’ve known you for a long time. So I know how you fear you are always putting others out by being what you think is a burden. But you don’t have to carry the heaviest burden for your struggle to matter. It doesn’t matter if other people have it worse, or if they’ve hurt longer than you, or if someone is going through the same struggle but is handling it worse. If something is painful for you, then it is painful for you. And if it affects you, it is important, and it matters. Your struggle is real regardless of what anybody says. You’re allowed to be hurt, to be affected, to feel broken or sad, and most importantly you’re allowed a space to talk about it. And the people who care about you do not feel it is a burden when you talk about it. We will always care because we care about you. The people who are meant for you will find you on the other side of all of this. We’ll help you build a new comfort zone around the things that actually move you forward, not connect you to the parts of your past that tie you down. Instead of being liked, you will be loved. And instead of just being understood, you are going to be seen.”
Corinna put her hands on Sam’s cheeks, “all you are going to lose by opening up to us is the walls that were built for a person you no longer are. Embrace the people who are willing to see you for who you are, not who everybody expects you to be. Nobody will ever be able to understand what you had to endure to heal, to grow, to be here, to be you. Be proud of the way you fought to save yourself. Be proud of the way you survived…”
Sam smiled, but the way the tears in her eyes illuminated the regret— the guilt— made Corinna fear she may have not helped Sam decide, just remind her of what she is incapable of doing. 
“I pushed my friends away, I did horrible things, said horrible things and all they wanted to do was be there for me. There’s nothing to be proud of about that,” Sam sniffled and wiped her tears. 
“Sam, you know you have a big heart when you feel bad about doing what’s best for you. You just did it in a… rather unconventional way. And about those friends of yours…” Corinna reached into her back pocket and handed Sam something. It took her a moment to register what it was. 
An envelope with her name on it, written in the messy handwriting she immediately recognized as Daniel’s. 
It took her a decent amount of time to get through the thick letter, but by the time she finished reading what Daniel had written to her, her mind was set. Now more than ever, Sam was determined. 
Determined to get back. 
Determined to fix things. 
Determined to get on that podium. 
Determined to get back what she had stolen from herself. 
She turned to Corinna, “we better get going if we’re gonna make it back in time for the race.”
The woman cheered and clapped at Sam’s choice, pulling her in for yet another hug. 
Less than two hours later, Sam was on a flight to Abu Dhabi, her itinerary displaying that she would touch down with 2 hours to spare. That meant she would make it to the paddock roughly 30 minutes before the race started. 
It was going to be close. Hell, if Sam could pull this off it would be a miracle. 
But if there’s one thing about Samantha Thompson, it’s that she would never turn away from a challenge. Not anymore. Not when she finally knew how many people she had on her side.
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amchapel · 1 year
Text
The Taming of the Second Son
Rating: Mature Category: F/M Warnings: Dubious Consent Fandom: House of the Dragon Relationships: Aemond Targaryen/Reader Additional Tags: Vaginal Fingering, Mentions of Breeding Words: ~2.5k
Continuation of this post.
Later that night, when Aemond finds you alone in a study . . .
━━▲━━
“I am a prince.” Aemond gave you a look that was both haughty and indignant. “Making demands is expected of me.”
You returned his look tenfold. “Does every prince do what’s expected of him? Or is that only you?”
Something wild flashed across Aemond’s features.
You closed your book and started organizing your parchment. “I fear the hour grows late, my prince.”
Aemond crossed the study and stopped on the other side of the desk. “Yet you do not fear me.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Fear you? I do not fear you. I doubt I ever could.”
Aemond’s upper lip twitched. “How dare you—”
“—address you in such an informal manner?” You raised your eyebrows at him. For once, he seemed at a loss for words. “If we are to be wed, Aemond” —saying his name almost made you shiver— “the only thing I fear is your predictability.”
Aemond’s eye widened. “My predictability?”
“Do you think you are original for wanting to be feared?” You rolled your parchment and shook your head. “I have met many men who want the same, and they are all identical. Predictable.”
Aemond leaned over the desk, his face only a span from yours. “What is a marriage, pray tell, if not predictable?” He had apparently decided to change the subject.
You smiled derisively and, holding his stare, said, “Boring.”
Aemond started grinning . . . but seemed confused.
It would’ve been endearing if he hadn’t been a madman.
“It is a boring marriage, Aemond,” you repeated. You tried to focus on your inkwells and quills, but once again, saying his name almost made you shiver. And you didn’t know why.
But you stared at the defined curve of Aemond’s unmarred brow bone. The bumpy bridge of his nose. The arrogant corners of his mouth—
Oh, gods, he’d caught you staring.
You tried to hurry up . . . but lost your grip on your inkwells.
“Gods—”
“(Y/n)—”
You and Aemond both reached for them as they landed on the desk.
Thankfully, only one shattered.
Unfortunately, it was the fullest.
It splashed across the beautiful wood . . . and your and Aemond’s bodies.
You froze.
Aemond tsked and flicked his hands, trying to clean them (and failing). “If only you’d conducted yourself with a modicum of decorum and not stared at me open-mouthed like a—”
“—don’t you dare—”
“—common whore.”
You gasped. “How . . . dare you.” You were so angry your blood boiled. You started to raise your hand to slap him, but—
“Aht, aht, aht.” Aemond gave you a dubious look. “I wouldn’t move if I were you. The only thing between the drawers and your ink is your dress.”
You looked down, suddenly embarrassed. “Gods, what’s in this desk?”
He shrugged as he walked around it. “There’s no telling.”
You glanced around thoughtfully, listening to the ink and hoping Aemond was right for once, that your skirts would protect the desk’s contents.
“This was my great-grandfather’s favorite desk.”
“I’m so—” You cut yourself off. You hadn’t been paying attention, so when Aemond stepped behind you, his thighs flush with your skirts, your skin broke out in gooseflesh. “Aemond.”
“Hm.” He gently squeezed your elbows. “I don’t feel like taking the time to move your things elsewhere, so hold onto them tight. And hold still while I clean up your mess.”
Your mouth dried at his proximity. “Aemond, this — this is a lost cause. Let us get the servants instead.” And then, remembering you were angry with him, you added, “I doubt you even know how to wipe your own—”
You gasped when Aemond crouched behind you and clutched the bottom of your skirts. Your whole body reacted with a shiver.
“Relax,” he drawled, “I have yet to touch you.”
“Yet?”
Aemond huffed. “If you mean to tell me that your clothes are an extension of your body, then my future lady wife has been touched by many before her lord husband . . . and that doesn’t seem appropriate, now, does it?”
You huffed right back. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
Aemond didn’t dignify you with a response — he unelaborately unhanded your skirts and clasped your ankles. Your legs twitched involuntarily because his calloused palms were like unadulterated, strong sunshine on your flesh, warm and fiery, like thawing yourself after having slept in the shade on an intolerably hot summer day turned cold by sunset.
“Is this” —Aemond stroked the back of your calves with his thumbs— “what you meant?”
Your mind, the traitor it was, wandered, ousting any and all rational thoughts, seating imaginings of his hands elsewhere. Squeezing your thighs. His fingers, where only ever yours had been before, at night, rubbing and curling inside . . .
The small of your back tingled, and you steeled yourself so you wouldn’t shiver again.
But your knees jerked toward each other.
Aemond chuckled. “Was this all it took to shut you up? A simple touch?”
“You forget yourself,” you said, not knowing why. Maybe speaking would ground you.
Aemond hummed, his smirk somehow audible. “Perhaps I have.” He squeezed your ankles farewell before returning to your skirts.
Your whole face burned. “This cannot be bettered, Aemond.”
“Mm. We’ll see about that.” He rose, and with him, so did your skirts.
Your heart was beating so hard it was shaking the beads on your chest. Your family, House Dōron, one of the surviving Valyrian families, had made a name for itself not only because it mined precious and semi-precious stones but also because of what it did with said stones. You had been raised in a family of creators — blacksmiths, goldsmiths, and more. But the dress you were wearing, which was currently a lost cause, had not been made by any Dōron (thankfully). Your lord father had told you to pack modestly for your time in King’s Landing — gods forbid the Targaryens and Hightowers were outclassed.
Aemond slotting a well-muscled thigh between your own pulled you from your thoughts. His chin rested on your right shoulder as he held your skirts to the edge of the desk.
And after a moment of silence, you asked, “Now what?”
“We wait,” Aemond said, his breath tickling your ear and cheek.
You looked down at the black mess being soaked up by your skirts. You could still hear the occasional pitter-patter of ink.
“Is this what you had in mind?” he asked suddenly. “The opposite of boring?”
You gathered your thoughts before saying, “I crave your cruelty no more than I do your deference, Aemond.”
“And what if” —Aemond brushed his lips against your ear— “I am the one who finds you lacking, my lady wife?”
“I never said you were lacking. If anything . . .” Swallowing your nerves, you turned your head to the side of his face. “You feel like too much.” You bit your lip, holding your breath, wondering how he’d respond.
“Is that . . . is that your attempt — did you just make a dirty joke?”
Deciding to use his own words against him, you answered, “Perhaps I have.”
Aemond huffed and shifted behind you, pushing his rapidly hardening crotch against your skirts. You lost your balance, but he kept you upright with his chin on your shoulder.
“Aemond—” You cut yourself off when you heard footsteps outside. Even Aemond froze. And when you thought the stranger was gone, you continued, “Aemond, this is highly inappropriate. If we are to be wed, I mean — but until then—”
Suddenly, someone knocked on the door. “Hello?”
Your stomach dropped. You tried to think of something to say to send the stranger away, but Aemond did first.
“Leave at once,” he barked, his voice startling you. “I am studying and do not wish to be disturbed.”
You both watched the shadow under the doors hesitate.
“Forgive me, my prince, I am trying to find Lady (Y/n). I am her lord mother’s lady-in-waiting.”
“And you think I know where she is?” Aemond raised his voice. “Leave.”
“Yes, my prince. My apologies.” The shadow disappeared.
Aemond breathed in through his nose and out his mouth. “Well, then.” He cleared his throat. “That was close.”
For some reason, you were worried he’d leave now, and even though you’d hated this idea at first, you’d grown to like his warmth at your back.
“No one knows where I am.” You found yourself staring at the staining on your skirts. How it moved past even Aemond’s hands now.
“You’re right,” he said.
You hadn’t realized it before, but his voice was much softer. Not only because he didn’t have to project anymore but also because . . . it was for you?
What a foolish thought.
“Perhaps I want you to promise something,” you said, trying to keep your voice even.
“It depends.”
“Promise that we will wed . . . or release me. I cannot be caught like this.”
Aemond seemed to think about it for a beat— “Cut me.”
You tried to face him and almost headbutted him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Cut me,” he repeated evenly. He freed your skirts but not you — he grabbed your forearms. “And cut yourself. Let us bleed and promise. Let us touch. Without shame.”
You fought against him for a second, but he didn’t let you go. “And if I’m lacking?” you asked, blood rushing in your ears.
Aemond chuckled and dug his fingers into your forearms. “Excluding my tongue, every fiber of my being has a mind of its own, and therein lies the problem. And your answer.”
You were about to say, “enough with the riddles,” but when Aemond pulled you against him, you realized he was talking about his cock.
Oh.
. . . oh.
You weren’t lacking at all.
So when Aemond tugged your wrists, you let him. You dropped your things, including your remaining inkwells. They exploded everywhere, but you didn’t care.
Aemond found a fairly sharpened quill, wiped it on your skirts, and hugged you closer to cut his left palm in front of you. Blood welled from the thin line, and a beat later, you let him cut your left hand. You gasped at the stinging pain, but it didn’t last long.
Aemond threw the quill and used his left arm to hold you against his body. His right hand battled your skirts until it was squeezing your hip, and you found yourself giggling, amused by his efforts to wage war against your clothing.
“Have I done something to amuse you?” he asked breathlessly.
“No,” you said quickly, digging your fingers into his arm across your body. You didn’t want him to leave.
“I haven’t?” His knuckles caressed your inner thigh. “Then maybe I should.”
“Then maybe you should, my lord husband,” you taunted him.
Your breath quickened, the crown of your head tingled, and your belly warmed. You swore you felt butterflies all the way in your toes. And suddenly, Aemond’s hand was between your thighs, and your cunt clenched in anticipation. His long fingers pushed your underwear aside, and you squirmed against him, trying not to whimper, but it was all you could do to keep your voice down.
“You’re wet?” he murmured in your ear. “And all because I touched your ankles?”
“You give yourself . . . too much credit,” you gasped, holding onto his arm for support.
Aemond’s fingers prodded your folds, and your eyes fluttered shut. Your head rolled back against his shoulder, and everything below your belly tightened. It was maddening, having someone else’s hands on you. You would’ve rubbed yourself to completion by now if you’d been alone.
“You’re so soft,” he breathed, his fingertips circling your entrance. “I wonder . . .” And he shifted so he could rub your clit a few times.
“Aemond.” You melted against him, shaking, but he stopped after a few seconds.
You wished you could reach down and grab his hand — show him how you liked to be touched — but your skirts were in the way.
“Spread your legs. Let me show my lady wife what I promise.”
You exhaled shakily but did as Aemond commanded, and then two of his fingers were pressing inside you, and the whole world fell away. Your hips twitched, trying to roll down, but Aemond half-growled and kept you standing straight against him with a hand on your chest — his fist closing around your layered necklaces. He started thrusting his fingers inside you, and even through your skirts, you could hear how wet you were.
You whispered Aemond’s name with an urgency you’d never heard in your voice before, wondering how he was hitting you just deep enough — just right.
Your eyes rolled back, and when he sped up, you sucked in a lungful to beg, moan — anything, but Aemond slapped his left hand over your mouth. You fell back against him, your chest heaving, listening to him breathing hard against your neck. Something warm and wet pressed against it, and you realized it was his tongue.
Your belly quivered, and a foreign pressure built just below your navel, drawing your legs together. And just like that, your body wasn’t your own. You tried shaking your head, tried telling Aemond that this had never happened before, but he wouldn’t let you go, and he wouldn’t stop, and he threw your hips against the desk to hold you in place, for leverage, and everything felt like too much, too much, too much—
“Too much?” Aemond groaned as quietly as he could in your ear. “We’ve only just begun. Just wait until after we’re wed before the gods.”
The arrogance had seeped back into his voice, but you couldn’t care. Not when it felt like his fingers were singlehandedly taking you apart, breaking you down. Burning you from the inside out. Sweat dripped down the back of your thighs and knees. It accumulated on your sternum and between your breasts. It rolled down your throat where Aemond had scraped his teeth against your vulnerable flesh.
Today, this man had demanded your favor, and tomorrow, he would be your lord husband.
“Come,” Aemond rasped, his hips thrusting against your backside. “Come, (Y/n). Your lord husband demands it.”
He thrust his fingers against the front of your walls, and suddenly you were coming, too stunned to breathe, to think. Your body was lightning squirming against a black sky, and your blood was singing, staining Aemond’s sleeve and hair as you fisted it in euphoria.
He removed his hand from your mouth, and you slumped forward, shaking and trying to catch your breath. His fingers were still inside you, and you felt yourself clamp around them involuntarily.
“Perfect responses,” he said, removing his fingers. “Your legs drawing together, your cunt milking me . . . You’ll be so easy to breed, my lady wife.”
You blurted out a laugh. “An instinct. The less I’ll need to bed you, my lord husband.”
And when Aemond laughed with you, it was genuine.
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imdumbhi · 1 year
Text
- what lurks deep inside
• summary: a kiss that isn’t her first but that makes her feel things that unravel truths.
• pairings: Wednesday Addams x Fem reader
• warnings: none.
• a/n: been real busy but fell in love with Wednesday. i hope you enjoy! (please go and check out, “sacred”!)
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Wednesday Addams didn’t fall in love.
She wouldn’t dare to do that.
But for the first time in her pathetic useless life, she felt something within herself that begin to creep in and take over. It stab her in a way that caused her to become unlike herself. She found herself becoming soft, mushy, and vulnerable but that's not even the worse part. It's the fact that, it was only for one person and one person only. Wednesday does not remember when it first began to happen, what she does know is that, when you touch her it sends shivers up and down her body.
Wednesday believes you have curse her and that’s why she feels this way, acts this way. Enid even notice but she knows better than to question what was wrong with her. Yet, Wednesday should know better than to ever doubt Enid.
“What’s wrong?”
“Why is anything wrong?”
Enid raises a brow at the goth girl and points at the cello outside on the balcony. “You’ve been playing your cello more than usual and you’ve been playing it like a madman.”
“Nothing is wrong, Enid. Now, if you excuse me I need-” Wednesday steps aside and moves to past Enid to get to the door but Enid stops her.
“She’s asking about you.”
The mention of you makes Wednesday completely still.
Okay, Wednesday may have been avoiding you and making up any excuse to not be anywhere near you. Again, Wednesday doesn’t remember when it first happened but one night you had joined the girl on one of her investigations to the woods. Oh how that was a huge mistake! A terrible one. An unforgettable one.
Unspoken feelings swam around the two students as their shoes crush the leaves under them. It was the only noise beside the animals that lived around and hid when flashlights shine their way. It had been only a couple of minutes in when you had abruptly stop and your back was facing her so she didn’t know what was wrong.
