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moondirti · 6 months ago

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𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑, 𝐈𝐈 [18+]

familiar! ghost × witch! reader

you are a witch trapped at home by a devastating blizzard. ghost is the demon that answers your call. ( 2 of 3 /PREV )

DEAD DOVE. RATED E. HORROR EROTICA. 9K. – AO3 heed the warnings below and proceed at your own discretion.

warnings: NONCON. graphic depictions of gore. injury. cannibalism. blood licking. slaughtering + ingesting animals. violence. degradation. body horror. hypothermia. isolation. manipulation. corruption kink. religious imagery. dark!ghost. female reader. i know i said 2 parts total but now it's a 3er.

additional tags: groping. tit fondling. rough oral (male receiving). face-fucking. cum guzzling + eating. it’s all a little disgusting and not in the good way i fear.

𝐈𝐈.𝐈

The cottage is halfway buried under snow when you run out of firewood.

It should come as no surprise, though you stare down your emptied closet like the ground opened up and swallowed your remaining reserve. Out of body, you fail to confront the cold reality that has already seeped into your walls, freezing the splintered wood of your floors, instead standing stock-still as your mind sharpens its critical edge.

Only there is no one to direct your reproach to but yourself. Weeks ago, your rune casts had predicted a crippling whiteout, thus you set out to collect enough fuel to last you the season. Yet as night waxed on the third day of your efforts, and your hands started tearing bloody from splitting hardwood all on your own, that resolve debilitated rather quickly. Like sugar steeped in tea; your will to live was already in a decrepit state, and indeed, eagerly unravelled at the first sign of adversity. Suicidal, with hindsight. A passive play at death of which you were too fearful to try and seek for yourself.

It did not seem like that at the time, of course. Rather, you justified the fatuous decision to stop (after cutting down a mere three trees) by concocting an estimate of how long it would be before you could venture out for more. Based on absolutely nothing but a desperation to curl back on your couch, sore but sheltered, you gave it one month. One month until the storm would abate. Of restlessness, fermenting in a prison you call home. To your distorted sense, four-hundred pieces of firewood seemed plenty enough to get you through it, despite admittedly lacking even a basic working knowledge of wood arithmetic.

Counting the days now, you’re almost tempted to laugh. Almost. The shroud of horror that newly accompanies death since Ghost’s lesson triumphs, after all. You are more terrified than you would have been a week ago. Still, you were not wrong – the firewood had lasted a month – only the weather does not seem to be looking up, and you’re trapped inside a quickly cooling cottage with no source of heat to get you to the thaw. The possibility of fatal hypothermia looms closer, more dangerous. Eerily relevant–

(Just a year ago, you watched a man die from the warmth of your ancestral home, face down in fresh snow outside the parlour room window. Your ageing mother had invited the pastor’s son over to help repair the stairs left unattended since your father’s death, and the man had called your fascination with the corpse morbid, nail between two teeth as he hammered down a wooden plank.

No use starin’ at a dead man, lass. Not for a bonnie thin’ like you.

But you could not tear your eyes away from his mottled skin, the blue-black ends of his fingers. Even at his burial several days later, his face displayed the same, blank expression, perpetually cast by that winter’s frigid storm.)

You imagine yourself passing in a similar vein. It will take longer, you think. You’ll be dying for weeks as your blood courses slower through you, iced by the winds that howl down your chimney. Protected, but not enough, by these walls you have been banished to live within. Unable to get even a glimpse of sunlight before shutting your eyes for the last time, the snow packed up to your windows effectively burying you without ceremony. A forgotten tomb.

You wonder if Ghost would intervene, yet your speculation is brief. His words echo like he uttered them only moments ago. Fight or die. He has long established the volitional aspects of your relationship – he owes you nothing unless you ask, and if you do, then you would rather wish you were dead in lieu of what he asks for in return. No. He will merely watch as you take your last breath, satisfied that he was right, then scavenge your carcass for his next meal. Fated to wet his mouth like the picked off crow. A long-awaited feast.

Curling in on yourself, it is all you can do to bury yourself in clothes. Your vulnerability is often a fickle thing, you find, ebbing and flowing like seawater tides gradually gorging on their shore. There are periods you feel invincible; a being made of eternal magic, unmoved by the shifts in nature bid by time. Some sequoia, whose roots pierce deep into the earth and drink from freshwater wells unacquainted with human touch. A thing truly deserving of the title witch.

Other times – these times being of increasing occurrence since the arrival of your familiar – you cannot help but to shrink back into a girl again. Raw and tender and emotionally volatile. Naked, sore lungs, as you’re pulled from your mother’s womb and forced to embrace the harsh cut of air. Ghost watches from his usual corner, a spectre practically pulsing with this voyeuristic game he likes to play. You know he’s figured out the predicament you’ve put yourself in, can feel yourself quailing at the discredit his judgement affords. The layers serve a dual purpose, then – for warmth, and to grant brief reprieve from his gaze on your shivering form.

Three pairs of socks. A tunic, a fleece, a cardigan, and a coat. Skirts over your trousers. Gloves and a woollen hat.

By the end, you have a hard time moving at all. Certainly not enough to cook, or to try tunnelling a way out of the window. No point in reading if you can’t practise your magic, either; so you mutter a quiet ignition spell over the charred firewood from last night, hoping it lasts even half as long, before collapsing on the couch and willing yourself to sleep.

Only sleep does not come.

Or, it might. Yet your mind is so occupied with your condition that it does not allow you to fully lose consciousness. You’re attuned to every particle around you, overstimulated in the worst sense, still subjected to an unsettling sequence of half-dreams. Brain flickering through pale mirages of dead crows, ice floes, of capsized rafts in arctic waters, their hulls resembling slabs of marbled meat. As you drown, you shout for help and pique at the sound of it echoing in real life, tangible enough that it shakes you awake. You nearly strangle yourself trying to wind your quilt tighter around your shoulders afterward, burying your nose in a pillow and cupping your cheeks with frigid hands.

Eventually, time joins the distortion, and you have a hard time discerning whether it’s been hours or meagre minutes. The only indication is the way in which your body starts to ache with a pain so profound, it is as though you’ve been beaten. If you weren’t frustratingly cognizant of your surroundings the whole night, your first bet would have been to blame Ghost, or at least the threadbare couch you’ve been using as a bed erring too long now. Unfortunately, the true cause of your affliction is hard to misdiagnose; a violent, merciless shivering, your muscles made to tremble as if compelled to by electric shock. The teeth chattering kind – and it is exactly the rattle of ivory against ivory that serves as a makeshift timekeeper.

Click. Click. Clickclick. Click.

It must be two hours later when you bite your tongue and jolt completely awake from the pain, swathed in your quilt like the nesting doll that sat on your windowsill back home. Though the appendage bleeds, spreading metallic bitterness onto your teeth, you wonder for a brief moment whether you are alive at all. Foggy vision. Taut skin drawing lines down your cheeks from either corner of your eyes. When you squint, it tugs tighter, and you realise at one point you had started crying. It’s hard to tell without your nose hot and runny, or your lips swollen like overripe berries. Instead, you’re rendered to a shrivelled reflection of yourself, dried tear tracks setting the image in stone. The shadow looming above you seems to agree.

“Not dead yet. But only just.”

You wish you could say his voice is any softer than standard. That the stars aligned, or that this is an ideal world where the antediluvian creature occupying your home has tapped into his small pool of pity. But he nudges your knee with all the detached amusement he prescribes to most things, like he can’t understand why you’re so easily affected by the cold.

“Ghost?”

“Almost exclusively.” He mocks.

The couch dips near your feet. You do not register why until he scoops an arm into your quilt, pulling you from warm refuge and onto his lap instead. It isn’t in you to fight, merely mewling like a feverish cat as you reach a hand out to the cushion where you once lay. Wiggling your fingers, kicking your heels.

He swats your arm until it flops back to your side.

“If only y’could see yourself like this. Bloody pathetic, pet.”

“I’m c-cold.”

“Not doin’ yourself any favours, then. This,” He tugs at the coat barely hugging your shoulders, stretched taut over your bulky layers. “off.”

When you fail to listen, he takes the initiative for you, pulling it down your arms and towards some distant corner. You don’t miss it, necessarily – it hardly did anything to keep you warm – but you protest the loss as you would have done anything else; noisily, sniffing to suppress the fresh bout of tears spooling over your vision.

“Think you exhausted every option, hm? All you can do is curl over and cry?” With his hands now at your cardigan, thumbs hooked under the lapel, you search his eyes for indication of what he intends to do. Ghost is difficult to appreciate even on the best of days, but now, without the handy glow of fire or direct stream of sunlight, he’s practically impossible. Like two mountains stood tall with no valley in between them, no line of logic exists that can explain his actuality.

(And you’ve never been the logical type – there is no precise science to why goat fat and cumin work together to lure someone into love, or why you knew to stay away from the pastor who kept your mother company. Some things exist solely in magical proportions; limiting yourself to rational thought would be doing a great disservice to what they have to offer.

But confronting Ghost on a plane where he has the upper hand is a daunting task, so you stick to what rationale can place.)

“What are you–you doing?”

“Shut it.” He folds the cardigan around your hips, clasping a colossal palm onto the back of your neck. Though you’re used to being scruffed when he’s less than pleased with you, the purpose of this is far from dissatisfaction. You know it immediately. His skin, flesh, is warmer than anything you’ve felt in a long time. A quality of comfortable, penetrating heat that sinks into your nape and slowly works to defrost your marrow, your limbs, the icy film clinging to your brain. Your eyes roll shut almost instantaneously, body slumping forward to sink into his chest. Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, where the relief of warmth has not yet reached, you worry that he’ll push you off.

He does not.

Instead, his other hand slips under your fleece and tunic, smoothing over the knots of your spine to reach between your shoulder blades. There, his heat sinks to swathe your chest, and the weakly heart somehow managing to do its job, pumping blood that tickles your toes and fingertips. It drips down to your tummy too, where it weighs heavy like a tangible mass, and brings your pulse to the bud between your legs.

His touch there doesn’t last long; he pulls away only moments later, a tightness newly lifted off your sternum. One hand still kneads your nape, effectively keeping your face against his broad shoulder, but the other moves to collect your slack wrists together. It strikes you as unusual, sure, yet you’ve since surrendered your inhibitions for sake of survival. A cavewoman tradeoff. Your body purrs at the satisfaction of your baser instincts, happy to resort to this primitive state of impartiality, if only it means you’ll stay snug throughout the winter.

Yes. If anyone were to ask you right then, you would have seen it as not only plausible but entirely necessary to stay like this for the months to come. Sated and secure and just a hint impassioned, content to doze off on the lap of your tormentor. Already halfway there, lashes fluttering as you battle complete oblivion.

Only that isn’t what Ghost has in store, and he seems eager to break the illusion you hold in such high regard.

He releases your neck, guiding you to sit upright upon his tree-trunk thighs. When you object by reaching for his hands again, you find that your own are securely fixed behind your back. Completely immobilised.

Sensation slowly trickles back to you. Once numb, your skin now comes alive with frayed nerve endings, crackling, hair standing on its ends. What you find, alarmingly, is your place within a twisted example of the lesson Ghost has been attempting to teach. The lightness on your sternum not as metaphorical as you had assumed – rather, the bandages binding your breasts have been unwrapped to treacherously hitch your wrists together. The rough fabric excoriates the surface of your forearms.

Your breathing accelerates. If you’d been freezing before, you’re thoroughly iced now. Shock races through your system and persecutes everything that lulled you into this position. Stupid, stupid, stu–

“Ghost.” You hiss. “Ghost. This is-isn’t funny.”

He doesn’t respond, rolling your top to reveal the soft stretch of your navel. It involuntarily retracts when he flits over your belly button, dodging the unwelcome spread of his fingers. Your body's way of protesting, for all you lean into his touch. Too tempting not to, really. Something in him burns; perhaps a furnace in place of his heart, or a piece of hell he takes with him wherever he goes.

That primitive voice grows louder, whispering deceptively in your ear that it’s fine, let him touch you. So long as you stay warm.

You shake your head as if to jerk the instinct off your crown. Lips pursed tight now, the hand on your belly slowly climbing up. Up.

“Stop it. Stop this, I d-don’t want it.”

“I know.” He says, pressing his thumb into your waist. It digs until it hits a rib, tenderising muscle. You’re a lamb on a spit, spun slowly, roasted over an open flame. How silly of you to lean into the burn. Short-sighted to decide that it’s better than the cruel press of winter. You’ll be eaten like this.

“Then g-get the fuck off me!” You yelp, swaying on your haunches in a bid to knock yourself off his lap. Your arms are useless, but that does not mean you cannot fight. “I order you!”

That pulls a laugh from him. Or, what sounds like a laugh. As with everything, it’s his estimate of a human one, like the cicada mimics the bird; not as melodic, rather striking you with disgust so potent you feel your nausea reawakening. You might just hurl.

“And wha’ will I be granted in return? Nothin’ you have that’ll convince me to unhand you, pet.” Ghost rucks your tunic to your shoulders at last, exposing your bare breasts to bitter air. Though he gives them no time to pebble up, large paws enveloping both mounds and squeezing until your breath syphons from your lungs. “Haven’ seen a pair of tits in decades. Suppose you humans do have somethin’ going for you.”

Your words startle in your throat. Nothing about it is pleasurable, nor does he intend for it to be. His fingers take your nipples; rolling, tugging, pinching. Nails dig crescent cuts into the darkened skin there, perhaps searching for blood. He certainly treats it as though blood is the aim, and you wonder whether you’re to be hung from your bust to drain onto his waiting tongue. Just as one might press olives, no care for their pulpy bodies but only the rich oil they produce. Grease to slick their pans, to moisten their mouths.

You’ll be eaten like this.

“Stop, please.”

“Wonder what y’would look like plump with milk. Nursing my litter, rounded out with another dozen.” He sucks his teeth, contemplative. “Body wouldn’t handle it, f’you ask me. Stronger women than you ‘ave tried.”

Have. It hurts to think about. Hurts more when the insult of his words truly resonates. Stronger women. That is to say you have been exiled for nothing. That with a year of solitude and occult practice, you are just as feeble as before. Is this why he ate your crow? To prove to you that he could?

The tide pushes back out. In a great swell of loam and brine, your hatred crashes vengefully onshore. You muster all of it, dipping pails into the water and letting it weigh heavy on your shoulders. It is almost negligible, you find. You scarcely feel its burden when fuelled by a focused point to your antipathy. Your teeth stop chattering. You glare daggers.

“Let me go.”

Your final plea rolls over him like all the ones before it. “But you’re a witch, aren’t ya? Brew up a little elixir to pull yourself through the whelping. Maybe then you’ll realise how much you long to stay alive.”

Your neck snaps back. Before you can think it through, you thrust your head towards his face. There’s a crunch, a dizzying moment of choked silence, then a hot burst of moisture down your face. For a naive moment, you think you must have struck gold. You imagine drawing back to find his mask sticky with blood, or tar, or whatever demons have thrumming through their veins. A raw testament to your resolve, if he should ever underestimate it again.

But the mirage is as naive as your mother. Eventually the pain catches up to you. You realise the iron-tang at the back of your throat is not the dreg of satisfaction. The tears slipping past your lashes no longer wrought from misery. Everything, rather, an immediate response to the sore condition of your nose. Misshapen and swelling already.

Ghost hums. You hoped to see him grovelling in pain by now. The battered expectation somehow makes his condescension worse.

“Good to see y’find your spirit,” His head tilts, bullying yours into remaining still, fingers knitted firmly in your hair. “but it’s misplaced.”

Given his derision, you know not to rejoice when his other hand leaves your chest. Your shirt slumps lamely back over your figure as he lifts the edges of his mask, folding it over his mouth. In the dark, it’s difficult to map the nuances of his exposed jowls. There’s a pale curve there, a disfigured line here. Your sinuses twinge when your stare narrows, cutting through murk to place the shape of his lips.

It’s futile. You have no way to jam the gaps; no way of knowing whether he’s all man, all demon, or a foul mix of the two.

The one thing that glimmers with definition is the string of spit when he unlatches his jaw, long tongue striking like a wound-tight cobra. You would flinch if you could, eyes pruning shut, but his grip keeps you steady in place as he laves a forceful path up your chin. Tasting the metallic leak of blood, all the way up to its source.

You see it coming. Still, you can’t help but scream when he works his tongue around your nose. Loosed bones shift under your skin, steadiness fractured, cartilage support dipping inwards against the assault. He groans, and in spite of your impaired sense of smell, you get a whiff of rot-hot breath. It must all be a terrible dream, you think. The hardened muscle pressing against your inner thighs, the viscous web of saliva stretched across your face. It’s cold and you’re sweaty, and everything about the past month – the past year – seems like it has been especially curated to torment you. You would wake from this any second.

He gathers the salty drips off your eyes, the blood, every grief coating your skin. Agony blinds you – so profound it takes shape, colour. You squirm in your binds, ragged shrieks ripping from your throat.

It echoes even after he breaks away. If it weren’t for the sudden coolness of spit drying within your cupid’s bow, you would think he was still making a feast of you.

“Tha’ got you to settle, hm?”

You shake your head, exhausted. “You said–”

“I said fight, or die.” He huffs. You let silence swathe your lips, pursing them as thin as you can manage without exacerbating your injury. “Yer fighting to die, pet.”

“I just want to be left alone.”

“‘N’ what d’you think will come of that?”

“It shouldn’t m-matter.” Your conviction sound hollow when spoken aloud. If he hears it, he uses it as an incentive to strip your top back over your chest. Like a hot wire pushed through your ribcage, his warm hands toast you from the outside in. It is in your best interest not to shiver in delight; though you are still dreadfully cold, and your injury makes it difficult to pigeonhole any alleviation to your pain. “You can’t-t-t defile me on the grounds of greater good.”

Ghost laughs again. “Ain’ pretending this is for the greater good, pet. The world will thank me if one more witch freezes to ‘er death.” You’re yanked further up his lap. “I let you go, you’ve got four, five hours tops ‘till your heart fails. You wan’ to live?”

You shake your head, fervent tremors batting your pout. A nonanswer seems the only manner of resistance, now. “Not like this.”

“Clever. Tha’ still tells me you do.” He pinches the knotted peaks of your breasts, twisting until you buck wretchedly onto his pelvis. “And I wan’ to spend my evenin’ playing with your tits. A fair compromise, then.”

What sort of familiar makes the demands? You contemplate berating him out loud, lunging for the dirty insult to beat at his status like he did yours. With no room for taking the high ground, you will do anything so long as you can later say you bared your claws. So you do not wonder, for countless sleepless nights, if there was something more you should have done. You will be mean. You will go low. You will condemn him to a fate of eternal dissatisfaction, so that no matter how much he eats or kills or takes, he will always feel his stomach a gnawing pit.

Though something tells you he will not succumb to scrutiny against his honour. There is no code for creatures like him, who floss their teeth with crow meat and pluck the nipples of girls who grant them shelter. Nothing to hold them to expect the conditions of their summons.

Perhaps that’s just it.

You stir. It feels much like magic, when an incantation rolls off the tongue just right and the air shifts to accommodate it. Your heart vibrates behind your sternum, power bloating your veins, ricocheting within your skin. If Ghost feels it, he doesn’t falter.

“Be sure, demon.” You rasp, drawing your intent taut in your chest like a bowstring. He hums but does not stop, kneading your flesh to conform to the creases and calluses of his hands. “Be sure that’s what you want. I could give in without further fuss and be like a docile rabbit on your lap. That way, you will have taken two things from me tonight.”

