#Fic: Restless Series

[wen-kexing-apologist]

The Last Binding worms have made their way into my brain, and I've been thinking about all these characters non-stop, so please enjoy this quick one-shot of Adelaide Morrissey proposes to Robin Blyth.

[larrythefloridaman]

head in hands. i really need to work on that crimtoinette fic more theres so much team crimson content that only exists in my own mind rn and i need somebody to be on the same page as me about it so bad

[ghosts-and-blue-sweaters]

Tommy sighs, and some of his anger is blown out through his nose and into the salty breeze. He’s quiet for about a minute before he says, “Do you want me to go in with you?”

~~~

Ghostbur stares at the list, and then looks up. He can see structures at the end of the path, behind some leafy trees. Wooden structures. Houses. A little village.

Ghostbur doesn't visit many villages—he doesn't remember any from Alivebur, either—mostly because they tend to be far away from the main parts of a server, and it takes a while to get to them.

~~~

Even so, Tommy’s heart pulses in his head, and his feathers are raised all over him, and he feels cold instead of hot even though his hair feels sticky.

~~~

When Philza saw Ghostbur for the first time, he gasped.

~~~

Wilbur wonders if Techno ever feels like this, around Tommy. This warm bursting inside his chest, like his heart is expanding past his ribs and slowly tearing through his skin. This explosion in slow-motion, a cacophony of colors and heatwaves and emotions, collecting in a storm cloud inside Wilbur’s brain. This feeling that’s so loud, and yet so quiet at the same time.

~~~

Wilbur loves her.

~~~

Tommy exhales softly. "Why aren't you saying much? You're all closed-off and stuff. That's bad, y'know. It represses trauma and locks up all your thoughts with a teeny tiny key and throws it out the window. Stuff like that." He waits. "Puffy says that's bad for you. Did she tell you that? About repressing things? Wil?"

~~~

Tommy presses his lips together. “Hey, if you- if you’re tired or anything, we can sit down. We don’t have to keep walking if you’re feeling bad.”

~~~

He wonders now, as he holds a tiny glass in both hands, walking from the kitchen to the den. It's the smallest glass he owns, he's sure; he'd spent way too much time looking for it earlier, opening cupboards and peering behind dishes and even checking underneath the sink. It's the only glass that'll fit the contents made for it—which, of course, is a flower. A very small, very tattered, very weak blue flower, all but one petal torn off.

~~~

Techno flicks his eyes to Ghostbur’s face, watching the ghost’s nostrils flare gently every time he breathes. Blanket covered chest rising up and down. Ghostbur doesn’t look like he’s in pain. That’s good.

Even so, Techno drops one hand from his chin and lets one elbow slide off his knee, reaching his arm forwards in order to lay his palm across Ghostbur’s forehead. A bit cold.

[winterarmyy]

He Hates Me, Doesn't He?

A series of random Bucky Drabbles that I can't let go but don't have the brain to make the whole complete plot of.

Summary: You hurt Bucky's girl, and now he hates you.

Pairing: tfatws!bucky x female!reader

Words: 6.7k++

Warnings: angstyyyyyyyyy, but with happy ending because I cannot live in agony. miscommunication galore. 'I want to strangle bucky's girlfriend.' soft reader, cold/mean bucky. bucky should've grovel more. horrible attempt of writing verbal arguments. nothing much but pain.

Inspiration: I remember reading a bucky fic years ago and I like the pain that it caused me to feel. Idk why the pain suddenly came back to me lately. So, this is my take on the same idea. I haven't able to find it. But when I do, I'll reblog it in my another acc!

Read my other works here: Masterlist

y/n had always been a steady presence in the Avengers, known for her gentle demeanour and unwavering support. Her relationship with Bucky Barnes had blossomed from a quiet friendship into something deeper. When they first met, Bucky was reserved and hesitant, still grappling with his past as the Winter Soldier. y/n, with her gentle nature and patient understanding, slowly helped him come out of his shell.

She remembered the sleepless nights they spent together when they were on the run with Steve and Sam. They'd share stories, and sometimes just sit in silence, her quiet company offering solace to Bucky's restless mind. The unspoken bond growing stronger with each passing day. Bucky looked up to her, finding comfort in her presence, and in turn, he became fiercely protective of her. They'd watch each other's backs during missions, their synergy on the battlefield a testament to their deep connection. 

And somewhere along the line, she fell for him. She had fallen for Bucky's resilience and vulnerability, though she never expected more, knowing that a relationship was not what he needed right now. At least, that's what she thought. Little did she know, Bucky had always loved her; ever since the day she offered him tea the first night they were on the run to Wakanda. Maybe she was just simply aloof, or maybe Bucky’s flirting skills weren’t translated the way he wanted, but they never crossed the line between friendship and ‘something more’.

Then when Jen came into the picture, it felt like things started to change. Jen was bold and confident, and it wasn't long before she caught Bucky's eye. Their relationship seemed to spring up overnight, and y/n, though hurt, tried to be happy for Bucky. Jen was supportive and caring, or so it seemed, and Bucky deserved happiness.

Now, as planned the team was instructed to moved into the Avenger compound for a few months to train new recruits. It had only been the first month but surely it was jam packed with endless of rigorous training sessions. The original team—y/n, Sam, Bucky, Jen, Clint, and his mentee Kate Bishop—were all assigned to train the new recruits, with additional of few agents from different branches coming in to help out.

y/n was heading to the training room; she knew it was way too early but she thought that if she didn’t get out of bed now, she might not even get up at all. To her surprise, she was not the first one. She saw a few new trainees were already on the way to the training room; some of them greeted her a good morning. She simply smiled at their enthusiasm. 

The moment she entered the area, she overheard voices coming from the corner of the room. She paused, recognizing Jen's voice, which was raised and laced with contempt. Curiosity piqued, y/n stepped closer, staying just out of sight behind the white board. In hindsight, it might seem weird that she was sneaking around to eavesdrop on Jen, but she couldn't help it.

Initially, y/n liked Jen. She tried to welcome her into their tight-knit group and even supported her relationship with Bucky. However, as time went on, Jen began acting strange. The things she said about Bucky sometimes sounded condescending. She would make comments like, "It's amazing how well he's adjusted, considering his past," or, "It's great that he's trying so hard to be normal." The way she acted often differed from her words, with Jen giving Bucky disapproving glances or sighing heavily whenever he mentioned something from his troubled past.

She had noticed these discrepancies and started to feel uneasy around Jen. She couldn't shake the feeling that Jen’s support was just a facade. Now, standing behind the whiteboard, she strained to hear the conversation.

"…and honestly, I don’t understand how anyone can trust him," Jen was saying. "I mean, sure, he's got that whole 'reformed hero' thing going on now, but let’s be real. He was Hydra’s pet assassin for decades. The things he’s done? It’s unforgivable."

Her friend, another agent from a different branch, nodded hesitantly. "But you’re dating him, aren’t you? Doesn’t that mean you trust him?"

Jen laughed, a cold, humourless sound. "Dating him? Please. I’m in it for the fame and the perks. Have you seen the way people look at us? Besides, he’s hot, I’ll give him that. But trust him? Never. People like him don’t change. They’re broken. He's a monster, and he always will be. It’s only a matter of time before he snaps again."

y/n felt a surge of anger rise within her. How dare Jen talk about Bucky like that? 

Memories flooded her mind, flashing back to Bucky’s nightmare-plagued nights. She remembered the prominent dark circles under his eyes, the haunted look that never quite left his face. The silent pain he endured, adjusting to a modern world where he felt like an outsider, magnified when Steve left. She could still see the wary, suspicious glances people cast in his direction, the whispers behind his back when they first ventured out. Before the fame he acquired as he regained his reputation after the Flag-Smasher incident.

She had witnessed his hardships firsthand—the nightmares that woke him in a cold sweat, the moments of crippling doubt and self-loathing. But she had also seen his triumphs, the small victories that slowly built his confidence. The first time he laughed freely in her presence, the genuine smile that lit up his face when he finally allowed himself to relax. She cherished those moments, the sunshine that broke through the clouds of his tortured past.

All of this came rushing back, breaking the chains on the Pandora's box inside of her. The fury she felt wasn't just for the disrespect to Bucky; it was for every ounce of pain he had suffered, every moment of joy he had fought so hard to reclaim. Her eyes hardened with resolve as she stepped forward, her voice steady but cold. "Take that back," she demanded, her presence startling both Jen and her friend.

Jen turned slowly, a smirk spreading across her face as she saw y/n. She knew from the beginning about the cute little crush y/n had on Bucky. To be frank, everybody sort of knew about it, except for Bucky somehow. 

"Or else what, y/n?" she replied with a mocking tone. "You’re quite pathetic aren’t you? You think that I can’t see how you’ve been eye-fucking my boyfriend all this time? Come on, now. Backing him up would not give you a leeway into his pants, y/n."

y/n’s face went through a range of emotions—shock, embarrassment, and then seething anger. Jen’s words were like poison, each one landing like a punch to the gut.

Jen continued, confidence oozing out of her cocky demeanor, "Besides, we all know that I can easily beat you in a fight, doll" 

The use of doll—a nickname Bucky had given y/n from day one, when Steve had quite literally kidnapped Bucky from the government—made y/n blood boil. Hearing it from Jen felt like a personal attack, a deliberate attempt to undermine everything she shared with Bucky.

And it was true that Jen had graduated top of her batch from the Avengers program and had countless successful missions under her belt, but y/n knew this wasn't about accolades or abilities. This was about something deeper, something more personal.

y/n clenched her fists, taking a step closer. "You think this is about who can fight better?" she said, her voice shaking with restrained fury. "This is about respect. You don’t get to talk about Bucky like that."

Jen scoffed, a cruel smile on her lips. "Respect? For that monster? You’re delusional. He’s a ticking time bomb, a liability to the team. And deep down, everyone knows it."

y/n’s patience snapped. In one swift motion, she slapped Jen hard across the face, the sound echoing through the room. Jen stumbled and fell to the ground, shock and anger flashing across her features.

She stalks forward like a predator cornering its prey, "I’m just done with your lies and your insults. Bucky deserves better than you." Jen instinctively crawled backwards towards the centre of the room. Seeing that she got the attention of the few new recruits she regained her composure, smirked again, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. "You’re pathetic, y/n," she taunted. "Defending a lost cause." her voice was loud enough for y/n to hear but quiet enough that the others might not be able to decipher her words.

At that moment, Bucky and Sam burst into the room, followed closely behind by a new recruit who alerted them of the incident. Bucky’s eyes widened as he took in the scene—Jen on the ground, y/n standing over her, shaking with rage. "What’s going on here?" His demand was completely ignored as y/n’s mind was hyper-focused on the wrath bubbling within her. 

"Get up," y/n demanded, her voice shaking with wrath. Bucky’s momentarily froze as he watched the confrontation escalate before him. y/n, usually so composed, was now a whirlwind of rage, her eyes blazing as she stood over a trembling Jen. Bucky had always known her to be fierce in battle, but this was different—this was raw, unbridled anger. "I'm going to make you regret every word you said. So get on your fucking feet before I rip it off you.." 

Jen, still on the ground, looked up at y/n with wide, teary eyes, playing the role of the victim to perfection. "Please, I didn't– I don’t know what you're…," she whimpered, casting a fearful glance at Bucky and Sam, who had just arrived on the scene.

Bucky's mind raced. Why was she doing this? He stepped forward, trying to diffuse the situation. "y/n, hey!" he shouted, his voice a mix of confusion and anger. "What are you doing?"

Completely ignoring him, "Get up," y/n snarled, her eyes blazing with intensity. "Get up and fight me. I’ll show you who the real monster is." Jen looked up, her hand on her cheek, disbelief mingling with her fury. "You’re crazy," she spat, scrambling to her feet.

Her response was only a furious shout. "I said, get up!"

"y/n, are you crazy?!" Bucky yelled, moving quickly to intervene. He grabbed her wrist, his grip tight and unforgiving.

She turned her fierce gaze towards Bucky; her expression momentarily faltering at the hurt in his eyes. "Bucky, you don’t understand, she--" she began, but the words caught in her throat as she saw Jen's smirk flicker for just a second.

"There's nothing to understand," Bucky snapped. "You’re acting insane."

y/n looked at him, her eyes filled with hurt and frustration. "Bucky, you have to listen—"

But he cut her off, his expression hard. "I don’t care! You hurt her, y/n. You think I don’t see that bruise on her cheek?!" Bucky shouted, his face contorted with anger. His eyes, usually filled with a gentle warmth when he looked at y/n, were now blazing with fury. "This isn’t like you, y/n. I’ve noticed that you’ve never liked Jen, and I don’t know why. But this? This is just immature and reckless." His metal grip on y/n's wrist was tighter than he intended. She winced, her eyes watering not just from the pain but from the sting of his words. 

y/n had never seen Bucky like this. His anger was palpable, radiating off him in waves. It was like being hit with a physical force, and she felt her heart breaking under the weight of it. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she blinked them away, her anger flaring even hotter. "Bucky, you don’t understand," she tried to explain, but the words caught in her throat.

Bucky’s expression remained hard, the force on her wrist tightening painfully. "You need to grow up, y/n," he seethed, his disappointment evident in his tone. "You're always causing drama lately, and it needs to stop. Jen’s been there for me in ways you haven’t, and I won’t tolerate you attacking her like this."

The words cut through her like a knife. Her heart shattered at his harshness, at the realization that Bucky thought so little of her. She yanked her wrist free, feeling the sting of his grip lingering. "Fine," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Believe what you want."

Without another word, she turned and stormed out, leaving Bucky standing there, torn between confusion and guilt.

A gnawing sense of remorse tugging at him, but he couldn't shake the confusion and anger clouding his mind. "Jen, are you okay?" he asked, helping her to her feet.

Jen, tucking herself to his side, managed to summon a few tears, looking up at Bucky with a feigned innocence. "I don’t know why she hates me so much," she murmured, playing her part perfectly.

Bucky fingers softly traces on her wounded cheek before his gaze switched to y/n’s retreating form, a knot tightening in his chest. He wasn’t sure why those mean words had spouted out of his lips. Was it because he saw Jen injured on the ground and his protective instincts kicked in? Or was it because Jen had been whispering doubts in his ear about y/n’s loyalty, making him question his longtime friend? 

The truth was, Bucky had always relied on y/n’s unwavering support. She had been his rock through the toughest times, and seeing her so furious, so hurt, shook him to his core. Yet, in the heat of the moment, he had lashed out, unable to reconcile the image of Jen crying with the fierce anger that radiated from y/n.

As Bucky comforted Jen, his mind was a storm of conflicting emotions. He couldn't shake the image of hurt on her face, nor could he ignore the nagging feeling that he was missing a crucial piece of the puzzle.

On the side, Sam was only able to watch the scene play out silently, a frown creasing his brow. He had a feeling there was more to this story, and he intended to get to the bottom of it.

As weeks passed, the rift between Bucky and y/n deepened, fueled by Jen's cunning manipulation. In a private conversation, Jen planted seeds of doubt in Bucky's mind, suggesting that y/n harboured hidden resentments and intentions.

"I hate to say it, Bucky, but maybe she's not who we thought she was," Jen insinuated, her voice dripping with false concern. "Maybe she's been hiding her true feelings all along, waiting for the right moment to strike." 

Bucky, already vulnerable and confused after the incident in the training room, absorbed Jen's words like poison, allowing them to fester and take root in his mind. He began to view y/n through a new lens, one tainted by suspicion and distrust. This single conversation, filled with subtle manipulations and insidious suggestions, was all it took to fracture the bond between Bucky and y/n, leaving Bucky cold and distant towards the one person who had always stood by his side.

Most days he would avoid eye contact with her during team meetings, barely acknowledging her presence when they were forced to interact. In training sessions, his instructions to her were curt and clipped, lacking the warmth and camaraderie they once shared. y/n felt each of these interactions like a stab to the heart.

She couldn't understand how quickly Bucky had turned against her, how easily he had accepted Jen's version of events without even giving her a chance to explain. The hurt festered inside her, eating away at her sense of self-worth.

Then one night, as y/n sat alone on the rooftop, staring out into the darkness, Sam found her there. He knew this was where she retreated when she needed space to think, to process her emotions. He approached her cautiously, sitting down beside her without a word.

"Why aren't you at dinner, y/n?" Sam finally asked, breaking the silence. He could see the emptiness in her eyes, the weight of her sorrow pressing down on her.

She shook her head, her voice hollow. "Lost my appetite," she muttered, her gaze still fixed on the horizon.

Sam gently prodded, knowing there was more to her withdrawal than just a lack of hunger. "Is it because of what happened the other day at the training room?" he asked softly.

Instantly, her demeanor shifted. Anger flared in her eyes, directed not just at Jen and Bucky, but at the entire situation. "I don't want to talk about it, Sam," she snapped, her frustration bubbling to the surface. But Sam wasn't one to give up easily, especially when he knew how much y/n was hurting. "Come on, y/n," he urged, his voice gentle but insistent. "You can't keep bottling this up. Talk to me."

Her expression softened slightly at Sam's persistence, but the pain still lingered in her eyes. "Seriously, Sam, please just drop it," she pleaded, her voice wavering with emotion.

Sam could see the cracks forming in her facade, the vulnerability seeping through the tough exterior she usually projected. Without a word, he pulled her into a comforting embrace, letting her bury her face against his shoulder.

As she clung to him, her facade finally crumbled. Her lips trembled, her eyes filled with unshed tears. "He hates me, doesn't he?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of her own heartbreak. "Bucky hates me."

Sam held her tighter, offering silent comfort as she grappled with the weight of her sorrow. He knew there were no easy answers, no quick fixes to mend the shattered pieces of y/n's heart. But in that moment, all he could do was be there for her, a steady anchor in the storm of her emotions.

The dim glow of the kitchen's overhead light provided a faint sense of solace in the otherwise silent darkness of the compound. Bucky sat at the wooden table, his tired eyes staring blankly at the cup of untouched tea before him. It was a nightly ritual lately, this dance with sleeplessness and the haunting memories that lurked in the shadows of his mind yet again.

Footsteps broke the stillness, and Bucky's gaze shifted to the entrance of the kitchen. y/n stood hesitantly in the doorway, her presence casting a tentative aura over the room. There was a palpable tension between them, an unspoken weight that hung heavy in the air.

She cleared her throat, breaking the awkward silence. "Mind if I join you?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper. She was expecting Bucky to ignore her completely but he didn’t; Bucky simply shrugged nonchalantly, his guard seemed to flatter. "Suit yourself," he muttered.

As she quietly took a seat opposite him, a heavy silence settled between them. Bucky's thoughts churned with a whirlwind of emotions, each one vying for dominance over the others. His guard seemed to falter in the presence of her tentative yet comforting aura. The weight of his own vulnerability loomed large in his mind, drowning out the anger he had harboured towards her.

As the silence stretched between them, she felt a surge of compassion wash over her. She knew why he was awake at this time. She knew that the tea he brewed was to help him sleep. She was the one who planted that habit to him after all.

And despite everything that had transpired between them, she couldn't bear to see Bucky suffer alone. With a deep breath to steady her nerves, she decided to reach out to him, to offer what little comfort she could.

Without a word, y/n rose from her seat and moved to stand behind Bucky's chair. He stiffened at her touch, his muscles tense with apprehension. But as her gentle hands began to massage the tension from his neck, a wave of unexpected relief washed over him.

Her touch was soft and comforting, a stark contrast to the coldness he had grown accustomed to due to Jen’s unwillingness to acknowledge this side of him. She ran her fingers through his hair, coaxing him to relax, to let go of the burdens that weighed heavily on his shoulders. For a brief moment, Bucky allowed himself to forget the walls he had built around his heart. In her presence, her voice, and her touch; he felt a glimmer of hope, a flicker of warmth that he had long since forgotten.

But then, like a sudden gust of wind extinguishing a fragile flame, the weight of Jen's words came crashing back down upon him. Anger flared within him, hot and fierce, directed not only at y/n but at himself for allowing his heart to yearn for her.

He pushed himself away from the table, his movements sharp and abrupt. "I don't need your pity, y/n," he spat, his words laced with bitterness. "Just leave me alone."

With that, he stormed out of the kitchen, leaving y/n alone in the suffocating silence.The disbelief that clouded her thoughts gave way to a searing agony that twisted in her chest. How could he say such things? How could he push her away so callously, after everything they had shared?

y/n buried her face in her hands, her body trembling with the force of her sobs. The weight of her shattered dreams pressed down on her, crushing her spirit beneath its merciless grip. She had never felt so alone, so utterly abandoned by the one person she had trusted above all others.

The pain of losing Bucky, of losing the love that had sustained her through the darkest of times, threatened to consume her whole. Each breath felt like a struggle, each heartbeat a painful reminder of the emptiness that now filled her soul.

In that moment of crushing despair, she couldn't help but believe that Bucky truly hated her. The thought tore through her like a knife, leaving behind a raw, gaping wound that no amount of time or distance could ever hope to heal.

As she sat alone in the suffocating silence of the kitchen, y/n felt the full weight of her heartbreak descend upon her like a tidal wave. She was lost in a sea of pain and sorrow, drowning in the agony of losing someone she had loved so deeply, so completely. And in that moment, she couldn't help but wonder if she would ever find her way back to the surface again.

Unbeknownst to her, Bucky lingered just out of sight, his heart heavy with guilt. He wanted to go back, to take back his harsh words and hold her close, to chase away the tears that stained her cheeks. But the poison in his mind was too strong, clouding his judgement and trapping him in a cycle of self-destructive despair. And so, with a heavy heart, he turned and walked away, leaving y/n to cry alone in the darkness.

The mission had already been tense enough, but as y/n found herself face to face with Jen in a location she wasn't supposed to be, the atmosphere crackled with an added layer of hostility. It was as if fate had conspired to place them in this confrontation, and her jaw clenched involuntarily as she braced herself for what was to come.

Jen's presence in that spot was no coincidence, and she knew it. Her suspicions were confirmed as Jen turned to face her, a smirk playing on her lips, a gleam of malice in her eyes. y/n's grip tightened on her weapon, her pulse quickening as she prepared for the verbal assault she knew was coming.

"How does it feel, knowing that Bucky hates you now?" Jen's words sliced through the air like a knife, each syllable carrying the weight of y/n’s deepest fears. It was a direct hit, striking at the core of her insecurities, and for a moment, she felt as though the ground had been ripped out from beneath her feet.

But she refused to let Jen see her falter. With a steely resolve, she squared her shoulders and met Jen's gaze head-on, her expression a mask of defiance. She may have been shaken by Jen's words, but she refused to let them break her.

Ignoring the taunts, she focused on the mission at hand, determined to prove her worth despite Jen's attempts to undermine her. But with each passing moment, the weight of Jen's words hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow over y/n’s every move.

It was a battle on two fronts – against the enemy they faced together, and against the doubts that threatened to consume her from within. But she refused to back down, drawing strength from the knowledge that she fought not just for herself, but for the team she believed in with all her heart.

But Jen's relentless barrage of insults made it difficult to concentrate, her words like daggers slicing through y/n’s defenses.

"Aww come on y/n, bet you’re reeling in the loss right now, aren’t you." Jen continued, her voice ice cold. "The Asset’s little lapdog, clinging to him like a lost puppy."

y/n’s temper flared at the insult, her grip tightening on her weapon as she fought to keep her emotions in check. But Jen's mocking laughter only fueled the fire burning within her, pushing her to the brink of her patience. "Shut your mouth, Jen," she growled, her voice low and dangerous. "Or I swear to God, I'll make sure that the team finds your body disassembled in one of these rooms."

Jen simply rolled her eyes, unfazed by her threat. "You love him that much, huh?" y/n had no intention to deny that fact; she does love him, "More than you ever could." her voice was firm and true. Jen’s smirk fell as she scoffed. "Ain't that cute, the Winter Soldier and his little psycho sweetheart."

Before y/n could respond, a voice cut through the tension like a knife, freezing her in place. It was Bucky, his expression dark and stormy as he stepped into view. "What's going on here?" he demanded, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he took in the scene before him.

y/n’s heart sank as she realized that Bucky might have heard everything. She turned around to meet his eyes and his face confirmed her suspicion; he heard it.  Bucky had heard everything – every taunt, every insult, every word exchanged between her and Jen; even the confession of her true feelings. She met his gaze; searching for some sign of understanding of his emotions and the little that she saw was: disappointment, betrayal and guilt, mirrored back at her in the depths of his stormy blue eyes. 

In that moment, all she wanted to do was pull him into her arms, to pull him away from all the painful memories and hurtful words; so far away that he would forget he had ever been taunted, betrayed, or made to feel less than he was.

Before she could utter a word, let alone take a step towards him, Jen's voice broke through, but it lacked the usual confidence. "Bucky, it's not what you think," she stammered, her eyes darting nervously between Bucky and y/n. "I-I was just..."

y/n’s clenched her jaw, her patience wearing thin as Jen stumbled over her words, unable to come up with a coherent explanation. She could see the confusion and hurt in Bucky's eyes, a reflection of the turmoil raging within her own heart.

"I-I mean," Jen continued, her voice faltering. "I was...um...just trying to...uh..."

But her feeble attempts to justify her actions only served to further incense Bucky. His brow furrowed in anger, his fists clenched at his sides as he struggled to make sense of the situation.

"Enough," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "I don't want to hear any more lies."

y/n’s heart ached as she watched Bucky's expression darken with anger and disappointment. She wanted to explain, to tell him the truth about Jen's betrayal and her own misguided attempt to defend him. But the words caught in her throat, choked by the weight of her guilt and regret.

With a heavy sigh, Bucky turned away, his shoulders slumped with defeat. "Let's just finish the mission," he muttered, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "We'll deal with this later."

As he was about to walk away, y/n noticed a red dot on his chest, the unmistakable mark of a sniper's laser sight. Without thinking twice, she leaped towards him, her body acting as a human shield. Time seemed to slow down as she collided with Bucky, pushing him out of the way.

"y/n, no!" Bucky shouted, his voice filled with panic as her body slumped against his chest.

In the chaos, Jen was nowhere to be seen. She had slipped away, taking shelter and ultimately fleeing the area as she heard multiple footsteps approaching.

Bucky tried to pull up his gun, but it was too late. An array of bullets rained down on them. He felt the searing pain of a few shots piercing his own flesh, but it was nothing compared to the sight of y/n’s body being riddled with bullets. She was hit in the shoulder, wrist, thighs, and other places Bucky couldn't even register.

Rage surged through Bucky like an inferno, obliterating any semblance of restraint. He moved with a deadly precision, his eyes blazing with fury as he unleashed a storm of bullets on the enemy. His movements were swift and unforgiving, every shot finding its mark with brutal accuracy. The enemy fell one by one, their bodies collapsing in lifeless heaps. The air was filled with the deafening sound of gunfire and the acrid smell of gunpowder, but Bucky's focus was unyielding.

Within moments, the room was cleared, the enemies wiped out in a flurry of rage-fueled vengeance.

The adrenaline ebbed away, leaving Bucky standing amidst the carnage, his chest heaving. He turned, and his eyes fell on y/n's crumpled form. The sight of her lying in a pool of her own blood shattered his rage, replacing it with a crushing wave of worry and panic.

"Hang in there. Please," Bucky hastily spoke, his voice trembling. He activated his com line, desperation seeping into his tone. "Guys, we need help. y/n... she's... she's been shot. We need to get out of here right now!" Panic coursed through him as he turned his attention back to y/n, frantically trying to stop the bleeding on her stomach. "y/n, doll…please" he pleaded, watching her hazy gaze. "Don't you dare give up on me now. Come on."

"babydoll, stay with me!" Bucky cried, his voice breaking as he cradled her in his arms. Blood soaked through her clothes, staining his hands. "Please, hang on, you can’t leave yet. I haven't told you... I haven't—" 

Her eyes fluttered open, her breathing shallow and ragged. "It's okay, Bucky," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the chaos. "It's okay. Don't cry." Her shaking hands struggled to move, and with great effort, she managed to cup Bucky's cheek. The gesture was weak but filled with tenderness. "It's okay," she repeated, her fingers trembling against his skin.

"Don't talk like that," Bucky choked out, his own tears mingling with the blood on his face. "You can't.. I haven't told you...please doll..." His voice wavered with the weight of unspoken words and unconfessed feelings. He hadn't told her how much he truly cared for her, how every moment spent away from her felt like an eternity. He hadn't begged for forgiveness for his coldness, his mistakes, and for letting Jen's poison taint his actions. The guilt gnawed at him, each heartbeat a reminder of the words he hadn't said, the emotions he hadn't expressed. 

He pressed her hand harder against his cheek, feeling the warmth of her touch anchoring him in the moment.Her hand weakly brushing against his cheek. "I know, sweetheart," she murmured. "I know."

Bucky's heart shattered as he clung to her, feeling her life slipping away. "No, no, no," he muttered desperately. "You can't leave me. Please, y/n. Please."

She smiled faintly, her eyes closing. "I'm here, Bucky. I'm right here."

With a final, shuddering breath, y/n’s consciousness slipped away. Bucky felt a surge of panic, but he knew he had to move. He lifted her limp body, cradling her against his chest as he ran towards the quinjet. Each step was agony, his own injuries slowing him down, but he didn't care. All that mattered was getting y/n to safety.

"Hang on, y/n," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Hang on. I won't let you go."

In the sterile environment of the medical bay, y/n lay unconscious, her body hooked up to various machines that monitored her vital signs. Bucky sat by her bedside, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen from crying. Every beep of the monitor seemed to echo through the silence, a haunting reminder of her fragile state. He held her hand, his thumb gently caressing her bandaged wrist.

Memories of their time together flooded Bucky's mind, each one a bittersweet reminder of the connection they shared. He remembered the laughter they had shared, the late-night conversations that stretched into the early hours of the morning. He remembered the gentle touch of her hand, the warmth of her smile that never failed to chase away the darkness.

But amidst the memories, there was also pain – the pain of their last conversation, the words left unsaid and the choices left unmade. Bucky's throat tightened as he recalled the day he had walked away from Jen, the air thick with tension and unspoken truths.

His voice was cold and final. "You almost got her killed, Jen," he had said, his eyes blazing with anger. "Stay away from us. Stay away from me."

Jen's eyes had flashed with anger, her words cutting like knives as she lashed out in frustration. "And what, you think you'll find someone better than me?" she had spat, her voice dripping with venom. "Good luck with that, Bucky. You'll never find anyone who would put up with your baggage."

But Bucky had remained resolute, his decision fueled by a sense of longing and regret that threatened to consume him whole. "Maybe not," he had admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I'd rather be alone than with someone who doesn't truly care about me."

Now, as Bucky sat by y/n’s bedside, the weight of his decision bore down on him like a crushing weight. Tears welled in his eyes as he reached out to gently brush a strand of hair away from her face, his fingers trembling with emotion.

"I'm so sorry, babydoll," he whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears. "I never meant for any of this to happen. So, please, wake up. I need you."

But y/n remained unconscious, her breathing shallow and weak as she lay before him. And as Bucky watched over her, his heart heavy with worry and regret, he vowed to do whatever it took to bring her back to him, to keep her safe from harm for all eternity.

For in that moment, Bucky realized that he couldn't bear to lose her – not now, not ever. She was his rock, his anchor in a world of uncertainty and pain. And as he held her hand tightly in his own, he prayed with all his heart that she would find her way back to him, to the love and light that had always guided them through the darkness.

The soft hum of machines filled the air as y/n stirred awake, her senses slowly coming back to her. She blinked, disoriented at first, until her gaze fell upon Bucky, who was sleeping soundly in the chair beside her bed. His hands were clasped tightly around hers, his face peaceful in slumber, but she couldn't help but notice the tear stains on his cheeks, the dark circles under his eyes, the worry lines etched into his forehead.

"How long has it been since?" she wondered to herself, her heart aching at the sight of Bucky's exhausted form. She carefully sat up, trying not to disturb him as she lovingly examined his sleeping face. She couldn't help but smile as she gently ran her fingers through his hair, the soft strands slipping through her fingertips.

Bucky groaned as his sleep was interrupted, muttering something about Sam needs to leave him be; before he abruptly sat up, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Hi there," y/n greeted softly, her eyes sparkling with affection as she watched Bucky's reaction.

For a moment, Bucky seemed unable to comprehend that she was finally awake. His eyes widened in disbelief, his mouth slightly agape. But then the realization hit him, and he threw himself at her, wrapping her in a tight embrace as if she were the most precious thing in the world .Despite the pain that shot through her body, she managed to let out a soft chuckle, returning his embrace with equal fervor. The warmth of his embrace chased away the lingering chill of unconsciousness, and for a moment, everything felt right.

"y/n..." Bucky breathed into her neck, his voice trembling with emotion. She hummed in response, her heart swelling for him. "Hmmm?"

Not wanting to let go of her, Bucky called her name once again, his voice wavering with uncertainty. "y/n-..." She paused, her lips curving into a tender smile as she whispered in his ear, "Yes, Bucky?"

Bucky tightened his grip, his breath hitching in his throat as he buried his face in her shoulder. y/n gently rubbed his back, her touch soothing and comforting as she reassured him, "I'm here, sweetheart." The scent of her hair, the feel of her warmth against him—it all felt overwhelming. Emotions churned inside him like a tempest. Relief, guilt, love, and fear battled for dominance, leaving him raw and exposed.

She gently rubbed his back, her touch soothing and comforting as she reassured him, "Bucky, I'm not going anywhere.

Bucky's mind raced, images of the past few weeks flashing before his eyes. He remembered the coldness with which he'd treated her, the cruel words that had slipped from his lips, fueled by Jen's poison. He thought of the sleepless nights, the nightmares that had gripped him, and the aching void he'd felt every time he saw y/n’s hurt expression.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice muffled against her shoulder. "For everything. For not believing you. For pushing you away."

Reluctantly, she pulled away, but not before wiping the tears from Bucky's cheeks and fighting the urge to place a tender kiss on his forehead. As she looked into his eyes, she could see the depth of his love and the pain he had endured for her sake. And in that moment, she knew that she had found her home in his arms. Bucky took her hands in his own, his eyes closed as he pressed a kiss to her wounded wrists. "This will never happen again. Ever," he vowed, his voice filled with determination.

Moved by his words, y/n felt her heart flutter with emotion. She realized in that moment that she could never stay angry at him, no matter what had transpired between them. She understood now that they were both at fault, both victims of circumstance and misunderstanding.

With a surge of courage, she reached out and pulled Bucky into a kiss. Her lips met his in a slow, passionate embrace, pouring all of her love and forgiveness into the tender gesture. It was a moment of connection, of healing, of reaffirming their bond despite the trials they had faced.

The taste of Bucky's lips was like a soothing salve to her soul; it was intoxicating. It felt as if the world had fallen away, leaving only the two of them entwined in each other's arms. When they finally broke apart, Bucky whispered those three words that y/n had longed to hear, "I love you."

Her heart soared with joy, and she couldn't help but tease him, "Took you long enough." her teasing words met with a cheeky grin from Bucky.  "I love you too, Bucky" she blinked slowly. As he whispered softly under his breath, "Come here," he pulled her back into the kiss, their lips meeting in a tender embrace that spoke volumes of their unspoken love. And in that moment, amidst the chaos and uncertainty of their world, they found solace in each other's arms, knowing that together, they could weather any storm.

Read my other works here: Masterlist

A/N: I just needed to let this out lmao. It's been stuck in my head for several weeks. Thank you for spending your time reading this crap... honestly. Love you so much 🤍

[swordgrace]

𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐘 — 𝐈.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ daemon targaryen x otto’s wife!reader x otto hightower.

synopsis: as the young wife of otto hightower, your joy is threadbare, and your husband is absent. when you have a chance encounter with the rogue prince at the heir’s tournament, you become entangled in a web of desire that you cannot get out of.

SERIES — 1/?

༺ FORMAT: one-shot — not requested, part of a series.

༺ WORD COUNT: 11.5K.

༺ WARNINGS: SMUT!, dubious consent / mild coercion, infidelity, cheating (on otto), legal age gap (for reader/otto and reader/daemon), inexperienced reader, otto is an absent husband, seduction, sexual tension & yearning, reader is sexually repressed, loss of virginity, risk of getting caught, choking, biting / marking, begging, groping, scratching, oral sex (f!receiving), fingering, finger-fucking, p in v sex (unprotected), multiple positions, possessive daemon, mention of child death.

༺ AUTHOR’S NOTE: I am so incredibly excited for this fic series, I feel like it could be a good one! I really appreciate all of the support I’ve been getting on the Aemond fic, another one will be coming up soon! Hello to all of my new followers, I am so excited to have you all here! Please enjoy this part, it’s a big one, but it sets the stage for future parts!

𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 — you often saw inklings of it in Alicent’s eyes whenever you held her gaze, and noticed the subtle twitch of her mouth with any attempt at conversation. It always fell short, a relationship that had no ounce of potential, nothing to kindle it.