“Is something the matter?” The black-haired girl had asked the wolf.
She watch as you turn around and face her, only a few feet away. Now, the noises all together in the woods, surrounding them are as silent as ever and Wednesday can’t look away. She can’t look away because you’re staring at her with this look that causes her to feel like she’s underwater.
With such soft eyes, you walk into her space and slowly rose your hands to cup her face. Was she paralyze? It felt like it. She couldn’t move nor could she speak. This is a cur—Wednesday gasp is cut off by a pair of soft lips and everything delightful like murders and such aren’t as delightful as this.
Her body felt like it was vibrating, she felt as she could finally breathe and because your hands had found their way under her sweatshirt and touch the skin there, it cause Wednesday to pull back panicking and ran, never looking back.
“I don’t care.” Wednesday answers coldly and continues her way, leaving a sad and confused werewolf behind.
The day went on. Wednesday went to every class, her eyes straight to the front and doing her work. She acted as nothing was wrong and it wasn’t. The kiss was a mistake and Wednesday won’t be falling in love like her parents. Fuck, Wednesday huffs in frustration as class ends and thinks about heading back to her dorm instead of heading to the cafeteria where you would be.
Wednesday is tired.
The goth girl finds herself somewhere in the woods laying peacefully under branches that cover the dark cloudy sky. Her jaw clenches as she thinks about you and thinks about ways of getting you out of her head, to possibly erase you out from her mind. It’s a possibility that she’s willing to risk if that means getting rid of you.
You somehow pour yourself inside her and now you’re lurking deep inside. Wednesday doesn’t know if she likes it or not. It’s haunting. It’s scary—she’s scared.
“I knew I’d find you here.”
Wednesday snaps up and sees you standing there with a half smile. The girl had to admit that it hurt that you weren’t smiling at her like you usually did and Wednesday thought that she had to do something to change that.
Wait what-
“Look, I’m sorry I kissed you and touch you under your sweatshirt. I was an idiot to not ask for your consent and I understand if you want to keep avoiding me. It’s my fault anyway, I just wanted to apologize. You know, even if it doesn’t matter to you anyway.” You shrug your shoulders and shove your hands in your pocket. “I shouldn’t have lost control. I have no excuse but you just smelled so good.” You clear your throat when Wednesday brows furrow at you. “Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. See you around.”
Wednesday watches as you go to turn around and leave but you’re giving her so many reasons why she should murder you, hide you and put you away forever, far from her, yet, she can’t watch you leave. You can’t leave her, she can’t lose you and never speak to you again. Wednesday knows besides Enid, you really care about her in such a way that leaves her wanting more and she knows that you could’ve left if you wanted to but decided to change the ending leaving Wednesday to fall even harder for you.
You linger like death and you’ve been following Wednesday ever since she arrive, she just didn’t know it. Death? Because whenever Wednesday thinks about it, she knows the only way she’ll ever die is if it has anything to do with you. She’ll risk everything for you and so, Wednesday can’t help how she sounds when she calls your name.
“Y/n!”
You stop, of course you did, deep down she knew you would do the same and come back to her. Do whatever it took to stand by her side. Even if Wednesday was different, difficult to understand and it was haunting to know what she was capable of. But that never stop you.
Wednesday Addams is done fighting.
When the pin drops, a kiss is reborn and bodies are finally united.
“Right where you left me is where you’ll always find me, Wednesday.” You said to her and it took a stab at the pale girl’s heart and she absolutely love it. Wednesday went right ahead and kiss you again. Now that she has you here, in her arms, she won’t ever let you go again.
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oncewhenalongtimeago · 7 months
Text
Always an Angel, Never the God Pt 2
Pairing: Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III x Runaway!Reader
Words: 3119
After a few months alone in the sky, you find yourself with an unlikely roommate.
Tags: Gender neutral/intended Female, Runaway Reader, Angst, Unrequited love, Requited love, Heartbreak, grief
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You grind your teeth, eyes watering as a heavy booted foot pushes you down further into the wooden ship floor. The ship rocks angrily as does your dragon, struggling against the barbed netting.
“Who are you? A new vigilante?” The leading trapper, Erik son of Erik or something, asked, bending down above you. He had, coincidentally, been the one to shoot you down.
 “Where is your… hideout?” He leaned down into your ear at your silence, speaking in a raspy whisper. You got the vague impression he was trying to be intimidating, though the end results were more in favor of making you blush.
You were thankful for the hard wood covering your face and, therefore, your embarrassment. Of your belongings, you were only able to manage a mask and had taken to running around ensconced in furs with nothing but a dagger to your name. 
You’d recon you looked much like a wild animal, straddling your nadder bare of a saddle. You had not done too well on your own. It was hard. You had always been a team player if by team player you meant a leech on society. At least, you had been told so.
So of course you had, unwittingly, stumbled onto dragon trapping territory. Extreme sport dragon trapping territory. It didn’t help that you and your nadder hadn’t been on the same page, you two being unable to sync in the way you’d seen the other riders with their dragons, which left a bitter taste in your mouth.
He’d go left when you were trying for right, and when you finally decided to just go with it, he would change his mind and throw you for a complete loop. It was safe to say that even if you got out of this mess you never wanted to step foot on his back again.
You breathed a silent sigh of relief just as the trapper let out an annoyed one, stepping off of you in favor of yelling at his men for damaging their goods. Meaning, your nadder. Was he really yours, though? He did try and make a break for it without you.
 While debating whether or not you should try at the ropes shackling your arms together, you grunt frustratedly, noticing a new tear in your garb.
After running away and getting captured, you had not expected to be kidnapped again by some insane-looking madman in a mask. Though you did look like two of a kind, so it was fitting. 
Your nadder had its wings torn irreparably, so, unfortunately, you had to retire him early.
You found small comfort in that it hadn’t abandoned you on the ship that one final time, though the irony that it had led you here was not lost on you.
He visited sometimes. He took to life in the sanctuary very well. 
You didn’t, a borderline prisoner before you’d been able to win over the trust of the resident feral gorgon. Sort of. She was a woman who let you see her face, more on accident than anything else. You hadn’t let her see you or hear yours. However you weren’t inclined to speak of her nicely, least of all in your head, after the number of weeks you spent trapped in a cave at her behest.
Finally, you’d been let out. Let out enough to walk more than just the short stretch of stone and greenish ice that made up your prison. The endless turquoise was beginning to make you sick.
Recently, you found a real friend in the sanctuary, and this dragon, it was truly yours. Affectionately named, fed and groomed, you two were almost inseparable. It was the kind of friendship with a dragon you’d completely missed out on on Berk.
It was hard to maintain given your captive status, but that was alright. 
There probably wasn’t any social profit involved in being a vigilante, which is why you assumed the crazy dragon lady had taken to speaking at you in her spare time. About the dragons, what they ate, what she had to do. Pointedly she gave away nothing of their true secrets, not that you wanted them, nor anything of her vigilant-ing. Not verbally, though the influx of injuries both on her and the dragons spoke volumes.
She did give away her name.
You groan, rubbing your eyes under your mask as you cradle the thing to your face with the other.
“You’re quite attached to your mask,” Valka said amusedly, shifting the logs roasting in the fire with a stick, pushing them back and forth as you sat in silence. You hardly ever spoke a word, nowadays.
Her dragon, the stormcutter, stared at you with large eyes through the licking flames.
Neither of you mentioned that the only real reason you’d been able to keep your mask so long was that she’d been kind enough to let you. An allowance you’d been given on a whim. One you clung to with all the nervous energy of Fishlegs to his dragon cards.
“... I’d rather not be,” You grumble, voice raspy from disuse, “It’s stuffy.”
“Oh,” Valka looked at you, amused and maybe a little surprised to hear you speak at last, before going back to tend to her fires, “I was starting to think you couldn’t speak.”
“Funny.” You said, lifting a sharpened stick off the ground, spearing it through a slimy, gutted fish from the basket beside you. Your nose wrinkled as you heard the sharp point break skin. No amount of faux stoicism could make it seem pleasant to you.
“I have a few questions,” You grimace under your mask as she asserts herself. She can ask them all she wants, but there’s no guarantee you’ll answer. 
You might, probably, as keeping secrets hasn’t always been your strong suit. She’s certainly been trying to open you up for a while. You’ve not given her any leeway before though, no reason to give her any now. 
“How did you tame your dragon?” She asked, pushing a particularly thick dragon searching for morsels. Valka guides its head gently away with her spare hand before any of the other dragons crowding around them get any ideas.
You wait for a moment, still wondering whether you should follow along. Eventually, you decide to answer.
“Wasn’t me. Someone else back home did it,” You huff, “I just followed along.”
“...But not very well,” Valka hums. It’s obvious she doesn’t believe you. Unfortunately for her, that is not your problem. 
 She pulls a small trout off her own stick, tossing it to a crowd of young dragons, who you knew had acquired a taste for the cooked, through no fault of your own.
You should feel offended, but you know she’s right. You lean away from a wandering dragon snout as it searches you for morsels. The stormcutter, after a look from Valka, shoos it away with a large wing.
 “Where are you from?” 
You feel the embers from the fire as they rise, the furs of your coat becoming nearly unbearable, your skin heated up rapidly. You wrinkle your brow with annoyance as you feel a drop of sweat slide down the side of your face.
“Where are you from?” You retort pointedly.
She studies you cautiously, as if she could glean your intentions from your body language. And she very well could. Or the heat was getting to you, the wells you’d spent in solitude had finally done some real damage to your psyche, and you were hallucinating.
“Berk,” She says. You sit back, surprised, “And you?”
“...None of your business.” You wonder how long it had been since she had left. You pray she would not know you.
Valka raised her eyebrow. 
“I’m serious.” You ground your heel into the dirt. It was a touchy subject, still.
“Berk, too. …Stop looking at me like that.”
Valka leaned back against the ice wall where you rested, looking out over the empty ocean as dragons flooded to and fro the sanctuary. You squinted far into the distance, as if you thought you might be able to see through it if you tried hard enough.
Your hair tugged wildly by the winds out from behind your mask as you sat, one leg extended and the other bent as you leaned back against one arm. 
You probably looked as you felt, weary and unkempt after a long flight over the seas with your dragon, who clambered among the icy spike-lined wall with clawed hands. You felt refreshed yet somehow at odds with yourself still.
You cared little for your bedraggled demeanor the same way you hadn’t cared for much at all in a while. It might have made a cool picture had you not slipped and fallen onto your face on the ice just a few minutes prior. Whether you had broken your nose or not on your mask had yet to be uncovered. All that mattered was that Valka hadn’t seen.
Dragons crowed. Through the cracks in the walls of the sanctuary, the wind would whistle through if it hit the right angle. Louder than anything else were the sounds of the waves crashing against rock. 
But between you and Valka, it was silent. A contemplative silence, the kind of silence you shared with others after a long thought or a hard day’s work. That’s how you knew she was going to break it.
“Why did you leave?”
You are annoyed at the prospect but are no less expectant. After the moment passes, you are not surprised. However, it feels as if you are the one who should be asking.
“Why did I leave?” You ask, “Does it matter?”
A loose chunk of ice falls off the side of the sanctuary as a large titan scrambles violently down the side, chasing after a bright yellow baby. You spot a shape through the fog, distant and blurry enough to resemble a bird though there are no birds here. You pointedly do not think of your small hut, even less of green eyes, and tiny, fading freckles.
Valka tilted her head in your direction, reaching a hand out to scratch Cloudjumper under his chin as he lowered himself towards her, “It mattered to you.”
You open your mouth, but you are only able to choke on your breath. No one has ever said something like that to you, not in a long while. You don’t understand why it’s hitting you so hard. Maybe it’s the isolation.
You blame the burning of your eyes on the biting wind.
 “Why did you leave?” You ask in return, once you’ve taken time for yourself, though you have an idea. You can’t keep your voice from sounding a little bit scratchy.
You unhook your dagger from your belt, trying not to seem so attentive. Instead, you take to carving random shapes into the ice. A gronkle. A nadder.
“I was taken.” She sighs, quieter now. Lost off in memory as you both often are.
The nadder’s spikes are much too long. The gronkle looks more like a sandwich than a dragon.
“Taken?” You prompt and you begin on the outline of a fury. The result is shallow and scratchy. 
It’s one of your own designs, not the same as the one Berk uses. Astrid liked the other one better, not yours, so that was the one Hiccup went with.
“I didn’t leave,” She insisted, almost as if she was trying to convince herself of the fact,  “I had a son, and a husband.”
You’ve seen her by the fires, while trying to sneak out of this hellish ice maze. She talks to herself then. On particularly paranoid days, she’s slept by you, in the same caverns, so you’ve heard it. She talks in her sleep and says things she would never say awake, or had you been around. It’s all so very unsettling. 
“Really?” You remarked with false astonishment. The facade is flimsy, but you figured you’d give her the benefit of the doubt. The grace to assume that you’d no idea what she was on about.
With prompting, you might have seen it earlier. In her slim form, the one she kept hidden under thick furs and thicker armor. You squint. They have the same eye color. The same hair. They both have higher cheekbones, though her son more resembles his father in that aspect. That is all.
Valka shoots you a reprimanding look. Cloudjumper, now creeping down the wall behind you, taps you on the back of your head with its tail at her behest.
Valka was of the air. Though he had the same flighty tendencies, he was very grounded, like his father, though he might either be proud or loath to admit it. He loved flying, yes, but he loved inventing and processing and routine just as much, if not more.
He did when you were close. Of course he did, he spent his whole life on it. You couldn’t really say you knew him anymore.
You didn’t pin Valka as the type to enjoy the same in any sort of manner. But that suited you just as well. You found that as time went by and as you were granted more freedoms, you appreciated it. It made it easier for you to forget. To ignore.
In the end they, you and she, she and you, were one and the same.
“But what does it matter, if you never went back?” You grumble, pushing your dragon’s head away as it nudges you towards the cliff, crooning for more flying time.
You guessed that was why she clung so viciously to the safety of her sanctuary. Why she hated other people so much, why she’d had no faith in the humanity of other people, why she’d held you here so strictly. If things could have been different, then what did she give it all up for?
Though you’d never had something else. Not even the option. You’d never been given it. Valka hadn’t been given it either, but there was a sure difference between something being there and not. 
The atmosphere is silent again, tainted with some darker undertones. If you’d had to put a name to it, you might have called it grief. 
“I want to leave.”
Valka doesn’t look surprised at your request. And indeed, it’s been no secret that you wanted to leave. Maybe she was glad for it, or maybe she was sad at the news. 
After all, you settled into each other's presence long ago. You had a good sort of companionship.
And from that companionship, you learned a lot without even trying, just by watching. Eventually she took notice and she took an active part in teaching you the truths she learned during all her years in self-imposed isolation. 
You two weren’t incredibly close but you could tell Valka was grateful for the company, grateful to have someone maybe even a little bit like her, even if most of it was spent in silence. 
You still left the Drago fighting for her. It wasn’t your fight, it was hers, and you made that clear.
Neither of you brought up Berk. Ever. 
You were content to just come and go as you pleased, for a while. Nonetheless, despite your freedom, you felt restricted to the small world of the Sanctuary and the empty skies around it. There was no place for you on the ground or by the seas, where hunters and trappers swarmed by the thousands and Drago’s armies grew by the day. 
You spent so much time learning from her and yet it felt like no time at all. Which was why you were shocked when you’d truly learned how much had come and gone in full. 
You were out slinking in the shadows, seeking shelter from a storm on the same small rocky outcropping of island that had a shipful of trappers stranded, in a rage and a panic as they attempted to recover their assets. The winds had been too rough to fly, so you had no choice but to wait and listen.
You didn’t believe it at first. It had been…
Months.
You wondered if he’d been married, yet.
Years. 
The idea hurt, not as much as you’d thought it would, still not as little as you’d hoped.
Under clear skies, you found an inn, untouched by everything except grass and trees.
You asked, “What day is it?”
The large man, a burly viking scrubbing down a wooden cup with a torn old rag, had looked down at you skeptically from behind a beaten pine and stone counter.
Two years. It had been nearly two years since you left Berk. Just as Valka’s attachments kept her at the Sanctuary, you needed to go. To run.
Since you had heard it, spoken it, the urge to run, to fly hadn’t abated at all, going from a wispy thought at the back of your mind to a full blown need. Your dragon too had become antsy, maybe feeding off of your nervous energy. Eager to take off, to fly new skies.
“Are you sure?” Valka asked searchingly. You two were stationed over a heavily planted cliff over a large main pool which consisted of the main cavern within the Sanctuary, once again in front of a fire, eating your own meals as the dragons below ate and exchanged fish. 
You were already packed, your mask secured as it had been for all two years you had been in this place stuck between confinement and dwelling. You almost regretted it, not telling her your name, but you couldn’t bear yourself to her knowing who she was, not truly. Not until you’d washed yourself of that particular weight. 
“Yes,” One day you would, if you ever saw her again. Once you were released from the heartache and pain of your own making, “I am. Thank you.”
You started out into the pale foggy sky,  mounted your beast as smooth as you’d ever done, which is to say, not smooth at all. You’d only ever managed it right when Valka was watching, anyhow. It was odd how that worked, maybe the peer pressure was finally starting to kick in.
