#FADED INTO DUST AND ASH IN HIS HANDS

[yourlocalabomination]

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust.

[deepspace-scenarios]

[scenario/drabble] Resonance and first-aid

Summary: LIs react when they accidentally injure you during orbital trials- you brush it off, but you soon realise it makes them confront fears and their past. (All ends well, just with some fretting and worrying because the LIs have a very soft spot for you</3)

Genre: Fluff, hurt/comfort, mentions of injury (non-graphic), vague references to myths.

SYLUS

Most of the time, resonance is easy to achieve with Sylus. The familiar surge of energy ripples through you, and a powerful wave rushes towards the charging Wanderer.

And then something hits. You feel yourself getting knocked back several feet, a feeling of burning, twisting pain coursing through you. It's not even the ball of energy itself- just tendrils of black and red, gone astray.

The Wanderer dissolves into embers, its skeletal wings crumbling to ash. Sylus dusts off his hands, the red-black mist fading from his fingertips- until he sees you wince while sheathing your sword.

"Let me see." His voice is almost unnervingly calm, devoid of his typical casual smugness after victory.

You press a hand to the darkening bruise at your waist. "Just a bruise. Some ointment can fix it."

His fingers twitch. For a man who thrives on control, the mistake is unacceptable.

"Sylus," you murmur, catching his wrist. "It’s fine."

His jaw clenches. Somewhere in his ancient, draconic memories, he was doomed with a fate where his lover would be far from fine.

You pry open his closed fist and kiss his palm, breaking the spiral. "I won't get upset over a small accident. And you can patch me up, handsome.”

He shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose,

“Kitten,”

You decide to tease him- surely a little distraction wouldn't hurt. “Besides… it's not the first time you've left bruises on my skin."

His laugh is rough, but he pulls you close, his touch too gentle.

“I only take pleasure when I leave marks on you intentionally,” he murmurs, his hand trailing down your arm and settling on your elbow. “I hate the very idea of causing you pain,”

His gaze burns with an intense mix of raw, unfiltered pain- something that runs deeper than his strength and power. You reach up to stroke his cheek in consolation, eliciting a soft exhale from him as he leans into your touch.

“At least now I know how powerful your Evol is during battle,” you say with a small smile.

“Is this… your coping mechanism, sweetie? You've been doing nothing but flirting with me,” He asks dryly.

“I'm showing you there's no need to blame yourse- agh!”

Your world tilts as he sweeps you into his arms, carrying you. Mist swirls into a thick cloak, and you're back at his home in a blink.

He doesn't let you lift a single finger until he's sure your condition is stable, and until your bruise is dressed with sterile gauze above a thick layer of ointment.

“I called in sick for you,” he announces as he joins you under the covers, his warmth seeping into the shared space instantly. “You're not leaving until you're in a better condition,”

“Or what? You're gonna tie me to the bed?”

“You sound too excited for that sort of thing, kitten.”

Little did you know, he's already cleared his entire night's schedule to watch over you as you rest, the weight in his chest lifting ever so slightly when he witnesses you sleeping peacefully until the first light of dawn filters through the curtains.

_____

ZAYNE

The Wanderer’s firey breath comes from behind- Zayne reacts instantly, ice erupting in a shield. But the frost spreads, searing your back with cold. Your knees almost buckle, but you force yourself to turn and grab Zayne to resonate with him- the Wanderer dissipates, splintering into embers in the air.

Before you can fall, Zayne catches you.

"Don’t move," he orders. His usual clinical tone is too sharp, his breaths too measured.

You know why. The nightmares where he loses control- where you freeze under his hands.

"Zayne," you say softly, reaching for his hand. "Look at me, love. I’m here. I'm not going anywhere."

His fingers tremble.

"I know," he grits out, then steadies himself with another measured inhale-exhale. “Let me inspect the injury,”

You recognise this Zayne- right now, he's a combat medic, moving almost with tunnel vision to assess, diagnose and treat. You tug at the zipper of your gear, trying to shrug off the material to let him access the wound properly.

His hands stop you, “Don't make unnecessary movements. Allow me to do it instead,”

You nod, feeling your cheeks grow warm as the fabric is removed - then draped modestly across your front again.

"Minor second-degree," he mutters, noting the reddened areas with faint swelling. "No necrosis. Fortunate.”

Once he rushes you home, he fills a basin with lukewarm water and adds a mild antiseptic before dabbing at the wound. You tense from the sensation, and Zayne pauses.

“On a scale of one to ten, how badly does it hurt?” He asks, voice almost stern.

You gnaw at your lip, knowing not to hide your pain from him. It'll only deepen his guilt.

So you ramble, trying to be a compliant patient for him. “Maybe… about six? Six point five? But keep going, I don't think I'll deteriorate. The antiseptic feels strange- prickly, but nothing too bad.”

He exhales quietly behind you, and you feel the warm, damp cotton dab lightly onto your skin again.

He's never talkative, but the silence is heavy with a dense web of tangled emotions that had you scrambling for ways to lessen the weight on Zayne's shoulders.

“Dr. Zayne? I have a question.” You begin.

His hand pauses yet again, but he quickly recovers. “Hm?”

“Will it be safe for me to give hugs after this treatment?”

You hear him swallow audibly, and he lets out a short sigh- the kind that's stuck between exasperation and amusement.

“If you move slowly and take extra care, then yes, you may. But cease any movement that causes the slightest discomfort,”

He bandages you like you’re glass.

Later on, you hug him, long enough to feel the tension ease just the slightest.

Nothing verbal can comfort him right now- no reassurances, no saccharine words- you know it all just gets pushed aside by the persistent, haunting nightmares that he has.

He doesn't move, doesn't try to reject the hug- and you know this is him telling you how much he needs this. So you wait, with your arms wrapped around his torso and your face pressed to his chest.

Seconds turn into minutes- then you feel the gentle, hesitant presence of his hand as he cradles the back of your head gingerly. You hug him tighter.

Your warmth and your heartbeat is enough to let him know- you're safe, and this is not a dream, and that you love him all the same.

_____

RAFAYEL

Your shoulder burns where Rafayel’s dagger grazes you- a misaimed throw meant for the Wanderer. The pain gets masked by adrenaline, but you can feel the difference when you move.

Rafayel doesn't notice the sluggishness in your movements just yet, the way you push yourself to keep up with him, hiding the crimson of your clothes within the chaotic blur of battle.

His dance is deadly and alluring, with flashes of his blade and twisting flames sending the Wanderer hurtling backwards.

It is only after the Wanderer bursts into fragments of ash and lingering crackles of energy, when he gasps.

"Don’t-" He’s there in an instant, hands hovering. No theatrics. No jokes. Just agitation.

You’ve never seen him like this.

"Raf, it’s just an accident-"

"No." His voice cracks. Eight hundred years ago, he inflicted a fatal wound- one he has never forgiven himself for.

He doesn't speak the entire way home, and dresses the cut with uncharacteristic silence, his fingers lingering as you sit and watch him work.

"You’re never, ever allowed to bleed for me again," he whispers when he's done, kneeling in front of you on the sofa like he's praying for forgiveness.

You cup his face, looking into his eyes- blue, pink, purple- flooded with an intense guilt that has you lost in the melacholy depths until you're blinking back tears yourself.

"Hey, accidents happen," You say softly, "-and I'm fine. So stop looking so guilty, fishie."

His laugh is watery, but he kisses your palm- like he’s reminding himself you’re real, and safe.

“C'mon, Raf. Please?” You ask, unsure of what you're requesting- for him to look less devastated? For him to trust you as his bodyguard?

He makes a muffled noise, avoiding your gaze now. “I hurt you, and I can't even hug you now because that's gonna make you bleed-”

You poke his cheek, hoping it draws him out from his gloomy state.

“Just because you're my bodyguard doesn't mean you can endanger yourself,” he pouts, gently taking your hands and moving them to his chest.

He lets out a shaky sigh. “Just- stay with me for a while longer.”

Later, he maneuvers you until your legs are draped sideways across his lap, and he holds you like the dearest treasure he's ever found.

(He tells you that your bodyguard duties are off for the next two months. “You're just my cutie now, Miss Bodyguard can go hibernate,” he declares.)

_____

XAVIER

Xavier’s sword swings wide as he leaps to deliver the finishing blow. There's a rare misjudgment- and it nicks your calf.

He moves in a blur, and returns to your side before the remnants of the Wanderer disappear.

"We're going to the clinic," he says, sheathing his blade. Before you can protest, he’s lifting you into his arms.

"Xavier! I can walk-"

"Apologies aren't genuine without action," His grip tightens as he looks down at you, his eyes carrying the depth of stars lost to supernovas, and a rawness so far from his usual tenderness and calm that makes your breath stutter.

At your embarrassed squirming, his brows crease. "Are you rejecting my apology?"

You huff, thinking of showing up at the Hunter's clinic in his arms. "No- you’ll- you might get tired."

He holds you with soft desperation, careful yet with a grip tight like he fears you would slip between his fingers like stardust.

"My dear partner, this is the least I can do,” he says, voice wavering. “Now hold tight, we're taking a shortcut-”

Once your wound is dressed at the clinic and you are tucked into bed- he finally, finally allows himself to unravel and apologize to you, over and over again in hushed whispers.

He only stops when you press your lips to his, his eyes widening before he embraces you, exhaling a shaky breath.

His arms remain around you until you two fall asleep, with the moon bearing witness to his silent promise of everlasting protection over you.

______

CALEB

Caleb's gun kicks back harder than expected after resonating, and he slams into you.

You throw your arm out instinctively to break the fall, but the impact still sends you both crashing to the ground.

There's a tearing pain in your shoulder, and your breath is knocked straight out of you upon impact, leaving you dazed as you watch the crumbling Wanderer scatter in the wind.

"Oh, shit," Caleb's up instantly, scanning for injuries. "You alright, pips?"

You shift, forcing yourself to sit up despite the burn in your shoulder. "Just a strain.”

But he sees the way you wince, and his jaw is set. The man who vowed you’d always be safe at his side just failed.

"Caleb," you sigh, moving to pick up your weapon. “I'm fine, I swear,”

Caleb stops you, an arm hooking around your waist from behind as he makes the weapon float back to you instead.

"Major threat was eliminated. We're safe." You protest at his sudden surge of protectiveness, catching the gun.

His laugh is rough, frayed with a sort of mirthless desperation that wrenches through you harder than moving your injured shoulder.

“We're safe,” he begins, echoing you, “but you're staying with me to get your injury checked.”

Later, he sits you on the kitchen stool to inspect the injury with meticulous precision.

“Don't bite your lips so hard,” he orders, stopping his inspection and handing you a few unwrapped Hi-Chew candies of all things. “Have these instead,”

You hum, popping the tiny eraser-shaped candies into your mouth and letting the fruity, chewy sweetness dull the pain.

When Caleb puts anti-inflammatory cream on your shoulders, you feel his touch linger.

"I'll do better next time. I'm not letting anything hurt you, Pips. And don't even think about doing any work- you'll be resting under my watch this week.”

Note: Pls protect Zayne and Rafayel poor bbs going through all that in the recnt updates make me so :(((( i love them ALSO this piece was inspired by an ask from an anon reader. thanks for reading <333

Click here for the opposite scenario

[tiny-space-platypus]

A King and a Prince

Danny screamed.

He screamed and screamed, using his ghostly wail until his voice shattered and his throat was raw with the echoes of his own agony. He wailed even after the battle was won. After the last of the GIW had fallen, even after Vlad’s final, gasping breath had faded into silence. He wailed as Amity Park crumbled around him, as the last flickering lights of his home were swallowed by ruin.

It didn’t matter.

No one was left to hear him.

No one left to be farmed by his despair.

He had outlasted them all—the Guys in White, Vlad, even Pariah Dark himself. He had survived, clawing his way through blood and betrayal, only to realize, too late, that survival was the cruelest fate of all.

He had lost everything.

His home—reduced to rubble. His friends—gone and buried beneath the wreckage of the school. Their last standing ground from the GIW's control or maybe blissfully scattered to the winds. His family—torn apart, mom and dad dead by his hands. Not purposely but they had picked their side. Jazz dead by theirs attempting to protect him. Their laughter, the happy family they were, now just a ghost in his hollow chest. His city, his obsession, his afterlife—all ashes, all dust. And what had he gained? A crown of thorns, a throne he never wanted. The title of King Phantom, ruler of the dead, sovereign of a graveyard empire.

He built a council. He forged a government. He crafted a system that could run without him—because he could not rule, not when every decree tasted of blood, not when every whisper of his subjects sounded like the voices of the lost. Not when he was so lost.

So he vanished.

Not in triumph, not in secrecy—but in surrender. He would sleep. Finally really sleep. He would sleep for centuries, for millennia even, until the worlds forgot his name. Until the stars themselves burned cold. Until even the memory of his suffering was nothing more than a sigh in the dark. And maybe, just maybe, if he slept long enough… he would forget, too.

Fate, it seemed, had other plans.

Danny awoke to crying.

Not the wailing of the long-dead, nor the hollow sobs of forgotten spirits—but the raw, shuddering pleas of someone new. A voice too young, too broken, gasping between tears:

"Please—"

"Dad, I’m sorry—"

"B, you promised—"

Danny blinked slowly, his limbs heavy from his long sleep. His mind swam in fog, his body sluggish, as if moving through deep water. But the sound, a sound too familiar to ignore, pulled him forward, guiding him through the mist of his own exhaustion until he found the source—a boy.

A small, bloodied thing in a torn costume of green and red and gold, hunched over his own grave.

Danny’s chest ached.

Oh.

A newly dead. A child. One so much like him, once. Danny watched him for awhile. Days maybe? It had been such a long time since he had needed to keep track of time... He stepped closer, his voice soft as settling dust. "Hey."

The boy jerked upright, his masked face streaked with inky tears. "You—you can see me?"

Danny huffed a quiet laugh. "Oh, so he does talk."

The boy stared, trembling, his breath hitching. Danny knelt—not too close, not too far—and tilted his head. "My name’s Danny. What about you?"

The boy opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "My name? My name is… My name is…?" His voice cracked, panic rising like a tide. "My name—my name—?" He didn't remember. Not many ghostlings did.

"Hey, hey," Danny murmured, reaching out—not to touch, but to offer. With a thought, he summoned a little blob ghost, its form wobbly and bright, and placed it gently in the boy’s lap. The creature nuzzled against him, purring like a gooy contented cat. The boy’s hands stilled. Then, hesitantly, he began to pet it.

Danny smiled. "A name doesn’t have to be a name," he said softly. "It can be anything you’d like."

The boy swallowed. "...Robin," he whispered. "I’m Robin."

"Robin," Danny repeated, like it was something precious. "It’s good to meet you, kid."

A beat of silence. Then, small and scared:

"Am I dead?"

Danny’s core clenched. He let himself float just a little, settling cross-legged in the air, making himself smaller, lesser. "You are," he admitted gently. "I’m sorry, Robin."

The boy—Robin—choked on a sob. "Is that why Dad wouldn’t—why he didn’t—?" Danny didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Robin crumpled.

Without thinking, Danny reached out and gathered him close, tucking the boy against his chest the way Jazz had once held him so very long ago—after bad nights, after bad fights, after the world had been too much. "I know," he murmured, rocking him slightly. "I know. It sucks. It’s not fair. But you’re not alone, okay? Never alone." Robin shuddered, his tiny fists clutching Danny’s cloak of stars. Danny felt the threats forming, a soul bond. He had had one will Elle, with clockwork, with few others. A bond of trust.

Danny didn’t hesitate. He let his ecto unwind, warm and golden green and royal, and carefully, so carefully, began to mend the fractures in Robin’s soul. The pain, the fear, the jagged edges of a death too soon and too violent. The death of someone trying to be a hero—he took them into himself, replacing the hurt with quiet, with safety. Slowly, Robin’s breathing evened. His weight grew heavy against Danny’s shoulder.

Asleep.

Not that ghosts needed sleep. But children did. Danny exhaled, looking around the graveyard—at the other small, lost shades watching from the shadows. His chest tightened.

…He could help them.

Just for today. Just for now. He could make Gotham a little lighter. And maybe, just maybe, it would help Robin, too—to have something familiar.

Robin followed Phantom like a shadow—or, more accurately, like a small, determined firefly, darting after the king’s trailing cloak as he moved through Gotham’s gloom. Honestly the child was a little beacon of light. Bright like a little firefly.

At first, he simply watched.

Phantom moved like a whisper between worlds—guiding lost shades toward peace, nudging lingering spirits toward unfinished business, even coaxing the living, stubborn bleeding-hearted vigilantes, into just the right places at just the right times. They never knew they were being helped, of course. But Robin saw.

And slowly, he began to copy.

A nudge here—a whisper there. A flicker of movement to draw a grieving widow’s eye to a hidden letter. A gentle tug on a cape to steer a batarang just wide enough to avoid a fatal blow. Gotham, ever so slightly, began to brighten.

And so did Robin. So much brighter than the dead boy Danny had met. He had even taught the boy to change his form from his one in death to a Robin in life. He was so much brighter not covered in blood and debris..

Phantom watched, warmth curling in his core, as the boy—his little prince—blossomed. Robin laughed as he flew, spinning through the air like a fallen leaf caught in the wind. He chattered to the other ghosts, coaxing even the shyest shades out of their hiding spots. He guided lost souls with a patience that belied his age, his voice soft but steady—"It’s okay, you’re safe now"—and when they finally faded into peace, he turned to Phantom with stars in his eyes.

"Did you see! I did it on my own!"

Phantom ruffled his hair. "Yeah, kid. I saw."

And oh, the way Robin glowed.

He was happy here. Happy to help, happy to fly, happy to tuck himself under Phantom’s arm after a long night and murmur about all the things he’d seen, all the people he’d saved. Gotham was still dark. But now, there were pinpricks of light—like stars or tiny, stubborn sparks—where before there had been none. And at the center of them all, brighter than any ghost light, was Robin.

[yeyinde]

hands like barbed wire

John Price x Reader

18+ | dubcon that flirts heavily with noncon. fingering (in public). manipulation. slight corruption kink. sheltered reader forced into a wife-grooming speed run. lotsssssa good girl/sweet girl/baby abound. implied kidnapping.

You meet him in a bar.

He's sitting alone in the corner, body angled towards all the exits. There's a glass of scotch on the table that drip, drip, drips these big, teardrop-sized droplets of condensation down the glass, kept cradled between a thick, grizzled hand. The scabs on his knuckles remind you of ripe, sour cherries when they flex under the coarse dusting of hair.

There's something about his hands that catches your attention first. Keeps it.

Your daddy used to say there was a lot to learn about a man by the shape of his hands. And his, this magnetic stranger's, are rough. Worn. Dangerous. Blistered and torn up. Caution tape in pale peach. Dirt under his nails. Ash on his forefinger. Stay away, it says. Run.

But the flicker of orange sparking up in the gloom draws you in like a moth to a flame. Stupid girl—

(just like daddy always said)

He doesn’t look up when you step closer. Little moth drawn to that orange light, the shift of those fingers wet with condensation. But you catch the slightest shift of his chin from your periphery. A silent acknowledgement, but it’s all you get. He keeps his eyes glued to the newspaper he has spread out on the table. Disregarding you entirely. Ignoring you. 

(and you keep yours fixed on the clench of his hands—)

"Not supposed to smoke in here," you murmur, voice a little slip of a thing when it shudders out of your throat. 

You don’t mean to say it. You’re not sure why you do. The words roll to the tip of your tongue and drip down your chin when your mouth shifts on a small, soundless gasp. Beneath the scabs on his fingers, his skin is all scar tissue—

In an almost laughable contrast, he growls, purring like a tiger, a diesel engine, when he speaks. 

"m'not supposed to do a lot of things—" When you finally, finally, drag your eyes away from his hands (the flex of his fingers, wondering how they'd even fit inside—), you catch a flat, uneven line buried under untameable brown. But he still doesn’t look at you. "But who is gonna tell me that?"

You don't get it. Sheltered girl—little girl, he adds, all ugly and cruel; cold in his mockery because that's what you are to him: little—growing up buried in the mountains, left to rot on the fecund plains where your daddy sowed seeds and mama pickled the wares for the market. Barely scraping by on a farm doomed to fail. Some poor man's burial ground, the locals say. Cursed. But hindsight—the gold band on his ring finger, one half of a matching set belonging to a woman who isn't you; and the patch on his leather jacket, faded yellow and bold, 141 with a twisted skull—bring you to a neat conclusion:

he's a bad man. Stupid girl, daddy would bark. Ain't you know nothin'? Stay away from them folk. Bad news. Nothin' but trouble.

(Mama would laugh. And oh, honey, did trouble find you—)

Between the heavy thud of your heart, the words slip out. “Well, I just did.”

More gall. Cheek. You don't know where it comes from.

Mama would have washed your mouth with soap. Dragged you to the washroom, spitting about respect as she twisted her gnarled fingers into your lips, and tugged. 

You expect the same from him. Maybe worse. Much worse. But he just looks—

His eyes peel away from the article (train robbery down south, it says in bold, ugly letters), finally darting to take you in. There's shock, you think. Stupefied by your audacity. The disrespect. But when he rests his eyes on you—cold blue, like a glinting gem, a lagoon—the slow climb of his brows, drawn up high until three deep lines stretch across his skin, comes to a stop. 

He seems to pause for a beat. Just long enough for an exhale of smoke, twin funnels of dragon's breath, to pour out of his nose. They draw together, but it's not in anger. Scorn. It's a rough sort of contemplation. Eyes narrowing into slits as he stares at you. 

And the weight of his gaze is a palpable thing. Heavy. You try to fight the urge to fidget as he sizes you up, rolling your eyes down the length of his body above the table to skirt around intense, dizzying blue. 

But your avoidance makes him huff, and he leans back, sucking in another breath. 

"C'mere," he demands. Doesn't say, doesn't ask. Just growls the words out between the clench of his teeth buried in that cigar you tried to nitpick him about. "Come sit."

And you do. of course, you do (stupid girl).

But when you reach for the chair next to his, he scoffs. "Didn't tell you to sit beside me."

"Then where—"

He's pushing back in his seat before the words are out, thick thighs open wide (impolite mama would say), stretched tight over a pair of jeans. But even with the wide spread, you can't even see the cheap red plastic in the open v of his legs. When you don't move quick enough—head all thick, syrupy—he grunts. Reaches down mockingly and pats his thigh.

"Come sit, little girl—"

It's demeaning. Embarrassing. But there's something about him that seems to negate choice the closer he gets. Renders it into dust between his fingers. Head syrupy. Empty. No thoughts needed when he'll just think for you—

And oh. 

Oh. That thought does something to you. Static in your veins. An electric shock. Mind reeling, spinning around that single, wayward idea.

Your head is hot. Feverish. Everything inside is melted, liquified, and drips out of your ears to pool between your thighs. 

(Under the white cotton of your modest summer dress, they squeeze together, sliding in the gathering slick—)

When you don't move fast enough for his liking, he grunts. "Ain't gonna tell you again—"

And you listen. Obey. Because that's what you are: a good girl. You do what you're told, don't you?

So you slip onto his lap, letting those big, gnarled hands wrap around your waist. Holding you steady (keeping you trapped) as his thick, warm thigh splits yours apart. Wrenching you open for one of his rough, dirty hands to slide between.

His forearm anchors you to the broad, dizzying spill of his chest, head dipping to nuzzle against the shell of your ear. Shushing you softly as you squirm around the hard, thick press of his thigh against your core—cunt, he bites out, teeth nipping along the skin of your ear; can feel your hot little cunt, sweetheart—and grapple with the strange, dirty-wrong, sensation of sitting in a stranger's lap as he slowly pulls up the dress you wore to church this morning, fingers hot on your inner thigh. Chasing that sticky-slick dampness that makes him groan low in his throat when he first touches it. Softly still, a hoarse good girl—

But this isn't what good girls do.

Mama says no man is allowed to touch this hot, slick little place between your thighs until you're married. A sin, she called it. Wrong. The pastor, too. Only when you're married. Only as a wife.