Sometimes, you wished that you could hold her hands, cuticles raw, and tell her that you were one and the same. It always made you uncomfortable to contemplate the closeness in age between you and Alicent, and the longer you dwelled on it, the more bitter you felt.

You were only three years her senior — one-and-twenty, married to her father, Otto Hightower — the hand of the King. Marriage was a concept that you were groomed for, and to be wed to a man of such stature and importance was a great victory for your house.

Otto was an absent husband, at best. His proceedings as Hand left him occupied, and whenever he did return to you, he was often burying himself in whatever business the King had assigned him to. Otto often took much of it on himself, with little time left for you.

You were nothing more than an accessory — a beautiful accessory, at that.

Otto had little desire for another child, and for that, you were eternally grateful to the Gods for allowing such a thing. It was a rarity for a man of his station to take up a wife with no intention of children. In all actuality, he simply missed his wife and yearned for her presence.

Whatever you were, you partially filled the void, but it would never be the same.

There was an emptiness within you that intensified as each day passed, a gaping hole in your body that simply collected dust. You were nothing more than a shimmering jewel for Otto to reveal in the public eye, but put away when it was all said and done.

It wasn’t a horrible existence, but you were unfulfilled. Life felt mundane, and despite the lavish and privileged setting you dwelled within, everything seemed gray, as if you were simply gazing out of a window, seeing the happiness of everyone else.

The more time you spent toiling over your woes and steeping yourself into self-resentment and hopelessness, the more restless you became. You didn’t want to keep pushing yourself into that fray of unhappiness, not when it weighed upon you so heavily already.

Appearances were sacred to Otto, who insisted you join him at the Heir’s Tournament, a celebration to usher in King Viserys and Queen Aemma’s newborn child. A joust and seven days of feasting and revelry were upon you, a routine affair whenever royal children were born.

In the Tower of the Hand, surrounded by a flock of fussing handmaidens, you smoothed your palms across the deep emerald gown, silk soft underneath your fingertips. Your beauty was unmatched — the rare jewel from the North that Otto Hightower had stolen for himself.

It would be a long day, yet the sun shimmered down upon King’s Landing and the Red Keep — a good sign of the festivities to come. You were the picture of a true maiden, not an imperfection in-sight, thanks to the handiwork of your numerous handmaidens.

A knock at your chamber door alerted you to your husband’s presence — it was always stern and rigid.

“Come!” You called, peering at yourself through the large mirror of an upright vanity. The only thing that happened to be missing was a stone around your neck, but you had an impressive array to choose from.

Otto stood within your doorway, always so formal and calculating. He was a difficult man to read — you had been wed for a handful of months, and he was still that way after all this time. “Hm.” He appraised you with a stoic gaze, unwavering and indiscernible.

Sheepishly, you turned for him to see, folding your hands together. “Is this suitable for the Tournament?” You inquired, the colors of your regalia that of House Hightower — emerald with gold embellishments.

In Otto Hightower’s eyes, you would never measure up to his first wife, his true love — but you were perfectly adequate, and that was all you needed to be. He stepped forward, staring down at you with an inkling of warmth within his eyes, tracing a finger across the soft slope of your jaw. “You look resplendent.”

That singular grain of warmth was something you would hold onto, and you mustered up enough of a smile to press a chaste kiss against Otto’s cheek. The gesture was brief, yet even the Hand himself seemed perplexed by it. You wanted to show affection, but Otto never seemed interested in reciprocating.

His kind words were enough to appease you, prompting you to smile as you bowed your head. “Thank you, husband.” Pleased by this, you made sure to string a necklace of peridot around your neck before Otto offered you his arm. It was a courtly procedure — nothing inherently affectionate about it, as you expected.

The walk to the tournament grounds was a lengthy one, but it gave you time to admire the buzz of the Red Keep. The excitement for the birth of a new Targaryen heir was palpable, felt by all you passed. Otto was always stalwart, with a pensive and unreadable expression.

Both you and Otto joined Alicent and Rhaenyra in the stands above the jousting grounds, with crowds of common folk and nobles alike joining in the rancor. Alicent seemed less than thrilled to see you, but you weren’t met with her usual icy indifference.

“Lady Hightower,” King Viserys greeted you with a kindly smile, prompting you to drop into a curtsy. “I am surprised to see that Otto brought you along. It is good to have you here.”

“It is a beautiful day, my King — I certainly hope this favor shines down upon you and your family.” You replied, offering the King a pleasant smile. Admittedly, you were rather excited to see a joust — it was good to be outside amongst your peers, not hidden away within the Tower of the Hand.

Your manners and pleasantries, the eloquent way in which you spoke to others, was a quality that Otto did admire about you. You were soft and kindhearted, possessing all of the gentle traits of a young maiden, a Lady in the making. If it weren’t for such qualities, he might’ve favored you a little less.

As you sat beside Otto, he remained rigid, gazing down upon the field. His eldest son, Gwayne, was amongst the many competitors preparing for the Joust. You had met Gwayne on a handful of occasions, and whilst he did not harbor as much bitterness as Alicent might’ve, he was still rather obtuse about your presence.

You had learned to develop a thick skin — as much as you desired to be friends to both Alicent and Gwayne, you were not their mother. You never wanted that role, either. Motherhood, especially at your young age, sounded most undesirable.

Admittedly, you were enamored with the horses, too — the beautiful beasts that carried their riders to glory, or otherwise. Your love of animals was well-known, something that Otto occasionally treated you to.

Prince Daemon Targaryen, brother to the King, rode out upon a steed as black as the dusk, bearing the Targaryen crest upon his shield. The draconic motif of his armor and helmet had made him appear fierce — a most intimidating competitor.

Otto seemed less than pleased — you knew that your husband despised the Prince, and the feeling was mutual. In your brief encounters with Daemon, often in Otto’s presence, their disdain was palpable. It was all vitriol and hatred, a constant battle for who could obtain the upper hand.

Knowing that Daemon chose Gwayne to joust to spite your husband made you somewhat apprehensive, but admittedly, sometimes you felt that Otto deserved to have his skin crawl at times. You didn’t like it for Alicent’s sake, her brother in harm’s way, but you had to stake in it.

The Prince rode forward, parading around the length of the field before he approached the royal stand, jousting lance held high. His lips curled into a lopsided smirk, and suddenly, you found that he was looking directly at you — those violet hues of his held your bashful stare.

“Lady Hightower,” He called, loud enough for those to hear it. Alicent began to stand, but Daemon shook his head. “Not you, my Lady.” He gestured toward you with his lance, sneer subtle and his eyes full of intrigue and the desire to make Otto Hightower squirm.

Visibly surprised, you looked to Otto, who seemed entirely displeased — but he wasn’t one to make his weakness known. “Otto, should I …” You trailed off, glancing toward the small table with your favor sitting atop it.

“I am fairly certain that I can win these games with ease, by having your favor, Lady Hightower.” Daemon spoke loud enough for all around to hear, inviting an audience — in all actuality, he simply wanted Otto to bear witness to charming you. “Would you do me the great pleasure of granting me your favor?”

Otto grimaced, countenance beginning to simmer with anger, deep below the surface. He bristled, jaw unnaturally tight. His fingers curled into a fist, yet he had no intention of denying you such an act, if you so desired. This was a tournament, after all — and any reaction that he gave, Daemon would indulge himself in.

Startled, you looked to Otto for approval, yet he offered you none. Reluctantly, you rose to your feet, retrieving a wreath of beautiful blossoms — gold, ochre, and shades of pink. You stepped toward the terrace’s edge, meeting the handsome visage of Daemon Targaryen, with his lance ready to receive your favor.

“Where has your husband been keeping you all this time, my Lady?” Daemon questioned, loud enough for only you to hear. Your breath hitched within your throat at his brashness, lips parting slightly as you cradled your favor between your hands.

Instead, you dipped down, offering the Prince a sheepish smile, wrought with some confusion as you tossed it onto his lance. “Good luck, my Prince. I hope to see your victory in this joust.” You nodded, keeping your formalities intact before you curtsied, swiftly clamoring to find your place beside Otto.

Daemon smirked, his gaze hot enough to melt right through you, if you let it. It never left you, even when you ascended the steps to sit beside your husband, the Rogue Prince ensured that you writhed beneath his watchful eyes.

Swallowing the growing lump within your throat, Daemon’s incendiary stare was something that you were so unaccustomed to — Otto never looked at you that way, as if you were a treasure, something to be coveted. It left you to mull over your thoughts for the entirety of the tournament.

The carnage that ensued was typical for a joust, especially one with so many warring factions. Men tore one another from their horses, dueled in the dirt, bashed skulls in. The tangy scent of copper filled the air, one that had unfortunately become ingrained in you.

It brought you back to your youth, as you recalled your sister falling from her steed, head crushed to nothingness upon the rocks. The scent of blood would always loom over you like a black cloud for as long as you lived.

Otto glanced toward you, reaching for your hand as he gave it a subtle squeeze. He did not offer any words of reassurance, lips a thin, pensive line before one of the Maesters stepped in behind him, whispering news into his ear. His expression changed instantaneously.

Something was wrong — you could feel it in your marrow.

Alicent looked to you and Otto, and you saw her fingers, picked bloody and raw, and you felt nothing but sympathy. When Otto immediately stood, letting go of your hand, you watched with a furrowed brow as he momentarily disappeared — King Viserys was long gone, absent for a majority of the Tournament.

It was only when Daemon Targaryen and Criston Cole began to duel, that your attention went elsewhere. You watched in subtle awe as Daemon fought, clad in black armor and crimson scales, the colors of House Targaryen. Dark Sister in his right hand, thrusting at the Dornish Knight with an unholy vengeance.

At last, when it ended with Daemon haughtily retreating from the field, you wondered where your husband had gone, disappearing altogether. He had left behind guards to escort you back to the Red Keep, but his absence left you feeling more afraid of the walk back.

Nonetheless, you gathered your skirts, knowing that Alicent had long since left with Rhaenyra. You didn’t worry for her safety — as long as she was with the Princess, no harm would befall her.

“The Hand advised that we take you back to the Keep at once, Lady Hightower.” One of your guards prompted, ushering you towards the stands as the pair assisted you in getting back down. There was a sense of urgency in their steps, but you were confused by it. Had something happened that required Otto’s immediate attention?

You descended the steps from the stand, finding yourself in a sea of nobles and commoners alike, attempting to return to their homes and daily lives. Your guards remained vigilant, assisting you in pushing through towards the stables. There was a quieter path there, a shorter way to the Red Keep.

“This way, my Lady.” One guard made way, allowing you to go first as you made it to the tournament stables. Many of the Knights, those that still drew breath, were collecting their coin and saddling their horses, preparing to make an exit. There was one horse in particular that caught your eye — Daemon’s steed, as black as night.

The Prince himself appeared from the obscured view of the tent, and you nearly scuttled away at the insistence of your protectors, but Daemon saw you first.

“Lady Hightower,” Daemon greeted you, voice often tinged with something sly, a hint of arrogance. Those violet eyes of his bore down upon you as he approached, still clad in his armor. There were smears of dirt upon his face, flecks of crimson, yet it did not detract from his beauty. “Have you come to praise my victory?”

The guards who stood at your flank seemed less than thrilled with this interaction that was forming. They seemed to dislike Daemon as much as Otto did — and you wondered if there was an influence present.

“We are merely passing through, to return to the Red Keep,” Your soft gaze flickered toward Daemon’s horse, admiring its flawless dark coat. “Your horse is beautiful. It served you well through the tournament.”

Daemon noticed that flicker of admiration and happiness within your eyes, coaxing the stallion closer with a mere tug of the reins. He brought it close, close enough for you to touch. “He is yours, if you want him.” His words might’ve struck you as sardonic, but Daemon appeared to be genuine in such an action.

As much as you wanted to, you couldn’t accept such a gift — and when would you have time to ride, anyway? Otto would never let you past the Keep’s gates, let alone into the forests beyond. “That is too kind of you, my Prince. I am afraid that I must decline — it would be unfair to have a horse that I cannot give any attention to.” You sighed, your features somewhat melancholy.

Fascinating — quite the ironic parallel to your own situation. If you did not see the amusement in it, Daemon most certainly did. “How thoughtful of you, Lady Hightower.” He hesitated, lips twitching into a rather mocking smirk at his next words. “Where is that charming husband of yours?”

You should’ve been offended on Otto’s behalf, especially with the Prince’s contemptuous tone, but you felt nothing. You couldn’t retort, mouth becoming dry as you cleared your throat. “My husband found himself preoccupied with duties as Hand, my Prince. He needed to leave.”

Daemon scoffed, lip curling slightly as he glanced toward your guards. “So he left you with this pathetic display of protection?” The Prince immediately drew the ire of the guards, who seemed less than pleased with Daemon’s remarks. “I could gut them before they could draw their swords.”

“Is that a threat, Commander?” One of your guards hissed, grip tightening upon the pommel of his shortsword. The weight of the scenario made you nervous, prompting you to direct your gaze toward Daemon, whose mouth was upturned in an amused smirk.

“Hardly. It is a promise.” Daemon retorted, hands interlocked atop the pommel of Dark Sister — a legendary blade of Valyrian Steel. You knew that your feeble guards were no match to a swordsman of Daemon’s caliber.

Before steel could be brandished, you immediately extended your hand, anxiousness welling within your heart. It frightened you to be so close to potential violence, but you had some station. “Enough — all of you!” You quipped, hands beginning to quiver.

Daemon chuckled, seemingly perplexed by your sudden display of authority. He did not dispute your call for peace, staring at your guards with a narrowed gaze. “If you are seeking better company than these fucking imbeciles, I will gladly escort you to the Red Keep, Lady Hightower.”

You shouldn’t — Otto would be so displeased.

Every fiber of your body screamed at you to turn away Prince Daemon’s proposal. It was improper, and you knew that your Lord husband would become cantankerous if he were to find out that Daemon was near you, let alone providing passage back to the Red Keep.

He could sense your hesitation, born out of loyalty to your withering husband, Daemon assumed. The conflict that danced within your eyes was one that he wholly intended on manipulating — you were much too sweet. The Prince clicked his tongue, awaiting your response.

“It isn’t a difficult question, my Lady.” Perhaps, his tone might’ve put you off just a little bit, but he was confident that you would accept. Daemon regarded you with those lilac hues of his, calculating and sly.

“Yes,” You interjected, much to the disdain of your guards, “but my guards will stay with me.” It was the smartest option — if you were left alone with Daemon, you feared what rumors could be spun from such an action. You were naive at times, but not completely stupid.

Daemon knew this — he knew your intentions, but he also knew his own. With a sardonic laugh, he readied his belongings, gesturing to take your leave onto the cobblestone streets. “Do you have such little trust in your Prince?”

A ripple of heat fluttered over your features, subsiding just as quickly as it came. You twisted your hands together, fingers interlocked as you fell quiet. Daemon’s salacious reputation followed him like a shadow — violent, promiscuous, and arrogant. It was common knowledge that the Prince possessed crude interests.

“It is not that, my Prince. My Lord Husband will wonder why the guards are at the Keep before I am. I do not want him to worry — he has enough to attend to as it is as Hand of the King.” A threadbare excuse, at best, but much to your relief, Daemon let the matter rest, for now.

The violet-eyed Prince let out a scoff at that, yet he elected not to fluster you further. Your announcement of Otto’s station was most amusing, as if he needed reminding. He joined you, walking side-by-side as you made it onto the noble path back to the Red Keep. It was a safer trek than taking the commoner’s route.

Silence filled the gap between you both, with your guards tailing you and Daemon, ensuring that no one interfered with such royal affairs. He was growing quite bored with the lack of conversation — especially with someone like you. You were interesting and new, something to be inspected.

“Isn’t it the duty of a husband to attend to his wife?” Daemon questioned, attempting to toy with you. He thoroughly enjoyed getting under Otto Hightower’s skin, but admittedly, he did want to know more about you. You were beautiful — a pretty maiden hanging upon the Hand’s arm; he wondered how that came to be.

Your jaw tightened, causing your frustration to brew as you held your skirts within one hand, continuing to make your way up the steps. “Why are you not in the Vale with Lady Royce, if that is what you truly think?” You quipped, somewhat unnerved with how he picked apart your marriage.

Otto wasn’t attentive — if anything, he only became attentive when appearances mattered most. There was no desire nor genuine interaction outside of that. You lived a very lonely life, even if it seemed so wonderful and lavish on the outside.

Daemon chuckled, bemused by your fiery retort. You became so flustered whenever he successfully managed to poke and prod at you. “I’ve no interest in my Bronze Bitch,” He replied, his tone dripping with an underlying venom, “The sheep in the Vale are prettier.”

You huffed, brows furrowing together. This seemed like a horrible idea, allowing Daemon to escort you back to the Keep. He was crass and unpredictable, yet you couldn’t help but find some merit in his examination of your relationship with Otto.

“I am sure that there are plenty of worthwhile subjects in your City to keep you satisfied, my Prince. This isn’t the Vale.” You exhaled, exasperated and agitated that Otto had simply left you at the Tournament grounds.

He could sense it — your repression, the twinge of desperation laced within your voice. Daemon didn’t expect any wife of Otto Hightower to be truly sated and satisfied, but you were the true picture of a jewel locked away in a chest, or hidden beneath mounds of soot. No one had bothered to truly see you as you were.

Emboldened, Daemon knew that tempting you with pretty words could have consequences — fortunately for him, he didn’t care in the slightest. “The only worthwhile subject is standing before me.” He countered, lips twitching into the ghost of a smirk.

A shiver ran down the length of your spine, heart galloping just a little faster when Daemon brazenly showered you in his silver-tongued sayings. You hadn’t been spoken to in such a manner before, and as much as you should’ve countered it, you didn’t.

Heat crept through your features as you kept your head down, chewing at the inside of your cheek. “I do not know what you speak of, my Prince.” Your reply was weak, soft spoken as you continued on your path back to the Red Keep. You didn’t want to reveal just how warm it made you feel.

“I believe you do,” Daemon mused, stepping close enough to you to ensure that the guards wouldn’t eavesdrop. “Surely, your Lord Husband has offered you such pleasure before, has he not?” His Valyrian timbre made your breath hitch within your throat.

“Prince Daemon,” You were in disbelief at his brashness, at how forward he was being with you. You didn’t want to indulge him — yet part of you did. “You must stop.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, strained and throaty. The silence became overwhelming as you made it toward the gates of the Red Keep.

When his name rolled from your tongue, Daemon’s lilac hues glistened with something indiscernible. He enjoyed the way you said his name — trembling and uncertain, as if he had revealed some horrible truth to you. Instead, the Prince stared at you, looking toward the gates.

“As you wish,” Daemon’s arrogance wafted from him like a thick haze, enough to permeate your immediate space. The Prince opted to shift the subject matter to something more appropriate — for your own sake, of course. “I suspect that I will have a nephew, soon enough.”

Daemon sounded indifferent, as if the prospect of a nephew wasn’t at all a pleasant idea. It would make him lower in the ranking of succession, you knew this. Otto had made multiple campaigns against Daemon to keep him from reaching the Iron Throne. Their rivalry was petty, as far as you were concerned.

Your steps slowed, keeping pace with Daemon as you made your way to the gates of the Red Keep. “You don’t sound very jovial, for an uncle.” You replied, and your observation seemed to catch his attention. “King Viserys is your brother. Are you not excited?”

A scoff escaped him as he stared at you, violet hues narrowing at your perceptiveness. “Is that how I seem to you, Lady Hightower? Devoid of joy?” Daemon smiled disparagingly, perching a palm atop the pommel of his blade.

Swallowing the slight lump within your throat, you detected his shackled fury, and you did not want to provoke the dragon any further. “My apologies, your Grace. I did not mean to be presumptuous.” You replied, fingers curling into your skirts.

“Of course you didn’t,” Daemon mused, lips twitching into a sardonic smirk. He seemed to believe you — though, part of your line of questioning felt personal, in retaliation for his jabs about your Lord Husband. “Have you been permitted to see the Dragonpit?”

Of the many places in King’s Landing, Daemon often longed to be on the back of Caraxes — or with his blade driven into any that crossed his path. You hadn’t been to see the Dragonpit yourself, considering that a lady of your station could never go many places unaccompanied.

“No, my Prince.” Disappointment danced within your voice, pace slowing again to keep in-step with Daemon. “I would love to see it, if allowed. Dragons are gorgeous creatures, symbols of your strength.” With a soft sigh, you looked to the Red Keep, looming overhead.

Daemon stepped closer, in close quarters as he looked down at you, noticing the subtle hitch within your throat. “Hm,” He glanced at your stalwart escorts, lilac eyes flickering over your pretty countenance. He dipped closer, lips ghosting near the shell of your ear. “Should your husband release you from your shackles, I could show you.”

A strange wave of gooseflesh crawled along the length of your spine, brows furrowing together as you recoiled, as if being scorched. You looked to Daemon with bewilderment, lip curling slightly as you regained your composure. “Your offer is a gracious one, your Grace.” You murmured.

It often shocked you how reckless Daemon was — abrasive and careless with his position. He could bed whomever he wanted, fuck and fight whenever it best suited him. It wasn’t a possibility for you, a noblewoman married to the Hand of the King. Part of you wished you could be afforded the liberties of a man like Daemon, but it was merely a fantasy.

Silence drifted between the both of you, enough to bring you some discomfort as you heard the doors to the Red Keep creak open. Daemon’s incendiary stare never wavered, never faltered as he kept his eyes on you. Your guardsmen were less than thrilled, but kept quiet as the two of you stepped into the hall.

“This is where I bid you farewell, my Prince.” Your voice was shrewd, nothing more than the soft lull of a mouse. Daemon regarded you with the ghost of a smirk, bowing before you as any gentleman would.

“I look forward to our next meeting, Lady Hightower.” Daemon replied, glancing toward a group of Targaryen guards that made their way to him. Your own escorts were happy to take advantage of the gap in attention, whisking you away into the depths of the Red Keep.

The atmosphere had shifted, from jovial and celebratory to eerie and desolate, somber — servants and nobles alike seemed riddled with melancholy, their heads hung low. Whispers of a fallen heir touched your ears, and then you understood why Otto had left in such a hurry.

Queen Aemma and her newborn son were dead.

You remembered what the air smelled like, the day of your sister’s funeral — you recalled the swaying of golden grass against stone, those in-mourning unable to stifle their tears. It was your mother that had wailed the most, draped across the terrace where her body lay, cloaked by a funerary shroud.

Now, the memories seemed to dance along the fringes of your mind, standing within the open plain far from King’s Landing, along the coastline of Blackwater Bay. Salty air peppered your flesh in soft kisses, eyes stinging with the onslaught of tears.

The despondent look on King Viserys’s face had harkened back to your youth, moments that still haunted your steps. You stood beside Otto, who appeared resolute despite the tragedy, but even you could see the wisps of empathy that flickered across his countenance. Stoicism was his forte, but even death could break the strongest man apart.

Daemon appeared somber, violet hues occasionally drifting toward his brother, the King, who let out a muffled sob as Rhaenyra set the funeral pyre ablaze. Dragon’s fire would return dragons to ash, to the great beyond. You admired the strength of the Princess, even through dour moments like this.

Once the burning of Queen Aemma and Baelon had ended, what nobles were left gathered amongst themselves to pay their respects, to the deceased and to the King. Viserys seemed indifferent, so far removed from the moment as his subjects offered their condolences.

Otto’s hand pressed into the small of your back, the first comforting gesture that he’d offered, completely unprovoked. He dipped down, enough to murmur words reserved for you and him. “The King will need my council during these dark times,” He uttered, “Now more than ever.”

You nodded, knowing that it implied Otto would be less present than he already was. His lips briefly graced the crown of your head before he slipped past, stepping towards King Viserys and Rhaenyra.

Standing alone, you opted to wander, venturing away from the melancholy gathering and toward the sea of wheatgrass that danced with the saltwater breeze. The scent of the ocean filled your lungs, made them whole — it was far better than that of King’s Landing.

Rays of a dying sun sparkled down upon you, licking your flesh with a comforting warmth that you savored. It was enough to make you exhale, eyes fluttering shut as you imagined yourself worlds away, or perhaps sailing out to sea, where it was only your hands that guided you.

The evening breeze jostled your tresses, blanketing your face with its softness. The tears that had prickled your eyes no longer made residence there as you hastily wiped them aside, hands wringing together before you.

Footsteps reverberated from your left side, as the shape of Prince Daemon came into your view. Despite the whirlwind of emotions he’d left you with earlier that day, you were inclined to place them aside. His dark tunic, lined in dragonscales, glittered beneath the waning sunlight.

“I am deeply sorry for your loss, Prince Daemon. I cannot imagine the pain of losing two of your family in one day,” You murmured, lips forming a pensive line as you looked at the Targaryen. He was unusually quiet for a spell, which prompted you to fill in the void. “I hope that your brother will recover.”

“He is the Dragon,” Daemon echoed, hands folded in front of him. “He will endure.” As for the Prince, there was some discomfort knowing that such a bloody fate had befallen Aemma. His sister-by-law had always been a devoted wife and good mother, and such a loving woman was difficult to come by. “My sister was a good woman.”

You had met Queen Aemma on multiple occasions, and she was pure — softhearted and kind, with a gentle visage that was sure to put anyone at ease. “She was,” You lamented, echoing Daemon’s sentiments with a threadbare smile. “And a good Queen.”

That was something Daemon could not argue with, violet hues finally shifting away from the horizon and onto you, a picture of beauty. Even in black tapestries, the color of mourning, you were still rather enchanting. Tenderness blossomed from within you, a soft heart — it was enough to temper Daemon, for just a moment.

He searched your visage, able to detect the growing dolour that became etched into your features. Your eyes glistened with unshed tears, many that threatened to spill over as you twisted your fingers together. “The last funeral that I attended was that of my sister,” You uttered, facing Daemon with a bitter smile. “I hoped that I would not have to attend another.”

A sister — Daemon was somewhat inquisitive regarding the finer details of your life, but he did not want to pry at the present. “Unfortunately, you will find that death is constant and unyielding,” He offered little consolation, but it was the hard truth. “Though, I trust that you will endure, just as my brother will.”

Daemon was often harsh and crass, always a realist with little desire to pull the wool over another’s eyes unless it was for personal gain. He knew that you were sweet, too malleable for this world — he hoped to see you blossom into something strong. With Otto Hightower for a husband, any woman would become as tough as steel.

Part of you wished for flowery words of reassurance from Daemon, but you found none — just a stoicism with an inkling of empathy. Though, you weren’t expecting much, and Otto would be of little comfort, too.

“You are more than just a wife, if you choose it. Do not allow yourself to sit underneath his boot forever.” Daemon murmured, boldly stepping inward to get a better look at you. Your subdued nature was partially Otto’s fault — he blamed the Hand for your sheltered demeanor, for your loneliness.

A brief stirring sensation erupted within your chest, and you looked to Daemon, a singular tear spilling across your forlorn features. “I do not have your luxuries, my Prince — I cannot bed whom I want, go wherever I please, abandon my husband — duty is everything. It may not mean anything to you, but it means something to me.” You quipped, your voice hushed yet strained.

Daemon huffed, lips curling slightly, as if to express disdain. Part of him understood your deep-rooted frustration, but perhaps he simply wanted to pass on his recklessness to you. “Quite presumptuous of you to assume that I care little for duty,” He replied, easily crawling beneath your skin. “You can do whatever you please, once you stop being so afraid.”

You nearly recoiled from him, clearly stung by the attack on your character. His assumption of your fear made you bristle, nostrils flaring as you turned your face away to mask the swell of anger. “This is where I leave you, Prince Daemon.” You hissed between gritted teeth, hands curled into fistfuls within your skirts.

He found your irritation to be somewhat perplexing — you were so repressed, tangled within your devotion to Otto and constant desolation. Daemon said nothing, merely watching as you retreated into the shadow of your Lord Husband.

You wouldn’t dare look back at Daemon — even as you felt those lilac hues pierce your defenses, you refused him, and made your way back with Otto.

If it were up to you, you would never see Daemon Targaryen again.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰, 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 — there was no joy to be found anywhere. With the King’s son and wife deceased, the idea of succession was called into question by the small Council. Part of you felt disgusted by the suddenness of such a meeting, especially while the King was in mourning.

Otto cared little for such things. It was imperative that an heir be chosen — or produced yet again, by means of a new betrothal for the King.

Despite the melancholy atmosphere of the Keep, your thoughts remained disorganized and scattered, preoccupied with Daemon Targaryen — and that was a dangerous thing. After his whispered inquiry of pleasure, his berating of you at the funeral, you could not rid him from your mind no matter how much you tried.

Any attempt to flush the Prince’s brazen advances out of your mind were met with a powerful resistance — the other half of you that had little desire to forget. In all honesty, you wanted to know what it was like to be coveted and sought-after, to feel true pleasure, understand its intricacies.

The other half demanded that you reject him, unleash your shackled wrath upon him. He vexed you like no other had before — he far exceeded that of Otto. Daemon had crawled beneath your flesh and taken up permanent residency there, and he would continue to do so unless you plucked up the courage to put a stop to it.

That night, you couldn’t sleep — Otto was nowhere to be found, meeting within the dead of night with the rest of the small Council. Even if he weren’t caught within a meeting, he seldom came to bed with you. He was often in his study, mulling over books, writing letters, attending to matters that didn’t involve you.

You were never involved in much of anything.

Frustration festered within you, rising like the swell of an encroaching tide. Clad in your evening gown, you retrieved a candlestick, slipping out of the Tower of the Hand and into the corridors of the Red Keep. Midnight strolls were not an uncommon thing for you, but this one proved to be more than just elusive sleep.

Your path led you dangerously close to the Small Council chambers, but as you approached, a figure stood outside of one wall, leering in through the tiny gaps. Light slipped through, providing faint illumination onto the face of Daemon Targaryen.

The Prince had been eavesdropping, curious to know about their intentions for succession. Should Viserys pass, the Iron Throne would fall to Daemon — but they wouldn’t allow it. Otto, in particular, was rather vocal in the push against Daemon as the rightful heir.

Daemon turned, craning to peer over his shoulder. Those shadowed, lilac hues drifted across you, your supple form glad in some lace-laden nightgown. Your hair had been pinned-up when he saw you last, and now, it was freed from its confines. He found you to be a visual feast for the eyes — beautiful beyond compare.

In the background, you listened to the squabbling from the Council members, the infighting over who would become heir. It disgusted you, the manner in which they conducted themselves — the Queen and her son were deceased, and the only thing that preoccupied them were the rights of succession.

The silence that lingered between you and Daemon was necessary, necessary enough for you to hear the numerous slanders that your Lord Husband hurled at the Prince. Their hatred continued to fester, and for as long as Otto Hightower lived and thrived in a position of power, he would plague Daemon’s every step.

At last, Daemon stepped away from his eavesdropping, moving towards you instead. “Looking for your husband, Lady Hightower?” He questioned, his voice rich as it dipped lower, hushed and soft enough for only you to hear. The narrow corridor you stood within was as silent as a crypt, not a guard in-sight.

You shook your head, lowering the candle toward your chest. Warmth brushed across your exposed collarbone, and you glanced at Daemon, lips parting slightly. “I could not sleep,” You confessed, teeth gnawing at your lower lip. “I suspect that you are here for a different reason.”

Concealed within the listless shadows of the corridor, Daemon took a step closer, nearly within arm’s reach. His mouth curled into that familiar, cheshire smirk — and it worried you. “What reason would that be, my Lady?” He questioned, head canting slightly.

The calculated way in which he stalked towards you left you feeling somewhat unnerved, hand cupped around the flickering light of the candle. Whatever look he had in his eyes, it mirrored the one he’d given you at the Tournament earlier that day — incendiary and lascivious.

“To see if you will ascend the Throne.” Daemon’s ambition was well-known — and sometimes, his ambition drove him to recklessness and ruthlessness. You knew about his displays of violence as Commander of the City Watch, his prowess with a blade.

Daemon scoffed, continuing to press closer to you, looming above you. The candlelight flickered across his sharp visage, basking him in an orange glow that touched his violet hues. His lips remained permanently fixed into a perplexed smirk, his hand reaching to grab your chin.

As if scorched, you jerked away, brows furrowing together as you glowered at him. “I do not want to see you anymore,” You mumbled, shaking your head with an air of defiance. “You’ve angered me.”

A sardonic chuckle escaped him, enough to further your agitation. It pricked away at your flesh, giving way to a layer of perspiration as it crept along your spine. “Angered you, is that it?” Daemon questioned, attempting to make you writhe. “If you truly wish to be rid of me, walk away — go back to the Hand’s bed.” He challenged.

Your heart slammed within your sternum, lip curling in disdain as you shook your head. The tension crackled between the two of you, one charged with a dangerous desire and anger — two overpowering emotions. “All you care for is the throne.” You whispered, yet your words held no merit at all.

It was something Otto would’ve hurled at him, and you were not your husband — you were far from it.

It was a feeble attempt to bait Daemon into anger just as he had so easily baited you. He was not quick to fall to your ploy, and instead, he happened to stare at you as if you were everything he’d ever wanted. It made you shiver — no one had looked at you like that before.

“You think me so singleminded, Lady Hightower,” He uttered, thumb tracing along your jawline. “I have little interest in the Throne.” In an unexpected move, he dipped forward, lips ghosting around the shell of your ear. “I am far more interested in you.”

Goosebumps cascaded down the length of your spine, and fear rippled through you at Daemon’s close quarters. You were terrified of someone seeing you with the Prince, and you stepped back, wrenching yourself free from his grasp. “This is inappropriate, my Prince. I am afraid you are experiencing a severe lapse in judgment.”

As you began to retreat away from the Council chambers and into the darkness of the corridor, Daemon followed, a predator trailing after prey. He cornered you into an alcove, his chuckle bemused and sardonic.

“My judgment is sound — the only judgment that will be called into question is your own,” He challenged, pinning you against the smooth stone of the wall. His hand cupped your hip, keeping you locked into place. “My poor, sweet Lady Hightower, left untouched and without a lick of attention from your dutiful husband.” Daemon clicked his tongue.

You shuddered, attempting to squirm and ward Daemon away, but he simply kept up his pursuit. “Please,” You whispered, fright filling your startled heart. The Prince’s lust had grown astronomically — all for you, this hidden jewel now within his grasp. “We can’t, Prince Daemon. Someone might see.” You urged.

Daemon seemed unconvinced, lips hovering above your own, tempting you in the most unholy way imaginable. That strong hand that held your hip began to knead into the flesh there, desiring to feel your bare skin. “Fuck everyone else.” He uttered, hot breath fanning across your countenance.

A soft whimper escaped you, and every fiber of your being cried out for him — you wanted this, wanted him to show you what true pleasure felt like. You watched as he inclined his head, blowing the candle out with a faint grin, leaving the both of you in darkness, save for the moonlight that pooled within the halls.

“I can’t, I don’t …” You whispered, voice mousy and meek, yet your resolve was crumbling away, revealing your soul, bare and angry. Part of you loathed Otto for never showing you affection, never indulging in desire, yet the other half of you yearned for the Rogue Prince to steal your virtue. “Daemon.”

It was guilt that had consumed you, initially — the guilt of betraying your husband, despite his lack of desire towards you. You never had anything for yourself — perhaps this could be the one thing. A clenched fist pushed against his chest, but you were weak.

“Why continue to wait for something that will never come, hm? Toil over a man that doesn’t want you?” Daemon questioned, his voice dropping to a sultry octave, a purr that raked across your spine. His hand began to gather your gown, bunching it up to allow him easier access.

“You — You vex me,” You whimpered, knowing that you were simply a rabbit trapped within the maw of a dragon, and perhaps, that was where you wanted to be. “You don’t want me.” It was a valiant attempt to talk yourself out of it, to convince yourself that you were unwanted.

Daemon peppered a string of hot kisses along your jaw, grabbing at your chin to tip your head back. “You don’t know what I want.” He murmured, his stare shadowed with lust. He kissed the side of your face, forehead briefly resting against yours as you considered the sin that you were about to commit.

It was liberating when you no longer thought of sin, and simply thought of your own needs and wants.

His unspoken pressure finally broke your carefully-constructed barrier, and you leaned upwards, rocking forward until you crashed into him. You dropped the candlestick, yet it made little noise. Your lips, soft and compliant, melded with his own — domineering and triumphant. Need blistered through, and he kissed you with such blazing passion.

You felt his other hand shamelessly move toward your neck, flexing underneath your jaw as he kissed you over and over again. You hadn’t experienced such passion before — and you never wanted it to end.

Daemon coaxed you closer, countenance one of sheer lust and possessiveness. His thumb traced across your lower lip, hand snug around your throat before he looked elsewhere. “Fucking is a pleasure, for a woman as it is a man,” He uttered, noticing the hitch in your throat. “I am certain your Lord Husband never bothered with it.”

Abashed, you shook your head, reveling in the sensation of his hand firmly kneading into your hip. “No, my Prince. He did not,” You paused, your hand finding its way to his chest, fingers curling into his tunic. “Would you show me?” It was a fine line, a perilous one — but you did not care, not anymore.