As you took off and the sanctuary became smaller and smaller both to your eyes and your mind, as the tight bundle of chains in your chest dropped and the world opened up to you once more, you felt light, and free. 
Once again, there was no one to watch you and no one to hurt for besides your and your dragon. Endless opportunity. Thousands of ways to keep going.
You wondered what your face looked like.
You couldn’t wait to see it again.
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saylorsaysstop · 2 months
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Say Don't Go | Stephen Strange
a/n: i just wanted some angst and here it isssss
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Everything had felt like it was crumbling around you for the last few weeks. The distance he put between you, the quiet which left you almost hollow. You would stare at the front door, beckoning him to walk through it, only for him to let you down. You didn’t know what to do or how to make it better. What was there to say to someone who wasn’t putting in the effort to love you as you deserved to be? 
The evenings he does come home, he won’t look at you. He won’t touch you. It’s as though a part of him that once adored you had died and all that remained was this silhouette of a man who used to belong to you. You knew his life was a strangled case of despair, that everything seemed to crumble around him after the accident. But you never expected Stephen to shut you out. You thought there was more to your relationship than this bitterness. 
Sitting on the barstool in front of the counter as you finish looking over a case for tomorrow at the hospital, that’s when your heart scatters in your chest at the unlocking of the front door. He stumbles inside, his complexion drained of all color. There is a heap of sorrow sitting in the middle of his back. The weight he carries looks detrimentally heavy and within time, you knew he’d fall to the ground and be crushed by his grief. 
“Stephen?” You call out to him. Your eyes trace the outline of his body, his bandaged hands, and the withering of his fingertips as he splays them on the door. You can see him taking in a couple of deep breaths before the sound of his forehead thumping against the wood has you closing your folder and crossing the distance before your brain can catch up. 
Standing before him with his back turned to you as it has been every time you see him, you swallow the thickness and blink back the tears. You will not cry in front of him. You promised yourself that you wouldn’t let him see you fall apart. 
“Stephen,” you say his name with a little more force. 
“What?” He snaps harshly, his head craning to the side. “What?” he asks again when you don’t respond immediately. 
“Where were you?”
“I was–” he draws in a sharp breath and stops talking. “Nowhere.” 
“Nowhere? Please, Stephen. Spare me. I know you’re hunting like some madman for a cure, some sort of way to fix this situation. When will it stop? When will you let me in?” 
Stephen’s shoulders clench. You can see it through his clothes. The tension could be sliced with a knife as thick as it lays between you two. “You couldn’t possibly begin to understand what I’m going through.” 
His words stab like a sword, straight to the heart. 
And the next words out of your mouth make him flinch. 
“I would be able to understand if you’d drop this grieving facade and let me in!” 
You wince after the term grieving, knowing that struck a chord in him. He slowly turns to face you and you see nothing but wariness on his features. His eyebrows pinch together as he glances up at the ceiling, forcing himself not to look you in the eye. 
“Grieving facade?” 
“Stephen, that’s not what–” 
“No, no. You don’t get to say that to me! I don’t expect you to understand what I’ve lost because of this damn accident! These hands,” he lifts his scarred hands, deep blooms of red and purple and blue splotching his skin from the surgery. His eyes are glassy but he won’t let them fall, just like he knows you won’t cry in front of him. “Are my life. My livelihood is centered on what I can do with them. I’m a neurosurgeon! The best there is! And now I can’t do what I do best! You wouldn’t understand. You’ll never understand.” 
You stare up at him and your body trembles with the desperate need to sob. “You shouldn’t even be here.” he finally pushes past you and leads himself into the kitchen. 
“What?” your voice cracks. 
“I don’t need you.” He whips around, his face reddening as the anger surges and boils to the surface. “I don’t need you coddling me! I don’t need you waiting here every night for me! I don’t need YOU!” 
The words are out of his mouth when the first tear slips free followed by another. And another. And another until his image is completely blurry from crying. That was the final thread, the string that held you two him. He just severed it in two. Your head falls into your hands as you sob uncontrollably, listening as the man that you loved just screamed that he didn’t need you. 
You’re not sure what’s going on in the rapidly spinning world but the moment you feel his touch on your shoulder, you find your bearings and flinch away from him. 
“I-” 
“NO!” You scream. “You don’t get to say that to me, Stephen! You don’t get to hurt me because YOU’RE hurt! That’s why I’m here– to help you! I know how much this accident has affected your life. I know there’s nothing more you love than to be in that operating room, saving lives, and making a name for yourself! I KNOW THAT! But you… You don’t get to say that to me. I can’t believe you said that!” 
Stephen’s face morphs into so many emotions but the one that sets in stone is remorse. Shaking your head, you walk over to the counter and grab your folder and purse. “Where are you going?” he asks. 
“Someplace where I’m needed since you don’t anymore.” 
“Sweetheart, I’m sorry.” Stephen’s voice is tight. “I’m just angry. I-”
Holding up your hand, he stops talking. “Figure it out.” 
His eyebrows lift. “What?” 
You point a finger at him. “Figure out what it is that will make you happy. Figure out what you need.” 
“I need you.” he hisses. “I need you!”
“You should’ve thought of that before you said you didn’t.”
“Am I not allowed to be angry?!” Stephen’s voice roars. 
You angrily wipe away your tears as you sling your bag over your shoulder. “Of course you do, Stephen. You’re allowed to fight, kick, punch, and scream. But never will you take that anger out on me, the only person who has stuck by your side since the accident happened! Who’s taken off work to be with you, to help you recover? Who’s cooked for you? Who has ensured you met every appointment, drove you to those appointments, who has loved you through this entire freaking mess?! ME, STEPHEN! ME! I’VE LOVED YOU THROUGH IT ALL!” 
Stephen flinches the higher your voice grows. Your chest heaves, a quick rise and fall as your nerves pulse with the need to throw something. You bite hard on your cheek until you taste blood, knowing that if you say anything else, you’ll bury the casket that was once your love for Stephen. You adore him. You love him. But you’ve officially reached your breaking point. 
“I need some time to regroup.” You exhale. 
“How long will that be?” Stephen dares to ask.
You shrug your shoulders. “I don’t know.” 
“I love you,” Stephen says.
His heart squeezes in his chest, waiting for you to say it back. But when you inhale and grab the doorknob, he feels you slip through his fingertips.
“Bye, Stephen,” you say before leaving.
It’s when the door shut behind you and you made it to the safety of your car that you sobbed your heart out.
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chez-cinnamon · 10 months
Note
Sorry if this has been answered before, but how do Fionn’s neighbors react to the puppets? I mean they’ve clearly seen them around at some point, so what do they do? Do they call the police? Do they storm Fionn’s house demanding answers? Are they all so scared of the Things coming from Fionn’s house that they just stay away? Has anyone noticed and tried to talk to the puppets? If so, how do the puppets react to people who aren’t Fionn talking to them?
I imagine little kids notice and try to talk to the puppets before getting dragged away by their panicked parents who think Fionn is a madman engaging in unethical biological experiments at his house lol
Fionn doesn't have too many nearby neighbours, where he lives is more closed off from his town - he lives in a small clearing near the woods - but he's a few minutes walk away from the small town where his neighbours are. His neighbours think of him as a loner, quiet and moody and often drinking, but they don't think negatively of him cause he will help out someone struggling if he crosses paths with them. Some have had conversation with him, enough encounters to start raising eyebrows at his weird behaviour - the ransacking of thrift stores for clothes, the extra beer and lollipop purchases, him shoving around 8 weird looking strangers they've never seen, etc.
If their disguises were to slip, they'd be fear at first, parents trying to hold their kids back - but a little old dear would adjust her glasses and say "Hey.. ain't ya lot the puppets from my daughter's old puppet show?" and one by one the adults start to recognise them. Needless to say, Fionn was gobsmacked that his small town are Welcome Home fans!
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birrdies · 5 months
Text
needs
last life fic (1.8k words)
Etho was good at mostly being alone. 
Silences were easy things to fill with simple nothings: tinkering with faulty machinery, tearing his latest project down to its barest bones and starting all over (just for the hell of it), exploring as far as his tired legs would carry him. When hands are busy and a mind is occupied, it’s difficult to notice the nothingness close in on him. 
Solitude. It didn’t matter the world or game. To Etho, it was as much a talent as it was instinct. To build a fortress up from the ground and pretend he didn’t care that he didn’t have enough to fill the empty rooms. To spend nights alone, because it’s for the best. Because he didn’t need it any other way. There was nothing he needed that he couldn’t wear nor fit in his pockets. 
There were things he wanted, sure, but need and want were different things. Want was frivolous; it was a thorn in his side that he never could muster the courage to pull out. Need, was permanent. Need was saved for when things went bad. When the thorn was ripped from skin, when he needed to staunch the bleed. 
This game wasn’t any different.
Want was a crumbling snowy castle resting like a tomb in the center of the end of the world. Want was a pair of twin staircases, a shield painted red and blue, and his name scrawled on the deed to his own freedom, handed straight into the hands of a madman. 
Need was a fence splitting their home in two, the ravine and impossible task that separated them. Need was a burrow underground, a set of new faces, a message of death written in red. 
Need was picking at the remains of what once stood as his home like a vulture. 
Only one of the towers still stood. The moon hung low in the sky overhead, a silver spotlight on everything that he once had. The ground was upturned all the way through to the stone underneath. Dirt and wood and remaining pits of soul sand sunk into the holes dug and blown into the groundwork of the castle. Like it had tried burying its own body but couldn’t quite get the job done. 
Etho skulked his way across the wreckage. This place belonged to the enemy now. It wasn’t his home anymore, no matter how much it masqueraded as such. 
There wasn’t much left. A few potions he’d tucked away underground days before. A beaten set of iron armor. Scraps of gold and stale bread. Less than he wanted and more than he needed. The rest he could recover with time buried underground. That, he was used to.
Burying himself underground, gathering what he could to fool others into thinking of it as strength, only to rise from the dirt with a sword, bow, and the need to be the one to walk out of there. Not enough to be a phoenix rising from ashes into flames, but rather a body climbing out of the dirt to fight and survive.
He’d played more games than he could count that way, in the solitude and protection the caves and earth below had to offer. When he was alone, there was nothing that could truly hurt him— not in any way that mattered. Really, he should’ve been relieved. He should’ve felt lighter on his feet, a burden shed from his back. 
But instead, he didn’t feel much like anything at all. 
It hurt less than it should have, but more than Etho ever anticipated. The thorn had been pulled clean and he bled, but he felt less the pain and more the uncomfortable twinge. The calculated knowledge that skin had been broken but the detached thoughtlessness not to feel it. 
He was alone again. But that was okay. At least he knew what to do with it.
“Find anything good?” Etho looked to the half-collapsed parapet above his head. Cleo leaned over the edge, her hair hanging in her face. Another need, if he wanted to survive. The more bodies the better. It didn’t make him any less alone, just more fortified. Etho wasn’t so prideful as to think that he’d last out there on his own. Not this late in the game. Not with the Reds out for his blood. 
With a sigh, he shut the chest he’d been rooting around in. “Invisibility potions,” he said, packing whatever he could away in his pockets. “Extra armor I stashed. Some iron and gold. I bet Grian and Joel already picked up everything else worthwhile.” 
Cleo hummed. Etho grasped the wrung of a rickety ladder to hoist himself up onto the parapet beside her. She stood with ease, hands on her hips and an amused quirk to her mouth as she overlooked what never belonged to her.
“We’re going to stick it out with Ren and his shadow freaks?” Cleo asked after a moment. He could feel her gaze on the side of his face, but he didn’t return it. “That’s our plan?”
We. Our. She was just as bad as Bdubs. Etho had the thought to be angry, but really all he could manage was confusion. Curiosity. How did they make it look easy? Like handing over trust was as easy and mindless as breathing? Meanwhile he was a machine short-circuiting between two ends of a binary: what his heart longed for and what his head demanded. The desperation to claw more out more lives for Bdubs from anywhere he could. Anywhere except himself. 
“The Greens and Yellows should stick together,” Etho said, detached and factual. “At least until we knock out the rest of the Reds. Joel and Grian are going to be a big problem… Tango, too, now that I think about it.”
“You’ve made a lot of enemies this go-around, haven’t you?” Cleo teased. He knew she was teasing, but suddenly he was punched by the first flare of something since he stood on the opposite side of that cliff face. 
Etho scoffed and turned to overlook the rest of the hills. Lava burned far off, an orange glow that bled into the night sky. When that wither erupted from the heart of the snow castle, Etho thought that was the end of the world. But it was nothing compared to this: the damage left behind.
“I didn’t even do anything,” he said quietly. 
“You didn’t have to,” Cleo retorted. She rested a hand on Etho’s shoulder and he lacked the grit to brush it off. There were few people he both feared and respected in equal parts, and the person standing next to him was one of them. “Surviving this long always puts a target on your back. Plus, you’re the lucky guy who’s left to clean up all of Bdubs’ messes.” “You know a lot about that, don’t you, Cleo?” 
He didn’t know where it came from. The words were nasty and sharp but his voice was even and calm as ever; he wasn’t convinced he’d even said it. But Cleo only raised her eyebrows in surprise and turned her attention to the rest of the world. She pursed her lips. 
Neither of them said anything. The longer he stood in the bones of something he loved, the more he felt the ache start to sink in. Like pins and needles it started to spread from the pinch in his side, through his chest, up the back of his throat, and behind his eyes. It didn’t hurt yet, but he knew it could. He knew it would, when the worst of the numbness receded. If it ever did. 
He didn’t know if it would. He didn’t know if he wanted it to. It was so much easier to deal with like this. 
“It‘s okay if it hurts,” Cleo said finally. The hand on Etho’s shoulder never wavered, only squeezed the tense muscle there. “I’d be more worried if it didn’t. You’re more human than you pretend to be, Etho.”
The center of the snow castle's been caved in. A bomb detonated by Martyn. The walls to the east were crumbled and resorted to nothing more than dust. A fatal blow from the wither. A large, steep drop between the gap under the walls and the bottom of the hill. The last time they fought side-by-side. A single fence post remained in front of the door to their bedrooms. 
He was good at being alone. In fact, he was better off for it. 
He didn’t need Bdubs. He never needed Bdubs. It was convenient. It was easy. But then it wasn’t. Bdubs kept dying. Bdubs needed more lives. And suddenly it wasn’t anything about needing him and everything about wanting him. About doing everything within his power to keep him.
It was silver-tongued lies and trigger-finger betrayals. Scar coiled in fishing line, an axe through his throat before he knew what happened to him. The curse was easy to blame, but the truth was it simply provided him an excuse. A loop-hole. He would’ve done it either way. He would’ve made a way. 
Because he wanted Bdubs and his brain forgot where the line between want and need stood. 
“I could’ve given him a life.” A stab of remorse. The numbness started to fade as the sun threatened to rise and reality set in over the remains of what he had. “Things could’ve been different.”
“Maybe,” Cleo relented. She sat leaning against an old pillar of wood that supported what was left of the parapet, staring at Etho with an unusually soft expression that he had a difficult time feigning strength in front of. “But we both know Bdubs was dead either way.” 
“No.” Etho shut his eyes. He willed the burning behind them to fade. “I could’ve given it to him, Cleo,” he said again, because she didn’t understand. 
It was his fault. He fought tooth-and-nail to protect the single thing he was foolish enough to let in. Only to shoot it right down in the same breath. A punishment for his mistakes, doled out by his own hand. 
The wood beneath him creaked. Cleo shuffled behind him until he felt her body heat slotted against his back. Her arms wrapped around him, trapping him in her embrace and squeezing his shoulders and chest tight. He didn’t open his eyes. Because he feared when he did reality would come crashing down, and he’d be forced to remember that one of them would likely be dead by the end of the day. 
Cleo hooked her chin over Etho’s shoulder. The side of her head pressed flush with his. Shakily he laid his hands on top of hers, afraid she’d let go. 
“For what it’s worth,” she said against his ear. “I think he’s already forgiven you.”
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everythingelseisextra · 7 months
Text
Love Song (Tommy's POV)
Part Nineteen: No Harm
Part Eighteen out of Twenty-One (Or Twenty-Two, haven't decided yet) Author's Note: Sorry for how short this is, and sorry for not responding to any of your guy's comments on the last part. I did read them, but I've been pretty overwhelmed with work recently and it just felt like Too Much. Description: Tommy formulates a plan. Warnings: language, references to trafficking, and poetic rambling Word Count: 1559 (again, I'm so sorry.) Tag List: @theshelbyslimited  @ttaechi  @weaponizedvirtue  @majesticcmey  @optimisticsandwichgladiator  @zablife  @princesssterek  @mm0thie  @callsignvenus @ay0nha  @mgdixon  @fairytale07 @dreamy-caramel  @ce1iat  @algae-tm @dragonsondragons @trentknd @nothingofsimplicity @babayaga67 @shelbydelrey @globetrotter28 @look-at-the-soul @notalxx @chaengist @cookiez56-blog @skxawngs @h0neylemon
I thought nothing would bring me to my knees like that night. A sapphire on bloodied, pale skin. A gunshot ringing in my ears. Bones cracking beneath my brother’s hands. Glass shattering on the man with the gun. Her weight going dead in my arms. I turn women into martyrs. Does that say more about me or of them? Do we care too deeply for each other, or do we care too little about ourselves that a sacrifice comes easy? 