You don't think he has any intention of marrying you, but he touches you like a man would a wife. Knuckle hard, firm against the thin, worn cotton of your panties. Grazing. Rubbing. All soft and slow. Not even much of a touch—just the whisper, the idea, of one.

The rasp of his smoke-scorched, whiskey-scented voice in your ear, peppering filth, sin, out as he tells you he can feel how wet your little pussy is. Feels it against his finger. And can you feel that, sweetheart? when he pushes a little harder, digging the peak of a bent knuckle into the seam of you. Can you feel him through your pretty little panties?

"Mm," he grunts, pushing harder. Arm tightening around your waist when you squirm, and squirm. "Can you?"

Yes, you think around a long breath. A little stretch. Your legs kick out under the table when he grazes over a spot that blooms a vicious, intense pleasure through your belly. Something that feels so good, that it makes you a little sick. Makes you want to run. Maybe that's why your legs kick and kick, and—

"Be good." It's a snarl. A warning. "Or I'll take you over my knee—"

Be good, he adds again when you whimper, softening the grit in his voice from granite to soot. The same tone Daddy uses when they bring him a broken horse. "Jus' wanna make you feel good, sweet girl, mm. Want that, don't you?"

"We're n-not supposed to do this if we're not—not married."

Shivering it out into the balmy, smoke-dense air of the bar feels almost like a release. Baptismal. Like maybe now you've said it, whatever spell has fallen over the two of you will be broken. He'll blink awake and right the wrong you've committed with a quick, decisive shake of his head. You'll go back to being a good girl, a simple girl from a simple family, and he'll be the stranger in a bar you think about sometimes, like the real man mama loved but her daddy wouldn't let her marry.

(A sweet little fever dream, she'd said fondly. Sadly. And then, scared, tense: don't tell daddy, though, okay?)

He hums around it, but it sounds accommodating. Placid. Like an adult entertaining the whims of a child.

"Want that, mm?" He digs the question in with a slip of his finger over the cheap lace lining the hem of your panties. "Want me to marry you?"

You're not sure. You don't know him, but he's touching you in public. Has you sat—spread—on his lap with his hand under your dress, touching you the way a husband would. There's a ring on his finger already. The suggestion of a wife. A life outside of this hovel where nothing grows, and you're just expected to roll over and grow old with whatever man daddy approves of.

"No," you stammer out because he's married already, and that's what daddy will say. "No—"

"Shame," he grunts, and his nail catches on the edge of coifed lace. Scraping it over slick, damp skin. "Jus' lost mine, you know. Been thinkin' 'bout takin' another."

A good little girl to warm my bed is said as his nail drags your panties over your swollen, slick folds.

It's instinctual to want to snap them shut. Keep him out. But his knee lifts like he's expecting that, keeping you spread. Open. His hand is hot on your skin. Burning. His thumb wedges into the hem of your panties, stretching the fabric to tuck the edges together, exposing your cunt to his wandering, blistering fingers.

There's no quarter. No choice. He doesn't let you think. Doesn't give you a minute to breathe. It's just—

Skin on skin.

His knuckle slides between the seam of your swollen folds, parting them as he touches that slick, hot space cradled inside. Groaning, too, when he does; like he touched fire. Like you burned him. Hurt him even though you know you never could.

The noise balms the panic and clots thick tufts of cotton inside your ears. The low, rolling brass trembles in your belly. A small quake. You feel it in your cunt; a strange, throbbing little hum that makes you clench down twice on nothing but the idea of that sound. The echo.

He tells you he feels it. Feels how desperate you are for him.

Needy little thing, he rasps, and it isn't kind. It isn't nice. There's a reprimand needling in against the grain of his praise. An unspoken good girl said in the tone of a man who thinks you're anything but.

"Been thinkin' about takin' a wife," he says again, dragging the rough, scabbed tip of his knuckle across the powder-soft flesh of your folds. It's ticklish. Weird. Something that makes you want to giggle and cry. Pull your blankets over your head. Lean into it more. Spread your legs wider until he touches that spot that made you shake. "But the mistake I made the last time was not testin' 'er out before I married 'er. Turns out—" the tip digs in between your swollen folds, touching where you're hot and sticky and far too sensitive for such rough hands. "She wasn't as sweet as I thought she was."

And it's electric. The rough, calloused scrape of his finger stroking up and down your split seam (your clit, he mumbles into the hollow space behind your ear, giving it a little swirl that makes your toes curl; to your hole, nice and tight and so fuckin' wet f'him, mm?) is a jolt of that dizzying, too much-not enough pleasure. A shock. Mouth open, toes clenched tight. Legs kicking. Muscles seizing as he works you over with just the tip of a finger. Barely even a touch.

"But you're sweet, aren't you?"

It sounds like he's chiding you all over again, but the cotton puffing up against your eardrums, the pleasure buzzing in your belly, between your thighs, makes everything sound so sweet. Enticing. So you agree. Nod feverishly on a gasp when his finger trails down to where you clench tight around nothing, circling your opening with the tip of his finger, nail skimming over swollen, slick flesh.

You're not sure what this is. Don't even know where to begin to articulate what you want, need, but each pass makes you feel every bit of the needy little thing he called you earlier. An admonishment drenched in fondness. Wrapped up so tight in a soft, velvet cloth of amusement that you could barely feel the pricks of barbed wire nestled inside when it rubbed against your skin.

Sweet enough that it makes you turn your head into his bicep, nuzzling against the fabric of his jacket as he works his fingers between your wet, slick thighs. Thumb against your clit. A brand. Pressing down, down, and then softening when your legs kick out, too much. That dirty, awful kind of pleasure that makes you feel like a balloon being pumped too full, ready to burst. His finger slips inside. Just a tease. As gentle as a kiss. Only up to his cuticle. Barely even a knuckle.

He tells you all of his with his beard scraping against the flushed, damp skin of your cheek. Murmuring the words into the pool of blood throbbing against your cheekbones. Reinforces them with a sharp nip of his teeth when the shame trickles in—when the easy pump of his finger, not even a knuckle, makes a wet, sticky noise as it pushes into that pool of heat inside of you.

And it's all good girl, sweet girl against the sticky-slick shine of your raw cheek when your needy little cunt sucks him in deeper. Beggin' for it, and sweet little pussy wants it so bad, mm, needy girl? and don't worry, baby, m'gonna make you feel so good.

Baby. It catches, loops. Makes it easier to ignore the noise spilling out under the thick spread of his palm, finger digging in deeper (the first knuckle is a soft good girl, the second is a rough a doin' so good, sweetheart; and the third, slipped right up to last is a low, rumbling that's it, baby, takin' it so well, ain't you?), and the clatter around you. A semi-crowded bar.

You forgot, you think, squirming suddenly. Stiffening around him, on him, as the world sharpens into a whistle. Glass on worn wood. Thud, thud. Legs squealing against herringbone as a heavy chair is dragged back. Low murmurs. Laughter. Noise spilling out from the front of the room, calls for more beer. Another shot. Hey, bartender, gimme another Jack on the rocks—

"Shush-shush, baby," he coos, finger dragging out a lewd squelch when slides back inside of you, as deep as it'll go. The slap of his bent index and ring finger hitting your puffy, drenched folds when he thrusts. "They can't see you. Can't hear you. Jus' be good for me, mm? My sweet girl."

Nothin' matters except me, he adds, curling that finger inside of you until it hooks on a spot that makes you whimper into his arm, teeth sinking into leather. I own this bar, he promises, lifting his arm up as you cling to him with your teeth. A block against the world. Nothing but faded, aged leather and stale smoke. Gunpowder. The slick glide of his finger inside of you, the sting of the stretch dissolving into a wet, sticky pleasure.

His own teeth dig into the curve of your neck. A pinch. Sucking in a mouthful of skin as his ring finger extends, drags over your messy cunt until it's pushed up against your stuffed hole, nudging inside. A shallow dip. Lemme in, it says as he bites through blood vessels with the hard suck of his mouth. Lemme in because—

"I own this town. This bar. Jus' like I own this sweet little cunt."

A shove and he's in. All the way. To the last knuckle. Quick and sudden, the sting is an afterthought; the burn is a hazy, ephemeral throb in the back of your head. Balmed by the drag of his thumb over your pebbled clit.

It feels like a seesaw. Up and down. Bending your knees, feet planted into the ground, and then kicking up, up. Weightless. Over and over again. An ebb and flow. Higher and higher until you slowly fall down—

(—into his lap. the cup of his palm.)

You tell him as much. Mewled out into spit-drenched leather as he rumbles against your spine, his voice so deep, so full, you can feel it humming in your chest when he speaks.

(feel it drip down your spine like hot wax where it pools between your thighs—)

"Good girl," he says, and you feel like anything but. Less like the girl who sat in the pew this morning, humming along to hymns in a modest, cotton dress and more like gum spat out onto the pavement. Squished down under his heel. Dragged along beneath his boot. Pretty, dizzy pinked up remora. "Bein' so good, mm? Maybe you deserve a reward."

It comes on the crook of his fingers twisting inside your slicked up cunt; blunt nails pressing against soft walls until it stings like the nip of his teeth over your cheek. You're not even sure if it feels good. It's just—

Pressure. A burning stretch. The foreign sensation of something detached from your body squirming inside of you, touching places you've never been able to reach before. Too deep and too full. His index finger is nearly double the width of your own.

It makes you mewl like a child. Twisting on his lap, trying to pull away from the place that parts for him so easily, opens up with just the crook of his finger. Leaks slick down his palm, drenching his pants. Makin' a mess, he growls, and pulls you back down on his lap. Feel it, sweet girl? Mm? Feel the mess you're makin'.

And you hate that you can. That each thrust of his hand between your thighs sounds wetter and wetter than it did before. That it pulls it out of you until it drips down your inner thighs and pools against the back of your dress. Stains his thighs. The hard thing—his cock, he tells you, dragging your ass over it with a grunt—under you that jerks and throbs and flattens up to a size that makes you want to curl into a ball and weep.

(that makes your knees twitch, wanting to spread wider—)

It's a lot. It's too much. You're not even sure you like it ("ain't nice to tell lies, little girl;") but he doesn't stop. Won't. Not even when tears drip down from the corners of your eyes, and you hide whimpers into the damp, sticky leather of his sleeve. It doesn't really matter because—

"mm, you look so pretty when you cry."

You feel drenched. Liquid. No longer a person but a puddle. Melted, leaking. Dripping down his lap and pooling onto the dirty barroom floor. A slippery little thing held together by the cup of his palm, the hook of his fingers sinking into you over and over again.

"Are you watchin'?" The arm wrapped around your waist shifts until his dry, rough hand is cupped under your wet, sticky chin, curling over your throat. "Look at us."

Between the spread of your thighs, white cotton dress rumpled and rucked up around your hips, the sight of his hand—masculine: dangerous; knuckles bruised and scarred, cherry red; big and rough and hairy—is obscene. Ugly. Wrong.

(a grunt: too tight. his fingers flex, spreading open inside of you, scissoring apart. loosen up, love, before you break 'em, mm.)

So, so wrong.

You feel small with that big, grizzled hand between your legs. Insignificant. A toy to play with. A thing to be used. And that's just what he does.

Shows you how he can play with your body when he peels his fingers out of you nice and slow until just the tips keep you open, skin shiny and wet. Glistening in the flushed, low light of the bar. And then slides them back inside, just as slow. The first knuckle. The second. The third. Wiggles them around. Scissors them apart.

Pulls them out faster now, and thrusts them back inside hard.

This cunt belongs to him, he grunts, words nestled beneath the slick, sticky-wet sound of him taking what he owns. Over and over again. That big, bearish hand works at your messy cunt until your thighs tremble, and your head throbs.

The hand on your throat is firm. Tight. And when it pulls away to slip inside your cotton dress, you realise you've forgotten how to breathe without him controlling every breath.

"Come on," he rasps, fingers working harder. Faster. His thumb catches your clit, rubbing small, tight circles; each pass brings a new, terrible pleasure rippling through you. A crescendo that builds and builds. Higher on the seesaw—up, up—

His hand is scorching as it cups your breast, index and middle finger scissoring over your nipple until it's caught between the two. A pluck. A pinch. It buzzes down your chest, sinks like a stone into the wet, muddled mess between your hips.

And that's all you are. Nothing but a soaked, hot mess of a thing in his lap. Putty. Messy girl. Silly girl. Sweet. Stupid. His.

(his low, growling voice in your ear: mine, mine, mine;) "aren't you, little girl?"

The leather between your teeth tastes like ash. Smells of gunpowder. Fresh hide in the summer's sun. Smoke. Tobacco. Potent. Masculine. Grizzled, like his hand between your thighs. The other cupped around your breast, pinching and pulling and kneading flesh you hadn't realised could feel so good when it was touched like this—

By his hands, palms hot enough to scorch, to brand. To melt you from the outside in until you leak all over his lap where you're cradled like a child. Obedient and docile.

Especially when he makes you come on his fingers. Tells you that's what you'll do before it happens—a grunt, a command, in your ear. Do it, sweetheart. I ain't askin' again—

And you do. Pulsing like a heartbeat around the thick stretch of two fingers digging deep inside of you, stabbing into that spot that makes you pant like an animal. Blooms more heat, more pleasure, that thickens inside your navel—molten. Spilling out from between your hips. Up, up, up on the seesaw—

"Good girl. Good fuckin' girl—"

He doesn't even sound like a man anymore. The rough, feverish grit of his voice pitches low into his throat, hums in his chest. Rattles like bones in the wind. Howls. Sharpens in the pit of your belly, another liquid pulse around his fingers. It sounds animal. Primal. Bearish as he claims you as his, as he curls his fingers around the heart of you, and tugs. Leaving you spun around those thick, grizzled fingers like fresh cotton candy, sticky and sweet. His to keep.

And that's what you are,

"aren't you?"

Good girl, he coos when you nod, sniffling into creased leather that smells of cade and motor oil. Too dizzy to make sense of what he's asking for, too incomplete.

Your neck feels cold without his touch, but you don't know how to ask for something you don't even think you really want. Shouldn't want.

You feel feverish, too, and it's an all-over thing. From the space between each toe, to the backs of your ears—everything is too hot, too cold. You're shivering, but you want to sink down into a pool of ice, a blanket of heat and warmth. Wrap yourself around the hot, oozing insides of a chest—like the hunter who slept inside his beloved horse—and bathe in the waters around the polynya. Icy and dark.

Mostly, though, you just feel raw. Wrong. Scraped out and hollowed. Broken into pieces and put back together with mismatched parts.

And it's worse, you think, when he pulls his fingers out of you, and you're reminded of what it feels like to be empty all over again.

"Shush, baby," he's cooing when you whimper. Chiding. "Let's have a taste, mm? Find out if you're really sweet."

His hand is drenched when he pulls it from between your thighs. Thick, clear strands make a bridge between his fingers when he splits them apart, rumbling low and brassy in his chest at the sight. Spits like a burning log, crackling sap in a dry fire, when he says, look, baby, got me all fuckin' wet—

But you can't. Not when he drags his hand up, up, over your shoulder, above your head, and sinks his fingers into his mouth with a groan that raffles through you, all the way down to your toes. Slurps on his hand, on the slick you left behind, like a man half-starved. Grunting at the taste. Cock throbbing beneath you like a heartbeat. Pulsing and angry. Enough that you cower a bit, flinching back into the broad expanse of his chest as his thick, fat cock twitches under you, eager for something you only really know about as an abstract concept. Knowledge gleaned through rummaging around in cupboards when no one was looking. Playground tales; cupped palms against the side of an ear. Stage whispers.

Husband and wife.

And oh, baby—

"you're the sweetest thing I've ever tasted," he rasps into your cheek, lips shiny and wet. Smearing spit and slick across your raw skin. "Looks like I found my new wife."

It doesn't make sense. Another abstract concept. Fragmented pieces. You want to say we can't get married, but all that comes out is a squeak. A whimper. Some shallow warble in the back of your throat that sounds like daddy, please.

But he's pulling his hand away from your breast, and clasping it tight around your neck before the words can make it through the panic clogging your throat. A firm squeeze snuffs those flames as quickly as they formed, and you swallow down the ash in the back of your throat before it can choke you.

Good girl, he says with a paper soft kiss to the bruised, burning apple of your cheek. Sweet girl, baby girl, and when he smoothes his damp hand across the rumpled fabric of your cotton dress, pulling it back over your thighs, you realise you forgot your own name.

(It doesn't matter, you suppose. You'll have his soon enough.)

When it's back in its proper spot, unblemished and pristine despite the ache between your thighs and the way your panties stick, uncomfortably, to swollen skin, he drags his hand back up your leg until his palm swallows your thigh. The warmth of his skin bleeds through the cotton, and his rough, calloused fingers catch on loose threads when he splays them wide, touch firm, possessive—as if he has the right to hold you like you're his.

But his skin is still wet, and when it catches in the light, you feel a sinking weight in your belly. An echo in the back of your head that says you already are.

His thumb strokes over cotton, and it's almost obscene, really: soft, virginal white against marled, cherry red and scarred peach; from his knuckles to the hem of his leather jacket, he's covered in a dense swath of hair. Veins bulge when he flexes, thick lines running down the back of his hand like little rivers of blue beneath raw peach flesh. He's just so—

Different.

Masculine. Big. Dangerous, you think again, and hear that muffled echo in the back of your head that said run, stay away.

(except now it sounds like stupid girl, you're much too late—)

Trapped like a fawn under his paw. One on your thigh, the other on your throat. The phantom burn, the hollow echo, of his fingers tearing through the too-tight space inside of you, making room for the heavy, fat length under you.

Soon, it seems to say, still as angry as it was when he feasted on your sweet taste.

His hand leaves your thigh, reaching up towards the half-drunk glass on the table beneath a puddle of condensation. It, too, is swallowed up under his bearish hand when he curls his fingers around it, tugging it closer, over your shoulder.

You smell whiskey as he takes the last swig, grunting at the burn, the sting. When he's finished, he leans forward, warm chest glueing to your spine, and places the empty glass back in the puddle.

The hollow thud of glass on wood seems to shake loose the cobwebs that spooled around your head. It feels like blinking to life. Waking up from a deep sleep.

The bar is still buzzing with noise, but you can hear it clearly now. A constant, endless press of voices and low hums, words you can't make sense of. You're too far back in the bar for anyone to have seen you—the bulk of his arm is a wall between you and the world—but you wonder just how much your whimpers carried under the static chatter. The wet, messy squelch—

"You're fine, sweetheart." A squeeze and the panic welling in your throat is choked under his palm. Snuffed out. "No one heard a thing."

You're not sure you believe him, but it keeps the embarrassment from eating you alive, and so you let it go with a slow, sleepy nod. A sniffle. Wet, weepy: I want to go home.

"S'right, sweetheart," he soothes, pressing another brittle kiss to your temple, one that feels the sting of a scraped knee. "We'll get you home."

(Chiding. Look at what you've done to yourself. Pitying. Patronising. Poor thing.)

His home isn't the same as the one cradled in the maw of a mountain, where the land is always barren, and your mother weeps when your father isn't around, but you relent when he tugs, pulling you into his arms. Holding you like a small child as he bites down on his cigar, and moves through the blanket of silence in the once rowdy bar. Hands firm, tight like shackles when they close around you.

Your father used to say you could tell a lot about a man by the look of his hands, and when he slips his fingers between the soft brackets of yours, filling the spaces you hadn't realised were empty, you know one thing:

these are not the sort to ever let go.

(bassbround. apodictic.)

and when he slips his ring on your finger and tells you to wear that little white cotton dress for him, you suppose you have no one else to blame but yourself.

[shaiyasstuff]

fate | rafayel | sequel

synopsis : Who are we to stand in the line of fate? That was what you used to think. content : fluff, rafayel x non-mc!reader, a happy ending since there were so many requests for part two

One bullet.

Clean. Fatal. Head.

Another bullet.

Missed—close, but enough to remind you you were still breathing.

You were back at the range. Again.

It had become your sanctuary. Or maybe your penance.

Five days.

That’s how long it’s been since Shaiya and Rafayel found you curled up on the beach, lost somewhere between sleep and surrender.

Five days since you’d let go of that last fragile thread of hope.

Because whatever you were waiting for—whatever foolish, aching part of you still believed—wasn’t coming.

It never was.

Because who were you to stand in the line of fate?

The echo of gunfire fades, swallowed by the cavernous stillness of the room. You lower the weapon slowly, slipping it back into its holster with practiced ease.

Footsteps behind you.

You don’t need to turn. You already know.

“I’m fine,” you say before she can open her mouth, forcing a smile as you dust off your hands. “You don’t have to check on me like I’m a child.”

Shaiya chuckles, light, warm. “I know. I just…”

She hesitates. “I was worried. You scared me.”

There it is again—that soft pang in your chest. The one that always came when she looked at you like you mattered. Like you were worth something.

Standing in front of you was the girl who unknowingly stood between you and the one thing you couldn’t stop wanting.

And still—you couldn’t hate her. Not when she was like this. Not when her kindness reached you in places nothing else could.

“Rafayel’s been asking about you,” she says casually, and your jaw clenches, just for a second.

You look away.

Of course he has.

But not to you.

He hadn’t shown up since that day—when he left without a word and slammed the door so hard it echoed for hours.

“Did he now,” you murmur, fiddling with your holster again like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

Shaiya nods, watching you carefully. “Did something… happen between you two?” she asks gently.

You look at her. She’s calm. Thoughtful.

So perfect it almost hurts.

Would telling her change anything?

Would she understand?

Would it make you feel better, saying it out loud?

Probably not.

So you give her a shrug instead.

“No,” you lie, soft and bitter. “Nothing happened.”

The words burn on your tongue, but you swallow them down with the rest of the things you’ll never say.

She holds your gaze for a moment longer, like she knows there’s more but won’t press.

“I told him he should call you,” she says finally. “He kept brushing it off. Said something about how clueless you can be.”

You freeze.

The world stills for half a second.

That stupid flicker again—hope. Always rising from the ashes, uninvited. You hate it. You need it.

You offer a small smile. “Maybe I’ll talk to him.”

Shaiya grins. “Good. Because he’s driving me crazy. Get him off my back, will you?”

She waves and heads out, leaving you alone in the empty range.

Alone with the echo of her words.

Clueless.

You repeat it under your breath like a riddle.

“What did he mean?”

You don’t notice the shadow behind the wall. The quiet figure watching from just out of sight.

Rafayel.

—•

The moonlight spills like silver ink across your apartment floor as you sink into the couch, muscles heavy with exhaustion. You groan softly, letting your head fall back.

Your hand fishes your phone from your pocket.

11:48 p.m.

You stare at the screen, thumb hovering over nothing.

And then, quietly, you wonder—

What is he doing right now?

Was he annoying Shaiya again, hovering too close in that boyish, oblivious way of his? Was he in his studio, fingers stained with paint, lost in a world he never let you see?

Or was he standing on the other side of your door?

You stand slowly, unsure what draws you forward, only that your feet are already moving. Already at the threshold.

“If he’s there, he’s there,” you mumble, hand on the doorknob. “That’s it.”

But then—

“What if he isn’t?”

And just like that, you pause.

What would you even say if he was?

You’ve never said anything before. Never dared to touch the truth of what you feel.

What makes tonight any different?

You shake your head, scoffing under your breath.

“You dumbass,” you whisper to yourself.

And still, you open the door.

Because even if fate had chosen someone else, even if you were never meant to be written into his story—

Some small, stubborn, reckless part of you wanted to defy it.

Just once.

You squint, eyes adjusting slowly to the pale light pooling in the hallway.

At first, it’s just a silhouette. Then—A familiar mop of tousled lilac hair.

And those eyes—those ridiculous, impossible eyes—somewhere between the ocean before a storm and the sky just before sunrise.

Rafayel.

A boyish grin tugs at his lips when your gaze locks with his.

And you freeze.

He’s here.

He’s really here.

Your heart stutters in your chest, wild and disoriented, as your body stays rooted in place, too overwhelmed to decide what to feel.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts, his voice rushed, anxious, as if afraid you’ll shut the door before he can say more.

You blink at him, stunned. Words scatter like leaves in the wind. What is he doing here? After everything, after five days of silence and slammed doors and missed meaning—why now?

