#[ ic: unit red one ]
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
Red One was at the beach...a rare sight, given how the members of the mechanical squadron can't swim. They're wading by the shore, knee-deep in water and looking for something.
16 notes
·
View notes
Text
sonic the hedgehog tumblr dashboard simulator
0 notes
💠 extremegayr Follow
got held up in traffic today cause some noob couldnt drive the fucking loop-de-loop. lmfao fucking coward
15 notes
🎛 420zone Follow
ok but robotnik's kind of a dilf tho
🌫 wispgender Follow
he's literally a war criminal can we NOT do this tumblr
🎛 420zone Follow
📰 its-no-use Follow
@wispgender dont u literally simp for nominatus like who is one to talk
🌫 wispgender Follow
NOMINATUS ISN'T REAL????
🛜 viralsensation-destructorofworlds Follow
that you know of
🌫 wispgender Follow
what
10,672 notes
🔷 sonicinthewild
43,834 notes
☣️ lineinthesand Follow
saw sonic the hedgehog irl once. he showed up at my village, released 30 feral pickys in the town hall, paid the ice cream vendor roughly a thousand rings for a single chili dog, told me not to waste my life worrying about the little things, and then caused a fucking tornado
🧿 spiralhillspindash Follow
ok and??? you're not special
☣️ lineinthesand Follow
THIS WAS A PERSONAL POST GO AWAAAAY
173 notes
🌠 chaoinspace2electricboogaloo
sucks that sticks the badger hates all technology you know she would do NUMBERS on here
568 notes
☸️ r0u3e Follow
being an islander be like "are those the kind of eggsplosions i should worry about or the kind of eggsplosions that are gonna repair our crops, fix the economy, and bring my dead grandma back to life"
🌁 eggpawnkindathicctho Follow
being a continenter be like "oh great what primordial diety has risen from the grave to block traffic and fight a 15yo today"
🥭 chao-official
being a chao be like "chao chao chao chao chao"
🌁 eggpawnkindathicctho Follow
you said it my mans
579,056 notes
🏵 sprinkles-the-chao Follow
hold on if sonic the hedgehog is jewish then how is he santa claus
🤖 e123-omegaverse Follow
dont question him
85,628 notes
☣️ sparkygoboom Follow
hey guys real question are human/mobian relationships problematic
💠 extremegayr Follow
op is about to start the anthro church schism of the fifteenth year all over again
🛞 mobotropolis Follow
ok but in all seriousness did your mom never teach you that part of history
🎢 marxiobros Follow
someone doesn't know about the united federations public school system
🛞 mobotropolis Follow
what the fuck is a public school
⏭️ drowningmusic Follow
⚄ paradoxprism Follow
are we gonna talk about op's chaos radiation fetish
💠 extremegayr Follow
OP'S WHAT NOW
🏞 mobiancrossing Follow
ok but am i the only one who thinks that the public school system would be a good idea if handled right? like i know it's traditional to learn from your parents and then experience the world on our own from the ages of 7-13 but like combining all our knowledge and learning together doesnt seem like a bad idea
☠️ fabian-vane-number-1-hater Follow
bitch that's what the internet is for
🌅 s0leanna-apple-barrell
yeah where else am i gonna learn to make infinite chaos emeralds
❇️ freesurge Follow
"infinite chaos emeralds" that's called the phantom ruby
🏳️🌈 rainbowwispforgayrights Follow
everybody on this site has brain damage
❇️ freesurge Follow
yeah. from the radiation
603,573 notes
🐸 froggysfriend
caught this today
🏝 digginginthegroundfortubers
if anything happens to this blog i genuinely hope eggman blows us all up as punishment
950,420 notes
🐊 teamchaotixofficial
Hey guys! Sorry to do this again but rent's a little tight this month :( If we've ever solved a case for you guys or made you guys smile, please consider sending a ko-fi our way! we just need a few rings to get through the month <3
6 notes
🖼 give-the-koco-a-gun Follow
do we ever talk about that time the sky turned blood-red and shadow the hedgehog's demon dad descended from on high to murder us all and we only barely survived
❤️🔥 songoose4evr Follow
shadow fixed it it's fine
🎮 n0cturnity
yeah that was like twelve apocalypses ago move on
🎆 robotniksbignaturals Follow
kinda wanted to bang black doom tbh
🖼 give-the-koco-a-gun Follow
THE DEVIL???? FROM THE BIBLE????
🎆 robotniksbignaturals Follow
yeah. move over gayboy i'm boutta be shadow's new dad
856,301 notes
🗑️ berrybarry
starting a conspiracy that time hasnt moved since 2006
🗑️ berrybarry
why the fuck was i shadowbanned after posting this
8 notes
🤡 clownfinite Follow
tfw you finally save up enough rings for ice cream and you go outside and get hit by swatbot pieces and the rings just go fuckin everywhere
587 notes
🔷 sonicinthewild
34,452 notes
🌌 h-o-l-o-l-y-n-x
so did y'all see that genesis wave or was it just me
0 notes
🆙 planetsgiantcrack Follow
the virgin tweeter "if you use a bad word in the same tweet as the word 'cream' you get obliterated off the site" vs this chad site of "i want to put knuckles back in a microwave"
💟 presidentyaoi Follow
BACK????
69,849 notes
⬜️ chao-and-wisps-4-ever-so-cute-2 Follow
ok posting my first fanart to this site pls be nice! <3
2 notes
🌔 emeraldfwuitgummy Follow
why does tails look like he's always about to say "it fucken WIMDY"
🦊 miles-prower-official
Hello, @emeraldfwuitgummy!
I actually quote that image on a constant basis! Sonic thinks it's hilarious every time. He's quite the fan of memes, and it's nice to get a laugh out of him!
Formally,
Dr. Miles "Tails" Prower, PHD
🌔 emeraldfwuitgummy Follow
SO WAS ANYONE GOING TO TELL ME THAT TAILS WAS ON THIS FUCKING SITE OR--
🏅 iwishhumanswerereal Follow
do. do you not know he created tailblr. dude it's in the name lmao
🌔 emeraldfwuitgummy Follow
he
WHAT
🍭 milfwisp Follow
didn't eggman invent this site???
🪫 veganswatbot
THE EGG ABANDONED SCRAMBLR IN ITS TIME OF NEED AND THE FOX RAISED US FROM THE ASHES. YOU WILL NOT DISRESPECT HIM
🦊 miles-prower-official
Hello, @milfwisp and @veganswatbot!
Very good question! This site was Eggman's until I ate his bones. Thank you for engaging! :D
Formally,
Dr. Miles "Tails" Prower, PHD
🌔 emeraldfwuitgummy Follow
YOU
WHAT
🌭 sonicsays
what's not clicking
#long post /#sonic the hedgehog#sonicverse#sth#sonicedit#mine#unreality /#unreality#long post#<< trying different tags here cause ppl are telling me the first attempt wasnt working
25K notes
·
View notes
Text
Royal Pardon
Charles Leclerc x Arthur’s best friend!Reader
Summary: Charles isn’t a violent man at heart, but when he saves you from being harassed while celebrating his Monaco win, he quickly realizes that there’s not a single line he wouldn’t cross if it means keeping you safe
Warnings: attempted sexual assault, violence, and injury
Note: a break from your regularly scheduled October programming because Charles just won the United States GP and that calls for a celebration
The music pulses through the club, a steady, hypnotic beat that thrums in Charles’ chest. He’s never felt like this — untouchable, invincible — as if tonight could stretch on forever, an endless loop of victory and laughter.
He’s just won Monaco.
Monaco. His Monaco.
The thought alone makes him smile, a small, private thing that he hides behind the rim of his champagne flute.
Around him, the crowd swirls in a blur of lights and shadows, everyone shouting their congratulations over the music, pulling him into hugs and clapping him on the back. Arthur is here somewhere, of course, dragging you along because where else would you be? The two of you are like shadows, inseparable since childhood.
Charles can still see you, just barely, out of the corner of his eye, chatting with a couple of Arthur’s friends near the bar. You’re laughing, a sound that somehow cuts through the noise and settles in the back of his mind. It’s a good sound, one that feels familiar, like home.
“Charles, mate!” A voice shouts, pulling him back. Max is there, leaning in with a grin that’s all teeth, like he’s just as buzzed on adrenaline as Charles is. “I swear, you’re going to be insufferable after this. Monaco, finally!”
Charles laughs, shaking his head, though the truth is he probably will be insufferable. But can anyone blame him? He’s worked so damn hard for this, pushing through every setback, every disappointment. And now, here he is, celebrating the win of his career in the only place that really matters.
He’s about to respond when someone else pulls him into a hug, a flurry of excitement and congratulations that Charles barely processes. He doesn’t mind, though. Tonight, it feels like nothing can touch him, like nothing could ever bring him down from this high.
But then, something shifts. It’s subtle at first, just an itch at the back of his mind, a sense that something isn’t right. He glances over to where you and Arthur were standing, but Arthur is gone, nowhere to be seen. And you … you’re not laughing anymore.
Charles’ stomach twists. You’re cornered against the bar now, a man leaning in too close, too aggressive. Charles can’t see your face clearly through the throng of people, but the way you’re holding yourself, tense and small, tells him everything he needs to know.
His blood turns to ice, freezing the euphoria in his veins. He can’t hear what the man is saying, but it doesn’t matter. The way the man’s hand snakes around your waist, the way you try to push him off with trembling hands — Charles’ vision goes red.
He’s moving before he can think, pushing through the crowd with a single-minded focus. The people congratulating him moments ago scatter as he brushes past them, their laughter and cheers fading into the background noise.
“Hey!” Charles’ voice cuts through the music, sharp and commanding. The man doesn’t even turn at first, but you do, your eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears. Charles feels something break inside him at the sight, but he channels it into a fury that propels him forward.
When the man finally notices Charles, it’s too late. Charles is on him, grabbing the man’s shoulder and yanking him away from you with a force that sends the man stumbling backward. “Get the fuck away from her,” Charles snarls, every syllable dripping with venom.
The man barely has time to react before Charles slams him against the wall, the impact rattling the bottles on the shelves behind the bar. Charles’ forearm presses against the man’s throat, cutting off whatever protest he might have had.
“Charles, stop!” You gasp, your voice choked with a mix of fear and something else, something that twists the knife already lodged in Charles’ chest. He doesn’t stop, though. Can’t stop. The image of the man’s hands on you is burned into his mind, and all he can think about is making him pay, making him hurt.
The man struggles, clawing at Charles’ arm, but it’s useless. Charles is stronger, fueled by a rage that’s been simmering just beneath the surface for too long. The man’s face turns red, then purple, and still, Charles doesn’t let up. His grip tightens, and he leans in closer, his voice a low, dangerous whisper.
“If you ever so much as look at her again, I’ll fucking kill you.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and deadly serious. The man’s eyes widen, a flash of genuine fear crossing his face, but Charles doesn’t care. He wants him to be scared. Wants him to know that there’s no escaping this, no escaping the consequences of what he’s done.
“Charles, please!” Your voice breaks through the haze of anger, and it’s only then that Charles realizes how close you’ve gotten. You’re right there, your hand on his arm, tugging gently, desperately trying to pull him away.
He looks at you then, really looks at you, and sees the tears streaming down your face, the fear etched into your features. It’s like a bucket of cold water dumped over his head, shocking him back to reality. The club, the music, the people — all of it comes rushing back in a disorienting wave.
Charles blinks, his grip on the man loosening just enough for the man to gasp for air. He’s still furious, the anger simmering beneath the surface, but he’s no longer blind with it. He takes a breath, then another, trying to regain some semblance of control.
“You’re lucky she’s here,” Charles says quietly, his voice barely more than a growl. He shoves the man away from him, watching with cold satisfaction as he stumbles and nearly falls to the floor.
The man doesn’t stick around. He scrambles to his feet and disappears into the crowd, no doubt eager to get as far away from Charles as possible. Good. Charles hopes he never sees the man again, because he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop himself if he does.
For a moment, Charles just stands there, his chest heaving with the effort of reining in his emotions. The crowd has started to notice the commotion, a few curious onlookers craning their necks to see what’s going on. But none of that matters. None of them matter.
All that matters is you.
Charles turns to you, his expression softening as he takes in your tear-streaked face. “Are you okay?” His voice is gentler now, full of concern that wasn’t there a moment ago.
You nod, but it’s a shaky, uncertain thing. “I-I’m fine,” you manage, though it’s clear you’re anything but. You look like you’re about to collapse, your legs barely holding you up.
Without thinking, Charles steps closer and wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. You don’t resist, you just sink into him, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt as if he’s the only thing keeping you upright. And maybe he is.
“It’s okay,” Charles murmurs, his voice low and soothing. “You’re safe now. I’m here.” He holds you tighter, as if he can shield you from the world, from everything that just happened. And for a moment, it feels like he can. Like nothing bad can touch you as long as you’re in his arms.
You don’t say anything, just press your face into his chest, your breath hitching with the remnants of your tears. Charles presses his lips to the top of your head, a gesture that feels both instinctive and impossibly intimate. He’s never held you like this before, never been this close, but it feels right.
The music still pounds in the background, the lights still flash in a dizzying array of colors, but it’s all distant now, muted. The only thing that matters is you, and making sure you’re okay.
Charles pulls back just enough to look down at you, his hands resting on your shoulders. “Where’s Arthur?” He asks, his voice still soft but edged with a protective concern.
“I-I don’t know,” you admit, your voice small. “He was here a minute ago, and then …” Your words trail off, and Charles doesn’t need you to finish the sentence to know what happened next.
He clenches his jaw, trying to keep his anger in check. Arthur should have been here, should have been looking out for you, but he isn’t. Charles isn’t sure where his brother is right now, but he’ll deal with that later. For now, he needs to focus on you.
“It’s okay,” he says again, though the words feel inadequate. “You’re with me now. No one’s going to hurt you.”
You nod again, but this time it’s a little steadier, a little more certain. “Thank you,” you whisper, the words barely audible over the music.
Charles shakes his head. “You don’t need to thank me,” he says, his voice rougher than he intends. “I’ll always protect you. Always.”
The weight of those words hangs between you, a promise that feels more real than anything else in this moment. Charles knows, without a doubt, that he means it. He’ll protect you, no matter what. Even if it means facing down every threat, every danger, with the same ferocity he showed tonight.
He takes a deep breath, trying to let go of the lingering anger. The night isn’t over yet, but he’s not sure how much longer he can stand to be here, in this place that suddenly feels too crowded, too loud, too full of people who didn’t notice, didn’t care. Charles’ grip tightens on your shoulders as he scans the room, trying to spot Arthur in the sea of faces. But it’s a lost cause — the club is packed, and he knows Arthur could be anywhere.
“Come on,” Charles says, his voice a bit steadier now. “Let’s get out of here.”
You don’t argue, just nod and let him guide you through the crowd. The bodies pressing in around you both feel suffocating, the music that once electrified the night now grating on Charles’ nerves. He keeps a firm hold on your hand, as if letting go might mean losing you to the chaos.
As you near the exit, the cool night air becomes a welcome relief, a sharp contrast to the oppressive heat inside. The streets of Monaco are quieter now, the party shifting indoors as the night grows late. Charles doesn’t stop moving until you’re both far enough from the club that the noise fades into a dull hum, barely audible over the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks.
He finally releases your hand, only to immediately wrap his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. You’re shivering, whether from the cold or the shock, Charles isn’t sure. Either way, he holds you tighter, wishing he could do more, say more.
But the words don’t come easily. They never have. So instead, he just walks with you, slowly, allowing the night air to calm the both of you. You lean into him, and he can feel the tension gradually leaving your body, though you still seem a little too fragile, too breakable.
Charles isn’t sure how long you walk like that, side by side in the near silence, before you finally speak.
“Charles, I …” Your voice is hesitant, unsure. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t been there.”
He stops walking, turning to face you, his expression serious. “You don’t have to think about that,” he says, his voice firm. “I was there. And I always will be.”
You look up at him, your eyes searching his face for something — reassurance, perhaps, or maybe just understanding. “But what if next time-”
“There won’t be a next time.” Charles cuts you off, his voice harder than he intends. He takes a breath, softening his tone. “I won’t let there be a next time.”
He can see the worry still etched on your face, the remnants of fear that haven’t quite faded. He wishes he could take it all away, erase the memory of that man and the way he made you feel. But he knows he can’t. All he can do is be there, to protect you, to make sure you know that you’re not alone.
“You’re safe,” he repeats, quieter now, but with no less conviction. “As long as I’m here, you’re safe.”
You hold his gaze for a long moment, and he wonders what you’re thinking, what’s going on behind those eyes that have always been so easy for him to read. Eventually, you nod, and some of the tension in your posture seems to melt away.
“Okay,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”
Charles nods too, though a part of him still feels on edge, like the danger hasn’t completely passed. But he pushes that feeling down, focusing instead on you, on the fact that you’re here with him, and that’s all that matters right now.
“Let’s go,” he says again, but this time, his voice is softer, more gentle. He takes your hand again, lacing his fingers with yours, and starts walking, leading you away from the club, from the noise and the memories that he hopes you’ll never have to revisit.
As you walk, the tension between you both begins to ease. The night air is crisp, carrying the scent of the sea, and for the first time in what feels like hours, Charles allows himself to breathe.
He glances over at you, your profile illuminated by the soft glow of the streetlights. You look calmer now, more like yourself, though there’s still a shadow of what happened lingering in your eyes. Charles’ heart aches at the sight, at the knowledge that he couldn’t protect you from that, even if he was there to stop it from getting worse.
But he doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he just keeps walking, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over your knuckles, a silent reassurance that he’s here, and he’s not going anywhere.
Eventually, you reach the familiar streets that lead back to your apartment. The night is quiet now, the revelry of earlier giving way to the peaceful stillness of a city that’s finally starting to sleep.
When you reach your building, you both stop, lingering on the sidewalk as if neither of you wants the night to end just yet. Charles knows he should say something, anything, but the words are stuck in his throat, too heavy and too complicated to untangle.
You’re the one who breaks the silence, your voice soft but clear. “Thank you. For everything.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t need to thank me,” he says, echoing his earlier words. “I meant what I said — I’ll always protect you.”
There’s a pause, a beat of silence that stretches on just long enough to make Charles wonder if you’re going to say something more. But you don’t. Instead, you step closer and, without warning, wrap your arms around him in a tight hug.
Charles is momentarily stunned, his breath catching in his throat as he processes the warmth of your embrace, the way you cling to him like he’s your anchor in a storm. He hesitates for only a second before his arms come up around you, holding you just as tightly, if not more.
The hug lasts longer than it probably should, but neither of you seems to want to let go. When you finally do, you pull back just enough to look up at him, your eyes searching his with a softness that makes his chest tighten.
“Goodnight, Charlie,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper.
“Goodnight,” he replies, his voice equally soft, as if speaking any louder would shatter the fragile moment between you.
You give him one last, lingering look before turning and heading into your building, the door closing softly behind you. Charles stands there for a moment, staring at the door, as if willing it to open again, as if hoping you might come back out and say something more.
But you don’t, and eventually, Charles turns and starts walking back the way you came, his thoughts a tangled mess of emotions he’s not sure how to deal with.
The night is still, the only sound the distant crash of the waves against the rocks. Charles lets the quiet seep into him, trying to find some semblance of calm, but it’s difficult. The image of you, scared and vulnerable, keeps flashing through his mind, a constant reminder of how close you came to being hurt.
He knows he should feel relief — that you’re safe, that the night ended without further incident. But instead, all he feels is a gnawing sense of guilt, of not having been there sooner, of not being able to protect you from everything.
Charles clenches his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he walks. He doesn’t want to think about what could have happened if he hadn’t been there, doesn’t want to imagine the fear and pain you might have endured.
But he can’t stop the thoughts from coming, can’t shake the anger that simmers just beneath the surface, threatening to boil over at any moment.
As he rounds the corner to his own street, Charles makes a silent vow to himself. He’ll be more vigilant, more careful. He won’t let anyone hurt you ever again. He’ll be there, always, to protect you, no matter what.
And if anyone tries to come between you and your safety again, well … Charles isn’t sure he’ll be able to hold back next time.
He reaches his apartment, but he doesn’t go inside right away. Instead, he stands outside, staring up at the stars barely visible above the city lights, his mind still racing with thoughts of you.
Eventually, he takes a deep breath and turns to unlock his door, stepping inside and letting the door close behind him with a quiet click. The apartment is dark and silent, but it doesn’t feel like home tonight. It feels empty, hollow, as if something is missing.
And Charles knows exactly what that something is.
As he heads to bed, his thoughts are still on you — on the way you looked at him tonight, on the way you clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. And somewhere, deep down, Charles knows that you’re more than just Arthur’s best friend to him.
But he’s not ready to confront that just yet. Not tonight.
So he pushes the thoughts aside, focusing instead on the promise he made to himself: to always be there for you, to protect you, no matter what.
It’s a promise he intends to keep.
***
The morning sun stretches over Monaco, its golden rays catching on the waves that lap against the harbor. The city is just beginning to stir, and for a moment, everything feels like it should: calm, peaceful, normal. But as Charles hits his stride on his morning run, his mind is anything but calm.
The events of last night replay in his head on a loop, the image of you — shaken, scared, fighting back tears — burned into his memory. Every step he takes feels heavier, weighted down by the anger simmering just beneath the surface.
He’s tried to push it down, to focus on the steady rhythm of his breathing, the sound of his shoes hitting the pavement, but it’s no use. The rage is still there, as fresh and raw as it was the moment he saw you in that club.
Charles turns a corner, heading down toward the harbor where the yachts bob gently in the water. The morning air is crisp, a stark contrast to the heat that still lingers in his chest. He needs to clear his head, to shake off the lingering sense of helplessness that clings to him like a shadow.
But then he sees him.
The man is walking casually along the harbor, hands in his pockets, his face a picture of smug indifference. He looks like any other tourist enjoying a morning stroll, not like someone who was grabbing you, hurting you, just hours ago.
Charles stops dead in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat. For a split second, he thinks he’s imagining it, that his mind is playing tricks on him. But no, it’s him. The same face, the same sneer that Charles wanted to wipe off with his fist last night.
Something snaps inside Charles. The anger he’s been trying to control, trying to bury, erupts like a dam breaking, flooding his veins with adrenaline. His vision narrows, locking onto the man who dared to touch you, who thought he could get away with it.
Without thinking, Charles changes direction, his strides long and purposeful as he closes the distance between them. The man doesn’t notice him at first, too absorbed in whatever thoughts a man like him could have. But then, as Charles gets closer, something makes the man glance over his shoulder.
His reaction is immediate. The smug look falters, replaced by a flicker of recognition, then quickly by a lazy grin that only fuels Charles’ rage.
“Well, well,” the man drawls, stopping to face Charles, clearly not sensing the danger. “If it isn’t the big hero himself. What’s the matter, Leclerc? Didn’t get enough attention last night?”
Charles doesn’t answer, his jaw clenched so tightly he can feel his teeth grind together. He’s close enough now to smell the lingering stench of alcohol on the man’s breath, the same breath that spewed vile words at you.
The man chuckles, a sound that grates on Charles’ nerves like nails on a chalkboard. “You know, she had it coming,” he says, his tone almost conversational. “The way she was dressed, the way she looked at me — what did she expect?”
That’s all it takes. The words cut through Charles like a knife, sharp and searing, and before he knows what he’s doing, he’s grabbed the man by the front of his shirt, shoving him back against the railing of the harbor.
“What did you say?” Charles’ voice is low, dangerous, barely more than a growl. His knuckles are white where they grip the man’s shirt, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring ready to snap.
The man’s grin only widens, unfazed by the fury in Charles’ eyes. “You heard me,” he sneers. “And you know what? There’s nothing you can do about it. We’re in public, Leclerc. You’re a famous guy — can’t have your precious image tarnished, can you?”
Charles’ lips curl into a smile, but it’s not the kind that reaches his eyes. It’s cold, calculated, the kind of smile that sends a chill down the spine. “You think I care about that?” He asks, his voice dangerously calm.
The man’s bravado falters just a bit, uncertainty flickering in his eyes, but he doesn’t back down. “Yeah, I do. You’re not gonna do anything. Not here, not in front of all these people.”
Charles laughs, but there’s no humor in it, just a bitter edge that makes the man shift uncomfortably. “You really don’t get it, do you?” Charles says, his voice softening into something almost pitying. “This is Monaco. And I’m Charles Leclerc.”
The man’s face pales slightly, but he still tries to hold his ground. “So what? You think being a driver gives you a free pass to do whatever you want?”
Charles’ smile widens, though there’s nothing friendly about it. “Exactly.”