Once Arthur pulls the bullet from the muscle in my shoulder and once the blood is stemmed, I stand, stagger forward, and almost fall. He catches me with an arm around my back and mutters like a madman, words thick and full of anger. “Where did they take her, brother? Where did they take her?” 
He shakes me to break me out of the stupor I swim in. My gaze stays rapt on the door where I last saw her, where a group of hardened men walked her out. She went willingly and I sat and watched. I did nothing to protect her. 
“I don’t know, Arthur,” I say quietly. “I don’t know where.” 
He shakes me roughly again. “You giving up? You letting that woman get taken by the kind of men who think little girls are all grown up and ready for them? She’s not fucking dead, Tom, use that head of yours and go get her out of there.” 
There’s one person in this damned city who could tell me where to hunt. One person with the knowledge of quiet transportation, stealing someone from their fate, bringing them home or into hell. Whether he’ll give me the gift of his advice and help me take her back; that’s a gamble. That’s the game I have to play, and I know for a fact that he will play it, too, toy with me the way I toy with others. Smart as I am, that man. Smarter, even. 
I nod slowly and Arthur releases me. I pull a cigarette from its box in my pocket and light it, an excuse to take a deep, smoke-filled breath. An expectation lingers in Arthur’s watchful eyes. 
I turn to look at him, faint mirth twitching my lips. “You’re not going to like this.”
“Good morning, Mr. Solomons.” Seven hours since they took her. Seven hours since she was walked out of Arrow House and placed in a car and driven off somewhere where hell and earth merge. And I am wasting time with pleasantries, because Alfie has a propensity towards what he refers to as ‘tittle-tattle.’ 
“Yeah, it is.” He meanders from the window over to my desk, placing a hand on it, leaning his weight on the wood despite the cane in his other hand. “You’re lucky I was passing, weren’t you, because you still seem to believe that you are some god from some religion that has the power to summon up Jews of a particular standing.”
I nod vaguely, wait for him to continue, picking bits of information from his phrasing. Confusing man, he is, with a habit of mixing metaphors and twisting his own words. He takes patience, like a stallion who’s learned he’s bigger than the rest. 
“I’ve heard that you took in a girl, didn’t ya, who’s opened her legs to just about every man I’ve met from France! Now, that’s something, now isn’t it? You, a man of some standing, and a girl who used to go from place to place with a collar around her throat and someone begging her to use one of her holes. Now, I don’t know which one she used for you, but word is, she’s got you wound tight. You do know how many of them there are, don’t you? I could get you a man, I could, who would bring you any girl you like. White slaves, and all, you know the like.” He sits down on the chair beside me. Light shines in from the window across from us and plays in his bright eyes, serving to make them almost transparent. “Best thing to do, mate, is to forget about her and stop asking those questions and killing those men, right? You’ve been fucking around with the slavers, now haven’t you, you silly boy?”
I raise my eyebrows and stand, walking over to the windows to stare out at the grounds. “You’ve been keeping tabs.”
“Yeah, well, I was curious, now wasn’t I?” His mouth twitches, not into a smile, but sideways, thoughtful. 
The sentiment hovers between us. That I had stepped lower than my standing to be with a woman who hadn’t a clue about the life I live. He doesn’t realize who she is and how easily her world merges into mine. Basic understanding stays preserved through the horrors we both have witnessed. And now, for the first time, she needs me, instead of the other way around. She can’t protect herself against something as big as the organization she’s been taken by. 
“Then you should know, Alfie, that she can survive it.” I keep my back to him, one hand on the sill, the other in my pocket. 
“Just like you did when you came back from France and like your fucking family did when they put the nooses around their necks. Eh? Just like that, right?”
“Just like that, yes.” I turn to face him, walking forward to put both hands on my desk, looking down at him. “She will survive, and we will bring her home.” 
“Yeah, about that, there’s someth—”
“You will be properly compensated once the job is done, Alfie.” I look down at the desk, working my jaw. Reaching down, I slide a piece of paper towards him. “You’ll find the sum appropriate.”
He pulls his spectacles out of his suit jacket, his hand trembling slightly, and peers down through them at the paper. He looks back up at me, eyes bright. “I do, yeah, I do. Suppose you want a miracle worked, do you?”
“Something like that.” I step back, drawing myself up and taking a deep breath, eyes still on the paper. 
I pay for her life, for her freedom, in the same way men pay for her body and their own pleasure. It brings a boiling sensation to my stomach and my jaw tightens slightly.
“If you asked, I wouldn’t fuckin bring you a woman.” Alfie shakes his head. “Not from them, anyway.”
“I know.” I move around the desk and sit down next to him again. “While I waited for you to arrive, I formulated a plan.”
I don’t believe in God. 
I once talked to Him while I stood in my grave. I asked Him to give me a reason and He never could. He looked down on the End and he saw that it was Bad. He turned his back on me, and I turned mine on him. An eye for an eye, like the bible says. 
I believe in poets and I believe in lovers. I believe in soldiers and I believe in hatred. I believe in the innocent and the guilty and the men and women and in-between who fought for the right to their lives. I believe in Her. 
I know we are not soulmates because I can’t feel what She feels, not at all. We will love each other on purpose when this is all over. We will choose to fight for each other like we do now. We will stop sacrificing for the other and start building. 
I don’t believe in God. 
This life, this brief glimpse of heaven on Earth, this is all we fucking get. Not what we expected but what we have, and for Her, I would waste this one life on fighting. I would go back into that tunnel, that birth canal, and I would defuse and defuse and defuse and light and light and light until there were bombs under the men who keep Her and a pathway for Her to crawl through, back through my grave, my mother’s womb, and out into the world. 
I have always had a hatred for Cain. Am I my brother’s keeper? Yes. We are our family’s keeper. It is being human that bonds us together, and to kill kin is to kill yourself. I have tried to do both, accidentally, on purpose, the line blurs. I understand him, though, in a way. If I was not in God’s good graces, I would want to wander. I would want to roam. His punishment was wanderlust and still, there is more to see. Always more, more, more. No place to go but everywhere. 
I don’t believe in God. But I believe in Her. 
A defiant act of creation, both haunted and holy, chaotic mess of joy and fear and memories pounding between temples. She is the reason I get up in the morning, and She is the reason I can sleep at night. Like every beautiful thing, She is poisonous, and I know those who bite into Her flesh will feel Her wrath. 
There is an intimacy beyond sex or love to self-destruction, and I promise to Her that I will not give to it. I will give to Her and only Her. She saw the worst of me and hardly flinched. 
I don’t believe in God.
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candycandy00 · 7 months
Text
The Trade Part 3 - A Dabi x Reader Zombie AU
Smut. 18+. Zombie Apocalypse AU. Oral, stripping, voyeurism, handjobs. I know I said part three would be the final part but it got too long!
Part three of four! Read Part One Here!  Read Part Two Here!
The following week was more eventful than your past several months in the woods combined. The most notable change was the number of zombies wandering into the woods. You ran into them occasionally before. It’s not like they were a particularly rare sighting. But now you were seeing multiple zombies each day. You avoided most of them, either climbing trees until they passed you by or simply going the long way around a certain area. A few times you had been forced to kill them. 
You also ran into Touya more often, three times in one week. The first time you found him in his camp, the sound of jangling metal cans alarming you before you even saw him. A group of zombies were stumbling over the wires to get to him, the biggest group you’d seen since you’d stopped going near cities. There had to be at least twelve. 
There were already five dead at Touya’s feet, and he was swinging his bat like a madman, screaming curses at the zombies as dark, dead blood flew through the air. You hurried over and killed a couple yourself, but he really hadn’t needed your help. Once he’d calmed down, he’d seemed happy to see you. Almost immediately, he’d offered a trade. You could rest in his camp and eat a hot meal with him in exchange for a handjob. It was a hell of a deal, so you accepted. 
You sat beside him on a log as he watched the small fire, his pants open, his cock hard and standing straight up. You carefully stroked his length, using the precum leaking from his tip as lube. You started slow, then worked up speed as he moaned for you to go faster, harder. His head was tossed back, the scarred flesh of his neck exposed and somehow alluring. 
The way he groaned and reflexively thrust his hips up against your hand excited you. And when he finally began twitching in your grip, you knew he was close. Just before the first shots of cum escaped, you suddenly leaned over and wrapped your lips around him, catching the warm fluid in your mouth. 
You heard his surprised voice saying, “H-hey! You don’t have to do that…”
But his voice died away as you used your tongue to clean him up. When finished, you sat back up and wiped your mouth. 
“I thought this would be better than avoiding stepping in it all night,” you said, trying to sound indifferent. 
He stared at you for a moment, as if trying to figure something out, those beautiful blue eyes making you feel self conscious. “I’m not complaining,” he finally said, then stood up from the log. 
The second time you ran into him, you were fleeing four zombies that had cut off your path in the woods. You had slammed your heavy backpack into the head of one of them, but apparently not with enough force to destroy its brain, as it had simply climbed back to its feet. 
You were running toward a tree you’d passed earlier that looked easy enough for you to climb but still high enough that the zombies couldn’t reach you. As you fled, one of them had grabbed hold of your hair and pulled you back. You screamed and thrashed, losing your composure. You hadn’t been in this much danger since the early days of the outbreak. 
Suddenly the zombie’s grip had loosened, and you turned to see Touya, smashing the brains of all four of them in quick succession. When they were all dead, you stood there, shaking. 
Touya had only said, “Come with me,” and led you to his camp. He gave you food and water and didn’t ask for anything in return. He even let you sleep there that night without any sort of trade involved. 
Now you were on your third encounter. You’d found his van in the woods, and walked around it until you spotted him, messing around with a small side compartment. When he looked up and saw you, his eyes went wide. He suddenly took hold of your arm and pulled you closer, then pushed your back against the side of the van. The backpack you’d slung over one shoulder fell to the ground. 
You were surprised, because he’d never been this aggressive since that first time he found you looting his van. His body was so close to yours that you could feel his body heat, and he placed one hand on the van beside your head. 
“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said, and there was a hunger in his eyes that you hadn’t seen before. 
Your heart was beating so fast that you were sure he could hear it. But you kept your voice steady and said, “Oh? And what kind of thoughts were you having about me?”
He leaned his face closer to yours. “I was just thinking how I haven’t really touched you yet. Not the way I want to.”
You couldn’t stop a blush from spreading over your face. What had gotten into him? Had he been feeling lonely? Or was he just frustrated that there had been no trade last time? You gave him what you hoped was a flirty grin and said, “Are you proposing a trade?”
He nodded. “Let me touch you, wherever I want,” he said in a husky voice. 
Your own voice sounded small and nervous by comparison as you asked, “What will you give me in return?”
His lips found your neck, just barely brushing over your skin, his metal piercings grazing over you in a way that sent shivers through your body. “Anything you want,” he answered, finally kissing your throat. 
You swallowed, trying desperately to keep calm. “Okay,” you said in a quiet voice, and that’s all the confirmation he needed. 
His hands moved over you greedily, sliding under your tank top and then under your sports bra, shoving them both above your breasts so that he could squeeze and grope the exposed flesh. Then his hands were unbuttoning your denim shorts. One hand slipped inside your panties, fingers eagerly parting your slicked folds to reach the hypersensitive nub within. 
You moaned, your hips instinctively bucking off the side of the van and against his fingers as two of them pushed inside you while his thumb stroked your clit. His mouth was still on your neck, but it was moving down toward your chest, where it eventually closed around one hard nipple. 
“T-Touya…”
He glanced up at you, but said nothing. His tongue ran over your breasts as his fingers pumped in and out of you. When your legs began to tremble, you put both your hands on his shoulders to keep from collapsing. His thumbnail lightly scraped over your clit, and you came on the spot, clenching around his fingers and moaning his name. 
Your legs gave out, and he quickly caught you in his arms, holding you steady until your orgasm passed. Then he stood back to give you space as you panted to regain your breath. When it was over, you buttoned your shorts and pulled your bra and shirt back down as Touya went back to work on his van. 
“So what do you want for the trade?” he asked, a little more sheepish than usual, as if he were embarrassed. 
You sat down on a nearby rock and watched him tinker in the side compartment. “I want you to tell me more about you, where you’re heading, who you were before all this, that kind of stuff.”
He looked over at you with a surprised expression, clearly not expecting that. He sighed and closed the compartment, then walked over and sat on a log across from you. “How about I answer five questions for you?”
“Deal,” you said, your mind already forming the questions. “For starters, what was that all about just now?”
He frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“As soon as you saw me you were all over me,” you told him. “That’s not how you usually do things.”
He averted his eyes from yours, staring at the ground. “Two days ago I found some zombies eating someone at the base of a tree. There wasn’t much left of the person at that point. Just bones and gore mostly, and a few strands of hair… the same color as yours.” 
In your mind, you could picture the scene, and you could see how he would have jumped to conclusions. “So you thought I was dead.”
He nodded. “You sleep in trees. I thought maybe you fell out in the middle of the night, maybe even broke your back and couldn’t move while zombies gathered around you.”
A grizzly fate, and probably true for whoever the poor soul was that Touya had seen. But thankfully, it hadn’t been you. You felt a familiar heat in your face when you realized what his words meant. Suddenly his desperation for you took on a different meaning. 
“Got another question?”
“Yeah,” you answered, gathering your thoughts. “What did you do before the outbreak?”
“You mean like a job?” he asked. “Not really anything to be honest. I’d just got my license to do piercings at a tattoo parlor, but all this shit happened two days before I was supposed to start.”
Looking at him, at the various piercings dotting his face, his answer made sense. You tried to decide on your next question. You really wanted to ask how he got his scars, but you didn’t want to be insensitive. Above all, you didn’t want him to think the scars bothered you. If anything, the opposite was true. You found them intriguing. 
So you went in a different direction. “Why didn’t you want to stay with your family during all this?”
Touya stared at you for a moment, his blue eyes seeming to darken slightly. “I don’t get along with my old man, and he’s in charge of the whole household, even in a situation like this. He’s used to bossing people around I guess. Being a politician and all.”
You’d never been very interested in politics, so you probably wouldn’t have recognized his father if he told you his name. But you had always heard stories about “dirty” politicians. You couldn’t resist asking, “Was he the good kind of politician or the corrupt kind?”
Touya held your gaze as he said, “The kind that beats his wife and kids.”
Your mouth fell open, but you had no idea what to say. You thought for a moment, but all you could come up with was, “I’m sorry. That’s terrible.”
Touya shifted on the log. “Yeah, I know. And before you ask, I did try to get my mom and siblings to come with me. I didn’t just run off and abandon them. But they felt safer with him I guess. He’s supposedly trying to be a better person lately. Not that I’m buying it.”
You decided to drop the matter of his father and ask about something else that interested you. “How many siblings do you have?” 
His expression lightened a little. “Three. All younger. One sister and two brothers.”
“I’m surprised,” you said with a laugh. “You don’t give off big brother vibes at all.”  
Touya laughed too. “Took years of practice, trust me,” he joked. “And oh yeah, that was your fifth question.”
You were surprised. “What? Really? I thought that was four!” You went back over the conversation in your mind, and realized that you hadn’t counted when you asked what kind of politician his father was. You sighed dejectedly. “Oh yeah, I guess it was five.”
Touya grinned. “That completes our trade then.”
You were about to speak again when a loud gunshot rang out in the distance and put you and Touya both on alert. You both sat there perfectly still, listening. It was a rifle shot. You’d heard it occasionally over the past week, always far enough away that it didn’t directly endanger you, but too close to ignore. You glanced at Touya to find him wearing a grim expression. 
“Fucking idiots,” he muttered. “What kind of moron keeps firing off a gun? That’s why there’s so many zombies in the woods lately.”
“I think I know who’s doing it,” you told him. 
He looked at you expectantly, waiting for you to go on. 
“The night before we officially met, two guys approached me in the woods. They had rifles. They knocked me out, tied me up, and made it clear they planned to rape me. I managed to get away and hide from them. Haven’t seen them since.”
Touya’s face had shifted from curious to disgusted. “Fucking animals. If you see them again try to lead them to me. I’ll bash their fucking balls in with my bat.”
You smiled at the thought. “Thanks. But they had a lot of weapons, including those rifles. I think they’re the ones firing the gun. I think they’re luring zombies to the woods on purpose. Maybe to smoke me out.”
He grinned again. “I can deal with their rifles. Don’t worry about that.”
After talking with him a few minutes more, you stood up and walked over to the van to retrieve your backpack, then pulled it onto your shoulders. 
Touya glared at you. “What are you doing?”
You shrugged. “Leaving?”
He frowned. “There’s more zombies out here than ever. You just told me you were almost raped by two guys with guns who might still be after you. Are you seriously gonna keep doing this alone?”
You were quiet for a moment, then said, “I didn’t hear any offers to let me stay.”
He sighed. “You need an invitation? Fuck it. Fine.” He stood up and looked you in the eyes. “Stay. At least until the gunshots stop and the zombies thin out. Stay with me.”
You thought you might melt into the ground at that moment, but instead you dropped your backpack onto the ground and went back to sit on the rock. “Okay,” you said, then flashed him a smile. “So what’s for dinner tonight?”