He doesn’t look at you as he speaks, eyes fixed somewhere near the floor. “I didn’t know,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to work through his own confusion.

“How you felt. I mean, I always brushed it off because I thought…”

He trails off, the pause longer than it needs to be, and then—

“I thought you didn’t like me.”

A breath.

“…That way.”

And finally, finally, his eyes meet yours.

The world tilts.

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

“Huh?”

That’s all your mouth manages.

Not “what are you saying,” or “why now,” or “you idiot, I’ve loved you this whole time.”

Just that soft, bewildered sound. Like the universe just broke its rules in front of you, and you’re still waiting for the punchline.

He shifts on his feet, lips twitching nervously. “I’m not good at this,” he mutters, half to himself. “But I had to come. Because you opened the door. And I hoped—I really hoped you would.”

And suddenly, you’re not sure if you’re breathing at all.

He grabs your shoulders—not roughly, but with a kind of urgency that makes the world sharpen around the edges. His touch grounds you, and suddenly, you’re sure—

The universe is finally, impossibly, on your side.

“I like you, Y/N. No—wait, I love you,” he says, voice cracking with emotion. “Loved you. All this time.”

His eyes are wide, vulnerable, brimming with something wild and scared. And real.

“I’m sorry I confused you. I’m sorry it took me this long to realize. I’m sorry I hurt you,” he keeps going, the words tumbling out in a rush, like he’s afraid if he stops, this moment might vanish, or worse—you might walk away.

You’re still frozen, heart thundering in your ears, head spinning. But then something snaps inside you—not painfully, just enough to pull you back to the now.

You reach up and place your hands gently on his arms, still gripping your shoulders.

His head jerks up at the touch, eyes locking onto yours—still afraid. Still unsure.

And you smile.

That’s when his worry deepens into panic. Because now there are tears spilling down your cheeks—silent, steady, unstoppable.

“W-Woah, hey—!” he stammers, hands flying up to your face in alarm, wiping at the wetness with shaking fingers. “Don’t cry, please don’t cry—what did I do—?”

You blink, dazed, lifting your own hands to your cheeks. The tears keep falling, and you don’t even remember when they started. You hadn’t planned to cry. You hadn’t planned for any of this.

And then your knees give out beneath you. Not from sorrow this time, but from the sheer weight of relief.

You sink to the floor, breath shuddering as Rafayel catches you, arms instantly wrapping around you like a net made of everything you’ve ever wanted but never dared to ask for.

Your fingers curl into his shirt. Your forehead presses to his chest.

“Is this real?” you choke, voice raw and trembling.

He holds you tighter, as if to prove it, his voice a whisper against your hair.

“It is. I promise you—it is.”

“I thought—”

The sob ripped out of you before you could stop it, raw and trembling, every word soaked in the ache you’d buried for so long.

“I thought you would never see me that way. That it was always going to be Shaiya.”

Your voice cracked at her name, your whole chest twisting with the confession. You looked up at him, face streaked with tears, the question you’d never dared ask burning in your throat.

“You told me that story… the one about your scales—” you choked, the memory of it splintering inside you. “That your heart was bound to hers…”

Rafayel’s eyes widened, devastated.

He shook his head, urgently, as if trying to erase every word you’d just said, every hurt it carried.

“No,” he whispered, hands flying to your cheeks, cradling your face like it was the most fragile, sacred thing in the world.

His thumbs brushed your tears away, and this time he leaned closer, eyes burning into yours with something fierce and unwavering.

“None of that mattered the moment I met you.”

The words landed like lightning in your chest.

“I didn’t know what it was at first,” he went on, voice thick with emotion, “But you—you made me feel like I’d been sleepwalking through every lifetime until this one.”

You stared at him, breath caught, and for the first time in forever, you felt it.

Not just hope.

Certainty.

“Screw fate,” he breathes, voice rough with conviction. “Screw all that.”

His arms tighten around you as he pulls you flush against his chest, like he’s trying to shield you from everything—even the stars.

“You’re the most important to me,” he murmurs fiercely, burying his face into your hair, breath warm against your scalp. “Not some fate-written bullshit. You.”

You tremble in his hold, sobs quieting just enough to feel the way his heart is racing beneath your cheek—fast and real, like it’s beating just for you.

“Stop crying,” he whispers, softer now, voice breaking around the edges. “Shh… I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay.”

And this time, when you close your eyes against his shoulder, it’s not in grief.

It’s in the slow, overwhelming realization that maybe—just maybe—this time, love chose you back.

Your head shot up again, breath catching, panic flaring in your chest as your fingers clutched his arm—tight, desperate, enough to make him flinch.

“Shai—”

“She knows,” Rafayel cuts in gently, before you can say another word. “She knew. The whole time.”

You go still. The wind outside could’ve stopped and you wouldn’t have noticed.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Just stunned silence.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, eyes searching yours, full of guilt and something deeper. “I know how it must’ve looked. How I was always with her. But—” he swallows, his voice catching, “it wasn’t because I loved her.”

He licks his lips, and his hands cradle your face again, his thumbs resting beneath your eyes as if he’s afraid you’ll start crying all over again.

“She was the only one I could go to,” he confesses, voice just above a whisper. “The only one I trusted… to tell how I felt about you.”

It hits you like a wave—sharp, cold, and then warm, like everything you’d been aching for was finally surfacing.

Every moment you thought he was choosing her—

He was only ever trying to understand what you meant to him.

And somehow, she knew before even you did.

“I’m stupid,” he mutters, a sheepish look flickering across his face. “I say things without thinking. I know.”

There’s an apology in his voice, unpolished and honest, as if he’s laying himself bare for the first time.

And despite everything—despite the ache, the confusion, the tears—

a soft, breathy laugh escapes your lips.

It catches you off guard.

Because all at once, the memories rush in—

the way he hovered when you were quiet for too long,

how he always brought your favorite snacks back from missions without asking,

how he’d search the crowd until his eyes found yours, even when Shaiya was right beside him.

The way he always noticed when something was off, even when you said you were fine.

He’d been showing you his heart, clumsily, messily, loudly, and yet—

You convinced yourself it wasn’t real.

You convinced yourself that fate had no room for a love like this.

And maybe… maybe you were wrong.

Rafayel blinked at you, startled by your sudden laughter.

“Did I say something funny?” he asks cautiously, lips curving just slightly, hopeful.

You shake your head, smile trembling through your tears. “No. Just… me. I was so sure none of it meant anything.”

He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours.

“It meant everything,” he whispers.

“Can I kiss you now?” he asks, breathless, hopeful, eyes locked onto yours like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world.

You smile—soft, radiant, a little shaky—and nod.

A wave of relief washes over his face so quickly it nearly makes you laugh again. He exhales, like he’s been holding that breath for years.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice low and reverent, “how long I’ve been waiting to do this.”

And then—he moves.

No hesitation.

He closes the distance in a heartbeat, hands cupping your face as his lips find yours.

The kiss isn’t tentative. It isn’t shy or delicate or fleeting.

It’s real.

All the longing you buried in silence, all the moments he loved you without saying a word, all the ache and confusion and heartbreak—

It all crashes together in that single, breath-stealing moment.

It’s not rough, but it’s not gentle either.

It’s everything you both couldn’t say, finally spoken in the language of skin and breath and trembling mouths.

And when he pulls back, just barely, just enough to rest his forehead against yours again, you’re both breathless and smiling and finally, finally seen.

“Still think fate’s unbeatable?” he whispers.

You hit his chest as he chuckles, but you don’t retort.

Because for the first time in a long, long while—you don’t.

masterlist

[angelltheninth]

Arcane Characters Hand Headcanons

Pairing: Jinx, Vi, Caitlyn, Maddie, Ekko, Vander, Silco, Sevika, Viktor, Jayce, Mel x Reader

Tags: fluff, size difference, hand-holding, scars, bruises, hand comparison, cuddles

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: I remember there was a post where an artist drew the hands and made some headcanons in their drawings but I don't remember who the artist was. But that was my inspiration for this.

JINX

Long and skinny fingers

Lots of calluses from tinkering with her weapons

A strong grip because of the Shimmer

If looking at her hands in the dark you can see Shimmer running through her veins

Has to constantly be told to be careful when working because she has no concept of safety and has come close to losing more fingers

VI

Her hands are really rough all over

bruises on her knuckles that never seem to heal because she's always fighting

A few bones have been broken over the years and healed haphazardly

Gets the biggest puppy-dog eyes if you take her hands and kiss each finger paying special attention to the bruises

You're the only one she trusts to help her wrap and unwrap her hands every day

CAITLYN

A lot of calluses on her hands, especially her fingers

She's been shooting with a riffle since she was young so the pads of her fingers are tougher than the rest of her hand

The skin on the pads if her fingers is hardened

Likes to wear gloves, which you will say is a shame

Knows you like her hands a lot, but she has a better grip on her guns with the gloves on

MADDIE

Her hands are dusted with little freckles

A bit small, perfect for hand-holding actually

Can crack her knuckles and she doesn't even realize she does it most of the time

Many faded scars from her time growing up and training in Noxus

Refuses to elaborate when you notice how scared her hands are, but if she gets to know you well enough and trusts you she might share a story or two

EKKO

Because he's always working his hands are really rough and even have a few burn marks

There are more than a few broken bones in his hands

Never healed well because he refuses to take Shimmer and it's a bit difficult to find good doctors in Zaun

Habit of tapping his fingers against surfaces, even your arm or back while you cuddle

To keep your relationship on the down-low he often holds your pinkie finger with his

VANDER

His hands are huge compared to yours, you have to use both to hold one of his

The strength he has could crush a man if he tried

Definitely a working man's hands, you can tell he's never skipped a work day in his life

Long faded scratches on his arms and wrists

Still enjoys punching things and has a big punching bag in his room, but he often forgets to wrap his hands, which makes them a bit bloody after

SILCO

For someone in Zaun he takes pretty good care of his hands

Cold compared to yours, like his body temperature isn't quite where it needs to be

Skinny, long fingers but he will paint his nails if you or Jinx ask him to

Takes care of himself so he never has dry hands despite how they look

Always places his hand over yours, it's a protective and possessive habit

SEVIKA

She only has one human hand left but she's reckless with that one too

Always fights so you always help her patch up the bruises and clean the blood

Marks from tearing off scabs or making them bleed again

Usually has a hard grip but softens it for you

Has a few ash burns from her cigarette, she doesn't always move it away in time

VIKTOR

He grew up in Zaun and then threw himself in lab work so he's not the best at taking care of his hands

Skinny, almost boney hands

Has a habit of biting his nails when he's thinking about something

Broke his fingers and wrists more than a few times

You always tell him to wear gloves but he never does, not because he doesn't think he shouldn't but because he doesn't remember

JAYCE

Big, meaty, rough hands, very strong

He always wears gloves when he works, be it the lab or the forge

And yet he still gets that slightly rougher skin, not fully though because he's really careful

Uses hand lotion when he finishes working, it's what makes his skin extra soft

Won't admit that he does it but when you hold hands he's doing math in his head and comparing the hand sizes

MEL

If she didn't tell you then you would have never guessed she grew up in Noxus because her hands are so smooth

Her hands are delicate, with really well manicured nails

Only when you look really close can you see just a few, very tiny cut marks but they're almost completely faded away

Enjoys getting hand massages from you and you complimenting her hands

Tickles you when she runs her nails across your skin

[lustlovehart]

Warnings: Slightly Suggestive(? Idek if it counts), Leona thinks about taking your vitality (not to the point of death tho), reference to Leonas crimes, Hints of obsession

“Defenseless…?” You peak behind Leona, piles of ash and dust tell you he’s not as defenseless as he says. Though, the skeletal hand alone is enough to know the truth. But, in truth, you never thought Leona would pose to be “in distress” so they say. He’s the type to retaliate whenever someone accuses him of being weak. “You know… Something tells me you’ll be fine, Leona…”

He tilts his head, his smirk fading before shrugging his shoulders, you’re caught in whiplash when he turns away from you with a yawn.

“If you say so. If I get murdered while you’re gone, don’t get upset kay’?”

…

He really knows how to make you feel responsible.

You sigh, sitting down on the floor of his throne, dust flying into the air, head leaning up, falling into the space between his legs. Your eyes looking directly into the space of his face, devoid of facial features, save for his lips and nose. Though… would the open slash on his eye count as a feature?

“Thought you said i’d be fine?” he lifts from slouching on the stone, his head falling to look down at you between his legs, bandaged face inches from you. His lips express amusement and stoicism, somehow. Your fingers lift from the floor, a nail sneaking beneath the fabric, lingering on the cut in his skin. His hand grabs yours, lifting it before you can pull off the cloth.

“Thought about it, and you’re right.” you pull away from him, his palm still enclosed, staying in the spot your own was. Lingering, fleeting. “I can’t just leave a damsel in distress alone right? Especially royalty no?” a single laugh leaves him, his back hitting the hard exterior of his chair. Your turn you body, chin resting on the stone. If anyone walked by, they could easily confuse the scene for you worshipping him.

Little do they know, the roles are reversed. You’re no worshiper, you’re the muse. You always will be, to these monsters at least.

“Yeah, distress.” there’s a certain irony. It might be from the skeletons the lean on the wall, or maybe the sacks stained with red. But you play along. “We can be defensless together, yeah?” his bandaged hands takes hold of your cheek, gold draining into his veins. All it takes is one cough, and your eyes frantically look at his crimes splayed on the walls with panic, for him to pull back.

…

“Maybe i’m not that defenseless.”

With these many bodies at your hands? There’s no way he’s in need for you. It doesn’t stop him from believing he does though.

Alt:

Honestly, making the short snippet for this was a bit difficult! I was struggling to think with what Leona would do. He doesn't enjoy the idea of being viewed as weak as all… but when it comes to it, if there’s something he needs to have, he’ll do it.

[kunareads]

heavy angst not a lot of comfort!! + wc: 0.7k

masterlist

choso hasn’t breathed right in months.

he tries sometimes. draws in a deep breath, holds it, waits for his ribs to expand the way they used to when you were curled up beside him, murmuring something soft in your sleep.

but every inhale is shallow, every exhale unfinished. he can’t get enough air in his lungs without you.

he thinks about the phone call often. shoko’s trembling voice on the other end. the way his blood turned to ice when she said they found a body.

they never let him see it. too much damage, they said. better to remember you as you were. so he had nothing to hold, nothing to bury. just a handful of ashes and the suffocating knowledge that you were gone.

he never got rid of your things. your shoes are still by the door. your toothbrush still sits next to his. your clothes still take up too much space in the closet. your blanket—your favorite, the one you used to throw over him when you thought he looked cold—still rests on the couch, untouched. he picked it up once, buried his face in it to see if it still smelled like you. it didn’t. it just smelled like dust.

and now—

now you’re standing in front of him.

but it can’t be you.

his body locks up, frozen in place, because this can’t be real. it’s another cruel trick of his exhausted mind, another dream that will end the moment he dares to reach for you.

he should know. he’s had so many of those dreams, where you’re warm in his arms again, where he gets to say all the things he never did. sometimes, you forget your keys at home and come back for them. sometimes, you whisper his name from the other side of the bed, voice so soft he almost believes it. sometimes, you just look at him, silent and hollow-eyed, before fading into nothing. he wakes up gasping every time, drenched in sweat, grief choking him like a curse he can’t break.

this is just another dream. another hallucination.

but you take a step forward, and he sees the way you move—slow, hesitant, your hands shaking. there’s an old cut on your cheek, bruises along your jaw, faint lines on your wrists like you were bound. your clothes are torn, dirt and dried blood staining the fabric. your lips are cracked, your eyes hollowed by exhaustion.

you look like you fought your way back to him.

“…choso.” your voice is hoarse. he barely hears you, but it devastates him.

he doesn’t realize he’s moving until his legs give out beneath him. his knees hit the floor hard, but he barely feels it. his breath stutters out in a sharp, broken sound, and it’s only then that he realizes he’s crying.

you walk forward, kneeling in front of him, hands ghosting over his shoulders, his face, his hair. “i’m here,” you whisper. “i—i tried—“ your voice cracks, and something snaps.

“where the fuck were you?”

it rips out of him, raw and jagged. his hands clutch at your arms, desperate, terrified, fingers digging in like he’s afraid you’ll slip through them again.

“do you have any idea—“ his voice breaks, and his grip moves to cup your face like he needs proof. “i scattered your ashes. i mourned you. i—i—“ his breath falters, his forehead pressing against yours, a sob rattling through his chest. “i thought i lost you.”

your hands slide up to cradle his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “i know,” you whisper. “i know, i—“

a short inhale, your fingers curling against his skin. “i thought i was gonna die there.”

choso swallows hard, his throat thick with grief and relief and something darker, something furious. his fingers hover, barely grazing your bruises, as he presses his palm to your ribs to physically confirm you’re real.

who did this to you?

the question burns in his mind, but he can’t bring himself to ask you that yet. not when you’re here, not when he’s barely holding himself together.

he pulls you in, arms locking so tightly around you that you gasp. but you don’t pull away. you clutch at his back, holding him just as desperately, needing this just as much.

his breaths are uneven, shaky, but for the first time in months, he actually breathes.

[srslyblvck]

it's okay, tony stark

pairing: tony stark x teen!reader

synopsis: you get dusted after thanos' snap

genre: angst

word count: 0.9k

author's note: did i cry while writing this? yes i did

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ THE WORLD HAD NEVER felt so quiet.

It was a strange, suffocating silence that pressed down on Tony Stark as the battlefield stretched out before him, reduced to rubble, ash, and despair. The wind carried nothing but dust, and in that dust, he could see the remnants of everyone he had fought so hard to save.

He stood there, frozen, as Peter crumbled in his arms.

"Mr. Stark, I don't feel so good," Peter had whispered, fear etched into every syllable. Tony had held him tighter, hoping to keep him here, hoping that somehow, this wasn’t real. But Peter’s body had turned to dust in his hands, slipping away, just like everything else in Tony’s life.

Now, Tony was left holding nothing, his mind still screaming, No, not him. Not Peter.

But it wasn’t just Peter.

From the corner of his eye, Tony saw you—stumbling, your legs shaky, like the very earth beneath you had begun to give way. His heart clenched, a sickening panic rising in his chest.

"Kid," Tony rasped, rushing to you. He dropped to his knees just in time to catch you before you fell. His hands clutched your arms, and then pulled you into his chest, holding you close. "No, not you too. Not you. Please."

You were his family, the one he'd found when the world had been just as dark as it felt now. He remembered that day so clearly—stumbling upon a Hydra base, expecting only weapons or enemies, but finding you. A scared seven-year-old, huddled inside a small cabinet, shaking uncontrollably, clutching a teddy bear that was too worn to offer any comfort. You had flinched when he tried to reach for you, pushing yourself deeper into that small space, as if the shadows could protect you.

"It's okay," he had whispered back then, voice gentle, soft, as if speaking too loudly would break you. It had taken time—God, so much time—but you'd eventually come out, and Tony had made a silent promise. He would protect you, no matter what.

But now, he was failing. Again.

Tony felt your body tremble against him as you fought to stay, to hold on. But you couldn't. He saw it in your eyes, the same way he'd seen it in Peter's just moments before. He couldn't lose you. Not you. Not the kid he raised, mentored, cared for more than he ever let on.

You looked up at him, your face pale, your breaths shaky, and tears welled up in your eyes—tears that you were desperately trying to hold back. Tony knew you didn’t want him to see you break. You didn’t want him to see the fear, because if you broke, then Tony would break too. And he couldn’t. He couldn’t lose you. Not like this.

You offered him a small, fragile smile. A smile meant to comfort him, even though you were the one slipping away. "It's gonna be okay," you whispered, your voice barely a breath. "You’ll find a way... I know you will."

Tony shook his head, his voice cracking as he mumbled, "No, no, no, don't... don't do this." He held you tighter, like somehow holding on would keep you here. "You're gonna be fine. I’ll fix this. I’ll fix everything, just—please." His voice broke into sobs that he couldn’t control.

You lifted a trembling hand to his cheek, wiping away a tear. Your smile faltered, but it didn’t fall. "Tony... it’s okay," you whispered.

You reached up, your hand shaking, and touched his face. Tony’s breath caught in his throat as he felt the warmth of your skin, the way your fingers trembled as if even that small movement was too much.

Tony shook his head violently, his throat burning as he held back the sobs that threatened to tear out of him. "No, don’t... don’t say that. You’re gonna be fine, you hear me? You have to be fine."

But even as he said it, he felt you slipping away. The trembling in your body started to ease, but not because you were calming down. It was because you were fading.

The tears welled in your eyes, but you didn’t let them fall. You didn’t want to cry. You didn’t want to make this harder for him. But Tony could see the truth—you were scared. You didn’t want to die.

You took one last shaky breath, your hand dropping from his face as your body began to dissolve, turning into dust that slipped through Tony’s fingers.

"Please," Tony begged, his voice raw, broken. "Please, don’t go."

But it was too late. You were already gone.

Tony knelt there, in the ruins of the world, staring at the empty space where you had been just moments before. His mind was spinning, his heart torn apart by the loss. First Peter. Now you. The two kids who had given him hope, the ones he’d sworn to protect, were gone. And he had failed.

He pressed his hands to the ground where you had been, his body shaking uncontrollably. The battlefield was quiet again, but this time it was unbearable. It was the silence of everything he had lost, everything he could never fix.

Tony could still hear your voice in his head, the last words you had spoken to him echoing in the hollow space of his heart.

"It’s okay."

But it wasn’t. None of this was okay. You were gone, and he couldn't protect you. He couldn’t stop this, and now you—his kid—were nothing but ash scattered in the wind. The weight of it all—the failures, the loss, the utter powerlessness—was crushing.

Tony buried his face in his hands, shaking uncontrollably. The tears wouldn’t stop, not now. Not when the one person who trusted him, believed in him, was gone.

All those years ago, you had been a broken, terrified child hiding in a cabinet, and Tony had promised to keep you safe. He had failed.

And this time, there was no fixing it.

[saintsanddevils]

Void & Omen - pt 2

Bob Reynolds/Void & Fem!Reader

Summary: When you meet Bob, that deadly power inside of you stirs, recognizing something just as equally dark and powerful in him. After all, like calls to like.

Warnings/Tags: Thunderbolts movie spoilers, canon typical violence & swearing, protective!Bob

Author’s Note: Someone asked how many parts this series will have & so far I’ve planned 5 or 6. This might change.

Word Count: 2K

Masterlist

Part One • Part Three

————

My senses slowly come back to me as pain beats up my spine like a steady drum. I’m bruised and beaten after being thrown from the explosion and my muscles scream at me as I slowly wake.

My ears are ringing and my head aches, but when my fingers begin to twitch, I sense something soft and calloused holding my hand. I slowly open my eyes to find it still curled in Bob’s hand. His grip begins to tighten around mine as he stirs. He must’ve been knocked unconscious too.

His soft features are speckled in ash and dirt as his eyes slowly open. They immediately find me.

Like calls to like.

That thing from my memory—no, my dream, its voice continues to echo in my head. The dream still sticks to me like a second skin, leaving a bitter taste on my tongue.

Bob must sense my distress or notice the anxiety written plainly on my face as his eyebrows furrow, body tensing. His hand unconsciously squeezes mine, as if it were habit.

When he notices, he quickly tears his hand away, as if embarrassed. His cheeks are red as he slowly sits up, looking anywhere but at me.

“Are you alright?” He mutters, shy and concerned.

I groan, limbs stretching before I heave myself into a sitting position. “I’m alive. That counts for something, I guess.”

He nods before finally meeting my eyes. He seems incredibly nervous and cautious as he says, “I’m sorry.“

I furrow my brows. “For what?”

He stares for a moment. His voice lowers to a whisper. “I should’ve tried to catch you.”

I still.

The dream. It’s hazy and fading in my memory, but snippets of darkness and light, of blood and gore, rise in my mind. And a voice, just before I fell into the dark…

“There you are.”

That voice…

Realization dawns on me like a slap to the face. It’s stinging and bruising as I remember that voice. His voice. Whatever that dark shadowy thing was, it sounded eerily like Bob.

I focus on Bob’s hands in his lap. How they were holding mine a few moments ago. How the skin cradled mine gently and how he never let me go, not even after the explosion.