You hadn’t felt desire quite like this in your life — but you wanted it, more than anything else. The void within you, repression tangled up into a ball wound so tightly that it might explode — Daemon stoked the fire, and he seemed eager to let you come undone. You wanted Daemon.

In High Valyrian, he spoke one word. “Māzigon.” Come — Daemon’s hand slipped around yours, urging you away from the small Council chambers and into the depths of the Red Keep. Your trek led you to unfamiliar parts of the castle, some left untouched and unused.

The dust-laden doors led you to a small study, sparsely furnished, yet all Daemon truly needed was a surface wide enough to bear your body. There was a chaise lounge, with a thick direwolf’s hide serving as the rug in front of the darkened hearth. The remnants of an old, four-post bed sat off within the room somewhere, just as dour as the rest of the room.

No one would find you here.

Moonlight pooled through the two large windows, enough for you to see his porcelain, perfect features, tinged with silver. His platinum tresses turned to white, violet hues drinking you in with a ravenous hunger. Rapture and lust, a smoldering desire to make you give into him.

Daemon’s hands cupped either side of your neck, thumb pressing into the underside of your jaw at the other flicked against your lower lip. “Tepagon ezīmagon nyke,” He purred, towering over you as he dipped down, kissing along your jaw. “Take off your clothes.” His command was stern yet dripping with carnality.

If it weren’t for the sheer intensity of the moment, you might’ve become flustered, but instead, your hands flew toward the ribbons and ties of your gown. You shrugged the lace-laden shawl aside, allowing the garment to simply drop around your feet.

Your body was perfect — Daemon wanted it all for himself. If the Hand would not indulge in you, then he would. The Prince let out a low hum, admiring your silky flesh and delicate curves, hand skimming from the hollow of your throat to your breasts.

“For this to be hidden away for so long,” Daemon uttered, hand moving to greedily cup your breast. It elicited a sweet gasp from you, unexpected yet exhilarating. “Is a fucking crime.” He growled, and without another word, he moved to kiss you, like fire washing over you, all-consuming and devouring.

Instinct drove you as your hands clamored to the nape of his neck, tugging at the silken crown of pale tresses there. Daemon seemed pleased by this, teeth grazing along your lower lip before he bit down, eliciting a whine from you. He thoroughly enjoyed the feeling of you underneath his palm — as soft as velvet.

His tongue lapped across your lower lip, soothing the ache brought about by the sharp bite of his teeth. He kissed you hard, lips parted, the action warm and wet — he imagined tasting something else, head clouded with the unshakable haze of lust.

“Daemon,” You whimpered, abandoning all titles and formalities. He no longer referred to you as Lady Hightower — that wasn’t who you were anymore, not to him. One of your palms dropped to his chest, hesitantly fiddling with the ties of his tunic. “I want to see you.”

Perplexed, the Prince kissed your throat, head canting to one side. “Have you seen a man before, jorrāelagon?” He questioned, partially bemused yet curious to hear your answer. His affectionate High Valyrian caught your attention, causing a small tremor to roll along the base of your spine.

Sheepishly, you shook your head. Otto had never bothered to bear himself at all, and to some extent, you could understand — he was aging, and the attraction was most certainly slim. “No, I haven’t — but I’d like to.” You shivered when Daemon pulled you close, palm cupping your hip before it brazenly traveled to your haunch.

Any sliver of space between the two of you became nonexistent, replaced with heat and tension, bodies entangled into one. Your digits danced along the collar of his dragonscale tunic, imagining what strength and prowess rested beneath.

Instead, he peered at your wandering fingers, brows briefly lifting as if to encourage you. “Go on, then.” Daemon coaxed, his voice somewhat gravelly and pitched lower, interlaced with a burning desire. He watched with rapture as you slowly unfastened the ties and buckles of his tunic.

Daemon thought about being rough — grabbing your throat and fucking you into the lounge without a second thought, but he wanted to explore you. Your repression wasn’t your fault, and he felt some sense of triumph in fucking the wife of the Hand.

He shrugged his tunic aside, letting the garment fall to join the pool of lace and silk upon the floor. He was pale and well-muscled, a vision of perfection. Your hands began to glide across his broad shoulders, and then to his chest and abdomen.

Admittedly, Daemon savored the sensation of you touching him, exploring him — something about it was sickly sweet. “Have you touched yourself before, my Lady?” Daemon asked, pointed and unwilling to go without a direct answer.

Flustered, you nodded, seemingly embarrassed in regards to such actions. “Yes,” You exhaled, skin hot to the touch. “I know I shouldn’t have, but —“ Daemon stopped you with a kiss, hungry and needy, teeth nipping at your mouth with a subtle growl.

“Afraid that your Lord Husband will admonish you for it?” The Prince smirked, violet eyes glinting with a twinge of humor. Your expression reflected a whirlwind of emotions — from desire, lust, and embarrassment to a flicker of sadness and frustration. Daemon decided to leave it all alone and focus on you.

He coaxed you toward the plush velvet of the chaise lounge, sitting down with an unceremonious thud. Daemon was quick to collect you into his lap, all perfect and spread for him. A lustful silence filled the void between you both as he kissed your neck, calloused hands gripping the swell of your hips.

“Allow me to rectify your husband’s wrongs,” Daemon chided, kissing along the hollow of your throat, teeth sinking into your sensitive flesh. You moaned and whined, writhing atop him, chest pressed against his. “You are beautiful.” He said with such assurance, causing you to shudder.

Daemon’s ring-adorned hand snaked along the length of your body, finding the apex between your thighs, warm and slick with arousal. As soon as his thumb and forefinger slipped past your folds, you lurched forward, letting out a gasp of surprise.

The sensation was foreign yet pleasurable, like an electrifying jolt rolling down your spine. His mouth relentlessly assaulted your sweet flesh, leaving behind a myriad of bites and less than desirable markings. Your scent — a concoction of lavish perfumes and oils — invaded his senses like a thick haze.

His digits deliberately explored your cunt, every touch eliciting some strangled sound from you. You felt his fingers tease your entrance before sliding back towards your clit, flicking across that sensitive clutch of nerves. Your heart pounded within your chest, slamming against your breastbone like a drum.

“Daemon,” You moaned, back arching as you absentmindedly leaned into the Prince’s embrace. One of your palms molded itself to his bicep, the other continued to clutch at the nape of his neck. “Please, don’t stop!” With a needy whine, your hips rolled forward, attempting to gain a lick of friction. You wanted him to keep touching you there — forever, if he could.

His thumb languidly circled your clit, other digits sliding against your cunt. You squirmed and careened forward, insides hot as liquid warmth pooled between your thighs. It felt incredible — it was everything you’d ever wanted and more. Nothing could compare to the bliss that rolled through you.

The Prince continued with assailing your flesh, kissing his way across your collarbone, dipping low enough to find the perfect swell of your breasts. A low rumble resonated through Daemon’s chest, one of clear approval as he took one of your nipples into his mouth, kissing and sucking on the hardened peak.

A strangled whimper escaped you, one of clear delight. You hadn’t experienced any of this before — you wanted more, as much as Daemon was willing to give you. You gasped when his teeth dragged across your breast, causing you to jolt forward.

Ensuring that you would be well tended-to, Daemon sank his fingers forward, vigorously tracing across your cunt as his thumb did a majority of the work. Ripples of bliss rolled across your body in waves, and you rocked forward enough to ride his hand.

“Daemon!” You moaned, feeling his mouth drift away from your chest to the hollow of your throat. His teeth were sudden and sharp, nipping and biting wherever he pleased, one hand steadying you atop his lap. The other began to snake towards your neck, calloused digits able to feel the pounding of your heartbeat.

You whimpered his name as if it were the only word you knew — and for as sinful as it felt, you found yourself abandoning all sense of care and propriety. Daemon made you feel incredible, in ways that you had merely dreamed of.

As Daemon traced two digits along your slick entrance, his lilac hues fell across your visage, searching for any signs of hesitation. You felt the brief pressure, one hand comfortably sitting at the nape of his neck, the other gripping at his shoulder.

Deliberately, he began to sink two fingers inside of you, watching as your countenance blossomed into a look of bliss and startlement. Daemon soothed your worry with a kiss, head canting to one side as to deepen it, and you followed, flesh crawling with warmth.

A soft, smothered moan escaped you as he gingerly eased both digits in and out of your tight cunt, enough to make you gasp. The sensation was foreign yet incredible, enough for you to rock forward, brow furrowed in concentration. Daemon continued to litter your neck in kisses and bites, hand groping the swell of your plush hips.

“There she is,” Daemon growled against the hollow of your throat, lips traveling upward until they collided against yours. It was a messy, hot kiss, one that made your stomach slosh with molten heat. “A woman deprived of pleasure.” He murmured, prompting you to kiss him again, needy and desperate.

Some sliver of you knew how wrong this was — the infidelity, the disloyalty to your Lord husband, the selfishness that weighed upon you — you should’ve been aghast. Yet, in the heat of the moment, you thought little of it, content to let Daemon Targaryen finger-fuck you into a blissful oblivion.

You were lost to your own ecstasy, thoroughly reveling in the myriad of sensations you were now getting to experience. “Daemon,” You sighed against his mouth, feeling his teeth briefly scrape across your lower lip. “I want more.” A groan escaped you as his digits began to still, thumb circling your clit.

As he slowly removed his fingers from your tight heat, Daemon brazenly groped at your breast, pale brows furrowing together as he began to untie the laces of his trousers. You steeled yourself, feeling a brief pang of anxiousness strike at your gut. You knew that it was supposed to hurt, and the very thought frightened you.

“More?” Daemon echoed, the shadow of lust dancing within his eyes as he deposited you onto the lounge, hands seizing your ankles as he dragged you to the precipice. Without pause, he sank to his knees, broad and beautiful between your legs as he kissed your thigh. “You’ll have to beg me for it.”

You exhaled, sharp and excitable as your hand fell to the edge of the chaise lounge, nails digging into the wood and velvet. “Please,” You whispered, shifting atop the cushion as Daemon bit at your soft flesh. “Please, Daemon!” The sound that left you was pathetic — simpering, even.

He enjoyed hearing you whine — it was a stark reminder of what Otto Hightower could never have. Daemon’s mouth maintained the barest hint of a smirk, pressing a string of kisses toward the warmth between your legs. You were silk and saccharine beneath his fingertips, feverishly warm.

The first stroke of his tongue raked hot embers across your cunt, a sensation that set you ablaze. Whimpers turned to ash within your throat, flesh unnaturally hot — you melted beneath Daemon, and that was exactly what he wanted.

A shiver coursed down your spine, hips canting forward toward Daemon’s mouth. His breath was hot, warm wisps of air fanning out across your slit. It was heavenly — you nearly forgot yourself, moaning his name as you fisted the cushions on either side of you.

His hum was satisfactory, tongue dancing along your weeping core, drinking you in like a fine wine. The cool, silver bite of his ring dug into your hips, his grip ironclad, enough to leave bruises behind.

If Daemon had it his way, he would bruise you again — in the light of day, able to see his marks etched into your flesh, knowing that they were his creation. Possessiveness swelled within him, an ugly and festering thing — he wanted you terribly.

Pleasure rippled through you, consuming every fiber of your being. Daemon’s mouth found your clit, suckling at the clutch of fiery nerves. You gasped, nails digging into your palm, thighs attempting to rub together, kept apart by the Prince’s broad shoulders.

“Daemon,” You moaned, your jaw falling slack as you rolled forward into his maw. A soft huff escaped you as his tongue caressed your cunt, returning to assail your clit again. It was bliss overwhelming, prompting you to reach for his shoulders. “Daemon!”

Tension furled within the pit of your stomach, a familiar knot of ecstasy that brought you closer to the edge. Daemon’s mouth sluggishly receded, peppering kisses and love bites along your inner thighs. He licked his lower lip, violet hues threatening to burn through you.

Your chest rose and fell with the throes of excitement, skin prickling with anticipation. Daemon kissed your hip, moving to stand between your legs. He loomed over you, physique eclipsing all inklings of firelight — a shadow of desire.

He stepped back toward the mound of furs, silently gesturing for you to follow. “Lie down.” Daemon purred, his voice more of a lascivious command instead of a question. With a simple pull, he loosened the strings of his smallclothes, gaze hooded.

A whimper nearly erupted from your throat, never coming to fruition as you stood from the lounge, following Daemon’s lead. You slipped down onto the furs, with only the moonlight as your guide. Your legs parted for him, expectant and waiting.

The loss of one’s maidenhead was often rumored to be an intense and bloody affair — it no longer frightened you like it used to. Daemon stepped out of his leather trousers, bare and statuesque before you, a porcelain god come to claim you.

Moonlight bathed his flesh in a sea of silver, pale rays dancing across his ivory complexion. There was something calculating and predatory in the way he moved, a confidence that few possessed. He sank down, crawling between your legs as he reached your mouth.

Lips clashed again, a dance of desire as the head of his cock brazenly brushed along your slick cunt. Daemon was sizable, to be sure, a man with a plethora of experience. You shuddered when he planted a hand beside your head, the other gripping your hip.

Again, the head of his length threatened to split past your folds, oozing with tendrils of precum as he kissed you once more. It was ravenous, with all the ferocity and vigor of a dragon as he prepared to rock his hips forward. His broad physique kept you spread apart, molten heat churning within your belly.

Daemon finally snapped his hips forward, cock sheathing itself inside of you with little resistance. You gasped, the intrusion somewhat painful and discomforting at first, but he made sure to distract you, pressing hot kisses along your neck. He wasn’t gentle, leaving behind evidence of his affections in the form of flourishing marks.

His cock bullied its way into your cunt, stretching you in new ways, a different sensation from his fingers or yours. Daemon grunted, a huff escaping him as he allowed you a moment to adjust, grow used to the feeling.

Your countenance blossomed with pleasure, gaze a touch smoldering as you found Daemon’s visage. Those violet hues continued to devour you, a visual delight to the Rogue Prince as he fucked you. It wasn’t as rough as he typically was, opting to spare you from the brunt of his usual debauchery.

He found a rhythm, each movement succinct and sharp, hips driving forward as his cock buried itself within you with each thrust. You moaned, feeling the occasional dull ache of pain as you surrendered your virtue to Daemon, nails digging haplessly into the muscle of his shoulders.

Part of you forgot about decency and honor, trampling it into the dirt as Daemon speared you with his length. Friction grew between the both of you, flesh against flesh, perspiration building along your brow. Heat openly oozed between you, cunt slick with arousal.

The angry lines of your eager nails raked over Daemon’s shoulders, the remnants of your sin. He seemed to be savoring your roughness, throat reverberating with a myriad of grunts and softer, subtle groans.

“Turn over.” Daemon huffed, able to detect a flicker of confusion within your gaze. Admittedly, seeing your pretty face contort into one of bliss as he fucked you was rather enticing, but he was chasing after his release.

Silent, you did as he asked, turning over onto your stomach. Something about the newfound position made you shiver with anticipation, and you gasped as Daemon grabbed your hips. He lifted half of you from the furs, hips pressing into the swell of your backside.

He guided his cock back to your slit, thrusting inside of you as he assumed a quick, needy pace. Daemon’s palms squeezed at your hips, layering over the already-formed bruises from earlier endeavors. He split you asunder; a clash of lewd noises filled the room, accompanied by your intermingled sighs of passion.

You moaned, hands scraping across the direwolf hide beneath you, gripping at the furs as Daemon plunged himself into you. His motions were repetitive, intensifying in their erratic pace as he grunted. You were perfect — the noises that emerged from you only served to encourage him, unbeknownst to you.

Liquid heat oozed between your thighs, arousal spilling onto Daemon’s cock. You were teetering along the brink of a blissful oblivion, feeling your pleasure mount. Daemon’s hand slithered between your legs, thumb rolling over your clit to give you some stimulation.

It was as if the dam had shattered, consumed by the squall of lust as you whimpered. A myriad of wanton sounds escaped you, followed by a rush of warmth that surged to your cunt. Daemon growled, feeling your slit tighten around him, your release an incredible one.

Daemon followed suit, painting your insides with his milt — a dangerous game, but one that he enjoyed playing. He removed himself halfway through, coating your thighs and cunt in ropes of his seed, enough for you to feel the heat of it.

He huffed, noticing the faint trembling of your thighs, rattling like leaves as you attempted to recuperate. You had little time for composure, knowing that you needed to return to the Tower of the Hand before your Lord husband emerged from his council meeting.

The Prince did not adopt your swiftness, watching with a tempestuous stare as you retrieved your clothing, flesh sparkling with perspiration. You did not want to leave, but you feared discovery — you feared what would happen if Otto were to find out about such nocturnal proclivities.

“Going somewhere?” Daemon questioned, knowing fully well what the answer would be. He happened to redress himself in his smallclothes, observing you with the ghost of a smirk.

“I must return to the Tower of the Hand,” You mumbled, slick between your legs. The combination of Daemon’s spent and your arousal proved to be sticky and uncomfortable, but you would endure the walk and clean yourself up as soon as you could. “I cannot be seen.”

Daemon scoffed, dismissive of your concerns, though he allowed you the courtesy of dressing and preparing to depart. “Still worried for your husband,” He mused, stepping forward to caress your cheek. “How sweet.” It was cajoling, but you cared little.

“Daemon,” You began, but he stopped you with a kiss, eyes twinkling with a semblance of mirth. He held your face between his calloused palms, thumbs gingerly gliding along your cheekbones. “I do not … I do not know when I can see you again.”

A bemused hum escaped him as he cocked his head to one side, feeling your palm press flat atop his muscled chest. “Already thinking of the next time, my Lady?” He purred, pressing a kiss against your jaw. “Perhaps, when next we meet, it will be at the Dragonpit.”

It was far away from prying eyes — what better place to let feelings run hot than the seat of dragonkind at King’s Landing? Even then, Daemon knew that any future trysts would be difficult to achieve, if they were to continue.

You kissed him — a sweet gesture, one that was chaste and ladylike. Daemon could not allow something so brief, seizing your chin to kiss you again. Your head was spinning with so many things, to the point of feeling so very overwhelmed.

“I have to go.” You whispered, squeezing Daemon’s forearm as you passed. Your state of dress was somewhat uncouth, but you had no time. You made sure to keep quiet as you slipped into the gap between doors, stealing another look back at the Rogue Prince.

Violet hues remained indiscernible, though his expression was telling — the very same incendiary look he’d given you at the Tournament. “Until next we meet, Lady Hightower.”

@ copyright — all works belong to swordgrace, please do not copy or translate this work onto any other platforms or accounts.

[juletheghoul]

too close

a/n: Yeah. The trailer got me again. I can't help myself!!! Also - I didn't actually want to write feelings for these two but I have no say anymore. They have feelings, they are obsessed with each other and I can't just ignore it lol. Not beta’d and barely proofread- any mistakes or errors are my own. Hopefully you enjoy! (PS I did a little research on fruits in Roman times- they had no word for orange, so any shade of orange was just called red)

Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, piv sex, dirty talk, Marcus eats pussy and I don't CARE, giving him that gluckgluck3000, creampie, Marcus gets hurt (hurt comfort), hand stuff from him because he's my precious man and he likes to give his girl pleasure, master / slave dynamic (power imbalance) he’s still pretty possessive, Marcus calls reader Girl, reader calls Marcus Dominus (for now?👀), **FEELINGS** let me know if I missed any!

This is the fic I referenced in this preview

Pairing: Marcus Acaciusx F!Reader

word count: 5.1k (whoops!)

reblogs are appreciated

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You frowned, despite your station, the confusion and slight worry breaking through the years of training your face to remain neutral. For a moment, you forgot your place.

“But-“ he turned, head tilted in curiosity instead of anger, thankfully, “I am to stay here? You do not wish me to accompany you Dominus? To pour and serve…?” You could not keep the slight hurt from your voice, much to your dismay. 

“No Girl, you will stay here, at the villa.” He saw the confusion, the unabashed anguish on your face and his expression softened, “peace Girl, it is not a matter of not desiring your presence or your service.” You listened to him with a lump in your throat, a wild fear seizing your heart that he might have grown tired of you. 

“I will not have the luxury of a tent, the rebellion is small enough that I can squash it and be back in less than a moon’s turn.” He came close, close enough to have your face tilt up to stare into his eyes. “I would not have you waiting for me in such a meagre camp, I would not have you sleeping in the dirt.” His hand settled on your arm, a soft offering, a reassurance but it did nothing to calm you. You have grown so accustomed to having him close, to ending up in his bed of a night more often than not before heading to your own, naked and pleasantly sore; to falling asleep with his seed trickling out of your puffy little cunt.

“I am comfortable wherever you are Dominus, I could still be of use, to light your fires-“ 

“I would have you here, and safe. That is my decision, and no amount of temptation will sway me from it.” He lifted your hand, pressing his lips to your fingers in silent, but firm apology. You knew there was nothing to be said, you had already pushed the matter far more than would be allowed on a normal day. 

“Your will, Dominus.” You bowed your head, despite the hurt and worry swirling around in your belly. “I will pray to the Gods for your swift victory, and safe return home.” 

He nodded, leaving shortly after. 

Time passed, and a feeling of restlessness took firm root in your being. The house felt empty, despite the attendants and sentinels left to guard them as well as the property. The days found you listless, moving through the motions of your chores and daily duties practically numb. The days were marks on the wall of your mind, praying to the Gods to send him back to you. 

Whispers travelled swiftly through the city, through the market stalls and through the villa itself, most of them rumours and it was difficult to keep your emotions in check. 

He has advanced

He has killed the leaders of the rebellion

He is victorious, already on his way home

He has been hurt

He is dead

He is victorious - Rome's favoured son has triumphed once more

The moon turned, once, and then twice, finally a third time before he was home. The all encompassing relief was short lived however, that wash of relief turned to ashes in your mouth at the sight of him. One of the rumours had been true after all. A sword wound to the side had laid him low late into the battle, it hadn’t killed him, thank the Gods, but it had slowed him down and made his journey home nothing short of agony. 

Your heart raced to see him weakened, every fibre of your being itched to run to him, to press your lips to skin but you refrained. You stood aside, dutifully, letting his trusted soldiers practically carry him to his bed. The older women got to work, bringing fortified wine with all manner of powders and potions to aid in his recovery while you stood next to him, the little half-moon marks in your palms from your nails barely felt like anything compared to the ache in the back of your throat. 

Your eyes would not leave his face. 

He looked so tired, mud and grime still marring his skin as he lay prone on his bed. To forfend the ugly thoughts swirling around in your mind, you focused on the tasks at hand. 

He needs to be cleansed, after he eats something I will boil some water and move gently, leave him to gather his strength. An offering must be made so the Gods will hasten his healing-

“Girl.” His voice was soft, and instantly you rushed to his side. 

“Yes Dominus, I am here.” You took his hand tentatively, your heart soared to feel him squeeze it. 

“Fetch me some broth, and help me to sit up–a few pillows behind me. I would sit upright.” 

You rushed to comply, happy to focus on his instructions. With soft touch, you did your best to prop him up, biting your lip to stop your eyes from welling up when he winced. Once satisfied, you set about fetching hot water and linens, as well as his broth. He sighed at the sight of it, and drank almost all of it within a few heartbeats. 

“Shall I help you cleanse now Dominus?” You brought the basin closer, showing him the steaming water and he nodded. 

Tentatively, you removed the soiled clothes he wore, ears pricked up for any sign of discomfort. He beared it with good grace, keeping the twinges of pain to himself, you imagined for your benefit, and you were grateful. It took time, but finally, you had divested him of everything, and he half sat, half laid on his bed, not an ounce of shame for his nakedness. It was secondary, to see him bare, more alarming was the soiled linens with the dark bloom of dried blood staining it on his side like some grotesque flower. 

He was pale, weak, his injury robbing him of his normal, ruddy health. He watched you, his expression somewhere between exhaustion, and a calm content. 

With gentle hands, you dipped the clean linen into the steaming water of the basin, and methodically cleaned the dirt, and dried blood from his skin. Eventually his eyes closed, soft sighs filled the air with every pass of the warm cloth across his shoulders, down the firm muscles of his thighs, his hands, until you reached the contours of his face. The lines were more defined, this battle had taken a toll on him. 

Your thumbs smoothed over his brows, wiping dust and worry away with a bone deep gratitude that he had come back. He melted into your touch, and you tried and failed to suppress the smile. 

“I must clean the wound, Dominus.” You reached for more clean dressings, giving him a chance to steel himself but he kept his eyes closed. You thought he might have fallen asleep, but he nodded, and so you did what needed to be done. 

To his great credit, he didn’t make a sound. Even as you cleaned at the angry, but healing edges of the wound. He said nothing when you packed it with the poultice one of the women had brought, when you covered it in a clean dressing, even as he drank down the no doubt foul tasting potion to help him sleep. Instead he settled back, and sighed, his eyelashes fluttering against his skin. 

You gathered all of the soiled clothing and discarded bandages, and moved to leave him to rest but his hand snatched at your wrist. 

“Wait, Girl, stay. Stay with me–” His words were almost slurred, and he didn’t finish his thought, his hand loosened around your wrist but you stayed, taking great care to lie beside him on his bed, and watched him sleep. Your heart raced with something you couldn’t–wouldn't name, something that threaded through your ribcage like smoke, wreathing its way around your lungs and taking root in your heart. You pressed the back of your hand to his brow, thankful that no fever lurked there and once satisfied that he was indeed resting, you rested your head next to his. 

Sleep took you, swiftly and without warning. 

The world outside was dark when your eyes opened, and it took a moment for you to get your bearings. His warm skin pressed to your arm and you jolted with the memory of his injury. 

“Peace, girl, I am well.” His voice was quiet, but stronger than before, “You did well in changing my dressings.” His praise squeezed at something in your belly, robbing you of any words you might have had. “You must be hungry, go and fetch something to eat and bring it here, I will share the meal with you.” The concern in his voice brought a smile to your lips, his thoughts on you, despite the pain he must have been in. 

“Yes Dominus, shall I fetch more of the potion as well? You should rest-” He raised his hand softly to forestall you. 

“I have rested enough, I would have my wits about me just now. Go on, you may fetch whatever else you need, I would have you sleeping in my bed.” 

His words rung in your ears as you moved throughout the silent house. They shone through your eyes as you piled a serving tray with olives and cheese, with bread and ripe fruits. They camped in your belly as it rolled with something when they repeated over and over like a prayer in your mind as you filled a serving jug with the wine he favoured, they strengthened your grip as you carried it with the utmost care down the moonlit halls of the house, almost sharpening your eyesight to bring you swiftly back to him. 

You set it down between you on his bed, careful not to spill anything or jostle him too much and just in time too, the hunger rung out from your empty belly loud as thunder but you ignored it, your priority was to help him sit up.

“Eat Girl, you are starving. I will pick at my leisure.” He frowned, gesturing to the food and you were grateful beyond words. It was a quiet meal, but comfortable. He usually ate by himself, most of the time while in his study and with you, it was after chores and duties had been completed. Despite all of your trysts and time spent together, it was the first meal you’d ever shared. 

“You do not favour the olives.” He said it without judgement. You shook your head shyly, covering your mouth to speak through bites of bread and cheese. 

“My desire for them is unpredictable.” He tilted his head, “Sometimes, they are all I want. Other times, I cannot stand the sight of them.” You wrinkled your nose, confirming that this time, the latter statement was true.

He smiled, huffing out an amused laugh through his nose.

“What else do you like? I see you favour the fruit, which one do you like most of all?” It was strange to be asked about yourself, no one in your life had ever wondered about what you might of preferred, for anything.

“Figs, I think. Pomegranates too, although peeling them takes a lifetime.” He huffed again, wincing slightly, “Are you in pain? Shall I fetch–” He raised a hand. 

“I am well, continue. Why do you favour them if they are so troublesome to eat?” He shifted a tiny bit, with great effort, turning to face you better. The room was dark, save for the few candles burning and the moon shining in through his window, casting stark shadows across his lovely face. 

“They are worth the effort.” 

He smiled, and finally reaches over to help himself to the food. Something about the darkness, about the quiet seclusion made you bolder.

“What about you Dominus? Is there a fruit you favour?” Your heart raced, fear that you might have overstepped grabbing hold of you but it was for naught, he merely frowned in thought. 

“I prefer plums.” He said after a moment, “I like figs as well.” It was both exhilarating and strange to speak with him like that, in the quiet dark, almost comfortable. “Although–in my younger days we fought in Spain, and there I tasted a fruit I have never seen again, I do not know the name of it but I enjoyed it very much.” 

“What was it like?”

“It was round, a strange shade of red with a thick peel but underneath it had segments like a lemon.” He continued eating, and you were content to sit with him, only moving the tray once he had eaten his fill.

“It is good to be home.” The words came out as a sigh, “I missed it while I was away, more than any other time I must admit.” He shifted slightly and winced again, “Help me lay flat, my back aches from sitting.” He held out his hand and you rushed to oblige, moving pillows and positioning him flat on his back. “That is better, gratitude Girl, let us blow out the candles and settle in.” 

“Yes Dominus.”

“Have you something to sleep in? What is most comfortable for you?” 

“I am content in this, Dominus.” You gestured to your tunic as you made your way around the room, snuffing out the candlelight.

“That is not what I asked you.” There was no bite in his words, but the expectation of truth was plain as day. 

“Most nights I sleep in the nude, it is what is most comfortable for me.” You made your way back to the bed but he did not let you get in. 

“Please, make yourself comfortable, there is no expectation from me, much as I have missed the pleasures of your body. I would have you sleep how you are accustomed.” You nodded once, undressing down to your skin before slipping into bed with him. In the dark, in the quiet, it was peaceful and the sound of his steady breathing worked it spell on you quicker than you would have thought. 

“Gratitude Girl.” He said it soft, and with a full belly and heavy lids, you questioned him. 

“For what Dominus?” The words were almost slurred, as the heavy press of sleep pushed you into the deep pool of blackness. You thought you heard him say everything, but you could not be sure, sleep had claimed you. 

-

You woke with the sun, the first few rays sliding across your skin like water and it was hard to move from your place. In the night, your body had brought you close to him, seeking out the warmth of him. He was still asleep, but his legs had tangled up with yours and it was strange to lay with him like this, both of you nude as the day you were born, yet incredibly comforting. 

You took the time to check over his wound, and were pleased to find it looking much better. The edges of it stitching together, thankfully without corruption. 

“It does not hurt as much as it did before.” His voice was sleepy, “I will be back on my feet soon enough.”

“Let me dress Dominus, and I will fetch you something to break your fast.” 

“Not just yet.” He shifted, and although you helped him, he didn’t struggle quite as much. “Come, lie with me.” He held out his arm, and you went to him, trembling like a leaf to rest your head on his shoulder. “Gods, I missed you, Girl.” He buried his nose into the mess of your hair and something inside you grew and swelled, was fed and made strong by his words and by his skin. 

“I missed you, Dominus.” Truer words had never been spoken by you, the ache for him had been unbearable.

“Did you?” There was something underneath, something desperate and had it not been so early, so peaceful, he might not have asked.

“Desperately Dominus, I feared you had abandoned me, I feared you no longer desired me.” You pressed your face into his neck, breathing him in, his scent, his warmth, him- sustenance

“Come now, Girl, you know of my desire for you, it is like a thirst I cannot quench. A hunger I cannot satisfy, despite my dark moods, despite my sour face, you are a source of joy and pleasure I have not known in some time.” His hand brought your face up, his gaze burned into yours and his words affected you so that tears welled in your eyes. He wiped them away, and the tenderness was too much, a sob clawed its way out from your throat. All of the worry, all of the fear that he might have left you alone in the world, to be sold to another bubbled up and he held you as you cried.

“Do you wish to be free of me? Is that why you cry?” Something in his voice broke your heart.

“No Dominus, no-“ you wiped at your eyes, moving to look him in the eye and the expression you saw in them was almost too much to bear. “I have never been so happy in all my life, I have never felt about anyone, the way I feel for you.” You pressed your lips to his, petal-soft. 

“Sometimes, the things I feel for you are almost too big for my body, I want to be with you always, I want to feel you always. I feared so much while you were gone that I could barely eat, barely sleep-” Your words were frantic, so many things to get out that you could barely speak and he pulled you close, shushing you softly. 

“My heart swells to hear you speak this way.” He reached down, sliding his hand towards the hinge in your knee, to pull it over his thigh. “Peace, let us just enjoy the silence.” You nodded into his neck, letting go of a great breath in your lungs. 

“If I was myself, and whole, I would be pulling every ounce of pleasure from you now.” 

You laughed at the annoyance in his tone.

“Soon enough Dominus, I would have you healthy and healed.” Your hand slid up the smooth expanse of his chest, threading through the curls at the base of his skull. “Once your wound has healed, you may have me any way you please.” 

“Any way?” His tone darkened, and your body responded, thighs clenching, heart racing, nipples hardening. “Any way I please? And what if I want you for a day and a night? What if I want you wet and spread for me in this bed until you’re so full of my gift it spills all over my linens?” The hand that had been softly stroking your back moved down and grabbed at your backside, pulling until the lips of your sex spread open. 

A moan slipped out at the feel of his hands, and he all but growled. 

“Do not make those noises Girl, not when I cannot fuck you how I wish to.” He pulled your face up, licking into your mouth with a hunger you could not satisfy, not in his current state. 

“Dominus, I beg of you not to taunt me, not when we cannot indulge.” You kissed him again, despite your words and finally he pulled away, the tremble of frustration in his grip. You shifted, and felt his manhood press against your thigh, the sight of him, leaking and hard against his belly made you sigh. 

“Do not concern yourself with that, I am ravenous for you, but my body cannot fulfill the wishes of my cock. Go and fetch something to break our fast. I will need you to change my dressing as well, if you could.” He sent you off with a kiss, and with desire dripping onto your thighs. 

“Yes Dominus.” You smiled, and rushed off to do what needed to be done. 

-

Weeks passed, and he healed beautifully. His wound knit together cleanly and with that, his strength came back. More often than not he stood and cleansed without your help, he left the safety of his bed and his chambers and sported a genuine smile as he made his rounds through his house.

You trailed behind him, your own smile in place to see him coming back into himself. 

Things were different. He was different. 

He spoke more, that was for one. Before he would keep his own council, his words were curt and his thoughts would be kept close to his chest. Some nights he reverted to his silence, but it had grown into something peaceful, something comfortable.

The biggest change though, was his attitude towards you. 

For one, he refused to sleep alone. The darkness of night found you tending to his needs and after the candles had been snuffed- he pulled your tunic off and pulled you into his bed, into his arms. 

At first, you thought it was his injury, a fear that he might suffer some setback in his sleep, but as the days passed on and he was well past the point of danger, he still refused to let you go. 

His desire had come back too, much quicker than his body could handle. Mornings would find you in the cage of his arms, with his lust pressed hard and hot at the cleft of your ass. You would pull away so as not to tease him, and he would let you at first, but as his body caught up to him, he stopped letting you pull away. 

Most mornings, he’d whisper how much he missed burying himself inside you, how he couldn’t wait to gift you with his seed while slipping his fingers between your legs and swirling them around your clit, only stopping after you’d fluttered around his fingers. Then he’d send you off to fetch food with a smile on your face and an ever-growing ache between your thighs. 

A part of you fretted as to why he hadn’t taken you yet, as the days passed it was clear that he was well enough to indulge. Another part, a hopeful, possibly quite foolish part of you thought maybe he was waiting for you to ask him. That couldn’t be, could it? You ruminated on your previous encounters, yes–he’d called you forth to warm his bed, but with every recalled memory it was clear that in his own way, he'd let you decide whether to push things or not. A luxury you knew was rare. It was an intoxicating thought though, to think that you could decide when and what you wanted him to do.

So many possibilities. 

When night came, you brought him his meal, and his wine and tried to keep the tremble of excitement out of your hands. You watched him move about his chambers, his strength back to normal as he dipped his hands into the fresh water in his basin. His hair had grown out a little, dark with silver mixed through and that thought struck you again, that he was some beautiful marble statue come to life. An emperor of old, standing before you in all his glory. 

“Dominus-” You called to him, unable to hold back any longer. His eyes raised, finding you as he dried his hands. 

“Before you take your meal, I would ask something of you.” Your voice shook, never had you openly asked him for anything before. He raised his eyebrows, more surprised than anything.

“What would you have of me Girl?” He moved towards you, eyes curious. 

“I would have you–” You stopped him, guiding him to sit on his bed, “I would have you sit here, and accept my mouth.” 

You kneeled before him, staring up at him with your lip caught between your teeth. Your hands landed on his knees, sliding up to pull his tunic up to expose his manhood. For a moment, he stared at you with wide, surprised eyes. 

“I have missed our times together, I have missed you filling me of a night and as much as I treasure your fingers in the morning, I would have you feel pleasure at my hand–or, my mouth.” He did not stop you from exposing him and heat flooded your body to see how quickly his cock responded to your words, to the soft exploration of your hand. 

