In The Army (Tord x Reader)

fifteen

I lay on the red silk covered bed, twiddling my necklace in-between my fingers. Light and dark, echo through my head. The evening sun peaks through the curtains, lighting up the room with a golden glow. A soft knock interrupts my daze, quickly closing my eyes before the door creaks open. The sound of heavy footsteps approaching the bed sound similar to Tord's, so I knew not to worry. On the other side of the bed is where he sits, the sound of boots hitting the ground follows. Next is the weight of clothes laying on the bed before they're swooped away. The bed dips once again, then the cold touch of metal caresses my cheek. "Kjære, I know you're awake."

My nose involuntarily scrunches from the sudden ice cold touch. His hand pulls away, but I grab onto it before he goes. Keeping my eyes closed, I whisper, "Please stay."

"Am I allowed to change?" Tord replies, and I squeeze his hand before letting go. I crack my eyes open as he gets off the bed, switching out his undershirt for a loose fitting one. He pulls off his pants, quickly being replaced with grey sweatpants. I snuggle into the sheets, Tord climbing in right beside me. He hesitates for a minute, his hand inches from mine. "May I?"

I wrap my arms around him, pressing my face into the crook of his neck. Tord brings his arms to wrap around me. "I'm so sorry... I didn't mean to."

"My love, what is wr-"

"I'm afraid of myself, Tord. I had no idea that my rage could drive me to kill. I have to stop killing." My fingers latch onto his shirt while tears roll from my eyes. "I murdered two people. Became judge, jury, and executioner."

Tord begins to rub my back, his chin resting on top of my head. He starts out, whispering, "I've done it hundreds of times, but I remember my first kill. I was eleven when I was home for the summer. It was a woman, a spy who infiltrated our troops. My Father thought she'd be a good first kill. I didn't pull the trigger, just held the gun in my hands as he did it for me.

"I'm sorry I can't have much empathy for it anymore, but I know what it was like. We can't escape it, but if you need, I can be the one to pull the trigger." He tightens his grip on me, as if he's afraid I'll disappear forever. I close my eyes, sinking into his arms and vanilla-tobacco scent, must have been a cigar he had. His robotic arm runs through my hair, the soft sounds of it's mechanisms soothing me to sleep.

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459 words