“Catch me?“ I pause, suddenly recalling seeing his face just before I fell into that unending void in my dream. “That was real?” I whisper.

Bob looks shaken. “I-I think so. I don’t know. I don’t know what any of that was. I just remember fragments, but I remember you and how scared you looked and how all I wanted to do was help you.” He pauses, swallowing. “I’m really sorry—“

“Good to see you’re both breathing,” Yelena appears above us, hands smoothing debris and dust off her clothes.

Neither of us acknowledge her. We’re both still staring at each other.

He was really there, in my dream. He saw everything. I didn’t imagine it.

Which means he saw what happened. Little nine year old me, strapped to a table under fluorescent lighting. And he also saw that creature version of me, the one covered in ink-like darkness. And that man…

The man cloaked in shadow, who seemed so familiar. He was the silhouette with Bob’s voice. I faintly remember dreaming of him before, but I can’t recall when. And whatever that shadowy thing was, it was eerily a strange, dark version of Bob.

Yelena’s eyes bounce back between us for a moment. “Uh, sorry, am I interrupting something?”

I shake my head, shoving the uncertainties and possibilities of what just occurred. If Bob was there, that means something happened to him in that trial from O.X.E. as well. And whatever they did to us has tied us together somehow. As if we’re bound by something bigger than being thrown into an incinerator, where they probably hoped we’d be dead and forgotten by now.

When I turn to Yelena and find her hand outstretched to Bob, he hesitates. It’s a brief second of vulnerability, as if he’s not used to touching someone else so freely. The skin of my hands, that were held in his seconds before, burn at the thought.

Why does he touch me without thought, but hesitate with others? Does it have something to do with whatever O.X.E. did to him, to us? Does it explain why I feel this strange pull towards him, as if we’re two gravitating stars on the verge of colliding? Does he feel that too?

My head pounds with questions while all I can do is stare as Bob ignores Yelena’s hand and stands, dusting off his pants.

“Thanks, uh, yeah glad to see everyone made it out. You okay?”

She shrugs. “This is practically a normal Tuesday afternoon for me.”

A smirk threatens to spread across my face as I struggle to my feet. Once I’m standing, my legs start to shake and the room spins. I falter back a step and Bob is suddenly there, hands steadying my arms and waist, eyes insistent and protective.

“I’ve got you,” he says firmly.

It’s grounding and sure and it’s entirely startling. It’s strange, almost foreign, to have someone care about my well-being when it seems all anyone ever wanted in my life was to get as far from me as possible. I’m used to being treated as a plague, something to avoid.

But this… Bob’s arms encircling me, steadying me. It’s comforting and stable.

I choke down that acidic taste of loneliness as I give him a quick nod of appreciation before lowering my arms and stepping away.

God, I’m entirely too touched-starved for my own good.

I can feel Bob’s gaze on me, but I turn to Yelena, who raises a brow at us.

“Do you know each other?” She asks.

Like calls to like.

I still. That thing inside me is stirring like a turbulent wave, rattling my bones, whispering in my head.

“No,” I choke out, ignoring the pressure in my chest.

I sense Bob’s wince as if it were my own.

Yelena stares at me. “Really? It just seems like you’ve known each other for years—“

I shake my head, moving past Bob. He’s still staring at me and I feel it like a brand on my skin. “We should look for a way out of here.”

Yelena pauses, staring at Bob, before turning back to me, nodding. “Ava and Walker are scouting it out.”

I nod, shifting from foot to foot. Bob is still staring.

“Y/N,” he murmurs.

“If you’re done chit-chatting, I found a way out!” John shouts, to my relief.

Yelena stops Bob from following as I walk over to John and Ava. I hear Yelena check in on him, but I ignore them. Whatever that lies between us is too terrifying to comprehend. It’s only been an hour or so with these strangers and I shouldn’t be so comfortable with any of them, especially Bob. Sweet, protective, kind, observant Bob.

I shake my head, shoving it down into the void of my emotions, hoping whatever sings in me when Bob is around will soon go away. I’m not used to other people enjoying my company, let alone liking me. And from the small interactions with Bob, he seems to be both.

I follow Ava into the ripped open elevator shaft and stare up into the never-ending dark above us.

“Well, shit,” I mutter.

Ava shakes her head. “Yeah. Shit.”

We stand there for a moment before we hear John calling out to Yelena and Bob. “Are we done with our little therapy session or do you guys want to stay down here forever?”

When I turn to find Yelena and Bob standing close together, heads bent and her hand on his shoulder, something in me seethes. It’s acidic as it simmers beneath my skin.

Mine, that thing inside of me whispers.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” I mumble to myself, closing my eyes to take deep breaths. I try to still the rotting jealousy spreading through my limbs, taming that power in me that threatens to rise to the surface. Now is not the time for destruction.

“You okay?” Ava asks.

I startle, opening my eyes. “Yeah, just…not a big fan of tight spaces. Just need a second.”

I see her brows pinch together, jaw working as she watches me. Before she can say anything, John, Yelena, and Bob join us in the elevator shaft.

Bob gives me a sheepish look before shuffling next to me. It’s strange how my body reacts when he’s near. Like that thing in my chest hums at his presence, begging me to step closer. Wanting me to touch him.

I clench my fists, keeping my feet planted as we all look up into the dark.

“So,” Yelena sighs. “None of us can fly? We all just punch and shoot?”

I sense Bob shifting from foot to foot.

Walker rolls his shoulders, breathing in and out loudly. “I’ve got this, guys.”

With a running start, he jumps into the air. The leap propels him and he soars upwards, disappearing into the dark.

“Is that… normal?” I ask.

Yelena rolls her eyes. “He’s some downgrade super soldier. Nothing special.”

“Used to be Captain America,” Ava adds. “Not a good one, though.”

Screaming echoes through the air as John’s body begins to descend rapidly towards us. Bob’s hands suddenly grip onto my elbows, pulling me back into his chest as Walker slams into the ground, inches from where I stood. I try and resist leaning into his touch.

Ava laughs at John. “You should do that again.”

John groans, heaving himself from the floor, glaring at Ava. “Can’t you just, I don’t know, walk through the walls and throw us down a rope or something?”

Ava’s smile disappears, annoyance prickling her features. “If I could do that, I wouldn’t be standing here, now would I?” She shakes her head. “The most I can hold it for is about a minute. I could be trapped and crushed inside the mountain before I can get back.”

“Only a minute?” John scoffs.

Ava glares. “Asshole.”

Yelena sighs. “Any other ideas?”

The buzzing under my skin vibrates through me as Bob continues to hold me to him. I can sense every movement of his chest, every twitch of his arms and fingers.

When Yelena catches my eye, I quickly step out of his reach. I can sense Bob’s furrowed brow and concerned eyes. But we have bigger things to worry about, like getting out of this place.

Bob raises his hand tentatively, drawing everyone’s attention. “I think I might have an idea.”

————

“Who the fuck are they?” Valentina Allegra de Fontaine points at the screen.

Video footage of five people breaking the security lock on a door in the O.X.E. Vault fills the screen. Valentina can name three of them, since she was the one who put them there. Yelena Belova, John Walker, and Ava Starr.

But it’s the two others she can’t name. They’re strangers and, right now, she needs to know how the hell they got inside that vault.

Mel Gold shrugs, staring down at the tablet. “No idea, but I’ll find out.”

The limo is silent as Mel’s fingers tap away. The city lights pass by them as the seconds drag on. Valentina clenches her jaw, her teeth creaking as she tries her best not to scream at her assistant. No matter, within seconds, Mel straightens in her seat.

“Oh god,” she whispers. “Do you remember Project Sentry?”

Valentina waves a hand, already brimming with annoyance and impatience. “Of course, but we shut that down along with everything else. All the tests subjects died. It was a dead-end. A failure.”

Mel nods. “Yes, or so we thought.”

She shifts the tablet back to her boss. Valentina’s eyes slowly begin to widen as she stares down at the screen. Her fingers latch onto it, zooming through pages and pages of research and records and case studies for Project Sentry. She pauses on research results for both Robert Reynolds and Y/N Y/L/N.

Valentina stops on a picture of the young woman. It was taken the day she arrived at the O.X.E. facility in Malaysia. Her eyes were sunken in, bones protruding from her face and collarbone. She was malnourished and sickly. She looked lost and forgotten. The perfect subject.

Below the picture, the doctors and scientists listed everything she described to them about her condition. How she hoped they could rid her of what she could do.

Scientists experimented on her, needing to know what they were dealing with. Included in the file was a video of that experiment.

“Holy shit,” Valentina whispers under her breath.

She replays it, over and over again, eyes widening as a slow, creeping smile spreads across her face.

“What is it?”

Valentina looks up at Mel from the tablet. Her smile is downright lethal as she says, “We need to get to the Vault. Immediately.”

Part Three

————

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Anyone can be added to the taglist🫶

[lowaltitude]

Forsaken  | Anakin Skywalker

- Star Wars AU - x Reader

❪ FEM! ❫

───── ❝ description + disclaimer ❞ ─────

𖥻 Anakin Skywalker x FEM!reader, in which the war is ongoing. You've been summoned back after years away—by Obi-Wan... 𖥻 ideological clash, the Force philosophy, emotional tension, and the “torn between two truths” weight on your shoulders 𖥻 6K WORDS. slight cringe? unintentionally seems like a love triangle. flashbacks. PART ONE Altitude

───── ❝ ❞ ─────

You are a Force-sensitive diplomat and former Padawan who left the Jedi Order years ago due to ideological differences, but you’ve maintained deep connections to both Anakin and Obi-Wan. You're now a neutral mediator between the Republic and outer-rim systems, respected by both the Senate and the Jedi, but distrusted for your independence. You share a long, unresolved romantic history with Anakin, and a deep emotional bond with Obi-Wan—as a former mentor, perhaps even something more complicated. Your presence becomes a catalyst for their divergence.

───── ❝ ❞ ─────

The Jedi Temple hadn't changed—but I had.

My boots echoed down the marbled halls like a ghost returning to a place I once called home. Golden light filtered in through the high windows, catching the motes of dust and ash that never seemed to settle anymore. The air smelled of incense and scorched metal. I paused at the threshold of the briefing chamber, my hand resting lightly on my belt. The door hissed open with a soft hydraulic sigh.

And there he was.

Obi-Wan Kenobi stood with his back to me, hands folded behind him, eyes fixed on the Coruscant skyline. The fading sun outlined him in pale fire, but his silhouette was sharp—too sharp.

"You came," he said softly, not turning.

"I always do," I replied, voice steady. I wasn’t sure if it was a lie.

He finally turned to face me. There were new lines around his eyes. Older. Tired. But deeper than that—a weight. Something heavy sat on his shoulders that the Jedi robes couldn’t hide. He took a step forward, then stopped, as if unsure whether to approach or retreat. I didn’t move.

"The Council trusts your neutrality," he said. "They believe you'll give me a chance to explain myself before they condemn me."

"I’m not here on the Council’s behalf." I held his gaze. "I’m here for you."

That got to him. His composure cracked just slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching into something that might’ve been relief—or regret.

"They fear what I’ve become, Y/N. But the truth is—they made me this."

I studied him carefully. The way his voice lowered when he said it. Like it was sacred. Or dangerous.

"You're not here to explain yourself," I said. "You're here to see if I believe you."

"Do you?"

I didn’t answer. Because the door behind me opened again—and the Force shivered like lightning on water.

"Y/N?"

I turned, heart seizing. Anakin Skywalker stood in the doorway. His presence filled the room instantly—burning, unfiltered, alive. His golden saber hilt glinted at his hip, and his expression—when he saw me—softened like dawn breaking across a battlefield.

"You didn’t tell me she was here," he said, eyes narrowing at Obi-Wan.

"I wanted to speak with her before your emotions clouded the moment," Obi-Wan replied coolly. The tension between them was electric. The sun outside had turned blood-orange, casting shadows like battle scars across the floor. I stepped between them.

"Is this what it’s come to? You call me back, and I walk into a storm?"

"You're the only one left who sees both sides," Anakin said, jaw tight. "That makes you the most dangerous person in this Temple."

"Or the only one who can stop this before it starts."

Silence fell. The war hadn't reached the Temple walls yet. But in that moment, I realized: The real war was already here. And I was standing at its heart.

───── ❝ ❞ ─────

I needed air.

The Temple was suffocating—so full of ghosts I hadn’t made peace with. I slipped away to the high garden terrace, a place I used to escape to during training sessions I hated, lessons I questioned, dreams I couldn't share.

Now the garden was quiet, lit only by the glow of distant city lights and the soft hum of security fields. Somewhere in the lower levels, speeders buzzed like insects. Above, stars blinked cold and unfeeling.

I leaned against the stone railing, arms folded, trying to breathe.

"I thought I'd find you here," said a voice behind me.

I turned slowly. Anakin stood just inside the archway, his robes rustling in the breeze. His gaze was intense—not angry, but charged. Like everything he wasn’t saying was pressing against the back of his throat.

"I used to think this place was peaceful," I said, forcing a small smile. "Now it just feels... far away from everything that matters."

He stepped forward, slowly.

"You always did run to the highest places when things got complicated," he said. "I guess I hoped you'd run to me this time."

I looked away.

"That was a long time ago, Anakin."

"But not long enough that I forgot," he said quietly.

Silence stretched between us. I could hear his breath—shaky, barely restrained.

"You left," he said, finally. "And I tried to understand why. The Order, the rules, the way they looked at you like you were dangerous just for feeling something—"

"I left because it was killing me to stay," I interrupted. "Because if I stayed, I would’ve ended up like Obi-Wan. Drowning in loyalty to something that no longer believed in its own values."

He closed the distance between us in two steps. "And yet you're here again."

"Because you’re still here." That stopped him. I felt his hand brush mine—hesitant at first. Testing if I would pull away. I didn’t.

"I don’t know what’s happening to him," Anakin whispered. "Obi-Wan’s not just doubting the Council anymore. He’s... angry. Secretive. He talks like the Jedi are the problem, not the solution."

"And you’re afraid he’s right?"

He looked at me then, and it hit me—how exhausted he was. How much of his light he’d burned trying to hold everything together. "No," he said. "I’m afraid I’ll lose him before I can bring him back."

I nodded slowly, heart aching. "You won’t. Not if he still remembers what it means to care."

He was quiet for a long time. Then—his voice barely above a whisper—"Do you still remember?"

I turned toward him, really looking at him now. The scars. The wear in his voice. The man shaped by war, by love denied, by choices he was never allowed to make freely.

"Every day," I said.

And when he kissed me—it wasn’t rushed or reckless

It was like he’d been waiting. Like every emotion he couldn’t name during the war, every lingering glance across a battlefield, every moment of silence between us had been leading here. His hand slid to the side of my face, fingers threading into my hair, pulling me in like I was the only thing anchoring him to the present. And for that one impossible second, I let myself believe that maybe... maybe it was enough. That we were enough.

But then he pulled back. Breathless. Brow furrowed. Like he’d just stepped over a line he wasn’t sure he could ever uncross.

"I shouldn’t have done that," he said, voice raw.

"But you did," I whispered, still too close.

The shadows danced across his face, flickering with the distant lights of the city. He looked haunted.

"I've made too many choices lately that weren't mine," he said. "Letting myself feel this... it’s dangerous."

"Maybe the danger isn’t in feeling it," I said. "Maybe it’s in pretending we don’t."

He searched my eyes like he was looking for a reason not to believe me. But then the comm clipped to his belt beeped—sharp, insistent.

His jaw clenched as he checked it.

"It's the Temple guard," he muttered. "Obi-Wan just left his quarters. Alone. No record of where he’s going."

My stomach twisted.

"Is he running?"

"Or setting something in motion," Anakin said. "Either way—we can’t wait for the Council."

I nodded. "Let’s go."

He started toward the exit—then paused. Looked back at me.

"When this is over," he said, softer now, "when all of this ends... I don’t want to pretend anymore."

"Then don’t," I said. "But you have to survive it first."

A flicker of a smile. Sad. Steady. "Then stay close."

And with that, we slipped into the night. Together.

───── ❝ ❞ ─────

I’d forgotten how cold Coruscant could get this deep down.

The industrial levels were always in twilight. Streetlamps flickered overhead, casting long shadows against duracrete walls stained with smoke and time. The people down here didn’t look at Jedi—they barely looked up at all. This was where the Republic ended and the real galaxy began.

Anakin moved beside me in silence, cloak pulled close, hood half-lowered. Even here, even now, his presence was impossible to ignore. The Force wrapped around him like a storm held just beneath the skin.

"Anything?" I asked, watching him scan the crowd with a soldier’s precision.

He shook his head. "No... but he’s close. I can feel him."

"Then why does it feel like he’s letting us find him?"

Anakin didn’t answer. We slipped down a narrow alley, steam hissing from rusted vents. Somewhere far above, sirens echoed faintly—too far to mean anything to us. Finally, he stopped. His hand went out to halt me.

"Here," he whispered. "This is it."

I followed his gaze—and felt it too. The Force rippled like heat off the durasteel ahead. Subtle. Familiar. Controlled.

Obi-Wan.

There was a figure waiting near an old droid foundry, partially cloaked in shadow. Hood up. Posture unmistakable. I stepped forward, but Anakin grabbed my wrist. Not hard. Just enough to remind me: we didn’t know who he was anymore. Obi-Wan turned as if he’d heard that thought.

"You took your time," he said calmly. "I expected the Council, not the two of you."

"You knew we’d come," I said, stepping ahead of Anakin now. "Don’t pretend this wasn’t part of the plan."

Obi-Wan pushed back his hood. I expected anger. Defensiveness. But what I saw was worse. Conviction.

"I hoped you would come," he said, eyes locking on mine. "You’re the only one who might understand."

"You’ve been sabotaging Republic campaigns. Disrupting supply lines. Lying to the Council. I want to understand, but you’re making it harder by the second."

Obi-Wan looked past me—at Anakin.

"And what about you, Anakin? Still clinging to the idea that the Jedi are saving anyone?" Anakin didn’t speak. His jaw was locked, fists clenched at his sides. Obi-Wan took a slow step forward.

"You think I’ve fallen. But maybe I’ve woken up. The war isn’t just killing us on the battlefield—it’s rotting us from the inside. We were never meant to be generals. We were meant to be guardians. Guides. Not weapons of the Senate."

"And what would you become instead?" I asked. "A blade in the dark? A shadow behind Palpatine’s throne?"

"I’d tear down the throne," he said, his voice sharp now. "The Republic is a lie. And I refuse to die for it."

My heart sank. "Then what do you want from us, Obi-Wan?"

He looked at me. "I want you to choose. I want you to see what’s coming. The Jedi won’t survive what’s next. But we might—if we let go of what we were." For a moment, everything fell quiet. No blasters. No politics. Just three people, standing on the edge of something enormous. Then Anakin stepped beside me, voice quiet but steady.

"We’re not here to choose sides."

I nodded. "We’re here to stop you before you burn everything down."

Obi-Wan’s eyes flicked between us. "So be it." And in a blur of motion, he ignited his saber—not blue.

Crimson.

My blood went cold. And the Force exploded around us.

The red glow from Obi-Wan’s saber bathed his face in bloodlight, but his eyes were clear. Steady. Certain. It wasn’t rage driving him. It was belief. And somehow, that made it worse.

“Step aside,” Obi-Wan said—low and even, like he wasn’t about to start a war. “I don’t want to fight you.”

"You ignited that saber," Anakin said coldly. “You made it a fight.”

“I did what I had to.” Obi-Wan’s eyes flicked to me. “The Jedi serve a corrupt Senate. I serve the will of the Force, not bureaucracy.”

"The Force doesn’t ask for obedience through fear," Anakin snapped, stepping in front of me now. “You sound like Dooku.”

“I sound like Qui-Gon,” Obi-Wan said sharply, voice cracking. “He saw the cracks before any of us did. He died for his clarity. And now you're both making the same mistake I did—trusting an institution that feeds the machine of war.”

“You think we don’t see it?” I said quietly, stepping around Anakin. “We’ve lived the cost. But if the Jedi are flawed, let’s fix them. Not burn them to ash.”

Obi-Wan turned to me fully, and there was something in his gaze I hadn’t seen before.

Hope.

“You still understand,” he said. “You’ve always been different. That’s why they never trusted you. You feel more than they’re willing to. That’s not weakness—it’s what the Jedi were meant to be.”

He held out a hand to me. His saber stayed lit.

“You don’t belong in their council chambers and committees. You belong with me. Help me rebuild something better. Something true.”

My chest tightened. And for a second—just a second—I remembered being his Padawan. The first time I disobeyed the Code and he didn’t reprimand me, just smiled like he was proud. The night he told me I didn’t need to be perfect—only present.

I remembered safety. But I also remembered him walking away. The coldness that had grown where warmth used to be. The silence.

I looked at his hand. Then at Anakin.

“Is this what you meant to do?” I asked. “Bring us here to choose? Is this a battle or a recruitment pitch?”

Obi-Wan’s hand lowered. “Maybe both.”

I didn’t move.

And neither did Anakin. “I asked the Council to appoint you,” he said suddenly, without looking at me. “Before this.”

I turned, stunned. “You—what?”

“I wanted you on the Council. To have a voice. A vote. I thought if anyone could keep us honest, it was you.”

“Anakin—”

“But now you’re standing between us. And I don’t know if you’re the one who keeps us from falling apart—” his voice broke slightly, “—or the one we’ll shatter against.”

My breath caught. The air vibrated. The Force was screaming now—pulling in every direction. And then Obi-Wan moved.

His blade swung in a precise arc—not at me, not at Anakin, but between us. A warning. A line drawn.

Anakin ignited his saber instantly—blue clashing with red in a sudden burst of light and fury. Sparks flew. Metal groaned. The ground beneath us shuddered as Force waves collided in invisible shockwaves.

I staggered back—watching them move. And for a moment... I couldn’t tell who was winning.

They knew each other’s styles too well. Obi-Wan’s discipline against Anakin’s raw power. Fluidity against fire. Flash. A strike aimed at the heart—deflected. Flash. A kick, a leap, a force push that sent Anakin into a broken pillar.

Obi-Wan turned to me. “You can still walk away,” he said, breathing hard. “Before this war consumes both of us.”

“I already chose,” I said.

And I drew my saber.

Not for politics.

Not for the Council.

But for the truth they were both too blinded to see alone.

I stepped forward, blade raised— But before I could strike, a column buckled nearby. The catwalk overhead groaned. An unseen push—maybe from Obi-Wan, maybe from the Force itself—crashed into me like a wave.

My feet left the ground. For a second, all I saw was light and flame—Then the sound: a concussive boom as the ceiling above ruptured. Debris collapsed between us. Dust swallowed the air. I hit the ground hard, my saber skidding out of reach, my ribs burning. When the smoke cleared, I was alone on the lower level.

Cut off.

And he was there.

Obi-Wan.

Closer than I thought. Too close.

He didn’t strike. He just stood there, breathing hard, cloak torn, eyes rimmed with pain and fury and something far, far sadder. "You shouldn’t be here," he said.

"I’m exactly where I need to be."

He didn’t raise his weapon. Instead, he lowered it. Powered it down. The red hissed out like dying breath. And in that sudden quiet, my heart thudded loud in my chest. He looked at me—not like an enemy. Like a memory.

“You don’t have to follow him,” he said, voice hoarse. “He’s changing, and you know it.”

"So are you," I whispered.

"I changed because I had to. Because I saw what the Jedi were becoming—what they were making us become. Soldiers. Enforcers. Blind." He stepped closer, slow. “The Council never saw you. Not the way I did. Not the way I do. You were always too passionate, too bold. They feared that.”

I swallowed hard. “They didn’t fear me. They feared losing control.”

He smiled faintly. “Exactly. And now you have a choice.”

He reached for me—not for my weapon, not to attack. Just reached. Open palm. “I’m not asking you to betray him. I’m asking you to save yourself. Before the Council drags you down with them. Before he does.”

I should’ve stepped back.

But I didn’t.

Because I remembered the way he used to stand in the rain after missions, eyes to the sky like he was waiting for the Force to speak. I remembered how gently he corrected me, how deeply he listened when I doubted myself. How he believed I was destined for something more.