“You would do this?” His palm landed on your shoulder, sliding up to cup your cheek. “You have no obligation, I would not command you to do this should you not want to.” You spit onto your palm and grasped him in hand and despite his words, he shudderred to feel the way you stroked him. 

“I dream about this Dominus, I desire you so deeply that I ache for you–” You opened your mouth and took the blunt tip of him into your mouth. He moaned, slack-jawed at the sight of you. You placed open mouthed kisses at the tip, and the sensitive underside, stroking at the base of him. His thighs spread, making room for you and you relished the warm strength of them under your arms. 

He tasted like the ocean. 

“God’s above Girl-” You pulled away, smiling as you continued to stroke him, he barely fit in the palm of your hand and with his passion dribbling out and your spit the sounds were loud and slick. Your own arousal unspooled between your legs, the ache intensifying as he tensed underneath you, hissing when you pressed soft kisses to the scar at his side, to the softness of his belly, to the firm golden thighs bracketing you to his hips. 

“Open your mouth.” His confidence resurfaced, and then his hand wrapped around yours, guiding you to stroke him the way he liked. He guided the reddened tip into your mouth. “Look at me when you take me in your mouth, open wide, I want to touch your throat.” You moaned around him, taking him deeper, breathing through your nose in an attempt to stay calm. 

“That’s it Girl, Gods be damned-” His tone was filthy as he held you there, eyes watering until you pulled away, sputtering and messy. 

“If you continue, I will spill in your mouth.” he guided your hand still, slowly stroking himself against your lips, smearing your spit and his salty arousal onto your lips. Never in your life have you felt that powerful, that beautiful, with tears spilling down your face and slick dripping down your thighs. He held himself suspended in his pleasure, awaiting your word. 

“Would you like to spill in my mouth Dominus? Or would you like to fill my cunt?” You held out your tongue, letting him rub the tip of himself against it while he decided. Your heart soared to see the conflict on his face. 

“I would fill your cunt, I have missed it terribly.” You smiled and rose with a final kiss to his cock and once you did, he ripped the tunic off your body. The loud tear of it made you squeal with a mix of shock and excitement. 

“I promise you, I will not last.” He all but tossed you onto his bed, spreading your legs wide for his gaze. “Greedy little cunt, so wet for me.” He spoke in a daze, staring at the place that ached at the mere thought of him. He slipped down and it’s with a shock that you watched him dip down to spear into you with his tongue. Never had anyone used their mouth on you and the sight of it was almost too much to bear.

It’s with a greedy, filthy groan that his lips dragged up to latch around the pert little pearl of you, his tongue stroking, stroking, stroking while his mouth suctioned around it. Your body was a taut string, legs shaking under the strong grip of his hands, holding you to him tight enough to hurt. Your breathing came in pants, the climax was already there, balancing on a knife's edge, so close you could almost taste it.

His hands moved, sliding up to pinch at your nipples and the wave crested. Your hands gripped into his curls, both holding him close, and desperately pushing him away while you fluttered into his mouth. 

You felt the strong muscle of his tongue slide down, drinking you from the source. 

He made his way back up, your slick shining on his face and on his whiskers. You’re almost too shocked, and too shy to look into his eyes. 

“I confess, I have wanted to do that for a long time.” He pulled his tunic up and off as you lay under him, boneless. “I know it’s not something commonly done, but I enjoy it. Did you enjoy it? I felt you flutter.” He raised your leg, wrapping it around his hip while his cock slipped inside you without any resistance. You let out a relieved sigh, finally, he was home. 

“Yes Dominus–” You almost whispered, half-shy as he dropped down, his arms holding himself up on either side of your skull. “No one has ever–Oh–” He snapped his hips hard, unable to hold himself back and already, the need built in your core, robbing you of any coherent thoughts. 

“No one but me ever will.” He kissed you, making you taste yourself and it was so perverse, so exhilarating you held him close, wrapping your arms and legs around him to feel as much of him as you could. His cock pushed and pulled, hitting that special place he owned and with a handful of thrusts, and a punched out groan he filled you with his gift. Finally. 

He watched himself pull out of the mess he'd made, watched in silence as his gift dripped out and onto his linens. 

Things felt different this time, there’s a vulnerability, an intimacy that is almost overwhelming. You pulled his face up, and pressed your lips to his softly, praying that you conveyed the feelings swirling in your chest. He kissed you back, his hand gliding up to wrap around your neck. When you opened your eyes, his brow was furrowed, the same feelings shining back at you through his dark eyes. 

Seconds passed, and the feeling did not disperse. Before he would have sent you away, but he held you close. Wordlessly he pressed his lips to yours over and over, he stroked at your skin, your shoulder and your thigh high on his ribs, your breast, your lips. He moved off, and went about dampening a cloth to clean himself off of you. Once he was done, he brought the food you’d served him and fed you from his own hand. 

You accepted the food, smiling shyly as he watched you, something like affection, like love shining out through his eyes. 

“Thank you Dominus–” He shook his head, a small frown at your words. 

“Call me Marcus.”

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[prodbymaui]

Labyrinthine. — 이민형.

taking up a good rush, don't try to fight it

PAIRING: mark lee x reader

GENRE: popular girl and the loner

WORD COUNT: 1k+ words

WARNINGS: public sex (kinda), pure filth, degration kink

SYNOPSIS: You don't crumble at any man's words, but Mark Lee— God, Mark Lee.

A/N: hi, hello, officially welcome back to me I guess? aside from these short fic/filths in my drafts, I want to announce that I'm finally releasing my series (fr this time I promise)! so if you're interested, you can send an ask to be added to the taglist <3 enjoy reading!

“Mark—!”

The said man’s hand quickly covers your mouth, shushing you. His moist presses against your ear, whispering reminders about how any sounds that you make could possibly blow your cover— but the brutal pace and unforgiving thrusts of his hips does nothing to help you do so.

Keeping you in place, the A3 bookshelf of the library shakes as Mark Lee drills his cock in and out of your soaking pussy. The clutch you have on his arm tightens before flying to the air. There’s a surge of panic arising between the two of you when a book falls down, courtesy of your restless hands, and creates a thudding noise that you’re sure is enough to catch the attention of anyone inside the room. But alas, it only lasts for a second or two.

“Fuck.. you just can’t keep it down, don’t you?” Mark rumbles on your skin.

He grips the back of your thighs, turning you both around. Your back then meets the cold wood that makes up the table. It isn’t long before you yourself suppress the moans threatening to come out of your mouth, eyes rolling to the back as a drool rolls down from the corner of your lips. As Mark engulfs your body, shielding you from possible prying eyes that watches the both you fucking like rabbits inside the university’s library.

“Look at me,” He calls your name in a grunt.

Mark watches your face twist with pleasure—eyebrows drawn tight, lips parted, eyelids fluttering as you struggle to keep your gaze locked on his through the haze clouding your senses. A wave of pride flares within him, feeding off the tension between your ragged breaths and his unrelenting hold.

“So– good.. Mark, fuck, you’re so big.”

“Yeah? You like that? Like how big my cock is? Look at you,” He tips your chin, trapping it between his forefinger and thumb. “Drooling all over that pretty face with those nonsensical ramblings. I thought you don’t fuck with loners like me, babe? What was that you said in front of your friends?”

His thrusts come to an abrupt stop, and a desperate whimper escapes your lips as you instinctively wrap your legs tighter around his hips, pulling him closer. The sudden pause drives a surge of frustration through you, your body betraying you with silent pleas for more, each movement a wordless protest against the unbearable tease.

“No no no..” You mumble.

Mark chuckles, steadying your shaking head using the fingers that holds you before placing a gentle kiss on your lips. The soft kiss turns into a messy one as Mark forcefully inserts his tongue in your mouth, exploring every surface— the taste of him clinging onto your tongue is a proof of your submission to him prior to being laid on the table, fucked out.

“Tell me, darling.”

Your hands scrambles at the thrust of his hips, the tip of his cock prodding your spot.

“What did you say earlier to your friends, huh? About me?”

Gasping for breath, your mind scrambles to process his question. You swallow hard, trying to recall the memory he’s referring to, but it’s futile. No matter how hard you search, everything is a blur—your thoughts muddled, leaving you unable to grasp anything coherent about what you said or did involving Mark before this moment.

Mark scoffs, his thumb slithers from your chin to the gap between your lips. As though a snake, it slides inside and lands your tongue. Wordlessly, you circle your tongue around the digit, licking it all wet before sucking it noisily, your eyes once again rolling to the back as your walls clenches around him.

The boys you’d been with always followed your lead, eager to please, prioritizing your satisfaction over their own. They were too intimidated by someone as desirable as you, treating it like a once-in-a-lifetime chance they couldn’t afford to ruin. You never allowed any of them to feel like they had the upper hand, even in the bedroom, moreover gave them the power to degrade you as a brainless cockslut.

But Mark Lee?

“Did I fucked you dumb? Or are popular girls like you already this dumb sans getting a taste of big cocks?”

God–

You’d let him degrade you anytime. The thought alone sends a thrill down your spine. You’d drop to your knees without a second thought, craving his approval, ready to do whatever it takes to satisfy him, no matter the time or place. The power he holds over you is intoxicating, and you'd willingly surrender to it, knowing that as long as he’s in control, you’ll get exactly what you need—no questions asked, no limits.

Who could have guessed that *four-eyed Mark*, the insufferable teacher’s pet and the quiet, bookish loner everyone overlooked, would be the one to make you crumble? The irony isn’t lost on you. The same guy you once barely noticed, always tucked away in the corner with his nose in a textbook, is now the one you can’t resist. His grip on you—both physical and mental—is undeniable, and the thought of how easily you’ve surrendered to him ignites something deep within. It’s almost laughable how the tables have turned, yet here you are, completely at his mercy.

As his words push you over the edge, your body trembles uncontrollably beneath him, each wave of pleasure making you quake in his arms. Mark tightens his grip around you, holding you steady as his pace gradually slows, savoring every second of your shared release. His head tilts back, eyes squeezed shut, as he lets the intensity of the moment wash over him, matching the rhythm of your climax with his own. The room feels charged, heavy with the lingering heat between you both. 

Finally, his movements still, and the two of you are left in the afterglow, breaths mingling as the world beyond seems to fade away. With a gentle sigh, Mark rests his forehead against yours, the quiet hum of satisfaction thick in the air. For a moment, neither of you speak—there’s no need. The unspoken connection hangs in the space between you, solid and undeniable, as everything else fades into the background.

[pricegouge]

Haul

Part Four MDNI

Master list | on ao3

slasher!trucker!141 x reader

series cw: dark fic. major character deaths, rape/noncon

chapter cw: whump. threat of rape.

"Now," Gaz continues, twisting you in John's arms until you face him, your head lolled against the captain's bicep. "About that cheek." You're almost proud of the venom in your voice. "Don't fucking touch it."

Exhaustion and general pain conspire against you, make you fall to the bed in grim defeat once your captors leave, barely even managing enough energy to test the lock. You want to scream and rage, tear the room apart in search of an escape - push the limits of your vocal chords screaming for help. Instead you collapse in a lifeless heap and cry until your throat aches, until the salt of your tears leaves a burning wake down your face. You don't know for how long you sleep. Fitful and restless as it is, you don't imagine you've managed more than a few hours but you have no way of knowing given there are no windows in your little room. 

It's hard crawling out of bed despite your general revulsion even touching it. Your whole body aches so acutely you're not sure where the pain is even emanating from, specifically, and it takes you a few minutes of flexing various limbs and appendages to determine you haven't somehow damaged yourself even more in the night. But you're at least as whole as you were before, if stiff from overexertion. 

Your relief is short lived though, and once you determine you can, you clamber out of bed and take a quick turn around the room, testing the lock once more and prying at seems in the wall just to be certain there's no egress hiding in plain sight. But your search yields nothing, of course, so you take to exploring the room itself. 

The tile underfoot is cold enough that you start with the footlocker, rifling through its contents and noting the wide range of sizes and styles. You can't decide which is worse, the possibility that the clothes you wear now once belonged to a previous victim, or the idea of your captors visiting a Salvation Army and throwing the widest range of sizes they could find into their cart like some sort of demented pre-puppy shopping trip. It makes your skin crawl, but you find some modicum of comfort when your search yields no children's clothes among the collection. 

As far as socks go, your only options are all cutesy and fluffy. It would bother you, except the cold bite of the tile makes you wary of anything thin so you pull a pair on graciously and continue your exploration of the sparingly furnished room. Aside from the bed and the little desk, there's an empty bookshelf and a bucket in the corner which makes you shudder just to think about. As if in warning, your tummy gurgles but you cross your legs defiantly where you stand. Instead, you head toward the desk and begin inspecting it, pulling out each drawer in turn only to be greeted by dust, more dust, and a ratty looking deck of cards - benevolent of them - but no pens or pencils, or anything really that could have been used as a makeshift weapon.

You bite back a groan of frustration, determination winning out as you begin to inspect the desk itself. It's a flatpack unit of some sort, solid metal legs and a laminated MDF top. Surprisingly sturdy, and anchored to the wall as you find out when you give it an experimental shove and it bites into your hip rather aggressively. No barricading, then, although it wouldn't do you much good anyway if you couldn't find another exit. Or at least a way to pick them off as they came through the door. Your eyes rove your limited options, landing on the small metal stool tucked under the desk. You tilt your head in consideration, giving it an experimental heft as you imagine beating the large men down with something so unwieldy. It would make you laugh, if it didn't make your shoulder hurt so much. 

Movement beyond your door has you stashing your stool away quickly, scrambling back to the bed to hide yourself under the blankets like some frightened child. It makes you sick, having done so, but you stand no chance against these men in your state and you know it.

These boogeymen don't bother with theatrics beyond the sounds of the locks disengaging. It's Kyle who appears first, pretty eyes scanning the room as if in search of threat before stepping to the side and allowing the captain to come through. It strikes you again how very big they are. In this tiny room, with its low slung, claustrophobia-inducing rafters and close- pitched walls, they stand taller than the bookcase, seem to loom near as broad as your bed. Kyle shuts the door behind them but it's almost unnecessary as you know in your bones there would be no slipping past them even if you weren't laid up sorer than a pussy in a pricker patch. 

"Good morning doll," John beams and you nod at him absently. Morning. At least you know you got a decent night's sleep, then.

"When the captain wishes you a good morning, you return the favor," Gaz warns and you nod again, swallowing.

"Good morning, John. Good morning, Gaz," you tack on when John raises a brow at you.

"A clever one, then. Good. That'll make this next bit easier." John's smile is almost warm when he comes to sit on the edge of the bed. Pleased, he nearly looks amiable and you can almost see how he's managed to bring this group of men to heel, though the notion makes you want to clobber yourself with your stool as soon as you think it.

With the added weight on the mattress, it's a struggle to stay leaning away from him. John seems to notice, crinkling his eyes at you in a way that would suggest warmth on anyone else. It just makes him look more unsettling, the gleam of his deep blue eyes more akin to the scales littering the ground of a fish market than to the ocean itself. 

"You're gonna have to let us closer, if you want Gaz to help with your wounds."

Your eyes flick to the other man, for the first time noticing the small basket he carries. You spot rubbing alcohol, some bandages, even a folded sling - they do not offer much relief, held in the hands of a man who looks like he'd much prefer to squirt the IPA into your eye.

"Gaz wants to kill me," you state, voice surprisingly bland.

"If I wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead."

John laughs when you flinch, though you certainly can't find the humor in the situation. "Gaz can be a little intense," the captain grants. His hand finds your knee in a gesture he probably thinks is comforting. "But I'm sure he'll warm up once he gets a chance to play." 

Your eyes dart between the two, heart hammering. If this is the moment, you suppose you can only be grateful it's not all four of them.

John's voice is stern when he continues, "Enough now. You want Gaz to be nice to you, you'll have to be nice to Gaz -."

"He -," you start, voice sharp despite knowing better.

The captain simply holds up a hand, silencing you easily. "You nearly broke Kyle's nose, pet. Look at that pretty nose," John commands, reaching out viper quick to get your chin trapped in his meaty fingers. He turns your face toward the other man, but he also pulls you closer to himself until you feel the scratch of his unkempt chops against your feverish cheek.

"Kyle here's as pretty as they come, inn'e? And you almost ruined that, just because you didn't know your place. It's no wonder he doesn't like you, is it?"

Gaz had wanted to kill you before you'd done that, though you don't think that's worth mentioning. "No. No wonder."

"That's right, pet. Smart girl. So what do we say to Kyle?"

"Sorry, Kyle," you recite obediently, every nerve in your body alight and on edge as you study his face for a reaction. He gives none.

"Gonna have to be sweeter than that, doll," John coos. His fingers flex ominously against your jaw. 

You only realize you're crying again when your voice comes out croaky. "I'm sorry for almost breaking your pretty nose, Kyle."

This time, Kyle smiles - or some approximation of it, at least. Relief floods you, strong enough you don't even mind when John suddenly drops his grip on your jaw. You flop to the bed as he stands from it, mustache twitching as he grins down at you. "Not so hard, was it? Now ask nice and he can help you with those scrapes, too." He nods at you from under his brow, face scrunching as he rocks up onto his toes, a dog with too much energy.

"Kyle, can you please help me with my… scrapes?" you ask, even though you'd rather cut your own fingers off than let any of them touch you. Even though you know there's not much he can do for your more egregious wounds anyway.

He doesn't see the same issues you do. "'Course, luv."

They start you off easy enough. Gaz inspects your hand first, pushing your sleeves up to gently prod at any discolorations he finds. John asks you if any of them hurt and you almost laugh when it takes you a moment to answer, forcefully pushing the pain in your face and shoulder away so you can reflect on the rest of your body.

"Not really."

"Where does it hurt?" Kyle asks, distracted as he cleans the patch of road rash on your palm with peroxide. 

For a moment, you stare at him from under your heavy, swollen eyelid, sarcastic even without comment. He doesn't even bother glancing up to acknowledge it before rubbing a brillo pad over the sore on your palm. "My face," you hiss, breathing deep when he ceases his scrubbing to inspect the wound again.

"Sorry," he says apathetically. "Still had some dirt in there. You were saying?"

You blink between the two of them, swallowing both your pride and the instinct to slap him. "My face. And my shoulder. My hip, a little bit."

"Saw that." John's eyes are heavy where they linger on the swell of your ass. You knew they'd been watching as you'd dressed, but it still sets a low simmer of panic off in your belly to hear confirmation. "That from when Soap ran the rig into you?"

"I think so."

"At least he didn't break her hip this time," Gaz mutters, and John sends you a patronizing smile when he sees the flicker of fear cross your face.

"No worries, love. She lived."

It slips out before you fully authorize it, "For how long?"

A stillness draws around them both. John's gaze turns cold and lifeless, face less animated. Gaz watches you from beneath his brow, mouth a grim line. When he does speak, John's voice is just as stiff as his countenance. "Longer than you will, you keep mouthing off."

It's funny, how the only defense you have against that is a million funny lines you could feed him right back running suicide sprints between your ears. Funnier still how quickly you're learning to ignore them. 

John's boots are heavy on the tile as he steps toward you, high treads nearly drumming one spike at a time as he takes care to walk slowly, heel to toe. When he stands in front of you, you have to crane your neck to see him because it hurts your bad eye to roll that far. 

"If I give you your rules while Gaz works on you here, you gonna be able to listen? Use your words," he tacks on when you nod once.

"Ye -. Ouch," you jolt, ripping your hand out of Gaz's when he presses his thumb meanly into the patch of road rash.

"Really think, luv. Cap hates repeating himself."

You glance between the two of them, both of them stern and unimpressed. "Maybe you should… wait?"

John's patronizing, crinkly-eyed smile is back. He pats you on the bad cheek. There's no force to it, but his palm is heavy enough to give you synesthesia for a moment, pain a physical thing which blooms red-ringed and vacant across your vision. "Smart doll. Now let's get you out of those clothes so Gaz can take a proper look at you."

There'd be no fighting them even if you were brave enough to try it. John manhandles you back to your feet with a strong grip on your good arm, his other hand cupping your ribs to avoid jostling your shoulder. It slides down to your hem once he gets you standing, thick fingers blisteringly hot against your clammy skin.

"Cold as a corpse, doll. We'll need to get you some more blankets, hm?"

You don't bother answering as he pulls your shirt up and over your good arm, your head getting stuck for a moment as he changes course to slide the sleeve down your bad limb. You're almost grateful, except then Kyle is loosing the stays of your pants and sliding them down your hips, tutting briefly at the massive mottling that paints your hip. His fingers are gentle until they're not, sussing out the epicenter of the contusion to dig a bony finger in and smirk when you yelp. "That hurt?"

"Yes," you hiss and he hums thoughtfully.

"Still have full range of movement?"

"I don't -. I think so?"

Gaz nods up at John and the older man reacts immediately, turning you until your back rests against his chest and wrapping his arms under your own to keep you upright. "Tell me if it hurts," Gaz warns, and then his hands are gripping your thigh, opening it wide and testing its range. 

An aborted noise bubbles up in your throat, dies off when John hooks his chin over your shoulder to get a better look at what Gaz is doing. Your breath comes heavy, lungs working hard enough to raise the band of John's arms with each inhale. The indignity is bad enough, but to have your crotch fully exposed, inches away from Kyle's concentrated face as they both look on, pretending to be uninterested in it makes you want to deflate within your own skin, shrivel up and die. You whimper when Gaz presses two fingers to your hip flexor, tears welling up in your eyes. 

"That hurt, doll?" John asks, mock concerned, whiskers brushing against your temple. You shake your head adamantly and John chuckles. "Feel good, then?"

"No," you wheeze and Gaz's thumb digs into your hip, making you fold in on yourself.

"Easy," John warns - yourself or Kyle, you don't know. He straightens you back up and flattens one palm against your flank, as if soothing an agitated horse. "That one hurt, didn't it? Is Gaz playing mean?"

Words fail you when the other man looks up at you with cold, ominous eyes. You don't need to be told to know inherently that John will not tolerate being lied to, but neither do you particularly relish angering Gaz by throwing him under the bus. "It's… fine," you settle on lamely, sighing in relief when they both accept it easily enough.

"Good here, cap," Kyle declares, lowering your foot back to the tile. They'd let you keep your socks on, blessedly. It's cold even through the ridiculous things. 

"Can I put my pants back on?" You ask eagerly, and John just laughs in your ear, still wrapped around you.

"Don't even want some knickers? Slag."

There hadn't been any underwear in the chest, otherwise you'd have put some on already, but you don't think that's worth mentioning. "I would like some underwear, yes. Please."

"Well, because you asked so nice." The hand on your ribs pulls away. From the corner of your eye, you see John reach into the front pocket of his cargos and then he's dangling a pair of basic cotton panties in your face. When you go to grab them from him, he yanks them away, breath hot and warm against your cheek as he warns, "Tomorrow you'll have to earn these. Understand?"

You swallow. "Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes… sir?"

"Good dolly," he breathes, and when he shifts slightly to let you take the panties you think you feel the hard shaft of his cock against your back. "You just keep being smart and we won't have any problems, will we?"

"N-no, sir."

"That's right. Now put those on before I fuck you about it."

No need to tell you twice. John drops them before you can grab for them again, but you catch the cotton between your fingers as they fall. Scrambling out of his grasp, you bend to dress and ignore the low whistle behind you as best you can. Though you thank Gaz prettily when he hands you your bottoms. 

"Welcome, luv." You take note of how he sounds genuinely warm, perhaps the first time you've earned it from him, and resolve to try being more pleasant with him. "Now let's take a look at that shoulder."

He's nice about it this time, sitting you down easily on the bed before stroking his warm hands all over your upper arm. He squeezes gently in a few places, gives you a sympathetic smile when you cringe. He tests your movement again, face drawing tighter when he finds you can't raise your arm above shoulder height. Trying to be helpful, you inform him that you believe it's your collar bone and then his palm is there too, earning a pathetic little whimper when he presses a hair too hard.

"Sorry, luv," he mutters, but his fingers carry on tracing the bone through your thin skin, prodding invasively where it connects to your scapula. He shushes you when you cringe away, nodding at John briefly to keep you in place again. His fingers don't stop no matter how much you whine and bat at him with your free hand. He weathers it without so much as a glance, your attempts pathetic enough that John doesn't even bother to contain them until you've already made a few swats at Kyle's arm. "Think it's connected at least," he finally decides, touch turning soothing again as he sits back on his heels. 

"Fractured?"

"Hard to tell. Rotator cuff is inflamed as hell, but I'm hoping that's the reason she can't move very well."

"Ice and pain meds?"

"And the sling, to be safe."

"Think we can manage that, hm pet?" His voice is far too bright. You kind of want to vomit.

"Now," Gaz continues, twisting you in John's arms until you face him, your head lolled against the captain's bicep. "About that cheek."

You're almost proud of the venom in your voice. "Don't fucking touch it."

Gaz doesn't flinch, but John jostles you with his shoulder, his tone warning. "Language."

"You can't do anything for it anyway," you double down. It's strange how quickly your body jumps from resigned exhaustion to complete tension, drawn like a bow ready to fire. For the door or for a chest you're not entirely sure yet.

"Can tell the boys your mouth's out of commission for a few weeks."

Your breath stutters. Somehow, in all the nightmare scenarios you'd pictured in this new life, having to suck a cock while your face felt like it was collapsing in on itself wasn't one of them. "You would…?"

Kyle's gaze is heavy, but it's John who answers. A soft brush of knuckles against your swollen face, just enough to make you flinch and then he's there, whiskers like sandpaper against your skin. "We would."

In the end, Kyle doesn't touch you. He lets you do it, fingers feather light as he directs you to feel along the ridge of your eye socket first, and then down underneath, pushing on your gums through the meat of your cheek. You find it there, on the underside, up by your nose. Or at least you think you do - a clump of tissue so swollen and knotted you can't even feel the bone through it. It makes your whole body ache to touch it, and the noise you emit when pain blooms from your sinus cavity all the way to the cradle of your skull would be frankly embarrassing if you could hear it over the ringing in your ears.

They wait for you to settle, palms heavy as they stroke over your legs and arms. You want to fight them off, but you want comfort more so you allow this small trespass, turning into John when he drapes a blanket over you because you're fucking cold without your shirt, adrenaline response to pain leaving you a shaking mess. When you've come down as much as you're able, Gaz asks a series of questions which leave you confused, staring blankly at him as you answer as best you can.

"What's it feel like under there?"

"Hard. Swollen. But also tender?" It felt like if a slightly undercooked steak had pain receptors, but you're not sure that will be effectively understood so you leave that part out.

"On your good cheek, show me where it was exactly." You do and he clarifies, pointing to the fine bone below his own tear duct. "Not right here?"

"No."

"Can you breathe through your nose?"

"No."

"Any vision changes?"

You stop, think. "When I was running it went black. And when I touch it I can… see it?"

Gaz frowns, sucks his teeth. He directs John to sit you up straight and then tells you to follow his finger with your eyes as he moves it about. "Hold your head still," he corrects when his fingers wander too high and you have to tilt your head to follow.

"Hurts."

"Where?"

You point to the fine muscles behind your upper eyelid on your good side and Gaz's expression deepens.

"She broken?" John grunts, and something about the phrasing sets a panic alarm off in the back of your mind. 

"Not yet. Worried about her eye."

"And what do we do about that?"

"Ice, pain meds. An anti-inflammatory wouldn't hurt, preferably something for her sinuses specifically." Gaz spares you a glance that lets you know immediately he isn't saying everything. "And an antibiotic."

John sighs, sounding world weary. "Hard to get."

"Necessary."

"You think?"

"Definitely."

The captain contemplates a moment, then turns to you with that same uncannily cheerful expression from before. "Well, no use arguing with the doctor, is it? Up you get, pet. We'll get you dressed and let you use the bathroom, get some food in you. Have you feeling better in no time."

***

The restroom upstairs is nothing to write home about, but you'd take an outhouse over the bucket downstairs so you feel grateful all the same. They don't let you close the door, but Simon stands politely off to the side of it, his view obstructed by the frame. You're quick about your ablutions despite being hindered by your new sling, but you manage. The sight of the mirror hanging over the sink gives you pause as you approach it and you avoid it at first, concentrating on getting the toothbrush they've generously left for you out of its packaging. You rinse it off, apply the paste, note you can't smell the sharp tang of cinnamon, and then steel yourself for the reveal.

It's not quite as bad as you'd expected, though in some ways it's worse. Your face doesn't sag the way you'd feared it would, the thin bone of your eye socket apparently doing the lord's work of keeping your cheek from melting to the side. Still, you hadn't expected the swelling along your brow, or the broken blood vessels in your eye. You also expected the dark discoloration of normal bruising, but this is livid - a deep crimson layered under your skin tone which mottles in a way you've never seen before, speaking of fresh blood. It makes you weak to look at, gut churning unexpectedly. You duck away and settle yourself, knowing full well any more inflammation in your nose would be the death of you. You remember what Gaz said about an antibiotic and panic a bit, thinking of vomit in your sinus cavity. 

When you get yourself in order you brush your teeth, gingerly, afraid to push against your top gums too much on the one side. You ask Simon if you are allowed to take a shower and he tells you no, though he shows you where to find hair products, if you need them.

When you're feeling a little more human you follow him back to the break room area the boys had been at the previous night where he collects another bowl of bland soup from Johnny. You make no comment about it being an odd choice for breakfast, knowing full well you wouldn't be able to eat anything solid anyway. From there, Simon escorts you back down to your room, silent all the while, ducking below overhang on the stairs gracefully. John's still there, sprawling across the bed as if on a mission to remind you he owns it. You do your best to ignore them both, settling down at your desk to eat your meal while Ghost lingers at the door. 

"You can stay, Si," John comments blandly and the big man nods once, leaning himself against the door frame in a way that shows off how much bigger he is than it. "Feeling better, doll?"

You glance at John. "Yes, sir."

"How's the soup?"

"Good, sir. Thank you."

"You're very welcome. When you're done, come sit with me."

You don't want to do that, but neither do you want to sit here lingering while they watch you draw a bowl of soup out until it's cold. So you nod, eating it as fast as you dare before slinking off to sit next to John on the bed. He shifts to allow you more room, revealing the pile of newspapers behind him in the process. Your gaze catches on them and you remember what he said the night before, eyes going wide as saucers as it finally registers what rules he wanted to discuss earlier.

John notices, of course he does. He chuckles darkly, retrieving the pile of old paper and placing it on his knee. Front and center, a photo depicts a large gathering of police cars, yellow caution tape fencing off an obscured patch of shrubby roadside. 'Woman Found Dead Outside of Grants, Police Suspect Foul Play,' the headline reads, and you fight to keep your breathing in order.

"Let's start here, then, shall we?" Despite his tone brooking no argument, John does not move until you look at him. "I have here the headlines associated with seven murders, pet. These are the ones that have been found, and were interesting enough to garner media attention - do you know what I mean by that?"

You nod, eying the pile of papers again. It's much more than seven articles, which means he followed investigations as well - which means the investigations were interesting enough to be written about. Your mind scrolls through endless thumbnails of true crime drama, the most gruesome killers getting the most hours of screen time.

"It means we've killed more than this, for a start. Easy ones, like your friend. Collateral. They never really get much attention," he scoffs, flicking the top page irritably before taking its top corner and flinging it off to the side. The next one tells of a missing woman found dead outside Moab, Utah. "She was a pretty one," John comments blandly, "though not as clever as you. Only kept her a few weeks. Waste of time, honestly."

He turns the page again, lets you read about the sexual assault police believe she was subject to in the days before her death. You're only aware of how shallow your breathing has become when you start to go a bit light headed.

"These ones, the ones we keep, they get some more attention. More so, the longer we keep them." The next headline must've been written by a real asshole, the humor in it tasteless and mean, 'Woman Returned Home After Six Months - In a Body Bag.'

"Do you want to see why?" John purrs, already thumbing the page.

"Please, no," you sob, shoving at the papers childishly. 

John just laughs, holds your wrists not ungently. "That's okay, doll. We have all the time in the world to read them together, when you're ready." When you need a reminder, he probably means, though you know better than to call him on it. "I just wanted to get that out of the way, to clear up any confusion you might be having about your stay here, hm?"

There's no helping the tears that stream down your face, even knowing how much you're inflaming your cheek. You nod, beyond words, and John hums at you, sickly sweet.

"You'll get used to it, I promise. You're a clever one, the clever ones always do well."

Until they don't.

"I didn't even need to tell you what your punishments will be if you really displease us, and already you know it will go bad for you. Do you think she's our cleverest doll yet, Simon?"

You'd nearly forgot he was there, gaze flashing to him where he leans, unphased. "Picked 'er for a reason, didn't I?"

"Yes, and a very good choice indeed." John'sthumb hovers threateningly over your abused cheek. "But be more careful bringing them in next time."

Next time. Your stomach turns to stone.

"Yes, sir," Simon rumbles.

"So pet, are you ready to go over your rules?"

You'd rather go poking around your eye socket again, really. "Yes, sir," you sniffle instead.

"Good girl. First, some housekeeping." He points over his shoulder at the bucket in the corner. "See that lightswitch there, by Simon?" You nod when the big man motions to it, though it was hardly necessary as it is the only switch in the room. "That does not control the lights. That is actually a clever little device which rings a phone upstairs when flipped up. Go on, Simon." 

He does as told, gloved fingers flipping the switch up and leaving it. Above, in the office, an ancient-sounding landline rings until Simon flips it back down.

"If you ever need something, you can call us that way - though I recommend you use it sparingly," he warns. "It is also how you will let us know when you need to use the facilities." Despite yourself, your stomach clenches excitedly at that, eager to be proven wrong about the bucket. On queue, John points over his shoulder at it. "That is for emergencies only. We're not animals, but we're not always available - and we're not unreasonable. If we come back to a mess after being away, we will clean it. But if we're home and you've simply failed to ask first, you will be the one to clean it. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," he says, unnervingly cheery again. And then his face drops, dead serious as he continues, "You will earn your keep here by making yourself available to us whenever we wish, is that clear?"

You knew it was coming, but it doesn't stop the ice bath of nerves that washes over you, skin prickling as you stammer, "S-sir?"

"You will not fight us, or try to stop us. If you do, you will be hobbled in whatever manner we see fit. Nod if you understand."

It takes you a moment, tears obscuring your vision again as you blink between the two men desperately. They do not flinch or rescind the statement, and you nod.

"You will not whine," John hisses, wiping your tears away with a thumb that nearly blinds you as it pulls across your cheek. "Or cry, or be miserable. If you are, you will be put in a gimp mask so we do not have to see it. Do you hear me? Shut that up," he hisses, pointing sternly at your face.

Your lip wobbles, one last breath shudders through you as you try to calm yourself, but your voice is surprisingly even when you respond. "Yes, sir."

"That's a good doll. In return, you'll get two meals a day, and shower every other. Does that sound fair?"

"Benevolent, sir," you snipe, nerves too shot to help yourself anymore.

John huffs, humorless. "I forgot how funny the clever ones can be. Did you, Simon?"

"It's been a minute, sir," the larger man allows, not really answering the question.

"It has, hasn't it? Do you think this one will ever be clever enough to earn some time upstairs?"

It's embarrassing, the way you perk up at such measly bait, but one night in the cold basement was already more than enough for you, and even the warehouse seems like a good goal to work towards after the hours spent alone in the dark. 

"Remains to be seen, sir."

Next>>

[plzu]

gif by @38across

savor (aka distance makes the cock grow harder) - Adrian Chase/Reader

summary: Moving in together has made Adrian Chase an insatiable man. It’s made him, maybe, greedy. warnings: 18+ minors DNI, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, smut smut smut <3, no Y/N wordcount: 2.3k a/n: dirty quickie for my large iced americano series. u don't have to read the (now completed!) fic first, this can be read on its own :]

Moving in together has made Adrian Chase an insatiable man. It’s made him, maybe, greedy.

Now that you live under the same roof, Adrian can have his fill of you whenever. Fold himself into you, mold the curves of your body against the parts of him that ache for you.

(Which are all his parts, respectively.)

Regardless of the time he gets home, he’ll stride through the apartment with all the determination of a heat-seeking missile and immediately glue himself to your body. If he slips in in the middle of the night, he curls himself around your back and grinds against your ass until you wake up and spread open for him. On brisk, early mornings, he pushes his face into your neck and fondles you awake, kneading your breasts in his hands. If he comes home in the middle of the day and you're not home yet, he waits for you like a pouty puppy and ambushes you the second you step through the door. You'd playfully swat at him, laughing breathlessly at his antics, until he'd have you partially undressed on the living room floor.

Being apart from you for more than 48 hours makes him restless. Another day or two, he experiences what can only be described as intense withdrawal symptoms; fidgeting, unbearable whining, inability to shut up about how awesome you are and how badly he misses you.

Tonight, he’s finally returning home from a mission that had him away for a few nights too many. Each day that had passed made missing you worse. The team may have gotten just a teensy bit annoyed with him about it.