Before the man can react, Charles yanks him away from the railing, dragging him along the harbor. The man stumbles, trying to pull away, but Charles’ grip is ironclad, unyielding. The few people who are out this early watch with interest, some even clapping or calling out congratulations as they recognize Charles.
“Hey, what the hell?” The man protests, his voice rising in panic as he struggles against Charles’ hold. “Let go of me!”
Charles doesn’t respond, his eyes focused straight ahead as he forces the man to walk, his grip tightening whenever he feels him start to resist. The man’s attempts to free himself are pathetic, laughable even, compared to the strength Charles has built up over years of training, of pushing his body to the limits.
As they pass by a group of people, one of them cheers, “That’s the way, Charles! Show him who’s boss!”
The man tries to appeal to the onlookers, his voice frantic. “Someone stop him! He’s crazy!”
But no one moves to help. They just watch, some amused, others indifferent, as Charles continues to drag the man through the streets of Monaco like he’s nothing more than a piece of trash that needs to be disposed of.
“Where are you taking me?” The man demands, his voice trembling now as fear starts to seep in. “You can’t do this! I’ll-I’ll call the police!”
Charles’ laugh is cold and devoid of any warmth. “Go ahead,” he says, not slowing down for a second. “Tell them Charles Leclerc is dealing with a problem. See how far that gets you.”
The man’s protests grow weaker, his struggles more desperate, but it’s clear he knows there’s no escaping this. Charles is too strong, too determined, and the reality of his situation is starting to sink in.
The two of them reach a more secluded part of the harbor, where the buildings are fewer and the noise of the city fades into the background. There’s no one around to witness what’s about to happen, no one to hear the man’s cries for help.
Charles comes to a stop in a narrow alleyway, shoving the man against the wall with enough force to knock the breath out of him. He leans in close, his face inches from the man’s, his voice a low, dangerous whisper.
“You made a mistake last night,” Charles says, his tone icy. “You thought you could get away with it because you were in a crowded club, because she was alone. You thought no one would stop you.”
The man’s eyes are wide with fear now, all traces of his earlier arrogance gone. “I-I didn’t mean-”
“But you did,” Charles cuts him off, his voice like steel. “You meant every word, every touch, every threat. And now, you’re going to pay for it.”
The man tries to push Charles away, his movements frantic, but Charles is relentless. He grabs the man by the throat, pinning him against the wall, his grip just tight enough to make him understand how serious this is.
“You think I can’t do anything to you because we’re in public?” Charles hisses, his breath hot against the man’s ear. “You’re wrong. In Monaco, I can do whatever I want. And no one will stop me.”
The man’s hands claw at Charles’ arm, trying to pry his fingers away from his throat, but it’s useless. Charles is too strong, too focused, his anger giving him a surge of power that the man can’t hope to match.
Charles leans in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You hurt someone I care about. Someone I’ve known my whole life. And for that, I’m going to make sure you never forget what happens when you cross me.”
The man’s breath comes in short, panicked gasps as he realizes the gravity of his situation. He tries to speak, to beg for mercy, but Charles isn’t interested in hearing his excuses.
“Please …” the man finally manages to choke out, his voice barely a whisper. “I-I’m sorry …”
Charles’ eyes narrow, his grip tightening for a moment before he abruptly lets go, letting the man collapse to the ground in a heap. The man gasps for air, his hands trembling as he scrambles to his feet, his eyes wide with fear.
But Charles isn’t done. He grabs the man by the collar, dragging him deeper into the alley, where the shadows swallow them both. The man’s struggles are weak now, more out of instinct than any real hope of escape.
“People like you,” Charles says, his voice low and menacing, “think you can do whatever you want. But here’s the truth: you’re nothing. Just another coward who preys on the vulnerable. And cowards like you don’t get to walk away.”
The alley is cold and dark, the early morning light barely reaching the grimy corners where Charles drags the man like a lifeless doll. The sounds of Monaco are distant now, just a low hum that fades into the background. The only noise that matters is the ragged breathing of the man at Charles’ mercy, and the echo of their footsteps on the uneven pavement.
Charles stops abruptly, his grip still tight on the man’s collar. He looks around, taking in the silence, the isolation. This place, this forgotten corner of the city, is perfect. No one will find them here. No one will hear what happens next.
He shoves the man against the wall again, harder this time, the force of it knocking the breath out of him. The man lets out a choked gasp, his eyes wide with fear, the bravado from earlier completely gone.
“Please,” he stammers, his voice trembling. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean-”
Charles cuts him off with a sharp punch to the gut, and the man doubles over, wheezing. “Don’t bother,” Charles says coldly. “You’re not sorry. You’re just scared. There’s a difference.”
The man tries to straighten up, but Charles doesn’t give him the chance. He lands another punch, this time to the man’s jaw, the crack of bone echoing in the alley. The man’s head snaps to the side, blood already beginning to trickle from his split lip.
“You like hurting people, don’t you?” Charles asks, his voice calm, almost conversational as he paces in front of the man. “That’s what you were doing last night, right? You saw her and you thought you could do whatever you wanted.”
The man groans, trying to push himself up from the ground where he’s fallen, but Charles is on him in an instant, his knee pressing into the man’s chest, pinning him down.
“You thought she was alone,” Charles continues, his voice still eerily calm as he looks down at the man struggling beneath him. “You thought no one would stop you.”
He leans in closer, his knee digging into the man’s ribs, making it harder for him to breathe. “But she wasn’t alone. And now, you’re going to pay for what you did.”
The man tries to shake his head, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. “I’m sorry,” he gasps out, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know-”
Another punch, this one to the side of the man’s face, silences him. Charles doesn’t care about his excuses, his lies. All he cares about is making sure this man understands the pain, the fear that you felt last night.
He grabs the man by the hair, forcing his head up so their eyes meet. The man’s face is already swelling, bruises blossoming under his skin like dark flowers. “You think this is bad?” Charles asks, his voice low, dangerous. “This is nothing compared to what you deserve.”
The man whimpers, his hands weakly trying to push Charles away, but it’s no use. Charles is relentless, his grip like iron as he drags the man up and slams him back against the wall.
“You like to take what you want, don’t you?” Charles says, his breath hot against the man’s ear. “Well, let’s see how you like it when someone takes something from you.”
Without waiting for a response, Charles delivers a brutal kick to the man’s knee, and the sickening sound of bone cracking echoes in the alley. The man screams, a high, desperate sound that only fuels Charles’ anger.
He watches dispassionately as the man crumples to the ground, clutching his leg, his face contorted in agony. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” Charles asks, his voice devoid of any sympathy. “Now imagine how she felt. Imagine how scared she was, how helpless.”
The man tries to crawl away, his movements sluggish, hindered by the pain, but Charles isn’t done. He grabs the man by the ankle, dragging him back, his face set in grim determination.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Charles says, his voice flat, emotionless. “Not until I’m finished.”
He pulls the man up, slamming him into the wall again, his grip never loosening. The man’s head lolls to the side, blood dripping from his nose, his mouth, but Charles doesn’t care. He won’t stop until the man feels every bit of the fear and pain he inflicted on you.
“You think you can just walk away from this?” Charles asks, his voice soft, almost a whisper, but there’s a dangerous edge to it that makes the man’s eyes widen in fear. “You think you can just go back to your life, like nothing happened?”
The man shakes his head weakly, but Charles doesn’t believe him. He knows men like this, cowards who prey on the vulnerable, who think they’re invincible because they’ve never had to face the consequences of their actions.
“Wrong,” Charles says, his voice hard, unyielding. “You’re not walking away from this. Not ever.”
He lands another punch, this one to the man’s ribs, and the man gasps, the air knocked out of him. Charles steps back for a moment, watching as the man collapses to the ground, coughing, wheezing, barely conscious.
“Look at you,” Charles says, his voice filled with contempt as he circles the man like a predator. “Pathetic. All that confidence, all that arrogance — gone. Now you’re just a scared little boy, begging for mercy.”
The man’s eyes flutter open, bloodshot and filled with pain. He tries to speak, but all that comes out is a low, pitiful moan. Charles crouches down beside him, his eyes cold, calculating.
“Did you really think you could get away with it?” Charles asks, his voice soft, almost gentle, but there’s a cruel undertone that makes the man flinch. “Did you think no one would care? That no one would come for you?”
The man doesn’t answer, his body trembling, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Charles watches him for a moment, his anger still simmering, but there’s a part of him — a small part — that feels a twisted sense of satisfaction. This man, this coward, is finally paying for what he did.
But it’s not enough. Not yet.
Charles reaches down, grabbing the man by the throat, his fingers digging into the bruised flesh. The man’s eyes go wide, panic setting in as he struggles to breathe, his hands weakly clawing at Charles’ arm.
“You’re not going to forget this,” Charles says, his voice low, dangerous. “Every time you look in the mirror, every time you see those scars, you’re going to remember what happens when you cross me. When you hurt someone I care about.”
The man gurgles, his eyes rolling back in his head, his body going limp in Charles’ grasp. For a moment, Charles considers finishing it, squeezing the life out of the man until there’s nothing left. But then he releases his grip, letting the man collapse to the ground, gasping for air.
The man barely has the strength to lift his head, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and desperation. “You … you can’t … do this,” he wheezes, his voice weak, barely audible. “I’ll … have you arrested … for attempted murder …”
Charles stares down at him, a cold, humorless smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He chuckles, a low, dark sound that sends a shiver down the man’s spine. “Go ahead,” he says, his voice dripping with contempt. “Try it. See how far you get.”
The man’s eyes flutter closed, his body trembling uncontrollably as the reality of his situation sets in. He’s helpless, broken, barely clinging to consciousness. And Charles knows that the man’s threats are empty, born out of desperation, a final attempt to grasp at some semblance of control.
“You’re nothing,” Charles says, his voice cold, final. “No one is going to believe you. Not after what you did. Not after what I’ve done to you.”
The man’s breath comes in short, shallow gasps, his body shuddering with pain and exhaustion. Charles watches him for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before he finally stands up, looking down at the broken, bloodied man at his feet.
“Consider this a warning,” Charles says, his voice low, menacing. “Stay away from her. Stay away from Monaco. If I ever see you again, I won’t stop next time. I won’t show mercy.”
The man doesn’t respond, barely clinging to consciousness, his body slumped against the wall like a discarded puppet. Charles takes one last look at him, his eyes cold, before he turns and walks away, his footsteps echoing in the silent alley.
As he steps out into the morning light, the anger that had consumed him begins to fade, replaced by a cold, detached calm. He knows what he’s done, knows that he’s crossed a line that most people wouldn’t dare to. But he doesn’t care. He did what he had to do, what you needed him to do.
And he’d do it again in a heartbeat.
***
The atmosphere in the police station is tense, a quiet hum of activity threading through the open space. Officers move about, their conversations muted, eyes occasionally flicking toward the door where Charles Leclerc is expected to enter any moment. There’s a palpable discomfort in the air, a mix of respect and unease. No one wants to be the one to arrest Charles Leclerc. And yet, protocol demands his presence.
When Charles finally walks in, the room seems to still. Heads turn, eyes widen slightly. He’s dressed casually — sweatpants, a loose-fitting t-shirt, and a pair of sneakers. Despite the nonchalance of his appearance, there’s an unmistakable tension in his shoulders, a hardness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.
The desk sergeant, a middle-aged man with graying hair and a lined face, stands up hastily. “Monsieur Leclerc,” he begins, his tone overly formal, almost reverent. “Thank you for coming in on such short notice. We’re, uh … we’re very sorry about this.”
Charles offers a curt nod, his expression unreadable. “What’s this about?” He asks, even though he already knows.
The sergeant hesitates, glancing around nervously. “We, uh, received a complaint this morning,” he explains, his voice wavering slightly. “From a … an individual who claims that you assaulted him.”
Charles’ lips twitch into something resembling a smile, though there’s no warmth in it. “He’s not wrong,” he says, his voice low, almost a growl. “I did.”
The sergeant’s eyes widen slightly, and there’s a nervous shifting among the other officers in the room. This isn’t how these things usually go. “Monsieur Leclerc,” the sergeant begins again, more carefully this time, “we understand that this man may have … done something to provoke you. But we have to follow protocol. We need to ask you some questions.”
Charles crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back slightly as he regards the sergeant with a cold, detached stare. “Protocol,” he repeats, his voice dripping with disdain. “Fine. Ask your questions.”
The sergeant shifts uncomfortably, clearing his throat. “Did you, uh, did you physically assault the complainant?” He asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes.”
There’s a collective intake of breath from the officers around them, as if they can’t quite believe what they’re hearing. The sergeant blinks, clearly taken aback by Charles’ bluntness. “And … do you regret it?”
Charles laughs then, a dark, humorless sound that sends a shiver down the spines of everyone in the room. “Regret?” He echoes, shaking his head. “No, I don’t regret it. In fact, I’d do it again.”
The sergeant’s face pales, and he looks around as if searching for some way out of this conversation. “Monsieur Leclerc,” he begins again, his voice trembling slightly, “I don’t think you understand the situation. You’ve just admitted to a serious crime. We … we can’t just let you go.”
Charles’ expression hardens, his jaw clenching. “Yes, you can,” he says, his voice cold, unyielding. “And you will.”
The sergeant opens his mouth to protest, but before he can get a word out, the door to the station bursts open, and the man from the alley stumbles in. His face is still bruised, his movements stiff and pained. But there’s a look of triumph in his eyes as he spots Charles standing there.
“There he is!” The man shouts, pointing a shaky finger at Charles. “That’s him! That’s the bastard who tried to kill me!”
Charles turns slowly to face the man, his expression unreadable. There’s a moment of silence, the air thick with tension. The man, emboldened by the presence of the police, takes a step closer, his voice rising with every word. “You think you can just walk away from this, Leclerc? You think you’re untouchable? I’m going to see you rot in prison for what you did!”
Charles doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. The man falters slightly, confused by the lack of reaction. Charles taps the screen a few times, then puts it on speaker.
“What are you doing?” The man sneers, though there’s a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “Calling your lawyer? That’s not going to save you.”
Charles doesn’t bother to reply. The phone rings once, twice, before a familiar voice answers on the other end.
“Charles,” comes the smooth, authoritative voice of Prince Albert of Monaco. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Charles doesn’t take his eyes off the man as he responds. “Your Highness, I’m at the police station. There’s a man here trying to press charges against me for something I did last night.”
There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line, and then Prince Albert’s voice, calm and steady, fills the room through the speakerphone. “I see. And what exactly did you do, Charles?”
Charles’ eyes narrow as he stares down the man, who is now looking increasingly nervous. “I made sure he understands that there are consequences for hurting people I care about,” Charles says, his voice low, menacing. “I made sure he knows that no one lays a hand on her without answering to me.”
The silence in the station is deafening. Every officer in the room is holding their breath, waiting to see what happens next. The man’s face drains of color as he realizes what’s happening, who Charles is talking to.
Prince Albert’s voice is measured, careful. “And you believe this was necessary?”
“Yes,” Charles replies without hesitation. “It was necessary.”
There’s another pause, and then Prince Albert speaks again, his tone decisive. “Then I trust your judgment. You did what you had to do. Consider this a royal pardon. I’ll have an official document delivered to the station within the hour.”
The man’s mouth falls open in shock, his eyes wide with disbelief. “You … you can’t do this!” He sputters, his voice rising in desperation. “He assaulted me! He nearly killed me!”
Charles finally lowers the phone, ending the call. He slips it back into his pocket, his expression as cold and unyielding as ever. “You heard him,” Charles says quietly, his eyes locked on the man’s. “You’re done here.”
The man looks around wildly, as if searching for someone to back him up, but all he finds are the wary, sympathetic gazes of the officers. No one is going to help him. No one is going to defy Prince Albert.
The desk sergeant clears his throat, stepping forward. “Monsieur Leclerc,” he says, his voice carefully controlled, “it appears that you’re free to go.”
Charles doesn’t smile. He simply nods, his gaze never leaving the man who stands trembling before him. “Good,” he says softly. “Because I have more important things to do than waste my time here.”
The man opens his mouth to protest again, but the words die on his lips as Charles steps forward, his presence overwhelming, almost suffocating. “You should leave Monaco,” Charles says, his voice low and dangerous. “Before I change my mind about letting you live.”
The man stumbles back, his bravado crumbling as fear takes hold. He casts one last desperate glance at the officers, but they all turn away, unwilling to meet his eyes. He’s alone in this, and he knows it.
With a final, defeated whimper, the man turns and flees from the station, his steps hurried, unsteady. Charles watches him go, his expression unreadable, his heart pounding with a mixture of adrenaline and satisfaction.
The desk sergeant shifts awkwardly, unsure of what to say. “Uh, I … we’re sorry for the inconvenience,” he stammers. “It’s just … we had to follow procedure …”
Charles waves a hand dismissively, already heading for the door. “It’s fine,” he says, though there’s a hardness in his voice that suggests otherwise. “Just make sure this doesn’t happen again.”
The sergeant nods quickly, grateful for the reprieve. “Of course, Monsieur Leclerc. It won’t happen again.”
Charles doesn’t respond. He steps out into the sunlight, the tension slowly draining from his body as the warmth of the day washes over him. The streets of Monaco are as busy as ever, people going about their lives, oblivious to what just transpired inside the police station.
He takes a deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs, grounding himself. The day is far from over, and there are still things he needs to do, but for now, the threat has been neutralized. The man who hurt you is gone, and Charles made sure he’ll never come back.
As he walks away from the station, Charles can’t help but think of you, your face, your voice, the way you smiled at him when you were just a little girl. He knows he’s crossed a line today, done things that most people wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t condone. But he doesn’t care. He did it for you.
And he’d do it all over again if he had to.
***
Charles stands outside your apartment, a paper bag of takeout in one hand, his other raised to knock on the door. He hesitates for a moment, nerves he didn’t expect twisting in his stomach. It’s strange, feeling nervous about seeing you. He’s known you for years — watched you grow up, shared countless family dinners with you, laughed at your jokes, teased you about your school crushes.
But this … this feels different. Everything feels different now.
He finally knocks, a light tap that he knows you’ll hear. A few seconds pass, and then the door swings open, revealing you standing there in a casual outfit, your hair pulled back, a soft smile on your face.
“Charles,” you greet him, your voice warm, familiar. “Come in.”
He steps inside, glancing around the cozy space. It’s a small apartment, but it’s yours, filled with little touches that scream your personality — bookshelves overflowing with novels, a blanket draped over the back of the couch, a half-finished puzzle on the coffee table. It’s homey, comfortable, and it smells like the vanilla candle you always seem to have burning.
“I brought lunch,” Charles says, holding up the bag. “Figured you might be hungry.”
You smile, your eyes brightening at the sight of the food. “You know me too well. What did you get?”
“Your favorite,” he replies, setting the bag down on the table and beginning to unpack it. “Pasta from that little place near the harbor.”
“Perfect,” you say, moving to grab plates from the cupboard. “You always know how to spoil me.”
Charles chuckles, though his mind is far from the light-hearted conversation. There’s something heavy sitting on his chest, something he knows he needs to tell you, but the words stick in his throat. Instead, he focuses on the food, dishing out generous portions onto each plate.
You both sit down at the small dining table, and for a few minutes, there’s nothing but the sound of forks scraping against plates and the occasional hum of satisfaction as you enjoy the meal. It’s comfortable, easy — just like it’s always been between you.
But then, as if sensing his unease, you break the silence. “So, I heard the craziest thing this morning,” you say, your tone light, almost teasing. “One of my friends told me that you were almost arrested yesterday. Can you believe that?”
Charles’ fork pauses midway to his mouth, his heart skipping a beat. He hadn’t expected you to bring it up so casually, hadn’t prepared himself for this moment. He forces a smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Oh? What did she say?”
You laugh, shaking your head. “She said she heard you were involved in some kind of fight and that the police were called. I told her she was crazy. I mean, you wouldn’t hurt a fly, right?”
There’s a playful glint in your eyes, but Charles can’t bring himself to join in. Instead, he sets his fork down, the sound of metal against porcelain unnaturally loud in the quiet room. He looks at you, his expression serious, all traces of his earlier smile gone.
“Actually,” he begins, his voice low, steady, “it’s true.”
Your smile falters, confusion flickering across your face. “What do you mean?”
Charles leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest as he meets your gaze head-on. “I was at the police station yesterday,” he says, the words heavy, deliberate. “They called me in because that guy — the one who … hurt you — he tried to press charges against me.”
You stare at him, the shock evident in your wide eyes. “Wait, you’re serious? This isn’t some joke?”
“I’m serious,” Charles replies, his voice calm, almost too calm. “I’m not proud of what I did, but I’m not ashamed of it either. He deserved what he got.”
For a moment, you just sit there, trying to process what he’s telling you. You set your fork down, your appetite suddenly gone. “But … Charles, what did you do?”
Charles takes a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours. “I made sure he understood that there are consequences for his actions. That he can’t just walk away after what he did to you.”
Your hands tremble slightly as you reach for your glass of water, taking a sip to steady yourself. “You … you didn’t …”
“I didn’t kill him,” Charles says quickly, sensing your fear. “But I hurt him. Badly. And I don’t regret it.”
You’re silent for a long moment, your mind racing. The Charles you know — the Charles you grew up with, the one who used to give you piggyback rides when you were too tired to walk — wouldn’t do something like this. But then again, this isn’t just anyone we’re talking about. This is you. And for Charles, you’re different. You’ve always been different.
“I did it to protect you,” Charles continues, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “I couldn’t just stand by and let him get away with what he did. I couldn’t …”
He trails off, his gaze dropping to the table, his shoulders slumping slightly. It’s as if all the fight has drained out of him, leaving behind only the raw, honest truth of his actions.
You swallow hard, trying to make sense of everything. “But … you could have been arrested. You could have gone to jail.”
Charles laughs, a bitter sound that holds no real amusement. “Not in Monaco,” he says, shaking his head. “Not for this.”
You furrow your brow, confusion evident in your expression. “What do you mean?”
Charles sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I talked to Prince Albert. He gave me a royal pardon. The guy had no chance.”
You blink, stunned by the casual way he says it, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. “A royal pardon? Charles, that’s … that’s not normal.”
“No, it’s not,” Charles agrees, his tone somber. “But I don’t care. I’d do it all over again if it meant keeping you safe.”
The weight of his words hangs between you, the gravity of the situation finally sinking in. You’ve always known Charles was protective of you, but this … this is something else entirely. He’s crossed a line, and there’s no going back.
For a moment, you’re both silent, the tension in the room thick, suffocating. Charles watches you, his heart pounding in his chest, waiting for you to say something, anything. He’s prepared for you to be angry, to be horrified by what he’s done. But he wasn’t prepared for the look of sadness that crosses your face, the way your shoulders slump as if the weight of the world has suddenly fallen on you.
“I don’t know what to say,” you finally whisper, your voice shaky. “I never wanted you to do something like this for me.”
Charles leans forward, reaching across the table to take your hand in his. His touch is warm, steady, and for a moment, it grounds you, pulls you back from the edge of the panic that’s been rising in your chest.
“I know,” he says softly. “I know this isn’t what you wanted. But it’s what I needed to do. I couldn’t just stand by and let him hurt you.”
You squeeze his hand, your grip tightening as if you’re afraid to let go. “But what if you had been arrested? What if you couldn’t get out of it? I couldn’t bear the thought of you being locked up because of me.”
“I wouldn’t let that happen,” Charles replies, his voice firm, resolute. “I told you, I’d do anything to protect you. And I mean it.”
You look up at him then, your eyes searching his, trying to find some sign that this is all just a bad dream, that you’ll wake up and everything will be back to normal. But all you see is the truth — the raw, unfiltered truth of what Charles has done, and why he did it.
“I don’t know if I should be angry or grateful,” you admit, your voice trembling slightly. “You’ve always been there for me. But this … this is something else.”
Charles smiles then, a small, sad smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You don’t have to be anything,” he says softly. “Just know that I’ll always be here for you. No matter what.”
For a moment, you just sit there, holding his hand, the silence between you heavy with unspoken words. There’s so much you want to say, so much you want to ask, but you can’t seem to find the right words. Instead, you focus on the warmth of his hand in yours, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his eyes never leave yours.
And then, before you can second-guess yourself, you lean across the table and press your lips to his. The kiss is soft, tentative at first, but it quickly deepens, the tension that’s been building between you finally finding release.
Charles’ hand comes up to cup the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you closer. The kiss is everything you didn’t know you needed — desperate, passionate, full of all the emotions that have been bubbling beneath the surface.
When you finally pull away, you’re both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other as you try to catch your breath. Charles’ eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, and there’s a look in them that you’ve never seen before — something raw and vulnerable, something that makes your heart stutter in your chest.