And maybe that was the worst part.

He still believed it.

“I know you feel it,” he said softly. “The weight. The rot inside the Republic. You were never meant to fight their wars.”

"And what were we meant for, Obi-Wan?" I whispered.

He held my gaze.

“To guide. To protect. To become something new. With me.”

The tears stung before I even realized they were there. My fingers curled tight around my saber. "You want me to walk away from him."

"I want you to walk toward yourself."

For a moment—I almost did.

Almost.

But then I felt it.

A flicker in the Force—Anakin. Hurt. Distant. Calling for me. And it hit me all at once—like oxygen flooding back into starving lungs. Not just the sound of him. The feeling of him. Fire and loyalty and heartbreak and hope—hope that I would choose us.

I looked at Obi-Wan.

And I stepped back. “I’m sorry,” I said. My voice cracked. “But I already have.”

His expression shattered. Just for a second.

Then—

A whisper of wind as his saber reignited. Crimson, glowing, blinding in the dark. “I won’t hold back next time,” he said quietly.

"I’m not asking you to."

And I turned—

And ran.

Back toward the fire.

Back toward Anakin.

The corridors were half-collapsed. Lights flickered. Metal hissed where fire still licked at broken beams. My boots slipped on ash.

“Anakin—” I shouted, voice cracking. No answer.

I pushed deeper into the wreckage, coughing against the smoke. The Force swirled around me in waves—grief, rage, desperation. And then—

I felt him. I didn’t see him first. I heard him—breathing. Shallow. Labored. I turned a corner.

And there he was.

Slumped against a fractured pillar, saber extinguished, eyes closed. Blood on his brow. Smoke curling around him like ghosts. His chest rose and fell in jagged pulls.

I ran to him, dropped to my knees. “Anakin—” My hands hovered uselessly over his chest, his shoulder, his face. “Hey. Hey.”

His eyes opened. And when they locked on mine—god, I nearly shattered.

“You came back,” he rasped.

“Of course I did.” My voice broke into a whisper. “You idiot.”

A shaky smile curved his lips. “Didn’t think you would.”

I stared at him. “Why?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at me like he wasn’t sure I was real. And then—

“I felt you hesitate,” he said, quiet. “When he offered you a way out.”

My heart stung. “I almost took it.”

“I know.”

I didn’t look away. I let him see the guilt in my face, the fracture lines that hadn’t healed. “But I didn’t. I chose you.” Silence stretched between us—thick, pulsing, raw. And then Anakin leaned forward, forehead resting against mine.

“I don’t deserve that,” he whispered. “Not after everything I’ve done.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” I said. “I do.”

He laughed—soft, broken. “We’re both a mess.”

“Yeah,” I breathed. “But we’re still here.”

His hand found mine.

Fingers laced.

And in that moment, surrounded by fire and failure and everything we couldn’t fix—I felt something like peace.

Not because it was over.

But because we hadn’t given up.

───── ❝.𖥔 ݁ ˖ flashback .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ❞ ─────

The Temple gardens were quiet. Too quiet.

It was late. The war should’ve made everything feel sharper—louder—but somehow silence had become the most dangerous sound of all. Like something waiting to fall apart.

I found him there, sitting in the dark beneath the same tree we used to sneak off to as young Padawans. Legs drawn up, hands tangled in his own hair.

“Anakin?”

He didn’t look up. I sat beside him anyway.

He was shaking. “You don’t have to say anything,” I murmured.

And he didn’t. Not for a long time. Until he finally said—voice hollow—“They bombed the refugee convoy. I wasn’t fast enough.”

My stomach turned. I remembered that mission. Dozens dead. All civilian. No Republic forces nearby. No real reason.

“You weren’t the one who did it,” I whispered.

His jaw clenched. “No. But I could’ve stopped it. I sensed it. I knew. But I stayed. I followed orders. I waited for the Council’s confirmation instead of—” His voice cracked. “I waited. And they died.”

My breath caught. “That’s not on you.”

He turned then. Finally.

And his eyes—They weren’t angry. Not like I expected. They were numb.

“You don’t get it,” he said. “I’m done watching innocent people die while we debate ethics. While the Jedi twiddle their thumbs and hide behind codes that only make sense in a perfect galaxy. Which this isn’t.”

“Anakin—”

“I killed a senator last week.”

My heart stopped.

“What?”

His voice was ice. Detached. “A Separatist envoy. Caught him boarding a cruiser. He was unarmed. I could’ve arrested him. Turned him in. But I knew—if I did that, he’d be back out by morning. Hundreds more would die because of him. So I didn’t hesitate.”

I stared at him. Frozen.

“I just did what had to be done.”

I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

“You should say something,” he murmured, almost like a prayer.

But I couldn’t. Because I saw the cracks forming in him. The places the war had hollowed out. The fire curling where there used to be light. And I didn’t know how to fix it.

───── ❝.𖥔 ݁ ˖ end flashback .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ❞ ─────

He’s staring at the floor now. Silent.

My fingers are still wrapped around his.

“You don’t get to decide if you deserve me,” I say softly. “You’re not perfect. You make mistakes.” A beat. “But you stopped when I asked you to.”

His eyes flick to mine.

“You looked me in the face, and you chose restraint, even when everything in you wanted to burn the galaxy down.”

His breath shudders out.

“You made the hardest choice,” I whisper. “You didn’t fall.” And maybe that’s why I’m still here. Maybe that’s why I ran through fire to get back to him.

───── ❝ ❞ ─────

The chamber felt colder than I remembered.

I stood in the center of the Council floor, wrapped in soot and smoke and someone else’s dried blood. The walls hummed softly. The city below blinked through the tall windows like stars too tired to shine.

Anakin was behind me—on his feet, but barely. A bandage at his temple, arm still stiff from the wreckage. I could feel him through the Force, like heat behind a wall. Simmering. Protective. Dangerous.

Mace Windu’s gaze was sharp as a blade. “You disobeyed orders,” he said flatly. “You interfered with a classified pursuit. And you endangered the life of a Council Master.”

“He wasn’t trying to arrest anyone,” I snapped, before I could stop myself. “He was trying to turn us against each other.”

Murmurs stirred. Ki-Adi’s brow furrowed. Plo Koon tilted his head.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi has always been a loyal servant of the Jedi Order,” Windu said. “He deserves the benefit of the doubt.”

“He’s not a servant anymore,” Anakin muttered behind me. “And maybe that’s the problem.”

Windu turned his gaze to him. “You’re lucky to be standing here at all.”

Anakin’s jaw tensed. I stepped closer to him—barely noticeable, but enough that he felt it. Enough that the Council saw. Yoda’s voice came quiet, grave. “Much emotion. Much fear. Around you both, it swirls.”

I swallowed hard. My voice didn’t shake.

“We didn’t ignite this war. But we’re the ones fighting it. Every day. Bleeding for it. Watching the people we care about slip away—because you want to pretend the system still works.”

“The system is all that stands between us and chaos,” Windu replied.

Anakin laughed. Soft. Bitter. “Chaos’s already here. You just can’t see it from your chairs.”

The silence that followed was heavy. That was when he said it. Low. Almost too low to hear. “I’ll leave.”

My head whipped toward him. “What?”

Anakin didn’t look at me. He stared straight ahead. “If you think it’s me that’s the problem… if you think the only way to keep her safe is for me to walk away—then fine. I’ll do it.”

My stomach dropped.

“You think that’s what I want?” I asked, breathless.

“I think it’s the only way they’ll stop coming after you.”

He turned to me then—and his eyes, Force, his eyes—

“I don’t care if they take my rank, my saber, my name. Just not you.”

I shook my head. “You’re not thinking clearly—”

“I am.” He stepped forward. Closer than he should’ve in front of the Council. “I’ve never been more clear.”

“I don’t want to be protected, Anakin. I want you. All of you. Even the part that makes bad choices.”

He reached for my hand. I let him.

Windu looked between us like he was deciding whether to draw his saber or deliver a sentence.

And then Yoda said, quietly, “Both of you. Time… you must take. Before judgment is passed.”

Reluctantly, Windu gave a tight nod. “Dismissed. For now.”

Outside the Council Chamber, I caught Anakin’s arm as soon as the doors sealed shut. “What the hell was that?”

“I meant it.”

“I don’t want you to leave the Order,” I hissed. “That’s not what this is about.”

“No,” he said. “It’s about what they’ll do to you next. If I’m gone, they’ll stop watching. You’ll be free.”

“I don’t want to be free from you.”

We stared at each other, hearts pounding like sabers clashing in our chests.

“I need you,” I said. “But not at the cost of who you are.”

He exhaled slowly. Like the weight of the galaxy was bleeding out of him.

Then—softly, with a crooked, tired smile:

“You’re stuck with me, then.”

───── ❝ ❞ ─────

The air was heavy with incense. The room glowed in soft amber, filtered through the skylight above. I sat cross-legged across from Master Yoda. He hadn’t spoken in minutes. Just breathed. So I waited.

Finally—his eyes opened. “Conflicted, you are,” he said.

My throat tightened. The words came slow. “I chose the Republic.”

A beat.

Then softer—almost to myself: “I chose Anakin.”

Yoda nodded, as if that was never in question. “But your heart does not rest.”

My fingers curled into the fabric of my robe. “I keep wondering… what if Obi-Wan was right?”

“Right, he may be,” Yoda said, eyes half-lidded. “In what he fights for.”

“But not how he fights for it.”

I looked up. “He said he serves the will of the Force. That the Jedi only serve bureaucracy.”

“Hard words. Painful truths, perhaps.” Yoda’s ears drooped slightly. “But twisted, they have become. Shadows of ideals. Shaped by grief. War.”

I swallowed hard.

“You still feel him,” he said.

I nodded. “Every time I reach for the Force, it’s like… there’s this thread. Tense. Pulling. I don’t know if he’s trying to save me—or if he thinks I need saving.”

───── ❝.𖥔 ݁ ˖ meanwhile, across the galaxy .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ❞ ─────

Rain fell hard on the scorched stone.

Obi-Wan stood at the edge of a ruined balcony, cloak soaked, hood down. His eyes were closed. Hands behind his back. The Force pulsed around him—chaotic, loud.

He felt it.

That flicker in the bond. The moment she chose. His eyes snapped open. “They still think I’m lost,” he murmured. Behind him, a figure stepped out of the shadows—hooded. Calm.

“You are,” said Count Dooku, voice like gravel over fire. “But that’s what makes you dangerous to them.”

Obi-Wan didn’t look away from the storm. “She chose Skywalker.”

“For now.”

Obi-Wan’s jaw tensed. “She doesn’t see what I see. What he’s becoming.”

“Then show her,” Dooku said simply. “You don’t need to fight them. Just… open her eyes.”

Obi-Wan said nothing for a long time.

Then—

“I won’t hurt her.”

“You won’t have to.”

Lightning cracked above. Obi-Wan turned away from the sky, from the storm. And vanished back into the dark.

───── ❝.𖥔 ݁ ˖ back at the temple .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ❞ ─────

“Still loves you, he does,” Yoda said gently.

I closed my eyes.

“That’s what scares me.”

Yoda tilted his head. “Afraid for yourself, are you?”

I shook my head. “Afraid for him.”

A long silence.

Then Yoda whispered, “When love becomes fear, dangerous it is. But when it becomes hope… mm. Stronger than any saber.”

I exhaled slowly. The words didn’t fix anything.

But for the first time since Mustafar, I didn’t feel like I was drowning.

───── ❝ ❞ ─────

The emotional aftershocks from the Temple still haven’t settled. But time waits for no one—

I found Anakin in the Temple’s north courtyard, staring up at the sky like it might split open and offer answers. His arm was still in a sling. His lightsaber lay across his lap—silent, but not resting. He didn’t look at me as I approached.

“He’s going to reach out again,” he said.

I sat beside him. “You felt it too?”

Anakin nodded. “Not directly. But... I know him.”

His fingers traced the emitter of his saber. “If Obi-Wan thinks he’s lost you, he’ll push harder. Not because he’s angry—because he still believes he can save you.”

“I don’t need saving.”

He finally looked at me. “I know.”

I reached for his hand and held it between both of mine. “Then trust me.”

His voice dropped. “It’s not you I don’t trust.”

───── ❝ ❞ ─────

“Her connection to Kenobi is... not severed,” Windu said, pacing. “If he makes contact again, she could be compromised.”

“She is loyal,” Plo Koon offered, calm but firm.

“So was Dooku, once,” Ki-Adi replied darkly.

“She’s more than loyal,” Yoda said, his eyes closed. “She’s centered. Even in conflict, clarity she finds.”

“Or deception,” Windu said sharply. “We should bring her in. Question her.”

“No,” Yoda said. Everyone turned. Yoda’s eyes opened—sharp, certain. “Let her come to us.”

───── ❝ ❞ ─────

The holotable flickered.

Rex stood with dust still on his armor, helmet tucked under one arm, eyes heavy with exhaustion.

“Got something you’ll want to see,” he said, nodding toward the console.

A blue-tinted hologram of a devastated outpost blinked to life. Republic insignias—burned. Bodies—clones. Some of them his.

“We found this two clicks from Carida system,” Rex said. “Intel said it was a droid trap.”

Anakin stepped forward. “It wasn’t?”

“No droids,” Rex said. “But one Jedi signature, confirmed by the medtechs.”

He looked at me.

“Kenobi.”

My stomach dropped. “Sabotage?” I asked.

“More like... persuasion. The officers in command didn’t die from lightsaber wounds. They surrendered.”

Rex tapped the console. A new file opened—encrypted, but partially recovered.

A message. Only a few seconds of audio.

“You don’t have to die for a system that doesn’t see you. The Jedi aren’t your masters. You have a choice.”

Obi-Wan’s voice.

Calm. Steady.

Familiar.

Anakin didn’t move. But I felt his anger like a storm surge in the Force. “He’s turning the clones,” he whispered.

Rex didn’t deny it. “They’re listening, sir. Some of them... they’re starting to question orders.”

───── ❝ ❞ ─────

I couldn’t sleep.

Not with Obi-Wan’s voice still ringing in my ears. Not with the Council watching me like a shadow waiting to fall. Anakin hadn’t spoken since the report. He stood at the edge of the balcony, overlooking the sleeping city. When I joined him, he didn’t flinch.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” I whispered.

“I’m thinking if he reaches out to you, I won’t stop you from answering.”

I blinked. “What?”

“I won’t stop you. But I’ll be there when you do.”

His hand brushed mine.

“Because if he takes you… I’ll burn every planet he hides on.”

───── ❝ ❞ ─────

The message came through just past midnight.

Encrypted. Buried in the Temple’s archives under a false file name: "Orbit Shift—Coruscant Agricultural Zones.”

A routine maintenance ping. Except… the metadata held a signature code. And I recognized it. Not because it was current.

Because it was old. Because Obi-Wan taught it to me.

───── ❝.𖥔 ݁ ˖ flashback .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ❞ ─────

I couldn’t have been more than nine.

Too old, the Temple Masters said. But Qui-Gon Jinn had argued. Said the Force moved differently in some children. Said attachment was not always a weakness.

Obi-Wan was the first to meet me.

He was younger then. Still figuring out how to teach without sounding like he was quoting a textbook.

He’d handed me a broken communicator. Told me to fix it.

I crossed my arms. “Is this some Jedi test?”

His smile had been small, wry. “No. I just don’t have the parts. But if you want to talk to someone… sometimes the Force listens better when the lines are open.”

I remember turning the device over. Something etched inside, shallow but deliberate.

O.K. → Y/N If you’re ever lost, reverse the signal.

I didn’t know what he meant then.

But I do now.

───── ❝.𖥔 ݁ ˖ end flashback .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ❞ ─────

The hidden audio burst to life—only thirty seconds. Static. A familiar rhythm behind it. Not words—a pattern. My old comm code. Reversed.

Obi-Wan’s voice filtered through, faint but deliberate.

“You’re not the only one who remembers. They’ll say you’ve chosen your side. But the Force doesn’t take sides. It only waits for balance.”

Silence. Then, softer:

“Come to Carida. Alone.”

───── ❝ ❞ ─────

The message hadn’t stayed secret long.

I stood in the center of the room, flanked by two temple guards. I hadn’t been arrested—but I hadn’t been invited, either.

Mace Windu was the first to speak.

“This is a direct contact from an enemy of the Republic. It cannot be ignored.”

“It was sent in code,” I said. “He knew I’d find it.”

“Which means it was for you,” he snapped. “Not for the Order.”

“She has history with him,” Ki-Adi said. “Emotional attachment.”

Yoda was quiet. Watching me.

Mace continued. “We can’t afford to assume her loyalty is stable. Not anymore.”

“Then say it,” I said coldly. “You think I’m a liability.”

“We think you’re the only one he’ll come near,” Plo Koon said. “Which makes you valuable.”

Which makes me bait, I thought. No one denied it.

───── ❝ ❞ ─────

Anakin stood beside the ship they assigned me. His eyes were dark, jaw clenched.

“You don’t have to go,” he said.

“I do.”

“If he hurts you—”

“He won’t.”

Anakin grabbed my arm gently, his voice low and breaking.

“You think I’m scared of Obi-Wan?” he said. “I’m scared of losing you to him.”

I reached up, touching his face. “You won’t.” But I didn’t add as long as you don’t try to stop me. We were both keeping things back now. The space between us had never felt so wide.

───── ❝.𖥔 ݁ ˖ meanwhile, across the galaxy .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ❞ ─��───

Obi-Wan waited.

Alone.

No army. No fortress. Just a ruined garden, grown over with moss and silence.

He looked up at the stars. Felt the shift in the Force. She’s coming. And for the first time in days... He let himself hope.

───── ❝ ❞ ─────

The ship touched down on cracked stone.

Vines had overtaken what must’ve once been a training temple—a Jedi outpost from before the war, when the Order still sent knights to the Outer Rim to build things instead of break them.

Now, it looked like the ruins of something sacred. Or maybe something abandoned.

I stepped out. The air was thick with green and silence. And then—movement. He was already waiting.

Cloak draped over one shoulder, lightsaber at his hip. His hair was longer than I remembered. He looked older, but not fragile. Not dark.

Just... tired.

“Y/N,” Obi-Wan said, and it wasn’t a warning.

It was a memory. My name in a voice I hadn’t heard in months, and never like that.

I didn’t answer.

She’s come alone. But she didn’t come unarmed.

He gestured to a broken column. “Walk with me.”

I did. Not a duel yet. Not a battle. Just two people who used to know each other better than anyone else, now walking on opposite sides of a crumbling world.

We moved slowly through the ruins, the Force humming between us like tension in a drawn bow. Not hostile. Not yet.

“Why here?” I asked.

“It used to be a place of peace,” he said quietly. “I thought you’d remember it.”

I did. A training camp I visited once as a Padawan. He’d been instructing a small group then. I remembered watching him from a balcony. Even then, he'd looked alone. We stopped at a fallen archway where moss grew over stone carvings of ancient Jedi.

Obi-Wan turned to face me. “You got the message,” he said. “I wasn’t sure they’d let you.”

“They didn’t,” I said.

He nodded like he expected that. Then looked at me—really looked at me. “You’ve changed.”

“So have you.”

He didn’t smile. “I was hoping you’d see it for yourself. What the Council’s become. What the Jedi have become.”

My heart ached. “I have seen it.”

“Then come with me,” he said. No hesitation. No anger.

Just that same unbearable calm he always carried, even when the galaxy burned.

“You think it’s that simple?” I asked.

“I think it has to be.”

He stepped closer.

“I’m not building an empire. I’m not bowing to Sidious. I’ve seen what that leads to.”

He didn’t say Anakin’s name—but the silence screamed it.

“I want to rebuild something better. Something outside of the Republic’s chains. But I need people who still believe in something.”

I looked at him, torn in a thousand ways.

And he saw it.

“You still believe in me,” Obi-Wan said softly. “Don’t you?”

I opened my mouth but I didn’t answer.

Not yet.

───── ❝.𖥔 ݁ ˖ meanwhile, across the galaxy .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ❞ ─────

The Council watched the tracker blink slowly across the holomap.

“She’s with him,” Windu said.

“Not detained,” Ki-Adi added.

“By choice,” Plo Koon murmured.

Anakin stood at the edge of the room, eyes locked on that blinking dot.

“I told you,” he said. “If anything happens to her…”

His voice didn’t finish the sentence.

It didn’t need to.

───── ❝.𖥔 ݁ ˖ back in carida.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ❞ ─────

Obi-Wan led me to the center of the ruins.

What I saw stopped me cold.

Stone columns had been reshaped—some by the Force, some by hand—into a circle. A ring of old Jedi symbols. The center held a tree, half-dead, half-blooming. Roots tangled around shattered armor. Clone helmets. Jedi hilts.

A memorial.

Or a warning.

“This is what we’re building,” he said. “Not a rebellion. A refuge.” He turned to me again—closer now, face etched with conviction. “You don’t have to go back to them. You don’t have to choose him.”

The words hit harder than anything else. But I didn’t flinch.

“I came to hear you,” I said. “To see for myself.”

“And?”

I looked at the tree. At the wreckage. At everything he’d kept buried in this garden of ghosts. Then back to him. “I chose the Republic,” I said first. And I saw hope flicker—just for a second—in his eyes. But then I finished. Quieter. Unshakable. “…I chose Anakin.”

Obi-Wan exhaled like he’d taken a hit to the ribs. His expression didn’t break—he was too disciplined for that. But the Force rippled with grief.

“I never wanted to lose you,” he said.

“You didn’t,” I whispered. “But I’m not yours to keep.”

He didn’t follow me as I turned to leave. He didn’t call after me.

But I felt it.

The moment it changed.

Like a thread severing. A bond splintering.

And somewhere, I knew—

He wouldn’t ask again.

───── ❝ ❞ ─────

Anakin was waiting as I stepped off the ship.

He looked like hell—bruised, limping, tired—but alive. And the second he saw me, something in his shoulders dropped. The storm in him stilled.

“You came back,” he said, voice hoarse.

I stepped into him. “I never left.”

He pulled me close. Held on like he’d die if he didn’t. Above us, the skyline burned gold with sunrise. But peace still felt a galaxy away.

───── ❝ ❞ ─────

TO BE CONTINUED ?? IN PART TWO:

Conviction (2) | Anakin Skywalker

coming soon (maybe... lets see how this one goes) Copyright © 2025 Altitude. All rights reserved.

[nizhspo]

genre: mha imagine, fluff, smut

pairing: katsuki bakugo x fem!reader

summary: beachboy by mccafferty (seriously, go listen). senior week. north carolina coast.

“shut the fuck up.”

bakugo’s voice cracked through the hot, humid air of the car like a whip, low and guttural, sharp enough to cut through denki’s high-pitched cackling. the speakers were rattling. the AC was barely spitting. and the entire backseat smelled like spilled bud, mango juul, and red gatorade.

“bro,” denki wheezed, face buried in his lap as he desperately tried to realign the torn rolling paper, “bro, can you stop braking like that? you’re messing my shit up.”

“you’re rolling on my fuckin’ seat,” katsuki barked. “your dumbass ash is gonna stain the upholstery—”

“it’s not ash, it’s dust,” kirishima said, laughing way too hard for someone trying to be the voice of reason. “like, premium keef or whatever. it’s practically a blessing.”

“a blessing?” bakugo nearly swerved into the turn lane. “if one more fleck of your blessing hits my seat, i swear i’m dumping both your asses on the boardwalk.”

mina flinched beside him, one perfectly glittered hand flying to her ear. “can you not scream like a linebacker in my ear canal? you’re not the only one suffering in this metal oven.”

“roll the fucking window down, then,” he grunted.