(“Just rub one out like the rest of us!” Peacemaker barked.)

And it's like, dude, of course he already does that. But touching himself pales in comparison to having the taste of you on his skin. Something the group groaned at when he said something to that effect out loud.

What can Adrian say? Distance makes the cock grow harder. Or however that saying goes.

He spends the drive back home from base imagining all the things he likes to do to you, all the places he likes to taste you. Barely obeying the speed limit this close to midnight. He didn’t even change out of the suit, with the exception of flinging off his helmet and tossing it back in the bag.  

He gets to the apartment and sees the lights are still on. This is good. Despite how cute you look when you’re asleep, he doesn’t think he’d be able to handle the time needed to try to ease you awake.  

Adrian marches very purposefully into the living room, ripping his gloves off. His hands are already tingling from the anticipation of getting to touch you.

You're curled up on the couch, nose buried in a book, and he notices with absolute delight that you're wearing the itty bitty sleep shorts he likes so much. The one that both confuses him and turns him on, considering it’s made up of just the barest piece of fabric, and how much of your thighs it leaves exposed; you may as well be wearing nothing but underwear.

He's not one to complain about it, though. Especially when he gets a peek of the cheek meat that the shorts barely cover.

Your head had whipped up as soon as he entered the room. There's a flash of joyous surprise on your face. “Adrian!”

He gives you no time to scramble up and off the couch to greet him, however. Adrian drops to his knees in front of you after a few purposeful strides. He has his hands on your hips in no time, roughly dragging your ass to the edge of the cushion and towards his face.

You yelp at the sudden movement.

You squeak when he parts your legs a second after, and sinks his face against your thinly clothed cunt. He inhales, drinking in your scent, and lets out a shaky, relieved groan. Home, sweet home.

“Adrian..!” you squeak again. You tug at his curls, prompting him to meet your eyes. 

“Wha-?” He was already far too pussy-drunk for coherency. 

You grimace, dropping your hand from his hair. “It’s- That’s embarrassing. You putting your face…”

“Huh?” Adrian blinks. “Why? Is someone here?” He glances over your thighs, looking for an unexpected guest that he’d have to ask to leave. Or, fuck it, they could stay and watch as long as they didn’t interrupt. He just really needed to taste you, like, yesterday.

“No, no one's here. It's just... Very sudden. Wasn't ready for you to be all... down there.”

“Oh,” he says. “Well, if no one's here, can I please dive back into your pussy? I really missed you and it's been driving me crazy not getting to eat you out.”

You make a funny little sound, an exhale full of indescribable emotion before you nod, shy and excited and full of bubbly anticipation.

Adrian rolls your shorts down your hips, making sure to take your underwear with it as he slides them off your legs. Once they're blindly discarded somewhere behind him, his attention returns once more to your cunt, now bare for him to fully appraise and revel in.

“Wow,” he sighs. “I can never get over how pretty your pussy is.” His voice is full of unalloyed reverence. It makes you shiver, and quietly whimper. The sound goes right to his dick, makes it twitch in his pants, and it's all the push he needs to descend upon you with open-mouthed fervor.

The taste of you fills his tongue, the sharp tang that he missed so much. It coats his taste buds, makes him salivate as he licks a languid stripe up towards the bead of your clit. He moans. Like the generosity of his mouth is more for his pleasure than it is yours.

He can feel the effect it's having on you. The way you squirm in his hold. He's got your legs propped up on the shoulder pads of his suit, hands gripping the soft flesh of your waist to keep your cunt securely pressed against his face. He doesn't want you trying to scoot away like you do sometimes, when it gets too overwhelming.

Because Adrian is trying to feast.

He continues lapping at your heat, tongue being sure to slowly caress against the velvet folds of your pussy. Despite his rush to return home, Adrian takes his time. Now that he's here, cozied up between your legs, he really wants to savor the moment. Especially since you always taste better than he remembers.

He nuzzles closer, deeper into the heat of you. You full on tremble against him, sighing out his name. He missed that, too. The sound of your voice singing his name. No one's ever said his name the way you do — replete with praise and fondness.

Adrian. Typically said by others neutrally, devoid of any emotion. Affection. If there was an emotion, though, it's groaned out in exasperation, or spat out in annoyance, or confusion. Abrasive and lacking warmth.

It's something he got used to, of course. Until he reconnected with you. His name falling from your lips colored positively in amusement. Warm and tender emotions that made some feeling flicker in his chest when he heard it. Adrian. It made him ache. It was nice; it quickly became as addicting as your smiles.  

Adrian's tongue dips further into you, plunges into your hole, and he proceeds to slowly fuck you with it. He's rewarded by the breathy, high pitched moan that peels out of you.

Your quivering thighs finally clamp shut, trapping his head in paradise. Your hands go back to gripping the hair at the base of his skull -- a sting of pain shooting pleasurably down his spine -- and your hips attempting to meet each delectable thrust of his tongue until you're fully, impatiently, grinding against Adrian's face.

Fuck yes.

He loves when you try to use him. Loves when you get all filthy and unhinged for him, because of him. Just absolutely falling apart in his hands because he makes you feel good.

He used to think making random women get off as Vigilante was cool. But making you desperate as just Adrian Chase is top fucking tier. Nothing inflates his ego more. He feels like he’s on top of the world when you beg for him.

Adrian's tongue swirls in the divet of your sex as he nuzzles his face side-to-side. The tip of his nose catches at your sensitive clit with the movement, creating friction that thrums through you, makes you pant with desperation.

“Adrian..!” you keen. “P-please, I'm g-gonna..!”

His fingers dig into your skin. Bruising permission for you to let go, to come all over his face. His own breathing picks up, a rumbling groan encouraging you, vibrating against the damp folds of your pussy.

You come with a muted sob, hips undulating with each wave of your climax. Adrian drinks it up, keeping his face flush against the outpouring of your cunt. Laves at the dripping juices with a grateful hum until your body finally slumps back down into the couch. Your thighs ease their clutch from his ears, letting the sounds of the apartment whoosh back to life.

Adrian allows your legs to slide off his shoulders as he stands up. He looks down at you, taking in your heaving chest and the sheen of sweat dampening your hairline through the haze of his glasses, which he forgot to take off in his eagerness to consume you.

Fuck, you look pretty all spent like this. Eyes half-lidded and dazed, the post-coital glow of your cheeks.

“I think I'm addicted to your pussy,” he confesses through the mess of you that currently coats the bottom half of his face. Sloppy. He's only a messy eater when it comes to you.

You drag your gaze up to meet his eyes at his confession. Something saccharine gleams in your irises as your face breaks out into a syrupy smile.

Adrian remembers he likes the taste of that, too, and leans against the armrest of the couch so he can kiss you. His tongue swipes over your bottom lip and then slips between your teeth to glide sensually over your own tongue. You sigh helplessly against the kiss when you taste yourself all over Adrian's mouth.

It's a slow and sloppy mishmash of mouths. Wet and sultry and sticky. It makes you horny again. Adrian can tell by the way your naked bottom half slowly gyrates forward, seeking friction. Your hands clasp shakily against his biceps, a quiet plea for more.

Which he's all too ready to give.

Still standing between your open legs, Adrian props a knee up on the cushion where your bare pussy is currently making a mess. Without looking, he traces the fingers of his right hand down until he’s rubbing messy circles onto your sensitive clit. Your hips jerk at the contact. Adrian swallows your whine.

He breaks from the kiss, leaving his forehead pressed to yours as his fingers continue their glide downwards, slipping easily into the welcoming heat of your sex.

“I thought about you every day,” Adrian says, voice ragged. “Do you know how hard it is to be away from you? Like, literally. I was literally hard for you the entire time.”

A laugh exhales out of you. You tilt your face up so you can catch his bottom lip between your teeth and pull, playful and needy. “I m-missed you, Chase,” you purr against his lips, clearly affected by his finger-fucking you. “You were gone so long I had to touch myself.”

The murmured admittance is both sweet and dirty and makes Adrian groan an expletive. His erection aches, and he can't do anything about it because one hand is propping himself up over you against the sofa while the other is busy trying to coax another orgasm from you.

As if reading his mind, your hands skirt down along the rough material of his suit, bumping over the hard piece of his utility belt before finally applying pressure against the stiffness of his pants. Even through the layers, the palm of your hand offers instant relief that he bucks into.

The thing is-  he's so pent up after going days without having you touch his dick. Sure, he touched his down dick, but obviously it's not the same. That sharp, exciting swoop that happens low in his gut doesn't occur when he's just trying to rub one out. Only you can do that. Which is pretty fucking romantic, he thinks.

And so, as you palm at his cock through his pants, he speeds up his ministrations on your soaking cunt, growing dizzy.

The world becomes nothing but the space you both take up on this single couch cushion, Adrian’s left hand gripping the back of the couch somewhere behind your head. Your right leg hooks around his hip, anchoring as you stroke him through his pants.

Shit, he's not gonna make it. His balls tighten just from your clumsy groping. Adrian drops his head into the crook of your neck and crooks his fingers deeper into you. He kisses the salt of your skin. Feels the walls of your pussy tighten around his pumping fingers, the erratic cant of your hips meeting each thrust.

Finally, you come around his fingers, back arching off the sofa. Something guttural rumbles out of him and into the space where your neck meets your shoulder as he follows suit, coming explosively in his pants. His cock twitches with each pulse against the heat of your touch, which continues to grip him through the fabric. 

Adrian collapses beside you on the couch once both your orgasms subside. Moments pass with nothing but the sound of both your labored breathing, only interrupted by a soft grunt as you yank the discarded book out from where it got trapped between your thigh and the armrest. 

“Did you,” you pant, “seriously just come without taking your suit off?”

Adrian pulls his glasses off his face, then lolls his head so he could look at you. “Yeah. You’re very good with your hands. The best in the world.”

You grin. “I barely did anything.”

Adrian’s uncomfortably sticky crotch says otherwise. He really, really missed you.

taglist: @whatevermonkey

[callsigns-haze]

His darkness, my flame: The start

Azriel and YN ended things for good. Things that happened during her release may have been bad: Azriels lies were worse. Now he lies with another she is alone at night with her son until someone breaks into her home sweet home.

Pairing: Ex!Azriel x reader....Eris x reader

This series contains mature themes: Explicit depictions of violence, including physical and emotional. Themes of secrecy. Descriptions of difficult relationships, including strained familial and romantic dynamics. Mature sexual content. Themes of power, control, and manipulation within complex interpersonal relationships. Discussions of parenthood and the challenges associated with it, including postpartum experiences

Plays as a sequel of my series His Shadow or as a own fic!

The night enveloped YN in a shroud of darkness, the only sound being the occasional rustle of leaves outside her cabin in the mountain forest. The faint glow of the moon filtered through the window, casting a silvery light that danced across her room. She stirred from a restless sleep, her eyes fluttering open to the digital clock on her bedside table that glowed ominously in the stillness—2:37 AM.

A sense of dread washed over her as she turned her head slowly to the side, careful not to disturb the peaceful slumber of her three-year-old son, Knox, who was nestled in the room beside her. The weight of silence pressed against her chest, a reminder of the responsibilities that tethered her to wakefulness.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, feeling the coolness of the sheets where Azriel used to sleep. Now he lies with that stupid high lady's sister Elain. The memories came flooding back—his gentle presence, the way he would wrap her in warmth, the way Knox had once cooed in his arms as a baby. But those days felt distant now, almost like a cruel dream.

Her fingers brushed against the rough wood of the drawer beside her, pulling it open with a soft creak. Inside, she found a small assortment of pills, a mix of painkillers and anxiolytics that she had come to rely on since fleeing the pleasure houses that had once held her captive. Each pill felt like a bittersweet promise of relief, a temporary escape from the haunting memories that lingered, reminding her of the choices she had made. She took a handful, her throat tight as she swallowed them dry, desperate for a moment of calm.

Rising from the bed, she moved quietly through the cabin, each step deliberate as she navigated the shadows. The chill in the air prickled against her skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of the memories that filled her mind. She entered the small kitchen, seeking solace in a glass of water. As she poured the cool liquid, the sound of the stream echoed in the silence, her heart racing as the night seemed to whisper secrets she wasn’t ready to hear.

But then, a soft creak shattered the tranquillity. YN turned sharply, her heart pounding in her chest. In the dim light of the kitchen, a figure sat in one of the chairs, shrouded in darkness. The flickering shadows revealed the glint of a dagger as it twirled effortlessly in the figure’s hands. Panic surged through her, and she instinctively stepped back, her body tense and ready for a fight.

“What do you want?” she demanded, her voice steady despite the fear gnawing at her insides.

The figure leaned back, the dagger spinning to a halt in his palm. “We have the same goal,” he replied, his voice smooth, yet laced with an unsettling confidence. “Revenge on the Inner Circle.”

YN narrowed her eyes, her mind racing as she tried to place the voice. “Who are you?” she asked, her breath hitching in her throat.

With a fluid motion, the figure pulled back his hood, revealing sharp features framed by tousled hair and a piercing gaze that seemed to glow even in the shadows. “Eris,” he introduced himself, a smirk playing on his lips. “Son of the Lord of Autumn. You may have heard of me.”

Recognition flickered through YN, a mix of surprise and wariness. “What do you want with me?”

Eris leaned forward, the dagger still glinting in his hand, an unsettling charm emanating from him. “You have a unique perspective on the Inner Circle’s power plays. I believe we could help each other.”

As she stood before him, uncertainty clawed at her heart. The weight of her past decisions and the tangled web of loyalties and betrayals pressed heavily upon her. The night was still young, but in this moment, with a dangerous stranger offering a path toward revenge, YN realized that her life was about to take another unpredictable turn.

A/N: let me know if you'd like to be tagged

[chillinglyadventurous]

A Chilling Masterlist

A masterlist was requested, so I’ve obliged. Here is everything I have ever written for this blog in one place.

Stanford Pines

Fics

Relationship with Pre-Portal v. Post-Portal Ford

Sneaking Around Series NSFW

Stargazing

Brat Taming NSFW

Fiddleford Knows

Jealousy, Jealousy

Fresh Start

Starlit Movie Night

I Knew You’d Find Me

The Fever

Pissed Off

Lost Slight NSFW

Bath

The Dungeon Master

One More

A Real Treat NSFW

Meeting the Family

Drabbles

Stitches

Ford Comforting You

Late Nights Sneaking In

Blackout Lazy Day

Children

Call Text Me Maybe

6th Sense

Kisses

Bad Day

Vigenére

Restless

Bedside Table Slight NSFW

Storm

Stanley Pines

Fics

Mabel’s Matchmaking Mission

Cigarettes in the Snow

Obligation Series

Break NSFW

Uptown Girl

Never Yours Series

Drabbles

Poorly-Timed Jokes

The Duchess Approves

Cherry Lip Balm

Storm

Platonic!GF x Reader

Fics

Mabel Art

Spooktober 2024

A Playlist of Fics

[shibaraki]

LIKE REAL PEOPLE DO ┊ TODOROKI SHOUTO

synopsis: slow to heal and forced on sick leave, a lonely Todoroki Shouto decides to download the latest popular app, Enigmail, to cure his boredom. he finds you. the rest is… well. moderately disastrous.

tags: NSFT, AFAB reader, pen pal au, hero personal assistant reader, prohero shouto, strangers to friends to lovers, injury recovery, online friendship + eventual romance, feelings development, misunderstandings, identity reveal, pining, sexting, masturbation (male chara), making out + heavy petting, getting together, *slaps roof of fic* you can fit so much fluff in this thing

wc: 17K

It started unexpectedly—with a tremor.

Rather, it started with Oda Shuichi, the prolific villain known as Tremor. At the time of the incident his quirk had been unregistered, but doctors quickly found that it severely affected an individual's motor neurons. According to them the length of time that he has a five point touch hold on someone influences how long they will lose motor function—and how poorly their muscles atrophy.

Shouto spent three uninterrupted minutes trapped in his clutches.

“I promise I’ll come by and visit whenever we can. You’ll still get updates and reports through your work email,” Midoriya tried to assure him with that signature smile, brows drawn together into an almost pleading expression. “It’s just for a little while!”

“For a month,” Shouto pointed out petulantly. Nori, his elderly adopted cat, stirred from her place on his stomach while restless fingers combed over her short pale fur.

“A month,” Midoriya parrots. He offers an apologetic grimace and leans over where he lies horizontal, slumped and agitated, to fluff up the couch cushions behind him. The newly crowned Symbol of Peace obviously felt needlessly responsible for the situation at hand. Shouto had only allowed Tremor to grab him so Deku and Suneater could get the hostages out, after all.

“Taking a break isn’t so bad, Shouto. And Hawks told me you’ve yet to actually use any of your vacation days,” he continued. “Even Kacchan takes time off. Do you know how many hours you have to work to outdo Kacchan?”

“I’m sure you could tell me exact numbers”.

“Don’t be mean,” Midoriya said, dithering as he peers around the room, slightly unfamiliar now that the furniture has been temporarily moved around to make navigating the space easier. Thanks to an on-call specialist Shouto would still be able to walk in short bursts, but he’d have to gradually build up strength and stamina over the weeks to come.

A pleased sound reverberated in Midoriya’s throat as he finally discovered the TV remote, setting it beside Shouto’s phone on the arm of the chair. “Okay. There,” he hooked an ankle around the coffee table and dragged it a little closer. “If you need us to get you anything from the store just text us”.

Shouto grumbled. Midoriya sighed, fondly exasperated at the childish display. Before leaving he moved the nearby pair of crutches within reach, listing off all the things he can think of, “Hey, maybe you can catch up on Quirky Hearts now! Or read that series Iida said you’d enjoy. There’s that new app I heard about, too. Enigmail? That might be fun”.

The anonymous pen pal app, Enigmail, exploded in popularity after its release in the spring. Shouto barely knew a thing about it, only that you needed to be over eighteen and chatting partners were assigned at random. Nothing about that sounded tempting.

Midoriya’s suggestion hung over his head for the rest of that afternoon. Quirky Hearts droned on in the background. Halfway through the first episode Shouto had yet to retain any information. Nori hardly left her spot. Jaws stretched wide around a yawn, lips pulled back to display what remained of her teeth. He liked to think she sensed his inner turmoil, though realistically, she was likely too lazy to move.

Curiosity prevailed in the end. The logo featured a pink post mounted mailbox, the slot unhinged to receive a folded paper plane. Shouto opened the app onto a pretty basic interface that followed an almost pastel theme. The profiles are barebones. He supposed that was purposeful. It asked for pronouns and a nickname, offering the option to pick an icon from their default library, but nothing more.

From what he could discern skimming over the rules he would be assigned to a random chat room with another person in a speed dating style interaction. A timer would count down from two minutes and upon completion prompt the user to either switch partners or remain talking.

A simple concept. But anything had sounded better than sulking horizontally and staring dead eyed at reality television for the remainder of his night. And when was the last time he met somebody new?

Almost every username he could think up had been taken. Even his hero name was unavailable. In a last ditch effort he settled on a miraculously accepted Sooba and scrolled through the icons. “Hey, it looks like you,” he murmured, pleased by the regal white cat icon. She hadn’t heard him, but sunk her dull claws into the meat of his forearm as he turned the image to her, those dramatic yellow eyes dilating at his coo, “Don’t worry. You’re the only Nori in my life”.

Shouto clicked start.

The first few users are odd, and without tact. Others communicated in languages he couldn’t understand. He stuck around regardless—luckily the developers had thought to include a translation tool, and Shouto managed to befriend one or two people with innocuous pictures he’d taken on previous patrols alone.

Then there’s…

XpLoveGuest ▻ Hey sexy

By that point early evening had already flooded through his balcony doors and drenched everything in a gauzy orange glow. His nose wrinkled. “You have no idea what I look like,” he thought aloud, switching to his right hand to roll the ache from his left wrist

▻ ASL?

Shouto frowned in faint confusion. He minimised the app to search up the term. Results flowed in, and after a brief look over everything he discovered they all repeated the same description. It’s an old acronym.

His thumbs tapped across the keyboard in quick succession.

Sooba ▻ Age: 27 ▻ Location: Tokyo ▻ Sex: No thank you

The chat immediately disappeared. A loading symbol blinks in the centre of the screen. He snorted, and suddenly a new chat opened with a different username blinking at the top corner. It’s a bit on the nose.

‘InsertNameHere’.

You shared the same default cat icon, which he took as an immediate plus.

But a minute elapsed and nobody spoke. There was an unusual trepidation on your part. Shouto chewed his bottom lip. He contemplated starting the conversation when suddenly three dots skipped across the screen, indicating the other user was typing something.

InsertNameHere ▻ You’re not going to send me a picture of your dick, are you? ▻ If you have one that is.

Shouto’s mouth parted in soft surprise, then pressing defensively thin, and he had glanced around his living room as though someone were there to witness this weirdness alongside him.

Sooba ▻ I have one.

InsertNameHere ▻ Ok. Well I don’t want to see it.

Sooba ▻ It sounds like you see a lot of dicks.

Not once taking his eyes away from the screen, Shouto felt for the TV remote and paused the show, brow arching at your next response.

InsertNameHere ▻ And it sounds like you’re new here.

Sooba ▻ I am. My friend recommended I try this to cure my boredom while I recover.

A few beats passed. He eyed the countdown looming over your shared interaction, conscious of how little time is left. You were the first interesting person he’s come across. Though he supposed that isn’t saying much.

InsertNameHere ▻ Recover? That sounds bad. Are you alright?

Sooba ▻ Injury at work. I’ll be fine in a few weeks.

Just as you were beginning to respond, the timer cut out. Shouto reflexively expelled his frustration and Nori lifted her head toward the abrupt movement of his chest, ears twitching. She blinked up at him in disapproval for shaking her. “Sorry sweet girl,” he murmured, wearing a small smile as he scratched under her chin. So temperamental.

A familiar pop up in the cartoonish shape of a postcard covered the chat. Your messages blurred into the background. It read: Do you wish to continue corresponding?

Shouto clicked ‘Yes’. And apparently you did too, because your contact pinned itself to his in-app mailbox.

A melodic chime pinged from his phone. Confetti burst across the off white background in pixelated blooms.

✎ CONGRATULATIONS! You have a new pen pal ✐

InsertNameHere ▻ Guess I can keep you company in the meantime. ▻ You’re the only sane person I’ve come across so far.

Shouto smiled, even as the muscles in his cheeks protested. It’s a stubborn reminder of his condition. He repositioned himself to lessen the strain on his wrists, chin tucked to his chest where his phone is propped, and said:

Sooba ▻ I’d like that. :)

The fortnight that followed is slow to pass. An endless cycle of wake, stretch, eat, lightly exercise as instructed by his physiotherapist, play with Nori, eat, watch Quirky Hearts, stretch. Midoriya stopped by, bringing Iida along with him. Jirou sent him playlists to listen to. Fuyumi called every evening and shared the phone with his mother, gentle in their fretting. He assures them all that he’s coping just fine from the Shouto-shaped depression in his couch cushions.

But there’s also you; the stream of consciousness keeping his seams together, lest he fall apart from the complete and utter boredom he’s been forced to endure. In the beginning he wasn’t sure of the rules. Talking online is not his forte and neither is making new friends. That entire first morning was spent ruminating whether or not texting you ‘good morning’ was strange, and estimating how many times was appropriate to message you before he violated some invisible social boundary.

Normal had been irrelevant until now. Normal, to Shouto, consisted of avoiding his father’s phone calls, sending the occasional concussive text message—indecipherable to even the greatest cryptanalysts—and giving Nori updates in the 1A Grad group chat.

Sometimes he’ll open the app to see you typing, pausing, typing. Imagining you, a faceless someone, equally uncertain about your footing pleases him a little. In the end he figured if you didn’t want to talk to him, you wouldn’t respond. Evidenced by how you often saved him the trouble by messaging first, sometimes as early as five o'clock in the morning. Apparently you worked irregular hours in a rather unpredictable industry. Shouto weighs the possibility that you might be a fellow hero—or something close—more than he cared to admit.

Any trepidation he felt would always dwindle as soon as a notification lit up on the screen. He reads your username and his insides turn over.

InsertNameHere ▻ I’ve escaped to the break room. ▻ Do you ever think about how we don’t have muscles in our fingers? How fucked up is that?

Shouto smirks, pulled away from the conversation at hand. He unlocks the phone in his lap, beneath the kotatsu to remain hidden, an attempt at being inconspicuous as he replies.

Sooba ▻ I try not to think too much about anything.

You throw back a few laughing emoticons and satisfaction washes over him. “You’ve been texting a lot. Who’s got you smiling like that?” Natsuo asks slyly. He’s cross legged, tie tossed irreverently over his shoulder, shirtsleeves rolled up to his forearms, having come straight from work. “A special someone?”

Shouto forces the muscles in his face to relax into feigned nonchalance. “Nobody. Nothing,” he says unconvincingly.

Rei enters the room with a modest tray of dango before Natsuo can open his big mouth. She’s wearing a bi-coloured hoodie. The sleeves slip as she sets the treats down on the table beside the green tea Fuyumi brewed earlier; another gift from Yaoyorozu’s family travels. Natsuo’s face twitches under Shouto’s unbroken stare, which is daring him to bring it up while their mother is here.

Then his phone vibrates and any possibility of peace is shattered.

His mother glances curiously at him, expression soft in the dewy afternoon light, and she smiles. “Are you speaking to one of your friends?” she asks. “Please tell Deku ‘thank you’ for sending me your new Shouto hoodie. It’s very warm”.

The words fill something cavernous inside him. Soothes the ache with gentle wonderment. She smiles down at his hero logo printed proudly across her chest, rubbing the hem between her finger and thumb. A younger Shouto could have only ever imagined it.

“I’m not so sure it’s a friend this time,” Natsuo teases, spoken with a playful, sing-song cadence. “Shouto wouldn’t text at the table and risk facing Fuyumi’s wrath just for a friend”.

Shouto does not pout. “I would risk anything for my friends,” he says, affronted; anything maybe except his older sister's well intentioned nagging. “…It’s a new friend, that’s all”.

Rei perks up, settling on her knees and laying the kotatsu blanket over her thighs. The quiet sound of plates and cups clinking together fade in from the kitchen. Natsuo hums, unconvinced, and hides a smile behind his mug. It's moments like this, when the people he loves are gathered in one place, and he can hear them in every corner of his home, that he’s glad for buying a smaller apartment.

“That’s wonderful, Shouto,” Rei murmurs as Fuyumi pads into the room, Nori not long behind her, threading through his elder sister's ankles. She too arrived right after work, donning a suit-skirt and blouse. “What’s their name?”

His thoughts stutter. Fuyumi’s nose wrinkles seeing the panic stark on his face. “Who are we talking about?”

“Beats me. Ask him,” Natsuo says, taking a stick of dango between his teeth as he tries not to grin when Shouto’s phone vibrates a second time. “I want to know who’s so eager to talk to my little brother”.

InsertNameHere ▻ Sooooobaaaaaaa ▻ I’m on my lunch keep me company

Shouto snatches up his phone to respond. He brings it closer to his face to allow Nori access to his lap. She monopolises the space instantly. “You’re not a teenager anymore, Shouto,” Fuyumi laments. “No phones during family time”.

“I know. I’m sorry, nee-san. I just need to…” his thumbs dance over the keyboard, head ducked in amalgamated shame and apology.

Sooba ▻ Question ▻ InsertNameHere ▻ What is your name?

InsertNameHere ▻ At the personal info stage already? You move fast. ▻ Tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.

That stirs a faint unease in his gut and he understands better then. Anonymity is what gives people a sense of security and he isn’t exempt from that. In truth, right now he doesn’t want to know what might change if you knew who was on the other end yet.

Sooba ▻ You can call me whatever you want.

“Shouto”.

InsertNameHere ▻ That’s not even a line is it. ▻ Man. You’re dangerous.

Sooba ▻ ???

Shouto stares at the flickering dots by your username. You type, then stop. Type, then stop. As if you were deleting and starting over again. A habit of yours he’s quite endeared to. “Shouto!” Fuyumi huffs, poking a manicured finger into his side. Though short, the nail still causes him to flinch, and he’s quick to stretch his phone out of reach as her hand swipes through the air. “I mean it!”

Nori is jolted. She voices her immediate displeasure and Rei titters into her sleeve. The sleeve with his name stitched into the fabric. He breath catches, like it always does when his mother laughs. “Shouto doesn’t have to tell us anything until he’s ready,” she assured, offering him a gentle look—a look so sincere he feels awful for being evasive.

And his feeble resolve fractures.

“I don’t know,” he confesses bluntly. Natsuo and Fuyumi frown, at one another and then back at him, in unsettling synchrony cultivated through siblinghood. Shouto shrugs and pulls at a stray thread in his jeans cut loose under Nori’s claws, “I can’t tell you a name because I don’t know it”.

Natsuo appears mildly surprised. Fuyumi sinks into disbelief, feet curled beneath her body, going lax at his side. She drops her arm. “You… don’t know it?” she repeats.

“The app is anonymous,” he supplies hastily, attention flickering to his mother, far more worried about discerning her reaction. She’s unreadable. “My name isn’t on there either. We just talk about stuff”.

“Stuff?” his siblings' voices overlap, told apart only by the difference in tone. Natsuo’s shock has melted into some strange mix of pride and innuendo. “Is it that penpal thing everyone has been talking about? Enigma?”

“Enigmail,” he mutters. Natsuo lights up. Fuyumi does not share the sentiment.

“You’re a hero, Shouto! What if it’s someone with bad intentions?” she frets, brows drawn down and together, mouth pressed thin. “They could be tricking you. The internet is rife with predators, and—!”

“Nee-san. I’m a grown man. I understand the importance of internet safety,” Shouto interjects.

Natsuo slumps onto the table with a mawkish sigh, the sound steeped in fondness. “Let him have fun. You know he’s right, ‘Yumi, he’s an adult. It’s a wonder where all that time went,” he says. A few beats later he’s abruptly straightening his spine, “Gods, Fuyumi. You’re almost thirty five!”

Fuyumi glares from behind her glasses. She reaches across the kotatsu and swats lightly at his bicep, “Do you have to say it like that? You’re thirty one!”

“Please. Stop arguing,” Shouto says. He pets the unperturbed cat curled up on his thighs, “You might startle Nori”.

“Shouto. She’s deaf”.

Rei cuts their bickering short as she breathes, “When did you all get so big…” a serene smile hung on her lips, not a hint of grief to be seen. The answers surrounding your identity—or lack thereof—are lost to the nostalgia cloying in his throat.

They return to enjoying tea and dango after that. Shouto sets his phone face down on the floor and turns off vibrate. For now, he wants to ward off further interrogation.

His mother intuits this and steers the conversation in another direction, “Natsuo, how have things been at your new job? Are they treating you well?”

Things are good. Fuyumi’s class would soon be graduating, an award for Best Teacher polished and positioned on her desk. Natsuo had landed the job he always wanted—a medical welfare officer working closely with trauma survivors—and was already making waves. His mother, Rei, finally finished cultivating her traditional garden, weaving tales of lush foliage and water spouts. Touya too has been improving in his rehabilitation programme, according to his psychiatrist’s reports.

A tremor quakes through the tendons in Shouto’s forearm as he lifts his tea to sip the remaining dregs. Yaoyorozu outdid herself this time. If he hadn’t already known the price he would have discerned it from the refreshing, uniquely sweet taste. Thoughts of you cross his mind in these instances without warning. Would you like it? What’s your favourite tea?

Shouto scrunches his eyes shut as if it might wash those thoughts away. How is it that the stranger in his pocket possesses the ability to awaken such yearning in him; he feels mildly ashamed to have realised his loneliness with an audience.

The hour rolls into another. Shouto scrapes the last dango along the skewer with his teeth, jutting his chin to evade Nori’s curious sniffing. “This was lovely, Shouto. Thank you for having us over,” Fuyumi expressed as she carefully ran her hand along the feline's back.

Sensing the finality, Shouto motions to stand and sets Nori on the couch. Everyone protests it. He huffs, sliding a crutch over from where they lay nearby and letting it take his weight. A good decision, he thinks, inwardly grimacing as the blood rushes to his feet, prickling like violent white noise under his skin, and his knee almost gives out.

“I’m okay. The doctor told me I should be trying to move around more anyway,” he tells them, deigning to mention that he expended most of his energy tidying up this morning before their visit. “You’re my guests. I want to walk you to the door”.

Shouto tries not to bristle under their wary scrutiny. A cool hand slips around his arm then. His mother’s natural chill seeps through the sleeve of his shirt and allays the irritation. “We appreciate it, sweetheart,” she says.

“We do,” Fuyumi gently insists. “We’re happy to see you recovering well. Right, Natsu—?”

“Kiss tax!” Natsuo exclaims, oblivious to his surroundings. He scoops Nori up from the arm of the couch. She is comically tiny pressed against his chest. A continuous indignant drone rumbles in her throat as his brother peppers firm kisses to the top of her head.

“Put my baby down,” Shouto deadpanned.

“She isn’t your baby,” Natsuo slides one hand under Nori, the other carefully tucked into her armpits. He holds her close to Shouto’s face. Dramatic round eyes stare back; a flat expression emphasised by prominent cheekbones. Barely a hair's breadth between them, Nori begins to swipe her rough tongue against his scarred cheek. “See? You’re her baby”.

“Mine, too,” Rei rises to her tiptoes and scratches behind Nori’s ear, turning a smile toward Shouto. That same hand moved to cup his cheek. Though far taller than his mother, Shouto tips his head and finds himself feeling incredibly small as she presses a kiss to his forehead. “Your hair is getting long again,” she adds as she pulls away.

“I can trim it if it’s bothering you,” Fuyumi nods, sidling up beside Rei to survey the growth together. She brushes back the wayward strands framing his face and Shouto blinks. “Though, I think I like this look on you. What’s it called? A wolfcut?”

“I’m not sure. This is how Mina cut it a few months ago,” he replies.

Natsuo interjects without Nori in his grasp, now notably covered in short cat hair. He claps Shouto on the back and pulls him into a firm side hug, “She did good. Our handsome little Shouto”.

Initiating physical affection with his family was still a weary affair after all this time, though patently one sided. Having them touch him so freely always left him a little stupefied.

After they depart, Shouto hobbles to find his phone with all the grace of a newborn fawn. It is face down under the kotatsu cover right where he left it. And as it blinks to life, he skips the notifications from the 1A group chat to find your screen name at the bottom.

InsertNameHere ▻ My boss has these awful little nicknames for everyone in the agency. Mine’s ‘Maestro’. Nerd and butterfingers, too, but mostly Maestro. ▻ To do with my quirk and role, I suppose. Good for morale etc. His creativity astounds me (๑ಕ̴ _̆ ಕ̴) ﾝ？ ▻ Not that I don’t appreciate it but. Well shit, what about my morale? Lol ▻ You there? ▻ Sorry if I scared you off by getting personal.

Shouto worries at his bottom lip. Maestro. Something new about you. A foreign feeling churned in his chest. Faint, barely there, but new enough for him to notice. He’s not sure how to pin it; whether your mention of working at an agency bothers him or the fact that others, people who are not Shouto, get to see you everyday, close enough to give you a personal nickname.

Sooba ▻ Sounds like you have a good relationship. I’ve got a close friend who sounds similar. People say it’s just his love language ha ▻ And you didn’t scare me off. I’m the one who asked. Some family came to check on me.

He barely thinks it over before adding:

▻ My mother said hi by the way.

Your reply isn’t immediate but it is quicker than he expects.

InsertNameHere ▻ You’re right. I do like my boss sometimes. Maybe. And I love this job but I think it has aged me ten years. My ulcers have ulcers! ▻ Also—telling your family about me now too? We really are moving fast.

A soft huff of laughter jumps in his throat. There’s a distant clamoring near the kitchen. The sound of Nori’s bowl being pushed around the tile. Her absence clicks in place when he looks at the clock. He should feed her soon.

Sooba ▻ Technically it was only my mother, older sister and brother. ▻ But I can relate about the work stuff.

InsertNameHere ▻ Yeah? You mentioned being on leave because of an injury. Do you like your work?

That’s a question he has never asked himself, nor has he ever felt the need to. Heroism was the path life handed to him. The path he ultimately followed of his own volition. Shouto loves his family, his friends. He’s good at his job—enough to have made it into the top ten. And isn’t that all that matters?

Sometimes he would take a long, weary look out the revolving agency doors, recognise the heaviness in his bones and give the entire thing a second thought. But that never made any difference. Because people needed him. And he needed them too.

There’s a fleeting urge in that instance; a temptation to come clean, if only to sate his own curiosity. To compare the idealised image of what you looked like or how you sounded. He’s spent many a shameful night thinking up romanticised scenarios in his mind about what it would be like to meet you in real life. Shouto always squashes it. He doubts you’d believe him.