The liquid of his eyes shifts quick. You catch its gleam in the little light, and it pleases you enough to deliver the rest of your covenant.

“By the spell that brought you here, you are bound to do what I sacrifice for.” You pause a moment. “In exchange for the blood you have ingested off my face, you will dig this house out of the snow. And for my virtue, this one evening allowance of which you have already taken upon yourself, you will collect my firewood until the season clears.”

Ghost makes an indiscernible noise from underneath. You can not tell if he is peeved or pleased, and the ambiguity shakes you. You expected some sort of acknowledgment or counter to your trick. Instead, he does not speak on it. No pitch or complaint, protest or taunt.

He just sits there, pawing at your chest like a satiated dog.

(And come morning, when your breasts are raw and tender to the touch, he tunnels the snow around your cottage and returns hours later with a hundred cedar logs for the kindling.)

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈

She prefers him in the daylight

Sun floods her little home when it rises and keeps it bright until it sets. Whereas the dark plays tricks on mortal eyes, oil lamps flickering, casting shadows that always resemble something else. She likes training an eye on what he does in his usual corner; but come night, she can’t trust what she sees. Thus, her confidence strains. She flinches at every sound. Any movement will have her tucking deeper under her quilt. His empty-eyed stare glows more sinister, if anything is to be assumed by the way she will crack her grimoire open and mouth protective spells like prayers.

Perhaps she’s afraid she caused offence, that he mulls over a punishment to teach her not to make a fool of him again. Perhaps it plagues her that she cannot stop him if that is the case. He does not tell her that, already, the worst possible thing that can confront her has. Though of course she isn’t privy to it, it’s been a month since he decided against making a meal of her. Everything he does now is moderate in comparison. He’s being good.

Good, yes. In the evenings, he will venture out to do her bidding. The timing grants her a few hours rest, then, and him an opportunity to hunt for his dinner.

Good, because he waits until he’s a mile out to transform to his truer self. It is easier to strip trees of their branches and snap their spines when he stands over two metres tall. Not so easy to mend the fragile tolerance she’s gained for him, which is sure to shatter if she catches sight of his monstrosity. He eludes the possibility entirely, then.

Good, because Ghost refrains from agitating her more than he already has. And his intention in doing so does not change that decency.

That is to say, he hasn’t grown a heart. He does not care for the girl. But the passivity that necessitated his savagery has since come to pass. She’s grown claws. She fights for her say and punches through life with guile. Any more and he would be faulting her for it, like burning the meat he tumbled through mud to slaughter. It is down to him to take it off the roast, now, to revel in the succulent bite. He’s got her right where he wants her.

With some brief tampering on his part – laying out the temptation like a breadcrumb trail into the woods – she broke her invisible vow not to ask him for anything. Has it not made her life that much simpler? Her hearth burns bright and warm everyday; she does not have to worry about keeping it lit for the remnants of winter. He picks cedar for its aroma, it's even char, and she would not have access to that if it weren’t for his ability to tackle the sturdy tree. All it took was her debauchment, the vitiating of character to match his.

(And really, how debauched was it if she only endured his groping for one night?)

It isn’t too much to want, he thinks.

She thinks so too. Or otherwise decides it's worth the risk.

It is late into the evening and his dinner sits fresh in his belly, fire chewing away at the split logs he emptied into the pit earlier. The air is thick with cloying cedar and the mephitic scent of potion-brewing, his pet crouched over a bubbling pot. She has been at it for hours, the same nightly routine since she broke her nose. Tadpoles and feverfew and sage, chanterelle and wishbone and sand. Stirred, brought to a boil, thickened with spit. Then scooped out and smothered over her sore face. A modest poultice, turned cast, to help her mend correctly over weeks.

He wonders if she considered bothering him to heal her. He certainly can. But it appears as though she enjoys keeping her hands busy. Toiling through time, grinding away like water does the earth. In the aeons he’s been around, he’s seen mountains chipped away, rocks change shape, rivers bend over time – and it is always the same eternal petulance. Stubborn mediocrity built into something larger. Endurance over brute force. He doesn’t pretend to understand it, but he can recognise a reflection of it in her craft.

But she is not eternal. Every mortal has their limits.

Ghost sees the iron grow filigree in her eyes, calculations imprinting onto her resolve. When she stands and turns to him, he almost expects it. The past quarter hour has built up to this ambitious ask, whatever it may be, and he’s mapped every battle she’s held within herself over the course of it. She does not want like he does. It is only extraneous circumstance that would lead her to his service.

“I started it later than I usually do.” She mumbles, lips twisting like maggots. The hollows under her eyes are prominent, both exhaustion and hunger trimming her down to a sorry state. “I need sleep, but this can’t be heated beyond a boil.”

His cock chubs up in his trousers, aching as an array of possibilities occur to him in that second. Would he split her cunt on his fingers? Would he make her set it down atop his tongue? Her skirt leaves much to the imagination, but he imagines it bright and faithful in his head. Darker on the outside than in, glazed with pellucid slick, and shrouded in a matting of hair. The thought alone funnels salivate to the underside of his tongue.

He meets her eye, shoulders curving inward, poised to pounce.

Then, her brow spasms, and the wolfish instinct unravels as fast as it materialises.

No. He cannot push it too far, not when she asks for something so little. It took all her energy to come to him now. She will never consider it again if he exploits that beyond equal measure.

So, Ghost stands, stalking over to the cauldron and his pet. He often forgets how small she is until she cranes her neck to look up at him, all owlish blinks and delicate fingers latticed together, anxious for his response.

“I’ll wake you.” He says. The tension in her forehead ebbs immediately, eyelids sagging now that he confirmed her ingredients will not waste. Though she doesn’t move, and he makes her stand there until he determines on an appropriate return.

Moments later, he wraps an arm around her. His hand finds the jut in her skirt, where it protrudes to lap over her arse, and squeezes around the fat of one cheek. Even with the layers separating them, she is supple like softened butter. She makes a sound like a trapped mouse, jumping to the balls of her feet. The noise doesn’t deter him; he holds it there until he’s satisfied his grip will bruise.

“There we are.” When he releases her, she stumbles backwards to find her bearings against the cool press of the wall. Puts a safe distance between them. Yet her stunned silence is intoxicating, and he has to actively suppress the gluttonous urge for more. Nothing is sacred when he gets like this. “That’s us even, then.”

She nods. It is a wonder she manages to sleep at all.

(Unfortunate that the potion to heal her broken nose steals stock from her kitchen shelves. Day by day, he’s watched her sacrifice her fungi and herbs to the cauldron, prioritising recovery over sustenance. Unfortunate that she is still unable to go out for more. The winter whips cruel and merciless winds for anyone who dares step out into its storm.

Unfortunate. But not moving enough.

It is intentional silence on his part, then. For the day will come where she opens her cupboards to eat and finds them lined with dust.

And on that day, he will be there.)

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈𝐈

Ghost takes his meals outside.

That is, when he comes back lugging a dead beast and a tree behind him. You’ll watch from the window as he places the latter to the side, sinking to his knees to feast on whatever he caught that day. It always varies: hares, owls, rodents. An elk if he’s lucky. Today, it is a fox.

Your heart knots with pity, mourning for the mammal who cannot grieve itself. Eyes blank and jaw swung open. Its fur, which typically strikes as a vivid red, can only look dull when set by the blood it leaves in its trail, tangled in the entrails bursting from its belly. The demon never minds the hair, nor the carnage. He balances on his haunches and pulls his mask up, sinking his teeth into the softest parts of his spoils.

Though no one holds you to the frosted glass – chanting look, you have to look – you insist on bearing witness. The gore never grows easier to behold; everytime, it is the same revulsion that stews nausea at the sight. But you sit and suffer it anyway. If anyone were to ask you why, you would be hard-pressed to find an answer.

Perhaps it is to build a tolerance for nature’s brutality. Ghost’s lesson with your crow has carved an irreplicable torment within you, revealing the jeopardy you face should you continue down your meek path. Exposure therapy is good justification, then, when your personal improvement thus far has only wrought merit. Your magic begets greater effect. You feel your self-possession flourish your spirit. Even your familiar has staved off the trouble, and you can not ask for a greater success.

But that does not capture the core of the matter. Perhaps that is to be found in him, instead.

Because when Ghost eats, his visage will fluctuate. You do not think it is something he’s mindful of. None of it looks intentional – he does not bid whetted talons or teeth, features that would aid him in gutting the fox. Rather, they appear like fish beneath a rippling brook. Swift, transient flashes of another form.

He sucks down an intestine, and his burly legs stretch so the joints are equidistant. They snap backwards, digitigrade heels extending, before you blink and they’re human once more.

He laps at a puddle of blood, and his mask parts to reveal two ivory prongs that steadily grow from his head. They curl, winding around his temples as ram horns do, only to disappear as your arid eyes burn.

He tears into cartilage, and his exposed skin flakes like charred wood. The liver; his torso extends and thins. The brain; his breath condenses to black ash, as yours would ghostly vapour in cold air. None of it permanent. All of it haunting.

The first time you saw it, you chalked it up to phantasm. Lack of sleep, insufficient nutrition. Searching for monstrosity that would better connect to the horror unfurling before you. So you set out to observe. Incessantly. Again and again and again – validating what you saw, though you received confirmation upon the second instance long ago. Sure enough, each day he reveals different parts to a whole. Excrescent spines and lofty feet. Things that have been urging for a spot in the sun, pressing under his skin.

It’s the nesting doll all over again. Little matryoshka faces, each opening to reveal a smaller version of itself within. If you are the innermost one, then Ghost is the sisyphean effort to close them over each other in descending order. Unfeasible. Too large to comfortably remain within his confines. The wood will eventually snap in your struggle, and all the painted pieces will scatter across the floor.

(You remember him just then. Craggy charm and blue eyes. Crafty hand – the same to restore your mother’s staircase – whittling the doll when you suggested he couldn’t. He wore a cross no matter the day, a habit of his father’s doing, and the silver pendant would sway with the paring motion of his hands. Lustrous against tanned skin. No doubt forged by him, too.

He used to call you macabre. Though it was footling fun at the time, you can’t help but grasp at what he meant as you track the steaming slaughter outside.)

“Do you like it?”

Water rushes into a tin basin, its metallic clang a forceful, echoing percussion. The noise is insufferable, grating on your ears, but you would rather it than have Ghost tow the pungent smell of death into your home. With his back turned to you, he washes his hands and mouth of dinner’s remnants, faucet spitting frigid reserves into the kitchen sink.

His head twists a fraction, pupils coasting to assess you in his peripheral. Small talk is not commonplace. In the weeks you have coexisted, you can count your conversations on both hands. They always seem to prefer the path of internal dissection instead, judgments flung at one another through glares and body language and not much else.

“Be more specific.” He grunts, facing his task again. From your place on the couch, you can see the way he picks his nails for stubborn shreds of fat.

“Fox.”

A sliver of pale skin, bared where his mask ends at his nape, twitches. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Ammonic. Greasy. Tough all ‘round. Slippery little fucks, too.” His voice is softer when he isn’t being caustic. Skipping over enunciations, the typical rumble in his chest quieted to a hum. “There are easier, more rewardin’ meals.”

You imagine what he may be referring to. Of every creature on this earth, only one does not have the benefit of evasion. Predators are sheltered by hierarchical canopies, demons like Ghost so powerful that they do not have to watch their backs. Birds of prey have their wings, fish their slippery scales. Even deer – slender and pregnable – are granted fleet-footed instincts rivalled only by the Pantheon’s messenger himself. It is only you, human, that is condemned to spindling, slow inelegance. Perhaps it is why so many are intellectuals, worshipers, terrors – why you yourself are a witch, sapping nature for her wares of which you do not come by naturally. That is the way things turn. Assuming the offensive to offset one’s shortcomings.

And turn back again; your effort has only imperilled you further. There is a cannibal, a monster, a man inside of your home. And you beckoned him here.

Even as the revelation occurs to you, you can’t stave your ambition. Of course you do not parley with Ghost for the sake of it. There is nothing this new knowledge grants. But since he left to do his day’s errands, your stomach has made its presence known. Opening up like an early grave, emptiness gnarled beneath a soil bed as with roots of a tombstone tree. Every moment, every word, you are reminded of its cavity. Too long, it says, you’ve ignored the pangs of hunger that seized this trench in an iron fist. Priorities, you would reply, as you surrendered food to brew your poultice. And so your nose is healed, great, but your shelves are empty and your head is faint. Hunger surplants the cold as your imminent killer.

“My mum taught me how to fix a good stew.” You begin, rolling your sticky tongue and tucking both hands beneath your bottom, cautious not to set this mousetrap off yourself. The pressure is grounding, at least; you match your breathing to the pulse you feel in your fingertips. “I trust it would be better than raw meat.”

A pause. Ghost’s spine straightens. Then, a panic. You’re thrown off your conviction when your chest flutters and you feel it in your brain. Where is that wily being? The woman who cheated her familiar into a season’s worth of labour? You feel as though you have regressed; screeching infant, lungs flaring with a rush of new air. You cannot face this, you think, but you’re already halfway out into the world. The sink squeaks off.

You just pray your stomach doesn’t make noise in the new silence.

“Is tha’ so?” He says, though does not turn to look at you just yet.

“I could try.” The words bubble like bile in your throat. It is in your best interest to stay quiet. Say no more. He’s being ambiguous so you will reveal too much in turn. The game is transparent. You can see the water-worn rocks on the river bed, so clear it’s like they’re clasped between your hands instead. Yet– “If I had the ingredients for it, ‘course.”

There. The lip of the cliff. How odd of you to see it only as you plummet towards a frothy scree. Ghost snaps, live lightning in heated air, or otherwise like the rocks that impale you on landing. In two strides, you’re cornered by a creature with scorn harrowing the space between its brows. You were stupid not to plan an escape route, stupid to arm yourself with nothing but flimsy subtlety. There was always the risk of it coming to this, you knew that.

“You think y’can rummage for loopholes, hm?” He leers, eyes searing holes into yours. “A trick is only charmin’ on the first go, pet. More than once and y’start to stink of stale piss.”

“I don’t–”

He snatches your jaw, thumb and ring fingers digging an aching grip onto either side. Your protest warbles pathetically, dies, chokes you with its rot. It’s difficult, no– impossible to decipher what he's mad at. A small, fresh part of you actually hoped he’d see your cunning as artful. But it seems your station has come back to haunt you; another mortal whose brain cannot keep up with her heart. Even if one is in the right place, you will go about chasing it in the wrong direction. Artful is too shiny of a laurel, then. Trick, too, is being charitable

“Do not play coy with me, girl. I do not take kindly to underhand deals.” Snarled right above you, spit spattering across your face. Your mandible squeaks, bone-deep pain flaring where he tightens the pressure around your face. Fox blood flavours his breath. There is a ringing in your head – shrill, like water in the tin sink. “If you need something from me, you will admit it and cope with the terms I have in turn.”

“I-I’m sorr-eeeee.” Your apology wheezes thin when he thrashes your head in place. It is either that or the relentless force on your jaw that tears a new world of pain down your neck. The tears are reactionary, then. Hot and foggy and not at all a sign of fear. “Ah- I’m sorry! I won’t– I didn’t mean to offend y-you.”

“S’too fuckin’ late for that. You’ll follow through, before I take wha’ I want anyway.” He shakes his head. “Ask nicely for what y’need then, pet. Go on.”

“Nothing! Nothing anymore, please. Jus’ let me go, Ghost.” Perhaps the universe disdains your insincerity, because in a hand dealt by its inexorable irony, your stomach buckles and purls a foul sound. Like it heard your words and protests the withdrawal, gurgling out loud to whoever will address it instead.

And he does. He does.

“You’re hungry, hm? That it?” He shoves your limp body onto the floor, dismissive of the pleas you now regulate to your feet, thrashed wildly to strike at his shin. Everything he does is callous, mean, agitated like the sulphur and magma that run thick beneath the earth’s crust. And though it is not your first encounter with a creature of that ilk – you have had your run-ins with over-excited men – the intentionality behind it has never been more flagrant. Ghost does it to hurt you. “Yeah, been neglecting you, haven’ I? Forgot pets couldn’ feed themselves.”

“I’w scrounge somefing up mysef.” You struggle, speech impeded as he crushes your cheeks inwards. Pearl dust flakes your gums.

“Should ‘ave thought of tha’ before. Even if I end up breakin’ every bone in that fine skull of yours, I won’t let up. Say it, then, you daft thing.”

The scaling of your options is instantaneous. Even as your immediate conscious lags behind, activity lights the back of your head and cracks its way out of your mouth before you can catch it. It took weeks for your nose to heal, much less your skull. You’re consuming fuel quicker than you can replenish, running on a backlog of quick-burning fat. And all of it can be taken care of if you just give in, to what will likely only be a few hours of degradation.

(Cavewoman. Primordial. Primitive impartiality, or survival of the fittest. The world has only come so far since then, and even within its concentrated civilizations, there is no aegis but for those who come up on top. You cannot expect your liberties to be met anywhere. That, you know too well.

But here, in this feral forest, at least you can use the violation to your benefit. At the very least, you will not be exiled, cast as witch for taboo of saying the greater word.

You are already macerated on rock bottom. And at the barren abyss of all leasts, Ghost will not hang a cross pendant above you as he stomps it in.)

He must see the surrender wet your eyes, for the grip on your jaw lessens.

“I am hungry.” You cry, finally, lashes fluttering shut so as to guard your tears. “I am hungry. This winter has dashed my garden and I do not know how to hunt. The cushions jab into my ribs when I sleep. I feel as though my stomach will consume me from the inside out, and I’m desperate. I am desperate, and I am so, so hungry. And I am asking for your help. Please.”

If there was any part of you that still believed he would choose pity, it is muffled and killed. You hear the scratch of fabric as he undoes his pants. Final, failing. Rustled hand behind confines, stench of musk stiffening the air. For a few seconds, you opt to remain blissfully ignorant – keep your eyes closed and imagine that the presence before your face is something different. A purifying flame, tender cut of meat, a smiling face before things fell downhill. It all sounds too good to be true, and they are. Sooner or later, you tell yourself, you have to face the misery.

So, you force yourself to behold it before he takes that upon himself.

His cock is heavy. Fat and oversized, length not having suffered for its breadth. Ruddy where the head peaks from an uncut tip, hard already, but bowed under the weight of itself. If you had anything to expel, you would’ve done so by now. A thicket of hair fledges his groyne – a shade of dark that pales his scarred skin in comparison – and it reeks of sweat and miasma.

He taps it on your cheek, prespend sticky and warm. You flinch as though you have been beaten.

“Just one thing af’er the other with you, pet. Think this’ll give y’something to fix yourself on.”

“I don’t– I’ve never–” His thumb hooks over your bottom teeth, prying your trap as wide as it can go. Drool slicks the cracked hinges of your lips. “Don’ know how.”

“Not what I’m lookin’ for.” He purrs, cruel humour gracing his tone. Somehow, it is not a reassurance as much as it is a snub. “Jus’ keep your teeth out of the way.” Humiliation washes your neck and ears, rush of blood like white river rapids behind your ears. It is the final swatch, trumpet to armageddon, before your ruin. You suck in a breath and bring your mouth to him.

Ghost meets you halfway, treating the crown of your head as an anchor to thrust forward. Immediately, you let slip his only rule, teeth snapping reflexively at the intrusion. You expect to be backhanded, have your hair ripped from your scalp in relation, or worse. It is a relief, then, when the only force you receive is a knock against your jaw. The rapping shakes your cotton-lined skull, snaps you out of your stupefaction, and you slack all muscles to accommodate his demand.