“or just admit you’re being an asshole because you’re nervous,” she shot back, licking gloss onto her bottom lip and adjusting the strap of her tiny tank top in the mirror. “you’re not good with crowds, and you know your little summer thing might still be here. that’s what this is about.”

he didn’t answer.

she smiled. “called it.”

they were headed down to shorepoint, north carolina, that sleepy beachfront town that woke up every summer just long enough to let chaos bloom. it was the kind of place that barely scraped by in the off-season but turned electric by june, pulsing with flip-flop traffic and beach towels and 7/11 parking lot meetups. kids from every county within spitting distance descended on it like gulls, hungry for one last, sun-soaked bite of youth before fall slapped the future into their mouths.

last summer, they’d spent two months holed up in denki’s old little league coach’s vacation condo, free of charge, thanks to the likely fact that the guy was definitely fucking his mom. the summer had ended in a shattered bathroom window, one fully detached door, and a near kitchen fire involving tequila, leftover pizza, and a very misused toaster oven. safe to say, they weren’t invited back this year.

not that it mattered.

they were only staying for a week this time. senior week. the final lap. the week before jobs and boot camp and community college and life.

kiri had reserves lined up. mina was going straight to campus. denki had two semesters of GPA repair at community college ahead of him. bakugo hadn’t figured out what came after yet, only that this week still felt like a breath he was holding.

he kept his hands on the wheel. jaw tight.

he could already see it in the distance, shorepoint’s weatherworn welcome sign, sun-bleached and slanted, the big surfboard sculpture half-painted and tagged with “SENIORS!!” in faded black spray.

they curved down the main strip, same as it ever was. strip malls, old neon, the smell of fried shrimp and sunscreen. the boardwalk crowd was already thick, bodies in swim trunks and tank tops, bikes weaving between crosswalks, a group of girls walking barefoot and laughing with popsicles in hand.

and then they passed it, that motel. the seagrass inn.

across the street from their airbnb.

bakugo didn’t say anything.

but he saw it. the chipped stucco walls. the busted vending machine. the old chlorine-drenched pool out back where last summer, after stumbling out of a too-small, cigar-reeking motel room packed shoulder to shoulder with juniors and vodka breath, you’d grabbed his hand and pulled him straight into the water, shorts on, shoes off, giggling against his mouth, whispering some joke he couldn’t even hear over the sound of your laugh.

he’d tossed off his tank top and jumped in after you.

drunk on you. more than anything else.

the airbnb was two blocks from the beach and smelled like lemon cleaner and moldy HVAC.

inside was chaos.

mina called the biggest room immediately, claiming squatter’s rights and throwing her tote bag across the bed like a flag on a newly conquered nation. kirishima took the bunk bed room and almost hit his head on the ceiling fan. denki got the pullout couch after fifteen minutes of negotiating and threatening to sleep in the bathtub out of spite.

“i’m not sharin’ with any of you degenerates,” bakugo muttered, kicking open the door to the smallest bedroom and throwing his duffel on the bed. “i’ll sleep in the fuckin’ car if i have to.”

“you’ll sleep in your rage cave,” mina snorted from the hallway.

he flipped her off and shut the door.

it was barely three in the afternoon. the room was too bright. the ceiling fan squeaked. his head ached already, and he hadn’t had a sip of anything yet.

so he laid back. closed his eyes. breathed in.

tried not to think of you.

…

“hey, designated driver.”

mina’s voice yanked him out of sleep.

her phone was inches from his face, glowing with some blurry instagram story post, neon text over a hazy backyard: shorepoint kickoff @ 7 beachwear optional ;) music, jungle juice, plugs on deck + dj reese

bakugo blinked. “how the fuck did you already find that?”

“because, unlike you,” she said, too smug, “i actually kept in contact with people in this town.”

she shot him a look.

and he didn’t say anything. because he hadn’t. he hadn’t kept in contact. not with you.

not since last summer, since the motel kiss, since the promise, since the way you hugged him on the hood of his car the morning they left and said, “don’t be a stranger.”

but he was.

it wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to you. he just… couldn’t. not when you weren’t in front of him. not when your name lit up on his screen and made his chest ache. not when the texts piled up and he stared at them for hours and didn’t answer.

you were still in shorepoint.

he saw your posts. your selfies with the ocean behind you. the way you wore the same sundresses and made them look new every time. your nails were always fresh. your eyes still looked like trouble.

and he didn’t know how to face any of it.

but he was here now.

and he knew, no matter how long he’d ignored it, he’d be seeing you again. probably tonight. probably soon.

you were here, somewhere in shorepoint, barefoot on a back porch or dancing in somebody else’s kitchen, still impossible not to notice, and the idea of seeing you again sat heavy in his chest. like dread. like want. like both at once.

he didn’t have words for it. so he didn’t try.

he laced his sneakers in silence while the rest of the house spun around him, small, sticky, way too alive already.

mina had the speaker balanced on the stove, blasting rae sremmurd loud enough to shake the cabinets. her playlist was half old party bangers, half cursed internet relics that had no business making a comeback. the bass rattled the windows. the heat stuck to everything. the a/c unit was wheezing in the corner, doing fuck-all.

kaminari was shirtless, grinning wide, pouring blue raspberry svedka into three cups at once with no aim whatsoever. the counter was already tacky. the air smelled like weed, armpit, and bath & body works body spray.

mina had her phone out.

“i like to drink with kami,” she said, faux-british and too loud, swinging her arm over his shoulders. “’cause kami is my mate!” they shouted together, laughing.

“and when i drink with kami—”

kami lifted the cup above his head like it was a trophy, already grinning too wide.

“he takes it down in eight!” mina finished, throwing her arm up like a victory pose.

but denki was late. too busy laughing, too drunk to aim.

“eight!” he finally shouted, then tried to knock it back and wheezed halfway through it, chasing it with gatorade and pride. mina turned the camera on herself, sparkles on her collarbone catching the kitchen light.

kiri was on the couch, legs spread, already red from the heat and smirking like a dumbass, blunt resting easy between two fingers. “you guys are so loud.”

“we’re celebrating,” mina said, twirling in place, glitter puffing off her skirt. “it’s senior week. grow up.”

“we’ve peaked,” denki declared. “it’s all downhill from here.”

katsuki didn’t say shit.

he just watched the sun bleed through the blinds, streaking the wooden floor with gold. their bags were packed. their outfits picked. everyone was ready, in theory. no one was moving.

the night was waiting.

and he still didn’t know what he’d say.

mina emerged from the bathroom in a bikini top and cargo pants, hair pulled into two messy buns. she had a half-melted popsicle in one hand and was dancing while trying to put on earrings.

“don’t smoke in the fucking house,” bakugou barked, watching kiri spark up anyway, passing it to denki.

denki blew a lazy ring and grinned. “airbnb already has my card on file.”

“then you can pay the fee. I’m not helpin’ with that shit when they charge us three-fifty for burnin’ their curtains.”

“we won’t burn the curtains,” kirishima said from the couch. “we’re being super respectful.”

bakugou rubbed his temples. tried to breathe. didn’t help.

because behind the noise, behind the smoke and music and chaos, his pulse was already going.

he wasn’t drinking. of course he wasn’t. designated driver. mina had told him three times already. “we’ll be grateful when you’re the only one who doesn’t throw up in a cooler tonight.”

but he still felt buzzed.

not from the music. not from the smell of weed and sweat and perfume.

from the nerves.

the sun was setting outside, bleeding in through the slats of the blinds, painting long streaks of orange across the floor. it was golden hour, and shorepoint was waking up all over again.

from the back window, he could see it all. teens on every corner, flip-flops slapping pavement, shoulders glowing under the last light of day. a group was already gathering near the convenience store parking lot, passing a watermelon smirnoff bottle around in a brown paper bag. someone biked by with a towel slung over their shoulders. the silhouette of the boardwalk was just visible in the distance, a 25-minute walk, maybe, if you didn’t stop to flirt or smoke or hop a fence for a shortcut.

this was the hour the town glimmered.

this was when it all started.

and bakugou could feel it in his spine, the night unfolding. the chance of seeing you again sharp as salt on his tongue.

he tugged his shirt down. combed his fingers through his hair. adjusted his watch for no reason.

tried to act casual. failed.

and then—

“alright, let’s go!” mina shouted, already halfway out the door with a tote bag and a plastic cup filled with what smelled like betrayal. “driver to the front. passengers, don’t puke in the car unless you want to sleep on the porch!”

the screen door slammed behind her and bakugou followed. jaw set. eyes steady.

because it was time.

and he knew, somewhere out there, you were already laughing, already dancing, already dressed like sin and saltwater and everything he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about for the past ten months.

they pulled up to the house just as the sun was sliding behind the trees, bleeding gold onto the roof and painting the windows peach-orange. it wasn’t even a house, really. more like a raised shack, pale wood graying from salt air, porch lights swinging as kids spilled out of it in swimsuits, half-buttoned shirts, and gleaming shoulders.

someone was already throwing up in the grass. someone else had two jello shots in each hand and was trying to climb the porch banister. the air reeked of booze, beach salt, sunscreen, and too many expensive body sprays.

“you comin’ in or what?” kirishima asked, already halfway out the car.

“i don’t do parties,” katsuki muttered.

“that’s not what bakugo last summer would’ve said,” mina sang sweetly, closing the passenger door behind her. “stop being such a wuss and go get your girl.”

he sat in the silence after they left. the engine ticking. the bass from the house pulsing through the ground.

the house was fuller now. sweatier. louder. bodies pressed wall-to-wall, beer cans on windowsills, sand tracked in on sticky floors. and then— he saw you.

standing near the open deck door, ocean air curling around your bare shoulders, sundress riding high on your thighs. your drink was half-melted. your hair was a little frizzy from the humidity. your eyes were crinkled, laughing at something the guy next to you said.

the guy was taller than katsuki. wearing a sleeveless tee and a chain, backwards cap tugged over a head of thick curls. he said something that made you grin, big, toothy, the kind of grin that used to make katsuki’s lungs feel tight. your hand lifted lazily to rest against the guy’s chest and katsuki’s stomach dropped.

not because he was jealous. not really.

but because that was his favorite version of you, flushed and smiling, talking with your whole face, dancing like the beat was made for you. and someone else was seeing it. soaking it in. breathing it like air.

he didn’t move. didn’t storm over. didn’t say your name.

but then you looked up and your eyes locked.

your whole body shifted. just slightly. something behind your expression flickered, surprise, maybe. recognition. something warm, but also a little tense.

you didn’t excuse yourself right away. of course not. you weren’t rude. you waited for the guy to turn his back, to get distracted by his friends, before slipping past him with a gentle hand to his arm and a soft smile.

then you crossed the room, weaving through people like you weren’t even touching the floor, and katsuki forgot how to breathe.

“hey, stranger.” your voice was light. unbothered. not even trying to be coy, just tossing it out like a shell into the tide, casual and smooth and dangerously you.

fuck. up close you were even prettier than he remembered.

sundress hanging off one shoulder. glossy lips wrapped around the edge of your straw. flower tucked behind your ear like you’d forgotten it was even there. you looked like a goddamn painting. like the sun caught in your collarbones and the corners of your mouth. like everything he hadn’t let himself think about since he disappeared on you.

“thought i scared you away,” you said, like it was nothing. like the silence he left you in hadn’t carved out months of wondering.

he felt the guilt immediately, a low, tight pull in his stomach. sharp. ugly.

but you didn’t look mad. didn’t look like you gave a fuck at all.

and maybe that was worse.

maybe he wanted you to be hurt. maybe he wanted some kind of proof that he mattered. that you weren’t just this perfect, untouchable girl who had someone new for every season: someone to kiss in june, someone to hold in july, someone to fuck before august ended.

he clenched his jaw.

“how was the drive?” you asked, like this was easy.

he swallowed. “shitty. shitty people.”

you smiled like you knew exactly who he meant. “so mina, denki, and kiri made it here in one piece i assume?”

“yeah.”

you took another sip of your drink, then lit up. “good. i can’t wait to see them again.”

he looked at you. really looked.

you were glowing. not just from the heat or the drinks or the party, but from the inside. like the year hadn’t dulled you at all. like every minute without him had only sharpened what made you irresistible.

and he regretted it. not texting. not calling. not trying. he regretted it with every cell in his fucking body.

you pulled your phone from your tiny bag, lit up the screen, checked something. then smiled.

“you know,” you said slowly, voice sweet, “today makes exactly one year since you fingered me on the boardwalk ferris wheel.”

he choked. like actually choked.

“what—?” his voice cracked. his eyes snapped to yours.

you just looked at him, lashes heavy, smile lazy. teeth sinking into your straw. “what?” you asked, all innocent. “you did it. not me.”

he stared. speechless.

you giggled, soft, sugar-high, lethal.

“you definitely had something to drink tonight, huh?” he muttered.

“maybe.” you stepped closer, so close he could smell you again, vanilla and vodka and sweat, warm and intoxicating. “you gonna do something about it?”

his breath hitched.

because you were right here. after all that time. after all those texts he never answered and nights he stayed up staring at your page and thinking about your mouth and the way you said his name when your legs were wrapped around his waist and your fingernails left half-moon dents in his shoulders—

you were here.

looking at him like you were already winning.

and you were. god, you were.

you held his eyes for a moment longer, head tilted just slightly, like you were trying to decide whether to push further, then smiled like you’d already made up your mind.

“you look like you could use a sip,” you said, offering him your cup, some half-melted cocktail mix of juice and something cheap, sloshing lazily in the glow of the party lights.

he blinked. “i’m DD.”

“okay?” your brows lifted, playful. “and it’s literally like 80% juice. i watered it down so bad. just have a sip. it’s no fun to party alone.”

he should’ve said no.

but that was the thing about you; you never even had to try. your voice didn’t beg, didn’t whine, didn’t press. it just suggested. it floated. and whatever you wanted— whatever crossed your lips, he found himself doing it like it was already decided.

he took the cup from your hand. brought it to his mouth.

and you watched him. not like it was casual. not like it was background. your eyes followed every movement, slow, steady, lashes dipped low. and when he sipped, he swore he could taste your lip gloss lingering on the rim. sweet. synthetic. sticky like melted candy.

you.

his tongue flicked against the inside of his cheek as he handed it back, jaw tight like he was holding something back.

you placed the cup behind you on the counter and smiled, pleased.

“that’s better.”

your hands rose, smooth and deliberate, sliding up his chest, fingers tracing the shape of him through his shirt. one hand hooked around his neck, the other playing with the edge of his collar, and then both arms looped behind his shoulders as you stepped in close, pressing against him like you were always meant to be there.

his hands found your waist instinctively, like gravity. like muscle memory. his thumbs pressing lightly into the soft skin there, right where your ribs curved in. he felt your breath catch just a little, the way your body molded to his like something made and remembered.

“mm,” you hummed softly, nose brushing his. “that’s better too.”

and then you kissed him.

not fast.not wild. not needy. just slow, soft. like a promise. like an apology he never gave. like a secret whispered between sunburned shoulders.

he leaned into you, and let himself sink. his mouth opened under yours, matching your rhythm, following the tilt of your head, the curve of your lips, the sweetness that lingered like peach juice and heat.

you kissed like you knew him. like you remembered what he liked. like you never forgot.

and his hands gripped you tighter. not rough, just anchored. grounding himself in the press of your waist, the slope of your back. the way your dress shifted beneath his fingers, thin fabric catching and sliding against sun-warmed skin.

you were too much. your taste. your heat. your goddamn mouth.

and when you pulled back, breath slow, lips parted—he nearly chased you down. his body tilted forward before he stopped himself, heart thudding hard against his ribs like it hadn’t caught up yet.

you smiled. not at him. not even for him. just to yourself.

“looks like you did miss me,” you said, eyes still soft, voice barely louder than the beat pulsing from the next room.

his ears flushed instantly. he grumbled, “maybe a little.”

your lips were still warm on his mouth when the shout came.

“bitch!”

you turned just as your friend came stumbling in, glitter on her arms, plastic cup in one hand, and the other outstretched toward you like she’d been looking for you in every room.

“come on,” she giggled. “they’re doing karaoke by the pool. someone brought a speaker and first day out is on the queue.”

you laughed. that wild, sun-sparked laugh that always made his shoulders drop, and gave katsuki one last look. mouthed a soft sorry, but didn’t wait. didn’t hesitate.

you never did.

you slipped your hand into your friend’s and disappeared down the hallway, hair bouncing, flower tucked just behind your ear, already lit up by the party again.

katsuki blinked. then turned back to the kitchen, lips still tingling, only to be met by—

“jesus christ.”

denki. leaning against the counter, mouth twisted like he’d just caught katsuki sneaking a second slice of cake.

“you good, bro?” he grinned. “i mean, damn. the kitchen?”

“like, people eat in here,” kirishima added, snorting. “she couldn’t wait till y’all found a closet?”

katsuki’s face went hot. “shut the fuck up,” he growled, but it was too late. denki was already wheezing, miming a kiss with both hands while kiri fake-moaned and slid down the cabinet.

“i’m serious,” denki said between laughs, “you were like—” he threw his head back dramatically, arms spread. “right here. next to the fucking microwave.”

“i said shut up—”

he wasn’t even sure why he was so pissed. maybe it was the embarrassment. maybe it was how easy you made him forget himself. maybe it was because you were already off, back in your element, while he was stuck here getting clowned by people who knew damn well he didn’t kiss girls at parties. didn’t kiss girls in public. didn’t do this.

but you weren’t just any girl. and that was the problem.

“guys,” mina said suddenly, appearing with a roll of her eyes and a drink in each hand, “can you stop making out with your own egos and leave him alone?”

she shoved a drink into kiri’s chest and shot katsuki a wink.

“some of us still remember what summer is for.”

…

the party moved.

spilled across rooms like dye in water. stretched into the backyard, where the pool glowed pale blue under string lights. someone pulled out a lighter. someone else lit sparklers on the porch. kids from three towns over were already half-naked in inflatable chairs.

katsuki made it as far as the back wall. saw two girls he vaguely remembered from home ec. one asked for his number.

“i’m gay,” he said.

she blinked. “oh.”

“yeah.” he walked off before she could ask any follow-ups.

and still, he ended up back in the kitchen. because no matter how far he drifted, he was always just trying to orbit back to you.

and like always, you found him again.

two arms snaked around his waist from behind, warm, bare, glitter-dusted, and he tensed instantly, shoulders locked, breath catching.

then he exhaled.

because only you would do that.

“katsuki,” you sing-songed into his back, breath soft against his shoulder. “you disappeared.”

“you’re the one who ran off,” he said, voice flat, but not angry.

“karaoke emergency,” you grinned, moving to stand in front of him, flower now tucked behind your other ear, hair a little more mussed, cheeks even more flushed.

you looked like you’d been living, like the party was yours and you were letting everyone borrow it for a night. “come on,” you said, tugging his hand. “come dance.”

he hesitated.

you pouted. “what, you’re too cool for me?”

“i don’t dance.”

“you do with me.” you said, like it was obvious. like you knew him better than he knew himself.

he didn’t argue.

the music was loud, a mess of old bangers and new remixes, the kind of shit that hit you in the chest and rattled through your bones. the crowd pulsed with it, jumping, shouting, hands in the air, drinks spilling.

and you were glowing.

dancing like you were built for it, like your hips moved on instinct and your shoulders rolled with the beat. you jumped, you laughed, you sang along like you were on stage and every word mattered.

katsuki stood behind you, hands on your hips, grounding himself. letting you take him wherever you wanted.

you reached back, fingers threading into his hair, pulled him down a little so your mouth brushed his ear.

“i hope we never die,” you whispered. “just like this. forever.”

he swallowed. tight.

because the way you said it, not heavy, not tragic, just true, felt like a wish he didn’t deserve to want.

he tightened his grip on your waist, pulled you closer. your back hit his chest. your body swayed into his like it was nothing. like it was everything. and he let it. because when it came to you: dancing, drinking, smiling with your eyes all blown and cheeks all flushed, he’d do whatever you wanted.

he’d fly.

and every time he thought he could breathe, you tugged him somewhere else.

back into the music. back into the crowd. back under the lights strung between palm trees and sagging porch rails, places he’d never have walked into on his own, places he didn’t belong.

but you made him belong.

you moved through the party like you were born inside it, and all he had to do was keep up.

your dress kept riding up as you danced, not indecent, but short enough that eyes followed, and every time, katsuki’s hands found your hem, tugging it down with a scowl, like it was a reflex. you didn’t say anything. you didn’t need to. just grinned to yourself, leaned into him, kept moving.

you kissed him again after the cornhole game.

not just him, but everyone. you jumped up, arms in the air, shouting “we fucking won!” and planted messy, glitter-sticky kisses on the cheeks of every member of the winning side. kirishima. denki. some girl you barely knew who landed the final shot. and then him, last, your lips catching the corner of his mouth, breathless, laughing, sweaty from dancing, and radiant.

he swore the world blinked out for a second. just you. just the taste of you. just your hand in his again.

you worked the party like a hostess, like the queen of shorepoint. you pulled him from person to person, introducing him like he was yours, katsuki, the one i told you about. sometimes they knew you from middle school. sometimes they were your cousins from a street over. sometimes they didn’t even look old enough to be here.

he just nodded. gave gruff hellos. stood beside you while you chatted and hugged and laughed.

and every time your eyes found him again, he felt steadier. like he fit here. because you made room for him.

and then, you spotted someone in the crowd.

“oh my god—”

you didn’t finish. just grabbed katsuki’s hand and dragged, weaving through bodies like you were swimming. he muttered a few excuse me’s behind you, getting bumped by elbows and plastic cups, but you were already locked onto your target, one hand guiding him, the other lifting in a wave as you broke through.

“mina!” you squealed, launching into her arms. “i swear, i kept up with your prom pics, bitch, you looked gorgeoud.”

she hugged you tight, laughing, shoulder glitter catching in the light. “you’re literally insane. i’ve missed your ass.”

katsuki slowed to a halt behind you, catching his breath, watching the way you lit up. you were flushed again, not from embarrassment, just from energy. from the buzz of everything. your dress clung a little more now. your flower was halfway tucked into your braid. you looked like you belonged in this light.

you turned, beaming.

“obviously you already know katsuki,” you said, and mina rolled her eyes.

“unfortunately. notoriously bad driver.”

“rude,” he muttered, but his lips twitched.

“you still yelling at people in the car?” you asked, turning to him, cheeks heating, rocking back on your heels.

he couldn’t stop staring at you. not the way you talked, or laughed, or even moved. just the way you were. the way you charmed a room with nothing but your presence. the way you saw people, and they felt seen.

you were talking again, something about a friend of yours who had a crush on her. “i swear he told me he thought you were cute,” you were saying, nudging mina. “hold on—”

you waved someone over. a guy who’d been hovering nearby, pretending not to watch.

“this is him,” you grinned, and turned to the rest of them. “okay. group dance. now.”

no one argued.

the song changed. bass deep. familiar. bodies surged in again, sweatier, freer now. arms in the air, hands on hips, friends spinning friends, girls screaming lyrics that didn’t match the beat.

katsuki didn’t dance. except with you.

your back pressed to his chest. your hand gripped his. your hips rolled, and his body followed. your laugh was against his jaw. your lips brushed his throat when you turned.

he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much fun.

you made him laugh, loud, even, when you botched the lyrics to a rap verse and freestyled something so awful, so cursed, it made the girls around you double over.

you winked up at him and he thought, i want this forever.

you spun again. pulled him in. whispered something hot and stupid against his mouth, and he just nodded.

because he’d follow you anywhere. because this was the part he never got enough of. because you, loud, glittery, reckless, good, were it.

the party blurred, but you didn’t. you stayed sharp. you stayed his.

..

when you guys make it back outside, the deck is strung with paper lanterns and the night’s too warm for jackets. your sandals are gone. you’re barefoot, skirt fluttering just above your knees, moving like your body’s made of music.

he’s sitting in one of the sagging lawn chairs, half-sunk, arms folded, pretending he’s still above it all.

but his eyes never leave you.

you come back to him every few minutes. drape yourself across his lap. kiss his cheek, his temple, his jaw. murmur something stupid about the moon or how hot it is or how your thighs are sore from dancing.

he grunts. always grunts. but his hands find your waist every time. grounding you. keeping you.

you come back with a solo cup, glitter pink, half-melted ice, definitely too much. he plucks it right out of your hand before you can sit.

“uh-uh,” he mutters, holding it out of reach. “i think you’ve had enough.”

you pout, stumbling into his lap anyway. “you’re no fun.”

“nope. not tonight. not when you’re already—” he gestures vaguely to your everything. “this.”

you roll your eyes. press a kiss to his cheek. then another, slow and sticky, to the corner of his mouth. “mean.”

