┈┈⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ content: semi-canon compliant, some discussion around wounds but no explicit gore, no use of Y/N, cross-cultural clash (lycan x human lul), unresolved romantic tension (eventual smut maybe...), fated mates, himbo-coded Valko but really its just emotional transparency, MC is suspicious as hell of it all though, references to and loosely based off trailers
┈┈⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ A/N: decided to change the title to the romanized version of родная (in russian, an endearment I believe the meaning is closer to "my own" which comes from the root for "family" ahhh) aaand here is part 2 (earlier than I said I would post it heh the next one wont be early yall)! part 1 can be found here
The third time it’s mentioned, surprisingly, you’re the one to bring it up.
“Fuck!”
“Yeah I know.” Valko takes in your grimace with a look of his own, stern golden eyes peering over his glasses. “Hang in there, alright?”
The sharp pinch of his powers probing in your leg is growing unbearable— an excruciating ache that has your fingers digging into his back, breath hissing through clenched teeth.
“Just a little longer,” he encourages. “Almost got ‘em.”
The ache builds until it suddenly sears white-hot, something shifting deep inside the wound. Cold sweat drips down your temple as you struggle to breathe through the sensation. His muscles underneath your grip tense. The pressure inside the wound tightens, eases, and then shifts again in painstaking increments, his careful adjustments making it clear that whatever he’s caught is resisting every attempt to draw it free.
Each minute tug seems to multiply the pain a thousandfold, cresting into a wave of agony that vibrates up your leg, your hips, your spine, your clenched hands. Then he pulls again— slower, deeper— you smother a scream into his shoulder, teeth sinking in as tears gush hot down your cheek, mingling with the cold sweat soaking the fabric of his shirt.
“Yeah, that’s it— take it out on me.” The clink of metal against glass barely registers. “Good, you’re doing so good.”
You must have lost consciousness somewhere along the way because the next thing you know, you’re blinking beneath the lab’s muted lights. There’s the steady rush of water from the sink, the gentle clatter of instruments being set down one by one, the faint sticky rustle of damp gauze being peeled away. The dull throb in your leg and the tight pull of fresh bandages, followed by the softness of a blanket tucked close under your chin. The blanket’s warmth quickly becomes overwhelming, trapping heat against your still feverish skin. You shift, bracing a hand against the table, beginning to push yourself upright.
“Hey.” Valko is already at your side, a supportive hand under yours as you sit up with a wince. “Take it easy, you’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“Did you—” Your question dissolves into a rasp, though whether it’s from how dry your mouth feels or how thin your voice sounds, you can’t be sure.
“Here.”
He presses a cup of water into your hands. You manage a grateful nod before tipping it back, draining it too quickly, too thirsty to care when water spills down your chin.
“Did you take a look yet?” At his blank look, you clarify impatiently, wiping your chin. “At what was in my leg?”
He hesitates, then nods decisively with a small frown. “Even from a quick look, I can tell these ain’t ordinary weapons. They’re advanced— some sort of microtech. It’s why they were such a pain in the ass to extract. The little fuckers kept moving, almost like they had minds of their own.”
The muscles in his jaw work and release.
“And I had to immobilize them without tearing your leg up any worse than it already was. That kind of precision with my Evol...” He exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. “Yeah. I’ve never had to do anything like that before.”
His eyes settle back on you, gold crystallizing to flinty yellow.
“And something that sophisticated ending up inside you? Ain’t no way that’s a coincidence.”
You sit with the sobering information, letting it settle. “... You’re saying that explosion was intentional?”
Valko huffs, dipping his head to your eye-level. “I’m saying that someone has their eyes on you and I’m not happy about it. In fact...”
His face is so close, the tip of his nose almost touches yours. Awareness prickles across your skin, every nerve abruptly attuned to the narrowing space between you and the heat of his body. And for a moment, it looks like he means to close the distance. But Valko catches himself at the last second, one hand settling at the edge of the table beside your leg.
“You did quite a number on my heart today.”
Maybe it’s the fever still simmering underneath your skin; maybe it’s the bone-deep exhaustion blurring the edges of your thoughts. Or maybe it’s the dark half moons under his eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders, the vivid crescent of your teeth imprinted in his upper arm— either way, you find yourself asking the question in the back of your mind ever since he spoke it into existence.
“Do you really think I’m your mate?”
He blinks slowly. “Why’d you ask?”
“How do you know...?” You let the question fade, a strange sense of self-consciousness throttling the words in your throat.
“How do I know what?” he prods gently.
A thousand different racing thoughts but after a long silence, all that you can muster is: “I just... I don’t know if I believe that kind of thing.”
You can’t bring yourself to look anywhere but the floor. Valko makes that soft huffing noise again from somewhere above you. “What do you know about lycans?”
“Not much,” you admit.
A succession of faint pops breaks the silence. You glance up to find him tilting his head from side to side, eyes closed as his fingers knead the back of his neck.
“Wolves mate for life,” he says slowly, as though weighing each word. “For lycans, it’s the same. And s’not so much knowing, as it just is.” He shrugs, eyes still closed. “But obviously, that doesn’t mean you’re obligated to return my feelings.”
“So,” you ask, feeling a bit on edge without knowing why, “if I don’t agree to it, what— you’re just single forever?”
He shrugs again. “More or less.”
“That sounds awful.”
He snorts, eyes snapping open to reach over and rap your nose with a knuckle.