The mass feeding down your throat vibrates, an appreciative hum coursing through his body. “There you are, little jezebel. Look a’ you takin’ my cock so well.”

You make no effort to glide your tongue along his veins. To make this pleasurable for him beyond what he takes for himself. True to his word, your familiar does not punish you for it. He knots his hands around your head and fucks your face, careless, cock rearranging the anatomy of your neck as it bludgeons a straight path down. You sway, ragdoll with the motions, knees rubbing abrasively across the floor as he slides you back and forth over it.

Hypoxia spots your vision, lungs clenching furiously at the obstructed flow of oxygen. You would fasten it all shut, close yourself off from the world, but your eyes bulge a little at the edges, stagnant blood keeping them arid and open. It’s hard to dissociate. Hard to pretend that the steel-wool friction at the tip of your nose, the pendulum-consistent slaps on your chin, are not his pubic hair and balls searing unmistakable marks on your skin. And your series of gags are sloppy, lewd out in the confined air of your home. How could they be anything but damnation? There is no deluding the Maker.

(No matter how fervently he tried. Marry me, proposed down on both knees. It’ll set this whole fankle right. We’ll hold hands an’ seek penance at the kirk before th’ceremony. My pa will officiate. Yer ma will be thrilled.)

Snot bubbles from your nose, cheeks slick with tears and wayward spit. When he batters forward, it amalgamates in the soft palate beneath your spasming tongue. When he draws out, he takes it with him, viscous strings of saliva bridging the gap. It streams down to your neck, glosses your lips, webs your lashes together. You feel buried beneath its stifling coat, set down into your grave at last. Maggots worm their way into the soft matter of your brain, eat away at the tissue until there’s nothing left but suffocation. Death. Throttling void.

Your hands flail out, seeking an end to it, but all you find is Ghost.

He slows down once he nears his end.

The bruising pace he set stutters, balls tightening against your submental. It catches you off guard because, for the past ten minutes, you accustomed yourself to the patterns of his push and pull. For every plunge, there is a retreat, where you will greedily feast on fresh air before being choked back down on his cock. It is a break of tide, an opportunity to paddle your way above water to clear sea-salt from your hollows. A bay to hold onto so you do not drown.

Until now; his forearms twitch and you’re kept in place, forehead squashed onto his mons. You panic, hold on your breath breaking. The heady scent of sweat sweeps over you, laced with the tart products of your mouth – saliva and blood from where your canine pierced your cheek. Prespend, too. The undiluted stink of him. Hair tickles your lips. Your cunt flares, sudden, slickening the chafe of your thighs, but the unwelcome arousal does nothing for you.

He holds your head down and spurts his load into your gullet.

There is no room to swallow. It goes in the wrong direction, then – upward – and out your nose. You squeeze your eyes shut, disgusted scream gargling around his throbbing appendage. Distress bloats your head, temples feverish and sweating, nails digging deep impressions into your palms. It’s futile. Useless. Nothing thwarts him but the last dregs of semen spitting out onto your tonsils, pumping himself dry until finally, finally–

Ghost pulls out. You collapse onto the carpet and hack up cum until your throat bleeds.

The silence afterwards is mortifying, tension palpable enough to writhe up against. Drained, you’ve since pressed your cheek into the puddle of filth, urging pearlescent spend to seep into the fibres below. It'll be a nightmare to clean later, you process slowly. Perhaps you’ll use the bleach, and take the same sponge to your lips.

The monster above you tuts at the display, crouching to your level when you exhibit no interest in rising to his.

“C’mon, sweet. Wouldn’t want to waste your dinner now.”

But you’re too weak to lift your head. So Ghost gathers your hair, puppeteering – in a manner rather gentle for your assailant – until you can lap his essence off the floor.

It tastes like raw venison. You snivel your thanks, and imagine it is exactly that.

i do not have a taglist. to be alerted when i update, please follow @moondirti-archive and turn on post notifs.

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victormcdicktor · 2 months ago

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Hello everyone, I have another campaign to share.

Saeed lost his job as a software engineer (and his ability to provide for his family as an extention) due to the siege on Ghazza. His home was bombed, and he and his family have been displaced to an overcrowded shelter. They are unable to secure basic resources like food, water, and medicine due to the devastation and steep prices.

Saeed's father is also suffering from a broken pelvis

In order to help support their family through this time, they're trying to raise £20,000. So far, they've only raised £225; their last donation was 5 hours ago.

Please help them in any way that you can. Donate if you're able and share their campaign; everything helps.

VETTED HERE(18)

TAG LIST (DM me for removal)

@whisperingmedows @writerdoublein @e @rykerpuppy @renmemberme @t0w0bey @teddycuba @yogurtcake2000 @uchorusa @imp-panada @irunkefir @insufferablepilled @ichor-arrows @passion2lovvers @awesomepeoplehangingouttogether @dirkcapitationn @fatalbloomsinmoon @nabulsi @90-ghost @el-shab-hussein @aria-ashryver @northgazaupdates2 @sar-soor @flower-tea-fairies @palestinegenocide @gazagfmboost @palestine-info-uncensored @heba-20 @aces-and-angels @fairycosmos @greenpinkstraw @ibtisams @radicalgraff @r4ms3yy @thestrugglerrr @shug888 @decolonize-the-everything @fototingobug @gaza-evacuation-funds @g3wgaw @greydrits @gainnecorpse @gasfuzbj @hamsterdads @himbo-noxx @heijegerkannibal @juliccardi @jvstcallmespade @kk3o2 @katylokk @keff-fr @literallyneurodivergentandaminor @lenaeeessshhh @la7ma-mafrooma @lutielutik @certified-dentist @cemetaryvampire @chemautopsy @cryptid-catnip @vetted-gaza-funds @vantisanjo @blu-berriez @neptunerings @neatleaf @meit1

(sorry for the randomness of the tags, I just used what popped up. If anyone has advice on how to make a good taglist please tell me)

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fandom-geek17 · 1 year ago

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Destined For More

Neteyam x Omatikaya!Reader

Synopsis: Being a close family friend of the Sully's, and Kiri's best friend, it was hard to be around Neteyam and not fall in love with him. Supressing those feelings were even harder, especially when his parents start pressuring him about finding a mate...

Rating: E MINORS DNI🔞🔞

Tags: Friends to lovers! Eventual smut! Semi public smut! P in V smut, Reader has a name, no use of Y/N

Vocabulary: Nantang (Viperwolf), Marui (Pods/tents), Skxawng (Moron), Tanhì (Bioluminescent freckles/stars)

Ages: Neteyam (21), reader (20), Kiri (20), Lo'ak (19), Tuk (13)

Can also be read on AO3

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3

“There child” Mo’at told you gently, standing over your shoulder as you crushed the herbs in the mortar. “Perfect.” You smiled to yourself. You were a decent healer, but hearing it from her directly meant everything. Kiri had always been the best healer, always would be, but you enjoyed the profession. Feeling like you could contribute with something else other than making clothes.

Alongside you and Kiri, there were two other healers in training, and everyone was currently busy helping a hunting party that had been attacked by a group of Nantang. None had been seriously injured, but there were a lot of bites and scratches to clean and bandage. They were lucky, it could have been worse. But since there were suddenly so many patients, the supply of medicines ran low. As Kiri and the other two worked on the patients, you were happy to sit in the corner, making more healing paste as fast as you could. The patients were an important part of being a healer, but the thing that had always interested you most was the science behind it. Discovering how new plants could optimize healing, which ones soothed pain, which ones killed bacteria. You had recently discovered that alternating the weaving pattern of the bandages caused more air to flow through without exposing the wounds to the elements. That way, it lessened the chance of infection.

“Emmy, can you pass me those?” Kiri asked, pointing to a pile of leaves next to you. She smiled in thanks as you gave them to her. Your real name was Emreyìte, meaning surviving daughter. It was a bit on the nose, but you liked it. You mother had labored for over two days to bring you into the world, and you nearly didn’t make it. The name was supposed to convey the strength you had already displayed coming into this world.

When you finished crushing the herbs, you put them in the water stewing above the fire. Stirring slowly, and evenly, the water slowly changed color. But it needed to steep for a little while longer. This particular mixture of herbs soothed pain very efficiently when boiled into a tea. But the taste wasn’t particularly pleasant, so you always added some sweetness in the hopes of counteracting the bitter taste. All the hunters were given a cup of the liquid to drink. They all grimaced badly, making you smile a little. It was terrible, but you were still experimenting with the recipe.

You all worked in quiet unison until all the hunters had been treated. It was well past the start of the communal dinner by then, evening setting in slowly. The other two healers went to get something to eat whilst Kiri helped Mo’at to her marui. You stayed behind to clean up. And also take inventory of how much of the supplies had been used. Hunger rumbled in your belly, but it would have to wait.

“Knock, knock” a voice murmured. A voice you knew all too well. Butterflies erupted in your stomach as your breath hitched.

You turned around and indeed. “Neteyam” you breathed. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged, watching you with a small smile from under his eyelashes. “I saw all the other healers join the dinner, but not you. I figured you’d be here, too wrapped up in your research to eat again.” He held out a steaming bowl in front of you. “So I brought you this.”

The smell of Yerik stew filled your nostrils, making your stomach rumble again. Neteyam smirked, proving his point. “Thank you” you said, accepting his gift. But it was only when he stepped inside the hut properly that you noticed the wound on his shoulder, making you gasp slightly. “Neteyam, what happened to your shoulder?”

“Nothing! It’s fine, don’t worry about it” he assured you, but not very convincingly.

“That needs to be cleaned” you stated, setting the bowl aside. “What happened?” You looked at his expectantly until he finally caved, quirking his brow in your direction.

“I caught a tree branch during fighting practice” he admitted with a nonchalant tone. “It’s fine.”

“Did you clean it, at least?” you asked, observing the wound. You already knew the answer.

“Yes” Neteyam said.

“Well, not well enough. Sit! Does it hurt?”

“No.”

You quirked at eyebrow at him, your tail swishing impatiently.

“A bit.” Neteyam’s ears flicked as his eyes flitted between you and the bowl of Yerik stew. “Can you at least eat first? Waiting a couple of more minutes won’t kill me.” He smiled at you playfully. He was normally very reserved, the smiling Neteyam was usually saved for his family.

But you only huffed, filling a cup with the last of the tea from earlier. “Here, drink this while I eat.” As you sat down with your bowl of stew, Neteyam took a small gulp of the liquid in his cup. His brows furrowed but other than that, he did an okay job of hiding his disgust. But having known him since you were kids, you could tell when he hid the truth. “You can grimace, you know” you giggled over the bowl. “It won’t hurt my feelings. I know it’s disgusting.”

Neteyam hummed, only making a small grimace after his next sip. “It’s not the best” he admitted with a sheepish smile. “But it’s effective. And a lot better than the last time. You’re getting very good at this, experimenting with medicine.” You couldn’t help but blush at his praise.

But you had also just stuffed your mouth full of food, so the only answer he got was that damned blush you wished would go away. As soon as you finished the bowl, you go to work on his shoulder.

Your hand trembled slightly as it made contact with Neteyam’s warm skin, holding him steady while the other hand cleaned his wound with a cloth. Your hand rose and fell with each of his breaths, and you leaned in to see properly in the firelight. Eywa, he smelled so good. Always had. It was intoxicating, and also the reason why you never got too close to him.

Your family and the Sully family had been friends since forever, you and your brother grew up together with the Sully’s, but as your brother made lots of other friends, your only real friend was Kiri. Of course, Kiri came with Lo’ak, Spider and Tuk and they were great, like additional siblings. But they weren’t Neteyam. With his broad shoulders, gentle voice, infectious smile, kind heart and protective older brother demeanor, it was impossible to not gain a crush on him. That crush had lasted on and on since you were fourteen. At seventeen, even you had to admit to yourself that you had fallen in love with him. And how could you not? He was everything, had everything. He was the handsome son of the Olo'eyktan that all the women gazed after, giggled around and tried to flirt with. He was the dream you could never have. It had been clear over the years that he only saw you as a friend, as Kiri’s best friend. So you had become very good at dreaming in silence and later suppressing your feelings for the man sitting before you.

Dreams of exploring with him, laughing with him, him confessing his undying love for you and making you his mate. And also not so innocent dreams, dreams of being with him. Of him kissing you, running his hands all over your body, his mouth following suit, him pushing his cock deep into your pussy, joining his kuru with yours, finally creating that everlasting bond…

A hiss from the man in question broke you out of your train of thought. “Sorry” you whispered, your mouth and throat suddenly very dry.

“It’s okay” Neteyam whispered back. You could have sworn that his voice was deeper, throatier, but it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. “It just stings a little.”

You nodded quietly and swallowed, desperately trying to regain some moisture in your mouth so you could get your voice back. Standing up, you took a deep breath that you hoped was subtle and went to get the Yalna bark mixture. This was exactly why you tried to avoid being too close to him. Every time those big golden orbs watched you intently or his smell surrounded you, thought and memories of your illicit fantasies caught up with you and you had to remember that Neteyam was destined for so much more than a healer who was more interested in playing with plants than helping her patients.

He was watching you right now, you could tell. His gaze burned at the back of your neck, but when you turned back around, he thankfully looked away. You had to say something, quickly. The longer you stayed quiet, more memories of last night flooded your brain. Those fantasies of him wrapping your legs around his neck before he-

“Why didn’t you come here before?” you blurt out, desperately avoiding eye contact, trying to calm the erratic beating of your heart.

Neteyam shrugged with his good shoulder, his eyes following the movement of you fingers as you dipped them in the mixture. “There were so many wounded hunters, thought you should prioritize them.”

You huffed at his stubbornness. “Skxawng” you muttered, trying to not take in how defined the muscles around his shoulder area were. “I al- we always have time for you” you corrected quickly. Please Eywa, don’t let him catch that slip up!

You dared a quick glance at his eyes, but you couldn’t read the expression there. He opened his mouth and closed it several times before speaking. “I’ll remember that” he breathed.

Quickly, you looked back down at his wound and shuffled closer to be able to apply the ointment. Too late you noticed that this position practically placed you between his legs. His knees rubbed against your waist as you leaned forward. Again, you placed one hand on his chest for support before rubbing your coated fingers over his wound.

A small groan left his lips. A groan that caused you to close your eyes and legs tighter together. Thank Eywa that your braids covered your face as you worked, if he saw the deep violet of your cheeks or your eyes that were more black than yellow, he’d probably bolt out and you’d have to dig yourself into a hole of embarrassment and stay there forever. There was nothing sexual about that groan! He was in pain, you reminded yourself. Still, all you could feel was the beating of your heart and the lightning bolts of pleasure going from your stomach to your core.

This was exactly why you needed to keep a safe distance from him! When there were other people around or you kept yourself at a respectable distance, it was easier to remember that all you would ever be was his friend. It made it easier to suppress everything.

As soon as you could, you bolted from your position as if you had just been burnt. Clearing your throat, you look away, letting your braids hide your face again. “Okay, you’re all set” you murmured under the guise of putting everything back at its rightful place.

You could hear Neteyam standing up behind you, shuffling about a little. “Thank you, Emreyìtre. I appreciate it.” It was so rare for someone to call you by your full name. It caused a flutter of your heart that made you feel both happy and sad at the same time. “Are you staying here long?”

Why did he want to know? Did it matter what you did? “Probably not” you answered slowly, finally turning around to face him. “We used up a lot of Mo’at’s supply today. I was going to forage some more for her so we can all start fresh tomorrow.”

“Now?” he questioned, gesturing to the setting sun outside of the tent. “It will be dark soon.”

You crossed your arms, tail swishing slightly. “So? I’m not afraid of the dark.”

Neteyam’s ears flicked upwards along with his tail. “I know” he smiled. “But I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

You sighed… You wanted to say something derogatory to distract him from the real reason you didn’t want him accompanying you. It’s not like you could tell him you wanted the alone time to cool off and maybe shoot a couple of arrows in between gathering. But when you looked into those hopeful, determined eyes of his, you couldn’t lie. Damn him! “Fine. As long as you remember that I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself then you can make yourself useful and help me carry everything.”

You thrusted a satchel bag into his hands. Neteyam snorted and slung it over his shoulder before accepting the large pile of smaller containers that you had woven for this very purpose. You gathered the same equipment for yourself before also armoring yourself with your daggers and bow and arrow.

As you walked, you tried to stay a couple of paces ahead of him, both to show him the way but also to give yourself some space to think. As eclipse slowly set in, his tanhì would illuminate more and more, creating that perfect canvas of speckled light. He had always been so beautiful in the dark, his features somehow more prominent than during the day. Over the years, you had spent many evenings around a campfire with him and his family. Carefully watching him out of the corner of your eye, you had decided that nighttime was his best look.

But you couldn’t think of that right now! If this was going to work, having him accompany you, then it couldn’t be awkward. You had to treat him the same way as you would anyone else helping you. And that meant no ogling! Hence why you were walking ahead of him.

Neteyam walked diligently behind you, not saying much, just following in your footsteps. Eventually you stopped in front of a clearing.

“Here” you pointed towards a patch of green. “See those plants with the rounded leaves?” He nodded, stepping closer to you to observe the plants. “Dig up the roots, clean them and put them in one container. As many as you can fit.”

“What do they do?” he asked curiously as he sunk down to his knees.

“They calm anxiousness” you answered immediately. “They can also help people sleep if prepared properly.”

As Neteyam worked on the roots, you used your knife to gather the same herbs you had boiled earlier today. Neteyam proved to excel at this, like everything else. He quickly filled the woven bag with roots and immediately asked for a new task. You set him to work as much as you could, both to get the work done faster and because you secretly wanted to see that pleased smile whenever he showed you his collection of plants. He was like one of those yellow canines Jake had showed you on a computer once. The ones that existed on earth. He had that same eagerness to please and do well.

It warmed your heart that he genuinely wanted to help. Yet you also had to remind yourself that this eagerness was not singled out for you. He probably wanted to help everyone with the same fervor. He was the next Olo’eyktan, after all. If the people were supposed to follow him, then he had to show he would be there for them with the same loyalty.

But as the evening went on, Neteyam followed you more and more, asking you to tell him about each and every plant you collected. And it was nice to have something to talk about. Something that you could sink into without feeling self-conscious. So, you happily shared your knowledge.

“See this one?” you sat down in front of a plant with thick, pointy stems and sharp edges. “Kiri and I discovered the use of it a while ago. It soothes burns, produces a cooling sensation.” You broke off a piece of the stem and cut it in half. A clear, gel-like liquid oozed out. You collected some on your fingers and you could swear you heard your foraging partner swallow. But before you had time to process whether he did, you reached for his arm to stroke some on it. “Feel that?” you smiled up at him.

“Yeah” he murmured before looking up at you. “That’s incredible.”

“I’m experimenting with it, to see if I can make turn it into an ointment somehow.”

Neteyam looked at you with hooded eyes. “If anyone can, it’s you.”

A blush spread across your cheeks. He had given you so many compliments tonight, it was hard to believe that this wasn’t one of your daydreams. Even harder when you observed the way his tanhì glowed in the moonlight, the way his braids fell to perfectly frame his face, his gentle smile, his golden eyes looking up at you from under his eyelashes again. The urge to be closer to him was overwhelming. Every fibre of your being longed for him, to feel his lips against yours. But you had to stay strong. He was forbidden territory. Kiri’s brother, the future clan leader, and most importantly; he wasn’t interested. And making any kind of move would ruin whatever it was that you two had.

So you cleared your throat and stood up. “After we get some of these, we should be set to head back” you said quietly, turning away from him.