For a moment, neither of you says anything, the silence heavy with the weight of what just happened. Charles’ hand is still in your hair, his thumb gently stroking the back of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. You can feel his breath on your lips, warm and steady, as if he’s trying to anchor himself in this moment, to hold onto it for as long as he can.
Eventually, you pull back just enough to look into his eyes, your own heart pounding so loudly in your ears that you’re sure he can hear it too. “Charles …” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper, but the words catch in your throat. You’re not sure what you want to say, what you’re supposed to say. Everything feels too big, too overwhelming.
Charles doesn’t say anything, just watches you with that same intense gaze, his eyes searching yours for something — reassurance, maybe, or understanding. Slowly, he lowers his hand from your hair, his fingers trailing down the side of your face before he lets it fall to his lap. The loss of his touch leaves you feeling cold, and you almost want to reach out and pull him back to you, to kiss him again and forget everything else. But you don’t.
Instead, you take a shaky breath and try to gather your thoughts, your mind racing. “What … what does this mean?” You finally manage to ask, your voice trembling.
He looks down at his hands, his brows furrowing in thought. “I don’t know,” he admits quietly. “All I know is that I’ve never felt like this before. I’ve known you my whole life, but … this is different.”
You bite your lip, trying to make sense of it all. “I’ve always cared about you. You know that. But I never thought …” You trail off, unable to finish the sentence, but the implication hangs in the air between you.
Charles finally looks up at you again, his expression softening. “Neither did I,” he says, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “But now that it’s happened … I don’t think I can go back. I don’t want to.”
You’re silent for a moment, the weight of his words settling over you. There’s a part of you that wants to be cautious, to protect yourself from whatever this is, but there’s another part — one that’s stronger — that wants to take the leap, to see where this could go.
“I don’t want to either,” you whisper, the admission almost too much to say out loud. But it’s the truth, and once it’s out there, you feel a sense of relief, as if a weight has been lifted off your shoulders.
Charles’ eyes soften even more, his smile widening slightly. He reaches out, taking your hand in his once more, his grip warm and steady. “Then let’s see where this goes,” he says, his voice low and full of promise.
You nod, unable to keep the smile off your face. “Okay.”
For a moment, you both just sit there, hands intertwined, the food on the table long forgotten as the reality of what just happened begins to sink in. There’s still so much you need to talk about, so many questions that need answers, but for now, this is enough. The kiss, the confession, the promise of something more — it’s all more than you ever expected.
Charles gives your hand a gentle squeeze, his eyes never leaving yours. “Whatever happens next, I want you to know that I’m here for you.”
You smile, your heart swelling with affection. “I know,” you say softly. “And I’m here for you too.”
He nods, his expression earnest. “Good.”
The silence between you is comfortable now, the tension from earlier finally dissipating. You feel a sense of peace settle over you, a feeling that everything will be okay, no matter what comes next.
Finally, Charles glances at the table, his smile turning sheepish. “We should probably finish our lunch,” he says, his tone light.
You laugh, the sound easing the last of your lingering nerves. “Yeah, we probably should.”
You both pick up your forks, and the conversation shifts back to lighter topics, the ease between you returning as if nothing has changed. But you both know that something has. There’s a new understanding between you, a new connection that wasn’t there before. And as you finish your meal, stealing glances at each other across the table, you can’t help but feel excited about what the future might hold.
***
Monaco at night is a different kind of magic. The streets are quieter, the buzz of the day replaced by the hum of luxury cars and the distant sound of waves crashing against the harbor. The city glows with a soft, golden light, the kind that makes everything look a little more romantic, a little more surreal. And tonight, with you tucked into Charles’ side as you walk home from dinner, it feels like the world has shrunk down to just the two of you.
You’ve been together for a few years now, and yet there’s still a thrill in the way he holds you close, his arm draped around your shoulders as if he’s claiming you all over again. There’s something comforting in the familiarity of it, the way your bodies just fit together, like two puzzle pieces that were always meant to be.
The conversation between you is light, filled with teasing banter about the dessert you shared at the restaurant — how he insists you ate most of it, and you argue that he’s the one with the sweet tooth. It’s the kind of easy back-and-forth that comes with knowing someone inside out, with having weathered storms together and come out stronger on the other side.
But as you turn down a quieter street, the atmosphere shifts. It’s subtle at first — a flicker of movement in the corner of Charles’ eye, the sense that you’re being watched. And then, out of nowhere, a voice cuts through the night, crude and jarring in its tone.
“Hey, baby, how about a smile?”
You freeze, your muscles tensing instinctively. The voice belongs to a man leaning against a lamppost, his eyes raking over you with a leer that makes your skin crawl. You feel Charles stiffen beside you, his arm tightening around your shoulders protectively. But before you can react, the man pushes off from the lamppost and approaches, his hand reaching out to touch you.
It all happens in a blur. The man’s fingers graze your arm, and you flinch back, your heart racing. But before you can fully process the disgust that courses through you, Charles is already moving.
The look in his eyes is one you recognize — a dark, dangerous glint that you’ve only seen a handful of times, but each one burned into your memory. It’s the same look he had that night at the club, the night he became more than just your protector, the night everything between you changed.
He’s about to lunge, his body coiled like a spring, ready to unleash all the anger simmering beneath the surface. But you place a hand on his chest, stopping him just in time.
“Charles,” you say softly, but there’s a knowing edge to your voice, a familiarity with the situation. “Should I call Prince Albert? Let him know you might need another pardon?”
Charles pauses, his gaze flickering to yours, and for a moment, the tension eases. The corners of his mouth twitch upward, a dark, almost feral smile playing on his lips.
“Yeah,” he replies, his voice low and laced with a dangerous amusement. “This must be the fourth one this year.”
You can’t help but laugh, the sound lightening the mood, if only for a second. “Actually,” you correct him, your eyes sparkling with mischief, “it’s the fifth.”
His smile widens at that, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest. But the humor doesn’t last long. The reality of the situation pulls him back, and his expression hardens once more as he turns his attention to the man who dared to touch you.
“Stay here,” Charles says, his tone leaving no room for argument. It’s the voice of a man who’s about to do something he won’t regret — something he’s done before.
You nod, trusting him, knowing that whatever happens next, it’s out of your hands. And as Charles steps away from you, you can’t help but feel a strange sense of satisfaction, a sense of justice in knowing that this man is about to face the consequences of his actions.
The man, oblivious to the danger he’s in, sneers at Charles, clearly unbothered by the presence of another man. “What are you gonna do, pretty boy?” He taunts, his voice dripping with arrogance. “You think you can scare me?”
Charles doesn’t respond immediately. He takes his time, closing the distance between them with a measured, almost predatory grace. And when he finally speaks, his voice is as cold as ice.
“You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” Charles says quietly, the words laced with a threat that hangs heavy in the air.
The man laughs, the sound grating and unpleasant. “Oh, I know exactly who you are,” he sneers. “You’re that driver, right? Leclerc? Big deal. Doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want.”
Charles tilts his head slightly, as if considering the man’s words, and then, to your surprise, he laughs — a dark, cruel sound that sends a shiver down your spine.
“You think being in public will protect you?” Charles asks, his voice dripping with mockery. “You think because there are people around, I won’t make you regret ever laying a hand on her?”
The man falters, some of his bravado slipping as he realizes that Charles isn’t backing down. He glances around, perhaps expecting someone to come to his aid, but the street is empty, save for a few onlookers who are too far away to hear the exchange.
Charles doesn’t give him time to think. With a speed that takes the man by surprise, he grabs him by the collar, yanking him forward with a strength that belies his lean frame. The man stumbles, his cocky demeanor evaporating as he realizes he’s in over his head.
“You should have walked away,” Charles murmurs, his voice dangerously calm. “But now … now you’re going to pay.”
The man struggles, trying to push Charles away, but it’s futile. Charles is a professional athlete, his body honed for strength and endurance, and the man is no match for him. Within seconds, Charles has him pinned against the wall of a nearby building, his forearm pressed against the man’s throat.
“Get off me, you psycho!” The man chokes out, his voice panicked as he claws at Charles’ arm.
But Charles doesn’t budge. He leans in closer, his face inches from the man’s, his eyes filled with a cold, calculated fury. “You’re going to regret ever touching her,” he says quietly, his words laced with venom.
And then, without warning, he drags the man away from the wall, pulling him down the street with a force that makes it clear this isn’t just a warning — it’s a promise. The man tries to resist, tries to fight back, but it’s no use. Charles is stronger, faster, and more determined, his grip unyielding as he hauls the man toward a darker, more secluded part of the street.
You watch from a distance, your heart pounding in your chest. Part of you wants to stop him, to tell him it’s not worth it, but another part of you— the part that remembers the fear and helplessness you felt when that man touched you — wants Charles to follow through, to make sure this man never does this to anyone else again.
As they disappear around a corner, you take a deep breath, trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions inside you. You trust Charles, you know he’ll be careful, but you can’t help the worry that creeps in, the fear of what might happen next.
Minutes pass, each one feeling like an eternity, and then finally, you hear the sound of footsteps approaching. You look up, your breath catching in your throat as you see Charles emerging from the shadows, alone.
His expression is unreadable, his eyes dark and stormy as he walks back to you. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the silence heavy with unspoken words.
Then, without a word, Charles pulls you into his arms, holding you close as if he’s afraid to let go. You wrap your arms around him, burying your face in his chest, the steady beat of his heart grounding you.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against your hair. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
You shake your head, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “You don’t have to apologize,” you say softly, your hand cupping his cheek. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
He smiles then, a small, tired smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m okay,” he says, though you can hear the weariness in his voice. “But he won’t be bothering you — or anyone else — again.”
You nod, knowing there’s more to the story than he’s telling you, but you don’t press him. Not now, not when he’s holding you so tightly, as if he’s afraid to let you go.
“Let’s go home,” you say gently, taking his hand in yours.
Charles nods, his grip on your hand firm as he leads you back down the street, away from the darkness and into the light. And as you walk together, side by side, you can’t help but feel a sense of relief, a sense of safety in knowing that no matter what happens, Charles will always be there to protect you.
#f1 imagine#f1#f1 fic#f1 fanfic#f1 fanfiction#f1 x reader#f1 x you#charles leclerc#cl16#charles leclerc imagine#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc x you#charles leclerc fic#charles leclerc fluff#charles leclerc fanfic#charles leclerc blurb#f1 fluff#f1 blurb#f1 one shot#f1 x y/n#f1 drabble#f1 fandom#f1blr#f1 x female reader#charles leclerc x female reader#charles leclerc x y/n#scuderia ferrari#charles leclerc one shot#charles leclerc drabble
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
"Because..." Antares sighed. "This is all getting really awkward here, y'know." Well, he supposed if she wanted to stick around that was fine too. If Fivemind was more concerned trying to keep some seemingly normal bystander (and she wasn't even a friend) safe, all the better for him.
"Name's Antares, by the way. And thanks." Antares does think his helmet is neat too. They let him choose the visor colour and all.
"Lilli," Red One cut in. They were still on the defensive. "That is the one who has been trying to kill me."
"Yuuup," Antare's tail rose. "That's me."
That's all the warning Red was given before a metal stinger-tipped tail lunged towards them. It was blocked by Red's own blade.
"Let's continue where we left off, yeah?"
Lilli raised a brow when the unit is suddenly between herself and the newcomer. Ah, well. That wasn't a good sign she guessed. Though all she could do was smile innocently at Red, after her question and them turning back to her. What? Oh, they aren't friends? And the mage was unsure if the unit sounded confused or offended. But a chuckle escaped her when Antares spoke up. He was the one who sounded more tired than anything else.
" Oh. So I guess you aren't friends yet. "
The woman jokes a bit, but then tilted her head as Antares addressed her this time. Well, 'friend' wasn't exactly what she would call Red One. An acquaintance yes. But not a friend just yet.
" Acquaintance, but sure... Uh. "
And that made her raise a brow once more. She should step away? That's confusing to her now.
" Step away? Vhy should I? And vho even are you? ... Also neat helmet. "
Nah, she isn't taking this serious.
17 notes
·
View notes
Text
A/N: You all voted on this poll, and this poll, and this poll, and after a LOT of voting, I present you this :) BIG thanks to @that-multi-fandom-hijabi for beta reading this go follow her writing acc rn (@novaaaaaa-writes). Here's my masterlist!
Warning(s): Enemies to lovers trope, mentions of burning, stabbing, blood, bad descriptions of both fire of water (ice, snow ?) bending, Zuko is whipped, just a little confused about it, reader is a baddie, water benders unite (not me tho), reader is GN but written with f!reader in mind, reader looks non-threatening, is underestimated a lot, this takes place at the end of season one, I think that's it
Pairing: Prince Zuko x GN!Reader
•──•°•❀•°•─── ʜɪꜱ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀʙᴇɴᴅᴇʀ ───•°•☁︎•°•───•
“You shouldn’t be here” you glare, your gaze sending shivers down his spine.
But that could just be because of all the snow and ice surrounding the both of you.
The fire prince remains unfazed though, his amber eyes sweeping over your form- assessing the threat you posed.
He could take you down in seconds.
Zuko doesn’t respond to your jab though, because he knew you were wrong. He had to be here, it was the only way he could finally receive his father’s favor- as the heir and as the son of Firelord Ozai. It was his duty, his honor.
And he wasn’t going to let a non-threatening waterbender get in the way of that.
Reaching back, he unsheathes his dual swords, the glint of the waning moonlight reflecting the dangerous glint in his eye.
And yet you didn’t back down.
Pooling some water from your waterskin, you assumed the stance you had trained yourself to take whenever you honed your skills. One with the water, one with the ice.
‘Power should flow, not force itself” Master Pakku had told you once.
People had always underestimated your skills, saying you were better suited for healing. But after showing Master Pakku how you could use your bending to control the falling snow around you, he gave you a chance.
He had told you to let the power settle in your body before releasing, instead of forcing it out immediately. Conceal and then control.
You met Zuko’s fiery gaze with an icy one of your own. You were going to protect your home.
With a yell, you form flurries of snow, whipping around your form as you channel your strength to change the form of your flurry, snow turning to water, water turning to sharp daggers of pure ice.
Zuko scowls, setting his hands ablaze and you run at each other, fire meeting ice.
Time slows down, as the intensity of your elements picks up, until all you could hear was the steady thump – thump – thump – of your heart, and the roar of crystalline knives swirling around you.
Flames lick the side of your leg, wincing as the raw burn of the fire sears through your skin in white-hot pain. Razor sharp icy shards cut into Zuko’s skin, finding chinks in his armor, piercing his flesh and drawing blood.
The snow beneath the both of you was dotted red now, both of you staring at each other, panting heavily.
“You really shouldn’t be here.” you repeat again, but this time, it was barely a whisper, swallowing down tears as the cold wind of the Northern Water Tribe stung your gaping wounds.
Zuko growls, grunting in pain as he pulls a shard of ice out of his skin.“I don’t take orders from a little waterbender” he spat, venom dripping from his words.
You reciprocate with a snide comment of your own. “This ‘little waterbender’ just sunk 5 icicles into your skin.”
Zuko was just about ready to tear your head off, hands igniting with vermillion flames before you collapse, the burns along your thigh and calf were much more severe than either of you realized.
You choke out a sob of pain but keep your control of the water left in your waterskin. You couldn’t die, not today, and not at the hands of the prince of the Fire Nation.
Zuko’s heart throbs unexpectedly, the look on your face too familiar for comfort. The face of someone who worked so desperately hard, only for all that effort to go down the drain. But he didn’t care for you. He couldn’t- couldn’t grow attachment to a non-threatening waterbender. Yet you sat there on the snow, dotted with blood, with that raw look in your eyes. His flames extinguished, without him meaning to.
You flinched as he threw his swords down frustrated, impaling themselves into the nearby snow mound, standing straight up.
He stomps over to you, and you frantically move back, but your leg flares up in pain again, and you yelp, hissing in pain.
“Stop moving, you’ll make it worse.” he says, glaring at you, but not as intensely as he had before.
You want to scream, kick him, punch him, anything, but your body betrays you as he sweeps you up into his arms, carrying you to the nearest place he can find, where he can keep you safe. You feel his strong arms hook under your knees and under your back, holding you securely to his firm chest. Even through his armor, he radiates warmth, a gentle heat, unlike the flames he threw at you merely minutes ago.
He hates this, with every fiber in my being, his voice screaming at him to drop you and burn your frail body to a crisp, vengeance for the blood dripping from his own body, but he keeps moving, step after painstaking step.
You try to stay awake, you really do, yet channeling so much energy from your battle, the numb throb in your lower leg, and the comforting heat radiating off the fire prince who refuses to look at you, you slip into unconsciousness.
Zuko feels a weight press against his chest, and he huffs, honey-colored eyes catching onto the details of your face, the curve of your nose, the apples of your cheeks, the slight pout of your lips as you nuzzle into his armor unintentionally, how pretty you were when you were at peace.
He stops himself there, reprimanding himself for thinking such things. He can’t have feelings for the enemy.
And yet, even as he and his troops head home, battle wearing and dejected from the loss of a major battle, Zuko can’t help but think about his little waterbender.
***
When you wake up, the kind woman tending to you tells you all about the mysterious and handsome man who carried your sleeping form across the entire Northern Water Tribe because he didn’t know where the healing center was.
#zuko x reader#zuko x you#atla zuko#fire lord zuko#prince zuko#zuko#avatar of the last airbender#atla#prince zuko x reader#prince zuko x you#prince zuko x y/n#water bender reader#help 'power should flow not force itself'??#I have mixed thoughts about this#zuko x y/n#avatar the last airbender#zuko avatar#zuko avatar the last airbender#⋆。‧˚ʚ 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖈𝖑𝖔𝖚𝖉 𝖆𝖗𝖈𝖍𝖎𝖛𝖊𝖘 ɞ˚‧。⋆
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
GEORGE R. R. MARTIN’S STATEMENTS AND HOUSE OF THE DRAGON INDICATING THAT DAENERYS TARGARYEN IS THE PROPHESIED HERO OF A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE
George R. R. Martin: *associates Daenerys with the founder of the Targaryen dynasty who intended to unite Westeros in preparation for the War for the Dawn - she’s literally called “Aegon the Conqueror with teats”*
*has Daenerys dream about burning white walkers with dragonfire*
*makes it clear that Daenerys is Azor Ahai/Princess That Was Promised* (“Azor Ahai shall […] wake dragons out of stone”/“No one ever looked for a girl. […] Daenerys is the one. […] The dragons prove it.”)
*confirms that Daenerys and her dragons are the Fire - which, according to his own description, symbolizes “love”, “passion” and “sexual ardor” in contrast to Ice representing “betrayal”, “revenge” and “cold inhumanity” - of A Song of Ice and Fire*
House of the Dragon (note that GRRM had more influence on that show than on Game of Thrones): *plays a song called “The Prince That Was Promised” - which was inspired by Daenerys’ theme songs - during the reveal of Aegon I’s prophetic dream (which came from GRRM himself)*
*has Aegon I name his dream ‘the song of ice and fire’ - which, as the GRRM himself already confirmed, refers to the Others and Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons*
*reveals that Aegon I’s dream (aka the song of ice and fire) is about a Targaryen king or queen - most likely Daenerys Targaryen - uniting humanity against the Others*
*has Daemon see the red comet (aka the herald of Azor Ahai) before it cuts to Daenerys (aka Aegon the Conqueror with teats, Azor Ahai Returned/Prince That Was Promised, the Fire of ASOIAF) and her dragons (aka Lightbringer) in his prophetic dream*
#daenerys targaryen#grrm#house of the dragon#asoiaf#hotdedit#asoiafedit#gameofthronesdaily#targaryensource#fireandbloodsource#userleah#usermali#userneve#i originally posted this set on asoiafdaenerysdaily#but that blog was shut down against my wishes#i'm reuploading this one bc it seems appropriate at the moment#*gifs#tv shows
708 notes
·
View notes
Text
welcome home
barcelona femeni x alexia putellas x youngadult!reader
summary: you find healing after switching clubs
warnings: swearing, bodyshaming, one mention of bodily fluids, I made up names of imaginary players who don't play for the nwsl club mentioned in this fic!!!, bullying, angst, yes there is a happy ending.
you grew up with your eyes on the stars, and your feet on the ball.
at 15, you felt like the world belonged to you—a place where dreams became your reality. you’d trained hard your whole life to make it to the world stage, and by 16, you were living your dream as one of the youngest members of the 2019 world cup roster for the united states.
the national anthem playing, crowds screaming your name as you made the assist to rose lavelle’s goal—it was everything you’d ever wanted.
all of the happiness and thrill faded away when you joined the kansas city current. when you first stepped into the locker room, you were excited. new teammates, new opportunities—it was everything you’d hoped for.
you wanted to make friends, to be part of a family when it came to being with your first professional club outside of your childhood one.
the moment you walked through those doors, you could feel something off. the eyes on you were sharp, intense, cold.
“what’s up, big foot?” macy had said, the team captain, with a grin that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"don't trip over those feet, yeah?" she had laughed, and a few others joined in, but the laughter felt harsh, mocking.
“yeah, we don’t need a kid coming in thinking she’s hot shit,” added jessica, one of the veteran players, her words dripping with sarcasm.
“try not to embarrass us out there.”
you laughed nervously, trying to brush it off as rookie hazing, but the tone was sharper than you expected. you told yourself that it was normal, that it was just their way of breaking the ice.
you couldn't have been more wrong.
practices started to become a war zone. it wasn’t just intense training; it was like they were out to get you. elbows to your back when the coach wasn’t looking, hair pulling, shoes clipped behind your heels to send you stumbling.
once, in a scrimmage, you remember trying to dribble past jessica. the curly-red headed girl came in late with a slide tackle, her studs connecting straight with your shin. you hit the ground hard, gasping for breath, and she stood over you, smirking.
“whoops,” she said, her voice flat and unapologetic. “you should be quicker, portland has fast forwards and you can’t defend them with those legs.”
the coaches didn’t do anything. you’d get up, limp back into position, and hear them say, “come on y/n, toughen up. you’ve got to be ready for contact against portland on thursday.”
they acted like it was all normal, like you were the problem.
in the locker room, it wasn’t any better. they whispered behind your back, cruel comments about your skills, your looks, even your voice.
once, after a tough practice where arianna had practically shoved you into the goalpost, you were struggling to keep your emotions in check as you unlaced your cleats. you heard them in the back of the room, their voices loud and taunting.
“seriously, what does the national team see in her? she’s not even that great,” jessica said, snickering.
“guess they needed a token teenager to fill the roster,” another voice added, followed by laughter.
“she needs to go back to playing with the u18s, kylie you’d do much better than her in the left-back position!”
you bit your lip so hard it bled, staring down at the floor, pretending you didn’t hear them. you never knew what to say. it felt like you couldn’t breathe.
everything you did felt wrong, like you were walking on eggshells every day.
and then came the night that broke you.
it was after that world cup loss to sweden, a moment that already weighed on you like a thousand bricks.
you returned to kansas hoping to throw yourself into training, to prove you could bounce back. but when you entered the locker room, your world came crashing down. your locker was trashed—like a hurricane had blown through.
your training kit was shredded, your cleats filled with some kind of foul-smelling gunk– obviously period blood due to a used tampon found inside of the locker. and scrawled in black marker across the inside door of your locker were the words,
spoiled, selfish, fat bitch!
you stood there, your heart pounding in your chest, hands shaking so violently you couldn’t steady them.
“what... what the fuck is this?” your voice came out a choked whisper.
kamryn, another girl on the team, walked by, a smug grin on her face.
“looks like someone had a bad month,” she said, fake sympathy dripping from her words.
“i hope you can still play tomorrow, stargirl.”
the nickname fans around the world called you, now being used to belittle you.
you couldn’t hold it in anymore. you yelled at them, your voice cracking with rage and desperation, “the fuck? what did i do to any of you? this is fucking insane and you think i am the problem?”
“you walked in here thinking you were better than us. you got handed everything, y/n. you don’t deserve to be here. you’re a little girl playing a big girl’s game.” jessica walked in, scoffing while smirking at the sight of your locker in the dressing room.
you left that night and didn’t stop crying until your eyes were red and swollen. but even then, the coaches did nothing.
they told you to toughen up, to show “mental strength,” as if their approval could patch over what you were going through. and that’s when you realized you had to get out—before this place destroyed you and any love you had for football.
barcelona was the escape you desperately needed. a chance to rebuild, to breathe.
when you landed in spain, everything felt fragile. it didn’t matter that you were now with one of the best clubs in the world.
the trauma from kansas stuck to you like a shadow. you walked into your new locker room, keeping your head down, afraid to say the wrong thing, terrified of the laughter you thought you’d hear.
but it never came.
instead, alexia, the captain, was the first to welcome you. “y/n! niña!!! so nice to finally meet you,” she beamed, pulling you into a hug that felt warm and real.