“you’ll live.”

your hands wander up his chest. slow. lazy. fingers splayed like you’re trying to memorize the shape of him again. you cup his face in both hands, fingers warm, firm, just beneath his jaw.

“you look so pretty like this,” you whisper, lips barely brushing his ear.

he doesn’t say anything. just exhales. closes his eyes for a beat too long. lets it sink in.

the house behind you has shifted. mellowed.

the playlist’s changed. no more scream-along anthems, just loose, messy pop songs about driving nowhere, fucking in back seats, talking about everything and nothing under gas station lights. someone’s cousin passed out facedown in the hallway. a dog showed up on the deck thirty minutes ago and no one’s claimed it. the beer pong table is now home to three strangers in wet hoodies tangled together like seaweed.

but you’re still glowing.

“alright,” katsuki muttered, jaw tight.

he stood. stretched once. cracked his neck. then turned to where kirishima and denki were leaned against the fence, giggling at nothing, half-dead. “hey, let’s go.”

“aw, already?” mina appeared from nowhere, sipping something clear from a mason jar.

“now,” katsuki repeated, already herding the three of them together. “get in the car. she’s coming too.”

you grinned, letting him hook a hand behind your back and steer you down the deck stairs.

at the edge of the lawn, you tugged his arm. “piggyback?”

he turned, one brow raised.

you blinked up at him, pout barely formed, voice low and innocent: “please? my feet hurt.”

he narrowed his eyes. “you’re not that drunk.”

you shrugged. “still in pain.”

he rolled his eyes but crouched anyway. you jumped, arms around his shoulders, chin on top of his head, laughing in his ear.

from the porch, kiri and denki were grinning like jackals. mina snapped a photo.

“shut the fuck up,” katsuki barked.

they put their hands up in surrender, snorting.

…

he didn’t have to drop the others off first.

he could’ve taken you home on the way. it would’ve made sense. would’ve cut the route in half.

but he didn’t.

he parked in front of the bnb, nudged kiri and denki with the back of his hand. “out.”

“what about—” kiri yawned, rubbing his eyes. “you’re not—?”

“droppin’ her off last,” katsuki said. “just move.”

denki, half-asleep, winked as he tumbled out of the car. “have fun,” he slurred. “use protection.”

“what the fuck—”

“don’t worry,” you cut in, voice syrupy, leaning toward the window, “we will.”

the door shut. silence.

katsuki stared straight ahead, fists flexed on the wheel. his ears were burning.

the drive back to your place was short. quiet. not awkward, just full.

he didn’t remember the turns, even though he’d been to your house countless times last summer. you didn’t say much. just curled your legs up on the seat, flower in your hand now, twirling it absentmindedly. your head rested on the window. the streetlights streaked your face gold.

and then, the house.

when he walked you to the door, it was late enough that the neighborhood was dead quiet. porch lights flickered across trimmed lawns. a single moth circled the bulb above your steps.

your porch light was soft, warm yellow, fuzzy around the edges. it made everything feel smaller. safer. like it couldn’t touch the rest of the world.

you turned to him. still smiling. flower askew. hair frizzy. cheeks flushed.

he reached out. brushed his thumb along your temple, fixing the flower again. gentle. like it mattered.

“thanks for tonight,” you whispered.

he didn’t say anything. just leaned forward. kissed your forehead. soft. slow. the kind of kiss that wasn’t about being seen. the kind of kiss that meant more than he knew how to explain.

he started to pull back but your fingers caught his shirt.

“you know…” you said, voice low, light. “you can come in. if you want.”

your hand slid up his chest. one acrylic trailing up the line of his jaw, slow and sweet.

“just gotta be quiet.”

you winked and his breath caught in his throat. then, as if you knew he’d follow you inside, you turned and opened the door.

your house was dim. not dark, not eerie, just quiet, touched only by the blue glow of moonlight leaking through linen curtains and the far-off hum of cicadas. no hallway lights, no TV. just the soft creak of the floorboards under your bare feet as you led him through.

“don’t step on that stair,” you whispered over your shoulder. “it creaks.”

his hand stayed curled in the back of your dress. your fingers caught his, tugging gently as you tiptoed past the garage door, up the narrow stairs. everything smelled like detergent and citrus. like the place had been cleaned too fast, like someone was expecting company and didn’t know why.

you pushed open your bedroom door.

he remembered it, even in the dark. the faint shimmer of string lights, the shelves stacked with old books and folded notes, a cluttered desk that hadn’t changed since last summer. your bed was unmade. your fan was spinning. your walls were still covered in pinned-up postcards and disposable film memories, curling a little at the corners.

you stepped in first. turned. closed the door behind you with the softest click. and when you looked up at him, all quiet, all flushed, all his—he knew exactly why he hadn’t dropped you off first.

he didn’t even wait. didn’t ask.

just stepped forward, hands on your waist before you’d taken another breath, mouth catching yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

you melted. instantly. like you’d been waiting for this all night, or all year, or maybe just since the moment he stopped calling.

slow. unhurried. soft as cotton.

you reached behind your neck and tugged the zipper down, letting the sundress slip off your shoulders, then your hips, until it puddled at your ankles. you stepped out of it, bare, glowing, gorgeous. your skin caught the light like it had been dusted in sugar. no bra. no shame.

his breath caught, sharp, staggered, when he saw you like that again. you weren’t nervous. weren’t posing. just you. standing there, looking at him like you’d been waiting for this exact moment all year.

“fuck,” he whispered.

and his hands were on you immediately.

they swept up your sides, over your ribs, slow and reverent. his palms skimmed your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples, just enough to make them harden under his touch. his lips found your collarbone, then lower. kisses open-mouthed, heavy, tongue flicking just to see you squirm.

he dropped to his knees in front of you, arms looping around your waist, face pressed against your stomach. his voice was rough, muffled: “you’re not fair.”

you giggled, threading your fingers through his hair. “never said i was.”

he kissed down, teeth grazing your hipbones, hands sliding behind you to cup your ass. you gasped softly when he squeezed firmer the second time, his mouth already kissing up your thigh, warm and wet and hungry.

“get on the bed,” he said, voice low.

you did. you climbed back, slow, the mattress creaking beneath your knees. you laid back on your elbows, eyes never leaving his, and opened your legs just enough to be inviting.

he followed.

he settled between your thighs, dragged two fingers through your folds, slow, deliberate— then circled your clit, gentle, coaxing. you moaned softly. legs twitching.

“already wet,” he muttered, almost to himself.

you bit your lip, nodded.

he pressed one finger in. then two.

your breath stuttered. hips jerked. one hand flew to his wrist, not to stop him( just to feel him.

his fingers curled. massaged. not fucking, just opening you, spreading you, easing you wider with soft, deliberate pushes. his thumb never stopped moving on your clit, not once, even when your hips bucked.

your thighs shook. your mouth dropped open. “katsuki,” you whispered, voice breathy, broken.

“shh,” he said. “just let me.”

and you did. you were panting by the time he finally pulled back, fingers glistening. he kissed the inside of your thigh again, then climbed up, bracing his weight with one hand, staring down at you like you were holy.

your legs wrapped around him, pulling him in.

“come on, sweetheart,” you whispered. “take ’em off.”

he did.

dragged his pants off, then his boxers, breath heavy, body tense. he looked wrecked already, like the taste of you had scrambled something in him he couldn’t fix.

you sat up, eyes wide, hand trailing down to guide him, slow, certain.

“wait,” you said. “can i…?”

he nodded. and you climbed into his lap.

hands on his shoulders. breath hot between you. your fingers guided him again, the head of his cock slipping through your folds, catching at your entrance.

he kissed your neck. gripped your hips.

and you sank. inch by inch.

the stretch was so deep it knocked the air from your lungs. your nails dug into his shoulders, head dropping, a sharp moan caught in your throat.

“you good?” he asked, voice hoarse.

you nodded, lips parted. “not… not yet.”

you paused halfway down, breath trembling. he kissed your throat. his hand stroked your back, slow, grounding you. and then lower. deeper. until he was fully inside.

you let out a helpless mewl, high and soft and desperate.

he groaned. “fuck. you feel—” he didn’t finish. just held you. let you adjust.

and then, slow, you rocked your hips.

he met your rhythm, matched every roll, every arch. his hands gripped your waist, guiding you, breath stuttering in your ear.

you moaned again, louder this time.

he clapped a hand over your mouth. “i’m not trying to get murdered by your fucking dad,” he hissed.

you whined behind his palm, breath stuttering, voice broken. “he’s not that harm—” you gasped.

he thrust deeper, silencing whatever was left of that thought. he didn’t stop.

neither did you.

you moved together, bodies slick and hot, mouths brushing but never quite kissing, hands everywhere. his forehead pressed to yours. your fingers clawed into his back. he moaned against your cheek.

your breath hitched. you were so fucking loud.

his hand didn’t leave your mouth, not until your body started to tremble, not until your nails dragged down his chest, not until your thighs started to shake from the edge.

you u were close. so close, and trying, trying so hard to keep quiet. you bit your lip, hard, teeth digging into the swell of it as you rocked against him, slow and steady, clenching around him tighter every time your hips rolled down.

your breathing got shallower. chest rising fast. back arching. he felt every twitch of your thighs, every gasp that broke past his fingers, hot, desperate, muffled into his palm.

and then—a sharp little whimper escaped you. high. panicked. real.

his eyes shot open.

your fingers gripped his shoulders. you stiffened suddenly. not from fear, not from sound. just sensation.

because the orgasm hit without warning.

it wasn’t violent. wasn’t loud. wasn’t anything you expected. it just happened, soft and drawn out, like your body forgot to hold itself together. like you were melting.

your mouth dropped open. your legs clenched tight. and you came with your forehead pressed to his chest, breath stuck in your throat, hips still rolling through it, slower now, like your body didn’t know how to stop.

his hand dropped from your mouth. he was too wrapped up to remember silence, too lost in the feeling of you, of your thighs squeezing him, of your walls pulsing around his cock, milking him.

you kept moving. barely. still grinding through the aftershocks, hips shifting mindlessly.

“fuck,” he breathed, voice tight. he wasn’t going to last.

you leaned into him, chest to chest, lips brushing his throat. still shaking. still riding it out.

and then— creak.

his head snapped up just as the bedroom door burst open like it had been kicked.

“what the fuck?” your dad’s voice cracked the air like a gunshot.

you froze.

katsuki didn’t even get the chance to breathe or finish. his whole body locked. he didn’t mean to look, didn’t mean to move, just stared. fucking stared as your father’s face contorted from shock to rage in real time.

you were still in his lap.

he was still in you.

naked. glowing. breathless.

your mouth parted like you were about to say something. anything. but nothing came out as you fumbled with the sheets to cover yourself.

“holy fucking shit—” he choked, hands suddenly frantic, trying to lift you off him, not roughly, not even fast, but like he couldn’t think. like every nerve in his body was screaming to move.

you slid off with a soft gasp, legs too shaky to catch yourself. he helped guide you to the mattress, hand on your hip, wide-eyed, panicked.

he scrambled for his boxers, found them on the floor by the fan, yanked them up just as your dad took another furious step forward.

“katsuki, the window.” you hissed, grabbing his pants and flinging then at him like a grenade.

he didn’t argue.

he was already climbing out in his boxers, half-dressed, pants in his teeth, sneakers in one hand, nearly slipping on the siding of your roof as he landed, hard, on the overhang below.

your father charged toward the window.

“i’m gonna fuckin’ kill you, boy.” he bellowed. “you better not ever show your goddamn face on the street again!”

katsuki didn’t turn around. he ran.

barefoot across the lawn. pants clutched in one hand, boxers twisted, socks still on.

he found the car. somehow. slammed the door shut, heart beating so loud it drowned everything else. his hands were shaking on the steering wheel. his chest was bare, legs scraped from the landing.

he drove home like that.

window down. shirtless. breath coming in gasps. he funbled with his pants at a red light and drove with his pant legs half-rolled.

heart still stuck in your mouth.

[writeriguess]

hello! can i request fem!reader witnessing Bakugou's "death" only to see him be revived during the war? thank you!

Ash and Thunder

The world was ending. At least, that’s what it felt like. Explosions lit up the battlefield, the sky a swirling mass of dust, fire, and screams. Heroes and villains clashed in a violent dance, but you could only see one person—one person who made the chaos fade into background noise.

Katsuki Bakugou.

You had fought your way through Nomus and villains, your muscles aching, your body screaming for rest, but you didn’t stop. You never would. Not when he was still out there, pushing himself beyond his limits.

And then you saw it.

A blur of orange and black, a streak of lightning-fast movement as Bakugou propelled himself toward Shigaraki. His gauntlets were cracked, his costume torn and stained with blood—his own and others’. Yet, his crimson eyes burned with unrelenting fury.

“I won’t let you lay a single filthy hand on anyone else!” he roared, explosions igniting in his palms as he launched himself at Shigaraki.

Time slowed.

Shigaraki grinned, a sickeningly amused expression twisting his face. “Too slow.”

You saw it before it even happened. The way Shigaraki’s muscles tensed, the way his arm cocked back like a loaded gun.

“BAKUGOU!”

Your voice was lost in the cacophony of war.

Shigaraki’s fist crashed into Bakugou’s chest.

The sound was… wrong. It wasn’t just the dull thud of impact—it was a wet, sickening squelch.

Blood exploded outward.

You watched, frozen, as Shigaraki’s hand ripped through flesh, muscle, and bone. His fist emerged from Bakugou’s back, his heart—what was left of it—torn to shreds.

The world turned silent.

Bakugou’s body jerked, his mouth opening in a silent gasp. His pupils were blown wide, his arms falling limply to his sides.

Then, like a marionette with its strings cut, he collapsed.

“No… no, no, no!” You ran, your legs barely responding, as if the earth had become molasses beneath your feet.

Shigaraki tossed Bakugou’s lifeless body aside like trash, stepping over him without a second glance.

You hit the ground beside him, hands trembling as you reached out, pressing them to his bloodied chest.

Nothing.

No heartbeat.

No warmth.

Just silence.

Your breaths came in ragged gasps, tears blurring your vision as you clutched his hand. “Katsuki—Katsuki, please. Please open your eyes. Please…”

He didn’t.

His face was slack, peaceful in a way that made you want to scream. This wasn’t him. Katsuki Bakugou didn’t go peacefully. He was all fire and fury, all explosions and rage. He wasn’t supposed to—

A choked sob ripped from your throat.

Someone was yelling your name. You barely registered it. Hands grabbed your shoulders, trying to pull you away, but you fought, refusing to let go of him.

“He’s gone!” a voice—Dynamight’s mentor, Best Jeanist—gritted out. “We have to move!”

Gone.

The word echoed in your skull, rattling around like a broken record.

Katsuki Bakugou was gone.

—

The battle raged on, but you were numb.

You fought, because you had to. Because you couldn’t let his sacrifice be for nothing. But the fire in you had dimmed.

And then—

A whisper of a voice through the static in your mind.

“Bakugou is breathing again.”

You whipped around.

Your heart lurched into your throat.

There—on the battlefield, where he had fallen—he was moving.

Edgeshot knelt beside him, his body thin and weak, his fingers pressed to Bakugou’s chest. “I’ve replaced his heart,” he murmured, voice strained. “He’s alive.”

Your legs nearly gave out.

And then—

A cough. A sharp inhale.

Bakugou’s fingers twitched.

His crimson eyes fluttered open.

You were running before you could think.

He barely had time to sit up before you crashed into him, arms wrapping around his battered, shaking frame. “You idiot!” you sobbed into his shoulder. “You absolute idiot! You died! Do you have any idea—”

A weak chuckle rumbled against your chest. “Tch. ‘Course I came back. You really think I’d leave you behind?”

Tears streamed down your face, but you were smiling. “You better not, Katsuki.”

He grinned, leaning his forehead against yours, exhaustion in every inch of his being. “Yeah. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

[lvsrckk]

michigan cherry

||*. jason grace x reader

warnings: nudity (not sexual at all nor descriptive!)

summary: after a long quest, you and jason finally get the chance to shower in a shitty motel on the side of the road ;)

a/n: hope you enjoy! (this was inspired by the song “michigan cherry” by river whyless, so feel free to listen!

the quest had left you completely exhausted and on edge.

you, jason, and piper had been trudging across miles of abandoned temples with air thick as sleep, and a maze of monster infested wetlands that still clung to your legs with imaginary vines. every step had been weighted with exhaustion. your nail polish was chipped, your braids were a tangle of twigs and dried ichor, and your limbs felt like they belonged to someone else.

so when jason spotted a glowing vacancy sign flickering outside a tiny roadside motel (the kind with only six rooms and a soda machine that made horrifying noises) it felt like salvation.

“dibs,” piper said before you even reached the door, dragging her worn boots across the lobby carpet. “if anyone wakes me before i’ve had nine hours of sleep on a clean pillowcase, i will turn you into a lawn gnome.” she didn’t even wait for a key, just flopped face down onto one of the double beds, groaning into the faded comforter.

you stood quietly by the motel bathroom door, still holding your backpack straps, the ache in your shoulders too deep to fully move

jason came up behind you, placing his hand gently over yours. “hey,” he said, voice low and soft, “why don’t we go clean up? you’ll feel better.”

you nodded, too tired to speak, but the warmth in your chest flared anyway. even after all these months together, it never stopped catching you off guard the way he always knew when to be gentle.

you followed him into the motel’s tiny bathroom. it smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and humidity, and the light overhead buzzed like it was debating whether to work. you caught your reflection in the mirror and nearly laughed. mascara smudged under your eyes, dust smeared on your cheeks, and your braid… gods, your braid looked like it had been used to lasso a chimera.

you felt his arms wrap around your waist from behind.

“still the prettiest girl in the world,” jason murmured into your hair.

you rolled your eyes, but you leaned into him, your head against his shoulder. “liar.”

“not even a little,” he said with a quiet laugh, brushing his lips against your temple.

you stepped back, the need to wash away the day growing stronger with every second. you began tugging your shirt over your head, sticky and dusty with dried sweat, but your arms got stuck halfway, tangled in the fabric.

“hey, let me,” he said gently, stepping forward. his fingers were warm against your skin as he helped pull the shirt off you, careful not to tug too hard. he crouched to untie your shoelaces, then stood and helped you shimmy out of your leggings, which clung to your legs with sweat. not once did he rush. not once did he stop looking at you like you were delicate and beautiful instead of a tired girl caked in ash and dirt.

when you were down to your undergarments, he pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “you get in first. i’ll join you in a sec.”

you nodded and stepped into the shower, wincing as the cold water burst from the faucet before turning warm. it wasn’t perfect, there was a suspicious looking rust stain in one corner and the water pressure fluctuated every few seconds, but it was the best thing you’d felt in days.

you leaned into the spray, letting it cascade over your back like a waterfall. your braid was still tightly wound, sticky with mud and remnants that had gathered over the past few days. you tugged at the elastic with damp fingers, frustrated.

then jason’s hands were there, brushing yours aside. “i got it,” he said softly from behind you.

you let your arms fall as he began unwinding your braid, inch by inch, fingers gently undoing the knots. he ran his hands through the strands after, careful not to catch the strands on his calloused fingers, separating them with the kind of patience that made your heart ache. once it was loose again, he reached for your pink bottle of cherry shampoo.

“this is my favorite,” he said with a smile, squeezing a generous dollop into his palm. “smells like you.”

you closed your eyes and let him lather it into your hair, his touch dreamy and slow. he massaged your scalp with the pads of his fingers, not just cleaning but soothing, like each circle of his hands was pulling out every trace of stress and fear. the scent of cherries filled the steamy air, tart and sweet like a wild berry and familiar. it made you feel safe, like curling up under a soft blanket after a storm.

“i love when you do this,” you whispered.

“i know,” he murmured, rinsing the bubbles away with cupped hands, “you always go quiet.”

“it feels nice.”

“good,” he said. “i want you to feel nice.”

he pressed a kiss to your wet forehead, then reached for the little bottle of rose-scented body wash you’d stuffed into your backpack. “can i?” he asked gently, holding it up.

your cheeks went warm, but you nodded. “yeah.”

his touch was featherlight as he began washing you, starting with your arms, working in small, sweet circles. he washed down your back, careful of every bruise, every scrape. the water washed it all away, but the way he touched you stayed. your heart beat so loud in your chest it felt like a drum.

when he reached your legs, he knelt, looking up at you with eyes full of quiet reverence. “you’re perfect, you know,” he said.

“you’re ridiculous.”

“maybe,” he whispered, “but that doesn’t make it less true.”

you reached down, brushing your fingers through his damp hair, and he leaned into the touch like it steadied him.

he stood again, towering just slightly, and you reached for his face. your fingers traced the edge of his jaw, still sharp despite the days of grime. you tugged him down slowly, and he kissed you like he’d been waiting for permission.

the kiss was slow, dreamy, and full of everything neither of you had been able to say during the chaos of the quest. it was soft lips and steam and hands resting on hips and heartbeats stuttering between breaths.

you stayed under the water longer than you should have, swapping lazy kisses and soap slicked laughter until the hot water started to cool. eventually, you stepped out and wrapped yourself in one of the stiff white motel towels, too tired to care that it smelled like overwashed linen. jason handed you your favorite sleep shirt, worn and adorned with a faded coca-cola logo, and helped towel dry your hair with surprising gentleness.

he wore a worn camp jupiter shirt and gray sweats, his hair messy and soft from the shower. even in cheap motel lighting, he looked like something out of a daydream.

you sat on the edge of the bed, brushing through your hair. your arms felt like jelly, and your eyelids were already heavy.

“gimme that,” jason said, plucking the comb from your fingers. he knelt behind you on the bed, running the comb slowly through your damp strands, careful not to pull.

“you spoil me,” you whispered.

“i love spoiling you.”

you melted under his touch while he braided your hair into two loose braids that framed your face. he tied them off with mismatched elastic bands from your backpack and kissed the top of your head like he’d done it a thousand times.

you slipped under the motel sheets, and he climbed in beside you, pulling you into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world. you fit against his side perfectly, your legs tangled under the scratchy motel comforter, your fingers resting against his chest.

outside, a car rumbled past on the road, the motel sign buzzed lazily, and piper snored softly in the next room.

but somehow, everything felt perfect.

“next quest,” you mumbled into his chest, “we demand bathtubs and silk robes.”

“and strawberries. and marshmallows.”

“and foot massages.”

“deal,” he said, smiling into your hair. “whatever you want.”

you kissed his collarbone, then let yourself drift off.

and as sleep pulled you under, you whispered the words into his skin like a promise.

“i love you, jason grace.”

his arms tightened around you, and even half-asleep, you heard him answer.

“i love you more.”

a/n pt 2! : i thought this was cute :) i really suggest giving the song a listen!

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

Yandere Gatekeeper x Reader

The first time you saw him, he barely seemed to move.

He stood like a statue carved from midnight and iron, the great halberd in his grip gleaming dully in the weak morning sun. He was taller than any man should be, and broader, too, with armor that hissed faintly with some strange enchantment—black plate over strange, dark mail that shimmered like oil on water. His helmet bore no visor, only a smooth, featureless surface polished to a mirror finish, reflecting the frightened peasants and merchant caravans that passed under his gaze. His eyes, the only visible part of him beneath the shadowed helm, glowed faintly—like the last embers of a dying forge.

You remember that morning well because it was the first time you entered the city of Eirencourt.

The gates had loomed tall and thick, the stones laced with enchantments and protection sigils, and still, he had been the one everyone truly feared. Not the wall. Not the watchmen. But him.

No one dared speak his name. Some called him the Black Watcher. Others whispered that he had once been a man, cursed for some ancient crime, doomed to serve the city until time itself unraveled. The most ridiculous story you heard was that he’d eaten a god and had been bound in chains of bone and duty ever since.

You, of course, didn't believe any of it.

You were just a traveler then. A courier, carrying a letter with a broken seal and a waxed package that smelled faintly of lavender and something spicy. You kept your head down like everyone else. And yet—

He looked at you.

He watched you.

Out of all the dozens, the crowds, the caravaners and their squabbling guards, the noblemen in fur-trimmed cloaks, the tired peasant women and sniffling children—he looked only at you.