He laughed. “Get off your ass and help me make a fire first, freeloader.”
The two of you worked together to set up camp, not knowing at the time that your fragile sense of safety was about to be demolished in a few days. 
********
Three days later, the two of you parked the van in the woods, set up the wires and cans over the doors, then walked to the river to wash up. You decided to take turns bathing while the other kept watch, since there were so many zombies around. 
Touya went first, stripping off his clothes without a moment of hesitation and walking into the water with his soap. You tried to avert your eyes, but your gaze kept being drawn back to his toned, scarred form. 
“You can look at me,” he called from the river, wearing nothing but a grin, “just keep one eye on the woods!”
“Yeah, yeah,” you called back, scanning the trees for movement. Touya’s bat was lying at your feet. 
“You might as well,” he said, drawing your eye back to him as he was lathering up his hair. “I’m definitely gonna be looking at you when it’s your turn!”
You blushed and said, “Pervert!” But you were smiling. 
When Touya was finished, he dried off and dressed, then stared at you until you sighed and began peeling off your clothes. He watched, of course, though he had the decency to remain quiet. You didn’t feel as embarrassed as before, maybe because he’d seen you naked twice before, or maybe because you were just becoming more comfortable with him. 
You entered the water, which only came to about mid-thigh, and soaped yourself up. Even though Touya was keeping watch, old habits died hard, so you watched the woods as well. You had a strange feeling that you should hurry, so you quickly rinsed off and went back to the riverbank to dry off. Just as you were pulling on a clean pair of shorts, you heard it. 
Jangling cans. 
Touya heard it too. He picked up his bat as you pulled a T-shirt over your head, not bothering with a bra. He’d already shoved your dirty clothes in his own bag, so the two of you dashed into the trees, toward the van. 
You didn’t make it far. Just a few yards into the woods, you both spotted them: zombies, spread out all among the trees. You didn’t have time to count, but there had to be at least fifty. 
Touya backed up to stand right in front of you, the bat clenched in both hands. You pulled the knife from your thigh holster. The zombies had already noticed you and were closing in. 
You leaned close to Touya and asked, “Should we go back and cross the river?”
He shook his head. “No, they’d follow us and we’d just end up trapped on the other side with no supplies. We should try to break through them and get to the van.”
You nodded, but you definitely didn’t feel great about that plan. Your strategy had always been about evading danger, not fighting it. You could handle a couple of zombies but the sheer number of corpses shambling toward you now with their outstretched arms and snapping teeth made you want to sprint in the opposite direction. 
Touya took his eyes off the horde long enough to look at you over his shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll protect you.”
Dark clouds were gathering in the sky, and as heavy raindrops began to pour down over the forest, Touya shifted the bat to one hand and took your hand in the other. Then, he ran into a narrow gap in the zombie herd, pulling you with him. 
Tag List: 
@crunchtits @jabberwocky-92 @myst1cfish @missrosegold @dreamybxnny @hotvillainapologist @faetheral @touyasmaid @dabislittleprincess @cutebutdelulu @snowprincesa1 
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skellyghosts · 1 year
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DEAD OF NIGHT • SOAP X CIVILIAN!READER
SCENARIO: you're a civilian who got caught up in a mission soap was on. he ends up in your care while the rest of the 141 is dealing with the mission at hand while looking for him. you live in a small cabin and it's quite literally in the middle of the woods. it's big enough for one or two people, so taking in soap wasn't an issue. the only issue on the table was the fact he was bleeding out...
**told in y/n pov**
+
It was about 4am when I heard one of my windows shatter and my german shepherd, Nic, bark like a madman. I shot out of bed, not bothering throw on my pants and grabbed my taser from my nightstand, pure fear pulsing through my body as I thought about what this could possibly be. 
I live in the middle of nowhere. The closest town was an hour away and there were no campgrounds. Was it an animal? Or maybe some freak accident? Will I have to use my Winchester knowledge and kill a monster? I had no idea.
Nic barked at me when she saw me enter the room, whining and growling to tell me about the intruder. She led me to the bathroom, my eyes squinting in the dark to see a trail of some substance smeared across the wood floors. My dog continued to bark loudly and pace around the hall. When I pushed open the bathroom door and turned on the light, I was met with a horrific scene.
It was like a murder scene out of a Criminal Minds episode. A tactical-armored man was lying in my bath, blood smeared across the white tile and staining the small rug in front of the toilet. He was unconscious and his left hand loosely covered a bullet wound in his side while one of his legs was slightly hanging out of the tub. I glanced to Nic, the canine whining and pacing back and forth since she sensed the distress.
"What in the fuck..." 
I walked into the bathroom, my hands shaking as I held my taser. The man didn't seems to hear or notice my presence, but when I knelt down beside him and looked at the bullet wound, he inhaled deeply and coughed.
"Where am I?" His Scottish accent was coarse as he weakly opened his eyes.
"You're in my home." I replied to him as I got on my knees and lifted his hand. "I'm calling the police and ambulance. You can't be here."
"No! No cops or hospitals! The cartel's paid them off."
I frowned at his words. "Cartel? All the way in Upstate California? While it's not impossible, I don't really—"
"If they find me here, they'll kill you. Don't call." 
I stared at him, his blue eyes looking into my (e/c). He coughed again, this time blood coming out of his mouth and I started to panic.
"All right, erm, give me a moment."
I stood up and opened one of the vanity drawers, frantically digging for a pack of floss. Once I found one, I rushed out of the bathroom to find a sewing needle in my room. While I was at it, I put on a pair of pants. My dog barked from the bathroom and I ran back almost immediately. The man was trying to pet Nic, my dog sniffing him curiously before letting him scratch behind her ears.
"So, what's your name?"
"Can't tell you that." 
"Okay....Do you have a nickname or some other name I could call you?"
I threaded the dental floss through the needle after I cleaned it then walked over to the man, eyes set on me as I undid his tactical vest to stitch up his wound.
"You can call me Soap." He said before grimacing in pain.
"Sorry. I'm no doctor, but my friend showed me how to use a needle and dental floss to stitch wounds. And I saw it in a few shows."
Soap scoffed at my statement before wincing, gritting his teeth from the needle going through his flesh. "That explains a lot."
It was my turn to scoff as cut the floss and went to stitch up the last part of his wound.
"No offense, but what kind of name is Soap?"
"It's a call sign. It's what we soldiers in the military use to communicate and confuse the enemy."
"Oh."
I looked up to see him staring at me intently, his narrowed gaze softening as I continued to stitch him. 
"I'm Y/N...just in case you wanted to know."
He nodded and leaned his head back against the bathtub wall, closing his eyes and  sighing as he started to contact his team.
"This is Bravo 7-1, how copy?" He spoke into his communication device as he shifted to let me bandage his wound now.  "Ghost, this is Bravo 7-1..."
Soap groaned in pain and grabbed my bloody hand, his grip rough and extremely tight. I panicked when he pulled me closer.
"Help me up." 
"Do you have that much faith in me?"
"Y/N."
I shook my head and did the best I could to help him up. I was surprised I managed to get him to his feet, but his legs gave it out the minute we got into the hall. My dog started to bark in alarm before going up to Soap and prodding him with her nose. 
"You need to take your gear off." I told him as I led him to my room, Nic trotting ahead of us and jumping onto my bed. I needed to get him in there so I could lay him down. I couldn't put him on the couch since it was too small for him and I certainly wasn't going to put him the floor. 
"I'm fine."
"It's weighing you down and you need to rest. Let me help you take the vest off at least."
Soap didn't respond as I reached to take off the vest, the buckles unclipping easily and eventually it was off. I put it on the floor by my bed and helped Soap lay down, blood seeping out of the bandages. I ran into my small bathroom and grabbed all the towels, frantic to make sure he didn't bleed out in his sleep. 
"You got any meds?" Soap asked as I wrapped the towels around him.
"I've got melatonin gummies with 15mg on my dresser? And I have ibuprofen."
"That won't work."
"Well, I'm not a doctor." 
"Clearly."
I narrowed my eyes at him as he tried to relax in my bed, his eyes drooping from blood loss and exhaustion. Nic curled up beside him and nudged his arm with her nose, Soap flinching from being startled but gave her a few pets after relaxing again.
While he rested, I went back out to my living room to clean up glass and blood from the window sill. The cold night air blew on my face, making me shiver but I continued to clean up. The bathroom is what worried me since blood was smeared everywhere. For now though, I used bleach and a shit ton of paper towels to clean the walls, floors, and the bath tub. I rinsed out the inside of it then poured some bleach into the water. I scrubbed any blood stains that didn't come off just from the water then rinsed.
Once I was finished, I checked the time to see that it was 5:48am. The sun was just barely illuminating the sky in a dull grey and I could hear birds starting to chirp. I walked into my room to see Soap completely passed out. He was still breathing, but, from judging by the grimace on his face, in a lot of pain. 
How the hell was I going to get major pain killers without a prescription?
Moira... I could get them from her. She might be able to get me some, but if she asks questions, I won't be able to answer them. Soap was adamant about not involving outside people, but if he wanted to get pain meds, I had to do this.
I rushed back into my room and got cleaned up quickly. I made sure my hands were free of blood stains before throwing on a new shirt, sweatpants and pulled on a cardigan. I grabbed my mini backpack and phone, then wrote a note for Soap in case he woke up while I was gone.
"Nic, watch him. I'll be back." I told my german shepherd as I walked out of my room. All she did was glance at me and go back to sleep.
Before I could close my door, Soap's communication device came on and a gruff British accent flooded through it.
"Soap, this is Ghost. How copy?"
I half expected Soap to shoot up from where he laid, but he didn't even budge. As for me, I didn't want to mess with his gear, but I had to tell his friend he was okay.
Walking over to it, I pressed a button and spoke into it.
"This is Soap's current caretaker. He's badly wounded and needs medical attention. I can't stay for long since he needs pain meds, but I assure you he's okay. I'm leaving now to get him a prescription...Whether this is illegal or not, that's my problem."
I didn't listen to Ghost speak as I stood up and rushed out of my room, his voice shouting from the device for Soap or me to say something more. All I thought about was the hole I just dug myself in since his team is going to be hunting me down now.
For right now though, all that mattered was getting Soap his pain meds and making sure he doesn't die....
x   x   x
pt.2 anyone?
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ornii · 1 year
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Bitterly Beautiful, Part 2
Chapter 2: There is no “Eye” in Team.
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"How could you miss a dead body?"
Wednesday, the Sherrif and Principal Weems walk though the school to her office.
"'Cause it wasn't there. No footprints, no blood, no sign of a struggle. Nothing, nada. My search party looked all night." The Sheriff kept his composure, as annoyed and upset he is.
"Well, your search party must have left their seeing-eye dogs at home. I saw that monster kill Rowan right in front of me." Wednesday claims.
"Get a good look at this monster thing?"
"It didn't stick around for a chat."
"Maybe it was one of your classmates." The Sherrif said accusingly, which Principal Weems interfered in.
"Sheriff, I find that question offensive."
"I don't care, 'cause I got three other dead bodies in the morgue. Hikers just ripped apart in the woods."
"The mayor said those were bear attacks." Weems furrows her brow at the Sheriff who is unfazed by her upset nature.
"Well, the mayor and I disagree on that."
"So you automatically assume a Nevermore student is the murderer, even though there's no evidence a crime was even committed."
"I'm sorry. I forgot, you only teach the good outcasts here, right?" The Sheriff scowls at Weems, they enter her office finally and The Sherrif sits across from Weems and her desk, which she promptly sits at as well.
"My guess is Rowan ran away. State troopers have put out an alert, and I've contacted his family, but they haven't heard from him either." Weems explains.
"Dead people are notoriously bad at returning calls." Wednesday's prompt but cold demeanor stood firm in her belief.
"What were you doing out in the woods with him, Ms. Addams?" The Sheriff asked, "I heard a noise in the forest and went to go investigate. That's when I stumbled upon the attack."
"Then what happened?"
"Then I ran into Bianca Barclay, and I told her to go for help. Next thing I remember, I was awaking in my dorm."
"And just to be clear, this monster wasn't a bear or some other wild animal?"
"I've hibernated with grizzlies. I know the difference." Wednesda replies, and Weems gets noticeably, uncouth as she tries to lee up appearances.
"Thank you, Sheriff. I think Miss Addams is done now—"
"Actually, I would like to speak to Sheriff Galpin. Alone." Wednesday said, and there was an unnerving aura around it.
"I'm not sure I can allow that." Weems begins but the Sheriff, catching onto what Wednesday is doing, adds in.
"I'm sure I could take her to the station and get a formal statement. Yeah, let's go." He begins but weems quickly stops.
"Fine. You have five minutes, and everything is off the record. Play nice... or I will call the mayor" Weems leaves them to their lonesome to discuss.
"Someone is trying to cover up Rowan's murder. That's the only reason to scrub the crime scene."
"Is that your professional opinion as the daughter of a murderer?"
"My father's twice the man you are, and the only thing he murders is the occasional opera in the shower."
"It's been a long night. I'm tired of your games. I'm not playing games."
"I'm telling the truth. You want to reject my claims but you can't. Why is that? Because you and I both know there's a monster out there. And Rowan is his latest victim." Wednesday said, her cold dark eyes staring into the eyes of the Sheriff. Suddenly, the deputy of the Sherrif steps into the office, a heavyset woman with a chocolate dark skin tone.
"Sheriff?"
"What?"
"You're gonna want to see this." she says; and seemingly from the land of the Dead, Rowan appeared. Leaving even Wednesday herself puzzled and confused.
"Edgar Allan Poe said, "Believe nothing you hear and half of what you see." Clearly Nevermore's most famous alumni picked that up here. No wonder he became a drսg madman."
"Help me understand why you claim you witnessed a murder. Was it to gain attention?"
Kinbott, Wednesdays scheduled therapist sits across from the child of the Addams, a bit perplexed by her oddity.
"Why should I bother telling you anything? You've already decided I'm lying. I know what I saw."
"Your life's had a lot of upheaval recently. It's okay to be confused about things."
"Don't try and lure me into one of your psychological traps."
"No one is trying to trap you. I'm here to help you process your emotions. Emotions are a gateway trait. They lead to feelings, which trigger tears." Kimbott attempts to try to slightly pry open the iron vice of Wednesday's feelings, but they were rusted; snapped shut and cold.
"I don't do tears."
"Tell me how you're adjusting to school."
"Sartre said, "Hell is other people." He was my first crush."
"Wednesday, Part of the reason your parents sent you to Nevermore is so you could find your people. Become part of a larger community."
"I like being an island. A well-fortified one surrounded by sharks."
"Have you considered your antisocial tendencies might be motivated by fear of rejection?" She asks.
"If you were to reject me, I would not be upset." Wednesday said. And Kinbott thought for a moment.
"Ah, so there's no one at the school you'd hate to be rejected by?" She asks, and just for a moment there was a hint of hesitation by Wednesday.
"None at all." She replies, deadpanned.
"Well...You can't get rid of me that easily. And look, you made it through an entire session without trying to escape. I'll take that as a win." Kinbott replies, and Wednesday notices that she has been here her entire session, she leaves after her realization and heads back to Nevermore, She returns back to to see her "Friend." Enid and classmates working on board.
"Ladies, come on! Let's work on those teeth. More scowl. This kitty is taking no prisoners. If Bianca Barclay wins again this year, I will literally scratch my own eyes out!"
"I would pay money to see that." Wednesday said, Enid turns around all cheerful and ready to hug.
"Howdy, roomie! I'm so glad you decided to stay."
"I thought you wanted your single room back.”
“Full disclose, I hate going solo, and thing gives a killer neck massage, so I say it’s a win win, why did you stay?” Enid said, and Wednesday calmly looks off to the distance.
"I refuse to play the role of a pawn in someone else's corrupt game."
"You mean Rowan?"
"I witnessed his murder, Enid." Wednesday claims.
"It's just, we all saw him this morning. Very much, like, not dead."
"I know. Which leads me to believe I've been losing my mind. It's not nearly as fun as I had anticipated. You're Nevermore's gossip queen. What's Rowan's story?" Wednesday asks, and Enid thinks.
"Other than being a weird loner... Uh... No offense. None taken. Xavier Thorpe's his roommate, but due to "Safety Concerns", (Y/n) had to move in, If you had a cell phone, you could just text him and ask him. Yoko. Come on! Flare those whiskers! The Poe Cup droops for no one."
"What is the Poe Cup anyway?"
"My entire reason for living right now. Part canoe race, part foot chase, no rules. Each dorm has to pick an Edgar Allan Poe short story for inspiration. You could grab a brush. Ms. Thornhill's just ordered pizza. Want to take a stab at being social?" Enid asks, trying to invite Wednesday over.
"..I do like stabbing. The social part, not so much. Besides, it'll cut into my writing time."
“No worries. Just as long as you're lakeside cheering us to victory on race day…Or you can just glare uncomfortably. Whatever works for you.” Enid said trying to as supportive as usual, Wednesday takes this free time to head to Principal Weems, ready for another interrogation.
"I need to speak with Rowan. I can't find him."
"It won't be possible, I'm afraid. He's been expelled."
"For what?"
"Never you mind. He'll be on the first train out this afternoon. What were you doing out in the woods with him?"