“i can’t wait to see you play. you’re from the states? we need to introduce you to keira and lucy– they’ve been wanting to meet you but don’t take their banter seriously.”
every day, they chipped away at your fear. little by little.
when you struggled on penalty kicks one time during training, patri stayed back with you after practice.
“okay you got this!!! by the end of this evening, you will never miss a penalty kick again. trust me! yeah? it’ll be fun.” she speaks with a thick catalan accent.
you were hesitant, scared to mess up, but patri never pushed. she was patient, kind. she’d pass the ball back to you and made you do penalty kicks over and over again until you felt comfortable, until your footwork was smooth, and every small achievement she celebrated like it was a goal in the final.
“see? you’ve got this,” she’d say, and you’d feel the corners of your mouth tug into a smile for the first time in what felt like forever.
it was a few weeks into your time with barcelona, but you still felt like an outsider.
even with the kind gestures, the smiles, the support from the team, you were carrying the weight of kansas like a ghost.
you stayed quiet during team meetings, laughed politely but never loudly, and when the others shared jokes or talked about life outside of soccer, you sat on the edges, half-invisible.
alexia had been watching you. she noticed how you shrunk into yourself, how you seemed to fade into the background during conversations.
during drills, your focus was laser-sharp—too sharp, like you were overthinking every touch, every pass. when you were off the ball, your eyes darted around, like you were searching for threats.
you reminded alexia of esmee when she first arrived last season—new, uncertain. but this was different.
there was fear and sadness in your eyes.
one afternoon after training, alexia pulled you aside. the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the pitch, and most of the team had already started heading back to the locker room.
you felt her hand on your shoulder, and you turned, trying to hide the nervousness in your eyes.
“niña,” she said gently, a small smile on her lips. “can we talk?”
you nodded, biting the inside of your cheek. “sure, alexia. what’s up?”
“it’s about you,” she said, her voice steady but soft. “you’ve been… quiet. more quiet than normal. and i get it, you know, being the new girl and all. esmee and kika were shy when they first came, but…” alexia paused, searching your face.
“this feels different. it feels like you’re afraid of us.”
you could feel your chest tighten, the words getting stuck in your throat. you didn’t want to seem weak, didn’t want to burden anyone.
“i’m not... i mean, it’s just—" you stumbled over your words, trying to find the right thing to say, something that wouldn’t make you sound like a mess. “it’s nothing. really.”
alexia didn’t buy it. she shook her head slightly, taking a step closer to you. “i don’t think it’s nothing, y/n. you barely look anyone in the eye, and when someone even brushes by you during training, you flinch like you’re waiting to get hurt. it’s not normal.”
she kept her voice calm, steady, like she was trying to reassure a frightened animal. “listen... if something happened before you got here, you can talk to me. it’s just me right now. no one else.”
you wanted to brush it off, to laugh and say she was overthinking, but the truth clawed its way up, burning your throat. you clenched your fists, staring down at your cleats, trying to focus on anything but alexia's eyes, which felt like they could see right through you.
“it’s… it’s hard to talk about,” you finally admitted, voice cracking on the last word.
“back in kansas, things were... bad. really bad.”
“what do you mean?” alexia’s voice was a whisper, gentle but urging you to continue. she stepped closer, her hand on your shoulder now, warm and steady.
you bit your lip, feeling the sting of tears threatening to spill.
“my teammates—they hated me. from the minute i got there, they acted like i was the opponent that happened to sneak into their dressing room. i thought maybe it was just... i don't know, maybe i did something wrong. but no matter what i did, they just got worse. they... they bullied me. on the field, off the field... they’d make comments, call me fat, trash my stuff, physically go after me during practice.” you took a shaky breath, your shoulders trembling.
“they hated me for being good– for being called up to the world cup before some of their veterans did. they said i didn’t deserve the call ups at all, that i was useless. every single day felt like... like a war that i was going to lose.”
alexia’s face hardened, and for a second, you thought you saw anger glistening in her eyes.
“and your coaches?” she asked, voice tight with anger. “they did nothing?”
“they... didn’t care,” you said, shaking your head.
“if anything, they made it worse. told me to toughen up, to get used to it, that it was part of being a pro. so i did. i tried to act like it didn’t bother me. but it did. every day, it did.”
there was a heavy silence. alexia didn’t speak for a moment, letting your words hang in the air. and then, she pulled you into a hug—tight, secure, like she was trying to shield you from all the pain you had gone through.
you stiffened for a second, unaccustomed to the softness, the genuine care, but then melted into it, burying your face in her shoulder.
“you don’t have to go through that alone anymore,” she whispered.
“this is your home now, y/n. we’re your family. i promise you—no one will ever treat you like that again. not while i’m here, and i am going to be here for a very long time.”
you felt the tears slide down your face, but they weren’t tears of pain anymore.
they were relief, a feeling you hadn’t let yourself feel for a long time. when she finally let go, alexia cupped your face, making sure you were looking right into her eyes.
“you are so much more than what they made you feel,” she said firmly, her voice laced with emotion. “and if anyone even tries to make you feel like that again, they’ll have to go through me. through all of us. okay?”
you nodded, a small, shaky smile breaking through. “okay.”
“did you go to anyone on your national team about this?” alexia asked, hoping you did.
“i did. alex was the one who encourage me to move clubs. trinity even promised to smash kansas when they go to washington dc to play against spirit.” you laughed, wiping a stray tear from your face.
she laughed back, squeezing your hands. “we’ve got your back, y/n. always.”
and she meant it. over the coming weeks, you felt the shift.
after that talk, alexia made it a point to check in on you.
the small gestures from the team slowly healed the wounds you didn't think would ever close.
when ingrid left you notes in your locker before every match with scribbled encouragements, kika making it a routine to kiss you on the head when you scored a goal past aitana in training, or when mapi pulled you into a bear hug after a tough game reminding you that she is proud of you– you felt at home.
masterlist
#barcelona femeni#woso x reader#woso fanfics#woso community#fc barcelona#alexia putellas#mapi leon#ingrid engen#kika nazareth#trinity rodman
537 notes
·
View notes
Text
"I see." The android actually seemed intrigued by this.
"So would you be able to feel the needle once it is inside your flesh? Is it still cold in there?"
"Well, yeah, it would. But it's..."
"I don't know-- It's not something thin, cold and sharp making its way through my flesh. It's not as insidious."
8 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Dragon and the Wolf
Prologue
You had been betrothed to Cregan stark at the start of the war. He was the noble and honourable stark that he was he supported your mother claim without restraint. So much so your mother saw it fit to betroth the two of you. So when disaster strikes and you and your younger brother are the only two survivors, you a shipped of north in your grief, leaving only Cregan to heal your wounds.
word count: 2,115
CW: angst, death and more death. not proofread!
Cregan Strak x Veleryon(strong)!reader
Masterlist | series masterlist | next part
disclamer: i do not own any of claim any of the A song of ice and fire characters, all rights belong to GRR MARTIN, all characters are his except for my Original characters
a/n prolouge, more of an info dump about dance of dragons and readers relationship with cregan during the war.
As snow blazed outside the castle your mind took you back to the days before your life was consumed with grief, the days when you have just arrived in Winterfell, sent by your mother to win over Cregan stark to support her cause.
You had been surprised your mother had sent you here and not the Vale, as she had done with your twin Jacearys. But you soon saw why.
It had been easy to convince Stark to join you’re the blacks, as they were now referred too, he was the noble and honourable lord stark, he kept his father’s oath with no complaints, and he allowed you to stay in Winterfell for as long as she wished. And you did stay, you liked the north, it gave you such a warm feeling, a feeling you had always felt you missed in the red keep and Dragonstone. You loved the north, you loved the snow, as did your dragon, Silverwing. You spent your whole life either in hot son or rainy storms, and yet, despite Cregan saying you were so warm it was if you your self was a dragon, you had always preferred the cold. And now when you felt the drops of snow fall onto your face you wished for the snow to never stop.
You remember Cregan showing you around Winterfell for the first time, taking you to the gods woods, he himself, as most in the north were, prayed to the old gods, and you who never once felt a calling to the gods, you felt it the second you entered the woods, the way the winds sang to you as you entered, the hot springs warming you instantly, and the gods tree. Despite having one in kings landing this sight was spectacular, it was so…peculiar and yet beautiful. With faces carved so naturally the faces seemed to move with he wordless song the wind sang you, and from the look on Cregan’s face he knew the exact feeling you were experiencing.
He was so welcoming to you, sending you smiles at every glance, looking for you in every room. You spent nearly every second together, whether it was talking politics and the facts of the alliance or hunting or walking the grounds. You seemed to do it together.
But you knew it was to good to be true, the second you heard Silverwing calling out, sensing another dragons presence, you knew only bad news would follow.
“Sister” you heard Jacearys greet as he dismounted Vermax, “Lord Stark” he bowed his head.
“Brother” you greeted back, “what brings you to the north?”
His face dropped, eyes filling with sadness. “I’m so sorry, I should have come sooner”
“what-“you didn’t understand what he was saying, but you knew it was bad, and it seemed so did the gods as the wind was growing hasher, wind aggressively hitting your face.
“Luke-“ Jace croaked, and your face started to drop “Aemond he…Luke’s dead”
You dropped, eyes filling with tears. You couldn’t believe it.
Aemond. He had once been your Aemond, your dearest companion, your betrothed. But then word had reached about his new betrothal to Floris Baratheon. Your marriage was supposed to unit the realm, prevent the war that would now be inevitable. You had felt some sadness over the news of his new betrothal, but in truth you hadn’t been close to him in years, you loved the idea of marrying him, but now…now the thought made you sick.
Jace had explained fully what had happened, the raging storm, the chase and the fall.
Killed riding a dragon, like a Targaryen, and buried at sea like a Veleryon, had it not been so tragic, it would be almost poetic.
Grief filled you, body and soul, and you hated that you didn’t know, for two weeks you lived in bliss, practically courting a man. As your brother, your sweet Luke lied dead and alone.
Your mother had searched the sea for those two weeks for the body, for hope that he lived, before biding Jace to retrieve you. You all needed each other, more than ever, consumed with grief and the rage. The grieving came first like all deaths, with the funeral taking place, though with no body you and Jace had burnt his clothes, saying teary prays, before having Lukes favourite food and sharing his favourite memories.
And then rage. You all wanted revenge, and Daemon had taken it upon himself to do just that, and before you knew it war raged.
You and Jace had returned to Winterfell, and though both deep in your grief, you found comfort once more in the snowy planes of Winterfell, and most of all the people within them.
It was funny, you and Cregan had fit so well together and then Jace came along and suddenly you felt replaced.
All the time you had once spent with Cregan, sword fighting, politicking, hunting and walking, was now done with Jace.
You supposed it was natural, he the future king and Cregan the warden of the north. But it was more than that, they were brothers. But you were his future wife, your mother having sent a raven to lord stark upon your return proposing the marriage, he had accepted instantly and you, you had accepted. Cregan was everything you wanted, a friend, handsome, ruggish and tall. But now you felt like you were begin ignored.
You weren’t jealous, it was what always happened.
You were shy and calm, Jace was loud and chaotic. They were opposites and he easily took the spotlight, not that she wanted it. They were twins, with him being born first, with black hair and brown eyes, and you with silver hair and Arryn blue eyes. You were the image of their mother and he, the image of their father, not that they would ever admit it. It was like he was the moon, and you were the sun. You were always there and nothing special, but people always took notice of the moon, every aspect of it was studied and praised, but the sun was only ever important when eclipsed by the moon. You were always by Jace’s side, and despite being a princess of the realm, he was a prince, the future king, who wouldn’t take notice of him first.
So, you stood on the sidelines, sometimes following the pair as they talked and talked, but most of her time was spent with Sara.
You and her too had a lot in common, having both understood what it was to be a bastard, to be left out. Though you didn’t admit it right out, she knew what you meant, from the way you understood her as she ranted and from how you related through your own experiences. Though they were different you were still outcasted and felt as if you lacked the natural respect others were given.
Though she had earnt that respect. she was respected throughout Winterfell, being the unofficial lady of Winterfell after the death of his wife, Arra Norrey, who died birthing their son, who was quick to follow his mother. The people of the north respected her but with you, the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen you always felt as if you owed something, something that you had to make up for. And instead of seeing the respect you did command you only saw the respect your brother was given
That respect for Jace only grew as the first battles were fought. As Jace grew into his position as heir and Cregan became a key advisor in the war.
It was a weird and terrorfying time, with you and Cregan betrothed but knew it would either end in death or a quick marriage. Neither of you knew how to act,, the days of your endless conversations changing to shy smiles and even shyer words.
And then he left, leading his own battle in your mother’s name.
Then Jacearys died alongside Viserys, them both joining Luke in their burial at sea.
And moons later her mother took Kings Landing. Her younger brother Joffrey now heir, but not even a moon into her mothers new reign as an uprising began, the dragon pit raided, dragons killed, and her brother tortured a killed.
you were beside herself in grief, guilt coursing through you as you had left, you had gone, leading your mother’s forces to lead your second battle of Tumbleton, and though you had won, and caused the death of your uncle Daeron and a large number of the green forces, you returned to even more chaos.
you were surrounded by death, and slowly became more and more alone.
As Aegon retook Kings Landing, his men holding you and your only surviving sibling Aegon as her mother was burnt alive before them.
Then the death if both Aemond and Daemon above the gods eye.
You were all alone, separated from your brother, Cregan thousands of miles away. And she locked in a keep waiting for Aegon to decide whether to kill you or marry you.
you prayed for the former, wishing to join them, your sweet brothers.
Jace, your sweet twin, you had always thought they would leave the world together, they came in it together it only seemed right. you had felt so empty, as if you were missing the other half of yourself. you regretted that so many of your memories of him were clouded in envy, and regretted not cherishing every moment you could with him.
Luke, sweet Luke, so kind and nervous and though not innocent, he deserved so much better. you missed him so much, and hated how he was taken so young, so horrifyingly.
And Joffrey, he was just a babe, wanting to be as brave and strong as his sister and brothers, killed by the mob, alongside their mother’s dear dragon who was doing everything to protect him.
And Viserys, a part of you hoped he lived and would one day return to her, but you didn’t want to hope, you didn’t have it in you anymore.
you had nothing, not really, you barely had it in you, the anger, the need for revenge.
But when Aegon announced his plans to marry you, the rage came, the angry. He had taken everything from you and now he was taking away your freedom.
It was easy to find those who wished to plot against him, your grandsire Corlys begin the first to approach you. Mad over the death of his beloved wife Rhaenys, he had long awaited this moment.
He and a few over men gave you a wine laced with poison, and small doss of poison to drink yourself to build immunity. It was a long prosses, taking three months before you acted. It was easy to enter his chambers, he too lonely and racked with guilt, he seemed pleased at your company, and even happier at the wine you brought him.
You had drank the laced wine and then some, both drinking your sorrows away and making your way down to the iron throne, you had laughed as he sat upon it, your mothers rightful seat, and laughed even more when he started chocking, he couldn’t breath, he was dying. You should of felt glad but as you watched him take his final breath, all you felt was grief. Another family member dead, and another step closer to being alone.
Cregan took kings landing the next day, he found you weeping in the throne room at the sight of Aegon. He had swept you in his arms, holding him to you as you cried, screaming it was your fault, confessing your sins, but he didn’t see it as your fault, m your kill. He saw it as Corlys and Larys Strongs, executing them and all those who betrayed Aegon and manipulated you.
He crowned Aegon king, married him to Aegon’s only surviving child, Jaehrea, uniting the two branches and ending the blasted war.
And he took you home, to Winterfell.
You were so consumed in your grief you hadn’t even noticed, the carriage traveling the whole thousand leagues had passed so quickly.
You didn’t even remember saying goodbye, promising to write, and promising to love them.
You didn’t remember crying as you watched them, two children making oaths they didn’t understand, lead by men they did not know.
You finally came back to reality as you reached Winterfell, Silverwing roar alerting you of your arrival. She one of the last dragons left, too consumed in grief at the death of her mate Vermithor.
“princess” you heard Cregan say softly as he opened the carriage door, “were home”
next part
Taglist
@aleemendoza2425-blog@apollonshootafar@zillahvathek@flrboyd @targaryenmoony @theanxietyqueen17@leavesmealobe @dark-night-sky-99 @deeeeexx
to be added to taglist
#cregan stark x reader#house of the dragon#hotd#cregan stark#cregan fanfiction#cregan x reader#cregan x you#cregan stark smut#cregan x original female character#cregan x veleryon reader#cregan x strong reader#cregan stark x oc#cregan stark x you#cregan stark imagine#cregan stark x y/n#thedragonandthewolf
905 notes
·
View notes
Text
@asurastro || cont. from here
Red One's optic seemed to flare a little brighter for a moment. Going to the amusement park with their own creation was all well and good but the more the merrier, no?
"Good to hear. I will see you on Saturday then?"
They're going to be looking forward to this all week too!
9 notes
·
View notes
Text
call my bluff.
deadpool (wade wilson) x gn! reader
word count: 2.1k
summary! deadpool and you have an unorthodox dynamic. every time the masked man ends up in your neighborhood, he can’t seem to stay away. you’ve never seen his face or even heard his name, but the two of you are in a game of flirtation with no end in sight. as the tension is raised, both of you wonder, is there something more here?
tags! reader is a regular citizen, talk of reader wearing a skirt but i don’t think i used any pronouns? HEAVILY suggestive but no smut, alcohol mentions, i wrote this with comic deadpool in mind but could easily be ryan’s as well!!
notes! the collective d&w brainrot has caused me to open tumblr and actually complete a fic. hope u love it <3 abs
“taxi!”
the crisp night air nipped at your legs as you stepped off of the sidewalk and onto the edge of the street for the fifth time in the past fifteen minutes. you waved your hands semi erratically, jumping up and down as to try and make yourself take up more space so that the bright yellow vehicle would take notice. instead you watched as it zipped right past you, short term deja vu happening once again.
you threw your arms down in defeat and stared up at the night sky, “fuck!” you sent your frustrations up to the half of a full moon you could see, the other portion blocked by skyscrapers. how is it that this city was known to be crawling with cabs and you couldn’t even flag one of them down? were you on some kind of taxi blacklist?
whatever the reason, you decided that between your horrible luck with public transport and your dead cell phone, you might as well start the trek home.
your body buzzed with the alcohol from the evening; your night out with friends had veered into the early morning hours, and you promised them you’d be able to find your way home. blacklist or not, the city was walkable and you were tired of waiting.
so you crossed your arms over your chest, a half baked attempted at hiding from the chill of the city. you started walking in the direction of your apartment, craving the touch of warm sheets and pillowcases.
after a few minutes of sharing the air with faint car horns and the buzzing of people’s air conditioning units, you heard something else. someone else.
you weren’t naive, the city never sleeps, and there were bound to be people out just like you. however the path you chose was definitely less trafficked, and general paranoia was starting to set in. after all, you’ve been the only person for the past three blocks, only sharing the sidewalk with stray cats.
the thought that someone was behind you forced you to sober up quickly. ice cold blood replacing the warm alcohol that was coursing through your veins.
the footsteps are louder now, matching your heartbeat patting against your rib cage. you wonder why they haven’t walked past you yet. were you being followed? taking a deep breath, you reach into your bag slowly. you retrieve your small weapon of defense, ready to face off a potential threat. whoever it was, they were behind you now. you figured your best bet was fight AND flight. attack and spirit off.
you hear a wolf whistle, deep and slow, right in your ear. it’s now or never.
you whip around and shove your arm toward the nightcrawler (pervert?). you open your mouth to let out a scream and clench your eyes shut. you’re surprised when your voice is muffled by…leather?
“oh cupcake, this is adorable! where’d you get this, amazon?”
you open your eyes and are stunned to lock them with a sea of red and black. your eyes trail upwards, spying artificial whites and a mask you’ve grown familiar with. the original terror you felt starts draining from your body, and is replaced by shock and a strange sense of relief.
deadpool has one of his gloved hands locked around your wrist, long index finger just barely lifting yours off of the trigger of the object in question. a travel sized, hot pink, container of mace.
you open your mouth again to speak but find his other hand muffling your airways, his large palm covering your mouth and tip of your nose. you frantically grasp at his arm with your free hand, yanking it away from your face.
“you know sweet thing, if you wanna walk around this late by yourself, you’ll need something a little more industrial. i actually know a guy if you-“
you take in a giant gulp of air and clutch your chest, trying to slow down your heart rate, “what. the FUCK is wrong with you?” you cut off deadpool’s rambling, staring at his blank eyes.
the merc tilts his head to the side as if he was a confused golden retriever, “really? you wanna trauma dump right now? well…” he clears his throat, voice dropping an octave to portray faux sincerity, “i guess it all started in third grade…”
you groaned and rubbed your face with your free hand, the other still in control by your assaulter, “you could’ve announced yourself, you gave me a heart attack! what are you doing following me anyway?”
deadpool finally releases your hand, his own finding home on his hips, resting right above his two holsters. “well i saw you wandering around like carrie bradshaw. and i may not be your mister, but i was hoping to give you something Big.” he shrugs as if that response was as normal as discussing the weather. you shove your measly can of mace back into your bag.
shaking your head, you turn on your heels, starting to walk away. you plan to continue your trek home, confident that the anti hero would be quick to follow behind. “how hard would it be to just say you want to walk me home?”
you’ve been playing this game of back and forth flirtation for a while now, and you knew that deep…deep…deep down he was masking true concern for you.
deciding not to answer, deadpool took just a few of his large strides to end up by your side. “what are you doing walking alone looking like that anyway? admit it! you were hoping i’d show up.”
you look at him with glassy eyes. now that your guard was fully down, you started to feel the effects of those three tequila shots you took as a send off to your friends. maybe those weren’t such a good idea. the way you’re looking up at him make’s deadpool’s wade’s stomach turn, and he has to clench his fists to control himself.
suddenly he’s forgotten why he was on this side of town in the first place.
you let out a laugh full of teeth, “oh you wish! i haven’t seen you in a few days though, had to go out to fill my needs elsewhere.”
what you two have has never went beyond casual flirtation, but the idea of you being under someone else sparks a match of jealously. but wade knows better. and he knows that slight stumble as you walk, your hands pulling the skirt of your outfit down.
deadpool hisses as if you’ve hit a nerve, “ouch baby, i didn’t think i’d be third wheeling with you and jose cuervo tonight.” he spots a car driving toward the two of you and acts quickly; he places a gloved hand on your waist and moves you away from the sidewalk. he doesn’t miss a beat, you don’t even realize you’ve switched places.
you’re looking back up at him again as you walk, this time reaching up and tapping the handle of one of his sheathed katanas, “what about you killer? you been thinkin’ about me?” you’re teasing him, but a small part of you hopes he’ll give you a genuine answer that aligns with what you want to hear.
his mask creases as he raises his eyebrows and you can’t see but wade is giving you a smirk that sits on the side of his mouth, “oh you know it sweet thing. every time i’ve slid one of these bad boys in and out of a bad guy, it reminds me of what we could have.”
deadpool lets out a dramatic sigh, reminiscing on something that hasn’t even happened, “but their screams usually ruin my hard on, i think your’s would have the opposite effect.”
so much for your genuine answer.
you blame the red on your cheeks and buzzing feeling on the alcohol, pushing the thought of the real cause into a box and storing it in the back of your mind. how embarrassing to feel this way about a masked weirdo that sometimes strolls through your neighborhood. you didn’t even know his real name. hell, you’ve never seen his face!
after a little more walking and a lot more sexual tension, the two of you arrive in front of your apartment building. you turn to face your escort for the evening, flashing him a grin full of drunken glee, “well this is my stop, thank you for the company mr. pool. i’ll have to repay you somehow.” your tone teasing but borderline suggestive.
deadpool nods and taps his chin a few times, “you’re right cupcake….since you’re offering…” he trails off, his voice growing deeper as he bent down to be eye level with you. your throat hitched, a gasp getting stuck there, not expecting him to call your bluff. “i take payments in the form of cash, debit, or check!”
he taps the tip of your nose and shoots back, standing up straight.
oh right! no way this guy would ever actually take you up on your banter! and that was a good thing…right? you decided to end the night now, preventing your drunken state from dragging a masked man into your home.
you rolled your eyes and braced your hand on his broad shoulder, stepping on the tip of your toes and placing a kiss on the side of his mask, the textured material tickling your lips. “goodnight handsome.”
you leaned away from him but trailed your hand down to rest on his chest. hey! the tequila was making you brave.
deadpool, no wade—deadpool—no! wade felt like he was about to fall backwards like a cartoon cat after getting hit with a sledgehammer. it had been a long time since his suit had experienced anything that gentle, he felt this was about to go down a dangerous path.
wade stared down at you through white lenses, his gaze bouncing between your hand and your lips. back and forth like a game of table tennis.
he watched as you bit your lip and held his gaze. your cheeks flushed, eyes glossy, the street lights illuminated your face in a way he’s never seen before. he wonders if potential onlookers could see small hearts surrounding his head.
wade feels a thought go through him, as if it swept in on the early morning breeze. a thought that he felt insane (shocker) for having even for a moment.
standing there with you, he wants to be himself. he has the urge to be vulnerable; rip his mask off and be wade wilson with you. for you. in this moment he wants to be more than the merc that flirts with you. wade wants to be with you. he wants…..fuck he wants to take you inside and make sure your body leaves an imprint in the mattress that’ll be there for weeks. stop looking at him like that, his pants are getting tight.
and there’s deadpool. he imagines tiny versions of himself stabbing katanas into the hearts around his head. they let out sad whines as they deflate and fall onto the sidewalk below him. he needs to get a grip.