The two of you quickly gathered the last plant and began walking back. But before you had gotten far you stumbled upon some of your favorite materials for making clothing. A small squeal of happiness left your lips as you bent down to scoop up some of the pebbles.

“Do these have a medical purpose?” Neteyam asked you curiously and picked some up himself.

“No” you admitted bashfully, placing the small white pebbles in your bag. “I use them to make beads and other decorations for my chest coverings.”

“Oh…” Neteyam’s eyes flitted downwards for a moment before he bent down to scoop some more pebbles into his hand to examine them further. “Is it hard to make beads out of them?”

“No” you shrugged. “Just time consuming.” Neteyam nodded slowly.

The two of you walked the rest of the way in silence. It had been such a nice evening and you desperately tried to remember that it was simply an outing between friends. You couldn’t get your hopes up over this one thing. He just came along to make sure you didn’t get lost out there…

“Hey” Neteyam stopped you with a hand on your elbow when the village appeared ahead. “Thank you for letting me come with you. I really needed to clear my head for a bit.”

Your ears perked in interest. “Oh?” His mood seemed to have dampened somewhat, judging by the way his eyes suddenly had darkened and his tail swished slightly when he looked at his family’s marui. “Can I ask why?” you probed gently. “Or is it too personal?” Whatever it was, a part of you really wanted, needed, to know.

Neteyam rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “Mom and dad have been trying to have a conversation with me for a couple of days. A conversation I don’t really want to have.” He looked at his home, his cheeks a bit more violet than usual. You nodded gently for him to continue. He cleared his throat and refused to meet your gaze. “They want me to start looking for a mate.”

And just like that, you could feel cracks appearing in your heart. “Oh…” you whispered, now avoiding his gaze, as well. You had always known this day would come, but mentally preparing and being slapped in the face with it were two entirely different things.

“And it’s not that I don’t want a mate” he added hurriedly. “I do. I just don’t want to be rushed into any big decisions. Whoever I mate with will have to burden a lot of responsibility and I don’t want to force that on anyone. I know what’s like to have so much responsibility thrust upon you that you didn’t ask for.”

You nodded slowly, blinking furiously. Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, but they had to stay away! You would not cry over the news that a friend was supposed to celebrate. Be supportive! “I’m sure whoever it will be will make a great tsahìk one day” you murmured, clutching your bag closer to your chest. “Since we’re here, I can take the bags to the healing hut.”

“I can help you with that!” Neteyam offered immediately, making you want to cry even more. But not now, not yet!

“No, no I’ll be fine” you lied, your voice a lot shakier than you would have liked. “Go home, Neteyam. I’m sure your parents are wondering where you are.” He reluctantly handed you the bag he was carrying. You gave him a forced smile. “Goodbye.”

You started to walk away before he could answer, desperate to get away. He called after you. “Goodbye Emmy!”

The tears finally spilled over. It felt like a ‘goodbye’ in more ways than one…

Let me know what you think!!!

#avatar #avatar the way of water #atwow #neteyam #neteyam te suli tsyeyk'itan #neteyam x reader #neteyam x omaticaya!reader #neteyam fanfiction #neteyam lives #canon divergence #neteyam x you #ao3 fanfic #swedishlittleowl #avatar x reader #neteyam sully x na’vi!reader #na’vi smut #neteyam x Reader smut

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arduouslove · 2 years ago

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Loving You isn't Hard to Learn 06

genres: hybrid, romance, found family, slow burn(ish) series rating: mature (mentions of/references to death and abuse. eventual smut) chapter warnings (may contain spoilers): mentions of death. accusations of drugging/roofie-ing. descriptions of injury to the face. the reader character cooks meat; if you don't eat meat, please think of it as them just cooking it for other people. relationship(s): ot7 x female reader

In the middle of what many would call nowhere, a sign glows bright yellow. Old, unmaintained, and on its last legs, the letter e flickers for a few seconds before going dark. H aven’s Door Motel, it now reads.

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The floor is cold when you wake up on it, though not as cold as it could be, so you must've been sleeping on the floor for at least a couple hours. As you sit up, you try to get on your knees, but find your legs tangled up in half of a throw blanket. You grumble, touching one hand to the side of your head, where you had to have laid directly on the floor rather than the throw pillow you can see pushed under the coffee table. Okay, you're definitely not telling Hoseok your head kind of hurts. He's already enough of a worrywart. Speaking of...

Looking up at the couch, you see Hoseok's sleeping face smushed against the cushion, his hair ruffled all over and his mouth slightly open. Upon closer inspection, a small wet spot of drool has grown on the couch cushion directly under his mouth. You grimace at that but quickly shake the split second of disgust away. It's just saliva; it'll wash out just fine.

You untangle yourself from the blanket, and when you stand up, you drape it over Hoseok's sleeping form as quietly as you can. Yawning, you head to the kitchen, first filling your kettle and turning it on, then moving to the other side of the counter and unplugging your phone from the wall. As the screen flicks on, you see a missed call from Lee Minhyuk from only a few minutes ago, and a text from him that followed soon after.

It seems I forgot to leave one last thing to you. I found it in our storage this morning. I'll be in my office all day if you'd like to come and pick it up. Otherwise, please let me know by phone call.

As professional as always, this guy. Glancing over at the microwave, you take note that it's only 8:56AM, which isn't that early for someone like him, but still. Lee Minhyuk is punctual, you'll give him that. Well, you suppose if you head out soon, you could get back before ten, depending on what it is Minhyuk forgot to give you. Some paperwork, maybe. He did say before that Mr. Jung had liquidated everything he owned other than the motel... You wonder what it could be.

Not wanting to wake your two house guests up, you stop the kettle before it can beep to signal that it's boiled and pour the hot water over a tea bag in a to-go mug to let it steep while you get changed. You sneak on tip-toes back to your room, and you move your hand as deftly as possible on your bedroom doorknob, focusing on your feet as you step in and close the door behind you. Bee-lining to your dresser, you tug off your pyjamas and pull on some fresh clothes as quietly as you can.

But when you turn around, Jimin is sitting up in your bed and looking at you with a frown.

"Oh my gosh!" You jump and pat a hand over your heart, taking a sharp breath in at the sudden sight of him. He barely reacts, just raising one of his eyebrows at you, his bottom half still snug under the comforter. "How long were you just sitting there?"

Eyes still half closed, Jimin says, "Long enough."

"Oh. Well..." Embarrassment trickles along your veins knowing he watched you trying to quietly sneak in. He looks too tired and uninterested to care about the fact that you changed right in front of him, though. There goes your confidence in your own sex appeal. "...Did you sleep okay?"

"It was fine." His words come out short and curt, and you can't quite pinpoint why, but you get a weird feeling as you try not to narrow your eyes. He flips the covers off himself and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, using his hands at his sides to push himself off and stand. His eyes dart around your room. "Where are my clothes?"

You blink. "Oh. They're in a hamper in the bathroom. I was planning on putting them through the wash and then making something to eat." Of course, stopping by Lee Minhyuk's office threw a tiny wrench in those plans, but still, you weren't expecting this from Jimin as soon as he woke up. Whatever this is.

Just as he tries to exit your bedroom, you move to stand between him and the door, your hand held up. Jimin stops himself before either of you touch, and he frowns slightly when you go, "Whoa, hold on. What's the hurry?"

"I have to go back."

"Go back?" you echo, confusion tinged in your voice, but Jimin doesn't bother. He gently puts a hand on your wrist and moves you out of the way, which you let him do all too easily in your stupor. Go back? To the streets? Blinking and shaking yourself out of it, you turn to follow him into the bathroom, where you watch him find his dirty clothes at the top of the pile in the hamper. "What do you mean?"

Jimin doesn't look at you as he focuses on unbuttoning his pyjama top. "She's looking for me."

Sputtering, you completely miss the fact that Jimin is taking off his clothes right in front of you. "Rayoung?"

Even though he doesn't answer you, the determined look in his eyes tells you you're right. He slips on his old clothes and pushes past you again.

"She is?" You struggle to follow both him and his words, stepping into the main living space after him. "How do you know--"

Jimin whips around, and you almost bump into him, but your feet screech to a halt directly in front of him. He glares at you with those piercing brown eyes. "She loves me," he says.

Your mouth opens and closes like those dogs in kids movies they'd feed peanut butter to so it'd look like they were talking. You can't say what you think, no, that would be too harsh. You can't just say outright that someone who loves him wouldn't leave him to live miserably like he did. But, what can you say? You don't want him to go back to where he was, even if what he thinks of Rayoung is true... not when you have something within likeness of a solution so close to falling in your grasp. You were planning on going to the motel this evening with Hoseok -- and, ideally, Jimin -- to scope out the building better and finally figure out what the hell you're doing.

"Jimin..." You hold yourself back from reaching out to him, knowing that your touch might be the last thing he wants. "At least eat something..."

"I'm not hungry," he tells you, and with the conviction he puts behind the words, you almost believe him.

"C'mon, at least a bite--"

"No!"

Jimin's sudden volume startles you, and your eyes go wide as he pushes both hands against you, causing you both to stumble back a step. You stare at your feet for half a second before looking back up at him, a breath of a laugh tainted with disbelief puffing past your lips. "What--"

"Don't come any closer!" He wraps his arms around his chest and scrunches his eyes shut. "I don't know what was in that fucking tea, but you can't keep me here." His back turns to you. "Rayoung was right. I can't trust anyone."

Completely thrown off, you straighten up slowly, his words settling in your brain. "...Excuse me?"

Jimin says no more, simply standing there in the foyer with his back turned, shielding himself from... you.

Roused from his deep slumber, Hoseok appears next to you. His hair is tousled and pressed flat against the side of his head that he slept on, but the sight isn't as endearing as it would be if you weren't so baffled by what Jimin just said. Taking one step in front of you, Hoseok puts a hand on your arm before you've even realized you went to get closer to Jimin, one hand up and pointed at him.

"You--" Hoseok's firm grip on your arm stops you from getting far, and as he pulls you partway behind him and your shoulder bumps into his back, you lower your voice to a whisper. "You think I drugged you?"

With his head down low, Jimin still refuses to respond. His entire body trembles, fear coursing through him like rapids under his skin. Even you can see it.

But something fogs over your rationality.

"Are you serious right now? I didn't-- I would never--" You try to take a deep breath, but it gets stuck in your throat and only serves to fuel this ugly feeling inside your chest. "You're delusional."

Hoseok hushes out your name, a warning of sorts, or maybe something closer to a plea. You don't hear it past the ringing in your ears.

"And it's not because of anything in my fucking tea," you continue. "No, you know why you're delusional?"

Hesitantly, Jimin turns around half-way, his frowning profile causing that awful roiling in you to flare up.

"Because even though you've been living on the streets for months, starved enough to root through restaurant trash bins, abandoned by the very person who supposedly loves you--" Something flashes across Jimin's eyes, but you have no grasp of what it is. "--you still think she's coming back for you."

No one says anything for a second -- too long, and Hoseok's hand slides down your arm and gently wraps around your wrist. You tug it out of his grasp with a sharp inhale. "So let's just go," you say, walking to where you keep your car keys. The jingle-jangle as you pick up your keys is the only sound in the apartment aside from your footsteps. "I'll take you right now. Near Antonio's, right? She left you around there and that's where you think she'll go looking for you?"

Hoseok softly calls your name again, but you don't hear him. Jimin only follows you with angry eyes.

"I was on my way out anyway," you continue. With your hand already on the doorknob, you slip on your shoes. "So yeah, I have no problem with dropping you off on your own with nowhere to go." You pull the door towards you and step out, eyes still on your feet. "Where you have no sure way of getting food."

Jimin doesn't look at you as he puts on his shoes.

"Where Hybrid Services already know your face--"

Your words choke to a stop when you look down the hall towards the elevators. That damned fluorescent yellow armband you had no business caring about a couple days ago -- two of them -- appear in your sight just a few metres away, directly in front of the apartment-next-door's open entrance, where your neighbour to the right, Anne-Marie, is talking to the two officers.

Without uttering another sound, you push Jimin back inside your apartment as quickly and overtly as you can. Unfortunately, this means you achieve that by shoving your hand in Jimin's face, but your head isn't exactly in the right place to think about hiding-someone-away etiquette.

"Wha--?! Stop--!"

"Shh!" You make frantic eye contact with Hoseok while Jimin glares daggers at you. At this point, you know you can't just go back inside yourself; both the officers and your neighbour have probably seen you already. You keep your voice as quiet as you can, hoping the boys can still hear you with their weird hybrid powers. "Both of you, not a peep. Got it?"

You don't wait for either of them to answer before you grab the doorknob and swing the door shut in their faces. As soon as you look back down the hall, both officers, a man and a woman, and Anne-Marie are looking at you.

"Good morning," you greet with a slight bow, completely unsure of what to do or say next.

Would asking some sort of question be suspicious? Or would trying to walk by and ignoring them be even worse?

Either way, you have to get to the elevator...

Before you have to decide, (or maybe after you already should've, considering the awkward silence,) Anne-Marie waves you over with a slight frown. "Leaving so early today?"

"Ah..." You nod at her with a strained smile as you walk up to her and the officers, making sure to smile and nod at them too in that weird, you're not really part of this conversation but you're standing here so I'll try to include you sort of way. "Yes, I have some errands to run this morning."

Anne-Marie doesn't question you, thank goodness, and just gestures towards the officers. "Well you should hear them out before you go," she says. "Apparently there's a feral hybrid on the loose."

"Feral hybrid?"

You don't have to fake the initial look of concern that appears on your face, but the way you deepen your frown at the flyer one of the officers hands you is definitely for show.

"Yes," he confirms, face stiff and almost bored from repeating the words so many times to all the residents in the building already. "He ran away from a hybrid clinic in the city and was last spotted in this neighbourhood."

Anne-Marie nods along as he speaks and shakes her head when he points out the area the hybrid was spotted last night on a small map included in the flyer. "So close to home..." she mutters, which he ignores.

Continuing after him, the female officer speaks up. "We're doing rounds to make sure everyone living in the area is aware of the risks of a feral hybrid, as well as inform everyone of the proper procedure."

"Which is...?"

"Do not approach," the man tells you as your eyes finally focus in on the two pictures of the feral hybrid, one from the front and another of his profile. In both photos, he's smiling, eyes bright. "It's dangerous for regular citizens to attempt to capture feral hybrids. Leave it to the professionals and call Hybrid Services upon encounter."

He doesn't look so dangerous.

His smile is wide and almost boyish, like someone told him he was posing for a photo op rather than the strange hybrid-version of a mug shot it actually is. He holds up his name placard like it's an award he's proud of. "V," it reads, then a bunch of numbers underneath. His animal ears are perked straight up, and you can't tell what kind of ears they are in the grainy black-and-white pictures, not to mention how small they look compared to Hoseok's. Still, the deepness of his smile, the happiness in his eyes and the scrunch of his nose -- you're not scared at all.

You don't say any of that, though.

"I'll keep an eye out, thank you," you say with a polite smile. "What kind of hybrid is he?"

The two share a look, the female officer grimacing before she turns back to you. "That's unfortunately classified information."

"What? Why? Wouldn't it help us be safer and more prepared if we know what he looks like?" You turn to make eye contact with Anne-Marie, who drinks in your words and nods with a slight frown towards the officers, a finger propped concernedly on her chin.

The man sighs. "As much as I agree with you, these pictures are the only images any of us have to go off of. Even Hybrid Services hasn't been informed of his sub-species. It's private information belonging to the clinic, and legally, we don't need to have it to apprehend the hybrid."

"I see..."

After thanking them again and giving your due goodbyes, you do your best not to turn around and watch the officers as you wait for the elevator. You step into the elevator, and as your finger finds the button for the ground floor, you peak down the hall and let out a breath of relief. The officers seem to have skipped your door because you already spoke to them.

It would probably be suspicious to re-enter your apartment so soon while they're still patrolling your floor, you think. The last thing you need right now is Hybrid Services finding a reason to look into you.

And, maybe, you need a minute to yourself. Just to breathe.

You hadn't meant to snap at Jimin like that, it just... So much doesn't make sense to you. You've barely had Hoseok around for a few days, but you feel as though your friendship is something already. Maybe not something to be proud of, exactly, but it's something.

Jimin... you've known him for even less time, if you could even call that "knowing" him at all. And yet, you felt this strange surge of protectiveness over him.

You really hope that isn't part of the saviour thing Hoseok spoke of before...

Sighing into the empty elevator, you try not to think about the fact that it probably is, and instead focus on what is right in front of you. Your car keys are still in your hand, the shape imprinted into your palm from how hard your nerves had made you grip them between your fingers while you talked to the officers.

You take the coward's route and run away.

Lee Minhyuk's office building isn't that far in terms of distance, but the traffic around it is pure hell. It gives you much too much time alone with only your thoughts. You try to drown them out with whatever is on the radio, but even that can't seem to calm the disquiet within you. The more you think about the things you said, the more regret builds in your gut. What right did you have to say those things to Jimin? Sure, you think it's a fool's dream to believe this Rayoung girl is out there searching for him, but to purposefully shut him down like that? To crush that dream just because you got offended by emotions he was completely valid in feeling? Just because he's been scarred by humans before and you happen to be one? It's not his fault that he thought you might've drugged him, it's a product of--

"Ah, you're here."

Blinking, you realize that your body went on autopilot and walked you up to Lee Minhyuk's office without you knowing, and you watch his back as he goes to sit at his desk.

"Yeah I... got your text," you say dazedly, unsure of anything else you could possibly say in the moment.

"Well, it's good that you came. I wouldn't want you to go without this." Minhyuk holds his hand out, and you step closer to his desk to let him drop whatever the thing he forgot is in your awaiting palm.

A single key stares up at you, attached by a small ring to a simple metal tag.

Silver Meadows Columbarium, it reads.

"Oh."

Moving the key to your fingers, you flip over the tag and read lot C 258 on the back. You'd never heard of Silver Meadows Columbarium before. Never needed to...

"I believe Mr Jung set up his..." Minhyuk pauses as he mulls over his word choice. "...accommodations before he passed."

You can't help but ask, "Just him? No family, or...?"

Your words trail off, both of you knowing that Mr Jung left you as his sole beneficiary. If he had family, he didn't leave them anything. Not even the location of his remains.

Minhyuk shakes his head, and you frown.

"He prepared for his own death all by himself?"

Your concern is met with a small, understanding smile on Minhyuk's face. "Well, he may have done the paperwork himself, but he wasn't alone. He had you."

"But I--" You hardly knew Mr Jung.

"He brought you up more than once," Minhyuk says, making you close your mouth and blink stupidly at him. At your silence, he continues. "He came to my office a few times to sign the papers and whatnot, and he mentioned you every time. Always said you're the only one who laughs at his jokes."

"They're funny!"

Your own response jars you a bit. The last time you said that, you thought Mr Jung was alive.

Minhyuk only smiles again, softly. "He was happy you thought so."

"Did he say that?"

"Not in so many words, but I it wasn't hard to tell. Don't get too caught up in the fact that Jung didn't have blood relatives he wanted to include in his will. Evidently--" He gestures to you. "--he had a family of sorts."

Except that you weren't it. You couldn't be, right?

A seedling plants itself in the forefront of your mind.

A seedling named Hoseok.

That's must be it -- Mr Jung wanted to leave his estate to Hoseok, but couldn't figure out how to, legally. Hybrids probably can't even have bank accounts, much less accept inheritance, which is why Mr Jung defaulted to you. He trusted you to help Hoseok start up Heaven's Door as the legal owner of the land it's built on.

In his letter, he'd said it's that it's you, whatever that means.