"I told you already. I heard a noise, and I went to investigate." Wednesday said feigning innocence.
"That excuse might have placated the sheriff, but you can't fool me. You had a psychic vision, didn't you? I realized you might be having them when we passed by the accident and you knew that poor farmer had broken his neck. Your mother started having visions around your age. They were notoriously unreliable and dangerous. I remember at first, she thought she might be losing her mind. Have you spoken to her about them? Clearly the person withholding information here is you." Weems said, putting Miss Addams in a verbal checkmate.
"May I go now?"
"Not until you've picked your extracurricular activity. We want our students to be well-rounded."
"I'd prefer to remain sharp-edged." Wednesday stabs back.
"I took the liberty of putting together a list of clubs that have openings." Weems shows a list of classes, one specifically "Archery - (Y/n) Healy"
"How thoughtful." Wednesday replies.
"You need to have picked one by the end of the day. I'll be keeping my eye on you. No doubt you'll find something that tickles your fancy."
"The last person who tickled me lost a finger." Wednesday kept her scowl and left. Her first destination was Chior lead by the Queen Bee, and she hears them harmonizing. They stop at the arrival of Wednesday.
"Weems said you'd be stopping by. But to be honest, after your performance at the Harvest Festival, drama club might be more your speed." Bianca said, smirking so coyly,
"After I passed out, who did you tell? The sheriff?"
"You think I'd trust normie cops? I went straight to Weems and let her handle it. Anyway, let's get this audition over with. What are you? Alto, soprano or just loco?" she asks obviously as a dig, a few laugh and Wednesday opens her mouth. There was oddly no sound. Well no sound a human could hear, but ones glasses cracked.
"What was that?" Bianca asked,
"A note only dogs can hear." she replies, and Walks off, leaving them a bit perplexed.
Wednesday's next and most important Task was Archery, she approached the Range as (Y/n) stood there, with a basket of apples which were signed and picked by Enid, he drew the Bow and notched an arrow from his Quiver and aimed. As if he was waiting for something. Let's the arrow loose and it hits nearly dead on. He turns to face Wednesday, hearing her approach.
"If it isn't Wednesday Addams, so you're joining the League of Handsome and or Beautiful rouges? I shall be your teacher." He says, and she looks around.
"You're the only one?" She asks.
"Unfortunately Yes, The Team disbanded before you arrived, Me, Xavier, Jenna, Emma, and Hunter." He said, he aims another arrow.
"I'm curious, What made your Band of Merry Outcasts fall apart? Xavier?" She asks and he lets another arrow loose, abruptly and misses. For a moment she sees a scowl and he quickly masks his emotions with a fake smile.
"Ever shot a bow and arrow before?" Hd asks, "Only on live targets." She replies and he scoffs. He begins his instruction.
"From you? I can believe it, alright first things first, wide stance for your legs, good balance stance." He says, he notches the arrow to the string. "notch the Arrow, take aim, don't shoot immediately, calm yourself." He says, "But in my case..." he whistled loudly, and he lets loose another arrow hitting inches away from the bullseye. Fairly proud of himself, he turns to her direction.
"Any questions?" He asks, "I know the blind part is confusing—"
"When's the last time you saw your Rowan?"
(Y/n) frowns a bit hearing that.
"Well I wouldn’t say “Saw”, You mean the one that was "killed" by a monster?" He said sarcastically.
"You were there."
"Yeah, and I talked to Rowan this morning... either i sensed a body that was similar, or he's a Zombie, and since he isn't smelling like rotting flesh, I'm gonna say we just got it wrong." (Y/n) says, he thinks for a moment.
"But..He did seem.. off."
"Off How?" Wednesday asked.
"Rowan was a bit of a loner but he and I got along as, Well as well as most students. We said hello to each other at least but this time he was just, much more nervous that before to even speak to me." He said, he shakes his head... “So, my turn..So what's the deal with you and Tyler?" He asks, Wednesdays attitude shifts from the question as (Y/n) now pesters her.
"I answered your questions, only fair you answer mine." He says.
"He was doing me a favor driving me out of town." Wednesday replied a bit defensive.
"I have advice for you, Steer clear of Tyler." He said.
"Why? Because he's a normie?"
"That, and his Dad seemingly has the biggest hate boner for your family,." (Y/n) says, he reaches to a small basket to eat an apple. Wednesday takes it and the bow and arrow, she tosses the apple, aims and fires, hitting the apple and a bullseye. (Y/n) was a bit flabbergasted, he could feel it land dead on.
"That is... impressive."
"I'm not here to impress." She says and begins to walk off, (Y/n) walks after her, as he quickly grabs his cane.
"Wednesday.. Wednesday!" He says and she stops for a moment.
"I'm busy, I have to go to deal with the trials of Hell Weems is putting me though." She begins to walk again and he stops.
"Well. That's unfortunate since I have a good way to keep you under the radar." He says and she stops walking, "A Way to keep Weems off your hide and gives you time to, do whatever you plan to do." He says, she turns around and walks over to him so calmly, she steps a foot away, while (Y/n) couldn't see, his senses were heightened so well, almost like a sonar the sound waves bounce and dance around him like waves crashing, forming almost perfect shapes and forms; He has never been this close to Wednesday to allow him to get such a detailed idea of her, and for a moment he was taken aback by just how beautiful she is. Her face was in a permanent form of unamused glare. And she couldn’t be any more drop dead beautiful.
".. Stunning." He said, just Gazing at her face. "What Plan do you have?" She asks snapping him out of it, he catches himself before acting more suave.
"Of course, well you see most Clubs are in the schools grounds, but there's one that's into the greenery. A perfect place to hide out." He said, which slowly begins to build the interest of Wednesday.
"...Show Me."
(Y/n) and Wednesday walk though a small forest to a beautiful clearing, and noticing a flat there. It was a small white building with not much accommodation. (Y/n) leans over to slightly whisper to Wednesday.
"Word of Advice Miss Addams, Eugene is a bit.. unique, even for Nevermore standards." He said, Wednesday turns her head to him. "Just try not to Gut him or anything." He says asking.
"I will make no such promises."
"I guess that's the best I'll get." He said and taps on the door. He steps back and it opens to a short, slightly pudgy boy with a pair of glasses.
"(Y/n)!” He says with whimsical cheer.
“It’s good to see you too, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. Wednesday. Wednesday Addams.” He says introducing the two. “Am I late or is it only you?” She asks and Eugene sadly nods.
"The hive life isn't for everyone." Eugene said and a sly (Y/n) smiles.
"Told you, it's perfect for you." (Y/n) said to Wednesday.
"Most kids are afraid of venomous insects. Are you willing to feel the sting?" Eugene asked, and a very small smile creeps along the face of Wednesday, even (Y/n) was a tiny bit worried for the Health of Nevermore if Wednesday could get an army of bees.
"You'll have to change into a Beekeeper uniform, there's plenty to choose from!" He says, Wednesday, now a bit annoyed since she can't allow them to touch her skin, heads inside to change.
"Well I suppose my work here is done. Eugene, make sure you keep an eye out for her." He says, and Eugene salutes.
"Hey, anything for a fellow friend!" He says and (Y/n) kindly bows and leaves, Planning what's next in his mind, Wednesdays exits the Room now in her own, off putting Bee Keeper costume.
"Bees have been producing honey in the same way for 150 million years. They're nature's perfect community. All working together to achieve a common goal. Fun fact, it's also one of the few ecosystems in which females dominate. From the queen bee to her workers. There's no patriarchy in the hive!" he says explaining to her, but Wednesday is, less than enthusiastic about the honey and more about the Stinging. (Y/n) walks off and a crow lands on his shoulder.
"Any word about the Sheriff?" He asks and it makes a few caws and pecks its side to scratch an itch.
"Hmm... I See. Thank you, you may go now." He says and the bird flies off, he trudged off into the woods as well, walking so cautiously, until footsteps catch him. He jerks his head left to sense the pattering of paws, hound paws, he kneels down quickly and puts his hand on the tree he's hiding behind. Small, tiny vibrations in the earth from their footsteps, they give small indications of their location and possibly who they are.
"There you are, Sheriff." He says and slowly begins to follow, he keeps a fair distance to avoid any scent being picked up by the hound. His solemn footsteps crunch twigs and leaves, but are much lighter in sound. Creeping closer; he stops and feels another tree, using its roots to enhance his hearing. He picks up the same footsteps, but another one, lighter on their feet. Not as Heavy. And he suspects his new "friend." Sneaking around he picks up on movement, and heads that way, it was Wednesday. Seems she was also following the Sheriff but was creeping too close, before the hound could pick up, Wednesday is snatched behind a tree, she tenses up, a hand covering her mouth and slightly around her stomach. As the Sheriff passes, they let her go, she quickly gets away and turns around to (Y/n).
"I didn't want the Dog to pick up on your scent. If he finds us here, well it won't be good." He says.
"Thanks." Wednesday said, as much as she detests being grabbed and held, she detested (Y/n) doing it, a bit less. "How'd you throw them off?"
"Crow feathers, rubbing them on me... don't look at me like that. It works okay?" He says a bit annoyed.
"I assume he didn't bring the bloodhound to play fetch." Wednesday said.
"No, I assume he's checking the leads as well... But I want to ask you. And be honest, what happened At the festival?" (Y/n) asked, looking obviously concerned.
"I thought Rowan was in danger. Turns out I was wrong. Then he proceeded to use his telekinesis to try and choke me to death. That's when this monster came out of the shadows and gutted him." Wednesday explains, much to (Y/n)'a shock.
"Rowan? Tried to Kill you? It wasn't the monster that tried to kill you?"
"It actually saved me from Rowan. That's the part I'm trying to figure out. I came here to find something that can prove he was murdered and that I haven't lost my mind. Yet." Wednesday said, (Y/n) looks more serious now.
"Rowans never used this powers on others as far as I know, what would drive him to go after you of all people?" He asks, thinking. Wednesday peers past him and into the ground and looks at something. (Y/n) walks over and kneels down to see Wednesday picking something up.
"Those are Rowan's glasses." (Y/n) says, Suddenly, Wednesday's head jerks up, stiffening like a corpse. She was stunned, not moving. He looks over, growing much more concerned.
"Wednesday? Wednesday?!" He yells, he grabs her, checking her for some wounds or cuts. She snaps out of it, and looks at him, she sees the concern in his face.
"You okay?" He said, shaking her. Wednesday snaps out of it, she looks a bit out of it before realizing that, she's being held, she sees (Y/n), worried about her and her off spasm. She quickly puts her walls back up and glares at him.
"Let. Go. Of. Me." She said with the most scathing whisper, and he does.
"I was just making sure you were okay." He said, and Wednesday and (Y/n) stand up.
"There's some place I want to go to." She said, and Wednesday and (Y/n) continue their investigation inside the library. Thing is searching the bookshelf for Wednesday as (Y/n)
"The cover was darker. More like a day-old contusion. Keep looking." Wednesday said, (Y/n) walked up next to her.
"So, what is it that you're looking for specifically?" He said.
"A book Rowan had, it has some importance and I just need to figure out what." She explains, (Y/n) folds his arms.
"Rowan, and books? A match made In heaven, he was a book worm. It might have still been in his room with Xander we can—" he begins but they hear footsteps, the two quickly get Thing out of the way and (Y/n) and Wednesday were just standing there. Thornhill looks at the Blooming Dark flowers and smiles.
"I don't usually find students in here looking for actual books. Most sneak in to make out." She says, (Y/n) and Wednesday take a step further apart.
"That is not what's going on." He said.
"I'd rather take a nap in a swamp of famished alligators." She says, he looks at her.
"Okay that was Just mean." He said.
"I accidentally walked in on two vampires fanging. I can't unsee that." Wednesday claimed.
"That just sounds like Jealousy." (Y/n) replies, Wednesday turns her head menacingly towards him, a tiny smirk creeps along his face.
"Is there something I can help you two find?" Thornhill asks the Teenagers. Wednesday approaches with a ripped out page, "Have you seen this before?" She says showing her. "It's a watermark from a book I'm looking for."
"I think it's the symbol to an old student society. Um... The Nightshades."
"Like the deadly flower." Wednesday says, "Color me intrigued." (Y/n) approaches, and thinks.
"I was told they disbanded years ago." Thornhill said, which (Y/n) pesters her for information.
"Any idea why?" (Y/n) asks piping up.
"Sorry. I was very impressed with your answers in class today."
"My mother is a carnivorous plant aficionado. I assume I get my red thumb from her."
"Are you and your mother close?" Thornhill asks. There's a hint of hesitation within her voice.
"Like two inmates sentenced to life on the same cell block."
"I know it can't be easy... showing up mid-semester. I've been here a year and a half, and I still feel like an outsider."
"Because you're the only normie on the staff? (Y/n) told me." She says. "Not all normies are bad, You're pretty Great Mrs Thornhill." He Said trying to cheer her up, she just gives a smile in return.
"To tell you the truth, I've never really fit in anywhere. Too odd for the normies, not odd enough for the outcasts. I thought Nevermore would be different, but there's still a handful of teachers who will barely acknowledge me." She says,
"I act as if I don't care if people dislike me. Deep down... I secretly enjoy it." Wednesday said, and Thornhill laughed, she, actually laughed at that.
"Never lose that, Wednesday."
"Lose what?" The ability to not let others define you. It's a gift. The most interesting plants grow in the shade. And if you ever need anyone to talk to, the door to the conservatory is always open. That goes to you too Mister Healy." She says before leaving.
".. you know, she kinda reminds me of you." He says, watching Thornhill leave.
Night creeps along the horizon of the Earth and Nevermore is put into another darkness, (Y/n) was sitting in his new dorm room, cleaning his cane using black wood polish at his desk, the door opens to Xavier.
"Yo." He says, and (Y/n) looks up, hearing his voice.
"Sup Xavier."
"Taking a shower, Uh..let me know if you need anything." He says.
"Thanks." (Y/n) replies sharply before Xavier enters the shower, (Y/n) waits to hear it running before he walks over to the closet and knocks on it in a sophisticated series of taps. He steps back and Wednesday exits it with thing in tow.
"Well, that's not weird, anyway he should be busy I might have fiddled with the handles, let's get looking." He said.
"That purple book has got to be around here somewhere. Start investigating." She says to thing and the two begin to search, (Y/n) checking the walls and drawers for anything, Wednesday for the things that require a, "Cautious eye." She turns the lights off, which doesn't hinder (Y/n)'s search, using a Blacklight, she checks the floorboards and opens one up, (Y/n) turns to the sound and lifts the bed for her, she looks up at him and he smiles. She pries open the floor board and picks something up. It wasn't a book but, a mask.
"Huh... isn't that odd." He says; they hear the water stop and Xavier exits the shower, he looks over to (Y/n) standing there with his arms crossed. Wednesday is behind him, trying to stand as still as possible.
"You okay?" Xavier asks, and (Y/n) nods.
"Yeah, just... hanging out." He said, before Xavier can ask, there is a knock at the door.
"You want to get that?" (Y/n) asks, Xavier shrugs and heads to the door, (Y/n) turns and motions Wednesday who quickly hides under his Bed, the door opens to Bianca. (Y/n) smirks, sending the body figure and the siren like humming from her.
"Oh, I didnt know we could have "Friends" over." He said smirking, much to the annoyance of the two.
"Don't worry Queen Bee, I'll let you two go at it." He says and leaves, he exits to give them some space.
"You're not supposed to be up here." Xavier said.
"Good to see you too." Bianca said obviously a bit offended.
"How'd you get past the Housemaster? Use your siren powers?"
"Not while wearing this." Bianca shows the charm necklace. "Would it kill you to not think the worst of me for once?"
"What do you want, Bianca?"
"To see how you're doing. I'm sorry about Rowan. I know you guys used to be close."
"Since when did you give a damn about Rowan?"
"You were the one afraid he'd do something to Wednesday. Isn't that why you've been following her like an eager-eyed puppy? Or is there something more? Seriously, what do you see in her? You have a thing for a tragic goth girls with funeral-parlor fashion sense?"
"Maybe it's because she hasn't tried to manipulate me."
"I make one mistake, and you can't forgive me. She treats you like crap, you can't get enough. Why are you fixated on Wednesday? Because she thinks she's better than everyone else. I can't wait to crush Ophelia Hall tomorrow and watch her werewolf roommate crumble. It's gonna be a Poe Cup finale to remember."
"I hate to think what you've got planned."
"My game's already started. I like to win. Is that so wrong?"
"And you wonder why I broke up with you."
"You used to love my killer instinct. We were good together, Xavier." She said, reminiscing.
"Were we? Is that just how you wanted me to feel?" Xavier's tone was full of distrust, and anger.
"Trust me, Wednesday Addams is not the girl of your dreams. She's the stuff of your nightmares." Bianca says, and Leaves.
(Y/n) waits outside, Bianca leaves and minutes pass and Wednesday exits as well.
"Found what you need?" He asks, and Wednesday looks over him up and down.
"Yes. Follow me." She said, and like a loyal dog, he follows. They creep into her dorm room to Enid, crying on the bed. (Y/n)'s attitude immediately softens.
"Enid, Enid what's wrong?" He asks, she turns to notice the two entering through the window together.