Ever perceptive to his moods, Nori chooses that moment to pad in from the kitchen and sit herself directly in his line of sight. She wails, demanding attention and lacking any volume control.

Right now he is not a hero but a man alone on two unsteady legs with a small living thing reliant upon him. He’s just Todoroki Shouto. He’s just—

Sooba ▻ As of right now my occupation is ‘Nori’s dad’. I like it pretty well.

Your reply is immediate.

InsertYourName ▻ Oh you have a kid?

Nori’s frustration grows. Her tail swishes back and forth, agitated. “It isn’t time to eat yet,” Shouto tells her, pulling up his phone camera and zooming in. On her next yowl the shutter goes off. The picture is perfect. Mouth wide open, large ears flat and nose wrinkled in displeasure, lips curled up to display her pink gums.

Sooba ▻ [IMG_0243] ▻ Something like that.

It’s a risk and he knows it. Though infrequently his team has posted Nori to his social media in the past at the delight of his fans—she was younger in those pictures, but if you were well acquainted with him there was the possibility of you putting the puzzle pieces together.

InsertNameHere ▻ Oh my god sooba. She’s so cute. Give her everything she asks for, you monster. ▻ Hey. Are those Ingenium themed crutch pads?

Anxiety rockets through him. He pulls up the photo and sure enough, his crutches are in the corner of the frame, laid within reach beside the couch. Secured around the handles are Ingenium themed pads to cushion his palms.

Sooba ▻ They are.

InsertNameHere ▻ Is he your favourite hero?

He turns his phone over in his hands before he types, overcome by an abrupt restlessness.

Sooba ▻ One of them. ▻ Do you have a favourite hero?

Nori wanders off in his periphery and not long after he hears the telltale sound of cardboard being torn apart. You stop typing, replies coming to a halt. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

It becomes clear you’re offline. Shouto spends the evening imagining your answer—ducking sheepishly at the idea that you might say him, then cringing at his reaction—and reading through his work emails.

Partnering with Hawks hasn’t been the worst thing in the world. Despite his carefree demeanour and general lack of personal space Hawks was professional and meticulous when it came to his work. As promised, Shouto was CC’d into every important thread and forwarded every significant incident report each day. Apparently there’s a big fundraiser tonight that he is unable to attend.

Hawks suggests matching Endeavor’s donation in spirit. Shouto doubles it.

The night air barely touches him. Leaning against the balcony railing he surveys the cityscape. A kaleidoscope canvas. He stares until the pinpricks of light stretch and bend, streaking his vision, regaining shape when he blinks. Nori is curled around his calf, playfully kicking her back legs at his ankle. She’s careful to never break skin.

It’s nearing midnight when you get back to him. A disconcertingly vague reply of:

InsertNameHere ▻ I’ve had enough of heroes.

Shouto waits for you to elaborate before presuming anything nefarious. He would hate for Fuyumi to be correct. She’d never let him forget it.

▻ Shit that made me sound bad, didn’t it? I promise I’m not a villain

He snorts, reclining himself into one of the chairs on his patio. Yaoyorozu insisted upon helping decorate the space. This piece in particular had been chosen by Uraraka, if only for its cocoon, egg-like shape. She always sat in it if she came over; Shouto can’t say he blames her, now curling up inside it himself, leaving one foot flat to the floor for Nori to cling to.

Sooba ▻ Only a little bit lol.

InsertNameHere ▻ I just mean for today! I’ve had enough for today! ▻ There’s… a whole lot of them at this work event I’m attending is all. ▻ See! ▻ [IMG_0589]

It’s the first picture you’ve ever sent to him that wasn’t a meme. Your legs are crossed, turned inward to show more of the showroom floor. There are people everywhere. You’ve overturned your lanyard in your lap, straps dotted with the charity logo, to display the back of your security pass. No identification. Just proof that you’re there—

Proof that you’re a real person, giving colour to the vague, shapeless figure in his head. The figure once outlined only by random tidbits, like your favourite food, the music you like, the movies you loved as a child. The figure now clad in tight fitting, seemingly pearlescent sheer material from the waist down.

—Shouto swallows dryly.

You have nice hands. He tries not to linger on that.

▻ That’s why I disappeared, btw. Sorry about that. ▻ I feel weirdly underdressed.

The logo on your lanyard has recognition prickling in the back of his mind. Hours earlier Midoriya had texted him two pictures from the ‘HEROKIND’ fundraiser Hawks mentioned. One being a selfie of him and an aggrieved Bakugo, each wearing their own fitted suit, and another of Uraraka in an evening gown stood behind the imposing silhouette that was his father, stealthily pointing her middle finger at his back.

He saved that one to his camera roll.

Sooba ▻ In that case I will close the HPSC anonymous tip line ▻ Sometimes people try too hard at those events and forget why they’re there. You look good from what I see.

InsertNameHere ▻ How very gracious (´・｀ ) ▻ Sounds like you have some experience with this kind of thing. My condolences lmao ▻ But thank you. I’m glad you think so.

Shouto entertains the idea of sending you something back. His eyes surreptitiously flicker around as though being watched. Nothing revealing who he is, but enough to maybe—

The camera captures a few of the modest flower beds and cat grass lining his balcony, Nori coiled around his bare ankle. He looks at his hand. Shuffles his hips further down to mirror your angle and flexes his fingers in his lap. Heat floods his body, guided by the shameless desire to inform the image you might have of him in your own head, too.

Sooba ▻ [IMG_288] ▻ At least you’re having more fun than I am.

You type for a long ten second interval. Then restart. A tedious minute elapses and just as regret creeps in, your messages come through.

InsertNameHere ▻ I’m not so sure about that. ▻ Actually it would probably be more bearable if you were here with me.

The sound of his heartbeat floods his ears. So warm it’s like he’s standing under the sun. Shouto belatedly realises it’s just his quirk, as the steam blows out through his nose. Nori butts his ankle in complaint. He bends to take her into his arms, feeling ridiculous and somewhat bad at being a person.

Sooba ▻ Think so? ▻ Just so you know I have been called socially inept on numerous occasions.

InsertNameHere ▻ Then we can hide together in the corner, get tipsy and sneak bits of the fancy spread.

This—doesn’t happen to Shouto. “Nori. I have feelings for a person I’ve never seen,” he pushes his face into Nori’s fur, and she purrs, feeling the vibrations of his voice. Admitting it aloud only highlights the absurdity. He feels out of his depth. And he decides he’s glad for the anonymity. Grateful, even. Lest he publicly humiliate himself and set off every fire alarm in the vicinity.

Sooba ▻ That sounds perfect.

InsertNameHere ▻ I’ll hold you to that. There’s another one of these coming up in two weeks. ▻ Prepare yourself (ꈍᴗꈍ)

“You’re really not helping,” he continues. Nori rubs insistently under his chin. “Fine, fine. I get it,” She croaks as he presses into the touch, mimicking her movement and cradling her as he gets up.

Before retiring to bed he pulls up Yaoyorozu’s contact. He settles into a comfortable position in the covers, propping his phone on his stomach, and he types:

Shouto : 00:14

I think I need help.

Consciousness eases into him slowly. It’s a sleepy pastel morning. Dust dances in the soft spotlight cast through his curtains. Shouto’s jaw unhinged to release a long yawn, limbs stretching every which way under the covers as his joints click.

Shouto props up on his elbow, twisting in place to reach and unplug his phone. He blinks away the blurriness hemming his vision and squints at the stack of messages from Enigmail right at the top of his notifications.

InsertNameHere ▻ Oh shit. Hero Shouto donated double the amount of what Endeavor gave and he couldn’t even be here tonight. That’s hilarious. Can that guy get any hotter ▻ I didn’t intend for that to be a pun. ▻ These cocktails are becoming suspiciously easy to drink. ▻ You’re probably sleeping like a good boy but I miss you. Wake up! ▻ Have you ever had feelings for someone you’ve never met

The loose tongued messages stop there, at around one o’clock in the morning. Then there’s a seven hour jump to only ten minutes ago.

▻ Oh my god. Please ignore all of that. And then kill me.

Hardly awake, sleepsand still crusty at the corners of his eyes, Shouto’s mind reels as he considers pinching himself. He doesn’t know which part to focus on. Your apparent—and unknowing—attraction to him as a public figure or the implication that you had feelings for Sooba.

But you’re obviously embarrassed. So he bites back a smile and starts with something simple.

Sooba ▻ Good morning to you too ▻ Remember to drink water and take some bufarin.

Sitting upright with legs hung over the bed, Shouto clicks out to his text app by way of distraction. There’s another photo from Midoriya. This time it’s just him. Speckled light glitters along his cheeks, expression beaming as the hero holds a piece of sashimi in front of his pink face. Shouto heart reacts to the text.

InsertNameHere ▻ Send more Nori

He chuckles, sleepy. That makes known Nori’s absence. Strange, he muses. She is usually the one to wake him. Rather than search he scrolls through his albums to find a photo you hadn’t seen yet. It was taken a few months ago. He’d slipped his camera under her chin and pressed the shutter when she looked down, looming over the viewer with a dumbfounded look.

Sooba ▻ [IMG_142]

After a few minutes with no response, assuming that you had accepted his bribe and sought out some painkillers, Shouto braced against his bedside table and stood, phone in hand. Every muscle in his body felt like wet sand, held together by too tight skin. This morning, though, the incessant ache that beat alongside his heart was gone.

Walking still felt as though he was wading through molasses but strength was steadily returning to his physique.

The floor is cool under the soles of his feet as they shuffle down the hallway. There’s a noise in the kitchen that gives Shouto pause. A voice, hushed yet high pitched voice, cooing like someone might to an infant.

He drops into an ungainly defensive stance, pyjama bottoms and all. Worst case scenario they at least hang low on his hips, loose around his legs, leaving room for flexible movement. He rounds the corner without a sound.

And relief beats like a drum in his chest.

Yaoyorozu meets his gaze from the kitchen island where one hand is petting a very happy Nori, sipping from a glass of water with the other. Her face is bare, shadows soft under her eyes, hair pulled haphazardly into a low ponytail as if she had just rolled out of bed and rushed here. Creati in a bleach stained hoodie and leggings. The press would have a field day.

The sight brings a small smile to his face. Their schedules have been misaligned for months. It’s good to see her—if only her expression had not then darkened. “Todoroki Shouto,” she says with all the authority of an older sibling, “What on earth was that text last night? You had me worried sick”.

“Text?” he parrots dumbly, looking to check his phone.

InsertNameHere ▻ Painkillers acquired. Thank you Nori ▻ I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable last night.

“I let myself in with the key you gave me. I hope that was alright,” she continues, quiet and apologetic now. He skims over your reply and switches to check his text app. Sure enough the last thing he sent to her was an ambiguous plea for help.

“Of course it’s alright,” he replies, regarding her with a meaningful look to cover for how sheepish he truly feels. “I gave you the key because you’re always welcome here”.

Yaoyorozu smiles on the end of an exhale, idle hands smoothing down Nori’s cheeks. “Of course,” she echoes, examining his form closely now her anxiety is assuaged. Over him comes the muted awareness that he’s being judged. “How about we go on a short walk for once, since I’m here? The weather is quite pleasant”.

Shouto steps forward with mouth downturned, “Momo, I assure you I’m fine. You don’t need to walk me like a dog,” he says, wincing thereafter at his bluntness. She only hums.

“When was the last time you went anywhere?”

Very uselessly he replies, “I go places”.

Yaoyorozu’s potential to lead and assert had never escaped him, not even in his teenage years, and it was something he staunchly admired her for. But never has he resented his own affinity for compliance more than he does the moment she ignores his pouting and tells him to finish his morning gait training and get changed.

Dressed casually and statuesque in the centre of his living room, left leg lifted to mimic a flamingo, Shouto’s limbs shake far less than previous days. He can hold his phone while he balances now, too. You haven’t sent any new messages. Probably waiting for him to assure you that he isn’t upset, but even so he’s a smidge disappointed.

Sooba ▻ I’m here. A friend appeared in my kitchen. ▻ You don’t need to apologise for anything, I wasn’t uncomfortable. I've received worse drunk texts I assure you.

He switches to his right leg and chews the inside of his cheek. Facing villainy was far less daunting than navigating his feelings.

▻ I thought it was cute.

That’s about as brave as he felt today.

Yaoyorozu resurfaces from the coat closet with a jacket in hand and a pep in her step. There’s something else coiled around her wrist. Nori’s cat leash, red and attached to a blue harness, matching Shouto’s hero colours.

“Can we bring her along?” she asks, bouncing in place. Upon recognising the leash Nori makes her opinion known, releasing a drawn out yowl. “Oh please, Shouto”.

Nori didn’t regularly enjoy walking but she had been trained to do so from a young age. She was peculiar and picky, and Shouto trusted her to let him know if ever she wanted anything—something she never failed to do.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs, bending to tap her nose. It wrinkles, a stray tooth flashing between her lips. “If you get tired I won’t carry you”.

Nori blinks. A lie and they both know it.

Shouto sighs, defeated. “Okay. She hasn’t wanted to in a while so I can’t really deny her”.

“Wonderful,” Yaoyorozu breathes, handing him his jacket before undoing the harness and crouching to slip Nori’s paws through one by one. “We can grab a warm drink to go from the cafe downstairs and talk”.

Shucking the jacket on and flattening the collar, Shouto dithers in the genkan with his crutches nearby. He tucks the wayward strands of hair into a knitted hat and loops his mask around his ears. The scar couldn’t be helped but atleast this way a majority of people would not think to look twice.

They leave the apartment together, all three. In the short time it takes to step out of the building's lobby you still haven’t replied. He shoves his free hand in his pocket, fingers clasped around his phone in case it vibrates.

The establishment across from Shouto’s home has been open for longer than he’s been alive. An elderly couple named Pierre-Louis and Tsutomu run the place. The two men moved back to Japan decades ago to care for Tsutomu’s sick mother, and with Pierre-Louis’ incredibly unusual coffee quirk ‘Bean Boost’, opening a cafe seemed the right route to take.

Since moving here they’ve endeared themselves to Shouto. If they see him on his way to work Tsutomu will often rush to offer him a takeout cup. This morning is no different.

“Mon petit chou!”

Tsutomu slides open the walk up window and calls his name, beckoning them closer. The breeze tousles the short grey curls around his ears. Shouto’s heart near stops when the older man leans out to greet Nori as she stretches upward and almost loses balance. “Tsutomu-san, please be careful,” he says.

“I am still rather spry, young man. Don’t worry about me,” he returns happily, gaze moving to Yaoyorozu when he rights himself. “Lovely to see you again, Momo-chan. Have you come to rescue our prince from his cave?”

Indignant, Shouto grumbles, “I wish you would all stop acting as though I’m a hermit. I haven’t been stuck indoors that long”.

The two level him with a look of doubt. Tsutomu gently pinches his cheek and rubs a thumb over the swell above the mask. “Your pallor betrays you, Shouto. Let the sun kiss you more, no? We worry”.

“Tout va bien?” another voice interjects. Pierre-Louis squeezes up next to his husband, ignoring his disgruntled noise, and brightens when he sees Shouto on the other side. “Mon chou, you’ve emerged! And with two beautiful girls at your side”.

Yaoyorozu muffled a laugh while Nori busied herself chewing on the nearby grass, leash never pulling too far. “Pierre-Louis,” Shouto murmurs, unable to keep the fond lilt out of his voice. “It’s good to see you both”.

“And you,” he beams. The wrinkles by his eyes deepen. Shouto never met his grandparents but he thinks perhaps this is the closest he’ll get. “Are you going anywhere special?”

“We’re just taking a walk, Pierre-Louis. I thought it might be nice to get a warm drink for the journey,” Yaoyorozu spoke warmly and nudged his side. “Where better than here?”

“Bien sûr! Will that be one earl grey and one green tea?”

Shouto nods at her questioning glance, “Loose leaves today, please”, he adds.

Pierre-Louis disappears to make their drinks, shortly returning with two takeout cups, steam pluming softly from the mouth. Shouto swaps his crutch to his right side and accepts the green tea with his left hand, heat seeping through the cardboard sleeve.

“How much will it be—?”

“Nonsense,” Tsutomu interrupts with a sudden switch to English. He shakes his finger, silencing any protest, and his husband gives a resolute nod in support. “Take it, mon chou. Call it a family discount”.

Shouto bids them a dazed goodbye, leaving the walk up window; a lump in his throat that he tries to wash down with hot heat, tongue impervious to the temperature. “They’re very sweet. I’m glad you have them,” Yaoyorozu muses. “What is it they call you? ‘Chou’?”

“Mon petit chou,” he repeats clumsily, accent slightly gawky. “I asked Aoyama a while ago and he told me it means ‘my little cabbage’”.

Yaoyorozu pauses and Nori continues ahead, leaping up onto a nearby half wall with her tail hooked high. She pounces on a crack between the bricks, blissfully unaware of the nearby traffic, trying to eat a ladybug.

“My little cabbage?”

Shouto hums, squinting up at the early sun, rising in a blanket of pale blue and mottled grey clouds. The air is refreshingly cool. “Apparently it’s something French parents call their children,” he shrugs, as though he were not then warmed from the inside out at the reminder that they truly did see him as one of their own.

“That’s lovely,” she says, slowing to match his pace. He’s not tired so much as he is enjoying the morning dew. They follow a familiar path. Turning down a hidden narrow walkway that leads to a neighbourhood park. Nori’s chitters fill the spaces left by comfortable silence.

Yaoyorozu suggests sitting at one of the picnic tables. Tall trees flanked the area on either side, columns rising to create a weave of foliage that shrouded them in gold. The old wood is cold under his thighs. Nori hops up onto the bench, ears flat to her head, and hisses at a dog across the way which hasn’t even noticed her presence.

“So,” Shouto glances over toward Yaoyorozu as she speaks. Her arms are settled on the tabletop, fingers curled around the disposable cup and swirling the liquid inside. “Are you going to tell me what you were panicking about last night?”

He picks at the cardboard sleeve, twisting it, and supposes this was inevitable. Slipping down his mask, Shouto brings the tea to his lips in distraction, grasping for a way to articulate his situation without simply saying: “I have feelings for my anonymous online friend”.

In the end he realises there really isn’t any other way.

Yaoyorozu listens intently, as he expected she would. Of all his well intentioned friends Shouto knew she’d be the most open to his reasoning. Her expression visibly softens while he wrings his hands and rambles about the palpable connection that he first attributed to his own loneliness—

Rambles about you; you, the one now carried with him everywhere, the presence weaving his days into tapestry; you, accepting of his random thoughts, giving of your own; you, unintentional charm and bad jokes and sharp wit; you, faceless and voiceless, the one to receive first and last thought.

He expels his fears. Concerns of who you really are. Of what you might think upon learning his identity—if you wouldn’t like him anymore, or if his own feelings might change after meeting you offline, and if that makes him a terrible, shallow person.

Then he mentions the photo from the Herokind event and her head cocks in interest. “May I see?” she asks. Shouto murmurs his agreement and pulls his phone out from his pocket.

You’ve messaged him.

InsertNameHere ▻ Appeared? Like, teleported?? ▻ I’m glad we’re ok. I would miss you otherwise. ▻ But you can’t know I’m cute. You’ve never seen me lol

Shouto is typing back with unfounded confidence before he realises it.

Sooba ▻ I don’t need to see you to know that.

Then his eyes flicker to Nori, staring up at him clad in her Shouto themed harness, lip caught on her scraggle tooth. He takes a quick picture. Examining it before sending, he notices Yaoyorozu’s slender hands in the background, and wonders if you might be jealous.

He scoffs inwardly at his own childishness and sends the photo.

▻ Not teleported hah, just came in with a spare key. We are out walking now.

“Sorry—I just wanted to reply first,” Shouto clears his throat and presses his phone into her now proffered hand. Given without question.

Something flickers in her expression at your photo; it’s a brief shift that flies over her gaze like a shadow. Her thumbs pinch and part on the screen as she zooms in. “I was there for a few hours last night,” she says. “I recognise this outfit. Would it not be easier to check the list of attendants?”

“…That doesn’t feel fair,” he admits soberly. “I know that’s silly”.

“It’s not silly,” she affirms with a small smile, fingers now moving as she types. “You are aware of your position. You have the resources to find them and presumably they do not. Of course it seems unfair”.

It’s testament to their friendship that he feels no need to check what she’s doing. Her brows furrow slightly, then arch into her hairline, eyes brightening. Pleased, Yaoyorozu locks the device and hands it back.

“What did you do?”

“Don’t worry. I didn't do anything untoward,” she replies. “But I do know who you’re talking to now”.

Shouto’s fingers flex around his phone. “You do?” he breathes, incredulous. Just like that?

Yaoyorozu nods, lending her attention to Nori. “I don’t have a name. But if you want to find them I think you’ll want to speak to Bakugo-kun”.

“Bakugo…?” Shouto echoes.

“I believe your friend may work for him,” she clarifies. Ah. The clamouring in his head comes to a halt. In hindsight it’s clear. Your nicknames make sense now.

“I’ll think about it,” he swallows, bringing his tea to his face for another sip. He finds it tepid and warms it again with his quirk. Yaoyorozu doesn’t push.

They spend the hour catching up on the things Shouto has missed in the weeks he’s been absent, and the weeks prior. Midoriya’s claims of him being a workaholic become a reality he can’t outrun. Tea finished, Shouto takes both cups and disposes of them in the recycling bin. Yaoyorozu stands from the picnic table with Nori cradled to her breast—Nori stares back at him, smug—and they make their way back to his apartment.

“Shouto,” she coaxed, now standing outside the tall glass doors leading to the lobby. Nori’s claws sink into the collar of his jacket as she’s passed to him. He takes her leash from Yaoyorozu, bunching it up; and she covers his enclosed fist with her hand.

“Go for it,” she tells him, giving a firm squeeze. “I’m rooting for you. Just be safe”.

Stepping back into his apartment, his cheeks are warm and his limbs are trembling. You’ve buzzed inside his pocket three times.

InsertNameHere ▻ Oh my god. How can such a perfect creature exist? And her harness! Shouto colours? ▻ I hope you’re having fun. <3 ▻ You know, you never answered my question from last night

“You don’t think I’m hopeless, do you Nori?” Shouto asks the thin air—Nori has already scrambled toward the nearby shoebox, bunny kicking at the corner as she chews. He sighs.

Yaoyorozu’s encouragement rings loud in his ears while he replies.

Sooba ▻ Yes. I think I’ve had feelings for a person I’ve never met.

And it feels like a confession.

Shouto sees the week come to an end before he finds enough strength, physically and mentally, to visit Bakugo’s agency.

Your conversations have evolved. They carry a flirty undertone now, the verbal toeing of the line that makes his heart pitter patter. You send pictures throughout the day. Always angled away from your face. Swathes of skin. A pen between your fingers. Stacked paperwork and an empty coffee cup. The burgeoning skies on your walk home. Comfortable at home, your legs crossed over the other, a fluffy slipper hanging at the end of your foot.

He never knew so much thought had to go into making a photo appear candid, effortless. At one point he purposefully shuffled his workout shorts lower on his hips and spent the remainder of the afternoon mortified with his head deep between the couch cushions.

Liking another person is humiliating. He feels exposed, like a flesh wound that you won’t stop prodding.

InsertNameHere ▻ [IMG_412] ▻ I hope you have a good day!

You’re sitting at your desk, presumably. A slide knot bracelet hangs loose around your wrist. Hand held out over the mouse and keyboard, you’ve pinched your thumb and finger—smudged with black in—together to make a heart shape. It’s cute. You’re cute. He files the pose away for any later run-ins with paparazzi. His PR has been getting on about trying harder when they photograph him for months.

Shouto’s body rocks with the train car as it careens down the tracks and readjusts his grip on his crutch. He smiles behind his mask, sinking into the confines of his hood which he has pulled over his cap. There are eyes on him today. It can’t be helped in such close quarters. But they’re uncertain—too afraid to bother him and be wrong about his identity.

Sooba ▻ You too :) ▻ Remember to take breaks. I read that you should spend five minutes away from your screen every hour.

InsertNameHere ▻ You have to stop making me smile at work. My coworkers think I have a secret husband or something.

Sooba ▻ I promise to send you off with a homemade bento tomorrow morning.

InsertNameHere ▻ And a kiss.

Shouto grabs the nearby pole as he is almost knocked on his feet. Passengers board, others depart, and his heart hammers in his throat like a fist.

Sooba ▻ A kiss?

You’re still typing a reply when Shouto hears the hesitant evocation of his name. It’s timid and hushed, belonging to a person trying to restrain their excitement. She covers her mouth with a gasp when he meets her eyes.

“It is you,” she bubbles. A metallic taste pervades the static air around her, short hair wiggling on end as if it were responding directly to her excitement; behaviour unbefitting of a typical reporter, he notes.

Your text box jumps onto the screen in his peripheral vision, bumping up the chat. He jolts and angles the phone away from her just to be safe.

InsertNameHere ▻ Yeah! A bento box and a kiss to get me through the day, obviously. As my husband.

There are three others a few feet away, huddled together beside a pillar and abuzz with energy. Mild dread churns in his stomach. Definitely not a reporter, then. “If you have a moment…” the young woman spares a glance over her shoulder and her friends excitedly encourage her forward. “Um. Would you maybe be interested in—”

“No,” Shouto replies. The young woman winces at his tone. Ah. She’s embarrassed now. He really should make a habit of lying in consideration for other people's feelings. Fuyumi did mention that, though not in as many words. Before her face can crumple further he continues, “I’m very sorry, that was rude of me. I’m in a bit of a hurry”.

Her relief is palpable, near contagious. Expression softened with understanding she folds her hands against her stomach and ducks into a slight bow. “Of course, I understand,” she says. Somehow it makes him feel worse. “And—I’m glad you’re well, Shouto-san. We’re all wishing you a complete recovery”.

Gratitude bubbles inside him. He smiles, pressing a finger over his mask, and her complexion turns a bright shade of pink. She nods in understanding, scurrying to her friends.

Shouto departs the train without disruption. The conductor takes stock of his gait and the crutch at his side, offering to lay out the ramp, but he politely refuses, stepping onto the platform with ease. He feels good; closer to his other self, the one before his muscles were run through a metaphorical centrifuge.

Sooba ▻ Obviously. ▻ I suppose I can add ‘house husband’ alongside ‘Nori’s dad’ on my list of occupations now.

Blast Zone isn’t far, a fact for which he’s grateful. Bakugo insisted on rooting himself in the centre of the city, right in the spot where all transport routes seemed to meet; there stood the symbol of victory’s headquarters, imposing in the skyline.

According to journalists at PowrStruct magazine The Blast Zone agency is an ode to modern architecture. A steel frame structure surrounded by reinforced concrete, an outer coating embossed with a texture that gives the award winning building the fragile appearance of having been meticulously glued back together while simultaneously being both blast proof and earthquake proof. Shouto cares not for design in general. He does, however, steal a mini Dynamite themed pen from the front desk while he’s waiting to be signed in.

There’s a thin chain attached to the cap with a Chibi Bakugo hung on the end. Sue him.

“He’ll see you now, Shouto-san,” the receptionist states, pupil-less eyes blinking back at him. Shouto tucks the pen into his sleeve, feeling foolish and somewhat nervous. “Head on up to the office on the twelfth floor. He knows you’re on your way”.

Shouto clears his throat. “Thank you,” he says, weakness in his knees that has nothing to do with his nerves. The Ingenium handle pads cushion his palm as he braces onto his crutches, supporting him toward the nearby lift. There are eyes on his back as he goes. They’re heavy, lingering like physical touch. Something in him spoils at the unnecessary pity.

The lift remains mercifully empty. He presses the twelfth floor button and it glows green. The ride up is smooth, and quick. Double doors slide open onto a sprawling office space flooded with natural light. No one bothered to glance in Shouto’s direction as he gawked. If he remembered correctly this area was specifically for employees that worked closest to Bakugo. They’re all so nonplussed and focused. No nonsense. He likes that.

“Loser,” Bakugo grunts. He appeared from thin air, standing aside with arms crossed over his chest, eyeing Shouto’s stiff form with suspicion. “What the fuck are you doing here? You’re still on leave”.

Shouto makes a noncommittal noise, inwardly miffed. He straightens his posture and takes more of his own weight. “We haven’t seen each other in a while. Maybe I missed you,” he says. Bakugo’s expression suddenly soured, as though he swallowed a lemon, mouth thin against his teeth.

Amusing as it is, acknowledging the disconnect aloud makes him truly accept the distance he had put between himself and his friends; how he’d worked too hard, untied himself from the tangle of their lives and ended up isolated.

“Nori told me to say ‘hi’ by the way”.

Bakugo sweetens. “She like that cardboard house I sent you?”

“She already destroyed it,” Shouto admits. And Bakugo laughs, irritation split by a crooked grin.

“Atta girl,” he nods in approval, turning on his heel and starting toward a pair of towering doors. “Oi. You comin’? Or are you going to stand there all damn day?

Dynamite’s office is anything but corporate. Professional, yes, but it’s also so plainly personal in a way that screams Bakugo. A setup reconfigurable for days that he can’t sit still, a folding treadmill under his large mahogany desk to keep him moving. Bakugo works better on his feet, something Shouto knows well.

Built in shelves line the accent wall, filled with framed pictures of friends and family, newspaper clippings and awards. There are even fan creations—mostly from his debut era, when being favoured felt far more significant, but Shouto finds it sweet all the same.

Walking ahead of him, Shouto approaches the desk. Bakugo lingers for a beat to holler something out the door before returning to his desk.

Two consult chairs face the head office chair opposite. Lowering into one of them, Shouto props his crutch up and takes his phone out of his pocket. Ever hopeful, he unlocks it, opens Enigmail and refreshes the chat list. There are new messages from a few other people he added in the beginning, but nothing from you. He tries not to sigh too obviously.

“What’s got you all fuckin’ mopey?" Bakugo leaned over to look down at the phone. Shouto hastily locked it and the explosive hero narrowed his eyes at the impassive veil Shouto pulled over his face.

“Nothing. How did the first Herokind event go?” he asks, fiddling with his newly acquired Dynamite pen. “Midoriya always sugar coats things for me”.

“Went fine. You didn’t miss anything,” Bakugo waves off. The leather office chair creaks as he leans back. “Boring as all hell since it was just the kickstarter. Food mild enough for a toddler to eat and too much alcohol. The auction will be more interesting. That birdbrain partner of yours was hilarious, though”.

“Hawks?” Shouto’s mouth twitches, failing to conceal his mirth. “What did he do this time?”

“Spent the night antagonising your shitty old man,” Bakugo pauses for a brief moment and rescinds his words. “Or aggressively flirting. Can't tell the difference with him”.

Shouto keeps his thoughts to himself on that one.

“Ended with Endeavor triggering all the sprinklers at the after party though,” Bakugo ends, eyes crinkled under the weight of his wicked grin. Shouto pursed his lips tight. Amusement huffed through his nose. He imagines his father standing in the middle of the room, pathetically soaked through, wisps of smoke rising from his put-out embers, and he laughs.

Bakugo looks rather pleased by the reaction. But then his gaze flickers over Shouto’s shoulder and his brow arches expectantly. “Did’ya need something? I shouted for the Egghead because I thought you were on your break”.

Shouto’s laughter dwindles as he follows Bakugo’s line of sight. His breath catches. An employee stands in the doorway peeking around a tall box of paperwork. Wide eyed as they examine him.

Wrapped around their wrist is a familiar sliding knot bracelet.

“I just—uh…”

His head spins. There’s a smudge on your finger where your pen's ink leaked, just like in the photo. Could this be you? You are—

“What the hell has gotten into everybody today,” Bakugo tuts, pushing up from his desk and striding over to receive the box himself. Your shoulders slump when you are relieved of the weight. Bringing your hands to your chest and massaging the joints.

—still looking right at him. Cute. He cannot help but think how cute you are, tripping over your words, losing your footing.

“Oi, maestro,” Bakugo clicks his fingers in your face and startles you out of your stupor. “Get it together. I need you with a clear head when that sleepy bastard from the HPSC gets here”.

You glare at Bakugo, “Mera-san is the least of your problems, Dynamite. Worry about yourself and the six unanswered emails I forwarded to you from the claims manager”.

You’re beautiful. And your voice, it’s so—his lips part, and he tries to speak, to interrupt Bakugo’s incessant teasing, but words fail him.

“Whatever. Those insurance claims are bullshit and you know it,” Bakugo mutters. He turns and moves to shove the box of paperwork beside the desk. His mouth downturns into a smirk when he stands and notices your attention drawn to Shouto once again.

“Is that everything? I’d appreciate it if you stopped gawking,” Bakugo drawls, a dry rasp to his taunting that seems to embarrass you further. Shouto isn’t sure he’s breathing. You’re right there. You’re within reach and he’s rooted to his chair.

“You’re such a—! Y’know what, no, I’m leaving now,” replying harshly you start toward the open door where you come to an abrupt halt. Shouto feels the distance like the pull of a leash. You incline your head into a short bow, losing strength in your voice as you acknowledge him, “Have a good afternoon, Shouto-san”.

Then you’re gone. He stares after you dumbly. In all the years he has worked in the hero industry Shouto has never been more thankful for choosing to make his given name his brand than he is now.

Bakugou falls heavily in his chair and sighs.

Shouto swallows, “Who was—”

“Don’t,” Bakugo stresses the command, as though telling a dog to heel. Shouto can feel the heat behind his pointed glare. Undeterred, his eyes linger after you, stuck on the spot where you once stood, heart beating like a hummingbird’s wing.

“I mean it, Halfie. Run off the only competent PA I’ve ever had with your pisspoor flirting and I will kill you,” Bakugo barrels on. There’s no true malice but it comes through gritted teeth, like he has resigned himself to the impending stupidity. Because Shouto is already looking back at him with that small, impish curl to his lips.

“I’m not that terrible at flirting,” he says.

“Making eye contact for three uninterrupted minutes is not flirting,” Bakugo scoffs.

Shouto hums. “And what is? Pulling their pigtails for ten years?”

“Watch it,” Bakugo grouses, bottom lip jutting. He kicks the leg of Shouto’s chair and he laughs; he’s missed this.

Hoping to get back on track then, Shouto asks, “Will you be attending the charity auction, then?”

The other man grunts an affirmative. “I’ve put some memorabilia and shit up to be sold. Sparky somehow convinced Eijirou to auction himself off for a date,” Bakugo snorts and gives an amused shake of his head. “I’m willing to bet he’ll rake in at least ten million yen. Minimum”.

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Shouto agrees. Kirishima had grown a lot since graduation all those years ago. Pair a stocky build with a big hearted guy like him and everyone is tripping over themselves to get a piece. “Is he nervous that he won’t make much?”

Bakugo clicks his teeth, interlocking his hands across his midsection and getting comfortable. “He really hasn’t got a fucking clue. The HPSC schmuck I’ve got to talk to today has already suggested extra security in case certain high profile guests get resentful,” he says. Crimson peeks through narrowed eyes, considering, calculating. “Are you gonna go? You’re looking steady enough”.

The last Bakugo had seen of him was directly after the incident—crumpled into the fetal postion and involuntarily spasming with six second intervals. Unable to speak, to walk, to turn his head. Worst case scenario presented on scene was that he could lose the ability to function at all, and Shouto had been thrown into a pit of depression so oppressive that he withdrew from himself all together.

There’s an underlying relief in Bakugo’s question that comforts him in ways he wasn't aware he’d been seeking. Pleased, Shouto drags his crutch between his thighs and twists at the padding around the handle. “I’ll be in attendance. I plan on bidding on a few things. David Shield’s original design sketches maybe,” he admits. “…Will ‘maestro’ be there?”

Bakugo seems to parse the response carefully, as if it cracked open a hole into Shouto’s psyche. “Izuku is shooting for those, you know. I’m the one that’s gotta deal with him cryin’ if he loses”.

“I know,” Shouto’s mouth splits in a wry, intentional smile. “If I’m not outbid then I’m happy to give him whatever I win”.

“Shill bidding? Ha. Izuku never believes me when I tell him you’re secretly a dick,” Bakugo smirks. A thought visibly crosses his mind. He props his elbow on the arm of his chair, chin resting in his palm and considering Shouto closely. “…My PA will be there for the auction. Working. So if you show me up—”

“I won’t,” Shouto interjects.

“—I will see you to the pearly gates myself,” Bakugo continues, unperturbed. There’s no true malice to his tone, moreso fond resignation, and Shouto’s chest bubbles with affection for his hard headed friend.

“That’s nice of you,” he says sincerely.

“Get fucked. You want an update on the cases we opened this week or did you seriously come here just to annoy me?”

“To annoy you, mostly,” Shouto ducks away from the hand that swiped at him. “Hawks forwarded me the arrest report. Tremor ended up going for a plea deal?”