“sweet dreams angel face. oh! if you need me throughout the night, just scream out of your bedroom window! screams of damsels in distress are like my mating call.”
you retract your hand with a giggle that makes that stupid thought come back into deadpool’s head.
you hesitate. wanting to say something but…deciding best not to. you turn around and walk up the stairs to your door, ignoring the fire in your stomach that’s been growing after each flirtatious jab.
you hear him start to speak as soon as you put your key into the lock, and you turn around almost too eagerly. you want him to say what you’ve been wanting, craving to hear. you want him to enable that dark part of you; the part of you that wants more of him. the part of you that knows he’s wrong. that he’s got to be walking danger.
deadpool points at himself, “but babe, if you see a way less sexy guy in a suit responding to your call. one that has ugly little spider webs all over him? slam the window shut. you want nothing to do with that guy, trust me.”
your shoulders drop, an exhale released. you give him one last shake of your head, and a barely there smile, before you’re inside your home. the bubble that surrounded the two of you bursted.
the door shuts behind you but the masked man stays in place. he stares at the spot where you were just standing, thinking about all the other routes this night could’ve taken. he isn’t right for you. he should leave you alone. wade knows that. too bad deadpool’s never been a good listener.
#marvel#marvel x reader#deadpool#deadpool x reader#wade wilson#wade wilson x reader#deadpool and wolverine#x reader#deadpool fic#marvel fic#mcu x reader#mcu#mcu x you#deadpool x you#deadpool fanfiction
458 notes
·
View notes
Text
you could be bad, but I wanna find out.
written for @steddiemicrofic ‘guard’ | wc: 532 | rated: mature | tags: goalie!Steve Harrington, fan!Eddie Munson, alternate universe- no upside down, different first meeting, meet ugly (but it's still cute), bars, alcohol mention, description of sexual activity, humor, big mouth!Eddie Munson, long-suffering besties Gareth and Jeff
The bar is buzzing with excited fans, humming with an energy that makes Eddie feel looser and lighter than the Budweiser ever could. Surrounded by a sea of black and red jerseys that line the long, narrow bar, Jeff and Gareth laugh and shake their heads.
Eddie hasn’t stopped rambling since the Blackhawks won, and he has no intentions of stopping anytime soon.
Not after a win like that— a shutout win that tore the roof off of United Center.
And certainly not after the Blackhawks goalie guarded the net like it was his treasure and he, its dragon.
Sure, it helps that Steve Harrington is definitely the most beautiful man to ever grace an ice rink, but it’s the competence that gets him. Watching Harrington bend and stretch his limbs into pretzel-like shapes, coming up with the puck and an unhinged grin, really gets his motor running.
“I mean, did you see him?” Eddie asks for maybe the tenth time since sitting at the shiny, shellacked bar. “Jeff, you get it, right? You see what I’m seeing, right?”
“I see a guy who’s really great at his job, and I see another guy who sounds insane. Guess which one you are?” Jeff snorts into his beer and takes a sip.
“Gareth, buddy, surely you can understand where I’m coming from. Remember the first time you saw Lars Ulrich?” Eddie turns, knocking his shoulder against Gareth’s.
“Duh, dude,” Gareth leans forward and yells in response, the bar erupting into cheers and more drunken celebrations. “The difference is that I wanted to be Lars Ulrich. You want to fuck Steve Harrington.”
Eddie clutches his chest in feigned offense and feels himself being pushed against the bar as the building fills up with what must be the final wave of fans leaving the stadium. The bartender nods behind him with a knowing smile and passes a draft beer over Eddie’s shoulder into a large, veiny hand.
“Okay, fine,” Eddie concedes, resting his own drink on the bar. “You’re right. The way I would fuck Steve Harrington is obscene. I’d let him violate whatever obscure, unknown Bible Belt laws he wanted. He's a ride I wouldn't survive. The wheels would come right off.”
“Uh, Eddie?” Jeff tries to interrupt but Eddie’s having none of it.
“Nope, I’m not done. That split save? The way he guarded his crease? And for a fucking 36-save shutout? Holy shit.”
“Ed—” Gareth tries but Eddie steamrolls him, too.
“What is it you call it, Gare? A competency kink? Well, sure. Fine. Call it what you want, but he’s so good at what he does. I need him in a way that would disappoint my grandmother, and not just because she was homophobic."
A hand— the same hand that had reached over him to grab the glass just a few minutes ago— pats him on the shoulder and when Eddie turns around to see who the fuck is touching him, he nearly falls off of the wobbly stool.
Steve Harrington grins, a drink in one hand and the other still resting on Eddie’s frozen frame.
“I think your grandmother would’ve liked me,” he shrugs. “I have a way with families.”
#steddie#steddie fanfiction#steddie fanfic#steddie fic#steve harrington x eddie munson#eddie munson x steve harrington#steve harrington#eddie munson#stranger things#stranger things fanfiction#stranger things fanfic#stranger things fic#myblurbs#steddiemicrofic#it's hockey season and I'm neck-deep in brainrot#i'm not sorry#and then they kiss kiss fall in love and eddie and his friends get reserved seats forever#i was gonna put them in boston but i have something bigger planned in boston so#this makes more sense geographically
352 notes
·
View notes
Text
Day 30: Freeuse - Winter Soldier
Summary: He was your patient. You were in charge of making sure all of his needs were met, no matter what they were.
Warnings/Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, non-consensual elements, dubious content, freeuse, discussion of injuries, violence, masturbation, fingering, voyeurism, exhibitionism, stalking (kinda), possessive
masterlist 📚
kinktober masterlist😈
AO3 Link
He was your priority. Hydra had recruited you with the hopes of creating an experiment to see if anyone could be trained to look after the assassin frozen in a Cyrogentic state. You were trained and kept underground to be the lead carer and doctor for the Winter Soldier. He was yours to look after, physically and mentally. After each mission you sent him on, he’d return and give you the reports. Most importantly, you were always the first face he’d see before and after being on the ice.
The Soldier would answer to you and Alexander Pierce, but even that was touchy sometimes as he would look to you before answering Pierces’ questions as if he was asking for permission to talk.
What’s more, is that you knew who he was outside of his assassin's status. James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, born in 1917, was the best friend to the one and only Captain America, Steve Rogers, who was currently alive, having been found in the ice and unbeknown to him, his best friend was also alive with similar super solider serum pumping through his veins. Steve was Bucky’s potential saviour; one day, you hoped to be there when this could become a reality; however, currently, you were watched so closely by everyone in Hydra that you’d not even been able to contemplate a plan as to how to break him out. Until then, he was your priority, keeping him out of harm's way as much as possible.
Alexander Pierce had given you strict instructions to adhere to every single need that may affect or alter the soldier's performance as the ghostly assassin. At first, you just assumed it was to feed him, wash, cut his hair, make sure he was healthy and metal arm was working to its best ability. But the basic human need for the Winter Soldier ran deeper than that, causing your role as his doctor and carer to be blurred and something more developed.
The longer he was out of the ice, the more you would notice his increasing frustrations that couldn’t be erased with a simple afternoon in the gym or sparring with other guards. There were even days when no one could calm him down, his aggression so high that he had to be sedated if you were not available to talk to him.
For example, there was once a day when you were actually off of the unit, in your new flat, having just been granted the allowance to live there when Rumlow came knocking on your door. He only gave you the courtesy of putting on your shoes before gripping your upper arm and dragging you to the office.
When you arrived, the rooms were in disarray. Equipment smashed, blood and unconscious bodies trying to be aided too. It was a mess, and you were more nearly barging down the door to get to him, shouting for the guards to stand down and leave him to you. Yes, he was a highly trained assassin, but with the trust he held in you, there was no way he would intentionally harm you.
The underground room had no windows, which you were thankful for as they would have been destroyed in his rampage. You were only dressed in your joggers and a vest top, trainers already marked with red streaks from the puddles you’d walked through. It felt like your heart would escape your mouth with how erratic it was pounding in your chest as you tried to take in his appearance.
The shirt he had previously been wearing was now ripped to shreds on the floor. The tactical trousers had tears throughout but still seemed to be held together enough that he was indecent, and combat boots that gleamed with smudges where he’d been kicking objects and people. Each of his knuckles were busted in their own way. The flesh hand was cut, and the metal fist was red with other people's blood.
You’d not seen him become this erratic since he’d been out of his cryogenic state for too long, and his memories began to return to him as he questioned his entire existence. Whereas for this example, he’d only been defrosted for several days and shouldn’t have had any cognitive issues.
Stepping closer with your hands raised to show you meant no threat, you asked in a clear, concise voice, “Soldier? Where is the threat?”
His height seemed to tower over yours, more so than usual, as he turned his deathly glare towards you. The hulking muscles of his shoulders heaved with each breath he took as if he was out of breath, which was a rare occasion as he could run for miles and continue to breathe steadily, unaffected by the strenuous exercise. Your question was supposed to help identify what his issue was, hoping he’d find you being there to create a safe space for him, but the angry charge of his massive body had you flinching back in shock.
The warm hand of his wrapped around your throat, using the momentum of his steps to push you back up against the wall. Your hands remained up, even though you were itching to tear at his wrist to relieve some pressure. He wasn’t squeezing hard enough that you were struggling to breathe, but it was still uncomfortable and unnerving.
Your mind was working on overdrive, trying to think of a way to ease the stress he was going through. Your eyes searched over his body, starting with his head and face, but there were only minor scratches and grazes from the fights. Lower your eyes explore his arms and chest until they halted, seeing something that had never been through your consideration.
His tactical pants were tented, showing the outline of his hard-on, raging just as violently as the blue of his eyes. Was this the issue of his anger? The soldier shifted his stance, hand twitching towards his crotch like he was going to move himself to be more comfortable, but stopped as he watched you closely.
Alexander Pierce had once told you that whatever the Soldier wanted or needed, you were to give it to him to ensure that he was performing to his best abilities. You cursed to yourself quietly, unsure if this was even plausible or right to do. Of course, it wasn’t right to do. He was a prisoner in his own body, but you were his doctor, and you had a job to do.
“It’s okay. I know what will help you. I’ll show you how to get rid of the pain; I won’t touch you, I promise”.
From there, you were able to explain anatomy, the ache throbbing through his abdomen and how he could relieve himself. He did. Right there in front of you, his pants by his knees and cock in hand until he came on your shoes.
You didn’t so much as blink or flinch at the action. He didn’t understand that it wasn't appropriate to cum on someone's shoes or to masturbate in a somewhat public scenario. It calmed him down enough that you could push him back onto a chair and fix the injuries that were already mostly healed.
These situations only continued to escalate, which occurred more often than not. However, the Winter Soldier only touched himself when you were around, and you were unsure if it was because you made him feel safe or for other reasons that Rumlow liked to hiss in your ear, saying that the deadly assassin had a crush on his favourite doctor.
You blew it off as gossip and nasty rumours, unprofessional at most.
This only lasted for a few months before you noticed the changes in the Soldier, and it all came to a head one night as he turned up at your apartment after a mission. You hadn’t even told him your address, and he wasn’t due back from the mission for another 24 hours, but there he was, at the end of the bed, having snuck through the window as you were halfway through having some intimate time yourself.
Your fingers were between your legs, eyes closed, and your head tipped back, not covering your moans as you didn’t think you’d need to as you were living by yourself. The assassin watched, confusion causing his brows to furrow, head tilted to the side as his fists clenched.
The look on your face was one he’d never seen before, and he noticed the anatomy was different to his. Of course, he was aware that not everyone had the same genitals as his, but it hadn’t crossed his mind that it could be touched like this.
The only time you were aware of his presence was when the bed dipped, your eyes snapping open and legs closing as you released an almighty scream that caused the Soldier to flinch.
“Mine”, he muttered under his breath, grabbing your ankle and dragging you closer.
“What? Soldier, what are you doing here? When did you- please stop” he paused his attempts to drag you closer as he was half crawling over your body. You were trying to remain calm, but he was acting so possessive, and why was he even here? How did he get in?
“Mine”, he repeated above you again, eyes trained between your legs.
You were at a loss for words, feeling both confused and safe simultaneously, even with someone as dangerous as this. The night was one that definitely crossed the line for professionalism.
The Winter Soldier was so interested in your masturbation and different genitals that he practically begged you to continue, shouting mine and gazing at your intimate area until you continued.
You came, and then the Soldier unbuckled his belt and ejaculated over your stomach, and this was the turning point of the relationship. Your job now seemed to be a half doctor, half a sexual release. Masturbation escalated into hands in underwear until there was no point holding back the restraint, and the two of you were fucking.
It was challenging to wrap your head around, especially when the two of you were in the work environment, but if it was what he wanted and needed that you were more than happy to be face pushed into the wall, trousers and underwear by your ankles and cock shoving so far into your cunt that you saw stars.
The most significant issue was that, even though none of the workers commented on it, they all knew the sex was occurring. Mainly because the Winter Soldier didn’t seem to understand that this was supposed to be something that was for ‘behind closed doors’ and out of view of the guards and other doctors. To him, if he was to push you over the table and whisper “mine”, then this was enough warning that he wanted to fuck, even if you were unfathomably embarrassed that your coworkers had to watch you coming undone to the man they were all looking after.
The worst time had to have been when Alexander Pierce came strolling into the ‘jail’ they kept the Soldier in during his downtime. Multiple guards were surrounding him, and three doctors in lab coats were working tirelessly around the room. You’d been in there for hours. Warm, tired and ready to eat whatever take-out you could encounter on the drive home later that night.
With Pierces’ presence, however, your posture straightened, and you tried to remain as professional as possible. This was a feat easier said than done as The Soldier eyed you from across the room, staring with his unblinking glare. Eventually, he pushed past Pierce, the guards all raising their guns expecting a fight, but there was none to have as the metal fingers of his specially made hand eased into the front of your work trousers, plain underwear and pushed into your cunt.
“What are you doing?! Now is not the time and place- Ah fuck!”. There was nothing other than a hand over your mouth that could have stopped the moan pitching from your lips as his thumb circled your clit. You’d not been at all aroused, but he had learned enough about your body to know the exact way to stimulate your bundle of nerves and curl his fingers inside of you to stroke that beautiful spot that had you whimpering without any restraint.
As he pleasured you in front of all your colleagues, there was nothing you could do but painfully grip on to his metal forearm. He didn’t even smile or mutter a single word as he made you orgasm with a knee-buckling euphoria. It seemed he was just in the mood to hear your whines as he turned around and sat back in front of Pierce, who was looking between the two of you.
“It seems things have changed through here. I’m glad you have been able to … satisfy the Asset by any means necessary”.
You tried not to visibly cringe with the way he had worded it as you tried to straighten your clothes and continue with the work you had been completing before. Nothing further was thankfully said as he was given his next mission, and you were left to continue working for a further three hours with underwear that was utterly soaked due to his wandering fingers.
#bucky barnes smut#bucky smut#winter soldier smut#winter soldier#winter soldier x reader#bucky barnes one shot#bucky x reader#marvel smut#marvel fic#winter soldier one shot#bucky barnes x reader#mine*#kinktober 2023#kinktober
3K notes
·
View notes
Text
"Oh. That." The tone in Red One's voice was unreadable.
"I cannot say I understood it's appeal but... some people seem to enjoy it, I suppose." Fivemind, who had killed its own creators but now was a 'parent' itself had...mixed feelings about it.
"That aside. What videogames are you playing ?"
"No no, it's that too. But mostly it's stupid frickin' Father's Day." How the heck is he saying it like that?
#mechahero#[ ic : unit red one ]#(( i cant believe fivey is reminding ppl to fuck whatever will they do next now
11 notes
·
View notes
Text
Tell Me to Stop: Part 2 (NSFW Kyojuro Rengoku x F!Ice Pillar)
A/N: oh man, it’s here. This took a lot out of me, so I hope that you all like it.
Part One can be found here: post-Mugen AU where Kyojuro lives; events take place post-Entertainment District.
Multiple POVs (Y/N, Shinobu, and Kyojuro). There are several flashbacks, which are in all italics and separated from the main text.
Massive TW: trauma/PTSD, anger, nightmares, descriptions of corpses, violence and violence between characters (shoving, grabbing/shaking). One character triggers another and it’s dubious whether it’s intentional or not.
CW: 16.7k words; explicit sexual content. Unprotected sex/oral (F!receiving), creampies, cursing, light scar worship, intimacy, angst.
For the song that inspired this, listen here.
Without further ado!
🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸
(Y/N’s POV)
Y/N began her rehabilitation training within one week of awakening from her coma.
For those seven days of rest, Y/N had fielded all sorts of visitors — the Master, escorted by his two daughters; the Love Pillar, who had wasted no time throwing her arms around Y/N’s shoulders and sobbing in relief; and three of the Mansion’s youngest girls, all of whom crawled up on her bed and cried while hugging her.
Uzui had sent her a note by crow telling her he would be by to see her as soon as his wives finished making her favorite treat — red bean mochi — and said they could compare battle wounds in celebration of their feat.
Y/N had neither seen nor heard as much of a whisper from the Flame Pillar.
The Ice Pillar resolved to distract herself from the glaring absence of the man who embodied fire, though every day that passed without word from him only seemed to make that absence more pronounced.
Y/N had thrown herself into her rehabilitation training, as supervised by Shinobu. Because she was a Hashira, her recovery was vastly different from that of lower-ranked slayers, and she worked with the Insect Pillar directly, rather than with the haughty Aoi and other younger Mansion girls.
That particular morning, the Love Pillar had joined them in an effort to recuperate Y/N’s loss of flexibility as the result of the nearly two months she’d spent sedentary. Y/N cherished the one-on-one time she had with the other two women Hashira; the three of them had formed a tight bond with one another since ascending as Pillars, united amidst the predominance of male demon slayers.
“Good! Now just bend this way-“ Mitsuri Kanroji kept a steady hand at the small of Y/N’s back as Y/N arched over backward, teeth grinding as her stiff spine resisted her movement.
“Almost there! Just touch your other hand to the floor and hold it!” The Love Hashira said encouragingly.
Y/N stretched her left arm over her head as hard as she could. Her fingers had just graced the wooden grain of the training room floor when her body seized, and her legs gave out from under her.
“Oh!” Mitsuri caught Y/N effortlessly before she could crumple to the floor, gently helping her to sit while blushing at the stream of colorful curses that poured from the Ice Pillar’s mouth.
“This damn wound,” Y/N moaned, her hand pressing against the angry red mark that curved from below her belly button to her right hip. “You would think it would have healed by now.”
Shinobu frowned as she crouched next to the Ice Pillar, fingers lightly prodding at the scar left behind by Upper Moon Six. “It has healed; if it hadn’t, it wouldn’t have scarred already.” Shinobu pursed her lips. “Though, I suppose it could just be a residual effect of the Upper Rank’s blood demon art – after all, it was no ordinary blade that he pierced you with, was it?”
Y/N shook her head, though she tried to suppress the memory of the demon’s cursed flesh blade ramming through her back and into her stomach. “The blade was his conduit for his blood demon art – but I think it was made from him.”
“How often does it hurt, Y/N?” Mitsuri asked, rubbing soothing circles on her friend’s upper back. Mitsuri was one of the few people Y/N knew who preferred to give physical comfort, and Y/N was grateful for it.
Y/N furrowed her brows in thought. “In a way, there’s always just this dull ache I feel, though it becomes sharper whenever I move a particular way.” Y/N pulled at the band of her uniform bottoms in discomfort. “And, it doesn’t help that these damn pants chafe and rub against it. I’ve even foregone the belt, and it still feels like they’re cutting into me.”
Mitsuri hummed in thought. “Have you considered one of the uniform skirts? They sit a little higher on the waist, so they’re less likely to aggravate it.”
Y/N scowled. “I would rather be stabbed by Upper Six again than request a skirt from that pervert tailor,” she said severely, “Sorry,” she added when she saw the Love Pillar flush with embarrassment.
“Lecherous Corps tailors aside, you may have a good point, Mitsuri.” Shinobu said, eyeing Y/N’s uniform pants in thought. “Y/N, do you mind if I brainstorm some designs for you? I can’t promise whatever I come up with will be suitable for public appearances or assignments, but I might be able to come up with something that will at least keep you comfortable while you heal and build back your strength.”
Y/N smiled as she stretched her legs out, bringing herself into a pose meant to flex her hips. “I’d be grateful for anything you could do, Shinobu.”
The Insect Pillar nodded. “Mitsuri, you know how to sew quite well, do you not? I’m afraid my proficiency with the needle is limited to sewing up wounds.”
The pinkette glowed with enthusiasm. “Yes! I have an entire room dedicated to sewing at my Estate – if you bring by your designs, I’m sure I could put something together!”
Shinobu smiled. “Then it’s settled. I’ll see what I can come up with tonight, and I’ll bring it by in the morning.”
Y/N’s heart swelled at the dedication her two friends showed towards her comfort and recovery. “Thank you both, from the bottom of my heart.”
Shinobu’s smile turned wicked. “Don’t thank us yet, Y/N. You have agility training next.”
Y/N groaned and pulled on her uniform top, buttoning it over her bindings. As a Hashira, agility training meant that she was to meet the Wind Pillar outside of Kocho’s estate where she would endure two hours of having to dodge his relentless attacks. Y/N got along just fine with Shinazugawa – he’d even welcomed her back, and gruffly complimented her work in the Entertainment District – but that did not mean he eased up in his ruthless training.
By the time the Wind Pillar had dismissed her with a satisfied nod, Y/N had all but limped back to her room, wondering whether she could even summon the strength to bathe after such an arduous day. She almost decided against it, but when her newest scar began to pulse and throb once more, she knew nothing else would soothe it better than the hot water in Kocho’s private hot spring.
Y/N greeted the bowing Kakushi who guarded the entrance to the northernmost wing of the Butterfly Mansion’s hospital as she passed by, and she hoped that Aoi had remembered to restock her room with fresh towels so she could go straight to her bath from her room.
She drew short at the sight of a familiar figure which stood outside of Kocho’s office, leaning against the wall of the small hallway.
“Rengoku!” Y/N was startled, taking a step back in surprise at the sight of the Flame Pillar.
“Y/L/N.” The man who reminded her of the sun nodded in greeting, but his familiar, sunny disposition was noticeably absent, his face impassive and his voice detached.
“I am happy to see you in good health.” Rengoku spoke with unnatural formality; he’d never used that cold, detached manner of speaking to her, not once since she’d caught him staring at her right before the commencement of Final Selection all those years ago.
--------------------------------------------------------
“Ice Pillar Y/L/N!” His sunny voice boomed, and Y/N groaned. She’d just gotten her migraine to calm down.
“Rengoku,” she nodded politely, as her comrade came to stand beside her, all smiles and warmth.
“It’s been a while, Y/L/N! I was beginning to forget what you look like when you roll your eyes at me.” He laughed, and Y/N scowled.
“Perhaps I’ll pay to have my photograph taken, Rengoku. That way, you can carry it with you wherever you go.”
Rengoku turned to her, an eyebrow raised in surprise at her willingness to engage with his banter so quickly. “If that’s the case, Y/N, I’d prefer to have one of you smiling. It would do well to keep me warm on those cold nights away from home.”
--------------------------------------------------------
“I heard you were called away on another mission— some train?” Y/N asked him as they strolled through the Master’s garden following their meeting.
“Yes, we’ve unfortunately lost a number of slayers. Perhaps it’s an upper rank!” The Flame Pillar responded jovially, but he stopped in front of Y/N when he saw her frown.