"I'm literally having a heart attack right now. Yoko's in the infirmary!" She said Panicked though tears and (Y/n) comforts her with a hug.
“Shhh Shhh, What happened?”
"Garlic bread incident at dinner. She had a major allergic reaction. She's out of the Poe Cup. I don't have a co-pilot." She said sadly; and (Y/n) gives her a pat on the head to comfort her.
"It's gonna be okay." He said, she tightened her grip around him and her claws began to come out, stabbing him in the side.
"Ow. ow, Enid, ENID!" He says and she quickly lets go, wiping her tears.
"Sorry! Sorry.." She Said sadly. He waves it off.
"It's okay."
"It wasn't an accident. Bianca's behind it." Wednesday said, which catches the interest of (Y/n) and Enid.
"How do you know?" Enid asks.
"Doesn't matter. We are going to take her down tomorrow."
"Wait. You're joining the Black Cats? You're willing to do that? For me?" Enid said, and Wednesday looks at (Y/n), he motions her to be nice and Wednesday replies coldly.
"I want to humiliate Bianca so badly that the bitter taste of defeat burns in her throat."
"Yeah, but mostly you're doing it because we're friends, right?" Enid asks, and (Y/n) puts his hand on Enid shoulder.
"Yes, because we're friends, and I'm going to make sure Bianca will never mess with Enid Sinclair or anyone like this again." He says, his dark aura radiating.
"Tell me how she keeps winning." Wednesday said.
"It's a real brain cramp. The past two years, no other boat has made it across and back without sinking."
"Sounds like sabotage." Wednesday said, "There are no rules in the Poe Cup, and she is a siren, which makes her master of the water." Enid admits, and (Y/n) snaps his fingers, a crow comes flying from the open window and lands on his arm.
“I’ve learned a few Hexes and curses from my family, and I know just the one.” He says, “The answer is simple, we just need to beat her at her own game." (Y/n) said. His smile grows more and more like a Cheshire Cat. The Next day, Wednesday walks past Bianca to (Y/n) and Enid awaiting.
"We're all set." Enid says.
"Good. Thing's in position." Wednesday Leers at Bianca.
"Wanna tell me what you two were up to?" Enid says to (Y/n) and Wednesday.
"And spoil the surprise?" (Y/n) smirks, he turned towards them.
"Trust me, a few modifications to the boat and a few crows watching, we have everything.
"Speaking of surprises, your costume's in the tent." Enid said to Wednesday, which confuses her.
"Costume?"
Wednesday exits the tent in the cat costume, black and, tight fitting with even the ears to compliment. Enid comes up behind her as Wednesday is absolutely fuming at this.
"OMG, you look purr-fect! Only thing, where are your whiskers?" Enid asks in her own costume
"Ask again, and you'll be down to eight lives." Wednesdays scowled back, (Y/n) approached.
"Alright, I've got everything ready, where's Wednesday?" He asks.
"She's right here." Enid said, (Y/n) turned his focus to the figure next to her, looked a bit perplexed, he's never seen her wearing anything besides dressed and he's never got a full sense of her ..figure. He tries to play it off and laugh, he felt like she was naked and embarrassment washed over him.
"Of course it's you, alright! ready?" He asked, Enid and Wednesday head to the canoe. Sitting inside, there are three other sets, all with different teams. One specifically was Bianca's team. Principal Weems gives the introduction to students. Wednesday looks down to Thing and a Walkie-Talkie in the Boat.
"I want to welcome you all to the Edgar Allan Poe Cup. This is one of Nevermore's proudest annual traditions, dating back 125 years. Each team must row across to Raven Island, pull a flag from Crackstone's Crypt, and hustle back without sinking or being sunk. First team to cross the finish line with their flag wins the cup and bragging rights for a year, as well as some special privileges. Let the Poe Cup begin!" weems fires a gun into the air and the teams row off. (Y/n) quickly disappears into the crowd and runs along the river. Standing on a small dock, he kneels down to focus on the rowing boats.
He feels the four slowly begins their journey to the island, he senses something else moving in the water. It can't be a fish it's too big, it seems, human.
"Of course!" He grabs his other Walkie-Talkie and comms in.
"Black Cat, this is Blind Hawk, I know how Bianca is cheating! There's another Siren in the water! He's going to topple you over!"
"Roger." Wednesday replies and they continue to row, Wednesday and Company unfortunate reach last before Bianca and Ajax's team, the last flag was taken by them, but a plan was formulated to sink Ajax,
"The final two teams are the Gold Bugs...and the Black Cats!" Weems says from the Megaphone. (Y/n) senses the rowers closing in.
"Whatever you have planned. Do it now." Wednesday says, and (Y/n) smiles.
"Obliged, just stray from the center of the river, I can't control where it goes." He says, Bianca's crew stays in the middle as Wednesday's slowly maneuvers to the side. (Y/n) calms himself and begins to concentrate.
(Y/n) raises his Cain, and storms begin to brew.
"Go ndalladh an diabhal thú, Agus Bealtaine go deo leat dul ar strae!"
He slams his cane into the ground, a dark shadow falls over Bianca's team as flocks of crows come flying, surrounding and blinding them. They scream and bat them away, but to no avail. It halts their journey and Wednesday and company pass them. And even Wednesday could only smirk slyly at it.
"A Murder of Crows, How poetic." She says and spots (Y/n) who gives a bow. They reach the school and confidently jam the flag into the position and secure victory, cheers erupt from the crowds and Enid grabs Wednesday absolutely elated.
"Yeah, we did it! OMG, Wednesday, we did it! This is the greatest moment of my entire life. Admit it, you kinda got into the whole school spirit thing." She says, Wednesday Looks to the side to Bianca and her team sadly making their way there.
"You didn't tell me it was a dark, vengeful spirit." Wednesday watches with dark glee, the end of the festival. The cup is awarded. Principal Weems now gives the speech to the students of Nevermore..
"The first Poe Cup took place in 1897 as a way to not only honor Nevermore's most famous alumni, but to celebrate those values that all outcasts share. Community, perseverance, and determination. And we certainly saw those values on display today! Congratulations to Ophelia Hall! As a former resident, I will be happy to see the cup back on the mantle after all these years." She gives Enid the trophy and they celebrate, but Wednesday is not one less for celebration and sits alone in the corridor, she stands before the statue of Poe with a Raven on his arm, she sits at the base of the statue and lets out a weary sigh. She closes her eyes for a moment.
"Now, What are you doing down here?" A voice calls out, she opens her eyes to (Y/n) standing there, one hand in his pocket and the other on the cane.
"Hiding. People keep randomly smiling at me, it's unsettling." She says, (Y/n) chuckled at that.
"They're looking at you because you did something amazing, You took down The Bianca Barclay. Try to enjoy it, anyway... I wanted to ask if you, wanted to celebrate. Privately of course, as a way of saying thank you for helping Enid, I'm even if it was selfish." He said, giving a warm smile.
"Oh, come on, it won't kill you." He said, she continues her stare, but she gives in.
"I'll think about it." Wednesday said caving into his Cavity inducing sweetness.
"Yes!" He says, but he quickly composes himself. "I mean, of course. I'll be seeing you." He says and walks off, Wednesday watches him leaving, thinking to herself.
"Nevermore continues to be an enigma. A place where the questions far outweigh the answers. But sometimes... the answer is staring you right in the face."
(Y/n) and Wednesday stand side by side, at the statue.
"The Statue of my Favorite Author that i have seen countless times, how thoughtful." Wednesday says deadpanned, (Y/n) Kept smiling.
"I suppose it is, but while the celebration was going on, I did some research of my own. And specifically of the statue, sometimes I listen to music on my walks and I was particularly enjoying the Moonlight Sonata by Beethoven. I came across the statue and touched it, cold metal, I tapped on it and noticed that some parts of it were, hallow, I continued and noticed small latches on the wings. there are hinges and mechanical gears within. I saw the wing could move, so, after doing a few experiments, I figured it out." He explains, and Wednesday looks intrigued.
"Figured out what exactly?" She asks, he motions her to the statue.
"Please, Snap twice." He says, Wednesday obliges and snaps twice, the wings fold and the arm pulls in, and the statue begins to retract and show a flight of stairs. Wednesday heads down and (Y/n) follows. They enter what seems to be an old library. The knowledge hidden within these walls.
"Secret societies. Hidden libraries. My mother staring at me in a judgmental way. These are all things I've come to expect." Wednesday said, she takes notice of something though.
"(Y/n)." She said, "There." Wednesday approaches a wall of books.
"This, these are the books Rowan Had." She said and he stands next to her.
"I see... so, we know where Rowan got the book from, question is, what was he doing down here?" He asks, the two look in, "But the minute I inch towards the truth..."
As she says this, (Y/n) quickly picks up on the danger looming, he tries to turn to face it, but to no avail. the two are bagged and bound, being dragged into the darkness.
"Luckily, I'm not afraid of the dark."
187 notes · View notes
ltbarnes · 1 year
Text
Anachronism - Part II
Or the placing of persons, events, objects, or customs in times to which they do not belong
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Summary: Sprained ankles, snowstorms, blood-thirsty wolves and feral super soldiers. What was supposed to be a peaceful walk in the woods surrounding the cabin you're staying in with your best friend Steve quickly turns devastating, forcing your path to cross with the mysterious and burly man who can't seem to grasp social cues and the concept of privacy. His past is a puzzle that can't seem to be solved and your feelings for the sweet and giant man quickly develop from friendly gratitude to something neither of you can't quite grasp.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader, Steve Rogers x fem!reader
Word count: 5.8k
Warnings: a little bit of nudity and some sinful thoughts, bears!!, manhandling, Steve panicking and Bucky being the sweetest
A/N: I made it!! Never thought I would be able to finish part 2 in time but it’s done!! The love on the first part has been amazing and please give me any and all thoughts on this part <3 I love talking with you!
Series Masterlist
Main Masterlist
•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  • 
You had been gone for six hours by the time a barely functional Steve ventured out to search for you a second time.
15 minutes. That's how long you said you would be out, and Steve started glancing out of the window for you already after 13 to see if you were back.
And he tried to go out and search just half an hour after you left, but even for a super soldier a harsh snowstorm like this one is impossible to navigate in. His phone service was not working and contacting the compound was futile—they can't do anything as long as the weather is this bad.
He's fucking panicking. You're probably out here freezing to death if you already haven't. Leaving you to die like that is no option. For twenty hazy minutes Steve gathered anything that might be needed if he finds you half-alive in some ditch—warm water bottle, blanket, food, tracking device if Sam or Nat or anyone in the team feels like helping him some time.
Steve knew he shouldn't have let you go. He felt it this morning when he watched you walk out of the door with those ridiculously large mittens and the puffer jacket that could soften a fall from fifty feet high. But god, he can't say no to you even though he persisted for more than an hour in your argument. A flutter with those eyes of yours and he folds quicker than he can take another breath.
He's Captain America—a man who survived a world war, alien attacks, robots trying to take over the world and countless fights with the world's most notorious villains. He prides himself on having integrity equally strong as his vibranium shield and morals practically written in stone. Steve Rogers is an unmovable man and still he just throws away all logic and sense out of the window as long as you have a smile on your face.
His chest is heaving, out of breath. It doesn't happen a lot anymore now that his days of being an asthmatic, 90-pound sick man are long past him. You manage to make his goddamn body malfunction in a different way each time he meets you—today just happened to be the worst he's ever experienced. If you died like this while he sat inside looking over fucking sketches over the compound grounds he's not going to be able to live with himself much longer.
For so many years he's been able to keep you out of situations too dangerous for your own good. It's hard sometimes when you prance out in traffic without looking both ways or take shortcuts through alleyways on the way home from work in the middle of the night, but Steve's still been able to keep you safe. He has been there each time.
God, you fucking infuriate him. Sometimes he wants to throw you over his shoulder and lock you inside some closet where you can't get up to any trouble. Trying to negotiate your way out of being shot by a madman robber by offering him fucking cookies? Yeah, Steve was furious that day, but he adores you for it. Don't get him wrong—you're not some sunshine fairy girl like that teacher with glasses and colorful dresses in the sitcom you always watch, but still you offered a man with a gun to your head cookies. You barely even bake.
Honestly, Steve was annoyed by you for a whole two years before you slithered your way into his traumatized and lost heart. The 21st century is a labyrinth of parasocial relationships, too advanced technology and so much suffering existing along the endless progress that's been made since the 40's.
It all was just too much for him for a good while, and his range of emotions kind of just shut down. Work was all he had and the closest thing to a friend was Natasha, who he did not know at all at the time. Tony was a goddamn asshole and Fury was too vague and Steve was missing Bucky, Peggy and the Howlies so much that all woken time was either spent on grieving or fighting.
You were the first close friend he made in this century. One who he could spend entire nights talking to, and took him out on midnight pizza runs and showed him what the hell streaming was. A friend who showed him that things are better now in many ways.
But he knows now why Bucky was so goddamn irritated at him all the time—you aren't even throwing yourself into fights like he did, and still do, but instead manage to be so goddamn clueless and intelligent at the same time. And he doesn't want to find you stubbing your toe on the same treshold at least once a week as amusing as he does. Or that he looks forward to Monday meetings because he gets to walk past your little office, stacked with strange romance books you can read when Tony doesn't need help in the lab or Bruce has no samples to be incubated or whatever he does.
For a long time you were the only one he missed when he was gone on missions for weeks. Now the team is as much family as his real one ever was, and he loves them too, but you're still the first person that comes to mind when he drags himself half-alive and beaten to a pulp onto the quinjet after a gruesome fight.
Mostly he likes that you don't really need him. In reality you do so wonderfully fine by yourself, without anyone, and Steve loves your independence. He just seemingly likes worrying and fuzzing like a mother hen because he can. Because you let him.
You do stupid things sometimes and for those situations you really do need someone to either pull you away from the moving car heading towards you or scold you for being reckless, but you could live on a reclusive island entirely alone and wouldn't mind in the least. Maybe it's because Steve always wanted that quiet life—settling down in a house he built himself with a person he loves somewhere people won't bother him.
The snow is goddamn insatiable with working against him as he tries to find his way just a few feet away from the cabin. But he's been through worse and Steve would gladly cut off all his limbs and bathe in scolding lava to find you alive.
To hell with snowstorms and duties and work—he's going to find his best girl even if it makes a 100-year old super soldier hypothermic.
•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  • 
Your bladder is about to fucking burst.
For what must have been half an hour you've been laying awake to the sound of Winter's breathing, contemplating wether to go outside and potentially wake him up or just die.
But he's holding onto you so tightly, squeezing you to his chest with his nose buried in the crook of your neck, that you contemplate just holding it until he wakes. You feel like a stuffed animal he can't fall asleep without, the way Winter has tangled himself up in your limbs.
It makes you realize that you haven't felt closeness from a human like this in years. Maybe ever. You've never seen yourself as touch-starved but receiving such affection without any conditions or terms triggered some epiphany inside of you—you want to be held.
But ultimately, despite how heartbreaking it is, you are not willing to lay your life and dignity down for his and your own comfort in this moment.
The first movements of your newly awoken body generate cracking sounds that are a little too loud to not be concerned about. Good morning.
Somehow, in a manner you did not know you possessed, you slide out from his hold down onto the cold wooden floor without waking him up. You would've guessed he was a light sleeper.
A soft, breathy whine escapes his lips. You have to silence yourself with the palm of your hand to not laugh. Also desperately hoping that it's the loss of you on top of him that makes him upset in his sleep and not just the sudden lack of warmth.
His hair has been matted and tangled during the night, stray strands swept over his face, and he still he looks so good. You sit there on the floor staring at him for a good minute before you try to crawl away, struggling into your thermal pants and socks with a few silent curses slipping from your mouth.
If you're honest, you thought your foot would be fine by now. You clearly remember thinking to yourself that it would be over in five minutes when you fell. It's been a day and it's still swollen and hurting like a bitch—crawling to the door is the only way, though undignified.
You kind of miss being carried around while trying to haul yourself up to a stand with the help of the doorway. And you're also thinking about how Tony would have this picture printed and framed if he had a camera in his hand right now.
Outside it's still snowing, and the moderate layer of white, shimmering crystals covering the ground has grown to being outrageous during the night. It reaches up to your knees as you shuffle out just a short distance from the porch.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why am I doing this? Goddamn shit, ow," you whisper to yourself while trying to go about this in a dignified way that won't permanently disable you. "Ah. So cold. So cold."
And you're so hungry and tired and also might cry soon if things don't get better. Have you always been this sensitive? It feels like you're not. Circumstancial changes to your personality, hopefully.
Three days ago you were playing chess against Bruce in his lab while waiting for an analysis to process—that was, up until then, the most aggravating and complicated quest you had ever taken upon yourself (mainly because you do not know how to play chess). Right now you're peeing half-naked with snow up to your knees and a sprained ankle outside of a stranger's house who is most likely some kind of supernatural man and also very handsome. Is it weird that you're attracted to him?
Despite the rugged lumberjack-Tarzan type sleeping twenty feet away, you have a hard time seeing the silver lining in your misery. You're stuck and probably proclaimed dead. If you were a more positive person this could be counted as adventure time and great storytelling-material in the future—autobiography material, really. New York Times Bestseller List if you write it good.