“Yeah. Sold out the extras that helped him gather the hostages,” a forceful click of the keyboard; Bakugo slaps the spacebar to wake his monitor and makes clear his disapproval. “They went too fuckin’ easy on him,” he sneers. “Deserved a longer sentence”.

“As long as they’re off the streets,” Shouto muses. He isn’t one to hold a grudge against villains who’ve harmed him, but he can understand his friends' frustration. Had it been Bakugo or Midoriya, Shouto too wouldn’t be so quick to accept this outcome.

The gentle light flooding through the office windows recedes a fraction as a dense cloud covers the sun. His visit to the Blast Zone is but a blip of time, cut short by the foreboding ring from Bakugo’s emergency pager. He’s up and moving immediately, routine woven into him like muscle memory, and Shouto can’t help feeling jealous.

Under the door to his office, Bakugo clears his throat. He cocks his head toward the impending rain, “You need me to have someone drive you home?” And appears to regret it right away as Shouto smiles up at him, touched by the suggestion.

“No, thanks but I’ll be fine,” he waves off. Bakugo departs with a grunt, demanding he take an umbrella from the receptionist, because who doesn’t check the weather before they leave the house. The thud of his work boots reverberate off the walls as he disappears around a sharp corner, and Shouto shifts in the residual silence.

He takes out his phone as he pushes upright on his crutch; a habit rather than necessity. You haven’t messaged him since before your paths crossed—though you wouldn’t know that. He sighs. A niggling guilt has burrowed into his chest but it remains largely outweighed by his impatience.

Employees greet him on his short journey to the lift he arrived in. Bowing their heads, evoking his name with appreciation and awe while he’s scanning the space for signs of you. It’s a fruitless affair. Coming up short he steps inside, frown etched into his brow, and presses the ground floor button.

The speaker alerts him that the doors are about to close. He turns on his heel, leaning a hand on the support bar. Looking up from his shoes his eyes fall on your figure. You’ve stepped out from one of the closed off rooms, thumb tapping away at the phone in your hand. Shouto swallows, watching his own with trepidation.

Sensing a heavy gaze your eyes flicker to meet him at the last second, contact through the crack right as it shuts. He can hardly think. If this were a scene in Quirky Hearts he thinks he might just cast aside his dignity and sprint up the fire escape to confront you. The mere idea has heat simmering under his skin; it makes him want to fold himself into singularity. Shouto, a top five hero, a sword without ire.

Waiting dutifully, the receptionist hands him an umbrella from behind the staff desk. He squints at her name tag, muttering “Thank you, Akiyama-san” while he tucks the umbrella under his arm, deigning to mention the murky blueish blush that floods her skin, those pupil-less eyes shimmering. Shouto pulls his mask up over his nose, breath warming his cheeks, and takes a moment to observe the street.

Throngs of people scurry along the pavements to get away from the unforgiving chill. Raindrops can become a thousand paper cuts when the wind wills it. Afternoon starters amble into the lobby with wet shoulders. In his departure nobody so much as looks his way.

Sooba ▻ Hope you didn’t forget an umbrella today. Stay warm.

His thumb stopped mid-air, right above the “send” button. Sparing a lasting glance to the upper floors, Shouto quickly presses it, pockets his phone and opens up the umbrella. Stepping into the storm white noise fills his ears, tapping harshly on the PVC canopy over him.

Shouto tugs his jacket closer to his chest. The pavements are soaked, water fed into the uprooted cracks. He threads through the moving bodies back toward the station. With the streets overcast he feels better concealed.

A train is already waiting at the platform, decorated in yellow. The colour identifies it as a slow running train, taking the local stops route rather than the rapid one. He hides in his collar and stands in the corner of the carriage, umbrella collapsed and hooked over his wrist.

Six stops later—rather than three—and Shouto is closer to home. In the time it took to reach his street the rain had thinned out, now a sparse sun shower as the clouds pushed eastward.

Nori yells accusingly the very second his key slots into the door. He turns the lock and pushes it open, holding out his foot to keep her from rushing past. “I know, I know. I’m sorry sweet girl,” he scratched her head while bent to line up his shoes. “I missed you too. Bakugo said ‘hi’”.

She mewls and circles in place on her delicate paws, flicking her tail at him. Shouto takes it as forgiveness. “I think I met someone special today,” he recites to her, “The one I told you about…”

Stopping in the middle of his warm apartment, Shouto becomes unbearably aware of how damp his clothes are. He fishes his phone and wallet out from his pockets and sets them on the kitchen island before padding toward the bathroom.

A thorough rinse and long soak later, Shouto sprawls himself across his couch, phone laid on his chest and arm hung loosely over the edge while Nori plays with his fingers. She clings to his forearm as he cups her full belly, lazily dragging her back and forth across the floor.

He’s sipping on the mouth of his water bottle, mindlessly watching as Aki-or-something begs for Saeko-or-other to take him back after going on a date with another contestant, when your messages come through on Enigmail.

InsertNameHere ▻ Guess what happened today ▻ Saw Pro Hero Shouto at work. ▻ I think he might hate me? lol

Shouto inhales sharply, choking on his mouthful of water. Tears prickle behind his eyes as his diaphragm spasms, and he tries to catch his breath, fist thudding at his chest. Oscillating between mortification and delight—it really had been you.

Sooba ▻ Why would you think he hates you?

InsertNameHere ▻ I left an awful impression. And he looked at me like this (⊙＿⊙’) the whole time.

Heat burns at his nape; embarrassment spilling over into every crevice of his body. The air around him distorts and he exhales, steam curling from his lips. Nori watches on from the floor in fascination, sparing no sympathy. Maybe Bakugo had a point.

Sooba ▻ Maybe that’s just his face.

InsertNameHere ▻ Maybe… ▻ It is a pretty face though. Prettier in person.

Shouto feels all the air deflate from his body. He sinks into the couch, head lolling against his shoulder as he turns to press a grin into the cushions, gripped by a sudden rush of endorphins. It had been you. You’re real. More importantly, you are attainable.

Now did he want to do anything about it?

Sooba ▻ You think so??

The typing dots bounce along the chat room border as you reply.

InsertNameHere ▻ I know so. I was there. Beautiful even when he is staring right through me (￣ロ￣lll)

The memory of you speaking his name echoes like a broken record. He has yet to tire of it. Though he’s lightheaded and hazy, your features are still clear in his mind. The sure fire in your eyes, your sharp tongue and your pouty lips. A slow, warm tension trickles into his gut, swooping in anticipation and breathless longing as he imagines the face you might make if he touched you.

Sooba ▻ That’s presumptuous. He was staring at you. Why wouldn’t he be

InsertNameHere ▻ I. ▻ You’re so unfair you know that ▻ If you were here I would

His breathing picks up ever so slightly.

Sooba ▻ What would you do with me

InsertNameHere ▻ Are we veering into sexting territory right now

Sooba ▻ Unintentionally.

Shouto shifts his hips. The movement pulls his sweatpants tighter around his hips and a familiar tingling rushes below his waist. When was the last time he touched himself? He brings the phone to his forehead for a moment of clarity, peering up at the screen through his eyelashes.

InsertNameHere ▻ Is this the part where we come full circle and you actually send me a dick pic

He tucks his chin, a lazy smile playing on his lips. The gentle throb in his briefs pulses throughout his body and he answers, reaching to squeeze himself through the fabric, just for relief.

Nori sneezes. He falters, reminded of her presence and overcome by the urge to cover up. Proverbial tail between his legs, Shouto retreats to the privacy of his bedroom, shutting the door with a quiet click. Evening filters in through the windows, mauve and rosy. He kneels on the bed and it yields under his weight, frame silent while he crawls to the headboard and reclines back, phone in hand.

▻ Shit, sorry. I was joking you don’t have to do that if you don’t want to

The message goes over his head. He opens the front camera and stares back at his flushed, disheveled face before tilting the device, angling it toward his body.

Frosted fingertips trail up his stomach and it jumps, laying the hem of his shirt across his chest. Down again to the fine dark hair below his belly button, goosebumps rising across skin, blood rushing to the surface. Hooks his thumb suggestively into his waistband, hand splayed across his hip, and takes the photo.

Sooba ▻ [IMG_628] ▻ I want to

Shouto. Shouto. Shouto. Abuzz with salacious apprehension he wonders what would it sound like above him? Under him? Breath knocked from your lungs, whining through the motions. He traces the outline of his clock. Covers his eyes with the crook of his arm and releases a shuddered breath, hips rising into the heel of his hand. A hand too big to be yours. Sweatpants pushed halfway down his thighs he pictured it anyway—you laid on your side, at his side, loose fist stroking him root to weeping tip.

Shouto thumbs at the head, smearing precum over his sensitive frenulum. Panting heavier, he squeezes his cock and wonders, would you tease him? Lick into his mouth and tell him not to be quiet?

The phone in his hand buzzes. Anticipation grips his heart. He almost drops it on his face when he squints up to read the screen.

InsertNameHere ▻ Fuck. You’re so gorgeous ▻ I can’t concentrate

Sooba ▻ You like it?

InsertNameHere ▻ I’ll show you how much ▻ [IMG_447]

Heat races through him. You’re in a loose tank top, touching yourself over pale boyshorts. The dark straps have fallen around your shoulders in an almost demure manner, collar slipping forward to reveal the soft cleavage of your chest. You’ve mirrored his position, albeit a little higher, enough for your mouth to be in frame. Wet and rouge, if he thinks hard enough he can imagine he left them kiss bitten.

Sooba ▻ I want to touch you

He’s desperate to know what you like. The way you want to be touched, how you might yield under his wandering hands. Patterns dance behind his eyelids as he reaches to knead his pecs, pinching the pert nipple with a breathy moan. He smooths over his abdomen, corded muscle tensing beneath the added sensation, arousal coiling hot in his belly.

InsertNameHere ▻ Touch yourself for me instead, yeah? ▻ Gonna think about you too

“Fuck,” he chokes. Shouto loses his phone amongst the sheets. Feet planted flat to the mattress, his knees spread until the waistband protests. “Please. Please. I’m so close,” he whispers to the image in his mind. His pace stutters, feverish as he fucks his fist. Your lips brush soft along the column of his throat to feel him swallow. He turns into the pillow, mouth parted for heaving breath.

“That’s it Shouto. So beautiful for me,” you’ll murmur, so at home in the crook of his body. Amidst the desperation you’ll straddle his thigh, rhythm synchronized, chests rising. Your hand—his hand—slips further, fingers curled to press up behind his balls. He’s on fire. “Cum for me, baby. Let me see you cum”.

Shouto’s head tips back into the plush of his pillow, every muscle clenched. Pleasure rockets through him. His cock twitches in his grasp. He cums with a strung out moan, breaking into short, wet pants as he catches his breath.

Riding the gentle aftershocks, his arm falls heavily to the side and hits his bedsheets with a quiet thud. The smell of old petrichor blows into his room with the draft draws his attention to the darkened window. Streaks of gold sunlight peak between the buildings across the street where it settles under the horizon.

The stickiness between his fingers is difficult to ignore. Drying steadily on his chest. Reality returns to him slowly as he stares at his soiled hand. After cleaning himself up with the wipes in his bedside table, Shouto tugs up his sweatpants and rubs at the pink splotches leading up his throat. With clarity comes a vague haze of shame and he is loudly alone; something vibrates and he is anything but lonely. He lifts his head, rummaging through the sheets to find his phone.

InsertNameHere ▻ Want you to feel good ▻ You there baby? ▻ Sooba? ▻ Hm. That’s not the sexiest of names

Shouto laughed through his nose. Endeared by your awkward jump from flirting to nervously making up for a perceived misstep.

Sooba ▻ sorry can’t multitask ▻ shouldnt make fun of your house husbands name

Exiting his bedroom is uncomfortably close to a wall of shame. He drags his feet; gait unsteady for far nicer reasons than a near career ending injury. Nori has acquired his spot on the couch, retaining warmth in his absence. She observes him, all knowing.

InsertNameHere ▻ No capitalised letters? Punctuation? What have you done with my Sooba lol ▻ How are you feeling?

Sooba ▻ really good. sleepy

He wanders to the kitchen and dithers over his next message, leaning his forearms on the cool countertop. This fleeting, unintended conversation could change everything and that fact is starting to nag at him.

▻ what about you

InsertNameHere ▻ I feel really good. And sleepy <3

The implication is not lost on him. He chews his bottom lip, flustered at just how pleased that makes him.

The next burst of chat bubbles appear in an instant, one after another. Typed hastily as though to outrun your own apprehension.

▻ Can I ask you something?  ▻ Did you mean it when you said you’d come to the event with me? ▻ I have a plus one. I want to see you. But you don’t have to 

Shouto swallows. Tugged between elation and fear. You’ve become all he yearns for and you could be just that, his, yet he panics all the same. Heroism had consistently been his lacquered shield. An excuse for his self isolation that people had to begrudgingly accept. Working himself to the bone afforded the luxury of never having to dwell on it. 

Exhaustion aside he was content with the humdrum life he hid behind. Before you, Shouto rarely wanted for anything. He had his family, and good friends, and a job that felt rewarding; it didn’t seem worth it to lay himself bare and be dissected on the off chance that someone new might love him. 

Because hectic work and risks aside, he’s profoundly aware of the ghosts he has yet to conquer. That somewhere, there is something fundamentally different inside him that you might find disappointing. 

Unthinkingly, Shouto grapples with the courage in him existing on the fringes and replies in much the same way you had. 

Sooba ▻ I meant it. I want to see you too.  ▻ I’d like to go with you  ▻ Don’t worry about a plus one. I’ll meet you there 

InsertNameHere ▻ Wow, okay. That was easier than I thought. I’m so excited  ▻ And super nervous

As it turns out the impending date motivates Shouto like nothing before. Days pass without fault or interruption. The man-shaped dent in his couch rises without the constant weight. He sticks closely to the routine his physiotherapist drew up for him. Walks longer distances and soaks up the sun daily, to Tsutomu’s great delight. 

Too wrapped up in his own coalesced anxiety and elation, he realises he hadn’t found it remotely odd that you hadn’t questioned his ability to get into the auction. 

His train of thought is interrupted by a firm hand coming down on his shoulder. “Man of the hour!” A familiar sharp toothed grin blocks his vision. Shouto clenches under the sudden weight to keep himself upright as Kirishima gives him a shake, “We missed you around here. You’re looking good!”

The charity event is in full swing. An anticipatory lull permeates the atmosphere as the chosen guests, heroes and civilians alike, wait for the auction to finally begin. Shouto arrived fashionably late, as Mina called it, after spending nearly three hours on a group call with her, Yaoyorozu, and his sister. 

The applause upon his entry had not been expected. His palms are still clammy. 

Compared to Shouto's charcoal three piece suit, tailored to precision, Kirishima dons a charmingly loud burgundy blazer over a dark turtleneck, pulled together by a simple chain. The material is tight across his broad shoulders. “Thank you, Kirishima,” Shouto smiles. He looks him over, “You look good too”. 

That signature grin grows weary. “You really think so?” Kirishima lowers his voice into a hush, tugging at the loose hair framing his face. “I wasn’t so sure about tying my hair back. What if nobody bids for me? I’m dying inside just thinking about it”. 

Shouto turns away from the sea of vibrant clothing and chatter to pat his friend on the arm and level him with a serious look. “A lot of people are going to spend money on you tonight, Kirishima. But in the impossible event that they don’t I’ll bid on you myself,” he tells him. “We can go to Mythoscape and try that new rollercoaster”. 

“Bro…” Kirishima’s eyes are wide and glassy. While Shouto expects the firm hug, he is mildly surprised by the long, dramatic kiss to his cheek. His breath smells faintly of white wine. “You’re the best,” he continues as he sets Shouto back on his feet. “But is it really okay for you to do that?”

A flash goes off. Shouto frowns. He scans the crowd and rubs away the wet mark left behind. Yaoyorozu catches his attention with a delicate wave from her place beside Kendo and Uraraka. “Why wouldn’t it be?” he asks, smiling back, yet distracted. You’re still nowhere to be found. 

“Well,” Kirishima draws breath through his teeth. “Bakugo kinda told me about your crush on his PA,” whatever he sees pass over Shouto’s expression has him sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck and scrambling to explain. “Nothing bad, man! You know he actually seemed pretty approving of it, in his own way”. 

The evermoving mass of bodies sharpens around a few other familiar faces. Midoriya is excitedly gesticulating as he rambles to a visibly overwhelmed HSPC shareholder. Bakugo watches the interaction with no intention of concealing his amusement. 

“I’m not sure about that,” Shouto rasps, narrowing his eyes at the man in question, like the pressure behind it might be enough to elicit his attention. Bakugo of all the people here would know where you are. The phone snug in his inside blazer pocket remains silent. A pout works its way onto his lips before he can stop it. “He said I’m bad at flirting”. 

Kirishima stifles a laugh and clears his throat when Shouto directs the petulant glare to him. “You are a little bad at it. But only when you’re actually trying! And even then that’s part of what makes it charming, y’know?”

“No, I don’t know”. 

“You’re the type to flirt without realising you’re doing it—or atleast people think you are, because you’re handsome and attentive and whatnot. But when you try it’s kinda obvious and bro, please stop looking at me like that,” Kirishima explains clumsily, tone pitching higher the longer he talks. 

Shouto’s lips thin as he tries to suppress a smirk. He rights himself as Kirishima nudges his side, catching a smile of his own, “What I meant is you have a chance. And Bakubro thinks so too. He wants you to be happy”. 

The sentiment warms him from the inside out. But it also makes apparent something trepid and cold in his gut. Regardless of his friends unfettered support there remains the real possibility that he will be rejected. That you will be disappointed or scared away by his status. That you could do as you please with the intimate parts of his life ‘Sooba’ gave you.

Scarier is the hope that you won’t.

“I’m going to get a drink,” Shouto announces, noticing Endeavor prowling around in his peripheral vision. Kirishima’s brow furrows, mouth parted in confusion, no doubt seeking to reassure him. “I’m okay, Kirishima. I just need something to do with my hands”. 

“Alright,” the taller man murmurs. Shouto finds himself at the end of a gentle smile once more. “Make sure to say ‘hi’ to Denks if you see him. He misses you too”.

“I will,” Shouto nods, ducking away from the inexpressible tenderness that has clung to him since stepping into the hall. People part to allow him through. His left leg has already begun to feel weak, not enough to worry but enough to notice, and he hopes he can later blame his gait on the alcohol. 

He reaches the bar and wrinkles his nose at the thick amalgamation of perfume, body odour and over-applied cologne. The bartender slides up to him. “Umeshu, please,” he says. “On the rocks”. 

Another body settles beside him. He shifts to accommodate them but doesn’t look; too distracted as he inhales deeply through his nose and exhales long out his mouth to allay his beating heart. Pulling his phone out from his inside pocket, the screen lights up and he finds it void of messages. 

After the… sexting, things had been fine. Better in a lot of ways. You both felt emboldened to truly act on your feelings. Sharing more pictures, secrets—though never your names—and laughter.  It is disconcerting that you would now go silent. 

The bartender sets his drink down and Shouto quietly gives his thanks, bringing it to his face, briefly caught in the soft glimmer, cubed ice submerged in liquid gold, tasting the sweet aroma at the back of his throat. He tips it back and drinks. 

As the glass hits the surface once more, the person next to him softly asks, “Are you waiting on anyone?” 

And his mouth goes dry. 

You’re bracing on crossed arms, watching him closely. Speckled in the warm low light reflected on the bar, you are more beautiful than he remembers, and just as nervous. There’s an air of uncertainty about you that shifts as your eyes meet, faint but palpable, encouraged by what he can imagine is the wonder on his own face. 

Shouto wets his lips. The plum taste lingers on his tongue. “…I might be,” he murmurs. You brighten at his reciprocation, a more charged kind of nervous—the kind that swoops low in your belly right before you take a leap. 

“If I’m wrong don’t laugh and don’t tell Dynamite,” you turn to face him and smooth your hands over your hips. This allows him a better look at your attire. Silken fabrics that form gentle lines around the waist, loose but elegantly so, not in a way that the clothes wear you. 

Your eyes dipped low, averted to avoid his stare. He cannot seem to direct it anywhere else. The auction has fallen away in its entirety. As far as Shouto is concerned there’s only you. 

“It’s me. And you’re…Sooba?” 

The tremble in your voice shrikes through him and it occurs to Shouto that you have always been the brave one.

He leans into your space, enjoying the way you quickly draw breath at his proximity, forced to meet his gaze. Rather than something remotely suave or cool, he dumbly asks, “You knew?”

Part of him wants to tuck his shoulders to his ears as you begin to laugh. They’re warm, undoubtedly red. Amusement is not at all what he prepared for. He thought this might all end up in his scrapbook memory, to be taken out and pined over now and then. 

“Shouto-san with all due respect, you came to my workplace with your very recognisable crutches and stared at me like a deer in headlights”. 

“Shouto,” he says. 

Your laughter simmers, “Hm?”

“Just call me Shouto,” he tells you, equal parts relieved and embarrassed. 

“Shouto,” you smile at him with a fondness that derails his thoughts. He has the vague urge to whine when it wanes. “I’m—I really am sorry I didn’t tell you. I swear I didn’t know until after you visited the agency. It all made sense after I looked up your socials and saw some old pictures of Nori”. 

“It’s alright. I knew and didn’t say anything either,” Shouto inclines his head, abashed. Then with a sudden sharp sort of clarity, he continues, “So then you knew, when you asked for a dick—?”

Words evade him under the warm press of your hand as you quickly cover his mouth. You glance around the room, closer than before, and you don’t seem to realise. Cautious, he touches your waist; he puckers his lips to kiss your palm; he feels your stomach jump under the silky fabrics. 

Your eyes darken, swallowed by pupil. “You’re a menace,” you simper, and reluctantly pull away. “Maybe we should talk about this somewhere with less…cameras”. 

Umeshu abandoned, Shouto wraps an arm around your lower back and allows you to direct him through the crowd. You weave through the moving bodies like thread through a needle, at one point reaching behind to take his wrist, becoming his tether.

Bakugo meets his gaze from across the room. His eyes flit to you, widening in surprise. Shouto flashes a boyish grin before disappearing through the side door. 

The door you choose next opens to a private bathroom. Shouto surges forward, taking you by the hips and crowding you against the bathroom counter, overcome by the need to feel everything that you are pressing into everything that is him.

He kicks the door behind him and settles in the clutch of your thighs as you scramble to balance on the marble edge. Your hands slide over his shoulders, splaying over each cheek. You’re both breathing heavily despite having done nothing at all.

“I said talk,” you remind him with a tremulous smile. Shouto knows you’re being playful. He apologises anyway; rests his head in the crook of your neck, letting the moment simmer, and you comb through his hair with your fingers. A shiver rolls down his spine. 

“Did you know it was me? Before you came to the agency, I mean”. 

He reclines from his crook to look at you. Eye level, silhouetted by the cheap bathroom luminescence. “When I saw you in there—and put it together I was so scared,” you continued. 

“Scared?” he echoed with a frown, knuckles brushing your cheek. 

“Not like that. I was scared of what you might think,” you turn into his caress and his pinched expression falls away. He can’t stop touching you and he can’t bring himself to be sorry about it. “I mean, I looked terrible that day, and you appeared out of nowhere and I wasn’t mad it was you. I was just…”

You swallow thickly, emotion swelling in your eyes. They’re crinkled at the corners. “You’re so big and bright. I didn’t want you to be disappointed”.

You were unaware of it—the profound cord you struck within him. How even in anonymity, your incorporeal fingers always seemed to find it. Even now, as you echo his own fears. 

“Momo first mentioned you might work for Bakugo. I didn’t know before I saw you that day. I still wasn’t certain until tonight”. You peer at him through your lashes then, listening intently. He brings your foreheads together and tells you, “There is no way you could’ve disappointed me”. 

“Oh? I could’ve been a villain”.

“My oldest brother was a villain,” he monotoned, wandering hands squeezing intermittently at your waist as though to make sure you’re still there. “My capacity for love and forgiveness knows no bounds”. 

You snort. The sound is abrupt and the force knocks your skulls together. “Oh—ow,” he grins, insides melting. Together you dissolve into a warm fit of laughter. 

“Hey, Shouto?” 

He hums in acknowledgment, eyes fluttering as your thumb swipes over the red mark below his hairline. “I like you,” you murmur. “I like you so much it’s stupid”.  

Plunged into an ice cold realisation, Shouto freezes to process your words. “You—like me?” 

“Yeah?” you said it like he was dense, like it was clear all along. “I can’t help it when you’re so…yourself”

And isn’t that all he’s ever wanted? To be loved without pretense, without a winner. To be special to someone for no special reason. 

“Oh,” he breathes. “Me too. I like you. I want—” his fingers flex at your hips, grounding. He blinks. “I don’t know your name yet”. 

Affection colours your features. Shouto likes you best like this—sure of yourself, of his feelings for you. You recite your name. He repeats it endlessly in his mind and rolls it around his teeth. He calls to you even when you’re right in front of him. 

“Can I kiss you now?” 

“You were waiting?” you laugh, tucking his hair behind his ear. It’s such a novel thing but it makes something monumental swell in his chest. “Kiss me. I want you to”. 

Given permission, Shouto traces the curve of your jaw with a bold shyness, from the sensitive skin below your ear to your chin. His finger hooks beneath. You’re lovely. He thinks he could spend an hour describing your demure half smile, how your lips yield under the light pressure of his thumb; your tongue darting out reflexively. 

He shakes at the desire that fills him. He’s not used to it—this wanting. It feels like a thousand insatiable butterflies in his chest. Dipping into your magnetism, his heart beat faster and faster with the simple brush of your lips. He kissed you, innocent and honest, and then he kissed you again, licking the seam of your mouth, arms coiling around your middle as you cling to him. 

You tip forward. Your thighs clench at his waist and drag him impossibly close. It brings you chest to chest. He tries to hold you steadfast as your hand wraps around his nape, softly scratching his scalp; he feels you smile against his lips when he shudders. 

You break for air. Arousal shoots through him at your half moan, the sound tapering into a happy hum the instant his lips trail down your neck, tasting your pulse before making his way down to your exposed collar. He peppers kiss after kiss on every swathe of skin he can reach, sinking teeth into every little reaction you give him. 

Big hands at your lower back arch your body into his. You yield, tension sapped from your limbs, grappling his shoulders to keep yourself from falling while you grind down on his lap. Shouto groans, grip slipping lower to cup your ass. 

“We’re getting carried away,” you gasp between kisses. That alone was obvious. His cock strains uselessly in his suit pants. But the light glints tantalisingly along your mouth, swollen and wet with saliva. Shouto kisses you again so you won’t have to tell him to attend to his responsibilities. 

A warm breath scores his cheek as you huff through your nose, nipping firmly at his lower lip. “I mean it. I am technically still at work,” you try again, voice lacking strength. “Dynamite will knock on every door in this building—don’t wrinkle your nose, you know I’m right”.

“Alright. I know,” he rasps, barely an exhale. It takes all his willpower to pull away. He steadies you on your feet, smoothing out the creases in your formal attire while you are quite pleased to simply watch on as he adjusts himself in his pants. “I’m glad my suffering is funny to you”. 

“Don’t be dramatic,” you murmur, pecking the corner of his mouth. “I'll hide with you in the corner like I promised I would. We can make up for lost time after the auction. You know. The one for charity”. 

Shouto hums and reaches for the door, knowing you’ve won. “Oh. I told Kirishima I’d bid for his date night,” he recalls as he turns the handle. “Would that bother you?” 

“Of course not baby,” you reply and take one last look at your reflection, less disheveled than before. The endearment ‘baby’ almost has him walking into the doorframe.

You straighten up. Shouto thinks he must look incredibly dumbstruck, if your concerned expression is any indication. “You okay?” you ask, proffering your hand. “You didn’t bring your crutches tonight, did you?”

“Don’t worry. I’m fine,” he intertwines your fingers, dizzy as you squeeze around him. 

“It’s just a tremor”. 

[kyksbb]

Between Us - Part 1

Pairing: Kylian Mbappé x Reader

Summary: You and Kylian have been inseparable friends for years, but when unspoken feelings bubble to the surface, everything changes.

Word Count: 2.5K

Part 2 Part 3 Epilogue

Masterlist

Author's note: Hi! Omg this feels so surreal. I have been planning to start writing for the longest time and I can't believe I managed to finally get to it. This is my very first fic so I would LOVE to hear all of your opinions, I’m open to your feedback 🩷 Also, english is not my first language but I’ll try my best to make sure there are no errors. There will be more parts to come shortly. I have the second part almost finished and I’m planning for it to be 3 or 4 part series with a possible epilogue. Anyway, have a nice read and please tell me what you guys think! 🫂 P.S my messages are always open if you have any questions or if you would just like to chat 💌

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“What are these for?” Kylian yells playfully as he roams around your room, inspecting everything with the curiosity of a child. His voice echoes from the bathroom doorway, where you're busy applying the finishing touches to your makeup. Turning around slightly, you see him holding up an eyelash curler, a puzzled look on his face.

“It’s used to curl your eyelashes,” you respond absentmindedly, focused on perfecting your eyeliner. Kylian squints at the strange device, his lips curling into a mischievous grin.

“Looks like a garlic press,” he snorts, placing the curler back down on the cluttered sink, where your makeup is messily scattered.

He’s been wandering aimlessly around the room for what feels like hours, clearly bored and restless as he waits for you to get ready for the charity gala. He’s always waiting, never complaining, even when you take your time. It’s something about Kylian that never fails to surprise you — the effortless patience he has when it comes to you.

You leave the bathroom, stepping into the room where he’s perched on the edge of your bed, fiddling with the fluffy blanket as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. He’s dressed to perfection in an all-black designer suit, looking like he stepped straight out of a high-fashion photoshoot. The way the suit hugs his broad shoulders and the glimmer in his eyes when he sees you makes your heart flutter.

“You look stunning,” he says with a proud smile, his voice soft but sure. The blush creeping up your cheeks is impossible to hide, and he notices, grinning even wider.

“We don’t have to stay until the end,” he reassures you as you both settle into the backseat of the sleek black car waiting outside. He knows you too well, senses your discomfort at the idea of a long night surrounded by the elite. “We’ll stay for dinner, make our appearance, and we can leave whenever you want.”

His thoughtfulness touches you deeply. He knows how much you dislike these events — how they’re filled with pretentious people who only show up to flaunt their wealth. But you endure it, for him, and somehow that means more to him than he ever lets on.

You’ve known Kylian forever, since you were six and his mom invited yours to bring you to his seventh birthday party. The memories are blurry, but the birthday card you gave him that day still sits in his drawer. Unbeknownst to you, it’s one of his most cherished possessions.

As Kylian’s fame grew over the years, with him moving to Monaco and becoming a global star, you stayed in touch. He made sure of it. It wasn’t easy, especially as your feelings for him began to deepen, becoming more complicated and overwhelming. Falling in love with your best friend, a best friend who is adored by millions and surrounded by beautiful women, felt like the cruelest twist of fate.

It was a secret you carried alone, a burden that weighed on your heart every time you saw him with someone else. The girls that threw themselves at him didn’t seem to bother him; in fact, he enjoyed the attention. And why wouldn’t he? Kylian was magnetic, and you couldn't blame them for wanting him. What hurt most was knowing you could never compete with that — not when he saw you as just his best friend.

“I’m very glad you could make it. We’re always so happy to see you here,” a man across the dinner table says warmly to Kylian after you both take your seats. Kylian responds politely, his charm ever-present, before the man’s eyes land on you.

“I see you’re here with company. Would you care to introduce your beautiful lady to us?”

Kylian’s arm drapes casually over the back of your chair, his fingers brushing lightly against your shoulder.

“This is Y/N, my best friend. We’ve known each other since we were kids.”

The man chuckles, embarrassed, and offers an awkward apology. Kylian laughs it off, but the words linger in your chest, twisting something deep inside. His best friend. That’s all you’ve ever been, no matter how many times he brings you as his date to these events, holds your hand, or tells you how beautiful you look. Each gesture feels like an evil tease, a reminder of what you want but can never have.

You watch him as he chats with the guests, his side profile as striking as ever. His sharp jawline, the curve of his nose, the way his eyes light up when he’s animated. To the world, he’s handsome, charismatic, sexy. But to you, Kylian is beautiful, in every sense of the word. It’s not just his looks; it’s the kindness in his heart, the way he smiles, the way he makes you feel like you’re the only person in the room.

“Are you comfortable? We can leave whenever you want,” Kylian leans in to whisper, his breath sending shivers down your spine as it brushes against your ear. It’s such a simple question, but the intimacy of the moment makes your pulse race. How you long for him to whisper sweet nothings, to share his thoughts with you and only you.

“No, I’m fine. We can stay a little longer. I heard the dessert’s supposed to be amazing,” you whisper back, earning a soft chuckle from him.

After dessert, most of the guests get up to mingle, dance, or grab drinks. You excuse yourself from the table, telling Kylian you’re headed to the bar for a cocktail. He offers to come with you, but you decline, not wanting to interrupt his conversation.

You order a Mimosa and settle on one of the stools, enjoying a rare moment of solitude when a voice breaks your thoughts.

“Hey,” says a deep voice beside you. You glance over to see a blonde guy, probably in his late twenties, with a genuinely sweet smile.

“I haven’t seen you here before. People who attend these things are usually regulars,” he says with curiosity.

You smile politely, a little taken aback by the sudden conversation. “I’m here with a friend. His foundation is involved.”

You swallow the lump in your throat as you call Kylian your friend. Even though it’s the truth, it feels like a lie.

The blonde introduces himself as Louis, and you exchange small talk. He’s polite and charming, though the jokes he cracks don’t quite make you laugh the way Kylian’s do. You’re pleasantly surprised at how easily the conversation flows, but when he asks if you’d like to dance, you glance at your empty glass and decide it’s time to return to the table.

Back at the table, Kylian is chatting with a seven year old boy, Leo, who you remember from a party at his parents’ house Kylian has brought you to about a month ago. You greet Leo with a huge smile, and the boy rushes over to give you a hug, his small arms wrapping around you tightly. Kylian watches the interaction with a proud grin, his eyes twinkling with affection.

After chatting with Leo about his football obsession, his new kitten called Sushi and his annoying grammar teacher at school, his parents came to say goodbye and head home, as Leo’s bedtime was getting closer.

“How was your cocktail?” Kylian asks once Leo and his parents leave.

“Delicious,” you reply with a grin. “You sure you don’t want anything?”

“Nah. I’m on my best behavior tonight,” he says, leaning his cheek on his hand, his gaze locked on you.

The way he’s looking at you, through his long lashes, eyes full of warmth, almost makes you lose your composure.

The amount of self-control you've developed over the years, thanks to him, is staggering. There have been countless moments when you've had to stop yourself from plastering kisses all over his face, from giving in to the overwhelming desire that courses through you every time you’re near him. It’s beyond your ability to count how many times you've held back.

If only he knew how you dream about the taste of his lips, how you’ve imagined his touch in ways he could never guess. Sometimes, the urge to shout your love for him feels almost unbearable. To tell him, without hesitation, how much he means to you, how deeply you care, how profoundly he has changed your life. You’ve fantasized about spilling everything, about finally unburdening your heart of the love that’s been trapped inside for so long.

Maybe, just maybe, if you told him, you could breathe again. You could sleep peacefully, without the weight of unspoken emotions suffocating you at night. If you could just embrace these forbidden feelings, let them free, maybe you wouldn’t feel so lost, so torn between what you have and what you desperately want.

But no. Kylian has helped you build up an incredible amount of self-control, without even realizing it. He’s made you master the art of restraint, but in doing so, he’s also kept you from building the courage you need to tell him the truth. To risk everything, even if it means losing him forever.

And that’s a risk you’re still too afraid to take.

The night passes, and as guests begin to leave for the after-party, you and Kylian head to the car.

“You can go to the after-party if you want,” you offer sincerely. “I don’t mind going home alone.”

“I’d rather come home with you,” he says, stopping in his tracks to hold the car door open for you.

You hesitate, but his insistence is genuine. No matter how many times you’ve told him it’s fine for him to go out without you, he never does. He always chooses you.

“You know that if you keep asking, it won’t change anything, right?” Kylian grins as he playfully nudges your side. “I’m your permanent plus one for quiet nights at home. Get used to it.” He opens the car door for you with a flourish, always the gentleman. You roll your eyes in mock exasperation, but inside, your heart is doing a victory dance. Another cozy night in with him — it’s everything you secretly want.

The drive back is calm, filled with the comfortable silence that exists between two people who have known each other forever. It’s a silence that speaks louder than words, a silence that tells you neither of you needs to fill the gaps. Kylian’s presence is enough to bring you peace, and you wonder if he feels the same.

Memories flood your mind, like that one time after a particularly tough match. Kylian had come straight to your apartment, his face heavy with disappointment. He didn’t need to say anything; you knew exactly what he needed. He had flopped onto your couch, resting his head in your lap as you softly stroked his hair. For hours, he laid there in silence, listening to the steady rhythm of your breathing. You didn’t offer words of comfort because he didn’t need them, he just needed you.