“What is it?” His voice was gentle, and Y/N shook her head, focusing her eyes on the blooming wisteria saplings that had been planted.
A warm finger curled under her chin and tilted her face up until her eyes clashed with pools of golden ore. “My dear Ice Pillar, are you worried for me?” He was smirking, and his thumb lightly caressed the underside of her jaw.
Y/N gingerly took his hand and removed it from her face, though she did not let it go right away. “You are the Flame Hashira, Rengoku. If anyone is capable of defeating an Upper Rank, it most certainly is you.”
Rengoku smiled broadly at her, his hand nearly grazing her own. “For someone whose prowess lies in ice breathing, Y/L/N, you sure know how to start fires.”
Under any other circumstance, she would have changed the subject, or not said anything at all. But Y/N couldn’t help her sudden desire to flirt back, just to see if she could knock him off his feet as he so often tried to do to her.
“Yours is the only one I’m interested in stoking, Rengoku.” She said sweetly.
She’d laughed at the Flame Pillar’s beet-red face for the rest of the day.
------------------------------------------------------
“And I, you.” Y/N responded, her eyes still wide with surprise as she came to a stop before him, maintaining a cautious distance between them.
A pregnant pause followed, and Y/N made to speak once more, but she was cut off by another deep throb from the wound on her lower abdomen, her hand unconsciously flying to press against it as she swallowed the gasp that threatened to leave her.
“You’re in pain.” It wasn’t a question.
Y/N shrugged in a feeble attempt at nonchalance. “I suppose it’s to be expected for a while yet. At least until I recover.”
Rengoku said nothing, and the silence felt suffocating.
“Would you-“ Y/N hesitated, and inwardly she’d never felt more embarrassed, or more uncertain than she did then as she stood before the uncharacteristically stoic Flame Pillar. “Would you like to sit down?”
Rengoku’s face remained impassive, and he turned away from her, dismissively.
“I cannot. I came only to retrieve a salve from Kocho.” His voice was just as cold, just as unfamiliar as the rest of him had been.
“Rengoku, is everything all right?” She stretched out a hand to touch his shoulder but was alarmed at how quickly he flinched away from her as if her touch could burn him.
“Everything is fine, Y/L/N. I need to be on my way.” Rengoku’s voice was flat, monotone, and wholly foreign to her.
“I’m sorry for not thanking you sooner — for everything you did to help me that night.” Y/N blurted, and to her relief, Rengoku froze mid-step, though he did not turn towards her. “I owe you my life.”
She did not miss the way Rengoku’s fists clenched at his side. “You owe me nothing. I would have done the same for any other comrade.” He replied, voice tight. “I must get going now. Farewell, Y/L/N.
She was so stunned that she’d not bidden him farewell back. Rather, she’d stood helplessly in her doorway, even long after the edge of his haori had disappeared around the corner of the Butterfly Mansion’s hall.
He had not looked at her once.
-------------------------------------------------------
(Kyojuro’s POV)
Kyojuro’s fists remained clenched the entire journey back to his estate.
He felt disgusted with himself. He felt like a coward.
It had nearly knocked him to his knees to see Y/L/N up and standing and talking because for so long, he had feared he would never again see the way she crinkled her nose when she laughed, or how she tucked that one loose strand of hair behind her ear whenever she was concentrating — the one that never stayed put in her braid.
But he had not been able to meet her eyes; couldn’t bear to bring himself to try, because he had been terrified of what he would see.
-------------------------------------------------------
Every night for the last two months, he has dreamed of her.
They were not pretty dreams, not like those he had before when he’d wrap her in his arms and kiss her until she laughed, the two of them living in a monster-free world and at peace.
Now, he dreamt of vacant eyes-tinged blue, unseeing and unblinking and frozen, just like the rest of her. He dreams of iced skin and blood and poison pouring from her mouth and her nose until she chokes, her chest rising once with a final rattle before it falls still.
He dreams of Upper Three, smiling deviously as he aims his fist to deal his final blow, and Kyojuro wrenches his blade down, desperate to finally win.
Only, his blade decapitates Y/N, not the Upper Rank demon and he is helpless to watch her head bounce pathetically to the ground. His hands are covered in her blood, and instead of disintegrating, her body falls uselessly to the side. Human.
As quickly as he kills her, the dream changes. He is in a lively street, filled to the brim with street vendors and women and men offering their services. It is night but the lights of the shops and gambling dens and pleasure houses are so bright that it looks like daytime.
He recognizes her by the back of her haori, and his feet move towards her, relieved to see her amidst the hustle and bustle of the city. He reaches out to touch her shoulder, her name whispering on his lips. But she turns before he can make contact, and though she looks healthy, her eyes — her eyes are white and unseeing.
I don’t understand, she pleads with him, it doesn’t make sense.
Kyojuro looks around in alarm and they are no longer standing amongst eager entertainment seekers, but among flame and wreckage, the once-ornately decorated stalls now smashed to splinters as fire slowly consumes the skeletal remains of the entertainment district.
He turns back to her right as a blade pierces through her gut, lifting her from the ground before letting her drop.
His hands shake as he reaches for her, desperate to check her wounds, but when she looks up at him, he stumbles back.
She is all wrong. Her skin is mottled and rotting from her face, and her hair is gray and matted. In place of her eyes are black holes, empty and cold.
Why can’t I come with you? Why can’t I go home, Kyojuro?
Please take me home.
Every night for the last two months, he awoke screaming.
------------------------------------------------------
Y/L/N was alive; he knew that. He knew that if he looked at her, he would not see a corpse; but terrifying visuals aside, Kyojuro had not been able to look at her because he knew what his nightmares were telling him.
He’d been responsible for her near death.
If the Kakushi had returned with a box rather than a Pillar, it would have been his fault.
The thought that Y/L/N — his Y/L/N -- had almost obtained her own headstone in the Master’s graveyard had rocked him to his very core, for that had almost become a reality. She had actually died – for the briefest moment – in his arms; and it had been his fault.
Why can't I go home, Kyojuro?
And though Y/N had awoken from her slumber, her corpse still haunted Kyojuro’s dreams.
--------------------------------------------------------
(Y/N’s POV)
Y/N was sprawled on her infirmary floor, preparing her limbs for another day of rigorous recuperation training at the hands of her fellow Hashira.
She stood to stretch her arms and lower back, wincing slightly at the pull of her scar. “Don’t you start,” she warned her body, willing total concentration breathing to dull the persistent ache that threatened to derail her entire day.
Y/N sensed movement near her doorway and knew, without looking, who watched her as she warmed up her aching muscles.
“Uzui retired. It’s time for you to do the same.”
Y/N who had been in mid-stretch, righted herself and blinked at the Flame Pillar. “Pardon?” Both the news of Uzui’s retirement and Rengoku’s words were a shock to her.
“Retire, Y/LN.” Rengoku repeated in that detached manner of his that she hardly recognized. “You helped take down an Upper Rank. You’ve done enough. Let someone else shoulder the burden, now.”
“I see no reason to retire, Rengoku.” Y/N retorted, voice hardening. “And unless and until the Master requests it or I perish, I see no reason to do so.”
Rengoku exhaled harshly through his nose. “You were injured — seriously so.”
“As were you, and yet you seem to have no intention of slowing down.” Y/N said, coolly.
Rengoku’s attention stayed fixed on the garden outside her window. “And I was only unconscious for three weeks. You were out for nearly two months, Y/L/N. That is unheard of and frankly, unacceptable for a Hashira.”
“What is your problem?” Y/N was growing more irritated the longer this inane conversation dragged on, and it wasn’t helping that Rengoku still refused to so much as look her direction, let alone meet her eyes. “Is this about what happened after you brought me here? Kocho told me everything — I’m not mad.”
Rengoku’s shoulders tensed. “It was necessary. Again, I would have done it for any one of my comrades.”
Y/N felt like she’d been slapped.
“You keep saying that, yet you won’t look at me— why?” Her confusion and hurt were beginning to melt into anger. “If I am just another comrade, then you should be able to meet my eyes.”
Rengoku said nothing.
“What Uzui did for me— that was what comrades do,” Y/N continued, her voice growing stronger as her blood grew hotter. “But you? You and I both know you were under no obligation to bring me back from the brink of death the way you did.”
“I’m not sure what you want me to say, Y/L/N,” Rengoku answered after a long moment.
Y/N took a step towards him. “I want to know why.”
“It was necessary.”
Y/N felt like throttling him.
How long had they danced around each other? How many times had they caught themselves staring at the other for a breath longer than normal, had allowed an otherwise friendly touch during a spar linger?
How could he have held her, half nude for hours, putting himself on the brink of death all for the sake of keeping her alive — and then tell her she was the same as any other comrade?
“What are we doing Rengoku -- is this to be our destiny?” Y/N demanded, exasperatedly, her voice hard. “We continue to pretend like we don’t care about one another until one of us dies?”
Rengoku remained silent, back still turned away from her.
“We’ve each had a near-death experience in a matter of months,” Y/N continued, throat working hard to keep her voice steady despite the telling burn of angry tears in her eyes. “By all accounts, one if not both of us should be dead.”
“And yet, somehow, you expect me to act as though the fact you carried me back here— that you put yourself on death’s door to keep my heart beating — doesn’t mean anything?”
It didn’t make sense. It didn’t make sense for him to fight so hard for her, to make her believe that someone valued her life that much, only to cast her aside.
She hadn’t wanted to wake up, initially; she’d felt relief for the hair’s breadth she’d thought she’d finally met her end. He was the one who dragged her back, and now he wouldn’t even look at her.
It didn’t make sense.
Y/N’s fists shook beside her, and she felt the venomous words fly from her mouth before she could stop them.
“You should’ve let me die.”
No sooner had she let the poison drip from her mouth had she felt herself flying backward, back slamming against the nearest wall of her temporary room.
“Never,” Rengoku snarled at her, his arm pressing firmly against her shoulders to hold her in place against the wood. “Never say those words to me again.”
Y/N’s chest was heaving, and she trembled beneath him, her fury threatening to explode out of her.
“There is no place on this earth where you could be in peril and I would not find you,” he said quietly, his eyes a simmering, fiery orange. “Where I wouldn’t find a way to bring you back home.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Y/N said softly, breath still coming hard from her nose but no longer from her anger.
“Doesn’t it?” Rengoku was close, dangerously close.
Y/N wanted nothing more than to lean in, to close the distance that barely existed between Rengoku’s face and hers and finally be done with all the nonsense. But he had spent so much time avoiding her gaze until that moment, and Y/N felt more lost than ever, set adrift by the look of heat and longing that was mixed with the burning rage in his eyes.
Something tugged incessantly at her gut and it would not allow her to move from her place against her recovery room’s wall.
Instead, her arms came up to rest against Rengoku’s chest before gently, but firmly, pushing him away.
“No, it doesn’t.” She repeated. “And I am tired, Rengoku.”
The Flame Pillar allowed himself to be pushed away, but he looked at her with a small, cruel smile.
“Then you’re right; it doesn’t mean anything at all.”
She flinched against the ugly slap of his words. Y/N had expected him to hit back, but she hadn’t anticipated his venom to sting as much as it did.
She felt all of the fight within her gutter out, leaving her with nothing but a heavy weight in her chest that she wished she couldn’t feel.
“Y/L/N, I-“ the Flame Pillar almost sounded remorseful.
“Thank you, for your clarification, Lord Rengoku,” she said numbly, formally, parroting his earlier tone with her. “And thank you for your assistance that night. Please, next time — don’t trouble yourself.”
Rengoku hesitated for a moment, his hand twitching as though he wanted to reach for her. He swallowed hard, and turned away, shutting the door to Y/N’s infirmary.
The moment the door at clicked shut, Y/N exhaled harshly, stumbling back against her bed as she hugged her arms around herself, and she tried to keep herself from falling apart.
It shouldn’t have hurt this bad. They were both in the Demon Slayer Corps; they saved strangers all the time without it ever meaning anything other than good will and a desire to exterminate all demons.
So why did his insistence that she was no different hurt so badly?
Because she wasn’t a stranger.
Because, while she’d always known she wasn’t his, she’d still thought she’d been something.
As Y/N curled against her blanket, an unsettling numbness began to spread from her heart, quieting even the dull ache from the scar across her belly, Y/N realized that she’d meant nothing to the Flame Pillar all along.
-------------------------------------------------------
(Kyojuro’s POV)
He hated himself.
He utterly and truly despised himself.
He’d been hurt by her insistence that she did not know his feelings even though he was the one who’d opened the door, yet somehow, it still felt like a rejection.
So he’d hit back, only for her to visibly recoil at the sharp blow of his words.
He would not forgive himself, for as long as he lived, for the way the light in her eyes had winked out.
He did not know what bothered him more: the fact that she’d assumed that he regretted keeping her alive, or that she’d said “next time” he needn’t bother. As though she were counting on there being a next time.
He knew he should turn around; knew that he should barge back into her hospital room, drop to his knees, and beg her to forgive his cruelty.
He knew that he should explain to her why he found it so difficult to admit his feelings for her — that he had watched his father turn into a shell of a man and abandon his children in the wake of their mother’s death, leaving them to raise themselves. That he had vowed, as he’d watched his father drink his days away, that he would never be like him, would never abandon those who relied on him most.
He’d promised that he would never be a coward, even if, in all honesty, the idea that he, Kyojuro, could ever love someone that fiercely only to have them ripped from his grasp terrified him to no end.
As he forced his legs to carry him to back to his estate, Kyojuro wondered if perhaps, in his desperation not to turn into his father, he’d become the old man after all.
--------------------------------------------------------
(Shinobu’s POV)
Shinobu felt the Flame Pillar’s presence in her office before she saw him, though she was in no rush to give him his salve, especially not after what she’d overheard him spit at her friend.
“If you do not mind, I would like to send my crow to collect this from here on,” Rengoku said tightly, and Shinobu could sense his failing attempt to keep his fury in check.
“Very well then,” the Insect Pillar responded just as tersely, turning away from the papers and books on her desk to pull out the small tin containing the salve the Flame Pillar used to soothe the ache of the scar he now bore across his pectoral and shoulder. Rather than handing it to him, she tossed it through the air, the Flame Hashira catching it swiftly in his hand.
Rengoku nodded his thanks and turned to leave.
“I didn’t realize it was against Corps’ rules to care about our comrades,” Shinobu said icily, if not to signal to him that there had been spectators to his ugly outburst.
He couldn’t resist taking her bait. “Maybe it should be. It would be easier that way — for everyone.”
“Is that so?” Kocho sneered, no hint of familiarity or kindness in her features; nothing but that poisonous, deadly smile. “Well, if that was the case, then you would’ve preferred Uzui to leave Y/L/N for dead among the rubble in Yoshiwara, correct?
“You would rather us be searching to fill the newest Hashira vacancy, with her corpse barely cold in the ground-“
“Do not say another word, Kocho.” Rengoku warned, quietly.
But for Shinobu, anger was her vice, and so his warning only spurred her on.
“Tell me, Rengoku, if the new Pillar had been a woman, would you have held her the way you held Y/N?”
Shinobu’s smile was chilling as she relished the way the Flame Pillar began to tremble. “Or perhaps, would you finally confess to her, having learned your lesson from the missed opportunity with Y/N? Would you live out your days with her, while Y/N rotted below the earth, having never known someone loved her?”
“ENOUGH.” Rengoku roared, and for a moment, Shinobu thought the Flame Pillar might put his clenched fist through her wall. The silence that followed was tense and long as Rengoku struggled to calm his breathing.
“What do you want from me, Kocho?” Rengoku finally snapped, wheeling around to glower at the Insect Pillar, eyes half-crazed in his frustration.
------------------------------------------------------
(Two months earlier)
Dawn was still far off, but the hall of her estate was a mess.
Shinobu knew that at any moment, another group of Kakushi would be coming through the hole Rengoku had left in her wall bearing the unconscious body of the Sound Pillar, and if they did so, they’d be stumbling upon the chaotic scene that had unfolded before.
Rengoku was still on the floor, legs on either side of Y/N, who was slumped against his chest and fully exposed from the waist up.
With some satisfaction, Shinobu noted that the dark purple bruising around Y/N’s chest was clearing, a sure sign that she had chosen the correct antidote for the Flame Hashira to slam into her heart.
But her hypothermia persisted.
Rengoku, on the other hand, was beginning to breathe rather loudly, no doubt as he continued to maintain his high fever for the sake of the unmoving woman braced between his thighs.
“Rengoku,” Shinobu crouched down next to the Flame Pillar, her hand coming to a rest on his shoulder, which burned beneath her palm. “Rengoku, we need to move.”
The man lifted his head up to meet her eyes, his own glassy and unfocused. Shinobu clamped down on the swear building on her tongue — he had fever fog.
Rengoku grunted at her before his head slumped back down, chin nearly touching his chest.
Shinobu tried again. “Rengoku, we are in the open hallway of the Butterfly Mansion. Others will be arriving soon. Y/N is completed exposed.”
That seemed to get his attention. Rengoku’s head lifted, his eyes narrowed slits, but nonetheless open. He grunted in some sort of acknowledgement and began to shift Y/N in his lap.
He turned the unconscious Ice Pillar so that her back rested against one arm that curled around her bare waist. His free arm slid to grip beneath her knees, shifting her into a bridal-style position to carry her.
Two of the Butterfly Mansion’s staff moved to help him stand, but Rengoku shrugged them off, surprising Shinobu as he managed to rise steadily to his feet, Y/N secured against his chest.
He looked at Shinobu expectantly and she began ushering him towards a secluded wing of the Manor, towards her private hall. Across from her personal office was a special infirmary room, walled off from the rest of the recovery ward.
Shinobu withdrew a ring of keys from her pocket and unlocked the heavy, wooden door.
“You two can stay in here until her body temperature returns to normal,” She said, as Rengoku made his way towards the recovery bed.
Shinobu watched as Rengoku, still wearing his zori and uniform pants, ever so gently lowered himself and Y/N down on the bed, repeating his earlier positioning of her between his thighs. He propped up one leg slightly to keep the Ice Pillar from slumping over, her back pressed to his bare chest. Rengoku leaned against the headboard so that Y/N’s head could rest against his clavicle, though it slumped instead towards her left shoulder.
Shinobu made to grab a blanket to throw over the two topless Hashira but stopped short as Rengoku made to move again.
He seemed to realize that Y/N, while also still in her torn uniform pants and zori, was still bare from the waist up, her body positioned towards the door. He frowned, his hand coming up to graze the side of her arm. He flinched slightly, no doubt at the persistent chill that lingered on her skin, and he moved both of his large hands down over the back of hers as they lay limply on either side of her thighs, intertwining their fingers.
Awestruck, Shinobu watched as Rengoku brought Y/N’s arms up to cross them over her chest, locking them in place by covering her arms with his own, as though wrapping her in a sweet embrace. Shinobu knew that he’d done so to avoid touching her bare breasts himself, or at least to do so as minimally as possible, while still providing her cover. And, due to the breadth of Rengoku’s muscled forearms, Y/N’s sensitive area was almost entirely obscured from view.
Rengoku had barely been clinging to consciousness himself, and once she was sufficiently hidden in his arms, his head dropped forward until his forehead came to a rest on Y/N’s shoulder, opposite of where she’d rolled her head.
To the unassuming eye, it would have appeared as though the pair of Hashira were simply engaged in an intimate moment, rather than one desperately trying to anchor the other to life.
Shinobu moved to place the blanket over the Pillars’ laps, before quietly exiting the private room.
“Seal this wing off entirely,” she murmured to Aoi, who had been waiting dutifully outside. “No one comes down here without my explicit permission.”
Aoi bowed to her before she ushered the other Kakushi out. Faintly, Shinobu heard the arriving shouts of the group bearing the Sound Pillar. She took a single deep breath, steeling herself once more, before moving to check on her incoming patient.
-------------------------------------------------------
Shinobu raised her chin, looking down her nose at him in disgust. “I’m waiting for the man who would have set the world ablaze to save Y/N to reappear.”
She cocked her head, narrowing her eyes at him. “I’m waiting for the man who used his own body as her lifeline, and who tried to smash open the infirmary door when he was delirious with fever because he thought that she had died while he was asleep.”
The Insect Pillar’s masked smile finally slipped from her face and her true rage towards the Flame Pillar shone through. “It is cruel to make her feel as though she’s done something wrong,” Shinobu’s arms folded across her chest. “And it is cruel to you both for you to pretend as though she does not mean anything to you. Haven’t you both been through enough? Are you not exhausted as well?”
A tortured look passed over Rengoku’s face. “It is better this way, Kocho. I do not want to be the cause of her pain, and I cannot survive going through what happened to her again.
“For all your talk about either of you dying, I’ve yet to hear you mention the equal alternative,” Shinobu sighed, gathering her papers and books. “The one where we win and you both live. What do you suppose happens then?”
Rengoku said nothing and so, Shinobu continued. “Suppose we emerge victorious – would you truly prefer for you and Y/N to go your separate ways – to never see one another again, or never acknowledge the bond the two of you share?”
“There is no guarantee that either of us survives, Kocho,” Rengoku said quietly, his eyes falling to his feet.
Shinobu smiled but it was no longer cruel or bitter; it was wistful. “And there is no guarantee that either of you die. That’s the fickle nature of humanity, is it not? The very reason we fight?”
The Insect Pillar gathered her papers and stacked them neatly on her shelf. “For the possibilities of it all.”
--------------------------------------------------------
The sun was high in the sky by the time Shinobu had a moment to check on the two unconscious pillars in the back room.
Uzui had required quite a bit of attention in order to stop the poison from becoming deadly, though the fact that her combination of the wisteria antidote with the amphetamine had been so effective on Y/N meant that Shinobu was able to administer the same to the Sound Pillar in half the time.
She was exhausted; the strain of the night’s events weighed heavily on her, but she had to check on Y/N’s temperature — if the Ice Pillar still had not recovered, she feared that hope was lost.
She pushed the door to the private infirmary room open and saw the two Hashira, still in the same position she’d left them in. Rengoku was deeply asleep, no doubt from the exhaustion wrought by his high fever.
Enclosed within his arms, Y/N remained unconscious but pink.
Shinobu felt the relief course through her, but she did not allow herself to relax until she reached out a hand to lightly pinch the Ice Pillar’s cheek.
It bloomed red beneath her fingers, and it was warm to the touch.
He’d done it. The Flame Pillar had staved off her hypothermia. Their only obstacle now lay in getting her to reawaken.
Shinobu laid her hand across Rengoku’s forehead, frowning at the scorching heat of his brow; his fever had worsened more than she’d anticipated, and he would need intervention soon. She turned to nod at the Kakushi who waited by the door to the recovery room, and the three of them moved to separate the Flame and Ice Pillars.
“Put him in one of the other single-recovery rooms. Tell Aoi to administer the fever medication I keep in my cabinet – it should dispel his fever within a few hours.” Shinobu ordered, as the Kakushi, with great effort, lifted the Flame Pillar from his position behind Y/N. Shinobu gently eased her friend down against the bed and pulled a blanket over her exposed torso. “I will also need a fresh hospital gown for Lady Y/L/N.”
The Kakushi nodded their assent and got to work, heaving the unconscious Flame Pillar towards the door when he awoke. At first, his eyes were dazed, and confused as they darted around him, but as he took in his surroundings, he began to struggle against the grip of the Kakushi.
“Please, Lord Rengoku, your fever is dangerously high! Allow us to help!” One of them cried, though his efforts to tug the Pillar away were futile. Shinobu supposed the only reason he had not yet succeeded in completely throwing them off was the fact that his fever had severely weakened him.
“Rengoku,” Shinobu said sternly, coming around from her position by Y/N to meet his eyes, though he only thrashed harder against the Kakushi as he began to mutter incoherently under his breath. “Rengoku, that’s enough. You’re safe. You’re in the Butterfly Mansion, and you have a high fever. Please, let the Kakushi do their job.”
But the Insect Pillar’s words fell on deaf ears as Rengoku began to hyperventilate, his muscles straining as he tried desperately to break free from the Kakushi’s hold. Shinobu was at a loss; her comrade did not merely look frantic – he looked terrified, desperate, and utterly beyond reproach or reason. His heart rate had spiked considerably, and his breath was jerky and uneven, as though he could not fully understand where he was or that he was amongst friends.
As she strained to make out what the Flame Pillar repeated, over and over, under his breath, Shinobu realized that his eyes were not unfocused at all; they were locked on the unconscious Ice Pillar in the bed behind her.
“I can still save her!” he roared.
It all made sense then.
Shinobu realized that he thought they were moving him not because he’d successfully thwarted her hypothermia, but because he had failed — and that she was now dead.