You look down at the key in your hand, taking a deep breath in. It might not be the key to Heaven's Door Motel, but you clutch it in your fingers, and as you step out of Lee Minhyuk's office, you make a silent promise to Mr Jung.

You'll get Heaven's Door up and running.

And you'll do a damn good job of it too.

When you return to your apartment, you have a brown paper bag of fresh pastries in your hand and a heavy something in your chest. You tried to figure out what you want to say to the two hybrids in your place on your way home, but it's hard. You feel like all you keep doing is messing up. Now, you even ran off without a word after seeing the Hybrid Services officers, which had to have freaked Hoseok out.

You grimace as you twist the doorknob. Less than an hour ago, you'd resolved yourself to running Heaven's Door with everything you've got, but are you really the right person for the job?

When you enter, you go to call out for Hoseok, but you freeze with your mouth partially open. The guys stand ramrod straight in front of you, Hoseok with a slight smile and Jimin with a hesitant clench of his jaw, arms crossed. You gape at them for a couple seconds until Hoseok frowns at Jimin and jabs his elbow into his side.

"Ow! What the--"

"Don't you have something to say?" Hoseok prompts through his teeth, a harsh grit to the question.

Jimin huffs, his arms shifting in front of his chest, hands holding his own arms a little tighter. He meets your eyes. "I'm--"

"Wait." You hold up a hand to stop him, not missing the confusion that flashes across Hoseok's face. Something like panic reflects in Jimin's eyes when he sneaks a glance at Hoseok, but you don't acknowledge it. "Let's talk." With the hand still holding the paper bag, you gesture towards the couch. "Have a seat. Both of you."

Jimin doesn't move until Hoseok does, following silently while Hoseok watches you out of the corner of his eye as he sits down.

You set the pastries on the kitchen table before making your way to them, stopping in front of the couch and chewing over your thoughts. Jimin regards you with a half-frown, brows knitted in apparent distrust. You can't really blame him.

If your ears were better, you might've heard the slight gasp Hoseok let out when you dropped to your knees, bent down, and pressed your forehead to your hands, which are now flat on the floor. You bow in front of them, let out a breath, and raise your head once you gather your thoughts, putting your hands respectfully on your lap. "I'm sorry," you say. "I fucked up."

Hoseok's ears twitch, dipping, and he scoots forward on the cushion, about to say something, but you don't let him.

"Jimin, I want to apologize for this morning. I had no right to react the way I did." You look at Jimin, but you can't read his face. "It's not your fault if humans have hurt you enough to make you think we're all the same. People can be... horrible. I wish things were different, but... I want you to know that I will never intentionally hurt you--" Your eyes meet Hoseok's. "--either of you. I'm not going to punish you. I'm not going to force or coerce you into anything you don't want to do. I don't want to be the kind of human you're afraid of."

Hoseok shakes his head. "I'm not afraid--"

"I can't promise I won't fuck up again," you say, wincing as you realize you've spoken over him, but when he doesn't speak up again, you continue. "I honestly feel like a walking disaster with how many times I've fucked up, and it's only been a couple days. Sometimes I speak before I think, and I really need to work on that. I'm sorry."

You don't know when you started staring into your lap, but you let out a long breath, and only after that do you slowly look up at the two hybrids. They both wear blank expressions, and it makes you want to shrink back in on yourself. "I just--"

"I lied," Jimin blurts out, and you face him, eyes slightly widening.

"...Lied? About what?"

Sighing, Jimin casts a glance at Hoseok, who nods determinedly. He fidgets with his hands, looking at them rather than meeting your eyes. "I guess, technically, Rayoung isn't looking for me right now," he mumbles. "But she will. As soon as she breaks up with her stupid tool boyfriend."

"Oh." You blink at Jimin. "Well, um... You're welcome to stay with us. Until then, I mean."

Jimin's lips form into a contemplative pout, but he says nothing.

You scratch the back of your neck. Is there a good way to approach this? "We could, um... let her know somehow? That you're with us."

You eye Hoseok, who's hopefully in the same boat for you to be saying we. He wasn't exactly Jimin's biggest fan last night, weird possessiveness over pyjama sets aside. Now, though, you see that even he can tell this Rayoung girl is bad news. Still, Jimin's ties to her seem to run deep, and you know it's nowhere near simple to tell someone a person they love isn't as great as they thought.

Jimin takes a deep breath in, his shoulders scrunching up as his body tenses and relaxes. "Can I... think about it?"

"Of course!" You perk up at the idea of him even considering your offer after the way you snapped this morning, and you point at the brown paper bag on the table. "Do you want to have breakfast while you think?"

While Jimin marks a straight line to the kitchen, Hoseok holds his hand out for you before you even move to get up. You take it, and he uses his other hand to gently grasp your elbow and lift you onto your feet. He doesn't let go right away, instead holding both your hands and whispering, "You shouldn't have gone out alone." He rubs his thumbs over your knuckles. "You're still concussed."

The proximity combined with his concern for you causes heat to stir in your chest. It's uncomfortable and foreign, so you try to force it down, smiling and letting out a chuckle that screams casual. You hope. "I can hold my own. Besides, I think I'm all better; right as rain up here." You pull one of your hands out of his tender hold and curl it into a fist, knocking on your cranium like a door. Except, the impact makes your brain swish around in your skull like gargled fluoride. "Whoa-- shit."

You sway, tipping the direction you knocked your own head into. Hoseok keeps you standing, but he doesn't like it. "You just proved my point."

"Listen--"

"From now on, no going off on your own," he says, and from his tone, there's no point in a rebuttal.

You roll your eyes, and, whoa, does the room always spin when you do that? Still, even wooziness can't stopper your sarcasm. "Protective much?"

"Kind of my job description."

"I thought I was your bodyguard," you tease, and he chuckles, his seriousness evaporating with the sound.

"As if--"

"You're dumb."

You and Hoseok both turn towards the kitchen, where Jimin stands next to the table with a half eaten pastry in his mouth. Ignoring the glare he's under from Hoseok, which you don't notice, he speaks around the pastry. "Only a dumb person would go out on their own in your condition."

Even though you're pretty sure he should be on the same side as Jimin on this, Hoseok sneers at him, the slightest of growls rumbling in his throat.

Jimin holds up a hand, mockingly. "Easy, pup."

"I'm older than you, punk!"

You can't help it; you laugh. Jimin is all over the place, accusing you of atrocities one second and talking to you and Hoseok like you're long-time friends the next. The two hybrids cease their bickering at the sound of your laughter.

"Okay, okay." You take a breath to stop the giggles threatening to break past your lips. "New temporary house rule: no one should go off on their own unless they have to."

Jimin raises a brow. "No one?"

"Ideally." You nod. "Which brings me to the next thing I wanted to talk about. When the Hybrid Services officers were here before, they were telling everyone there's a feral hybrid in the area. The entire neighbourhood is going to be on alert-- I don't know how kindly they'll take to finding any unregistered or, uh, stray hybrids if they run into either of you alone."

Nodding along, Hoseok rubs his chin with his thumb. "Makes sense."

"They know what the hybrid looks like, but we don't know how much they actually care about the picture. Who knows if they'd just nab any male hybrid off the street," you say. "It's probably best to play it safe; at least while we're still in the neighbourhood."

"What do you mean, 'still in the neighbourhood'?" Jimin asks, curious.

You smack your own forehead and ignore the way Hoseok immediately brings his hands up like you're going to knock yourself over any second now. "Right, uh... We're kind of..." Bringing up a hand, you gesture between yourself and Hoseok. "...prospective business owners? Is that--? No, we're, uh...starting up a motel? But, like, for hybrids?"

Hoseok is decidedly unhelpful with explaining what Heaven's Door is meant to be, staying silent and just making a face as you botch it.

"Anyway, it might be safer if we head out there sooner rather than later if the neighbourhood is getting paranoid over stray hybrids. It's outside of the city, and Hybrid Services doesn't do patrols out there. I was thinking to move once I'd figured more shit out, but I didn't think the whole 'feral hybrid' thing would happen today, and I definitely didn't foresee meeting you." Not that anything that's happened to you in the last few days could've been foreseen, either. You smile at Jimin. "But hey, at least you were a pleasant surprise."

"Didn't I threaten to kill you?."

You shrug. "I'm still here, aren't I?"

"And your guard dog attacked me."

"After you attacked her!" Hoseok argues.

Clicking his tongue, Jimin gives his head a nod. "Point taken."

"Anyhow," you continue on. "While you think about what you wanna do, I'd like you to come with us. Of course, you're free to refuse. I still have two-ish weeks of rent paid for this place, so you could stay here, but..." You share a look with Hoseok, then return your eyes to Jimin.

"...I'd be alone?" he finishes for you.

"I guess I'd just feel better if you're with us."

Jimin seems to absorb your words, but he stays silent for a few seconds. He tosses the last bite of the pastry into his mouth, chewing quietly and brushing his hands together to get rid of the leftover crumbs. He takes a breath. "I guess I sort of owe you for the food and the bed I slept in last night... The least I can do is make you feel better."

Your cheeks make way for a beaming smile.

"Just while I think about it."

You school yourself. "Right! Right," you say, clearing your throat of any enthusiasm that might've gotten clogged in there. "Just while you're thinking about it. Nothing's set in stone."

Either Hoseok calls shotgun outside of your hearing range, or Jimin silently sits in the backseat of your car out of some unfounded sense of regularity. He doesn't speak a word as you drive, just watches the world pass by through the side window. You can't really see him in the rear view mirror, and most of your focus is on the road, but there are a few moments where you catch his fingers scratching at his arms before he flexes his hands and stops. You're reminded of the red, bumpy skin you saw on his arms. Now, it's covered by his shirt and jacket, both of which you convinced him to let you wash before you all left your apartment.

"I don't think this is the right way..." Hoseok says, squinting at the street signs as you drive out of the inner city.

"Yeah, uh." You'd looked up the address to Silver Meadows before you left, and it's practically on the other side of the city as Heaven's Door. "There's somewhere I wanted to go first. You know how I left this morning?"

Hoseok nods.

"Well, it wasn't just to throw a tantrum, if that's what you were thinking."

"I thought maybe you were trying to get those Hybrid Services officers to think you were going somewhere, so they'd think no one was in your apartment," Hoseok says, making your eyebrows rise on your forehead.

"Wow, you're pretty intuitive, aren't you?" Your eyes dart to the backseat, but you can't see Jimin's face since he's sitting right behind you. "Were you guys able to hear that whole conversation in the hallway?"

Jimin scoffs, something sarcastic in the simple sound, while Hoseok nods again. "It's weird how even they don't know the species of the feral hybrid," he says. "Without that information, they'd go after any stray hybrid they encounter -- not that they weren't doing that already."

"But they might treat any stray like they're feral and dangerous," you finish the thought process for him, and when you meet his eyes, he sports a grim expression. You roll your shoulders back, sighing. "It's a good enough reason to stay on our toes, but hopefully we won't run into any trouble outside of my neighbourhood..."

And, hopefully, the feral hybrid doesn't get found by anyone less than civil. The cheerful face of that hybrid flashes across your mind, and you wonder about his circumstances. What makes a hybrid go feral, anyway? What made him run away from the hybrid clinic? How much of the information the officers gave you is a stretching of the truth?

"So where did you go?" Hoseok asks when you make another unfamiliar turn.

"Lee Minhyuk texted me -- he was Mr Jung's estate lawyer." You add that in to give Jimin some context, but you're not sure if he's even listening. "He forgot to give me the key for Mr Jung's niche."

Hoseok's brows furrow as he echoes you. "Niche?"

"It's what they call the individual sections in a columbarium," you explain, not too informed yourself, but you know enough. You take Hoseok's silence as him not filling the gaps quite yet. "Mr Jung's urn is being kept in one. Lot C, niche 258, at Silver Meadows Columbarium."

"Oh." Hoseok doesn't exactly slump in his seat, but you see the way his shoulders sag just the slightest. "He was cremated?"

You nod, eyes still on the road. "Yeah... I hadn't thought about it much. I'd assumed his family was dealing with all the..." Breathing out a long exhale through your nose, you try to think of the right words. (And come up with nothing.) "...well, that kind of stuff. But apparently I'm the only one with the key."

"Mr Jung never talked about any family..." Hoseok mumbles.

A road sign ahead reads Silver Meadows, and you slow down to turn into the lot.

"You're not bringing flowers?"

You turn your head at Jimin's sudden question, surprised since he was quiet the whole drive. He meets your eyes.

"You're visiting a grave, and you didn't bring flowers?" he asks, arms crossed.

"Oh." You look downward. "I hadn't thought about that..."

Jimin doesn't say anything, and you've run out of words yourself. Does it make sense to go back to buy some? You think about Mr Jung, and far above wanting to go get flowers for him now, you wish you could've brought him one back then. When he could see it.

You find a parking spot and switch off the engine.

"It's okay," Hoseok says before any of you exit the car. He's not looking at you, though. "We can bring flowers next time."

You watch him step out of the car, and as he does, he pulls his collar out of his pocket and fastens it around his neck, clasping the metal ends together before he shuts the car door behind him. Before you'd left the apartment, you told him to bring it, but you forgot about it during the drive.

"Oh, right. Jimin." You twist in your seat and reach into your bag, finding the red velvet choker you'd stuffed in there earlier. You've never really worn it since someone gave it to you however long ago, and you just hastily grabbed it from your room before you all left the apartment. You hold it out for him. "Wear this for now. It's not technically a collar, but... no one will be looking too closely. I hope."

Jimin frowns, but he takes the choker. "Can't I just stay in the car?"

You don't want to pressure him, but you can't help the grimace that crosses your face. "I feel safer together..."

"Fine," he huffs, bringing his hands up to fasten the choker. "You're lucky this is cute."

By the time you both catch up to Hoseok, he's already found the directions to lot C. He walks silently, and when he finds niche 258, you and Jimin hang a bit back, giving him a moment.

This section of the columbarium is indoors, and the walls and niches seem to be white marble, or made to look like white marble. Whichever it is, it feels a bit... cold.

Mr Jung's niche is empty, save for the black urn inside. Jimin was probably right -- some flowers would at least bring some life to the space.

Hoseok stands in front of the niche, which is embedded in the wall at around the height of his chest. His arms hang limp at his sides. You step up beside him, and you take his hand, gently, bringing it up so you can push the key into his palm.

"I think he meant to give this to you." And everything else, you want to say, but you hold your tongue. That's a lot to put on someone all at once.

You would know.

Hoseok holds his hand in front of him, staring at the key. He looks up at you and meets your eyes with his watery ones. "You think so?"

"Of course I do." You put a hand on Hoseok's shoulder, your thumb rubbing back and forth over his coat. "You said Mr Jung never talked about any family, right? That's because you were his family."

Sniffling, Hoseok bites his bottom lip to stop it from trembling as he breaks eye contact and returns to looking at Mr Jung's niche. "I... I wish he wasn't this far away. He made it so much harder to visit."

"Hey..." Gently, you use your hand on his shoulder to turn Hoseok toward you, then put both your hands on his arms and give him a reassuring squeeze. A tear threatens to roll down his cheek, but you reach up at thumb it away. "I know you probably knew Mr Jung better than I did, but... something in me thinks he'd want to say..." You turn your head to look at the niche, smile, and shake your head. "He's not in there." Bringing a hand up, you softly poke the pad of your pointer finger between Hoseok's eyebrows. "He's in here." You move to his chest and poke at where his heart should be. "And here." Finally, you take both his hands, a bit awkward with the one still holding the key, and hold them between you. "And that's what matters, right?"

Hoseok nods, but his face crumples up, and he tucks it into your neck. You wrap your arms around him just as his embrace you tight. Over his shoulder, you glance at Jimin, who quickly looks away, but you know he was watching. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, suddenly very interested in his worn out shoes.

"But we can still visit, right?" Hoseok mumbles into your skin, bringing your attention back to him.

"Of course. And next time, we'll bring flowers."

As you slide into one of the parking spots in front of Heaven's Door, it occurs to you that this is the first time you're seeing it in the daylight. All of its mediocre glory. The outer walls are a faded yellow, with supporting pillars and railings on the second floor landing which were once white. The doors to the individual rooms are a nice dark green that matches the roofing, but you have to admit they've seen better days. Still, you can feel the potential the old building blooms in your chest.

"Not too bad, hey?" you say to Jimin, who's leaning forward between the driver and passenger seats to peer out the windshield at the place.

He sniffs. "It's no Plaza Hotel."

"You've been?"

"No, I've seen Home Alone 2."

Chuckling, you pull your car key out of the ignition and exit the car. You put your hands on your hips, inhaling a big, exaggerated breath as you take in the motel. Hoseok walks over and stands next to you, arms crossed.

"Well," you say. "It might be a bit of a fixer-upper, but that's nothing a couple of fixer-uppers like us can't handle, right?" You bump your shoulder into Hoseok, who smiles at you and bumps back with his hip. You stumble a bit, but Jimin's hand on your back stops you from swaying too hard. When you take your eyes off your feet, he meets your eyes with a plain expression.

"You guys are disgustingly optimistic."

A hand on his shoulder, you grin. "You just named one of my best traits!"

The move into Heaven's Door is by no means smooth, but you can't say it's not something you expected.

The first thing you notice is the broken window in the convenience store under the motel lobby, which you'd missed that first night in the dark. Hoseok sheepishly admits that he'd had to break in to eat the snack food inside. You don't push it -- that void of time between losing Mr Jung and meeting you isn't a topic you think is worth diving into if it's going to bring Hoseok back to that time. The window won't be cheap, but if you don't put a custom decal on it like the shattered one on the ground, it might not be as expensive.

Secondly, Hoseok leads you and Jimin to the master room you remember Mr Jung mentioning in his letter, and you realize you'd only seen the motel from one side. Behind the lobby, which has a lot of that same forest green as the doors outside, Hoseok shows you the half of the building you had no idea about before. An entire branch extends behind the lobby, about the same length as the front, but instead of the entrances to each room facing outside like the ones you saw before, there are doors mirroring each other on both sides of a hallway. Immediately to the right is the master room, but at the end of the hallway seems to be a common area with couches and coffee tables, and two walls lined with a counter and cabinets. Hoseok tells you it's the same downstairs, except the end of the hall is a kitchen and dining area. It reminds you of a college dorm.

If anyone stayed in the rooms you saw out front, you don't think they'd even notice this half of the building.

The master room is smaller than your apartment, but it has its own half-kitchen and en suite bathroom with a pretty nice shower. Hoseok explains to you that most of Mr Jung's time and focus went into building and upgrading the interior of Heaven's Door, which is why it has its less than shiny exterior.

You can tell Hoseok was staying in the master room up until you... kidnapped(?) him.

"This is probably the nicest room in the motel, huh?" Jimin posits, walking inside with his hands in his pants pockets. He's wearing the clothes he met you in, now washed but no less worn down.

You nod. "Probably. We're a bit far from the city, so it would make sense for the owner to just live here."

"Dibs." Jimin flops down face first into the bed.

Hoseok crosses his arms. "Yah."

As you fail to hide your laughter behind your hand, Jimin squirms in the bed, twisting himself so he lies on his back. He stretches his arms and legs out like a sea star. "Smells too much like dog here, though."

While Hoseok sneers, you say, "Probably because this is Hoseok's room. You and I can take the rooms next door and across the hall."

"Why would I wanna be next door to you?" Jimin closes his eyes and interlocks is fingers behind his head, fully relaxing into the bed.

You let out an affronted scoff. Your hand goes up to your chest, right over your heart even though Jimin can't see it. "Um, my amazing company and charming personality?"