But you're scared. You don't really know where you are and Steve might be out there looking for you. Yes, he is a super soldier, but it's not safe wading through a snowstorm without proper gear and knowledge. Steve can get cold too, despite how much he denies the slight shivers you've seen him develop during freezing walks in the winter. God knows he might wander off in the wrong direction and give himself hypothermia. Also a panic attack because this has to give him flashbacks to his time in the ice, right? Nightmares about being frozen solid like a popsicle?
By the time your teeth has since long started chattering, and you struggle to get up the zipper of your pants with your stiff fingers, a rustle in the trees surrounding the grounds forces you out of your daytime overthinking. The goosebumps on your skin instantly escalate to tiny mountains as you look around frantically for whatever threat is about to devour you.
Black fur emerges from between the branches, accompanied by a bark-like sound bordering on a happy chirp. You have to steady yourself to not fall over from shock as a bear cub wades through the snow, fuzzing up the powdery flakes as its dark coating slowly turns white from the steady snowfall.
Tears are dangerously close to being shed as you crouch down with your mouth agape. That was the last drop. A bear cub? Seriously? Sorting your thoughts through the big, blinking 'that is the cutest thing I have ever witnessed' is absolutely hindered by the fact that the bear is the cutest thing you have ever witnessed.
"Hi, baby," you say through a chuckle, stretching your hand out despite knowing that the bear could very well kill you. Because bear cubs are still dangerous, right? No?
It must be quite a few months old, if not a year, but the urge to hug it overpowers the underlying carefulness telling you to step away. Why did you ever think you had useful survival skills? A walking teddy bear comes into your sight and you abandon any reason.
The bear is hesitant as it catches sight of your figure, but it seems like the curiosity is stronger for it too. Slowly, and a bit clumsy, the cub makes its way through the deep snow until the wet nose nearly touches your fingers.
"Oh, you're so cute," you whisper with a blinding smile breaking through the chattering. "Where's your mother, huh? Have you gotten lost?"
It feels like maybe the soul of a tame cat has possessed this little bear as it latches on to your leg, paws embracing you with its nose snuggling into the stiff fabric. A shocked laugh escapes your lips as you gaze down at your new favorite being, possibly triumphing both Steve and Winter. Maybe it's too soon to decide wether or not Winter gets a place in your favorites category, but this one certainly does.
A shriek sounds through the air as your balance, which was compromised to begin with, falters and sends you to the ground with an especially hard nudge from the bear. Newly fallen snow wells up into the air as you hit the cold and soft layer with a thud, giggling like a little school girl as the bear releases a happy chirp.
"You want to play?" you ask, reaching your arms out while completely forgetting to be freezing cold like you should be. You didn't really have time to put on a jacket on top of your Henley before.
The bear pushes up snow with its nose, sending flakes into your face as if it splashes water jokingly. You throw some back, earning a shake of its fur to rid itself of the white formations.
But the door to the cabin is thrown open harshly, smashed against the wall, before you have any more time to resume your playtime. Winter barges out with his large and threatening build so tense that you fear he might pull a muscle. His eyes flicker over the scene, searching for your figure until he finds you half-buried in the deep snow with a bear hovering over you.
The panic is instant—you see it clearly from where you're craning your neck to catch sight of the sudden commotion. He's not wearing any shoes, but he runs out into the snow without hesitation anyways.
A growl sounds from his chest, puffing himself up to appear more threatening. For the first time you see the power he possesses—the real underlying danger inside of the man who has been so sweet to you these past 24 hours. But you're still not afraid of him.
"Wint—"
You begin calling out his name, try to explain that the bear wants you no harm, but the attempt is futile. Winter is fast, and before you can even say the whole of his name he has dragged you up from the ground with one arm while the bear fearfully runs away.
His hold is too tight for you to get a word out as he hastily brings you inside again, smashing the door shut and setting you down on the floor. This time he's careful of your foot, letting you hover just a few inches above the ground before slowly easing you down as to not lay any unnecessary weight on your ankle.
Winter's hands instantly find your face, eyes roaming over your body with frantic desperation.
"You—no hurt? Okay? Good?" he asks, tilting your chin up while inspecting the small patch of exposed skin on your neck.
His breathing is heavy. And you can understand what it looked like—he must've thought you were being mauled to death. Even though the bear was far from full grown they could still be dangerous, you think.
"I'm okay." You can't help but smile, despite it being a small one. "The bear just wanted to play. It was a really kind bear."
Winter furrows his brows into a frown, letting his gaze wander up to your face. A few seconds pass of him inspecting your expression, as if he's assessing wether or not you're sincere, before he lets out sigh.
A small pout grows on his face, drawing a giggle from your lips. He's cute like this.
"You were gone...so scared. Then I heard scream and saw bear," he tells you while shaking his head, tilted down towards the floor.
The smile on your face eases out into a sigh, hand instantly finding his forearm with a soft touch. "I'm sorry, Winter. I didn't want to wake you up and I had to pee. The bear just came out from between the trees and came up to me."
"But—no hurt?" he asks you once more.
You shake your head. "No. I'm completely fine. Just a little cold."
Winter lets out a puff of air from his nose. "Always so cold. All the time," he says, taking a step back from you to drag a chair out in front of you, before turning towards the fireplace.
"I am not. It just happens to be freezing outside and this cabin does not have any heat," you protest while sitting yourself down.
You watch as he reaches for the chopped wood stacked upon each other right beside the fireplace, throwing in a few more to feed the fire.
It crackles loudly, hypnotizing you for a few seconds before you start to feel the wet fabric clinging onto your skin.
"Do you have any other clothes?" you ask, arms encompassing yourself. "This shirt is all wet and cold from the snow."
Without any hesitation, he plucks his wine-red shirt off his back to reveal a tight, black long sleeve underneath. His right arm reaches the shirt out to you, meeting your doe-eyed gaze.
On a continuous roll, Winter has shown you kindness upon kindness ever since you woke up. It's all too much and you don't really know how to repay him. He's taken care of you so well, protected you and fed you and kept you warm and now given you his clothes. He barely even knows you.
With slight hesitance, you turn to the side and cling onto the hem of your shirt. You have to remind yourself that Winter probably won't mind if he sees you half-naked. He's already seen the bottom half of you in just underwear without having any significant reaction, so it'll be fine if he sees you in a bra too.
The collar gets stuck for a few seconds, and you struggle to get your head free for a good while. Gracious as ever. When you're exposed to the world again, you instantly feel the intense gaze of Winter on you.
His stare is zeroed in on your chest, the dark blue lace covering your breasts leaving little to the imagination when it comes to your nipples. No, you did not expect a single soul to witness your underwear on this trip while packing. But you kind of like dressing up for yourself a little bit too.
Winter parts his pink lips, drawn closer without even blinking. You sit there, gazing up at him while forgetting to take a breath. It's okay—he's just curious about the anatomical differences rather than the sexual aspect of it. You think.
"Touch...please," Winter murmurs as he stares at your breasts nearly spilling out of your bra.
And you have to suppress the sudden giggle that wants to escape. Winter looks like a kid staring at a lollipop, like he will burst any second if he can't inspect your fucking boobs.
"Ugh, they—soft. Look soft. Pretty," he whispers.
With a giggle you nod, giving him the okay to touch. You shiver now even before, despite feeling rather calm about it.
He uses his right hand to reach out. Ever since you flinched away from him that first time he's been hesitant to use his metal one while touching you, even though you don't mind. You have to tell him that.
"Never seen before—so soft. Oh."
His genuine excitement over having his hands on you draws a chuckle from your lips until he squeezes a little too hard.
"Be gentle. It hurts when you use too much force, okay?" you tell him.
He nods in answer, focus not straying from your breasts even once. He's mesmerized—he's never felt anything this pliable and cuddly on a person. In Hydra he only met rough men, consisting of hard muscle and rough handling. The entirety of you is just so soft.
"Off. Want away."
A tug at the strap of your bra paired with a wide-eyed gaze and pupils covering the entirety of his eyes signals that he'd be much happier without the offending fabric covering you. But you're not sure. It feels like a step too far.
Your fingers clasp softly around his, pushing them away from you gently. "Not today."
"Why?" he asks you with an expression bordering on a pout.
"Because I'm not comfortable with that. Do you remember when I explained that word?"
Winter nods while lowering his head to watch  his left hand as it flexes open, leaving a whirring sound after him. He looks a little bit upset about it, but doesn't pressure you any further. The truth is that you're worried he might not know what it implicates—what it might lead to. Because you sure as hell have a hard time controlling your feelings right now, and from what you've seen of Winter he doesn't have a lot of boundaries or impulse-control himself.
You put on his shirt in the silence, even though he's still looking at you. The cold temperature has made your nose runny and the only sounds in the room are now your sniffles, the crackling fire and Winter's whirring arm.
"I, uh, have to find—eat," Winter says, bringing his fingers up to his mouth while parting his lips. A soft smile cracks through your solemn exterior, relaxing into your chair.
"Food?"
"Yes. Food."
He looks down at you, eyes raking up the entirety of your figure, before reaching for a large fur that he drapes over his shoulders. You almost think you hear Winter whisper a "so small" to himself as he exits through the door, sending a gust of cold wind inside that makes you shudder.
As you follow him with your gaze through the window, he nearly looks like Leonardo in The Revenant with the rugged long hair and large fur as the snowflakes steadily rain down on him. Sam made you and Steve watch the movie a few weeks ago.
You wonder if Steve's been able to contact anyone. He definitely tried, if you know him as well as you think you do. Everyone back at the compound probably thinks you're dead by now, and might not look for you. If it weren't for Winter, you would be dead after all.
•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  • 
Two long and despicably boring hours drag on before you hear footsteps outside on the porch. And you can't help but stand up from where you've been sitting on the floor, limping towards the door as it's thrown open.
Winter has three fishes hanging from his hand. Slightly comical and also a little gross. There's probably some lake around here that he's been able to drill a hole into or something.
Your amused smile meets his stoic face that lights up just slightly when he sees you. Butterflies and heart eyes or what not—if he had been just a tinge more adapted to social cues he would've noticed the impact he has on you.
Winter's break in resolve quickly disappears as he realizes just what you are doing. He told you to not move a finger while your foot was still hurt.
"No. No standing," he seethes, nodding towards the tattered couch. You just give him a teasing smile in return. "Y/n. Little bunny," he sighs, laying down the fishes on his table and a handful of red berries that roll away.
"What, Winter?" you ask, trying to will the heat away from your cheeks. If you're honest, just standing like this is completely fine. It's walking that hurts like a fucking bitch.
With slow steps he nears your figure, towering over you with his massive build. You have to crane your neck to see his face, shuddering with the quiet growl sounding from his chest.
"No standing, I said. Only I carry you," he tells you, pointing his finger into your chest.
A gulp. An exhale that makes you realize how dry your mouth is all of a sudden.
"No?"
"Not listen to me. Makes me not happy—angry," Winter says. "Foot will be more bad if standing on it all the time."
Two dozens of minutes later he has obviously gotten his way. You don't think you could say no to him when he flashes those blue eyes of his without even trying.
Comfortably sitting on the couch that has been moved closer to the fire with a fur blanket wrapped around your shoulders, you watch him prepare food for the two of you once more. An old copper pan is filled with snow that has since long melted, now boiling so you can both drink some water for the first time in almost two days.
The palm of your hand is filled with cranberries that Bucky picked just for you—he told you so himself—that you've been snacking on. They're a little bit sour, but you're so hungry that you'd practically eat anything.
"Winter, can I ask you something?"
He turns his head around, facing you while laying down his knife.
"What did you do before coming here? Who were the people who called you, uh, who called you an Asset?"
A frustrated breath of air comes out of his nose, like merely the thought of his past angers him. And you begin to suspect that he has all right to feel that way.
"They made me kill. Have made many people dead with this arm."
Winter stretches it out in front of him, inspecting it like it is the first time. With disgust and a distaste so deeply ingrained that you can see his pained thoughts from here.
Within the blink of an eye he turns his attention towards the fire again, turning the fish so it doesn't get burnt. You don't say anything.
"They made me forget also. I did not want to, so then use special words and machine to make me do things." His back is tense now, the outline of his muscles distinct through the fabric of his shirt. "Hold me there for so long. Can't remember anything now from before."
The sound of a knife scraping against metal pierces through the air. It's the tip dragging against his arm, without creating as much as a dent despite the pressure.
"I do not want to hurt. Not you ever," Winter says.
The breath gets stuck in your throat, eliciting a choked, high-pitched sound as you try to find an answer worthy enough of the horrific crimes just confessed to you. All this he has been through, all the things he has done for the past two days, and he has the nerve to assure you that he means no harm.
"Winter," you whisper, barely noticeable when your throat is so thick and dry that you can barely speak. "Look at me. Please."
A sea of blue and sorrow and hatred and so much softness meets your own eyes. God, this man.
"You deserve good things. And I am not afraid of you, nor should you be of yourself. Honey, you've suffered enough. Don't let yourself be another source of pain."
Your palm comes to rest against his cheek, eyelids fluttering shut as he leans into your touch. You don't know if he understood every word, but it doesn't really matter as long as he understood the meaning behind them. And you think he does.
Winter cries. Tears, though few, leak down onto your skin as he silently grieves what life was taken from him. You don't know much about what he's lived through, but you know enough now to mourn for him too. You know enough to hold hate larger than you ever have for the people that used him.
That evil in the likes of villains on a screen exists among humanity is not new. You've heard about it in mission reports, in conversations between agents and seen it up front. Though nothing new, it hurts and aches in parts of your heart you thought were permanently disabled. Empathy has never been your strongest point but it might just break you right now.
"C'mere," you whisper while holding your arms out for him to escape into.
Winter drags himself forward to close the few feet between you, arms wrapping themselves around your waist as he buries his face into your lap.
What must be half an hour passes by with your fingers tangled up in his hair, nails gently scraping his scalp, and Winter's soft breathing warming up your legs. His own must be numb by now.
The food is long forgotten and probably burnt. You haven't really taken your eyes off of him for the entirety of this time. And despite what must be a routine lacking any sort of hair care, Winter has strands softer than a kitten's and a newfound source of jealousy for you. In these moments you don't particularly mind when your hands are the ones who get to feel his dark brown hair sift through your fingers.
But it hasn't been silent. No, you've rambled on about anything he might find interesting about your life to keep him distracted. He doesn't say anything, but you know he's listening. During things he doesn't like he squeezes your thigh, and sometimes he lets out quiet sounds as reaction.
"I love reading. I've probably read fifty books this year outside of research for work," you tell him, leaning your head back against the couch. "But not any classics, those are too hard to understand. I like simple stories with clichés and happy-endings. Makes me believe that I might find happiness like that someday too."
A particularly noticeable puff of air escapes Winter, hitting your leg with the warmth of it. An agreement, maybe? Or a silent plead for you to shut your mouth for a second?
"Oh, and I cook a lot too. But mostly the same three dishes. I'm not really that good, but I've perfected this tomato sauce I've been doing since I was 18."
You lift your hand to scratch your nose for only a second, and Winter still lets out a nearly silent whine for your absence. It makes you laugh, tugging on a few strands in answer.
"Do you want me to talk more?" you ask him.
He nods, holding onto you a little tighter.
"And is it really comfortable sitting on the floor? Don't you wanna come up to the couch?"
A shake of his head. Still. A nod.
Winter places his hands on either side of you, pushing himself up from the floor until he's standing tall right in front of your figure.
It only takes a pat of your hand on the cushion beside you for him to sit down. You push yourself into the armrest, legs crossed to your best ability with a foot that still has good swelling to it, to give him enough space. The couch is too small in reality and had its shining moments before you were born, but when Winter unfolds your legs and drapes them over his lap the two of you fit well enough.
“Thank you,” his rough voice croaks out after a silence so long you nearly forgot the meaning of speaking. The comfortable silence is always going to be good enough communication for you.
Your eyes are closed and too heavy to open again. What time it is you have no idea about, but it’s dark and you’re exhausted, but find some sliver of energy to answer him.
“What for?” you ask, soft voice on the verge of being slow.
“You are very…kind. Kind and uh, cute. Pretty.” His hand strokes up and down your leg, as if the thought of not touching you is unbearable. “Also smell so good. Want to be close all the time.”
The entirety of your body tenses up and you don’t know why. Why do your limbs turn to stone when his words burn in your veins, sends heat to your face and ears and heart that beats faster with each passing second?
You want to answer, but Winter beats you to it. Instead of expecting you to say anything in return he pets you on the head gently.
“Little bunny so tired. Already sleeping almost,” he says, more to himself than for your sake. You already know how tired you are.
The solid couch disappears from underneath you as he carries you with him to the bed. And just like last night, he maneuvers you until you’re laying flat atop of him.
A pleased hum sounds from your lips, snuggling into his warm hold with a tired smile adorning your face.
“Winter, tomorrow I would really like some pasta. A big pot that nobody else gets to taste but us,” you mumble. “Not even Steve.”
And Winter doesn’t really understand what you’re babbling about, but you can feel his smile despite your eyes being closed.
You could get used to this, and you haven’t felt like a life without Steve constantly nearby is something you could ever be without before. Two days and nights is all it took.
It scares you.
Part III
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