You felt it like cold fire on the back of your neck.

When you glanced up, uncertain, your eyes met his. For a second. Maybe less.

You didn't sleep well that night.

Weeks passed. Your business in the city kept you rooted—errands turned to contracts, and contracts to coin, and coin to a thin but stable life. You found a place in a crooked little house on the edge of the lower market. Your neighbors were kind, if tired. Your room was small, but it had a window that overlooked the winding road back toward the northern gate.

His gate.

You never meant to linger by the walls, but sometimes you found yourself walking the long way home. Past the outer ring where the towers loomed and the guards smoked cheap tobacco. Past the armory, where squires laughed and kicked at each other in the dust. And always, he was there.

The Black Watcher.

Unmoving. Ever silent.

But each time you passed, he looked at you.

And each time, it felt more deliberate.

You weren’t sure what possessed you the day you smiled at him.

Maybe it was the sun—it had been warm, almost spring-like. Maybe it was the child who had pressed a daisy into your hand and run off giggling. Maybe it was your own foolishness.

But you looked up at him and said, “Good day, ser knight.”

He said nothing. He didn’t nod. Didn’t move.

But when you turned your back, you felt it again—the prickling on your spine. Like a tether had been cast from his chest to yours. Something binding.

You told yourself it was just nerves. The chill of being near something so still, so wrong. A trick of your own unease. You laughed it off when you got home, rubbing the daisy between your fingers until its petals bruised and fell.

But the next morning, something changed.

There was a mark on your door. Faint. Almost like soot or ash, drawn in a careful spiral the size of your palm. You tried to scrub it off, but it wouldn’t fade—not with water, not with soap. A neighbor saw you struggling and crossed themselves.

“Best leave it,” the old woman muttered, her breath cloudy even though the air was warm. “Means you’ve been seen.”

You didn’t ask by who.

You didn’t have to.

You knew.

The Black Watcher.

You told yourself again and again that it didn’t matter. That he was just a relic of the city’s past, a ceremonial warden meant to scare off brigands and impress merchants. That his gaze had no more weight than any other man’s. That you weren’t special.

And yet, you began locking your door at night.

Not that locks would matter. Not against something like him.

You kept going about your business. Coins changed hands, letters were delivered, errands fulfilled. The spiral mark on your door remained, dark as pitch. Nothing else happened. Not right away. You tried not to think about it, tried not to feel the eyes watching you from behind that mirrored helm. But the feeling never left. It waited in the walls of your house. It crept along your spine when you were alone in the alleys. It followed you into your dreams.

That’s when they started—the dreams.

You were standing at the gates again. Alone. The crowd had vanished, the city silent, dead. The air was thick, heavy like molasses, humming with something old and immense. He stood where he always had, halberd in hand, unmoving—but you knew, somehow, that he was waiting for you.

And when you stepped closer, the world seemed to shift around him. The walls melted into trees, the cobbles into black water, and you—

You always woke before you reached him.

Always.

But each night, you got closer.

By the end of the second week, the dreams stopped being just dreams.

You began hearing whispers.

They came in the wind, soft and slithering, like dry leaves brushing against your ear. They followed you down alleyways. They slithered through cracks in your shutters at night. Always just out of reach. Always half-understood.

You began to see him in places he shouldn't be.

A flash of black mail in a crowd. A reflection in a darkened shop window. The shape of a halberd in the shadow of a rooftop. You would turn and find nothing. No one. But your chest would be tight, your throat dry, your skin hot with the certainty of being watched.

Your friends began to avoid you. Neighbors stopped speaking. The kind woman from the baker’s cart stopped selling to you. They looked at you like you’d grown a second head. Or worse, like they pitied you. Like they knew something you didn’t.

You thought about leaving Eirencourt.

You even packed a bag.

But when you went to the stables, your horse was dead. No wound, no struggle—just gone. Collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. Its eyes were open. Empty.

There was a spiral marked in ash on its flank.

That night, you didn’t sleep.

You sat by your window, staring out at the gate road. At him.

He stood like always. Still as stone. But this time, when your eyes found him, he moved.

He raised his halberd.

Just slightly.

The blade gleamed red in the moonlight.

It was a gesture, you realized. A signal. A summons.

You didn’t go.

But something inside you shifted. Something small, something deep. Like a coin dropping into a well with no bottom.

You were not afraid anymore.

You should have been.

A month passed.

The dreams returned—but they were clearer now. Less like dreams, more like memories. You stood not before the Black Watcher, but beside him. Looking out at something unseen. A battle? A storm? There were sounds you didn’t understand—horns that weren’t horns, voices that didn’t belong to any living throat. And beneath it all, the steady rhythm of your breath. Your heartbeat.

His heartbeat.

You began to forget things. Your errands. Your clients. Your own name, once or twice. You dropped your reflection like a broken plate—your face in the mirror seemed pale, drawn, your eyes too wide. Too bright. You could no longer remember what the letter had said. The one that brought you to Eirencourt. You never opened it, and now the seal was gone. The paper had crumbled to dust.

Only the package remained.

Lavender. And something spicy.

You buried it in the riverbank one morning and forgot why.

One evening, you found yourself walking.

You didn’t plan to. You didn’t dress or take your coin. You simply rose from your chair and walked out into the dark, your feet bare, your hands open. The city was quiet. The air smelled like rain, though no clouds hung in the sky. You passed the baker’s stall. The temple steps. The butcher’s alley.

And then, the gates.

And him.

You stood before him in silence. You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

But something passed between you then, something deeper than words.

Recognition.

Not as strangers. Not even as enemies.

As echoes.

The mirror on his helm shimmered. You saw yourself reflected in it—smaller, slighter. But there was a flicker within the glass, behind your reflection, that did not belong to you. Something vast. Old.

He stepped aside.

Just one pace.

And the gate creaked open.

No one else saw it. No horn was blown, no fire was lit. But you understood what it meant.

An invitation.

Or a demand.

You crossed the threshold.

The gate closed behind you.

And the Black Watcher followed.

Masterlist

[souliebird]

[[and then I met you || ch. 28]]

Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating: Explicit

Summary:

A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s and Matt realizes he needs to not only protect his new family from Hell's Kitchen, but from the world.

chapter masterlist

Words: 4.3k 🌶️

ao3 link

Sometimes, Matt forgets what it feels like to be happy.

His life has been tragedy after tragedy, many of his own making, and more than once it had been overwhelming. He remembers all too well the feeling of gravel in his knees as he begged for Death to come to him. He will never stop having nightmares about choking on ash and dust as his world collapses around him. His hands will always have blood on them.

But when you smile at him - really, truly smile - all of those memories fade into the background. They get banished to who knows where and he’s enveloped in this lightness he can’t explain. Nothing else in the world matters to him but you. 

You, and how your hand goes up to try to hide your mouth, like you are too scared to let anyone see you have emotions.

You, and how breathy your voice gets when you are trying to not laugh. 

You, and how your heart has calmed from jack rabbiting everywhere from just being near him to the steady rhythm he daydreams about. 

You bring him this sense of peace he does not understand and all he wants in life is to do the same for you. 

Love does not begin to describe what he feels for you. 

He loved (loves) Elektra.

He loved (loves) Karen. 

He belongs to you - body, spirit, and mind.

He would deny God and worship only at your altar for the remainder of Eternity if you even gave the hint, you wanted as much. 

He would lay down his gloves and armor if that is what you wished for.

He would turn and walk away from Hell’s Kitchen if you led him elsewhere. 

In such a short time, your Light has wrapped itself around him and he oh so willingly let himself be consumed. You make him want to be Better.

He wants to be a Better person, a Better fighter, a Better protector, a Better lawyer, a Better friend, a Better lover, a Better father. He wants to be Better because only then - maybe - could he possibly deserve an ounce of what you give him. 

You have built so many walls around your heart that it scares him. He has a feeling you will never let him know why those walls are there or who so thoroughly broke you that you need them, but it does not matter to him. He understands, more than anyone, that they exist for a reason, and he is going to systematically tear through every single one. 

He doesn’t care how slowly and methodically he has to chip away at them. He is going to savor every victory, because it is one millimeter closer to you. 

Taking you out to dinner was something he was prepared to wait months for, but a unique opportunity presented itself and he decided it was worth the risk of you saying ‘no’.

But now you are sitting across from him, tucked into a corner of one of the most glamorous restaurants in the city, giggling into your palm while he tells you about one of his college adventures. 

“What happened next?” you ask in an excited whisper.

His lips turn up into a mischievous grin as he concludes his story, “We were locked out on the roof all night. We managed to flag someone down in the morning, but the damage was done. I took the fall - the poor blind man got turned around and went up the wrong staircase and his nice friend went looking for him, so they didn’t press any charges, but the professor tore us a new one. Foggy refused to drink red wine for at least ten years after.”

Your body sings with laughter and Matt feels himself puff up in Pride. Your disposition is night and day from earlier in the evening - you had been stiff, and he could literally taste the anxiety rolling off you in waves. You had been hunched in and quiet. It had been a task for him to delicately untangle your nerves, but he had accomplished his goal, and his reward was your hand on top of the table, just a breath away from his own. 

He is playing it slow, though.

As much as he wants to touch you - any part of you - he knows better than to push for anything. He’s asked so much of you tonight and he is not going to ruin it all by making you uncomfortable with a bold display of public affection such as hand holding. 

“You are lucky it wasn’t snowing,” you comment as you go for the last sip of your wine. “You could have frozen to death.”

He gives a nonchalant half shrug, “we are not above huddling together for warmth, and it isn’t like Foggy and I haven’t shared a bed before.” He pauses, then just to soothe any worry you might have, adds, “Plus, I would have gotten us back in long before then. The building was only four stories, so it would have been easy to scale down, break in, and go unlock the door without tipping Fog off. He was that drunk.”

You exhale through your nose in a way he knows you are making a cute little pouting face. “He didn’t know?”

There’s a hint of confusion and caution in the question and Matt decides he’ll never get over how carefully you tread around certain topics. The hesitancy leaves him the option to explain or dismiss and it is something he cherishes about you. 

The subject of his secrecy with his abilities with regards to his best friend isn’t something he likes to think about. It hurt both of them and the ripples of the aftermath can still be felt, but Matt won’t let that ache out, so he replies with the simple truth, “No one did.”

A soft hum escapes your throat, and he expects a follow up akin to ‘that must have been lonely’ or some other sentiment. So, of course, you go in a different direction. 

“I don’t think I could climb down the side of a building.”

He chuckles at your musing and the way your Light once again chases off his ever-present dark thoughts. “No?”

You hum again in affirmative, and your lips give the slightest pop as they go up into a smile, “I was never a big jungle gym person. I don't remember the last time I climbed anything. There was a rock wall at the ESU gym I wanted to try, but they were so understaffed I didn’t want to bother them.”

Before he can comment about his experience with rock walls, the heavy thud of worn leather loafers enters into the mental perimeter he has made around the table, signaling the approach of someone.

Your hand slides off the table and away from his. 

“I see the tarta de queso was the correct choice,” the front of house manager says, amusement clear in his thick New Jersey accent. Matt can tell he's been in the restaurant business for a long time - his movements are smooth as he clears the dishes from the table and the smell of garlic has seeped into his skin. Surprisingly, he doesn't reek of cigarettes or weed - a strong odor most fine dining workers carry. It is something he appreciates. 

Matt had enjoyed his meal. The food was not only delicious - it was clean. The chef runs a tight kitchen. He had heard it when he had checked in to see when food would be coming out. There is no cross contamination on the knives and plates are thoroughly rinsed. He couldn't even taste the soap on the forks. 

“It was perfect. And so pretty,” you say, your voice taking on a polite and pleasant tone. He's noticed that you adopt it whenever you are talking to a service worker. It's sweet. 

“It was amazing,” he agrees quickly.

The man gives a hardy laugh, “Good, good. Now, would you like one more glass of wine? Maybe an after-dinner drink or coffee? Something to go? We have some albondigas that reheat in the microwave beautifully.”

Matt defers to you and your hair bounces as you shake your head, “I think I am at my limit. Everything was absolutely wonderful. Thank you so much.”

Another waiter slips into the perimeter and silently relieves the front of house manager of plates and wine glasses, leaving the man with the ability to clap his hands together. “The pleasure was all mine. Mister Murdock and his guests are welcome back anytime, our treat. Just give us a call and let us know, we will have a table for you.”

It is his turn to thank the man, and he does so, adding, “That is too kind of you.”

“Nonsense! It is the least we could do for you,” the man declares, and Matt’s neck heats up just a little. The daughter of the owner had gotten into some hot water, and he had been able to keep her out of jail. “Now! I will leave you two lovebirds be, but you let me know if you change your mind about that coffee.”

He quite literally bows out and Matt directs his full focus back to you. 

All of the signals he is getting indicate you are as pleased as he is with how your night is going. He can guess you have a shy little smile with how your head is ever so slightly ducked and he wonders if you’re looking at him through your lashes. He can practically feel your gaze dancing over his features. A certain tang is starting to hit his palette that gets his blood pumping and he all but starts to salivate. 

He can’t hold back the slight growl in his voice when he asks, “Want to get out of here?”

Your body gives him the reaction he wants, and he is quick to stand and offer you his arm. You get up rather gracefully - Matt thinks you are hyper aware of your movements, and you want to look composed in such an elegant restaurant - and take hold of his bicep. It is the opposite of how you usually walk, but you have no trouble leading him through the winding tables and out onto the sidewalk. The change in temperature gives you a shiver and instinctively, you press closer. 

He wants to pull you flush, to get his hands on the silk he’s draped your curves in, but he reminds himself to behave. 

You turn to face him, hand still on his sleeve. You roll your bottom lip between your teeth as you work up the nerve to say whatever you are going to. He is, of course, patient and lets you fret and fuss for a few seconds. 

“Do you,” you start, barely above a whisper and as sweet and thick as honey, “want to get a cab back to your place?”

He had had more plans to woo you, but they are tossed away as soon as the words leave your lips. He wants nothing more than your suggestion and tells you as much before moving to flag down the nearest car. Given the popularity of the venue, it takes all but a second. He slides in behind you and gives the cabbie his address. 

His apartment is only a few blocks away, but that's far too many for you to walk in your gown. 

And Matt wants to get there as fast as possible.

The ride is silent as can be, but far from uneventful. Like it is a continuation from dinner, both his hand and yours end up on the seat between you. He tries to remain calm and collected, but his heart pounds in his chest like he is a teenager as he stretches his pinky out to brush against yours. Your breath catches in your throat and arousal courses through you so quickly it makes his head spin and his dick jump to attention. 

So hesitantly, like the cabbie is going to turn around and start chastising you for being so scandalous, you link your finger with his. He doesn’t even try to fight the smile that takes over his face. His boyish excitement must be contagious - you’re biting at your lips again and your face radiates heat. 

He is quick to take the lead for the next step, not even thinking as he turns your hand and laces your fingers with his. They fit together perfectly - and like the lovesick puppy he is, he can’t resist the cliche hand squeeze. 

Apparently, you are just as cheesy as he is, because your hand clenches around his just a millisecond faster. 

It is hours or minutes or days of your Light wrapping around Matt’s mind before the cab rolls up in front of his apartment and he is paying for the ride. He refuses to let go of you as you both leave the car, and he doesn’t wait for it to pull away before he’s leading you to the building’s door.

The dynamic shifts once you cross the threshold. 

It is only a few steps in until you are in front of the elevator and Matt expertly pivots so he is behind you once the call button is pressed. He no longer has to hold back - there is no one around and cameras do not exist in this building. His hands go to your waist, and he tangles his fingers into the silk of your dress. It’s still cool to the touch and slides over his skin like water. His hands smooth up your body just a fraction - hitching your dress up so it no longer touches the ground. 

He pulls you back, so you are flush to his chest and it is a step back you eagerly take. As he ducks his head to latch his lips to your pulse point, you let yours fall to the side, giving him so much more access. He doesn’t waste this gift - this offering - and he leaves his first mark of the night. 

Your body weeps for him. If the salt from your skin wasn’t coating his tongue, the tart flavor of your arousal would be. He can hear the way your cunt flexes and clenches around nothing, and he silently promises he won’t leave you empty for much longer. You are not the only one eager and he needs to get his fix before he spends the rest of the night taking you apart. 

Luckily, Foggy has agreed to babysit until one in the morning, so Matt has plenty of time to savor you. 

Under his tongue, you struggle to not moan. Your control is too tight to allow that in public, but once you are in his bed, he is going to make you hoarse. The catches in your throat are the best kind of tease. 

You breathe his name just as the elevator slides open. He urges you forward and follows without letting up his kissing. He goes up your neck until he can nip at your earlobe, and you melt even more under his touch.

“Sixth floor,” he whispers, not wanting to let go of you to reach for the buttons. It takes you a moment to act and you are a bit clumsy with pressing the right floor, but it doesn’t matter. The doors close and Matt has you in his arms. 

His hands wander over your hips and belly - he can't get enough of you and the way your skin sounds against the fabric is like music to his ears. All he wants to do is touch you.

You press your hips back, so your ass rubs against him enticingly. He’s long since hard and the intentional friction makes his brain short circuit for a split second - it takes everything to not grind into you or pin you to the elevator wall. 

Your hands find his and you oh so gently drag your nails over his knuckles while also applying pressure to his wrist with the heel of your hand. He takes it as a sign you want more, and he spreads his fingers as wide as he can to drag over your hips. 

“I need my cock in you,” he breaths into your ear. You shudder and barely hold back a whine. “I need to feel you cum for me, just from that. Then I’m going to lay you out and get my fill of that perfect pussy of yours until you can’t say anything but my name. Then,” he promises, letting his voice get ragged and lower in octave, “I’m going to flip you over and mount you like I’ve been thinking about for weeks.”

“Matt..” you choke on his name, and he takes a moment to admire that you are managing to stay composed. It’s holding on by a string, but you are not giving him the satisfaction of turning you into a mess.

Yet.

The elevator finally reaches the correct floor and creaks open. You move practically as one as you both hurry out of the elevator. He hates he has to let go of you to get the keys from his pocket, but he has enough practice he doesn’t fumble with them to get the door open. 

He doesn’t know who does what first once inside - all he knows is his mouth is on yours before the lock clicks shut and your hands are in his hair. You’re up against the door and it is him producing the needy noises as he ruts against you. 

All of your shyness and hesitancy is gone in the privacy of his apartment. You are as hungry for him as he is for you, and it is him who has to break the kiss to be able to breathe. You start to push at his suit jacket, but he won’t allow it - instead he grabs your wrists and pins them above your head. 

“Not yet,” he hums. The last of the blood in his head doesn’t let him forget that he has one last thing to do before he can take you to bed. 

You pout but don’t complain, and he rewards that by lacing his fingers with yours once again. He guides you from the entrance hallway and towards his bedroom, walking backwards the entire way so he remains facing you. The click of your heels echo and with each step, his cock twitches with desire. 

His bedroom has a new addition that he leads you to - a mirror. He’s propped it on his dresser just for this occasion. He understands your confusion as he positions himself behind you, but you play along with his game, not questioning his intentions. 

He lets go of your hands to smooth them up your arms, to your shoulders, then the back of your dress. The zipper glides down smoothly and with a little urging from him, the gown drops from your figure to pile on the ground, leaving you in just your heels and panties. 

Lace panties he had purchased and snuck into the garment bag that dress had come in. He would have bought you shoes as well, but he didn’t know your size. 

“This doesn’t seem fair,” you comment, but Matt can hear how you don’t actually care about that. Your blood is thrumming, and your slick has started to creep out of its confines and down your leg.

“Patience, my darling.” 

You have on earrings - dangly things that tinkle with every movement of your head. He has little practice removing such things and he is lucky they are hooks he can slide out instead of complicated studs he’s heard Karen complain about. Again, you don’t question him, only tilting your head to help him when you realize what he is doing. He sets them and his glasses on the dresser before he gently taps his shoe against your heels. That is all the instruction you need, and you step out of them. 

The last thing is your panties. As much as he wants to rip them off with his teeth, that is not the plan for the night. He ghosts his hands down your sides before he hooks his thumbs at their hem and lets them fall to be with the dress.

His blood pounds in his ears as he reaches into his coat pocket. The box nestled inside is small, fitting in the palm of his hand, and he keeps it out of your view as he pulls it out. His fingers may or may not shake as he opens the box and removes the delicate chain hidden inside. 

The inhale you take and the way you still as he drapes the necklace around your throat tells him everything he needs to know. Lightning is dancing up and down you as goosebumps cover your skin and he doesn’t need to taste the salt in the air to know there are tears starting to gather in your eyes. 

He clasps the necklace close, then lets his hands fall so they can wrap around your waist. He hooks his chin over your shoulder and simply states, “You are beautiful.”

The necklace is a single, tear shaped pendant about the size of his fingernail, hanging from a thin chain. According to the jeweler, the gemstone is a deep red ruby. It is simple and elegant. 

You hold your breath as you reach up to touch it. Your eyes are fixed on the mirror, and he can tell your lips are parted in shock as you examine yourself. He takes advantage of your distraction to kiss your shoulder. 

“Will you wear this for me?” he asks with his voice. 

‘Will you let me love you’ is what his heart means.

He tries to not panic when you don’t respond. He knows that your cheeks are now wet, and he Prays he did not get his signals wrong. This may have been a step too much - you might not yet be ready for this. 

His doubt is vanquished as you swirl around and kiss him with everything you have. 

He gets undressed in record time - you work his pants while he shrugs off his jacket and yanks his dress shirt over his head, not bothering to deal with the buttons. Soon enough you are both nude and stumbling into the bed. 

Matt lets you direct him onto his back, and he reaches for the drawer of his bedside table while you crawl on top of him. It is your turn to kiss his neck and shoulders, adding in bites and scrapes of your teeth as he all but rips a condom out of its packaging. He knows you aren’t on birth control yet - and as much as he wants to fill you to the brim with his seed, he also knows pregnancy isn’t something you want in your near future. 

He barely gets the protection on before your perfect heat is surrounding him. You throw your head back, shameless in your moaning as you sink down onto him. 

He nearly cums from just that.

You plant your hands on his chest, nails dragging wonderfully down his skin, and begin to ride him like you were meant for it. He had wanted to fuck you into the mattress, but if this is what you want, he has no room to complain. His hands find your waist and he digs his fingers in, wanting to leave bruises as he keeps you steady on his cock. 

“Take what you want, sweetheart, I’m yours. I’m yours,” he encourages. “Ride my cock.”

You squeeze around him, your body already so close to release. He needs you to chase it. “I’ve been thinking about it,” you pant as you grind your cunt on him, “been wanting this. Wanting you. Needing you.”

“Fuck, baby. Fuck, baby. Tell me what you want.”

He gets his feet planted so he can start meeting your rolls and his hands can no longer stay still. One goes down so he can rub at your already swollen and soaking clit and the other jumps to your breast. Your nipple is pebbled under his thumb, and he pinches at it, making you keen.

“Wanna…Matt..want this.” 

You are far too focused on bouncing on him to get out words and he doesn’t mind one bit - he’ll get you to tell him your desires at some point. He has all night to coax it out. 

You claw at him as your core begins to tighten and Matt puts himself to work. He becomes so easily lost in you - your skin on his, your taste in his mouth, your sweet noises drowning out everything else except the wet sounds of him sliding in and out of you. He wants his mouth on you, but you’ve got him pinned as you use him for support and leverage. You are starting to shake, and he takes up any slack in your riding by increasing his thrusts.

Your nails pierce his skin as your cunt begins to squeeze and pulse around him and, even with a condom, it sends him tumbling over the edge with you. 

He doesn’t white out, but he misses when you collapse onto him, because the next thing he knows, you’re nuzzling into his neck with a pleased hum. He returns the noise as he brushes his nose and lips over the crown of your head. 

“Don’t wanna move,” you mumble against him, and Matt finds himself agreeing. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close and greedily keeping all of your weight on him.

“We can stay here as long as you want, darling. I’m yours.”

With the smallest movement, you turn your face to hide against him and breathe out words he’s sure he’s not actually meant to hear.

“You’re mine.”

((“I love you.”))

---

im not dead anymore

--

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