"Pass."

As you and Jimin go through this back-and-forth, you miss the way Hoseok's face fell when you said you'd be in a different room. His disheartened expression goes unnoticed, and when you stand up, proclaiming there's a lot of work to be done, he smiles at you with all the sunshine he can muster.

You're none the wiser.

Aside from the horrors (the mere idea of business management, the building maintenance, the absolute atrocity that is dealing with plumbing, the phone calls, etc, etc,) at least it's fun to print keys. Hoseok apparently never figured the system out because Mr Jung took care of getting it installed, but half an hour on the computer, and you manage to print a key for both yourself and Jimin. He chooses the room across from the master, while you're right next to it.

Hoseok insists on him and Jimin carrying all the food you'd brought inside, but to appease your need to take part, he lets you carry one item for each trip from your car to the common kitchen area. (You find this a little patronizing, but it is admittedly nice to be doted on by them both, even if Jimin's still pretending he doesn't care.)

((He takes a bag you were reaching for, despite already having both his hands full.))

Much of your things are still back at your apartment, but you have time to bring them over. The first day is mostly about getting Hoseok and Jimin out of dodge -- you can worry about your own problems later. You spend the afternoon sitting in the lobby, poring over the paperwork left there and googling motel business 4 dummies like your life depends on it. Hoseok, who'd been cleaning up his room and taking care of the broken glass outside (and inside, unfortunately) the convenience store, forces you to take a break in the form of helping him make dinner.

During dinner, unprompted, Jimin tells you he's still thinking.

It hasn't slipped by you, of course, that Jimin's stay with you is conditional and, lest you hope otherwise, temporary.

But when he says that, staring into his food rather than looking at you, a tiny smile makes it's way onto your face,

"Take all the time you need."

On the third night, you wake up to soft knocks on your door. You have no expectations because your brain is in the process of trying to dissect the dream you'd just been ripped out of, but seeing Hoseok on the other side of your door still isn't something you were prepared for. He's wearing the new, new pyjamas you'd bought for him in a sparse shopping trip you'd all gone on the second day, despite him saying he didn't care that much about Jimin wearing the other ones.

You go to say his name, but he just brings a finger up to his lips in a silent shush, and with his other hand, he gently takes your hand and leads you down the hall into the master room.

Nothing in your body wants to fight it, so you let him bring you right up to the bed. He practically pushes you onto it, but the way he pulls the warm comforter over you defies any ill intent. When he settles in on the other side of the bed, his breath puffs against your cheek. He hasn't really scented you since the day you met Jimin; you've been near each other almost constantly since, so there was really no reason to.

You remember him telling you it's about separation, but also not. He never did tell you more about it.

In your sleep-ridden haze, you shift to your side. Hoseok is on his side too, rather close, and his eyes are closed, but you know he can't have fallen asleep so fast. Gently, you bring a hand to the back of his head, careful, as always, not to touch his dingo ears. You pull him closer ever so slowly. If he resists at all, you'll let go.

Hoseok lets out a shaking breath. He wraps both arms around you and tugs you closer, his face pressing itself against your neck. Eyes still closed, he squeezes you close. It's warm.

That's right, you think.

He’s a strong little pup, but he hates being alone.

How did you manage to forget that?

If Jimin has anything to say about the fact that you've started to retire to the master room at the end of the day, he doesn't vocalize it. Hoseok never brings it up, either. He's hardly touchy during the daytime, keeping his hands to himself, especially in front of Jimin. Yet, when night comes, he pulls you to bed like he's done it his entire life and keeps his arms around you until you fall asleep and wake up to find him all tangled up in the sheets.

Jimin either hasn't noticed, or, as you suspect, he doesn't care.

He'll often say he's "still thinking about it". You're not quite sure how to respond to it every time, so now you just smile and nod, sometimes reminding him that the choice is still his.

One night, you find him in the common area, sitting on a couch and watching a muted cartoon on the tv you'd connected to your Netflix account the day before. The subtitles aren't even on, and when he turns at the sound of your footsteps, you see the red of his eyes, and the shining tracks on his cheeks.

There's still a lot you don't know about Jimin.

Rayoung. Her boyfriend. His red contacts and why he wore them.

"It's freezing in here," is all he says as he wipes his cheeks with his sleeve. "You should get the heating system checked."

You sit down next to him, neither of you looking at each other. "Feels normal to me."

The cartoon isn't one you recognize, but it looks like it could be fun if you knew what anyone was saying.

For a while, you and Jimin say nothing. He sits next to you, and you next to him. At some point, he shifts just the slightest bit closer so your shoulders brush against each other. That's as far as he goes for your body heat.

"Do you get cold easily?" you eventually whisper.

"Mhmm."

"Is that a snake thing?"

Jimin shakes his head, slowly, the late hour finally getting to him. "Some reptile hybrids are like that, some aren't. There aren't many of us, so people don't really know why. At least... that's what he told me."

He. You decide not to dig into that. Jimin will tell you if he wants to.

"Your scales... the skin around them seemed irritated."

"...Itchy..." Jimin's head falls to your shoulder. He doesn't snuggle in, but he rests there. "I had a cream for it..."

"We should buy some," you say.

"It's expensive... You shouldn't buy it if I'm going to leave soon..."

Though his words cause a muted ache in your heart, you don't stew on it. That was always the case.

"You can take it with you."

Jimin doesn't respond, asleep on your shoulder.

You're not sure how much time passes, but later, you hear light, shuffling footsteps behind you, and you turn your head towards the sound, careful not to jostle the slumbering Jimin on your shoulder. Hoseok stands there, eyes half closed but on you nonetheless.

"You left," he mumbles, swaying slightly like he's struggling to stay both awake and upright.

You give him a small smile, lit only by the tv that's still playing that cartoon you don't know the name of. "I didn't go very far."

"Come back to bed?"

Gently, you lift a hand and gesture at Jimin. "Can we bring him back to his, first?"

When you're sent the invoice for the window repair, you realize (not for the first time) this won't be easy.

You didn't think it'd be a walk in the park, of course not, but you've never really had to worry about the cost of running a business before. Now, you look at the numbers, and you just can't wrap your head around how it'll all work. Mr Jung left you a considerable amount, yes, but... will it be enough? You can't imagine the motel is in any high level of traffic area for travellers. There are quite a few campsites around in the surrounding forest, but that's about it. How many customers would it take monthly to support the motel? How much has to or even can be sacrificed before any income is made?

You've already spent so much on keeping you, Hoseok, and Jimin alive and warm for the past week. It's normal, you suppose, but you've never supported two dependants before, and the fact that you're currently unemployed doesn't settle the heavy feeling in your chest at all. You're draining your savings while not making any money in the meantime.

A safe haven for hybrids...

...who can't pay rent.

Maybe Mr Jung was older and more senile than you thought.

You shake your head and rub your hands over your face, resting your elbows on the desk in front of you. First, you gotta apologize to Mr Jung for disrespecting the dead. You might be cynical, but he had a dream. A really good and nice dream. Secondly, you scold yourself for thinking what you did about hybrids. Of course they can't pay rent. They were born into a system that actively discourages their financial (and pretty much every other kind of) autonomy. They can't pay for anything because of humans.

Still, you don't know how long you can keep running Heaven's Door on your inheritance alone. You haven't even opened yet -- how much will it cost to run for a month? Three? A year?

"Do the numbers change if you sigh hard enough?"

You turn in your swivel chair to glare at Jimin, who's sitting in the chair next to you with one leg folded up to his chest, foot propped up on the seat. He doesn't return your gaze, enraptured by the match-three game he's playing on your phone, which he's been going at rather consistently for the past two days. You don't really have a job for him right now, and aside from the tv, he doesn't have much to take up his time. You'd offered to grab the contents of your bookshelf back at home for him, but he'd casually refused, telling you he'd take a look next time you make the trip, but not to go out of your way.

"Maybe they will," you taunt back, which goes just as ignored as your glare. "I better sigh harder to test it out."

You tilt your head, looking at your phone in his hand. "Should I get you guys phones...?" you ask, mostly to yourself.

Jimin's eyes glance up, and he finally acknowledges you. He doesn't need to say it. He does anyway.

"I'm still thinking."

Curling your lips in, you nod, turning back to the computer and hovering your hands over the mouse and keyboard even though you have no plans on what to do with them. "Right. Right..."

Thankfully, Hoseok chooses that awkward moment to walk into the lobby. "You should take a break," he says. "How is your head feeling?"

"It's fine, doc." You roll your eyes, smiling. "Just as fine as I said it was yesterday."

"Have you been taking your meds?"

You shake your head. "The doctor said they're for headaches. They're just painkillers -- the few times my head has hurt, the pain went away by the time I remembered I could take them."

Jimin lowers your phone and gives you a look you can't quite decipher. It's not positive; you know that at least. "You're still getting headaches?"

"Only itty-bitty ones," you try to placate them.

"How long has it been since you fell?"

You almost forgot you lied to Jimin about how you got your concussion. By the looks of Hoseok's guilty expression, though, you're not sure if you regret it. You don't want him to feel responsible, but talking about it -- whether or not Jimin knows -- still seems to remind him of what he did. Where you put the blame doesn't matter to him. He still thinks it's his fault.

"Uhh... a little over a week?" you answer, keeping a careful eye on Hoseok. "Maybe eight or nine days."

Jimin frowns. "That can't be good, right?"

"The doctor said to go back to the hospital if the symptoms last over two weeks." Concern laced in his features, Hoseok crosses his arms.

You nod along. "I'll put the date on my calendar, okay? I'm sure I'll be fine by then."

"You better not play it down when the time comes," Hoseok warns.

"Yes sir," you joke.

Hoseok takes in a sharp breath, shoulders scrunching up for half a second before he forces them to relax. A small huff of a laugh escapes Jimin's nose, and you look at him in confusion, but his eyes are on Hoseok, something playful and teasing in them. Jimin mouths something to Hoseok, which you can't read.

Hoseok grumbles and tightens the arms crossed in front of him. "Shut up."

"No fair," you whine. "You guys already have inside jokes?"

Jimin just laughs harder while Hoseok gives him a death glare and says, "It doesn't count as an inside joke if I don't find it funny."

"Don't worry," Jimin teases through a smirk. "I find it funny enough for the both of us!"

You can't help but smile at the ever-growing amity between the two hybrids, which is admittedly playful in the biting way, but it still makes you happy that they're somewhat getting along.

"We should celebrate," you tell the boys one day.

"Celebrate what?" Jimin questions, hands stuffed in his coat pocket and shoulders scrunched up to his ears.

You'd gone around the back of the motel and found a paved, patio-like area, complete with five wooden picnic tables, propane patio heaters, and an old-looking but (probably) functional barbecue, but Jimin isn't exactly a fan of the cool breeze flowing through the air.

You lift the lid of the barbecue, examining the charred grates of the grill. "Well, I dunno, but it'd be a shame not to use this before it gets too cold out."

"Too late," Jimin mumbles. His lips are hidden behind the front of his coat, which he's ducked half his face into.

Hoseok ignores Jimin, nodding at your idea. "A barbecue night would be nice."

"How are you on the grill?" you ask him.

"I'm better at prepping."

You chuckle. "So basically, not good?"

"Not good," he echoes with a smile.

After sharing some giggles, you look at the barbecue again. "I'm sure I could figure this out."

"I'm going back inside," Jimin tells you both, already walking away.

"C'mon!" you call after him. "It'll be fun!"

Although you're in a different store now, near the edge of the city closer to the motel, the pet/hybrid aisle hosts a pretty similar collection to the store near your apartment. You pull another plain, black collar off the hook on the shelf, which matches the one currently sitting around Hoseok's neck.

He's not paying attention at all, as far as you know, instead hunched over the pushbar of the shopping cart he insisted on pushing for you, poring over the grocery list you'd written on a memo pad for tonight's "celebration".

In your mind, you've started calling it your "new friends party :D", emoticon included, but you haven't worded that out loud to either of the boys. Hoseok would surely laugh at the childishness of the name, even if he'd politely try to stifle it, and you know Jimin would only remind you that his relationship to you and Hoseok is temporary.

Mood killer, you think to Jimin, although it's the hypothetical version of him.

The real Jimin is looking at the array of collars on the shelf like you asked him to, and you step up next to him.

"What do you think?"

Jimin frowns, deep in thought. "They're all ugly."

Okay, maybe not that deep.

"Ouch," you chuckle, fingers toying with the black silk in your hand. "You don't have to wear one all the time -- just while we're in public spaces like this."

Grumbling, Jimin stuffs both his hands in his coat pockets. "In public... that's when I wanna look good."

"Okay, okay." You pat a hand on his shoulder. "Maybe we can find one you like online, or something."

"Doesn't this one work?" Jimin points at his neck, fingers ghosting over the soft velvet of your red choker.

You tilt your head. "I guess... Probably."

The tags for collars have to be bought and customized separately anyway. There's no reason why you wouldn't be able to put Jimin's on your choker, though attaching the tag might not be as simple as the store-bought collars. Manageable, though, you're sure.

"If you're done being picky, we should get going. The frozen meat will be rotten by the time we get to the car," Hoseok says, making Jimin roll his eyes and stick his tongue out at him.

You clap your hands together. "Ooh! We should get ice cream!"

When you bring all the groceries to the counter, you notice that Jimin keeps his head down, avoiding the eyes of the person ringing everything up. This isn't new -- Jimin seems to not like making eye contact with anyone but you or Hoseok.

He'd tossed the red contacts after one of them had an intimate meet and greet with your bedroom floor, but you can tell he doesn't like being without them. It's awful, you think, how long he wore those fake red eyes just because his owner... what, enjoyed the idea of owning a deadly hybrid?

The... exoticism?

You shiver.

On the cusp of winter time, with Jimin in a couple layers, you wouldn't even know he's a hybrid if you weren't paying attention. As far as you know, his only hybrid-defining trait is his scales, and the only ones you can see right now are on his neck. They'd easily go unnoticed to the everyday passerby.

"Your total is--"

The cashier's voice startles you, and all you can do is shake your head when they ask if you have their points reward card.

Before heading back to the motel, you make a quick stop at your apartment, telling the boys that you're just grabbing some more of your clothes and that they can wait in the car. You do grab some clothes, but you also pick up a few of your favourite books. Hopefully the boys will be able to find some entertainment in them. Recently, you discovered a recreation room in the motel, complete with a couple of exercise machines and a pool table. With how preoccupied you are with all this motel business stuff, though, you haven't had the time to play a round of pool or even think about exercising. Maybe the boys have been in there, but it seems like Hoseok is almost always somewhere around you, still weary of your condition.

It's sort of fair, you think. Dizzy spells still hit you sometimes.

Jimin, too, often sticks around somewhere nearby. Maybe it's because he likes scrolling through your phone and doesn't want to just take it and leave whatever room you're in.

Which brings you to the real reason you stopped by your apartment. You walk up to the mailboxes and pull out your key, smiling when you open your locker and find the packages you were expecting.

It's a bit of a pricey expense -- at least, for how you used to budget your life before it flipped on its head -- but you think it's worth the money. A simple phone for each of the boys, a new family plan to save on the phone bills, and a specialty reptilian hybrid eczema cream. You hope it's the right one for Jimin. You haven't seen his irritated skin since that shower due to the chilly weather, but you still catch him scratching his arms over his clothes from time to time.

You're sure if you told Jimin you wanted to buy the cream for him, he would've refused. The phone, too.

"Took you long enough," Jimin says when you dip back into the driver's seat of your car.

You chuckle. "I missed you too, Mochi."

He huffs at the nickname and crosses his arms, then turns his head to stare out the window. You don't see his faint smile.

"It's freezing," Jimin complains through chattering teeth, hands stuffed in his coat pockets and shoulders scrunched up practically to his ears.

You can't hold back a little laugh. "I told you, you could either help me out here with the grill, help Hoseok with prepping everything inside, or run the raw food from the kitchen to out here." Raising an eyebrow at him, you gesture towards your gloved hands and the food you're flipping on the grill with metal tongs. It is chilly out, especially since the sun set, but you're wrapped up in your own jacket, and the fire from the grill is keeping your cheeks warm. It probably feels colder to Jimin, though. "You wanna trade with me?"

He gives you a flat look. "You're kidding."

"Thought so. You wanna trade with Hoseok?"

Cringing, Jimin shakes his head. "I hate touching raw meat."

"Well, there's our answer then," you say. "Was that the last of it?"

He nods, another shiver rippling through him. It's almost endearing how red his cheeks are turning, but you know he really can't stand the cold.

"Okay, go inside and warm up. I should be done cooking everything in ten or fifteen minutes. Bring this plate in--" You point at a foil-wrapped plate of the food you've already cooked. "I can bring the rest inside once I'm finished."

Jimin's eyes widen slightly. "I thought you wanted to eat out here?" He looks at one of the picnic tables.

"Nah." You shrug. "It's way too cold for me, and the food will cool down too fast."

Elated by this news, Jimin smiles and bounces on his feet when he grabs the plate and runs it inside.

"And help Hoseok clean up the kitchen!" you yell out right before the door shuts behind him.

Truthfully, you did want to eat outside for the celebration, but it's more important to you that Jimin is comfortable and happy. After all, he's one of your new friends, and that's the whole point of tonight. You smile at the thought, excited to gift the boys their new cell phones after dinner.

Flipping some of the last pieces of meat on the grill, you hum to yourself. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a hand reach for the plate you have set to the side for the cooked food. It tentatively grabs one of the slices of meat and pulls it off the plate, which you let out a chuckle at.

"What, you couldn't wait a couple more minute--"

You choke to a stop, though, when you look up and see neither Hoseok nor Jimin.

Dark eyes meet yours for less than a moment before swiftly turning downward. The man stumbles back a step, but he freezes in almost the same way you do. Except, instead of his jaw dropping open like yours does, he pauses mid-chew, the frisked meat still in between his teeth.

That's not what makes your breath hitch, though.

Even under the blackened sky, you can see the bruises.

A dark, deep purple sits boldly under is left eye, the surrounding skin a sickening blend of yellow and green that winds up all the way to his brow. His chin sports another bruise in a similar state, like the blows had been a couple days ago and the skin has gone through only the first stages of healing. Although his face is grimy with sweat and dirt, you can see crusted blood just at his hairline before his black hair hides anything else. You can tell his lip was completely busted at some point, marred with dark, dried blood that's been split over and over again and given no chance to heal.

Even his stance looks like he's in pain. Like he's trying to make himself look smaller.

You swallow the shock down, the words not coming out. "I..."

He snaps out of it at the sound of your voice. Both of his hands shoot up, palms flat and facing you. "Sorry-- I'm sorry," he mumbles and winces, like it hurts to speak. His voice is scratchy and rasping.

He backs up further while you try to find something to say, something to do, but before you can do anything, he runs off the patio and disappears into the treeline, a clear limp in his movement.

"Wait!" you call out, but he's gone.

Maybe it was the injuries that made you want to go after him. Maybe it was the way he held himself, like he didn't want to be in his own body. Maybe it was the way his voice trembled, or the fact that he definitely wasn't wearing enough for the temperature outside.

Maybe it was all that combined, but most of all, it was the pointed black ears you saw on top of his head.

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theboarsbride · 2 years ago

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Faerie Book Recommendations🧚✨📚

So reading Sarah J Maas and her very, very shitty interpretation and (under)utilization of fae lore is inspiring me to create a personal list of books I've read that I feel like have like... ACTUAL faeries and folklore in them (not the normal-looking-hot-folks-with-pointy-ears-and-MAYBE-wings brand of faerie SJM popularized), and are actually worth your time

And if you've any books, stories, comics, etc. that you'd want to add to this list, feel free to add them in the comments, reblogs, tags, or my DMs!!