“Rengoku,” Shinobu said sharply, trying to force the irate and delirious Flame Pillar to meet her eyes. “Rengoku, Y/N is alive. Her body temperature has returned to normal. She is safe.”
But the Flame Pillar seemed not to hear her, as he only struggled harder against the Kakushi desperately trying to usher him out of Y/N’s room.
Rengoku was becoming more violent, even as the Kakushi finally managed to shove him through the doorway of Y/N’s room. Just before they’d managed to slam the door shut, Shinobu caught Aoi’s eye and nodded, the younger girl quickly disappeared into the Pillar’s office.
Shinobu watched in stunned silence as the Flame Pillar broke free from the Kakushi and began hurtling his body against the door, Y/N’s name falling from his lips in an anguished chant.
Rengoku was so delirious in his fevered panic that he did not notice Aoi slip behind him and plunge a syringe into his neck, depositing a thick stream of the clear liquid that Shinobu knew would have a near-instantaneous effect on his consciousness.
The Insect Pillar felt a strange sense of pity and remorse as she watched her friend slump to the floor outside of the infirmary room, a final cry out for the Ice Pillar falling from his lips before the sedative lulled him back to sleep.
-------------------------------------------------------
(Kyojuro’s POV – three days later)
He didn’t know why he’d returned to the Butterfly Mansion.
Kyojuro tried to convince himself that it was because he didn’t want to wait for his crow to return with Kocho’s salve, but he knew it was a pathetic excuse. He’d sworn to himself that he would leave Y/L/N alone after their last argument. He’d vowed that the door between them had been closed for good, and they would only ever be colleagues. Nothing more.
But he couldn’t stay away. Perhaps it was because he’d spent the last few days stewing over their last argument, and somewhere, amidst his endless supply of self-hatred, he’d also grown angry with the Ice Pillar.
Angry, because she had put herself in harm’s way when he’d specifically told her not to.
Angry because she’d nearly died, and she’d threatened to take the last vestiges of his sanity with her to the afterlife.
Angry that she insisted on remaining in the Demon Slayer Corps despite having given more than enough of herself to their cause; angry that she didn’t understand why he couldn’t yet do the same.
Angry because she didn’t seem to understand his feelings at all.
Perhaps in another life, they could have had each other. Had they both been born into a world without demons, then maybe they would have still found each other and maybe, just maybe, he would have been able to love her the way she deserved.
But for Kyojuro, their relationship would always be defined by a series of maybes, and nothing more.
--------------------------------------------------------
It would have been a lie for Kyojuro to say he’d not been struck dumb by her.
She was stretched out on the steps of Kocho’s engawa, legs dangling off the edge of the porch as she leaned back on her elbows, eyes closed dreamily as she kept her face tilted up towards the cooling night air.
Long, lean, bare legs, he realized, an uncomfortable heat creeping up his collar. He couldn’t help running his eyes up their length, fixating hard on the supple curves of her thighs.
Why were her legs bare?
She looked…so unguarded this way. Her haori was draped around her shoulders, one of its sleeves hanging loosely to the side and exposing her bare shoulder – how exposed was she, the idiot – and her hair was completely unbound, falling in a silken river to her waist.
It was a stark contrast to the braided crown she wore at the base of her neck. It hit him that, not counting the night she’d nearly died, he had not otherwise seen her with her hair down.
He liked it. A lot.
“I finally rid myself of one migraine only for another to appear,” Y/N’s lofty voice snapped him out of his reverence, as the Ice Pillar opened her eyes to glare at him.
“If you’ve come for Shinobu, she is not here. She’s on an errand and will not be back until early morning.” Y/N turned her attention away from him and back towards the garden, her voice stony.
At that moment, there were a million things Kyojuro could have said to the Ice Pillar.
How are you?
I missed the way you glare at me.
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
Any of those options would have been far better than what came tumbling out of his mouth.
“I hadn’t realized you were indecent. My apologies.”
Y/N’s head snapped back to him, her eyes chips of ice. “Indecent?” She rose from her seat on the engawa and faced him fully, and Rengoku nearly groaned.
Indecent, indeed.
Y/N was showing more skin than Kanroji did on a regular day. As she stood, Rengoku saw that she was hardly wearing any clothing at all, save for the haori draped loosely around her frame.
The Ice Pillar wore no top but the bindings around her chest, leaving a sizeable swath of her midriff exposed to the summer air. Whatever she wore as bottoms could hardly be labeled as “pants,” given that their hem ended just short of the middle of her thigh, leaving the vast majority of her legs exposed to anyone who would happen to walk by.
The Flame Pillar felt as though he were overheating, and he tugged uselessly at the collar of his uniform shirt. As he looked over the scowling Ice Pillar, Rengoku found himself unable to remember why he had come to the Mansion at all.
------------------------------------------------------
(Y/N’s POV)
(Earlier that day)
“Ta-da!” Mitsuri sang as she pulled the small bundle from behind her, a grin wide on her face. “A gift from Shinobu and myself!”
Y/N peered down quizzically at the small, folded bunch of cloth in the Love Pillar’s hands. “What is it?”
“A new take on the Corps’ uniform,” Shinobu replied crisply, sitting down on the tatami floor of her office. “I designed it myself, and Mitsuri sewed it.”
“But what is it?” Y/N pressed.
Mitsuri joined Shinobu on the floor. “Your new training pants. Altered, so that you have more flexibility and less irritation against your wound.”
Y/N held up the tiny scrap of fabric between her index finger and thumb. “Are you telling me these are pants?”
Mitsuri and Shinobu nodded, smiling.
Y/N looked incredulously at the two women. “But where are the pants?”
Mitsuri laughed. “Think of it as a cross between the uniform skirt and pants, but more modified.”
Shinobu nodded. “I used the same material that our uniform is made out of but designed it in a way to be more flexible – it will mold to your body rather than require you to use a belt to keep it up.” Y/N unfurled the cloth and gaped down at it. “They likely aren’t suitable for public, but around here and during your training, they should be perfectly adequate.”
“Perfectly adequate?” Y/N repeated, turning the garment over in her hands. “Shinobu, these are underclothes! Not pants!” The Ice Pillar could not stop herself from giggling. “My legs will be entirely exposed!”
“Try them on!” Mitsuri urged. “Shinobu and I estimated they would hit around mid-thigh, so you’ll still have some coverage.” Mitsuri looked down at her own skirt in consideration. “Slightly more so than I do.”
Y/N groaned but removed her uniform pants and slid into her friends’ gift. She was surprised at how comfortable they felt; they had a similar feel to the chest bindings most of the women in the Corps wore, in terms of fit. The black bottoms had no true waistband, but fit snuggly at the dip of her waist, before hugging her hips and thighs until the hem cut right above the middle of her thigh.
“How do they feel?” Shinobu asked as Y/N inspected the new garment.
Y/N turned from side to side, testing their flexibility. “Good. They don’t seem to rub against the scar at all.” Y/N smiled devilishly at her friends. “Even if they do leave little to the imagination.”
MItsuri giggled. “I hadn’t noticed Y/N, but you have – oh, what did Uzui call it?” She scrunched her eyebrows in thought. “Oh! An ‘easy and deliverable type of butt!’” The three girls laughed, carefree as Y/N wiggled her hips suggestively in front of her friends, her heart warm at the care and consideration they had put into their gift.
------------------------------------------------------
Y/N mused that Mitsuri’s assessment of how she looked in the undershorts had been correct as Rengoku’s eyes raked over her as she stood tall before him, an unmistakable glint of hunger glowing in his amber pools.
Until they snagged on the thick, curved gash that extended from the band of her bottoms to just over her belly button.
In an instant, simmering fire of the Flame Pillar’s gaze had been snuffed out, something harder and colder taking over as he glared at where Upper Moon Six had buried his poisoned sickle within her.
Under any other circumstance, Y/N might have felt self-conscious at the mixture of frigid contempt that pulled on Rengoku’s face as he ran his eyes over her scar, but at that moment, it only made her blood boil.
“You should return to your room. You shouldn’t be out here exposed like this.” Rengoku said after a moment, his eyes moving away from her to stare over her shoulder, resolutely avoiding her gaze.
Y/N wondered briefly if it were possible to make someone combust with the fire of their stare. She was so tired and so angry at the way in which he demanded she stay at arm’s length yet felt utterly entitled to boss her around.
She decided then that she would not comply. Instead, Y/N took one step and then another, and again until she pushed past him, marching intently up the path she knew led away from the Butterfly Estate and to a secluded, grassy, hilled clifftop.
“Stop — Y/L/N” Rengoku growled, lunging after her, but Y/N, despite her injured state, was still faster than he, and she twisted out of his grasp before he could grab her and haul her back to the Mansion.
She probably looked insane, and maybe she was -- barely dressed, hair unbound, and striding towards that grassy hill up the winding path from Shinobu’s estate like she had any idea what she was doing.
The Flame Pillar followed.
—————————————————————--------
Apart from her close friendship with the Insect Pillar, there was another reason Y/N spent so much time in and around the Butterfly Mansion — its view.
Though she supposed this secret area she’d discovered couldn’t really be counted as part of Shinobu’s Estate — it was, after all, up a rather steep and twisting climb from the western-most point of her friend’s manor, and one could scarcely see the lights of the house once they ascended the small cliff.
Her thighs ached after nearly two months of disuse as she stormed up the steep incline, narrowly avoiding the sharp, twisting branches of the ancient trees that had concaved over the beaten path, forming a tunnel of gnarled wood that forced her to duck her head to navigate.
Y/N’s chest tightened as she neared the end of the path, the steady beat of the Flame Pillar’s footsteps trailing closely behind her.
When she finally emerged from the thicket of branches, she felt as though she could breathe again.
The path had given way to a cliff-top clearing. Soft, emerald grass covered the earthen floor, peppered with various wildflowers in vibrant hues of periwinkle, white, and pink. Towards the center was a thick, ancient oak tree, with a trunk as wide as a small hut, Its leaves ruffled lazily in the slight summer breeze. Fat hotaru floated idly above the grass while the crickets hummed.
The clearing extended to a point before dropping into a rocky cliff. Had it been a night of a new moon, Y/N would never risk coming out here for fear of stumbling too close to the cliff’s edge. But that night, the moon was full and its silver light was so bright that Y/N could see all the way to the opposite of the clearing, down to the summer irises swaying in the warm night air.
It was a pity that instead of feeling the warm serenity she normally had when she came out to her little hideaway, she felt nothing but boiling anger and a growing headache.
“You need to go back inside,” Rengoku said from behind her. Y/N ground her teeth, turning sharply on her heel to face him.
“Why do you care — I thought you only did that when I’m unconscious.” She bit back, and it felt good to see him be the one who flinched for once. “Or maybe it’s when you think I’m dying?”
She laughed, derisively. “You’ll have to forgive me, I’ve long since forgotten the rules of your game. You change them so often, you see.”
“Go back to the Butterfly Mansion, Y/L/N. You shouldn’t be out here. Not in your current state.” He said, voice as hard and unforgiving as stone.
“I’ve told you already that you are not in a position to order me around!” Y/N snapped, her words and her eyes chips of ice as she glared at him.
He was so infuriating — he had told her, in so many ways, that she meant nothing to him, and yet here he was, glowering at her as though her very existence incensed him.
“You’ve been nothing but unkind to me since I awoke, and you’ve given me no explanation!” She took a step towards him.
“Stop,” the Flame Pillar bit out, barely concealing the way he trembled with rage. “Do not take another step. Turn around and go back inside.”
If Y/N had looked pissed before, she looked downright furious now.
“Why did you come to see me while I was unconscious?” Y/N demanded, shaking. “You came every day, yet the second I wake up, you stop?”
His refusal to answer her, to even look at her, only made her seethe.
“You’re a coward, Rengoku.”
Rengoku’s teeth gnashed together, his fists balling tightly by his sides as he drew upon every ounce last shred of sanity, of restraint, left within him.
“Go. In. Side.” He ground out dangerously, his voice dropping into a growl on the last syllable.
But the Ice Pillar took another step towards him, her eyes blazing with a fire that could outburn his own.
“No.”
Rengoku’s jaw flexed. “Y/L/N-“
“I said no, Rengoku.” She was now within arm’s reach of the rigid Flame Pillar.
His eyes met hers, cold and hard, but she did not balk. She went in for the kill. “You have no say over my choices when my life is meaningless to you.”
Y/N watched the blow land, and land hard.
“Meaningless?” Rengoku looked at her and there was a new fire in his gaze, a hot, angry fire that threatened to burn the grassy overlook around them to cinders. “You believe I think your life is meaningless?”
This time, it was Rengoku who advanced towards her, bringing her within an arm’s length, and forcing her to tilt her head up to hold his raging stare.
“Do you have any idea — any at all — what it was like to see you, half dead in Uzui’s arms?” Rengoku’s voice dark, and harsh as he narrowed his eyes at her. “Or what it was like to have to carry you to Kocho, not knowing whether your heart would give out before I could get you there?”
Y/N refused to cower beneath the intensity of his gaze, her chin lifting defiantly. “Do I know what it was like?” She hissed; hackles raised.
“Thank you Rengoku, truly — thank you.” Y/N laughed, but it was devoid of any humor. “I am so glad that you’ve finally given me something to work with — so those are your rules, are they?” She was toe to toe with the Flame Hashira, glowering down at her.
“Well since we’re keeping score, Rengoku, do you know what it was like to see you broken and bleeding out on Kocho’s table after the incident on the train?”
“That’s not the same thing,” Rengoku shot back bitterly.
“How the fuck is it not-?”
“Because it wasn’t your mission to take!” Rengoku finally broke, his voice rising to a shout. He could not stop himself as his hands shot out and gripped Y/N’s shoulders, shaking her lightly in his torment.
“You have no idea how it felt to know that you had died — no matter how briefly — because you went on a mission in my place!”
“To know that — that you could still die because I had been too weak on that fucking train. Your death would have been my fault, Y/N!”
----------------------------------------------------
(Kyojuro’s POV)
And there it was: the truth that he had tried so hard to suppress, laid flat out in the open.
Everything that had happened to Y/N, the whole entire mess — had been entirely his fault.
His fault because he had been too weak to finish off Upper Moon Three, too weak to do anything but let the demon’s punch a hole through his chest like it was nothing.
Y/L/N and Uzui had saved themselves in the end; they’d completed their mission, defeating not just one, but two upper ranks. They hadn’t succumbed to their injuries until after they’d fulfilled their duties.
But him? He’d only been saved by the grace of the sun and the tireless efforts of the Kakushi.
He’d nearly lost his life and he had nothing to show for it. Rather than do anything to further the Corp’s ultimate goals, he’d only set them back, and nearly cost them something priceless in return — their Ice Pillar.
The woman he loved.
He had no right to love her, of course — not when his reprehensible weakness had forced her to be offered up to two upper moon demons on a silver platter.
She’d been there, the morning he awoke from his three-week-long coma. She’d been right by his bedside, a sob choking from her throat as she’d called for Kocho to come quick!
At first, he’d been confused, because he hadn’t understood why she was crying. He’d tried to reach for her, to wipe the tears spilling down her cheeks when the pain had slammed into him, causing him to seize, arm suspended in mid-air.
Never before had he not been in control of his body; it had sent him into a panic.
“No, Kyojuro, please don’t move!” Y/N had cried, calling him, for the first time, by his given name. a warm hand wrapping around the one he’d stretched out towards her, lowering it gently down to the bed. “Your injuries are too grave!”
He didn’t remember much after that, only what Kocho had filled him in on later — namely, that he’d begun to panic, his breathing flaring out of control as he’d tried to fight off Y/L/N, a Kakushi, and the Insect Pillar.
His recovery had been long and slow. His wounds from the Upper Three demon had resulted in significant muscle damage that had required weeks of intensive care and training in order to build it back up again.
Those long days spent at the Butterfly Mansion had given him time to stew; to rage against himself. He’d been frustrated, so unbelievably frustrated over his inability to swing his own sword for more than five minutes that he almost considered giving in and retiring.
And then Uzui arrived, and he’d mentioned an upcoming mission to the Entertainment District, that they had discussed prior to Kyojuro leaving for the damned train, and the Sound Pillar revealed that his intel suggested the possible presence of an Upper Rank.
Kyojuro had promised to accompany him, and then he’d woken up in Kocho’s hospital, and that mission had been taken off the table and given to her.
The panic he had felt had been indescribable; he had narrowly survived an encounter with an Upper Rank, but then he was forced to watch the woman he loved walk straight into the wolf's den, and he had been incapable of convincing her to stay behind.
While she had been gone, he had railed against and prayed to and cursed at the gods, begging them to bring her home, to let her come back to him alive and whole.
Instead, they’d sent her back as a near-corpse and had laughed at his pitiful attempts to save her.
And then, she had straddled that narrow divide between life and death for nearly two months, and he had been as helpless as a cat chasing a string — his desire forever in sight yet somehow always just beyond his reach.
After his brush with death, he’d made a commitment to himself not to think of his battle with the Upper Three demon, to not waste his skill and energy on the past, but rather focus his fury on ensuring that when they did meet again, he would emerge victorious. He’d certainly not given any thought to the demon’s slime-tongued words.
He’d been disgusted when the demon had propositioned turning him into its like — and outright offended that those creatures could ever compare to the beautiful transience of humanity.
But then he’d cradled Y/N, broken and dying in his arms, and for the first time, Kyojuro had understood the appeal of the Upper Three’s offer.
Because he would rather have lived in a world in which Y/N had been turned into his enemy than in one in which she did not exist at all.
The very thought had shaken him to his core; because it meant he was not fully dedicated to their cause. He had no right to call himself a Hashira; nor did he have any right to claim to love Y/L/N. Not when he’d so easily damn her out of his own selfishness. So he had run.
A coward, after all.
--------------------------------------------------------
(Y/N’s POV)
Y/N was panting, her fury rippling off her in near-tangible waves.
“So, this whole thing,” she seethed, her voice shaking. “Your whole fucking attitude — has been because you’ve had your head so far up your ass, that you thought my injuries were your fault?”
It was unbelievable. It was ridiculous. And yet it was so Rengoku that it made her ears ring, made her see red as she tried to keep herself from imploding.
Rengoku said nothing, but she could see the way his eyes shuttered closed, his walls flying back up as he remained intent on keeping her out. He turned and began walking back towards the path back to the Estates.
“I was right — you ARE a coward!” She shrieked after him.
He froze. She stood there, heaving, daring him to turn around, to face her.
“Do not call me a coward again,” he said quietly, his back still to her, but his shoulders tensed, his fists balling once more at his sides.
Y/N smiled ruefully. “Then exactly what would you call what you’re doing now?.” Her lip curled into a sneer. “Run away, Rengoku. It’s what you do best.”
A flash of orange and white clouded her vision as Rengoku turned on his heel and closed the distance between them before she could draw another breath.
Y/N did not have time to react before his hands gripped either side of her jaw as he slammed his mouth down against hers, furious and heated.
It was not gentle; it was an angry clash of lips and teeth, but it also stoked a fire so hot in Y/N’s belly that she did not care, and she fully gave herself over to the bruising press of his lips against hers. She gladly opened up to him so that his tongue could slide into her mouth as one of his hands snaked behind her head to press her harder to him, demanding that she let him take and take until he was sated.
As quickly as it had begun, it was over. They broke apart with a gasp, leaping back from one another as though burned. Their chests heaved as they stared at one another.
There was a line drawn in the sand between them. If either of them crossed it, there would be no going back.
He was a coward, but she wasn’t. And she’d grown tired of this tedious dance of theirs.
Yet it surprised her all the same that he reached for her at the same time she moved for him, the two of them colliding like magnets as their mouths clashed together once more.
Rengoku kissed her like he was drowning, and she was his lifeline.
Y/N threw her arms around his neck and tugged him down closer to her, determined to take from him as much as he wanted to take from her.
The pair of them stumbled back against the ancient oak tree that sat back from the grassy cliff, Y/N caged against its bark by the Flame Pillar.
His hands gripped fistfuls of her haori as though he couldn’t decide whether to pull her closer or tug her away. His lips devoured each breathy moan he pulled from her as one hand tangled in her hair and pulled, allowing him to deepen the kiss.
She ran her hands through the fiery strands of his hair, gripping and tugging it as he explored her mouth was his demanding tongue. Y/N, emboldened by the way his fingers dug into her haori, let her hands roam from his hair and to his neck, and then to the rocky planes of his broad chest before settling on his hips as she tugged him flush against her.
His control was slipping, and fast. “Y/L/N, I can’t- I won’t be able to hold back.” Rengoku moaned into her mouth, his hands scrunching the fabric of her haori, his fingers desperately seeking to hold her closer to him. “Tell me to stop, Y/L/N.”
Y/N’s hands only buried deeper into his hair, tugging him harder against her as she slid her tongue into his waiting mouth.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered against his mouth between breaks for oxygen. “Never stop, Rengoku.”
Y/N pulled back from him, just enough to unlatch his hands from where they were buried in the back of her haori, and moved them inside its folds, right on her bare waist.
The burning weight of his hands felt exquisite.
Rengoku shuddered as he felt the smooth, soft dips of Y/N’s waist, his fingers digging into her flesh as he sought to touch more of her, his hands running across every inch that was not covered by her bindings or those glorious undershorts.
Lips still moving furiously against hers, Rengoku bent slightly to run his hands down the silken expanse of her thighs, gripping under her knees before hoisting her up to carry her away from the tree and lay her down in the velvety grass below.
Y/N felt as though she were on fire. The ache between her legs was almost maddening, and she was desperate to have the Flame Pillar sheathe himself inside her, to make her forget even her own name.
If she could not have his love, she could at least have this.
Her hands dragged down Rengoku’s front, coming to a rest at his belt before she began fumbling with the clasp. Y/N had just managed to undo it when Rengoku’s hands — large, warm, and much stronger than her own, wrapped around her wrists, stilling her.
“Not yet, you impatient woman,” he smirked against her mouth. He moved one wrist to join the other in his left hand before bringing her arms up over her head, pinning her to the ground.
Y/N whimpered and rolled her hips against his, impatient and demanding, wanting desperately to feel some relief as her core clenched wildly around nothing.
Rengoku chuckled darkly, the rich timbre of his voice causing her blood to nearly boil with her want, as he made his way down her body with his lips.
He first came to her chest bindings, growling in impatience as he nipped at one breast over the tightly wound fabric.
His fingers brushed against her sternum as he ripped her bindings straight down the middle, Y/N shuddering as the warm summer night’s air caressed her sensitive skin, her nipples pebbling at the change in temperature.
She waited for him to lavish her soft mounds, but the Flame Pillar paused, eyes narrowed on the valley between her breasts, right on the pale, lilac mark where he’d plunged Shinobu’s antidote into her heart.
Y/N felt a lump form in her throat. He’d reacted poorly to the ribboned scar on her lower belly already, and now her once chance to finally have Rengoku in the way she’d so desperately longed to have him was about to be ruined.
But instead of pulling away from her in disgust, he leaned forward and pressed his lips softly against it the healed wound.
“I hadn’t realized I wounded you,” he murmured softly, reverently as he kissed it again. Y/N watched in bewilderment as he pressed his ear against her chest, letting his head rest there for a moment.
Listening to her heart hammer against her sternum.
“The sweetest music,” he whispered, pulling away to look at her not with lust but with unbounded tenderness.
Don’t look at me like that, she silently begged, don’t give me hope.
But as quickly as the moment had come, it passed and the esurient flame in Rengoku’s eyes flickered back to life. His lips continued down her abdomen, hot and needy until he reached the source of her near-fatal injury.
His mouth paused at the scar left by Upper Moon Six, the one he’d so callously glared at not even an hour before. This time, he ran his tongue along it, from the top to its base near her hipbone, pressing a fierce kiss against its end before continuing his descent.
“I will either have to thank my old Tsugoku the next time I see her,” Rengoku whispered darkly as he pulled at the soft waistband of Y/N’s undershorts with his teeth. “Or I shall have to burn her sewing room to cinders.” Rengoku’s fingers slid beneath the short hem of her bottoms, pulling them down inch by inch to expose her sensitive flesh.
Rengoku groaned when he saw Y/N was not wearing anything else beneath her scandalous bottoms. “Definitely burning.” His hands, so large and warm ran up the outer curve of her thighs, marveling at the silky smoothness of her skin. “Because you are far too tempting when wearing them.”
The Flame Pillar looked wild as he leaned forward, pressing his lips against the lower indent between Y/N’s hipbones as he kissed his way down to where she ached the most.
He ducked around the center of her desire in favor of sucking softly on her inner thigh. Y/N’s chest heaved as her hands flailed next to her, desperately seeking purchase, until the Flame Hashira caught them in his hands, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles on her palms as their fingers interlaced.