“S’not like I’m gunna die alone, ya goof.” He pulls over a nearby chair, looking thoughtful as he settles back into it. “Of course, rejection ain’t ideal, but s’not the end of the world. I have my clan too. Cousins, aunties, uncles—”
Valko yawns, an impressive display of his canines before shooting you a teasing grin.”Have I mentioned the sixteen puppers? You’ve got some pretty stiff competition.” His smile grows fond, warm with unseen memories.
“But...” The question prickles at the tip of your tongue, pushing past the uneasy twist in your stomach. “You’re not resentful?”
He tilts his head, one ear tipping forward while the other flicks back in confusion. “Resentful of what?”
“Having your partner chosen for you? Forced into some predestined bullshit?”
You nearly jump out of your skin when Valko throws back his head and laughs, a booming, full-bodied sound that reverberates from deep in his chest, the glass vials in the room faintly rattling with every rolling chuckle. It carries long enough for your annoyance to flare up, but he gathers himself before you have a chance to retort.
“That’s a... new way to think about it,” he says with a wry tilt at the corner of his mouth. “But no. I find myself lucky.”
“Lucky?” You can’t even fathom how he arrived at that conclusion. “Why?”
“Predestined or not,” his gaze finds yours, steady and true, “I’m lucky to have met you.”
Immediately, you jerk your gaze away, a dreaded blush crawling up your neck. “And what if all you’re feeling is just a biological imperative?”
“A biological... imperative?” he echoes, as if he can’t quite follow.
“I mean,” you say, mind racing, words tumbling out before you can process them, barely knowing what you’re trying to say. “Based on what I’ve seen, scent seems to be a really important part of your bond with me. Makes sense right? After all, you’re able to sense so much with your nose, of course you’d be able to sniff out genetic markers or complimentary immune systems—”
You’re in the air, weightless, and for a second you don’t understand— not until Valko deposits you right onto his lap. And technically, you’ve already spent half the night there— sitting across his thighs, your face buried against his shoulder as he worked to remove the debris from your leg. But stripped of medical necessity, the position feels entirely different. Now... Well, now, heat flushes your entire body as every point of contact becomes suddenly, mortifyingly apparent.
“You’re stubborn, so it’s gunna take a while for this to sink in.” He sighs, his nose softly brushing against yours. “But even if my nose stopped working tomorrow—hell, even if it got cut off this very second— I’d still feel lucky to have met you.
“Your scent may have kickstarted this whole thing, sure. But after spending time with you, fighting beside you...”
The gold of his gaze is warm, rich as amber reflecting firelight.
“I’m interested in you. Not in how you smell, not your damn genetic markers. You. Your tendency to question every little damn thing, your bull-headed tenacity, that terrible, terrible habit of neglecting your own needs— not a favorite, for the record— and…” He nuzzles your temple. “And that beautifully atrocious temper of yours.”
You’re stunned silent.
“Yasno?” he asks, looking incredibly self-satisfied as he draws back. “Got it? Got it.”
The self satisfaction grates so thoroughly on your already frayed nerves, your hands fly out to grab his cheeks. Viciously scrubbing your palms back and forth all over his face, you smother his eyes and nose while he sputters in startled protest. Once you’re satisfied with your work, you give his face one last shove.
“Don’t get so cocky,” you shoot over your shoulder as you limp off his lap, “you big oaf.”
WHEN: 6 February
WHERE: The stableyard of St Maur Castle
WHO: @alastair-talbot
The morning had dawned harsh and cold, the pink sun piercing a bleak sky, the promise of frost in the air. Margaret knew all this because she had been awake for hours, pretending to be asleep as a maid lit her fire before rising to bear witness to the birth of another day. Apprehension spoiled any joy she might have derived from such a sight, because in a matter of hours Alastair Talbot was accompanying her to Maurice’s memorial.
Margaret prided herself on self-knowledge, yet even she struggled to untangle which of these filled her with more anxiety.
A stiff breeze whistled through the stableyard. Margaret loitered like a naughty child by her gelding, Prince’s, stall. She had sent a small note to Alastair the day previously to request his presence on the estate to view the memorial, as they had arranged. Given the location of the memorial, she had suggested they ride out together - though now she wondered at the propriety of such a thing. Her riding habit fit her tightly, the black coat and skirt intended to streamline dashing over fields on horseback, yet now it felt positively obscene. Why had she not suggested a walk, where layers of mourning clothing might obscure the frailness of her body and therefore her soul? The desire to hide away was quite foreign to her. She hated it.
Maurice would tell her to buck up. She ought to take his advice. If not in life, then death - right?
The sound of approaching boots on cobblestones attracted her attention. Margaret turned away from patting Prince’s soft muzzle to watch as Alastair entered the stableyard. When their eyes met she was greeted with a peculiar sensation not unlike falling.
“Lord Talbot,” Margaret said, hiding behind a polite smile. Then, because nothing at all seemed appropriate given the purpose of their meeting, she gestured to the horse in the adjacent stall. “This is Napoleon, although he has little in common with his namesake. I thought a tall mount would suit you. He’s a bit fresh, but we’ll knock that out of him. The memorial is on the other side of the estate.”
For a moment or two she merely focused on Napoleon, stroking the gelding’s bay neck and smiling in admiration as he whickered quietly and snuffled at the sleeve of her jacket. Oh! Her heart swelled with love for the beautiful creature. God may have his troubles, but horses were not one of them.
When Margaret at last looked back at Alastair, her smile was wide and unguarded.
Belatedly, she arranged her expression into one more acceptable. “Sorry, I rather lost of my train of thought. What I meant was, it’s a bit of a ride. I hope you don’t mind.”