House of Hollow by Krystal Sutherland

Very eerie fairytale vibes that center on the aftermath of the disappearance, and even more mysterious return, of three sisters when one of them goes missing again almost 10 years later. And also the writing is legit just B E A U T I F U L!!!

Emily Wilde's Encyclopedia of Faeries by Heather Fawcett

This is chock-full of classical faeries and folklore, and almost reads like a textbook about them since this is about a woman, the titular Emily Wilde, traveling to a Scandinavian country to complete her own encyclopedia about the fair-folk. It also features some lowkey cottagecore vibes and an academic rivals-to-lovers romance!

Gilded (Gilded #1) by Marissa Meyer

A retelling of Rumpelstiltskin that reads like its own dark Grimm's fairytale, and it's as eerie and grim as a YA fantasy novel can get. It also centers on themes of telling stories and folktales since the main character, Serilda, is infamous for spinning wild tales - which is what leads to her encounter with the famed, and feared, Earlking (who, as a villain, is so sinister and creepy - and utterly FAE!). Personally, this book wasn't really my cup of tea and I'm unsure if I'll read the sequel, Cursed, however it still has some classic fae vibes that SJM's work lacks, so it deserves a place on this list!

The Changeling by Victor LaValle

I'm using the term 'faerie' very loosely here, as the idea of changelings (and trolls), for me, is more of a narrative device to help us look into grief in fatherhood. But there is still a very strange, vaguely Pans Labyrinth-esque urban fantasy vibe playing in the background throughout!

Slewfoot: A Tale of Bewitchery by Brom

Not necessarily FAERIES but more of mischievous and distrustful woodland folk - and also forest gods. Very heavily steeped in early colonial America era folk horror vibes... if you love media like Robert Eggers' The VVitch then you will ADORE this book! Also Brom's accompanying artwork is so, so beautiful! This is honestly such a perfect fall-time read once Halloween season rolls around.

Legendborn Cycle series by Tracy Deonn

Ok no faeries but... mixes classic Arthurian legends with southern Black beliefs while also telling an epic urban fantasy story centering on themes of grief, trauma, and prejudice. So no fae, but LOTS of great urban fantasy vibes (which I mean... if you're looking for more series to put on your shelf instead of Harry Potter......) Just... Please... just... this series... it's so GOOD!! IDK what else to add that hasn't been said about this series!

Direwood by Catherine Yu

Once again, not necessarily faeries in this book but instead vampires that have a very fae-like quality about them! (as well as blood-hungry butterflies and caterpillars hee-hee) The story as a whole feels like a whimsical fever dream that is STEEPED in tasty Gothic vibes! It sort of has the feeling of being in a late '90s/early '00s Goth music video.

Like Falling Stars by Avalon Roselin (@roselin-books-official)

A story about a girl who's forgotten her past and comes to develop a sweet friendship with a brooding ice faerie prince, and is brimming with so many cozy fantasy vibes!! Also all the fae characters in this novel are so colorful and lively, and they're all very heavily tied to elements and the seasons. Also ALSO!! The main relationship focuses primarily on platonic love as opposed to romantic, and is just as endearing! A perfect cozy winter/fall-time read.

Netvor: A Retelling of Beauty and the Beast by @rosesnwater

Both a completed novel and an in-progress webcomic available to read on Tapas and Webtoons. Again, another story where major themes center on storytelling and fairytales, but also recovering from trauma and grief! There are so, so many classic faerie vibes, and even featuring pinnacle figures from classic fae lore like the Goblin Market, and it manages to feel equal parts nostalgic and unique in its use of faerie lore!

Dandies in Danger podcast by @dandiesindanger

A table-top RPG podcast instead of a novel! It features four queer men that are dragged into a world of fae and horror, all while set against the backdrop of Regency era London. It starts as a VERY eerie fae mystery (featuring figures like Titania and Oberon), but it slowly becomes a dark, horror historical-fantasy, and it's great! Also art by the podcast's creators is so good!

So these are the recs I have to offer for now!! As always, feel free to add more recommendations!!!💛

#jojo reads #book recs #book recommendations #readers of tumblr #anti sjm #anti sarah j maas

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anjelicawrites · 2 years ago

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It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it?

Paring: modern!EMT!Osferth x nurse!reader Summary: During a snowstorm you realize it’s always the quiet ones you have to look out for. Warnings: NSFW and 18+ only. Cunnilingus. Dirty talking. Over the clothes handjob.

Of all the EMT crews that come to your A&E, there are two that hold a special place in your heart: Uhtred and Sihtric and Finan and Osferth. They work in couples and are in permanent night shifts, like the group of nurses you work with. They are probably the best paramedics you have worked with: fast, smart, they give a chef's kiss handover and are good looking. If you were one of their patients, you'd get a heart attack just by waking up and seeing their faces. On top of that, they feed your crew: after those night shifts where it feels like yours is the only A&E in the whole bloody county where they can bring patients, they either bring breakfast or treat your crew to one. Each and every colleague of yours has their personal favorite, yours is baby Osferth.

You developed a soft spot for him when he was still in training under Finan and Sihtric, who worked him hard and taught him everything they knew. It was in your A&E where Osferth had seen his first patient die and was distraught about it. You had found him hiding behind the ambulance, crying: he broke your heart. You had approached him making enough noises not to startle him and he had tried to hide his tears

“Don’t kid, it’s better to cry it out now than being upset for the rest of your shift”.

You had given him a couple of tissues and had et him put his head against your shoulder. He had cried like a child, with big sobs that rattled his whole body and you had hugged him, caressing his back to soothe him. Once he had calmed down, he didn’t have the courage to stare into your eyes

“I’m sorry” he had said, head hanging low “What for kid?” “I feel like I haven’t done enough”.

Legally he could’t really do much since he was still in training, but you had understood the feeling

“Sometimes you provide all the care possible and the person dies. It’s not your fault or your team’s, it just happens. People are not machines you put care and drugs in and they become better, sometimes they are just at the end of their tether and the best thing is to let them go”. “You make it seem so effortless” he had sounded so jaded you had wanted to hug him again “It’s not, but I’ve been in this game longer than you did. I can’t say I’ve gotten used to it, but I’ve learnt to compartmentalize the best I can. This doesn’t mean that sometimes I have to stop myself from crying in front of the patients and their families or that I am not going to have a cuppa now and smoke a cigarette. You'll learn what helps you, I promise".

Osferth has grown as a professional and while he still is the baby of the group, you can see how confident he has become and that adds on the hotness scale, putting him in first place.

It's a snowy day before Christmas when you finally manage to go for a cup of tea

"Now what the hell are you all doing in my kitchen?" You ask your two favorite EMT teams.

They are sprawled on the sofas, mugs in hand, chewing on food while outside the storm howls. They should be looking miserable since outside looks like Antarctica, but they are just owning the place

“There’s a snow bank, babygirl” Finan is the only one who can call you that without risking a scalpel in an eye “A what?” in you defense, you have been with a sickly patient for almost four hours and have just returned from accompanying him to the haemodynamics, you have no idea of what has been happening in the real world “Big snowbank at the end of the driveway, we are basically trapped here until the city sends someone to release us”.

Ah yes, some genius has the city council had thought smart to build the hospital at the end of a steep slope, in a part of the Country where winters are extremely cold and snowstorms are common. In the end an investigation had discovered that some bribes had been paid to place the building in that spot, too bad the hospital had already been completed and it wasn’t possible to build a new one. Fun, right? Even better is that an architect specialized in hotels was tasked to do the interior design and the spaces are all fucked up, just because it wouldn’t cost as much as another with years of experience under their belt.

“Sihtric, please tell me you are joking” you say as Hild enters, talking animated on the phone.

Sister Hild is your boss and is an actual nun. She is the most badass woman you have ever met and the best nurse you have ever walked with: she can be an angel with the patients and chew the head off management to protect her patients and her crew. She is the embodiment of the TikTok with the young doctor tries to diss the experienced nurse and everyone going “uuuh”. You want to be her when you grow up, minus the chastity wow, you love sex too damn much. Whomever she is talking to is probably shitting their pants right now and just by listening to her you know the guys are not joking. You go to the triage area to check on the waiting room and it’s absolutely empty; four hours ago it was full of people but you think that the danger of being stuck in the hospital for hours was bigger than whatever illness was ailing them. Once you are back to the kitchen you get the full story from Hild: the two ambulances are trapped here and the hospital is virtually unreachable until someone decides to clean the slope, too bad all snow plows are frantically trying to clean the streets

“Shouldn’t the hospital be a priority?” “That’s was I was trying to convey” she is fuming and you think the better strategy is to hide somewhere so that you wouldn’t incur in her wrath “Hild, you are too god a woman for this administration - Uhtred saunters to her with a big piece of nougat in his hand - eat and enjoy our company” “Will you ever change Uhtred?” “Nope” he grins, but Hild is already eating the confectionery “What are you doing here?” she asks you “Having a cuppa after seeing Mr. Richards off to the haemodynamics and then the ICU. I think I deserve it” “How is he?” “Well, on top of the pulmonary embolism, he might have a nasty fucking heart attack which our genius of a cardiologist might have recognised after four bloody hours. If the poor sod survives it’s going to be a fucking miracle. Merry fucking Christams to him and his family, I guess” “The swearing isn’t part of the standard handover” “But it adds flavor Hild” you say sprawling yourself on the last free couch, you are already tired and the shift it’s just started.

You feel your arm being touched and Osferth is there, a steamy cup in his big hands. You have no idea how, but he knows how you like your tea

“Thank you love” you smile and he reciprocates; he is so fucking cute you can feel your glucose levels getting higher.

Yes, he is stupidly good looking, but he made first place because of his kindness with patients and with you. Many times he had driven you home when your car didn’t work, he always made sure that you were sitting in the warmest place when having breakfast with them during winter, he brought you sweets when you were on triage duty and it was a bad night. You can probably name many more examples but the bottom line is: Osferth is a lovely, lovely young man with a big heart; that’s a huge win for you.

After a quick cup of tea you set on keeping abreast of the situation. You have no idea of which patients are still in the A&E and whether your colleagues need your help or not. You disappear for more than one hour, busy with reading the remaining patient’s charts and with checking the expiring dates of the equipment. By the time you are back, the guys are fidgeting in their seats, ready to hit the road again and you are stuck with the knowledge of how much of two separate species you are. They can’t wait to be out and about, even though it’s below freezing out there and you can’t fathom yourself working somewhere without walls: the mere thought of having to stabilize a patient in the middle of a street gives you a panic attack and the boys cannot fathom why you don’t like to be creative in your nursing. Your remaining crew joins you and the kitchen is so unbearably full you start itching yourself. You manage to get to Hild and ask her if there's anything you can do, otherwise you are going to hide somewhere until something happens, she tells you there's a big pharmacy delivery day shift didn't have the chance to put away. You jump at the chance to be alone in the big storage room; as much as you like your crew and the EMTs, there's too many people in the cramped room for your liking. You are halfway down the corridor when you hear footsteps approaching and you turn around to see Osferth trying to join you; he breaks into a half run which is super cute and you want to ruffle his hairs, the moment he gets to you

"Do you need a hand?" "Shouldn't you be chilling? The moment the snowbank is cleared, it is going to be hell out there".

He shrugs his shoulders

"I've sat still long enough. I need something to do or I'll drive myself crazy" "You truly are a different breed than us nurses" "You asked for work yourself" he says, the cheeky monkey "I didn't want to disappear on Hild but I hoped there was nothing to do left - he laughs with you - let's go love".

The pharmacy is actually a huge room full of shelving units and two big fridges. Osferth's eyes widen in surprise, which is the standard reaction of any single person who has never seen it. Two big plastic boxes sit in the middle of it and you snort in annoyance

"Ok so, there's no good news. Those boxes contain our stockpile for Christmas, obviously the drugs are going to be mixed up in there. Are you sure you don't want to run for the hills? I won't rat you out, I promise" you say with a smile and you see something pass very fast in his eyes, but it's probably just him dreading the work ahead and being too polite to back off now.

You take one box each and you direct him on where each type of medication is supposed to be stored. It is a job that should take no longer than an hour, considering the sheer amount of drugs, the chit chat between you two and Osferth's ignorance of the organization your unit uses. How you manage to find yourself in the most hidden corner, between a shelf and a fridge, with Osferth's head between your legs, it's beyond your scope of comprehension. He has unzipped his jacket and his face is buried in your pussy, his hands on your hips to guide your movements; your hands are buried in his short hairs and you are keening like a wounded animal just because his tongue feels like heaven buried inside of you and his nose moves just right against your clit, massaging it the way that is hurling you in the throes of a violent orgasm. You try to push his head away when it feels he is overwhelming you and he just snarls, a sound that makes you bang your head against the wall and he redoubles his efforts in making you come, plastering his face with more vigor against your pussy and just moving your hips in a way you know will make you come in no time. You hear desperate, moaning sounds and you realize it's you, coming all over his face, your legs turned into jelly as he licks you clean

"Where are you, baby monk?" You hear Finan's Irish accent in the distance and try to disentangle yourself from Osferth, who just finishes cleaning you with his tongue leisurely, as if his partner is not getting closer to where you are hidden. When he finally stands up, he looks proud of himself, his face shining with your come. With infinite care he pushes your underwear and pants up your trembling legs and you use the proximity to snag his small cross to move his face closer to yours

"You didn't even kiss me" you pout "I'm sorry my lovely lady, I should rectify that mistake immediately".

Gods can the boy kiss, all tongue and teeth, pushing his lean body against yours, making you feel his hard on through the thick layers of his uniform pants. He makes your head spin again when he releases your lips, his tongue brushing against your palate with purpose, as if you don't already know how proficient he is with it. The magic is broken by Finan's voice getting closer, you both laugh and you clean Osferth's face with a tissue. Unfortunately there's little you can do with how red his cheeks are

"You're still hard" "Good, I'll be thinking about you for the rest of the shift. Not that I need an erection to do so" you can feel warmth expands everywhere in your body "Weren't you supposed to have almost made it into priesthood? That’s where your nickname comes from?" "Yeah, so?" "You fit the stereotype then. As soon as the clergy is away, you let go of all inhibitions".

Osferth plasters himself against your body again, caging you where you are

"Are you free for Christmas?" "We have the same shifts, I am free up the 27th night" "Good, I'll make sure to show you how much of a stereotype I can be" and he grounds his hips against yours, you moan.

Two can play this game, though and you palm his erection through the thick pants and squeeze delicately, he has to grab the shelving to keep his stance

"Want to come to my place, love?" You ask still massaging him through the thick material "Yeah" he is breathless and keeping it together by sheer force of will "How do you want me? Naked with a bow in my head? Or you'd rather like some skimpy outfit?"

He groans desperate pleadings but you are on a roll now and his hips are just following your hand's movements

"Will you let me eat a good Christmas dinner or will I be the one stuffed for three days?" Corny but it works, he comes in his own underwear with a shout and needs a minute to gain his breath again.

He smashes his lips against yours and you are struck by the thought that the only reason Finan hasn't found you yet, is that the pharmacy is in a secluded area, but you might run out of luck. This doesn't stop you from kissing him, stating your claim on him, tasting yourself on his lips

"You are going to pay for this - his eyes burn so bright and blue you feel the heat on your skin - text me your address…" you don't let him finish "Promises, promises - you murmur against his lips - and what? Buy a full box of condoms? Don't promise what you can't deliver".

Why are you taunting him? Maybe because it's fun and the cute and compassionate baby EMT whom you have seen grow into a great professional, is far less of a cutie pie that you have previously thought and more of an unhinged sex god; in the end you have to look out for the quiet ones, that's very true.

"Buy two boxes" he says and then grabs your hand to guide you to the door, as if you don't know the way.

You find Finan and hope he doesn't realize anything, the guy has a sixth sense for these kinds of things. Luckily for you, the Irishman is way too stocked that the snowbank has been finally cleaned and he and Osferth can hit the road again.

On Christmas Eve you open your door wearing only a skimpy red outfit and a red bow on your head and Osferth is speechless, mouth hanging open and you can't help yourself to tell him he should close it or he'll get flies in there. That seems to wake him from his reverie; it's not even 10 a.m. and the two of you have already christened your sofa and the front door. Around 12 a.m. he has made you pay deliciously for having made him come in his pants. By 4 p.m. you start getting the memo that yes, you're going to be stuffed for three days straight and yes, he has the big cock you imagined him to have. You two don't finish the two big boxes of condom you have bought but that gives Osferth the assist to invite himself over the next days off you two share. He asks it while he is deep inside of you

"Pray tell, what makes you think I might want you here again?" "The way your pussy clenched the moment I proposed it" he says sassy and oozing male pride, he is so going to pay for this, you’ll make sure of that.

On the morning of the 27th, you kiss him on your doorstep, both of you are wearing more hickeys and bruises than when he had stepped through your door. He needs to go home and sleep, you need to sleep as well and the two of you know that you need to be separated to get that, otherwise you’ll fuck for the whole day and be too tired to work.

As you drive to the hospital you wonder if you haven’t made a mistake. If he doesn’t keep his mouth shut, everyone will know in no time what happened between the two of you and you don’t think you’ll ever be able to bear the jokes and the chit chat behind your back. A wave of anxiety drowns you and you have to stop on the side of the road to breathe and collect your wandering thoughts: you cannot control his actions, only your own and if he has pulled the asshole move, you are smart enough to know how to get your revenge.

In the end Osferth isn’t into kiss and tell, but makes sure a huge bouquet of red roses is waiting for you in the kitchen of the ward; his name is not on the small card but you know they are from him and you keep your mouth shut, even after a whole night of teasing from your colleagues. Obviously you invite him back to finish that box of condoms and to take your small revenge on him for his cockiness. No one is really surprised that Finan is your best man at your wedding.

#osferth x reader #osferth x y/n #osferth

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forestshadow-wolf · 10 months ago

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I'm throwing another hozier song that could be ghoap at u. The thoughts need to go somewhere. First Light by Hozier. TELL ME U CAN SEE IT AS THEM PLE AS E IM GOING BONKERS

First Light - Hozier

Look! I finally answered the ask from @rainerestored. For literally everyone else... this has been jn my inbox since like... October lmfao

I literally wrote everything that I'm about to say down. Like in a physical notebook 💀 the brainrot has literally only gotten a tighter chokehold on me

Ok enough stalling

So just listening to the song, and following along with the vibes. It feels like salvation and damnation at first. And then the first verse ends.

And then it kinda feels like a rising dawn that bathes everything in gold.

Like imagine they're both tired and panting; maybe they were on a mission and it went bad. And maybe it becomes a night-long battle and they're seperated, and fighting just to survive. There's no room for any other thought(s).

Then then fighting ends just as day breaks through the fading night, and they're both tired and bloody and panting, but so very much Alive, and they see each other across the battlefield and they see the other bathes in the golden First Light of the morning sun, and it feels like SALVATION. Like Rebirth. It feels Falling in Love for the First time again.

---

And then I looked at the lyrics as I listened and like...

So imagine they'd spent the night before passionately rolling around in the sheets 😏

And then the next morning Simon wakes up slowly, taking a momebt to realize that he's in Johnny's flat, in Johnny's bed, under Johnny's sheets.

And eventually he gets up, and he finds Johnny making himself a cup of coffee, squinting gently into the golden morning sun as he takes a slow sip from his mug.