“Rengoku - just fuck me already,” Y/N groaned as the Flame Pillar’s face settled between her thighs, his hot breath against her bare cunt causing her legs to attempt to clench shut.
“Well now, that won’t do,” Rengoku tutted, his hands withdrawing from hers as he wound his arms underneath both of her thighs, spreading them as wide as he could to expose her core to his heady gaze.
Rengoku leaned forward and lightly traced up her damp slit with the tip of his tongue. His amber irises which had been locked on hers, rolled back into his head as he groaned at her taste.
“I’m going to take my time with you. I’ve been dreaming of this for a long time, Y/N.” He warned, hands tightening around her thighs as he pressed a light kiss against her slit, teasing her.
In the back of her mind, Y/N registered that he’d used her first name. But the graze of his lips against her most sensitive flesh had her crying out his name, high-pitched and breathy, and she watched helplessly as the sound made Rengoku’s eyes turn black.
In an instant, he was upon her, and he was ravenous.
His mouth latched to her center as though she was an oasis in the middle of a blazing desert, and he was a man dying of thirst.
The way Rengoku’s teeth grazed her sensitive nub made her abdomen clench, and she fought against his ironclad grip on her thighs as they spasmed, desperate to clench around his head.
Y/N moaned, head thrown back into the soft summer grass as she felt herself grow wetter and wetter beneath the Flame Pillar, her hands desperately tugging and pinching at her breasts in an effort to feel more pleasure.
Y/N felt as though she was hurtling towards a cliff that she could not stop herself from tumbling over as Rengoku increased the intensity of his ministrations against her needy cunt.
“You taste,” he ground out through harsh drags of his tongue up her drenched folds, “like fucking paradise.”
His mouth latched around her clit, giving it a sharp suck that had Y/N seeing stars. She barely had time to recover, to acknowledge that she was at her tipping point when Rengoku thrust his tongue into her core and began to fuck her.
Y/N came apart the moment she felt his tongue enter her, a rush of her juices spilling over his relentless maw, but he held her hips down and continued his feast. His teeth grazed her clit over and over while his tongue pumped steadily in and out of her, and Y/N was close to sobbing at the overstimulation.
The Flame Pillar kept his eyes locked on hers the entire time, the amber orbs glowing almost ominously in the indigo night.
“I- fuck.” Y/N breathed, grinding unrestrainedly against the blonde’s greedy mouth. “Rengoku!”
The Ice Pillar tried to sit up, tried to grab her comrade’s hair to tell him that she couldn’t take it anymore, that she needed him, but Rengoku was faster. Unfurling a steely arm from where it had been locked around her thigh to hold her open to him, he reached up her torso, his large hand splaying across her upper abdomen to restrain her.
“Sit down,” he growled between thrusts of his tongue into her aching cunt, nipping harshly at her inner thigh. “I am not finished.”
Y/N whimpered beneath the weight of his hand holding her down against the earth and the nearly painful ecstasy that Rengoku bestowed upon her between her legs.
Whether it was in praise for her obedience or a further act of torture, Rengoku then pressed his face flush against her core and rocked it harshly from side to side, his nose and the burgeoning stubble along his jaw scraping against her overstimulated and sensitive flesh.
Y/N slapped her hand against her mouth to stifle the howl that tore from her throat. Rengoku repeated the movement; it felt wonderful. It felt obscene. It made Y/N’s thighs contract around his head as her stomach dipped inward and a gush of her juices spilled out of her, more powerful than before, dampening the collar of the Flame Pillar’s haori.
For a breath, Y/N thought she would die of embarrassment until she felt Rengoku’s mouth vibrate against her from his groan of satisfaction. His tongue thrust once, twice more into her aching core before he withdrew completely, satisfaction tugging at the corners of his smirking lips.
But Rengoku looked nowhere near sated as he gazed down hungrily at her, wantonly spread out against the grass, the shredded pieces of her training attire strewn about, save for her haori.
“I will give you one last chance to end this now,” Rengoku whispered, kneeling above her but no longer touching her. “Tell me to stop, and I will. I will walk away, and no one will know.”
Though her body already ached from the intensity of Rengoku’s mouth upon her, she could not fathom stopping here, not when she’d barely begun to taste him herself. The thought of rolling aside to pull on the tattered remains of her clothing, to return to her estate and awake tomorrow as though he had not melted every icy reservation she’d held with his touch, was enough to make her want to cry.
Though her limbs felt boneless, she summoned all her strength to reach toward the Flame Hashira, to beckon him to return to her.
“I want you, Rengoku,” Y/N said, her voice a breathy whisper as tears clung to her eyelashes. “Please.”
Rengoku’s pupils exploded, his eyes darkening as he covered her nude body with his own. Y/N nearly sobbed in relief as his lips roughly caught hers, one hand coming up to cradle her face while the other snaked beneath her head, tilting it to the side so he could deepen his claim over her mouth.
Y/N’s hands rose, shakily, to pull at the buttons of his uniform top, desperate to feel his skin burn against hers.
“On one condition,” Rengoku said, moving his lips from hers to press against her ear, Y/N shivering. “You must call me by my name,”
“Rengoku?” Y/N questioned her mind too fogged by her own desire.
He nipped lightly under her jaw before pulling his face back from hers, smirking slightly at the way she whined when avoided her attempt to kiss him again.
“My true name.”
With clarity, Y/N realized what he desired. But he had teased her far too much already, and she yearned to return the favor.
So she looked up at him through her eyelashes, teeth sinking into her lower lip in such a way that made the Flame Hashira’s eyes darken.
“Please, please, Kyojuro,” she whispered, lancing a hand up his bicep. “Take me.”
The growl that clawed its way out of the heaving chest of the Flame Pillar made Y//N’s thighs clamp together. Rengoku — Kyojuro — pounced on her, and Y/N summoned all her residual strength to rip his uniform shirt open.
Kyojuro moaned into her neck as his shirt gave way and Y/N’s hands came to rest against his bare skin, her nails raking down his taut pectorals to the rigid planes of his chiseled abdomen.
Her lips began descending the path carved by her nails when she drew short at the dark, thick starburst-shaped scar that covered his shoulder and left pectoral. Kyojuro’s breath seized as she pressed her lips ever so softly against it, turning so she could look up at him from beneath her lashes.
Kyojuro was panting as she nuzzled against his scar, kissing it once more before gently gliding her hand over his heart and resting it there, letting herself savor the strong, sturdy beat from within his chest.
Just as he did before, she resumed her trail down his body, her lips coming to the edge of his pants when his hands wound themselves in her hair, every nerve in his body alight as she licked her way up the small happy trail that stopped just below his belly button.
As much as he wanted to feel her mouth around him, Kyojuro had been driven to the brink of insanity by Y/N’s touch, and his resolve was quickly dwindling.
“Y/N — my flame — I can’t wait,” Kyojuro said by way of apology, as he covered her hands with his own to still them on his belt. He slipped his hands down to grip her wrists, bringing them together in one hand and moving her arms up over her head, pinning them against the grasp. With his free hand, Kyojuro loosened his belt and his pants, and shimmied them down, kicking them off behind him. Y/N’s eyes widened at the sight of his proud length as it bounced against his belly button.
Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. She was no stranger to the male body, but this – she’d never had anyone compare to Kyojuro’s size or girth.
Kyojuro noticed her hesitation. “Is this – have you ever --?” Kyojuro breathed, hovering above her. It did not matter to him whether she had or had not, but he wanted to ensure that he did not hurt her.
Y/N shook her head. “No, it’s not my first time – but you are the first one to be so…well endowed.” Y/N flushed as Kyojuro laughed softly above her, and she felt his lips graze hers.
He pulled back slightly, reaching to grip the base of his aching cock tapping it against her soaked cunt in a warning and in permission.
Y/N seized beneath him at the spark of hot pleasure that was sent crackling up her spine as he rubbed his velvety head against the most sensitive part of her core. “Kyojuro,” she hissed through clenched teeth, rolling her hips impatiently towards him.
The mushroomed tip of his cock pushed into her entrance and Y/N felt herself go cross-eyed. It was heaven; pure, unadulterated, blissful heaven.
He was insistent on easing his thick length into her, but the throbbing between Y/N’s legs had grown nearly unbearable. He still wasn’t close enough, not nearly as much as she needed him to be.
Boldly, Y/N locked her ankles against Kyojuro’s backside, and with all her might, hauled him into her in a single stroke.
“Fuck!” he yelled, unable to restrain his volume as Y/N forced him to become fully seated within her. Her core was impossibly tight and so fucking warm and wet that it had been a true exercise of self-restraint not to spill himself inside her right then.
Y/N nearly screamed in pleasured relief at the way her body burned and stretched around Kyojuro’s considerable length, his base pressed flush against her sensitive clit as she began to grind furiously against him, desperate to relieve the friction that made her ache.
Kyojuro was still panting from the way Y/N had slammed him into her, nearly trembling with restraint as he willed himself not to finish before they’d truly begun.
Once certain that he would not climax like some green boy, he laughed quietly under his breath. The dark sound caused Y/N’s eyes to fly open, and her stomach flipped at the wicked glint in his eyes as he stared at her like a hunter stalking its prey.
Kyojuro leaned forward and took one of her breasts, harshly into his mouth, grazing his teeth over her nipple hard enough to make Y/N cry out in slight pain before he lapped at it soothingly with his tongue.
“You want me to fuck you, is that it?” He murmured between his ministrations, leaving fresh marks all over aching mounds.
Y/N could hardly make a sound as Kyojuro withdrew almost completely from her heat before slamming into her once, the Ice Pillar nearly choking on the breath that flew from her chest with his force.
Desperately — pathetically — Y/N nodded, whimpering.
“If that’s how you want it,” Kyojuro growled against her breast, giving her nipple one harsh nip with his teeth before pulling himself off her.
He sat on his knees, back straight as he began to pound relentlessly into her, his hands gripping her backside and holding her flush against his strong thighs. Y/N’s head remained thrown back against the earth, her fingers tearing at the soft grass beneath her.
Rengoku’s movements were just like those he wielded in battle — powerful; all-consuming; relentless; and unforgiving.
Y/N had never considered herself to be a particularly vocal person when engaged in carnal activities, but the way that Rengoku’s cock hammered into her spasming core over and over had reduced her to a moaning and whimpering mess. The only intelligible thing that fell from her lips was his name — Kyojuro.
“You look so fucking beautiful like this,” Kyojuro grunted out between forceful snaps of his hips against hers, the night air alive with the lewd squelching of Y/N’s dripping cunt as he pistoned into her.
Y/N looked to see the Flame Pillar’s eyes locked on her breasts as they bounced with the force of his thrusts. Between the moans and whimpers he pulled from her with every punishing thrust of his hips against hers, she lightly dragged her fingers from their place in the grass to her hipbone, and then up to trace teasingly around her peaked breast.
Kyojuro’s eyes followed every move, his thrusts hardening as she pinched her nipple and let out a breathy little scream, her walls pulsing around his aching length.
“Fuck,” Kyojuro grit, feeling himself twitch within her as he watched Y/N play with herself, spurring him to go faster, deeper within her.
He moved his hand under one of her knees and lifted her leg over his shoulder, allowing him to plunge deeper into her silken heat, and he teasingly drew his fingers up and down her outer thigh.
At that moment, as Kyojuro was poised against the silhouette of the moon, his amber eyes glowing as he watched where he appeared and disappeared inside her, the realization hit Y/N like a storm, and it knocked her entirely off her axis.
She was in love with Kyojuro.
Who else could make her feel so sacred and yet so angry? Who else had been capable of slipping past every wall she’d built within herself, capable of getting her to let her guard down before consuming her so furiously she had not realized she’d ever been in danger?
He was fire, she was ice. One of them had to give to the other. She’d just always thought it would be him giving into her.
Yet there, beneath the moonlight, her climax rising above her like a tidal wave, Y/N realized that she was powerless against the waves that rose to pull her under, to never again let her up for air.
Distantly, Y/N felt the Flame Pillar’s callused thumb find her clit and her climax slammed into her, and she succumbed to the endless sea called Kyojuro.
--------------------------------------------------------
As Y/N broke apart around him, Kyojuro swore he’d never seen anything as beautiful in his entire life.
She shattered over him with the prettiest scream he’d ever heard, and he could barely make out the drawn-out syllables of his name as her hips jerked up against his while her inner walls threatened to squeeze the life from him.
Y/N finally collapsed back against the ground, her body limp from the exhaustion of her pleasure. Kyojuro then moved in chase of his own release, his hips pressed solidly against hers as he rutted his cock deep within her.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his hands tightening around Y/N’s waist. The familiar electricity of impending release tingled at the base of Kyojuro’s spine, and his stomach began to clench as he began his ascent to his climax. “Y/N — I am going to finish soon,” his head was thrown back, and his groans were loud enough to alert anyone nearby of exactly what was transpiring between the two Hashira. “Please — tell me where--”
“Inside,” Y/N gasped, her legs tightening around Kyojuro’s hips in a feeble attempt to keep him within her, to ensure that he wouldn’t yet leave her. “Please, Kyojuro, stay.”
Kyojuro was a rational man, and he knew of one major reason not to allow his seed to spill inside Y/N’s heavenly body. But all those rationalities flew out the window at the sound of her wanton and needy whimpers and the way her heat fluttered around him and Kyojuro did not think he could pull out of her if he wanted to.
Kyojuro’s thrusts became more and more frenzied and bruising, with the Flame Hashira hardly dragging his twitching length out of her as he neared his own climax.
“Hold onto me,” he panted, falling forward so that his chest was pressed flush against Y/N’s, one arm going to wrap around her waist while the other snaked over to where her arm lay in the grass, gripping her wrist to pin it up over her head as his fingers interlocked tightly with hers.
Y/N hiked her legs higher up his waist, crossing them at her shins so that he was buried deep within her. Her free arm looped under the one he had braced above her head to wrap around his back, her fingers digging into the rippling muscle and scarred skin that littered his shoulders.
“Make me yours, Kyojuro,” she whispered against his neck, squeezing his hips with her thighs.
Y/N felt his entire body tense at her words and Kyojuro’s moans turned into shouts as he gave one final, deep thrust within her before he exploded. His hand tightened fiercely around hers with the force of his climax,
The pleasure that surged up his spine had been white hot as he pushed himself as deeply as he could possibly go within Y/N’s vice-like core. Kyojuro was not a novice to pleasure, but he had never finished as hard or as much as he did buried within her.
Kyojuro canted his hips, prolonging his release as he continued to empty himself into her, coming down from his earth-shattering high. Y/N mewled against his throat, her lips brushing against his sensitive pulse point as her legs spasmed. once more around his hips.
He finally stilled within her, arms shaking as he braced himself above her, to keep from crushing the exhausted woman beneath him.
He lowered his head down to her level. “Are you all right, my flame?” He panted, pressing a kiss between her brows before he rested his forehead heavily against hers.
She looked up at him from under her eyelashes and nodded shakily.
He no longer could keep himself from collapsing against Y/N, but as he fell forward, he gripped her and rolled, pulling her to his chest with his leaking cock still nestled deeply between her legs.
“I don’t want to push you away,” Kyojuro murmured softly after a moment, his chest finally easing as his breathing slowed.
Y/N made a show of looking down to where they were still joined, the Flame Pillar’s pearly seed slowly leaking out of her and onto the grass below them. “I think I’m about as close to you as physically possible, Rengoku.”
Kyojuro rolled his eyes and ground his hips slightly into her, causing Y/N to squeak against him.
“Quiet, woman, I’m trying to apologize to you.” He trailed his fingers up and down her spine as she nestled back against his chest, chin perched on his pectoral as she waited for him to continue.
“I was just so angry. After the incident on the train, when I woke up in Kocho’s hospital — I was furious. With myself.” Amber eyes met hers and softened to pools of melted honey. “It was never you I was angry with.”
Y/N held his gaze evenly, her voice firm. “But you took it out on me all the same.” It wasn’t an angry accusation — it was the truth; ugly and sharp. But it was real, and so was the tentative, knowing hope in her eyes.
“Yes,” Kyojuro breathed. “Yes, I did. And I am so sorry for it, Y/N.” His hand reached up to gently cup the side of her face, thumb smoothing over the soft expanse of her cheek. “May I ask for your forgiveness?”
Y/N leaned her head into his warm palm, and smiled, softly.
“You may ask, Kyojuro.”
He brushed his thumb along her lower lip. “Can you forgive me, Y/N?”
Y/N threw a leg out over his other hip, straddling him beneath her, though moving so fluidly that they remained connected at their base.
She rolled her hips against his, and he felt himself begin to harden within her once more. Kyojuro moaned softly, head falling back against the earth as he brought his hands up to steady her, fingers digging gently into her hips as she repeated the movement, again and again, until he’d fully stiffened within her.
“Yes Kyojuro,” she sighed, hands coming to brace themselves against his abdomen as she began to ride him. “I forgive you.”
Kyojuro groaned, his head thrown back as he began to gently grind up into her, goosebumps erupting over his flesh as she lightly raked her nails over his pectorals and the hard ridges of his abdomen.
He wanted so very badly to lose himself within his pleasure, to allow Y/N to consume him whole and never let him go again, but his atonement was not complete.
Because Y/N had given him every opportunity to confess to her before, and he had been careless with them; she would not open that door herself again.
So he would.
“And may I give you my heart, Y/N?” He asked, his hands gliding sensually up from her hips to brace themselves on either side of her sensitive waist, squeezing her firmly.
Her pace had stuttered slightly once his words registered, eyes widening as she looked down at him, and Kyojuro hated that he was the reason the shadow of doubt lingered in her eyes.
“Is it truly mine?” She breathed, resuming the intoxicating rise and fall and push and grind of her hips, breasts beginning to bounce as she picked up her pace.
Kyojuro’s mouth watered, but he restrained himself, holding her gaze. “It was only ever yours, Y/N.”
Y/N cried out then, her hips beginning to drop and roll into his with urgency. By the way her damp heat began to pulse and constrict around him, Kyojuro knew that she was barreling towards her release once more.
One hand left its searing position at her waist to drift down to where they were connected, his rough thumb toying with the sensitive nub that had her heavenly cunt squeezing him for dear life.
“My beautiful flame,” he moaned, “how lucky I am to have such a darling god be the keeper of my heart.”
Kyojuro rolled into her from below again, the hand still braced on her waist guiding himself to push deeper into her, as his thumb began to press harder into the apex of her thighs.
“Sweet tempest, please,” Kyojuro panted, the relentless squeeze of Y/N’s walls around his aching length beginning to drive him to the point of madness. “Please, may I have your love?”
Y/N’s moans were piercing as she half-sobbed above him, head thrown back into the night sky, the hoary glow of the moon making her look like a celestial deity given human form as she writhed above him.
“Yes!” Y/N cried, “Yes Kyojuro, you have always had my love!”
The moment the words fell from her lips, Kyojuro jolted upright, coming into a sitting position as Y/N’s legs instantly wrapped around him. He wound one arm around her waist to bounce her in his lap, the other moving to circle his fingers around her nub.
Kyojuro nuzzled her nose with his own, his lips mere centimeters from hers as he pressed his forehead against her and held her eyes. “Then come for me, Y/N,” he murmured, his breath tickling her lips as he nuzzled her again. “Come for me, my love.”
Y/N seized around him like a vice, her head falling back as she unleashed a euphoric cry.
The force of her climax had caused her to arch backward in Kyojuro’s lap, thrusting her breasts up and forward, and Kyojuro bent to suck one into his greedy mouth, his own release imminent. The warm sticky rush of her pleasure combined with the way her velvety, molten walls constricted around him had Kyojuro seeing stars as his seed shot into her, hot and fast, his strangled groan muffled only by the soft plush of Y/N’s breast as he filled her to her brim for the second time that night.
For a long moment, neither Pillar said anything as they came down from their mutual highs, Y/N’s head pressed against Kyojuro’s shoulder while the Flame Pillar kept his arms firmly around her waist, his fingers trailing up and down her spine.
“Y/N, are you all right?” He murmured into her ear, still buried deep within her heat.
Y/N nodded sleepily against his skin, savoring how full and complete she felt perched in his lap.
“I love you, Kyojuro.” She said so softly that the Flame Pillar thought his heart might break. Kyojuro pulled away slightly to bring his fingers beneath her chin where she lay against his shoulder. Gently, he tilted her face towards his and captured her lips with his own.
“My darling flame,” He murmured against her lips as they broke apart, his eyes sweeping over her face, committing every detail of her beauty to memory. “Thank you.”
Y/N gave him a lazy smile. “I cannot be your flame, Kyojuro,” she teased, “Not when I am made of ice.”
Kyojuro flipped her back beneath him and danced his lips teasingly across the bridge of her nose. “Don’t you know, my beautiful foil, that ice can burn just as well as flame?” He pressed a feather-light kiss against her lips. “And I have been consumed by your silvery fire since I first laid eyes on you at Final Selection.”
Y/N looked up at him in wonder, her hand coming to rest against his face as she adoringly caressed his cheek.
“I love you, Y/N. I am so sorry it took me until now to say it.”
-------------------------------------------------—
Epilogue
Y/N made back it into her room, sight unseen, just as dawn had crept over the horizon.
Feet bare, she padded softly over to her waiting bed, shrugging out of Kyojuro’s uniform shirt and falling into her blankets, not caring at the growing discomfort she felt as the Flame Pillar’s seed dried in her undershorts.
She just wanted to sleep.
Y/N and Kyojuro had come together twice more before the pair realized that morning was imminent, and they needed to return to their respective dwellings before anyone noticed they were gone.
Y/N had lamented that Kyojuro had shredded her chest bindings beyond salvation and had worried she’d be forced to sneak back into the Butterfly Mansion with nothing but her haori to cover her bare chest when Kyojuro slid his uniform shirt over her shoulders.
“No one will think twice if they see me bare,” he’d said by way of explanation, gaze dropping momentarily to appreciate the marks he had left dotted across her breasts before rising back to her face. “I would like to keep you hidden, however.”
Kyojuro then fastened each button one by one, beginning from the bottom as he kissed his way up Y/N’s torso until his lips found the sensitive spot beneath her jaw, which he’d nipped.
It had taken everything in her not to throw him down and have him for the fifth time.
Kyojuro had walked with her as far as the edge of the path back to Shinobu’s before parting her with a sweet kiss and a promise to return to her later in the morning. He had also mentioned, somewhat mischievously, that he would be inquiring into when Y/N could expect to be discharged from the Butterfly Mansion and return to her own Estate.
Her empty, person-free estate.
Y/N collapsed into her bed, ready to sleep for a precious few hours before her training would begin anew.
“So, do you mind sharing where you’ve been all night?” A dangerously sweet voice chirped from over by the door.
Y/N shot up out of her bed, stomach falling out of her ass, as she faced the smiling, enraged Insect Pillar seated primly atop her wooden stool opposite of her.
“I was quite worried, you know,” Shinobu tutted, the honey of her smile poisoned by the violence in her eyes.
Y/N had never been one to be at a loss for words, a quick comment, or a snappy retort always on hand when the situation called for it.
But to her horror, her mind had gone dreadfully blank, and her tongue was swollen stupid in her mouth.
Shinobu smiled like she knew, eyes slowly looking her over, and Y/N was left with the uncomfortable feeling that her friend could see every way she’d allowed Kyojuro to utterly defile her.
“Will you be in need of a contraceptive?” Shinobu asked lightly, and Y/N felt like she would drop dead right then and there.
“…Yes, please.” She managed to squeak, and the Insect Pillar turned to leave.
“I will bring it with your breakfast.” Her hand closed around the doorknob but stilled.
“And Y/N?”
The Ice Pillar whimpered as her friend turned to look back at her, all smiles and throbbing forehead veins.
“If you ever keep the younger girls awake from the sounds of your activities with the Flame Pillar again, I will poison you both.”
🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸
#demon slayer#kimetsu no yaiba#kyojuro rengoku#rengoku kyojuro#kimetsu rengoku#rengoku x reader#kny rengoku#rengoku smut#rengoku x y/n#kyojuro rengoku x reader#shinobu kocho#kny shinobu#kny fanfic#kny x reader#kny#kimestu no yaiba#rengoku#kanroji mitsuri#kny mitsuri#hashira#demon slayer fic#hashira smut#demon slayer smut#kny x you#demon slayer x reader#kny smut#rengoku kyojuro x reader#kyojuro x y/n
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
"Cats are all well and good but according to our calculations, birds will always be 'cooler'."
"And dinosaurs too, of course."
#[ dashboard observations ]#[ ic : unit red one ]#(( of course they have dinosaur kid tendencies......
7 notes
·
View notes