It’s moments like those that make your heart ache. He needs you, but not in the way you want him to. To him, you’re his safe space, the person who can make the world quiet when it’s too loud. But what if you want more than that? What if you crave the noise, the chaos of love, the passion that makes your heart race?

When you arrive home, you quickly wipe off your makeup, exchanging your dress for a comfortable pair of sweats. Kylian’s already on the couch, lounging in the sweatpants he keeps in your closet for nights like these. He’s scrolling through Netflix, looking for something to watch.

“Who was the guy you were talking to at the bar?” he asks suddenly, not even looking up from the screen as you take a seat next to him.

The question catches you off guard. “What?” You blink at him, surprised. You hadn’t even realized he saw you talking to Louis. He could’ve asked about it a million times already, but why now?

“The guy at the bar,” Kylian shrugs, still trying to make it sound like a casual question, but there’s an edge to his tone.

“Oh, Louis? I just met him tonight,” you reply, playing it off like it’s nothing.

“Seems weird, that’s all,” Kylian mumbles, finally meeting your eyes. His brows are furrowed, and you can’t quite figure out why he’s bothered by this.

“We only talked for like 15 minutes,” you say with a shrug, trying to diffuse the sudden tension.

Kylian says nothing for a moment, just nods and changes the subject, asking if the movie he picked is okay. You agree, and the two of you settle into your usual spot on the couch. About three minutes into the movie, he wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer, and you rest your head against his chest. His scent, fresh and familiar, wraps around you like a warm blanket.

These moments, these “friendly cuddles,” are frequent in your two decade long friendship. But to you, they mean so much more. In these fleeting moments, you let yourself pretend. Pretend that you’re not just his best friend, but something more. Ten out of ten strangers would think you were a couple, relaxing after a long day. And in these moments, you let that fantasy wash over you.

His hand moves absentmindedly, gently stroking your back. His chin rests on the top of your head, as though your bodies were designed to fit together. It feels perfect. But it���s also tragic.

Because Kylian isn’t yours. He never will be. No matter how many times you share these intimate, quiet moments, no matter how much his presence fills the empty spaces in your life, you’re always going to be his best friend. And while he never leaves your thoughts, you wonder if you ever truly cross his mind in the same way.

The movie plays on, but you’re not watching. You’re lost in the sound of his heartbeat, the warmth of his body against yours, and the ache in your chest that never seems to go away.

How many times have you thought about telling him? Telling him how deeply you’ve fallen for him. But the fear is always there, lurking in the back of your mind. The fear that if you tell him, everything will change. The easy laughter, the shared silences, the comforting hugs. All of it could disappear in an instant.

The movie ends, and Kylian stretches, letting out a content sigh. “That was good,” he says, still half-drowsy. “Y/N, you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” you reply with a smile, but inside, you’re screaming.

The guests at the gala had moved on to an after-party, but here you are, curled up on the couch with the one person who unknowingly holds your heart in his hands.

As you walk towards the door to go to bed, you pause, wanting to say something — anything. But the words don’t come.

And so, the night ends like all the others. With him, but not truly yours.

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[dragonnarrative-writes]

Slasher Handler

Description from the discord:

My next (first fanfic) project is going to be an AU for charmed!slasher!Simon where reader knows he's dangerous, finds out he's literally a killer, and decides to provide him with ✨enrichment✨ to help him… I dunno? Control his urges? Channel them into good? Meet the need before the distressing behavior starts? They're way over their head.

Series Content Warnings: DARK FIC, 18+/MDNI, Alternate Universe - Serial Killer 141, Serial Killer Simon "Ghost" Riley x Final Girl Reader, sexual content, dubious consent, under-negotiated kink, mind games

Please review chapter specific content warnings

Read on AO3

Part 1 - Meeting Your New Neighbor (SFW)

Part 2 - Grocery Shopping (SFW)

Part 3 - Meeting Kyle For Coffee (Time skip) (SFW)

Part 4 - Consequences (To Meeting Kyle For Coffee) (NSFW)

Part 5 - Reward (For Being So Considerate) (NSFW)

Part 5.5 - After the Reward (From Simon's POV) (NSFW)

Part 6 - Simon's Been Restless (NSFW)

Part 7 - Date Activities (NSFW)(Not Spicy!)

Part 8 - Romance Isn't Dead (NSFW)(Not Spicy!)

Part 9 - Pneumothorax (NSFW)

Gaz Interlude - A look into the medical side of things (SFW)

Gaz Interlude Part 2 - The other side of the medical side of things (SFW)

Soap Interlude - Guess who's out on good behavior? Part 11 - Slip Lead (NSFW)

[acapelladitty]

Trouble Like A Mugshot (1.5k)

Pairing: Lucy Maclean/Cooper Howard

Summary: After a long day of travelling the wastelands, Lucy is feeling horny and asks Cooper if he wants to have sex with her. A question which is much more complicated than she could have possibly known.

(A/N: I might turn this into a short series of moments showcasing the pairs developing relationship from this to hard nsfw if that's something folks would like to see.)

Fic Masterlist

Link to AO3

Lucy Maclean was no stranger to the difficult to ignore feelings which were pressing at her body. Fingers slightly trembling, breath coming in shorter bursts than she would admit to, eyes unable to pull themselves fully away from the lounging ghoul who reclined in his nearby bunk with a relaxed stance; cowboy hat tipped across his face as he feigned sleep.

Lucy Maclean knew herself enough to understand that her restlessness wasn't the radition sickness which had recently started to touch at her peripherals again. Nor was it the fact that it had been weeks since she'd had any time to herself that wasn't shadowed by either her ghoulish companion or some other entity.

Lucy Maclean was horny and she was never one to deny herself a simple, sneaky little indulgence when the mood took her.

"Hey, Cooper." She called, fingers rolling across her bare forearms as she sat with her back to the wall, legs crossed in a neat pile. "You awake and listening to me?"

"Hard not to with those foghorn vocals." A grumpy response, muffled by the hat rang back at her. "What are you yapping your flap about?

"Do you want to have sex?"

In their time together, Lucy had never witnessed Cooper doing anything that her vault lessons had taught her were sexual acts. He didn't touch himself around her, didn't disappear for some self-relief as the boys did, didn't make any kind of pass at her like some of the others had done before her husband had been selected. As far as she knew, maybe the ghoul didn't even feel the same things she did, and that realisation made her roll back on her question almost as quickly as she had asked it.

"I mean, if you can have sex that is. I don't know if your," Lucy paused, unsure how to describe her partners physical state without causing offence, "condition, makes it possible. I don't even know if you have the right parts for it but there's other ways of experiencing pleasure. We could use our mou-"

Cutting herself off as her babbling reach a new octave, Lucy watched as Cooper's body - his frame stock still since she had asked her initial question - finally stirred into action. A reddened hand slowly rose from its position by his hip until it reached the cowboy hat, plucking the leather from his face as he turned to look at his bunkmate and travelling companion with an indescribable expression; various emotions fluttering through his typically stoic face.

"I know your experiences with ghouls are limited, princess." Cooper spoke patiently, voice low as he fired the hated nickname at her, her vocal dislike of the new monkier making it a very quick favourite of his. "But the whole package is still intact so let's get that established before you go telling people falsehoods about my good person."

"Okay. Noted." Lucy held her hands up apologetically and her knees touched as she lounged against the concrete wall which was supporting her. "But you didn't answer me. Do you want to? Have sex, I mean? Last time i did was with my assigned husband and it was good enough, great even, but then he tried to kill me and it was this whole thing."

Mentally filing that information away for future use and subtle further investigation, Cooper lay back fully against his own cot and tilted his head closer in her direction, thankful for the dimness of their shared room as it shielded most of his features.

"As much as I'd love to bury my bone in a new patch of land, I don't think that's necessarily the best choice in terms of this little partnership we've stitched together."

Indicating his sewn finger, he wagged it at her dismissively as a discomforting sensation flooded his stomach, mild arousal at the thought of some tail mixing with something dangerous that set his teeth on edge.

"Why not? It's only sex."

Suddenly feeling older than he had any right to, Cooper fell silent as he mused on her question for a moment.

Lucy Maclean.

Eyes as big as a doe, that girl was built soft but he was lucky enough to see people for what they truly were and the steel which lurked beneath the painful optimism and naivety that shone free of her would make her a dangerous player if she ever truly entered the game. He felt the burden of his own cruelty at times, cornering her into making decisions that would cause her little vaultie friends to vomit if they knew the violence she enacted, but with every difficult choice came a fresh coating to that steel which would see her survive and thrive in the wastelands.

It's only sex.

In his life, Cooper Howard had enjoyed less sexual partners than many would believe. A sticky fumbling in the upper level of an old barn had been his first, the other party a sweet girl from a nearby ranch who was two years older and knew what she wanted from him. Pretty soon after that came Barb and as soon as he laid eyes on her he never saw anything past her.

War was terrible for the other men and many lost themselves in drink and the women who haunted the barracks and backlines looking for poor souls to feed on. But not him. Never him.

Not when he had to come home to Barb.

Even when married and at the height of his fame, when aspiring young things would throw themselves at him, their perfumes overpowered by the stink of wine and cigarettes, he had rebuffed them politely. He was loyal and he enjoyed the fruits of that loyalty as he held his wife in his arms and basked in the sweet sounds that she would make as they fucked. Hell, she had even given him a daughter and he loved her every day for it.

War never changes.

But he did.

And fuck him if his new appearance and designation as a Ghoul didn't screw him out of any chance of some stress relief as he wandered the wastelands. Might as well have been a fucking leper for all the tail which was now afforded to him and his leathery visage.

Not for Lucy Maclean though.

She, it seemed, didn't care about any of that.

"Did I say something wrong? The leaders explained all acts of intercourse to us so I know what I'm doing and I consent fully."

Lucy's voice, heated with an almost defensive lilt, broke into his musings and Cooper blinked at her as the hole that made up his nose flared while he inhaled deeply.

"I don't doubt that, darling. I've seen how you handle a pistol." Reverting to his typical sarcasm as he looked, truly looked, at her, Cooper sighed at the earnestness which oozed from her features. "But I'm gonna have to decline. Politely."

"Is it because of me? Did i do somethig wrong? I mean, my husband didn't seem to mind but then he was planning on killing me anyway so y'know?" Making a wild gesture with her fingers as she spoke, the casualness of her speech wasn't enough to mask the genuine insecurity which threaded through the questions.

"You're fine. Attractive little thing, even. I think any man would jump at the chance to have you wrapped around them like an old holster."

He wasn't lying- and he wasn't blind. She was a good looking young woman, her innocence flickering like the dull embers of a welcoming fire in the darkness of the wastelands. She was enthusiastic, eager, and damn pretty with those big eyes and curved figure which hid beneath the bulky clothes which she used for protection. More than once he'd caught himself glancing at her as she bent to snatch up things from the floor and the few times he did allow himself to fall into something like sleep featured breathy moans and the feeling of long, brunette strands brushing through his ungloved hands. Mouthy too so he knew she would be a vocal one - probably yowling like a hellcat.

It would be so easy to have her.

A simple yes and she would no doubt leap into action, shedding those clothes as quickly as did her weapons when trying to find peaceful solutions to violent problems. He would treat her right, everh inch the gentleman cowboy and no doubt much better than that shady husband she'd unwittingly fucked. He'd show her things with his fingers and mouth that would have her screaming loud enough to wake up all the devils in hell. Against the cot, against the wall and against whatever furniture she wanted, he could show her how a real man treats a woman as they both burned off some stress.

Feeling a very definite stirring in his groin, Cooper was quick to banish the dangerous thoughts.

"But a bad man like me shouldn't be allowed near a pretty little thing yourself. You're ready for a lot, Lucy Maclean, but you ain't ready for that."

Something almost like understanding passed through her gaze and Lucy nodded, instead exhaling deeply as she tapped the back of her head against the wall behind her.

"In that case, would you mind leaving for an hour so that I can masturbate, please?"

Cursing himself for the little shred of morality which plucked at his heart and refused to allow him to ruin this unknowing tease of a woman, Cooper dutifully rose to his feet and marched to the nearby door.

"You get half an hour." He grunted, barely tilting his head towards her as he stormed out into the nighttime air - determined to get far enough away that there was no chance that he would hear her and break his determined stance.

Besides, he might not be fucking her but as his cock pressed against his slacks, he wasn't masochistic enough to deny himself a similar pleasure and the distance would also give him some much needed alone time.

Goddamn Lucy Maclean.

Links to rest of the series:

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

[pricegouge]

Haul

Part One MDNI

Master list | on ao3

slasher!trucker!141 x reader

series cw: dark fic. major character deaths, rape/noncon

chapter cw: alcohol/drugs mentioned, though reader doesn't partake. up to you if that's for sobriety purposes or not, though most of this chapter takes place in a bar. public nudity. brief, non descriptive mention of animal harm. Let me know if I missed anything!

Like most terrible things in your life, it starts off with a dare. You're on the I-40 somewhere around Seligmen when Ash's fingers drum on the steering wheel of her busted old beater and you know she's got an evil little scheme brewing by the erratic, staccato beat. She turns to you and grins, hair whipping about her in the wind tunnel created by the open windows. "I dare you," she drawls in the same conversational tone she'd used a few states back to initiate a game of I Spy, back when there were colors other than tan and brown, and the occasional smudge of green shrubbery, to spy. "To flash this trucker when we pass him."

Like most terrible things in your life, it starts off with a dare.

You're on the I-40 somewhere around Seligmen when Ash's fingers drum on the steering wheel of her busted old beater and you know she's got an evil little scheme brewing by the erratic, staccato beat. She turns to you and grins, hair whipping about her in the wind tunnel created by the open windows. "I dare you," she drawls in the same conversational tone she'd used a few states back to initiate a game of I Spy, back when there were colors other than tan and brown, and the occasional smudge of green shrubbery, to spy. "To flash this trucker when we pass him."

Bored off your ass after days in the car with not much to do other than reconnect with your old friend and listen to the same band over and over (Ash was… over excited to be on the way to see them), you briefly consider it before taking in the tacky mud flaps - sexy lady silhouette that's been a staple of trashy truckers since before you were born, here X-rayed so you could see her sexy little skeleton as well. 

"No way," you scoff.

"Oh, c'mon," she nods at the same decals you'd already noticed. "Bet he'd enjoy the show."

"Yeah, bet he'd enjoy turning me into a skeleton, too."

"Well, he'd have to catch you first, and I'm an excellent, speedy little driver."

She was, that being the only reason you'd agreed to her hairbrained idea to drive half across the US. When she'd asked if you'd wanted to join her in seeing your favorite band from high school play their farewell tour out in California, you'd envisioned long nights, heart to hearts, deep conversation under starry desert skies, and a great pay off at the end in the form of one last, cathartic hurrah before a quiet, tired drive home. But you hadn't calculated on Ash still being in her party girl phase.

Perhaps you should have known. One of the main reasons you'd fallen off with her post-graduation was because the crowd she'd been migrating towards was only escalating. You were by no means a square, but between landing a nine-to-five and having bills to pay, your rough edges had slowly been whittling away over the years while, it seemed, Ash had remained the exact same Ash she'd always been. You didn't begrudge her that, but neither did you relish pit stops at dive bars every night, nor juvenile dares in broad daylight. Mind, when you were supposed to be sleeping because you'd driven all night after a stop in west Texas had left Ash incapacitated no less. 

Still, the boredom of not having much to talk about with your only companion, and the monotony of the same albums you've been listening to since middle school being played over and over was wearing on you, and despite your exhaustion, a sense of restlessness had crept in somewhere around Flagstaff and wasn't leaving you be. 

"Fine, but you're buying me a drink tonight."

"Are you drinking!?" she hoots, somewhere between excited you're no longer being 'a stick in the mud,' and apprehensive that she wouldn't have a driver lined up at closing time.

"No, but when I inevitably offer to buy someone else one, you're covering it."

Ash scoffs loudly enough to be heard over both the music and the wind, an impressive feat. "Deal, but once he gets a load of them titties, I'm fairly sure Mr. Kenworth here is gonna be dominating your time tonight."

"That's why you're driving quick enough he can't catch us, remember?" you laugh, already reaching up under your shirt to remove your bra.

The car accelerates, the long black trailer stretching past your passenger window as Ash pulls up alongside it. She whoops happily when you unbuckle your belt, blaring the music and hollering along to get your nerves up. There's a pit in your belly, the kind that forms right at the top of a rollercoaster. Your nerves alight, as if in preparation for a fight, skin drawing tight and pebbling into goosebumps. You spare a thought for how hard your nipples are gonna be and laugh perhaps a bit maniacally. Ash turns your nerves to excitement with a rousing set of slaps to your thick thighs. You take a deep breath, release it with a high, distressed whine. Still, you get a leg under you and contort yourself half out the port, Ash's excited shrieking following you out, though soon ripped away by the rushing of the wind around you. Your shirt whips up. Instinctively, you try to shove it down and then nearly roll your eyes at yourself when you realize what you're about to do. The white nose of the truck looms closer, side view mirror reflecting nothing back at you but a darkened cab. It strikes you as odd, what with the sun beating down on you both, hot and undisturbed by cloud nor foliage. It's blazing on your skin despite the wind, scent of the baked tarmac below heavy in your sinuses. Sand pecks against your flesh, abrasive. You hope a big beetle doesn't come smashing into your teeth before all this is done.

You don't have much time to think about it. Ash swats you on your ass and you pull your shirt up, screaming all the while as the tension in your body boils over like a tea kettle. Eyes squeezed shut, you don't notice at first how the truck carries on straight as an arrow. Unaffected. You expect an air horn or something, get none. When you peek, the tint of the truck's window glares apathetically back at you, a dark shroud through which you have no ability to gauge the driver's reaction.

It's Ash who honks first, the tired sounding beeps jolting you back to reality. You feel let down, disappointed. Self-conscious, stupidly. You shrink back on yourself a bit, shirt hiding the bottom half of your face as you slump back toward your seat. Your chest is still exposed, something you only register when - finally - the airhorn knocks you fully on your ass, hand scrambling to cover yourself in front of your friend. 

Completely ignorant of your emotional turmoil, Ash slaps the steering wheel animatedly, cackling and whooping like she's driving a getaway car after a successful heist. The airhorn sounds again and you glance up at the blank window, embarrassment and shame creeping up your throat. You've no clue why it's worse that you can't see the driver; even less of an idea as to why you were kind of hoping for their approval. Especially considering you have it, you think, another short blast of the horn attesting to the driver's pleasure. You force a grin, give a stupid little wave that you instantly regret. You roll up the window despite Ash's old beater having no AC, desperate for some kind of space between you and the truck. 

Brain skipping, trying to keep busy so you don't have to assess the weird pit of disappointment you'd felt, you reach into the footwell in search of your bra, but stop short when you see it dangling from a strap off Ash's finger. "Thanks," you mumble, and then glare daggers at her when she yanks it away quicker than you can grab. She's got that face on again, the mischief making one.

"Don't you dare," you hiss, but she just cackles and sends it flying out the open sunroof. "Ash!" you cry, twisting in your seat so see the lacy little number get caught up in the slipstream of the semi behind you, skirting up over the hood and plastering itself to the window where, quick as a flash, a thick, tattooed arm reaches out the driver's side window to slap the wiper down over it, snaring it against the glass.

The stone in your stomach hardens, sinks lower. Where before you'd felt oddly bereft without the driver's approval, this feels far too intimate, and you urge Ash quicker, turning back forward to watch the miles of open road pass, checking at each mile marker to see how the space between your car and his has grown. His grill glints chrome under the blaring sun, visible for miles. Combined with the tinted windshield, they turn the white cab into a skull, teeth bared and all.

***

The bar Ash chooses sits back from the road down a small slope, as if nestled by the dusty landscape - a hidden chest of glittering incandescent and neon bulbs, oil slick from the assembled nearby trucks painting what remains of the crumbling tarmac aurora. They line the lot on either side, backed up until their trailers overhang the paved lot itself, carving footprints into the hard earth. Between the two lines, the valley of the lot funnels you toward the boisterous building, music and laughter spilling out its seams. 

You'd rolled up the windows when the sun set so you're not quite prepared for the chill that greets you as you step out of the car. Still braless, you check to be sure the dark material of your shirt covers your nipples, but hug your flannel closer to yourself anyway, making a slow turn as you assess the assembled cars. You've been to enough dive bars to know the real warning signs; the get-the-fuck-out-of-dodge-before-you-decide-to-tryand-fight-a-blooded-Nazi kind of signs. Thankfully you don't see much here beyond the standard watch-your-drink-and-don't-let-your-bare-ass-touch-the-toilet-seat kind of vibes so you resign yourself to a night of babysitting, coming around the nose of the car as you bring a cigarette to your lips. 

Ash is giddy with excitement, dragging you along with her hands tucked through your elbow as she whispers excitedly about all the possibilities a dive bar off a forgotten county road in nowhere Arizona might offer. She'd said just a few drinks when she'd suggested going out again tonight, but you already know how that's going to shake out.

"Yeah? You gonna do some blow off the shuffleboard table by the end of the night?" You joke.

"And get sand in my nose? Please," Ash scoffs. "I'll do it off the sink like a normal person." 

You grin, holding the door open for her. "Go ahead and find us a spot, I'm gonna do my dirty deed," you wag the cigarette at her illustratively. 

"Yeah, yeah. Don't take too long or else all the lonely rednecks'll think I'm looking for company." 

You don't remind her she doesn't need to be here if she doesn't want to be. "If you ask pretty they'll take you to the bathroom," you wink instead, flicking your nose. Ash just laughs as she steps through the door. You let it drop behind her, fishing your lighter from your pocket as you step toward the edge of the porch. There's a loud group on your left, smoking more than just tobacco by the smell of it. You don't mind, but neither do you want to partake, so you stay a good distance away, listening in as the loudest of the group tells an animated story about the time he hit a deer and it ran off with his headlight cover. He's not a great story teller, but the assembled group laughs loud enough to drown him out half the time so maybe your perception is skewed.

Beyond them, inside, you can hear the clatter of billiards, and the general din of loosened lips, but outside, it is a cool and still night. You've never been to this part of the country, and you can't help but reflect on how nice it is in these quiet moments without Ash's chatter, or her constant performative nature. It's not that you dislike her, but days of such close proximity after years of barely any contact had certainly been a decision, and you're really started to regret it. Still, it's good to travel, and it's been so long since you've bothered with a bar that you nearly forget how to react when a man sidles up beside you and asks for a light. 

Stocky, handsome, you stammer over some words and extend your lighter, cursing when you realize you should have held the open flame out for him to light his cigarette over. He gives you a grin like he knows what you're thinking, and then exhales his smoke right into your face, destroying any attraction you'd felt for him before he'd even said a word.

You spare him a tight grin and hold your hand out for your lighter back. He holds it out, but gives it a playful little tug when you try to take it from him. "Alright," you gripe at the same moment he relinquishes his grasp, sending your hand dropping aggressively down with the slight force you'd been using. You nod while he just keeps grinning at you and snub out what remains of your cigarette. "Have a good one," you mumble, sliding past him and into the bar.

Ash perches at a small two-top, long neck dangling from her fingers prettily. You slide in across from her and she offers you the second bottle she'd snagged, though accepts easily enough when you shake your head. She's angled toward the room, that demure, but still inviting pose she'd perfected long ago on full display. As predicted, a string of men approach her, though she shoots them all down, giving you commentary on what she's thought of them all when she sends them packing. 

"Too scrawny."

"Smelled like Funyuns."

"I've seen more hair in my shower drain."

You giggle, content to watch her pick on sleazy men all night. Unfortunately her tune changes when return from the restroom a while later to find her flirting with a tall, broad man in a gaiter. She notices you as you draw close and beams at you, waving you closer in a way that suggests 'check this one out'. 

"Who's your friend?" you ask hesitantly, eyeing the big guy all over. He's dressed nice enough for a place like this, work boots and well-fitting jeans that hug his hammies sinfully. He's got on a canvas jacket over a tight thermal, some ink on his left hand you can't quite catch the shape of. The gaiter rubs you wrong, despite its innocuous dark material. Just this side of too sketchy in a place already bordering on it, you imagine there's no good reason a man would hide the bottom half of his face when he's presumably there to imbibe alcohol with his mouth all night. 

"Simon," the man rumbles, voice dark and accented. He extends his right hand to you and you take it, fingers engulfed by his broad, rough palm. In his left he holds a brown bottle, label obscured by his wide grip.

"Simon, this is my friend, Betty," Ash introduces you before you even have a chance. You shoot her a look, obvious enough that even the newcomer catches it.

"Betty?" he asks, eyes darting between the two of you.

"Not my name," you assert, but Ash speaks over you.

"Because she's so delightfully pretty, but so devastatingly boring," she pouts at you. To Simon she says, "Go on, ask her if she wants a drink."

"Can I get you a -?"

"No."

"See? Boring."

You roll your eyes, but don't offer any sort of retaliation besides. You're used to this, and generally unbothered by it. That doesn't mean it's not a pleasant surprise when Simon comes to your defense. "Nothing wrong with being responsible." His eyes are heavy on you, trailing in a way you're not necessarily comfortable with. That doesn't stop you from thanking him.

"Responsible," Ash scoffs. "One beer is still totally legal to drive."

"Quit complaining. Just means you get to have all the fun," you remind her.

"Mm, true," Ash sings. She tilts her bottle against Simon's, but you can't help noticing he gets distracted before the bottle makes it to his lips.

"You guys from around here?"

"Is anyone from here?" you quip, eyeing the assembled lot. They match their trucks outside: heavy, built for long hauls and quick stops at watering holes. 

"Suppose not," Simon admits, his own accent played up for effect. "Where you lot headed, then?"

"L.A.," Ash gushes.

When she doesn't elaborate, you tack on, "Ash's got a modeling gig."

"Really?" Ash smacks Simon playfully on the arm over his offended tone. 

"No," she laughs, "seeing a show. You ever been to L.A.?"

"Been everywhere," Simon shrugs, cryptic.

"You a trucker too, I take it?"

"Don't I look like one?" His accent thickens with every word until even your unlearned ear believes you could pinpoint his exact birthplace - distinctly un-American.

"You ever consider a mullet?" Ash giggles.

Simon looks about to snark something back when the lighter-less man from outside stumbles into his space.

"Hi," he tells the group in general, eyes unfocused before they slide to you. "Wanted to apologize. Think we got off on the wrong foot out there."

You can practically feel Ash brimming with excitement, the fact that both of you are now talking to men not going unnoticed by either of you. Not wanting to find yourself in some cheap motel Fargo sex with her, you make your lack of attraction obvious immediately, voice stern. "All good, man."

"Right," he balks. "Can I buy you a drink to make up for it?"

"Nope."

"Oh. Uh… you driving tonight or something?"

"Just not thirsty."

Across from you, Ash mouths the word 'Betty' at a stone faced Simon.

"Then why are you in a bar?" Lighter-less demands, belligerent. 

"Good question," you turn on Ash, but before she can answer, Simon speaks up.

"Piss off, mate."

"Fuck you," the guy snaps, turning to face the other man. You realize he must not have gotten a good look at him before approaching the group because you see his eyes go wide when he takes in Simon's sheer size.

"Nah, fuck you actually. Piss off."

He doesn't need telling a third time. Lighter-less gives you and Ash a nod and scurries off while Ash rounds on you. 

"And what was wrong with him?"

"Fuckin' rude."

"Are we ever gonna get you laid?"

You've only been on the road with her for two days and have not been actively looking, but you don't bother telling her that. "Only when you finally give in, baby," you croon instead and Ash snorts, already moving on.

"Simon, you any good at darts?"

"No."

"Great! Go bully us into a board using that broad frame of yours and let me win, would ya?"

Something dark passes over Simon's eyes, so quickly you think you might have imagined it when he immediately changes gears, giving Ash a brief nod before skulking away.

"Isn't he fuckin' cute?" Ash hisses at you after he's gone.

"Wouldn't know," you deadpan, covering the bottom half of your face with your hand.

She swats at you. "Oh, come off it. I'm gonna climb him like a tree by the end of the night." You curse to yourself when she sways her hips after him because the worst part is, you don't doubt her.

Simon's at least considerate enough to scrounge up a table by the boards for you, so you have front row seats to the flirt fest the other two partake in. True to his word, Simon lets Ash win three games in a row, each time being rewarded with a slightly more intoxicated girl hanging from his neck. Ash gets touchier the more she drinks, and Simon doesn't seem to mind. Though you find it odd how he rarely reciprocates, content just to let her feel up his considerable pecs and grin down at her like she's being silly. You briefly wonder if he's even into her, until you catch him giving her a congratulatory smack on the ass a little too enthusiastically after her fourth win. He says he's going out for a smoke after that and you leap at the opportunity, grabbing your jacket from the booth and following him out.

"Guess I'll keep our booth occupied," Ash pouts.

"Better, had to scare off a racoon for that thing," you hear Simon rumbling as you lead the way back out onto the porch.

The night's only gotten colder since you've been inside and you're reminded yet again that you're not wearing a bra when you feel the cotton of your shirt chafe against your tight skin. You duck your head in embarrassment as you pull your flannel tighter around yourself, too distracted to notice Simon offering you a cigarette from his pack as you try to remember if you'd been egregiously nipple flaunting back inside. 

"You okay?" Simon grunts as he lights his own smoke and you jolt back to reality, find him with his mask lowered.

"Huh? Oh, uh, yeah. Just chillier than I expected." 

When he pockets his lighter, Simon keeps his cigarette tucked between his lips. Hands freed, he pulls his jacket off and offers it to you before you can get a protest out. His voice is gravelly when he insists you take it and you do, reveling in the body heat still trapped within. It smells vaguely musty, almost like a garage, but you figure that tracks and it's not unpleasant. 

You eye him over as you light your cigarette, not bothering to be all that subtle when you find him watching you just as closely. He's handsome, though you wonder if he keeps his face covered because of the cleft lip or the thick scar that crosses the bridge of his nose, a missing notch giving the slope of it a double ridge. Beneath his coat, he's just as muscled as you'd imagined, heavy texture of his thermal falling into the valley of his pecs nicely. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing more of the ink you'd spotted on his hand - a detailed skull crowned in heavy black swirls which follow the musculature of his forearm nicely. 

"None too pretty, eh?"

You let your eyes slide back up to his face, willfully overlook the ruin of his nose. "Wouldn't say that."

He narrows his eyes at you, as if searching for a lie. You know he won't find one, though, and weather it unflinchingly. Eventually he grunts in acceptance, or maybe approval. He doesn't say much after that, though you're content to enjoy the relative silence. The rowdy group from earlier have moved along, and the only other company you have out here is a couple quietly bickering down in the parking lot. Combined with the volume of the bar, it's level of noise you would have found annoying even just two days ago, but after so many hours stuck in the car with Ash's constant chatter, you revel in the lack of conversation, enjoy the minute twinge you get when you stretch your knees damn near hyperextension.

"Your friend's a bit more talkative than you," Simon eventually observes, voice neutral as to whether or not he likes that about you.

"My friend is quite social," you hedge, and laugh when Simon looks like he has something to say about that.

"Your friend has an agenda."

"That obvious?"

"Less obvious: is it a good idea?"

"Well why would you ask me that, when I have a vested interest in keeping the two of you apart tonight so I don't have to stand around awkwardly while the cab is a'rocking, you know what I mean?"

Simon smiles, first time all night. It does nothing to reduce his severity. "Well, you're welcome to join instead."

You can't help but scoff at him, though your laugh turns more nervous when he gives no indication of joking. "About the only thing worse than listening to Ash scream like a banshee from outside the truck, would be listening to her scream like a banshee from inside the truck. Thanks though."

He returns your grin, but it seems a bit tight. You squint at him, trying to get a feel for how insulted he actually is, but he's unflinching, unbothered. Simon's silence unnerves you, and you work to fill the void despite your earlier easiness within it. "Which, uh… Which one's yours?" You nod at the line of trucks on your left and his dark eyes follow the movement. 

Shaking his head, Simon steps into your space and angles you toward the other side of the lot. Leaning across your back, his big hand floats into your peripheral where he points at a bland, gleaming shape parked within the shadow of the building. It takes your eyes a moment to adjust to the low lot light in the corner, more a single porch light than anything. For a moment, it looks like any other of the million big white cabs you've seen crawling all over god's green earth, but then Simon clicks his fob behind you, and the lights flash, the dome light within turning on just long enough for you to catch a lacey little number hanging from his rear-view through the dark tinted glass, and then you notice the distinctly teeth-shaped grill you'd memorized in your passenger mirror earlier today. Your blood runs cold despite the heat of Simon behind you, you're tense, ready to flee even without your friend in tow. Your muscles don't listen, however, locked in place like a spring trap with no quarry. And then the crack of a breakshot from within the bar racks your nerves, has you spinning around to find Simon staring back down at you intensely, eyes dark enough to rival his truck's.

"You want that back? Kinda cold out here." His eyes dart down to your chest, as if he can see through the layers you've covered yourself with.

Part of you wants to yell at him, demand answers. A younger, squirrelier version of you probably would've slapped him. Instead, you slip past him wordlessly and make a beeline for your friend. "Ash," you hiss when you spot her, still at the booth where you left her. "Ash, we have to go -."

"Is that Simon's jacket?" She looks offended. You would roll your eyes at her if you had time to argue.

"Yes. Not important. Look," you take the jacket in question off, spare a brief thought for the base instinct telling you to rifle through his pockets. "Simon is the trucker I flashed. I think he followed us here."

"Oh, Jesus, Betty. That guy's probably already forgotten about you. You know how many people flash truckers every day?"

"In what world -? Is this National Lampoon's?" You huff, calm yourself. "Ash, I saw his truck, it's him, and I wanna go."

"You saw a white truck with a black cab, you mean? Spooky," she deadpans.

"He had my fucking bra hanging from his rearview -."

"You went in his cab?"

"No, fucking -."

"Did she go in your cab?"

You still, drawing yourself back to your full height from where you'd wound up leaning over your friend. Behind you, Simon steps close enough you can feel his heat again, smell that stale garage scent. "No," he shrugs and Ash eyes you both suspiciously.

"Here." You shove Simon's coat back into his chest, disappointed when you don't manage to move him an inch. Turning back to your friend, you dangle Ash's keys in her face. "I'm leaving. I encourage you to join."

"I can't even finish my beer?"

You don't bother to answer, storming back toward the door with enough confidence to have her scrambling after you.

"Jesus, what is your problem?" She hisses once the bar door slams shut after her. 

You point at Simon's truck, distinct chrome grill giving Ash pause for all of two seconds. "Could be anyone's."

"He asked me if I wanted my bra back, Ash."

Behind her, the bar door opens again. Simon's wide frame fills it for a moment, before stepping out onto the porch, casual as can be. He lights up another cigarette, eyes heavy on you all the while. He doesn't seem to notice when Ash waves at him. This time when you walk away, the crunching of gravel under foot is the only indication you get that your friend is following. She's silent for once as she climbs into the passenger's seat. You don't bother adjusting anything, tearing out of the driveway with a spray of dirt and debris that would probably ruin some paint jobs. Behind you, a truck follows you out of the lot, but the twenty foot shipping container it has loaded reassures you that it isn't Simon on your tail.

Ash remains silent for a long while, though you can tell she hasn't fallen asleep yet by the quality of her breathing. When she does speak, her voice is thin and reedy. "I didn't think he'd follow us."

"I know." For your part, you wish you could muster much beyond a general grumble of annoyance. She was just being silly when she made her little dare; it's not her fault the guy had been a creep. Thankfully, it seems he'd been content to just scare you a bit, the rearview faithfully returning only one set of headlights in your wake every time you check. 

"Go to bed, Ash. If he keeps following I'll wake you."

To your immense relief, she listens, her soft breaths relaxing the tension in your shoulders. After another glance in the side view to reassure yourself you're still safe, you take some soothing breaths of your own and run through what remains of your trip's itinerary, taking comfort in how little actually remained. Nearly half way over, and after tonight you don't think it'll be too hard to talk Ash out of any more unplanned stops at local dives just to check out the native wildlife. You're pretty sure you've both seen enough, the dejected way she'd looked after Simon's ulterior motive had been revealed playing again in your mind. Poor Ash, honestly, but you suppose it works out in your favor if it means getting home sooner and with fewer scrapes.

Feeling better, you turn the radio on, low enough it won't disturb your passenger. It takes some scanning through static to find anything, and when you do you're a bit annoyed that it's country gold of all things, but you can't deny how well it fits the landscape through which you drive, the low horizon backlit by the sunset's distant memory. It's nice, for a time. Nice enough you aren't really paying attention when DJ starts spouting local headlines, the news of a young woman's body being found recently only about an hour's ride north of here going in one ear and right out the other.

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