And simon leans into him from behind, wrapping his arms around Johnny's torso, as he buries his face into his neck. And Johnny leans back into him ans he smiles, pouring Simon a steaming mug of slowly steeping tea

And just- ajhshxhsbgsh

Ugh it reminds me of SOFT MORNINGS and I love it

Photo evidence of my ghoap insanity

(Don't mind my chicken scratch handwriting)

#lovely ask #um... this is super late...#sorry for taking so long on this lmao #but It was fun to do #I will also be expanding the Ghoap notebook #hozier #first light - hozier #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #soapghost #ghostsoap #ghoap #soap x ghost #ghost x soap #call of duty #cod #cod mw2 #el rambles

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revasserium · 1 year ago

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狐と蛍の物語 (the story of the fox and the firefly)

harrison; 4,064 words; fluff and angst a/n: for @violettduchess and @aquagirl1978's summer days, sultry nights event -- prompt "fireflies" (obviously); i'm also gonna say this counts for my 31 days of au prompt -- reincarnation!au; inspired by hotarubi no mori e and catheryn m valente's deathless and honestly, i'm so proud and happy with this one that i'd encourage you to read it even if you have no idea of the fandom/character. u__u i would love, love, love to know what you guys think!

once upon a time, a long, long time ago, there lived a girl who only danced to the firefly’s light and a fox who could tell nothing but lies.

01.

for as long as you can remember, there’s always been the wood. and it has always been behind your house, it’s leaves and branches foreboding in the winter wind, and somehow less so in the simmer of mid-summer afternoons, when the sunlight dappled light across the soft, forest floor. it isn’t a very large wood, but it’s a wood nevertheless, and deserves all the respect and fear afforded to bigger woods in faraway places. woods that warn of teeth and terrors, woods that hide both dreams and monsters.

you’d been wandering the wood from when you were a little girl, and to you, there’s not a single rock you don’t know, a single tree you haven’t tried to climb. and the forest knows you, as forests do the people who frequent them, and it welcomes you with open arms, it cradles you to its chest, whispers stories into your ears, carves itself open to show you it’s secrets —

“you’re late.”

you crinkle your nose at the familiar voice, letting out a huffing breath as you drop your picnic basket in the middle of the small, sun-lit clearing, taking your time with laying out the checked picnic blanket and two cups and saucers for tea, and finally, pulling out a tray of confections, covered by a thin, linen baking towel.

“no, i’m not! you just want me to think i am so i’ll give you more than half of the sweets.”

a boy settles over the picnic blanket, cocking his head at you before you narrow your eyes.

“well? isn’t that true?”

“ahh… i wonder if it is…” he says, but you can hear the grin in his voice, even through the material of his fox-faced mask, which, after a few more seconds of posturing, he pushes up onto his forehead. he shakes out his milk-tea hair and slates you a poison-ivy grin. you know that grin like you know the woods— and you know the woods like you know the backs of your own hands. better, even, you think sometimes.

because for as long as there’s been the woods, and as long as you have wandered it’s depths, the boy with the fox-faced mask has always been there.

“there were fresh strawberries at farmer’s market today,” you say, setting up the tea service as you nudge the opened picnic basket towards the boy with a foot. he peers in with wide, curious eyes before letting out a soft noise of contentment as he reaches in to pull out a slice of freshly baked strawberry cream cake.

“your grandmama makes the best pastries in the world,” he says, and there’s such sincerity in his voice that for a moment, you almost believe him.

but you nod and take the compliment in stride, “she sure does!”

he digs in with gusto even when you tut that the tea hasn’t steeped properly, but you laugh as he smears a large dollop of whipped cream across his cheeks. you point it out to him with a dainty finger, and as always, you fight the urge to reach over and wipe it off for him. instead, you hold yourself still and sigh as he finally gets to it, smudging a bit into his hair in the process.

“clumsy fox,” you giggle, pressing a hand up to your lips.

“picky girl,” he snipes back, but there’s that full, sated grin on his own lips as he leans back, his elbows propped up on the soft grasses of the clearing.

after a moment of pleasant silence during which the leaves sang on their trees and the grasses swayed beneath the breeze, the boy turns towards you.

“so. no dancing today?”

you turn your head towards him before casting your eyes up towards the still bright blue sky.

“you know it’s not time yet.”

the boy heaves a melodramatic sigh, sound much bigger and larger than his 14-year old body should be able to hold.

“ah… right, right — because you can —”

“— only dance by the fireflies’ light — yep!”

the boy regards you with an imperious sort of look before breaking into a fit of bright, open laughter.

“you’re the strangest girl i’ve ever met!”

“just you saying that tells me it’s not true,” you stick out your tongue at him, even as heat washes up into your cheeks.

the boy shrugs, lying back down on the picnic basket, “i don’t always have to lie, y’know.”

and it’s your turn to regard him with the imperious look, and, a the cock of a singular eyebrow, his lips tug into a lopsided grin. his eyes flash, the color of budding spring.

“liar,” you say, but you’re smiling too as you lie back down to watch the clouds pass.

he makes no sound to correct you.

02.

once, you’d asked him what his name is and he simply shook his head and said —

“call me whatever you’d like.”

“but i want to call you by your name.”

“what’s in a name anyway?”

“uhm… nothing’s in it but…” you’d frowned then, your eight year old mind spinning to try and catch up with this strange, strange question and this strange, strange boy.

“see? so why should it matter what my name is? just… call me whatever!”

but you’d only frowned hard enough for him to roll his eyes.

“fine then — uhm — what’s the name of the current prince?”

you’d blinked, “harry.”

“then call me that.”

“but is that your name?”

“well, now it is.”

you hadn’t been convinced but you liked it better than not calling him anything at all.

“harry, then,” you’d said, smiling. and the boy — harry — had smiled too, slipping his fox-faced mask back in place as he led you further into the forest.

03.

“y’know…” harry says, his voice light as the sun dips beneath the horizon line, leaving behind a blaze of reds and pinks. you turn your head, eyes catching on the shape of him, inked out against the dying light.

“you’re the only person i’ve ever met who’s wanted to be cursed.”

you take a long breath and turn your eyes back up to the bleeding sky.

“well. you’re cursed, and you seem just fine to me,” you try to keep your voice strong, resolute and steady. grandmama had always said that if you keep your voice strong, people are more willing to believe your words. you wonder if that’s why harry’s voice is always soft, always lilting, his words slippery as moss-covered stone.

“yeah, but you can’t even touch me,” he says, and for once, his voice is harsh, his words sharp and hard as broken glass.

“that’s okay though — once i get my own curse, i’ll be able to touch you, right?”

harry fights back the urge to turn, to take you by the shoulders and shake you till you push him away. he wants to scream, to howl at the moon like the mother wolves and the hungry cubs that live in the heart of the wood. he wants to run through the woods, crash into things, climb up the trees and shake off all their branching leaves.

but he can’t, and so he doesn’t.

instead, he turns to look at you and look at you and look at you.

he wonders if it’s a strange thing, to like looking at someone so much, to find something new about a face every single time it’s looked upon — the wisps of hair fallen loose to frame your face from the velvet ribbons holding it back, the curve of your button nose, the dip of your cupid’s bow. he wonders if this is a normal thing, the thick weight of it in this chest, the truth of his curse sitting heavy on his tongue.

“yeah… probably,” he says — and the lie is smooth as milk, sweet as just-spun sugar.

“good. then we won’t have long to wait, hm?”

04.

there’s a story, so you’ve been told, of a fox that lives in the woods — and the fox can tell nothing but lies, lest the truth cut open it’s throat. and when it bleeds, because even monsters bleed (oh especially monsters), it will bleed in blue and silver, which everyone knows is the color of magic.

“but why would telling the truth kill it?” you’d asked, your eyes wide and round as the full-bellied moon.

your grandmama had sighed, rocking you in her lap as the forest outside shivers and shakes with the steps and breaths of creatures unseen.

“that’s what curses do, my sweetest… they’re unfair things, they are. and they don’t like to make a lot of sense.”

and that had been that. she’d moved onto a nicer story, a sweeter story, a story that was not so much truth and mostly lies — because the truth, as your grandmama had said, is sharp and unfair and makes so very little sense.

lies are much, much the better for the makings of stories.

05.

he has never complimented you on your dancing, not even once — not in all the years you’ve been dancing for him, by the light of a million and one fireflies.

you’d been eight when you made the promise, it’s been ten years since then.

and at eighteen, you wonder how many more years it’ll be before the moon or the forest or whatever it is that chooses people to curse will take pity on you.

it’s just after sunset, and you’d just finished your customary sunday afternoon picnic. harry is sprawled out on the picnic blanket, his fox-faced mask lying in the soft, long grasses, an arm thrown over his eyes. you wonder if he’s asleep, though you don’t think you’ve ever seen him fall asleep, not in all the time you’ve known him.

“music, please…” you announce to the clearing, and after a long pause, as if the forest itself is coming to life, the wind picks up — the leaves rustle on their branches, the birds sweep up into a twitter wingbeats and song, the grasses around the clearing hish and hush the thrumming baseline to a music that only you and harry and the forest can hear.

slowly, harry pushes himself up, making a show of rubbing his eyes, and in the darkness you can only see the shape of him.

you don’t see the prickle of tears at the edge of his eyes as he wipes them away.

instead, you close your own eyes and wait.

and wait.

and then — at the first flicker of a firefly’s light, you lift your hands and start to dance.

06.

once, you’d asked him how he’d gotten cursed in the first place.

“it’s a long story,” he’d said.

“i’ve got a long time,” you countered.

he’d crinkled his nose, pursing his lips as the pair of you hopped over a narrow stream, him watching as you teetered on the edge of the water.

“hm… well, if you do something a ton of times in the wood… the wood decides that that’s all your good for, and it becomes your curse!”

you’d blinked up at him from over your shoulder, a soft smear of mud on your cheeks.

“oh… it’s that easy?”

“easy?”

“i mean, to get a curse.”

he’d narrowed his eyes, “why would you want a curse?”

you’d straightened up, pressing your palms down your rather sullied dress.

“because — you said that i can’t touch you cause i’m human, right?”

“uh-huh…” harry had nodded, uncertain of where your child-logic had taken you.

“but other cursed things can touch you, right? like the wolves and the shadows and the queen of ravens.”

harry bit his lips. but you seemed to have taken his silence for consent and happily skipped off further into the forest. he’d never corrected you even as he heaved another world-weary sigh and followed after you. because technically, you hadn’t been totally wrong.

and his curse was only that he couldn’t correct you.

07.

your mind wanders as you begin to dance, and these days, it’s been doing a lot of that — wandering. so your grandmama says that it’s a part of growing up — learning when to let your mind wander and when to reign it back in, hold it on a tighter leash and tell it to wander no more. it’s a blessing to be able to let your mind wander, and so you do.

it’s just that these days, you can’t help but notice that it’s less of wandering and more of… well, a straight-shot descent to a well-known destination. and you know from a whole childhood of actual wandering that if you know the way and you know what you’ll find at the end, then it’s not wandering at all.

it’s just going.

but still, you let your mind go where it wants, and lately, it’s been going and going and going... to harry.

harry and his soul-soft laughter, harry and his knife-edge smiles, harry and his loose, lethargic movements, unhurried and always so certain. back when you were both still children, he’d led you through the forest with nothing but his voice, spouting out random facts that were much too outlandish to be true, and later, when you were both a bit older (and you’d long since memorized every bit of forest there was to memorize), he’d walk alongside you in companionable silence.

you knew his favorite trees, his favorite flowers, his favorite birds and colors, his favorite season, his favorite sweet, his favorite fruit and so many others.

and still, it feels as if you don’t know him at all, even though you’re certain he knows everything there is to know about you.

except…

you spin out on the long grasses, the light of a million and one fireflies dancing across your skin, dancing with you, singing with you as the forest does. and above you, a crescent moon cuts a sinister smile into a lonely, starless night.

years later, you’d wonder if the night had known — if the wood had known (of course, of course it had known, because there are no secrets the woods do not know, no secrets the waning moon doesn’t keep from the sleeping earth), if the entire world had conspired against you and for you that night.

when you finish dancing and the last of the fireflies flicker down to rest on the long, soft grasses, you’re breathless with exertion, luminous with exaltation and drunk on the song of the forest and a million and one lightless stars.

in the middle of the clearing, harry is smiling, you can see it even from here, and for the first time since you’d danced for him the very first time, he brings his hands together and claps.

“that was… beautiful,” he says, and his voice is deeper now, supple and sweet with the night air.

“th-thanks! phew — i really think that might do it,” you say, plopping down on the picnic blanket next to him, spreading wide your arms and staring up at the velveteen sky above you.

08.

once, you’d been told another story, though you don’t quite recall who you’d heard it from. maybe your grandmama, and maybe the old man who sits in the village square after all the longest days of the year, smoking his pipe and telling his stories.

“do you know why the cursed forest creatures can’t touch humans?”

“why?” a village boy had asked before you had the chance to.

“because… if a cursed creature touches human flesh, the cursed creature will die.”

“oh…” you said, clutching your hands to your chest, and you’d never really thought about dying. because really, what ten year old in their right mind would? but you knew of the concept from when grandmama talked about grandpapa — how he was there one day and then the next day he just… wasn’t.

“he died in his sleep,” she’d said, a tone of sadness in her voice that you’d never heard there before and wished you’d never have to hear again, “it was the best way to go.”

you’d wondered then if there’s really such thing as a “best” way to go. wouldn't the “best” thing to be not going at all?

“then… do the cursed creatures get to live forever?” you asked, before the village boy could cut in.

the old man took a long sip from his pipe and blew out a few concentric rings of smokes before coughing and waving it all away.

“no… you see, if the cursed creatures get to pass on their curses, they’d get to be reincarnated into being a human once more.”

09.

“do you… really want to be cursed?” harry asks as the pair of you share in the silence after your dance.

you suck in a long breath before pushing yourself up to sit in front of him, careful to keep your knees from bumping his.

“of course i do! it’s… it’s what i’ve been trying to do since i was like — eight!”

“but… why?” and harry’s voice is small, smaller than you’ve ever heard it, even though now, his eighteen year old body should carry a much heavier, harder sound.

“because,” you say, resolute as you’d always been, “once i’m cursed, i’ll be able to touch you.”

“and why… is that so important to you?”

harry casts his eyes towards you; you catch his gaze with yours, holding it steady. and in that moment, you mind lets go of the story that the old man told you. because it was a long time ago, and the story was so, so far away. and sometimes, the mind chooses which truths it wants to listen to, which truths it wants to believe in.

sometimes, it chooses truths that don’t look like truths from the outside in, but from the inside out — they’re the truest things to ever be true.

like this one —

“because i want to touch you. because… it’s what i’ve wanted since i was a little girl. because… sometimes, i think i want to do more than touch you — sometimes —” your voice catches on a hitched breath, lost somewhere in your chest, somewhere between your heart and your throat.

but then, darkness descends over your vision and it takes you a long moment to realize that you’re staring at the inside of a mask, thin but solid — the fox-faced mask that harry always wears.

and then pressure, and warmth, right where the fox’s dagger-carved grin usually is, so close to your own lips you can feel the heat.

it holds for a long, long moment, and then it’s gone.

the light returns as harry tugs the mask from you, grinning that teasing, lopsided grin of his, though there’s something about it tonight that makes your heart seize.

“tell me, one more time…” he says, and his voice is jagged with something that sounds painful and true and so, so terrible.

“i — i want the curse…” you say, before you really realize what you’re saying, and it takes you a moment to realize that this too, is the truth.

“okay then… it’s yours.”

and he leans in to press his lips to yours.

the truth, harry realizes, is always bitter, and harsh, and much too sharp. when he pulls back, he presses his palms to yours and lets the moon wash the clearing in blue and silver. you gasp as you feel the magic creeping into your bones, tugging you under, dragging you through the cracks in the world even as harry is tugged away from you back to the world of the living.

“w-was this all a lie?” you ask, because inside you, your heart is fighting for it’s last few beats.

“no,” harry says, his voice is pained, and his expression even more so, because every truth he tells cuts him a little deeper, and he feels his throat constrict over the words, “your dance really was beautiful… and…”

he swallows hard, feeling the knife-edge of this one final truth slicing through him, sharp as moonlight, sweet as the lightless stars.

“i love you. please… don’t forget me.”

and already, you can feel the truth starting to hurt, starting to constrict inside you like a curse. but still, you force it from you as harry flickers and fades along with the light of a million and one firefly lights.

“i — i won’t.”

10.

“but how exactly do you transfer a curse?” the village boy asked, his voice loud and jarring.

the old man takes another long sip of his pipe, puffs out a few more smoke rings.

“through a kiss,” he said.

you blinked. a kiss?

“ew!” the village boy recoiled then, shrinking back from the thought of kissing — because that’s what children are taught to do at such grown-up concepts as kissing.

you, on the other hand, you stayed right where you are, but a frown has creased your tiny, child-like brow.

“and the trick,” the old man continues, his smile going wide and a little lascivious, “is getting someone who will take their curse willingly… to accept the kiss.”

01.

for as long as harry can remember, there has always been the wood. and in the wood, there’s always been a girl with a fox-painted mask who danced to the light of the fireflies.

once, when he’d gone exploring (even though his grandpapa had warned him time and time again about going into the wood by himself), he’d nearly run into her and she’d cocked her head when he’d fallen face-first near the bank of a tiny stream, smearing mud across his cheeks.

“you’re strange little boy,” the girl said — and she could be no more than his age, harry thinks.

“and you’re a weird little girl,” he counters, his eyes catching on the bright red of the fox’s painted mouth.

there is magic at work here, harry knows, though he doesn’t know what kind, and all he really wants is to explore the woods behind his house, to know all there is to know of the world, and perhaps — he thinks as you turn and make your way deeper into the forest — to one day hold the hand of the girl with the fox-faced mask.

but that’s a wish for another day, he decides as he follows after you, jogging to catch up and ask for your name.

“ah… what’s in name,” you say, you voice light and languid, even as he frowns, “you can call me whatever you like.”

02.

once, harry had asked his grandpapa what the truest feeling in the whole wide world is.

and his grandpapa had answered —

“that, harry, would be falling in love…”

“falling in love?”

“yes, my dear boy — and the thing about love is that it’s like a curse… but it’s also like a blessing.”

“but… how can a thing be a curse and a blessing?”

then, his grandpapa had smiled, a smile that is starlight and wolfsong and all the secrets the forest ever has to tell.

“because we are doomed to always, always fall in love, my boy — and it will always, always be like handing someone and knife and asking them to cut open your throat.”

#harrison gray #ikemen villains #ikevil #ikevil harrison x reader #ikevil harrison #harrison gray x reader #ikemen series #summer days sultry nights ccc #angst mcgee #floofy floof floof #uHM i refused to apologize hoLY shit you guys i fucking adore this story.#fUCK goddamnit i am so high rn on having written this u__u but like PLS dear god tell me what you thought i have SO MANY THOUGHTS AS WELL #here are some concepts that i rly fucking adored: the ease of lies and the difficulties and harshness of truths #the fact that loving someone will always be the most painful thing you'll ever do #and that sometimes a thing can both be a lie and a truth -- or a lie that becomes the truth #and GOD it is not a sin to want things because sometimes the world wants us to want things that we shouldn't want #and sometimes the world wants us to want things because there are stories carved into the grooves of the world #stories so old that the world would end before it stopped telling these stories and children have been getting lost in the woods #since the inception of humanity itself u__u and that's a story that always needs to be told #because isn't that what growing up is about? the realization that not all truths are true and not all lies are all the way lies #and that most things actually live in between? uGH #anyway u__u im emotional and tired #pls read this <3

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